Author's Note: This chapter contains a great deal of love and affection for the amazing artist Pseudocognition – whose fantastic artwork can be found here (remove the spaces):

http:/ browse. deviantart. com/ ?qh=§ion=&global=1&q= pseudocognition# /d38w6sv

UPDATE: This chapter now has its own picture: 'The Benefits of Losing' by the fantastic Yamisnuffles. Please check it out!

http:/ mandamcmoo. deviantart. com/ favourites/#/ d3eaz7j

As always, I disclaim. Bioware owns everything :)

Chapter 4: Patience

A week or so after they had met the elf, Fenris, Anders was summoned to help Hawke, Aveline and Carver clear out the members of a gang calling themselves, of all things, the Redwater Teeth. The battle was swift and straightforward, with nothing particular of note except that Hawke took a crossbow bolt to the shoulder. With the battle over, Aveline returned to the barracks, and Carver headed off to the Blooming Rose to spend his portion of the coin they had collected while Anders worked on patching up their fearless leader.

Sitting on a packing crate on the water's edge, the full moonlight shining down on her, he couldn't help but wonder how it was possible for a human being to be so pretty and so scruffy at the same time. With her hair all but escaped from her untidy ponytail, her armour fraying badly and her arm drenched in her own blood, the light in her eyes could still easily have outshone any other girl he'd met.

"So," he teased, pulling her armoured padding over her head, "do you come here often?"

Swinging her legs slightly off the edge of the crate, Ariadne giggled. "Ooh, that's a good one," she said, looking up at him with her almond shaped eyes,. "How about: 'Aren't you tired? Because you've been running around my head all day.'"

He tore the fabric of her vest to expose the wound, arrow still firmly lodged into the joint. Taking the bait gladly he grinned and conjured a ball of ice in his palm, dropping it at her feet and crushing it underfoot. "Now I've broken the ice," he said, his eyebrows twitching suggestively. "Can I buy you a drink?"

She laughed at that, her eyes dancing brightly in the moonlight until the pain caught up with her. "Ow!" she said, stopping abruptly as her hand flew to her shoulder. He caught it in his own, pressing it back down against her collar bone.

"Don't," he said calmly, his fingertips pressing gently down on her hand. "You'll only make it worse."

He worked quickly, getting her to bite on a belt from one of his pauldrons as he braced himself to wrench the bolt free. It was a hard job, and he knew that the withdrawal did a good deal more damage than the initial entry did when she groaned deeply through her clenched teeth. The bolt was intact however, and with a little splash of alcohol from his canteen to clean the wound of dirt, which if anything made her groan even more, he was able to move swiftly onto the task of getting her healed.

Once he pronounced her mended, she hopped off the crate, rolling her shoulder lightly, and then dragged him off towards Lowtown, and the Hanged Man.

They chatted happily, despite the fact that she was still covered in her own blood and that her smile of thanks was doing funny things to his chest. At the bottom of Lowtown, however, they hushed at the sound of voices.

"I don't care what you say, elf," a harsh Starkhaven brogue echoed around the corner. "That isn't the price that we agreed."

"I've got it in writing, you ass," a female voice drawled. "Now stop giving me grief and get back to your job."

He turned at the sound of a muffled gasp, Ariadne's blue eyes were wide.

"Athenril," she whispered.

It was clear enough from the tone of the voices that a deal was going sour, and quickly.

"Hand over the money, bitch," the first voice, a man, growled, "or I gut you right here."

"You wouldn't dare," the second, Athenril's, replied, "We outnumber you three to one."

The man from Starkhaven chuckled. "That's just where you're wrong, missy. What a pity your pet mage is too busy up in Lowtown these days to save your hide."

In an instant, Ariadne was gone from his side. He watched around the corner, just keeping out of sight. "That's where you're wrong, Conall," she growled, one hand on her staff as she entered the scene. "I'm right here."

She placed herself between the two groups: a small group of elves in the same armour as Ariadne, and a larger contingent of leathered bandits, several of whom had clearly just dropped in on the confrontation. Their leader, a bearded man with greying temples, was clearly taken aback. "Hawke?" he said,."You're still running around at this bitch's bark?"

"That," she replied, her grip tightening on her weapon, "is none of your concern. If I were you I would back away. You're out of your depth, and you know it."

The Starkhaven warrior's lip curled, "You're a fool if you think I'm scared of one pesky little mage, Hawke."

