Road to Branka (Nemain Diary 2)

The crackling sound of the camp fire was comforting. It would be the first night since more than two weeks not worrying about safety. Nemain didn't want to open the eyes, didn't want to see the abhorrent chasm only a few dozen steps away. She pretended to herself to be in a sheltered tavern back in Ozrammar, the air full of tobacco smoke and the delicious smell of dwarven beer. And the loud voices are those of drunken tavern patrons swaggering about the taxes and who will be the tournai winner next year. Nemain let out a sigh. Naturally she knew the blustering voices belonged to Oghren and Kardol, Leader of the Legion, about manly themes. Who killed more darkspawn, who could drink more and other themes she really didn't want to hear, some of them more … organic.

Kardol was her host tonight, his Legion camp giving a secure rest before crossing the bridge to the dead trenches. The group needed this night after moving thru the deep roads for 16 days if she counted correctly. 16 long days wandering the tunnels full of amazing signs of the glorious past. 16 short, often disturbed sleeps to rally their strength anew. Nemain took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of roasted nug. She prepared the meal herself, her thoughts wandering back to dear mother who insisted on learning a fistful of hearty recipes, ignoring the matter that she probably would have a cook at hand all of her royally life.

There's nothing better than a good meal and a fresh ale to give a man the feeling that you care about him. Regardless of whether you want to direct him to your opinion about something or make him feel romantic, prepare a meal, serve it, hear to his ramblings whatever he wants to talk about and you'll have your way. Believe me, darling.

To her annoyance a little tear followed her memories of mom, not getting better when she saw Zevran to look away, averting eye contact and suppressing a smirk. She seldom showed any emotions apart from anger. It would be a sign of weakness otherwise. And she had to be strong, be a leader, pressed into this position because Alistair, senior to her as a grey warden and way more experienced on the surface things, had refused to take this position.

Alistair.

She didn't know what to think of him. Back in Ostagar it had been so simple. Exiled from Ozrammar, forced to live on the surface among humans, he was a light of hope, so needed to soothe her broken heart, loosing family, home and dear Gorim all at once. He made her laugh, diverted her mind from the fights ahead, and was a really good friend. And his looks. *sigh* For a human at least. Not that he could compare to a stout dwarf.

She almost giggled at the thought how a night with him would be. She would have to be very careful, being way stronger and heavier than him. But the weeks since leaving Lothering had been disappointing. He was nice to her, yes. Made compliments, alright. But why for the hairy asses of the ancestors couldn't he be more … forthcoming? Nemain wasn't accustomed to this reluctant behavior. She wanted to be gripped with strong hands, kissed hard from rough lips, thrown to the blanket … Nemain blushed deeply about the following thoughts.

Opening her eyes for only a small slit she saw Zevran watching her, his face hidden behind a piece of nug. How much had he guessed her wandering thoughts? Too much certainly. For a moment Nemain considered throwing something at him, something hard or better something unpleasant, but with a sigh she closed her eyes anew, pretending not to see anything.

Four days ago Alistair finally kissed her, kneeled before her, hesitated some long moments and then … the kiss. So soft, so sweet, so … boring. Any fire in your veins, wussy? Since leaving Lothering his constantly recurring laments about Duncan had annoyed her. His stories about a hard childhood and nobody understanding him in the chantry. Layer for layer his tears washed away her sympathy, her patience. But this kiss was nearly too much. For weeks her only objective – apart from killing everything moving in sight – had been the prospect of bedding him. But now Nemain wasn't sure if he was worth the effort. Possibly it was only her renowned mule head that prevented finishing this never ending and happening story.

The kiss.

It happened in a cave on the way from Orthan Thaig to the trenches. The group - Nemain, Alistair, Morrigan, Zevran and Oghren – rested after some hard fights. They missed Leliana's songs and stories, having her left with Sten after she twisted her knee in a fight, frantically evading the blows of an ogre. Nemain felt sorry about that moment, felt guilty not having shielded the minstrel. It had been her duty to throw her plate armor in the way but she had missed. Sten was the only one able to carry her back to safety alone and so the two companions started their way back to Ozrammar.

It was a gloomy evening, only interrupted from the conversation of Zevran and Oghren. A very odd pair these two were. It was a surprise to Nemain Alistair choosing just this moment to give in and kissing her. And then understanding came. This glance Alistair throwing to Zevran, saying this maid belongs to me. As if Zevran would be interested in her anyway, giving up any flirting tries after realizing the beginning romance between the wardens.

Nemain had been angry, interrupted the nice moment turning away from Alistair. Was it too early? Made i something wrong? His whiny blubbering making it hard for Nemain to soothe his doubts, not to say where he could stick his waiting behavior and his possessive demeanor. She sighted. It would cost her weeks to repair the damage done, even if she wanted it. She wasn't sure.

With thoughts about a knowingly smirk Nemain drifted away …