Clearing his throat, Anders stepped into the proceedings. "Make that two pesky little mages," he said firmly, standing at his friend's side, turning to her with a grin. "What do you say Hawke, shall we roast them?"

Needless to say, the encounter ended quietly, with the Starkhaven ruffians backing down. As they passed out of sight, Ariadne turned to face the lead elf. She was tall and lean, with a pretty face worn harsh by years of sour expressions. She regarded them coldly, even as Hawke enquired after her wellbeing.

"Well enough," she responded coolly, slinging a sack onto her shoulders. "I should have known that you'd show up. Always figured you'd come slinking back."

Beside him, Hawke stiffened visibly, any shred of warmth vanishing from her voice as she responded: "I'm not 'back' Athenril. I'm just passing through."

A smirk twisted the elf's lip. "How coincidental," she drawled, sweeping her fringe from her eyes. "Who's your friend?"

Without even turning his head he could feel the tension rising in his companion, the increase in magic in the air. "A friend," she said, her jaw tightened.

"He's pretty," she replied, regarding him openly with her steely gaze. "Much more your type than that fat ass dwarf."

Now he felt his body tensing. "Varric," Ariadne said quietly, her voice as cold as ice, "is also my friend."

"My my," the elf responded stepping closer with a flash in her gaze that might almost have been a seduction. "You have quite the knack of attracting people into your webs, don't you?" She approached Ariadne far closer than he would have liked, her very tone a challenge. "How good are you at keeping them, I wonder?"

He didn't need to glance at the woman beside him to know the game that was being played. The sparks between the two women could go either of two ways. It wasn't his place to intervene in her affairs, as much as he found himself wanting to.

Hawke sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I'm done Athenril," she said drily, defeated. "We're even. Come on Anders."

The walk to the pub was a silent one, pitted with the noise of boots scuffing unnecessarily on stones and a hundred un-started rants. He let her go to the bar while he took up his spot at their usual table, pretended not to notice the shot of spirits she downed before her return, and waited for her to start the conversation.

The question, when it came, was not the one that he'd been expecting.

"Anders," she asked, not really looking up from her tankard, "did you love Karl?"

His breath hissed as he drew it, caught off guard as he was. "That's a personal question."

She nodded, staring deep into her cider before she drank. "It is."

He leant forward, unable to stop himself from asking the inevitable. "Did you love Athenril?"

She laughed, a harsh, bitter sound unlike any he had ever heard from her. "I think my conduct towards her speaks for itself," she said coldly, shaking her head. "No. I never loved her.

She paused, something creeping into her gaze and constricting her throat, a memory, or so it seemed. "I thought I loved someone once," she said quietly, her jaw clenching, "but I was too young... and he was the wrong man," She drew a deep breath, looking him in the eye with startling earnestness. "Since then I've never come close to that feeling, even though it was a lie. I've cared for some, and desired others. Before I came here I was good to them, or as good as I could be."

Her open gaze was a challenge, daring him to understand. "What changed?" he asked, hearing the slight drop in his voice's pitch as if it belonged to another man.

"I was angry," she said, her blue eyes darkening as she drank deeply. "Angry at being forced into servitude, at my uncle, at the nature of the work. More than anything I was angry at her," she said, jabbing her finger into the table to reinforce the point. "Every time I took an assignment it felt like an exploitation."

He tried to hold his calm, even as the implication of her words stirred something basic and protective inside of him. "You felt abused by Athenril?"

The tension dropped out of her shoulders, as if she hadn't the energy left to keep up the fight. "No," she said plainly, covering her tankard with her hand. "We abused each other. Everything I hated about my life, myself, I took it out on her. Every vile word, every harsh caress." She sighed, her eyes as hollow as her voice. "I despised myself for it, but I didn't stop. I just kept going back, playing her game, trying to get the upper hand and always failing."

She stopped herself, slipping her hand over her mouth as if to dam up the vitriol that was pouring out. She squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm sorry for it," she said quietly, "but I don't know how to undo it, or if I even can."

He hesitated, unsure how to respond. He decided that the best thing he had to offer her was the truth. "I never loved Karl," he said gently, the emotion straining his voice. "At least not in the sense of being in love with him, which is what I suspect you mean."

She nodded, seemingly unable to look at him. "It is."

He drew a deep breath, and opened himself. "The truth is that I've never let myself love anyone," he said, aware that his vision was fogging slightly. "It seemed impossible, too dangerous, too much of a risk."

He looked up at her, his eyes connecting with hers. A moment of recognition. "Exactly," she whispered, though it hardly needed to be said.

He broke their gaze, rubbing his fingertips over his forehead. "I cared for Karl a great deal," he said sadly, softly. "Sometimes that was enough."

For a moment, it looked as if she was on the verge of saying something, but suddenly Varric appeared at the head of the stairs. Neither of them were in the mood to talk, but it was Hawke who got to her feet first. "I should go," she said quickly, automatically. "Mother will be worrying. You don't need to walk me home."

"If you're sure," he replied, seeing the itch in her he knew so well in himself, the need to run.

"I am," she said, her eyes meeting his for the merest moment. "Thank you."

"Once," he said, his voice like a cool breeze through the stagnant Fade air, "I told her that hearing her talk about her life was like looking into a window on my own past. What attracted me to her, back then at least, was just how much she reminded me of myself."

"The last time I checked," the guide replied teasingly, "Ariadne didn't have a perverted Fade spirit living inside her mind."

"I meant back in Amaranthine!" he snapped back, staring at her openly. "I'm here to separate myself from him, aren't I? Surely it's better that I focus on the things that were mine, and mine alone?"

She didn't respond, her eyes wide with surprise. "I thought as much," he muttered darkly, closing his eyes again as the visions seethed into life. "And don't think I'll forget that you used her name."

Weeks passed, and aside from the occasional excursion to the lands of danger and potential profit, the majority of Anders' meetings with the group were confined to the Hanged Man. Although Varric occasionally liked to imagine what life would be like once the Hawke family had reclaimed that estate of theirs, the truth was that even at its dirtiest, loudest and most violent, the inn felt more like a home to all of them than any other place in the city. Even Fenris, who had at first remained relatively aloof from their proceedings, had taken to hovering in their midst like a skinny, brooding thundercloud. Prodding him was more fun than it had any right to be. Almost as satisfying as irritating Carver.

Hawke often joined him in his teasing, although she had been known to simply sit and listen to what the elf had to say. It was a courtesy she'd extended to all their companions, a simple gift of her time and a listening ear. Despite his better instincts, however, he couldn't help but feel the smallest twinge of resentment when she made her way to Fenris' corner.

The addition of former captain Isabela to their gatherings was both incredibly welcome and invigorating, although not necessarily at the same time. With her wicked sense of humour and her penchant for all things erotic, she'd certainly injected quite a spark into their little gatherings. The so-called pirate had made a bee-line for Hawke from the moment they'd met, and her unabashed flirting with the girl had provided more than ample cover for his own quiet words.

And therein lay the problem - the truth was that no matter how hard he tried to stop himself, he couldn't help himself when he was around her. A small smile, a straying strand of hair, even a poorly timed joke was all it took to set him off sending little compliments, suggestive hints or jokes in her direction. Perhaps this wouldn't matter if she were oblivious to such things like Aveline or a constant flirt like Isabela, but the truth was that it had taken time for her to warm up to the idea and now, in the last few weeks, she was starting to respond more seriously.

It took patience and concentration to truly excel in any game of cards, and Diamondback was no exception. Even at the best of times Ariadne had to work hard to stay in the game, but with the introduction of Isabela's special rules that was easier said than done.

"I don't know about all of you," Anders groaned across the table from her, "but sometimes I miss the days when we played this game with our clothes on."

Isabella, still fully clothed (if you could call it that) leant across Varric to pat him affectionately on the shoulder. "Is it because you can't bear the sexual tension between you and Fenris?" she purred, smiling sweetly at the elf beside him, "It is, isn't it?"

To the other side of Fenris Carver glowered, tapping his cards on the tabletop. "I swear," he growled, as Anders stood up, "if I have to watch that mage take off his shirt one... more... time."

"Junior," Varric whispered, his full set of clothing still intact, "no one said you have to watch."

Ariadne wasn't the worst Diamondback player in the world, and in the present company, that stood her rather well. As ever, Carver had lost shoes, overshirt, and belts within the first three rounds, and Merrill's scarf, gloves and boots had been discarded with them. Fenris generally fared better, but tonight the loss of his boots and gauntlets had occurred in quick succession, suggesting worse luck yet to come. Of Anders... perhaps the less to be said the better. Despite having the largest number of items of clothing, the mage was once again reduced to sitting in his underclothes. There was little doubt that, as on most nights, these wouldn't last long. This generally didn't pose a problem, as she sat opposite from him in these games as a rule.

The problem tonight was that when she started to get nervous about her game, as she was this evening, that she had this habit of spinning her chips on the table. She wasn't particularly good at spinning chips on the table, in fact they had the terrifying tendency to fall off the edge. At such points, the mere thought of having to glance under the table was more than she could stand. She'd lost a lot of chips that way.

That chip-spinning thing that Ariadne did was almost the perfect tell, and Anders could tell that Isabela had noticed it. The pirate was going to press her advantage tonight, and in all honestly, it was about time someone got the girl to lose more than just her armouring.

'Bad Anders, very bad...'

'It does seem an injustice.'

'Wait... what?'

"Isabela," Ariadne sighed, pointing at the card slipping from the pirate's gauntlet, "please stop cheating. I can see you."

Grumbling, the buxom seafarer cast her extra aces down on the table. "One of these days, Hawke," she said, her eyes flashing teasingly. "I'll finally get to see you in your knickers."

"I certainly hope so," Merrill piped up cheerfully. "This exposure all seems terribly one-sided."

Sitting beside her, Carver sniggered derisively. "You should have been around when we were kids," he said to the elf. "She used to run around in her knickers all the time."

"Carver!" Ariadne exclaimed, her cheeks flushing magenta. "You are just making that up!" she said, pointing across at him, her voice slightly high pitched, "He is just making that up!"

Varric sniggered, dealing her two extra cards. "Of course he is, Hawke."

"Carver," she muttered darkly, "I swear I will set you on fire." A threat her glower seemed to confirm.

"No violence," Isabela said, perusing her cards carefully. "This is a lovers game, children."

"Might I point out that she's my sister?"

"You don't say!" Varric exclaimed with raised eyebrows. "I can't believe I missed that one."

With a flourish, Isabela placed her move down on the table. Her eyes glittered mischievously. "Fenris!" she purred, her tongue ever-so-slightly brushing her upper lip. "Looks like it's finally time for us to see how far those tattoos go..."

Beside him the elf's cheeks coloured slightly "I..." he faltered, getting abruptly to his feet. "This is a foolish game. I will have no more of it."

The wicked sea captain leant back in her seat, hissing through her teeth. "Someone's just grumpy because they were hoping to see Hawke get out of her armour," she said teasingly.

"I was not!" Fenris retorted sharply, though Anders could not help but notice that his cheeks darkened.

"Hold steady friend," Varric said, looking over his cards with a barely repressed grin. "I do believe that I have the cards to do the job."

The elf hesitated momentarily. "Perhaps I will take another turn," he muttered gruffly, returning to his seat.

"Uh, uh uh!" chided Isabela, waggling her finger like some overbearing schoolmistress. "No sitting down at the table without taking off that jacket. Thems the rules."

Scowling darkly at the pirate, the elf moved to the clasps on the right-hand side of his armour. "You had better have a good hand, dwarf."

"Believe me," Varric chuckled, spreading his move down in front of Ariadne with a satisfied smirk, "I do."

The look of hopelessness on her face was utterly priceless. Not making eye contact with anyone, she reached for the bottom of her undershirt. "I feel utterly victimised."

Carver groaned, dropping is head onto his arms. "Shall I vomit now or later?"

The vest was close fitting, and Ariadne needed to squirm slightly in her seat to get it off. Holding it up in the air beside her for a moment she dropped it behind her onto the pile with her padding and boots. She glanced quickly down to check that her bindings weren't coming unravelled, and realized that it was a good thing Varric's rooms were always warm. Given that today was a rest day she hadn't exactly gone overboard with the binding. "That should be sufficient," she said quietly, wondering if it was possible for cheeks to catch light from embarrassment.

But to her surprise the dwarf merely tutted. "Check again Hawke..."

She looked again at the cards in front of her. Her eyes widened. "The... Maker's breath you're joking!"

Hardly able to repress his laughter, Varric held up two fingers. "Two items."

Isabela's grin almost split her face in two. "Varric, were you not already taken, I swear I would..."

The dwarf chuckled deeply. "I know Izzy, I know."

Placing her cards down on the table, Isabela leant forward expectantly. "Come on Hawke," she said, winking, "best give us a good show."

"I hate you," she replied, her cheeks almost hurting with their burning heat, "Each and every one."

Trying to ignore them, she turned her back on the table and began undoing buttons. This was humiliating, and she could half-hear herself muttering obscenities under her breath as she moved her fingertips along her waistband to ensure her smallclothes didn't decide to follow suit.

"Don't be a bad sport sweet-cheeks," she heard Varric say good-naturedly behind her, "Merrill hasn't done anything wrong."

Anders wasn't going to look. There was absolutely no way he was...

It was bad enough that she was opposite him when she pulled that vest off. Those bindings didn't leave much to the imagination. He was resolved not to look. Positively. Absolutely determined not to...

"And aren't they just..." Isabela murmured huskily. "Ooh I've been waiting for that."

'All this blasted running about!' Ariadne cursed inwardly. Her breeches sticking slightly on her developing calf muscles. There was no way they were going to come off on their own. There were only two options: risk an awkward footgrab manoeuvre that would more than likely send her crashing to the ground, or just bite the bullet and pull.

'I had better make this quick.'

She bent forward.

'She is bending over,' Anders thought in a bling panic. 'Bending over. Not just a little bit, like when she leans over Varric's chair or puts her elbows on the bar when she's been waiting too long, but full on touch-the-toes bending. Maker's breath... it's just as perfect as it looks through those breeches.'

'There,' Ariadne told herself at the trousers pooled at her feet, 'Step out of the blasted trousers and kick them into the pile. Try and stay calm as you return to your seat. Now, look up and smile...

'Andraste's flaming tits what are they staring at?'

Isabela was the first to speak, though her mouth seemed to be a little dry. "I think I just found the figurehead for my next ship."

"Oh no," Varric muttered, taking a deep draught from his tankard. "This isn't just yours Isabela. This is something the world needs to see."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, her voice little more than a peep.

"Your arse," the pirate murmured, her expression a little dreamy. "Those buttocks put Andraste to shame."

She buried her face in her hands. This was the most embarrassing experience of her life.

An hour or so later the clothes were back on, and the various party members were departing with their dignity more... or less intact. As usual, Anders was intending to take the passage to Darktown that started in the Slums, and so headed off with the Hawkes and Merrill. After a short distance, Carver headed off with Merrill towards the Alienage, muttering something about owing Varric a few silvers.

"You know," Ariadne muttered once they were on their own, her face a little bemused as she tentatively patted her backside, "I hope Isabela isn't going to make a habit of chucking coppers at my arse. I'm actually rather sore."

Trying desperately not to think, even for a second, about offering to heal her bruises (he just wasn't sure he'd be able to maintain the necessary restraint), he changed the subject quickly. Talking about idle things, he noticed after a while that she wasn't really paying attention. Smiling, he nudged her slightly.

"You're thinking something," he said, lips twitching in amusement at her musing face. "You can't hide from me you know, I'm magic."

She grinned, pushing back against him ever so slightly. "Is it that obvious?"

And here he was, despite every warning he had given himself, cocking his head and raising his eyebrows. "I can practically hear the cartwheels clattering."

She giggled, her nose wrinkling. "I was thinking about Isabela's plan to get that Sebastian fellow in on our games."

He frowned. "You mean the Chantry boy?"

She nodded. "Yes, him. I reckon she should be able to do it," she said thoughtfully, "but only if she reminds him that the Maker didn't give us clothes."

He laughed at that, that warm throaty sound that made her chest tighten just a little, like his smiles. He shook his head slightly. "You're a strange woman."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she replied, digging an elbow into his ribs. "Coming from you."

It was strange for Ariadne to think how only a few weeks ago, the mere idea of acting like this with anyone would have seemed impossible. Now, with Varric and Isabela about it was all too easy. Not that this was the same. The truth was that nothing was really the same when it came to Anders.

"Most women wouldn't," he replied cheerfully. "Especially when I've just seen them in their underwear."

"A good point," she admitted, teasing absent-mindedly at a strand of hair, "a;though it's one I could readily reciprocate. What a shame your dazzling physique isn't matched by your skill at cards..." She winked at him, her eyes sparkkling with mischief.

He grinned playfully. "What can I say?" he said, shrugging nonchalantly. "When you look this good it seems a shame to hide it."

She giggled. "You can't even use drinking as an excuse."

"No," he said, watching for a moment as she stretched slightly, rolling her shoulders. "But I do still have a distraction."

"Oh really?" she asked, eyes flashing inquisitively. "Is it Merrill or Isabela?" Her forthrightness was surprising even herself. She paused momentarily, pretending to ponder. "I suppose it would be Izzy, but then you've already had sex with her, haven't you?"

He stopped dead in his tracks at that. "I meant Justice!" he exclaimed as she burst out laughing, turning back to face him. "Honestly woman, you have a filthy mind."

Still giggling, she wiped an eye with the back of her hand. "Like you'd never believe."

"Well then," he said suggestively as he walked past her, "I'm surprised that you haven't had sex with Isabela. Surely you've seen the way she looks at you?"

She paused, considering the idea for a moment. "I have noticed," she said honestly, "Isabela's just... too domineering. Always in a rush. That's all very well once in a while, but I'm looking for..."

"Something more meaningful?" he offered.

They had come to the bottom of the stairs leading up to Gamlen's door. She looked up at him, her face troubled but earnest. "Isabela may tease me," she said quietly, eyes settling on his as she swallowed nervously, "but I know what I want." She paused. "What happened with Athenril... with Benny, was a mistake. The last thing on my mind is some casual affair that you throw away as soon as the sunlight strays through the curtains. I want something more," she said, and his throat tightened painfully as he heard the quaver in her voice. "Maybe not forever, but something that matters now, the sort of thing that doesn't just disappear because you want it to," she paused, drawing a breath as her gaze flickered over his lips, "I think I deserve that."

His jaw clenched, and she could see the hesitation in his eyes, the struggle. "I'm certain that you do," he murmured, his voice low as he stood close.

But nothing happened. The moment stretched between them in a silence binding itself ever tighter in their chests. In the years to come she would curse herself for not taking this moment, for not just kissing the breath out of him before he had a chance to overthink things and put up his guard. If he'd moved even just an inch, given her the slightest indication, she would have taken it, and perhaps they would never have looked back. As it was, the moment lingered until she heard Carver's footsteps echo down the alley. She lowered her eyes.

"I'm cold Anders," she said quietly, barely able to hide her disappointment. "I should probably go in."

It was as if he had forgotten to breathe. "Of course," he said, stepping back from her as his cheeks coloured, "of course you should. Goodnight Ariadne."

She glanced back at him, already halfway up the steps. "Goodnight."

Moments later she was reopening the door for Carver, looking past him through the doorframe in the vain hope that he was still out there, only to find that he was gone. In the years to come she would always wonder what would have happened if she'd gone after him, if seeing her breathless in the door of his clinic might have been enough. In the years to come, she would curse herself for letting a moment's insecurity and nerves stop her from getting the one thing she wanted more than anything else. In the years to come she would always think of this night as the first time he didn't kiss her.

"You know," he said breathlessly, wrenching himself from the vision. "This is probably one of those moments you don't want to see."

"Is it?" the guide asked, her voice a little squeaky. "I'm not sure what exactly I should do..."

He could feel the vision swirling, pulling him in again. "I don't know," he murmured, losing his focus. "I just... wanted to give you fair warning."

The return trip to Darktown was mercifully dark and uneventful, and he was fumbling with his keys outside the clinic before he knew himself. His mind was in chaos, and his hands trembled as he closed the door behind him.

He wandered around the cavernous space, fussing unnecessarily over the positioning of cots and basins. He draped his coat over a chair, before dragging the screens carefully over to the corner he called his own. Eventually, when any desperate hope of her appearing had dried up entirely, he bolted the door, and retreated to his makeshift room, where he washed briefly. Pulling his vest over his head, he sat down on the edge of his pallet with a deep and resounding groan.

He had nearly kissed her. Despite telling himself over and over that he shouldn't even be looking at her that way he had almost... What was this effect she kept having on him? How, when half the time she wasn't even really trying, did she manage to get under his skin like that? He'd wanted to kiss her before, a dozen times at least, but he'd never come this close.

'How is it possible to seem both so vulnerable and so utterly strong in one expression?'

Slowly, methodically, he moved to unlace his boots. Her words, her conviction, the unacknowledged understanding that what was growing between them was exactly what she had said. It was, beyond any shadow of a doubt 'the sort of thing that doesn't just disappear because you want it to.'

'And as if that wasn't enough, the sight of her in the candlelight as she discarded her clothes. Sweet Andraste but she was...'

'She was all you had hoped she'd be, and more. Surely now your curiosity is at an end.'

He covered his face with his hands, falling backwards to lie on the pallet. True desire was nothing like curiosity. It was flame that ignited itself deep within you, taking in every detail and sensation, never able to simply burn itself out. The thought knotted itself in his belly, and as the images began to shimmer into his mind, the fire roared within him.

He removed his trousers, casting them at the pile of clothes as he moved under the blankets, snuffing out the candle with a puff of magic. As he closed his eyes he saw again that look in her eyes as she told him what she wanted. That look in her eyes that willed him to acknowledge the unspoken who. He saw her opposite him at the table, that slight twist in her hips as she'd pulled her vest over her head. His glances, though stolen through blushes and deep draughts of his cider, revealed the perfect sweep of her belly, smooth skin uninterrupted by a single scar.

'You have healed this flesh many times before.'

'And yet I haven't tired of it.'

So many times he had reached this point alone the dark, his mind clouded with thoughts of her. No matter how much he had desired her he had always succeeded in biting it back, forcing himself into a fitful sleep. Why was this affecting him so? Why was his patience so utterly frayed? The sight of the swell beneath the bindings, of firm flesh despite the tightness of the fabric, of legs and back and everything in between as she turned away.

His arousal thrummed within him, and he groaned deeply. He rolled onto his side, facing the wall as he tried to push the images back. Despite himself, his mind traced the line of her breast band, saw the shiver creep across the swell of her flesh. A glance that had lasted but a moment in reality drew itself out in his mind.

'We should rest.'

'How can I?'

She was flooding his mind with her image, his imagination running wild as he recalled the softness in her waking face that first night when she had woken in his clinic. He wished that he had kissed her even then, kissed the sleep from her mouth, from those supple lips, so capable of expression.

'There is no reason to dwell on such fantasies.'

But it was something he could no longer avoid, could no longer push to one side as if it were not a part of him. His need was overwhelming, the only option was to find release. His hand released its grip on the blankets, strayed lower.

He remembered the moment when he had first felt her touch. He had been knocked unconscious fighting bandits on the Wounded Coast, and woken to find her bending over him, her hand cupping his cheek. How could skin that wielded a staff like that be so soft? How could her touch be so gentle?

He moaned slightly as his hand came into contact, past the point of embarrassment as it echoed around the empty clinic. He focused on the image of her bending over him, the smile as she realised he was unharmed, her hair straying from its hurried knot, cascading forwards to caress her face.

'End this.'

He intended to.

'Desist.'

And suddenly the touch was too firm, the motion too rough as he struggled against himself. He needed this.

'It is unnecessary. She is a distraction.'

But Justice was wrong. She was everything, the living embodiment of everything they fought for. A free mage, a woman full of life and love and laughter, who had never known Circle walls. She was the aspiration, her freedom was the struggle. His grip slackened.

His tongue parted his lips, wetting them as his breath gathered pace, as his body found its rhythm. He saw again the flush on her cheeks in the inn and the slight shallowness in her breathing - a nervousness that might have bordered on arousal. He remembered the way she had distracted herself, trying to stay calm, taking a sip of her drink. He saw that perfect mole on the base of her throat shift as she swallowed, saw the way she would stretch after finishing a battle, releasing the tension in her shoulders as she rolled them back.

His pace increased as he recalled the way she would fist her hands into her hair when she was anxious, the silken strands so willing to escape their bonds. Her eyes as they danced with laughter, darkened with tenderness, sparkled with a smile. That blue he felt that he could drown in, as fresh as the sea or as stormy as the night. He brought himself back to that moment, that moment when he could have moved to her, drowning her in his kiss, his need, his desire. She would have melted to him, her ripe lips dancing against his own as she succumbed. They'd tumble into the candlelight, clothing discarded carelessly, her skin unveiled as she leant over him, touching his cheek as she... as she...

With a final, guttural moan he spent himself into his palm, as his whole body seemed to ache with release. Rising carefully, he crossed his makeshift room to the washstand, and rinsed himself off in the cold water. Shivering, he returned to the warmth of his cot, trying his best to get comfortable.

'May that be an end to it.'

As if that were even possible.

The images were simple, but in the years and months that followed they would evolve steadily, utter fantasy mixing with those moments of the reality that captivated him. It was this night that he would remember however, as the first when he had given himself over to his attraction to her, when he had lost the resolve to deny what he was beginning to feel to himself and given in to the fleeting consolation of his own touch.

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