Part Four

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"Alistair already has an obligation. It is to the Grey Wardens."

The words were calm enough, but Lyna's displeasure was evident in the rigidness of her stance, and the slight twist to her mouth, like she had bitten into something sour. Alistair saw the glances she shot his way, her scowl deepening, and thought he knew the reason she was holding back words she obviously found distasteful. She knew Arl Eamon was important to him, and so was doing her best to rein in her temper with the man.

He would have liked to tell her not to bother. It wasn't like Eamon was listening, anyway.

"When the Grey Wardens accepted Alistair into their ranks, they could never have known that Ferelden would find itself in this position. We will need him, if we have any hope of putting an end to this war."

"What about me?" Only long years of habit kept Alistair's tone civil. He was overjoyed that Eamon had recovered, but now, faced with his worst fears, he also couldn't help but be just a little suspicious that the man had practically woken up with this scheme in mind. "Don't I have any say in this?"

Eamon frowned, no doubt caught off guard by the protest. "You have a duty to the people of Ferelden. You cannot simply ignore your blood because you have a previous commitment."

Convenient, that. Alistair frowned, but bit back the sharp retort that sprang to mind.

Lyna was positively bristling. "An oath is an oath precisely because it cannot be broken. Our lives are no longer our own, to suddenly decide another course than the one laid out before us."

Eamon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I realize this is difficult for you to understand, but an heir to the blood cannot serve the country as a Grey Warden alone. He has a greater obligation to the people of this nation than to spend his life hunting darkspawn."

Alistair felt himself wince and shot another wary glance at Lyna. Very good, Eamon—use up all of her patience in one go, why don't you?

"Do not assume because we Dalish choose not to practice your subservience to bloodlines in our own dealings that we do not understand them," she said quietly, her voice taking on a dangerous edge. "Alistair serves the people of this nation in ways a lordling like you could not possibly imagine. You saw him fit enough to waste on a war against the darkspawn when Cailan was still alive. You understand nothing of what it means to be a Grey Warden."

Alistair decided it was time to intervene, before this got more heated than it already was. He reached out and put a hand on Lyna's arm, shaking his head. Furious as he was with Eamon, and grateful as he was to Lyna, the entire suggestion was too far-fetched yet to waste energy arguing over it. "Leave it. We still have an army to gather."

Lyna looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes bright with anger, before she shook him off and all but stormed from the room, muttering to herself in a long stream of elvish. When he turned around, Alistair suddenly found a half-dozen questioning looks directed his way. He rolled his eyes. "Oh, sure, make me say it."

…

Vague levels of understanding or not, Alistair was pretty sure that the fragile friendship he and Lyna had managed to build was about to come to a crashing and likely messy end when they finally found the Dalish. Alistair had made his fair share of people heartily dislike him over the years—proper Templars had nosense of humor at all—but never had he experienced waves of distrust aimed his way simply by default. The Dalish were coldly formal, agreeing to cooperation out of respect for his status as a Grey Warden, but still a sullen dislike remained in the air the entire time they remained in camp. After learning the gist of what was going on, Alistair decided it prudent to leave Lyna to gather the details and took the others out of her way.

He sensed trouble coming before the hunter had even reached them. Alistair, Leliana and Zevran were waiting a safe distance away from the encampment, just inside of the tangled forest, when the young man confronted them. Alistair recognized the look on his face immediately—he had seen it on the face of too many young Templars not to. Haughty arrogance and pride like that could only be achieved by a young warrior who had not yet learned the benefit of humility to temper them.

He sighed.

"You're not welcome here, shem."

Alistair had the wry thought that at least the boy had enough sense to keep his venom centered on him—had Leliana been the target of it, he doubted Zevran would have remained as calm as he did. The assassin merely quirked an eyebrow, crossing his arms with a faint air of amusement, and waited to see how this unfolded.

Alistair would have preferred to keep it tightly folded, if at all possible. "We're not looking for any trouble. We're here by the permission of your Keeper."

"We have no need of the assistance of outsiders, especially not ones who would cringe in the face of a real warrior. We know how to protect our own."

"Clearly." It was a mistake—he knew it the moment the dry skepticism slipped from his lips. The hunter's daggers were drawn in an instant, as were Zevran's. Alistair's hand tightened on his sword hilt, trying desperately to think of a way to diffuse the situation when Lyna ran up from seemingly nowhere. She threw herself in between them, shoving both Alistair and the young hunter back for good measure. Alistair fell back willingly, but the man was less obliging until Lyna shoved him again, snapping out an order in her own language. Alistair didn't need to be fluent to recognize an order to back off.

"Seth'lin!" The man was trembling in his anger as he glared down at her. "You defend this shemlen against one of your own?"

"I defend a fellow Grey Warden against an arrogant fool who has not yet learned when to hold his tongue."

Alistair shifted uncomfortably. "Uh, Lyna? I might have provoked him. Just a little."

Lyna didn't even look his way. "I never doubted it, but it was he who came here, looking for a reason to fight."

The hunter crossed his arms, a look of pure disgust contorting his features. "The others were right. You turn your back on your own people. So be it, flat-ear. Perhaps he will sell you to a good master once he is done with you."

The carefully constructed calm fell like a curtain, dousing the smoldering anguish in her eyes so quickly Alistair was sure he was the only one who had seen it clearly. She simply shook her head and threw her hands in the air in exasperation. The jerky movements that replaced her usual grace belied the feigned detachment.

Alistair stepped forward automatically. "Lyna—"

"Come. We have work to do." She stalked into the trees, Leliana hurrying to catch up, her gentle voice working quickly to try and soothe her.

Fury washed through him, making every detail of the hunter's smug face sharpen in his vision. He vaguely heard Zevran tsk and remark, "That was foolish, my friend," seconds before Alistair's fist caught the young man beneath the jaw. The blow sent him crashing onto his back, sputtering in rage, but Alistair planted on foot on either side of him and roughly grabbed him by the collar, giving him a little shake. "I'm only going to tell you this once. You don't talk to her again. Halam sahlin. Got it?"

His eyes still spitting hatred, the hunter wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand and nodded, apparently realizing that he was outnumbered. He rolled to his feet, refusing to dust himself off, and stalked back to camp.

"Ah, jealousy. It is a marvelous distraction, no?" Zevran chuckled beneath his breath and sheathed his daggers. "Truly, Alistair, such testosterone-driven urges are useless if the lady is not present to witness them."

"Better she didn't see that," he muttered, shaking his hand for the stinging knuckles. "I think I just made things even worse."

Zevran disagreed with a sharp laugh. "One thing you must realize: Male pride is a contamination that infects every culture, and quite a useful one. Perhaps, if we had been standing in their midst, I would have felt more inclined to stop you, averse as I am to a backside full of arrows. However, as it stands, the pubescent victim would first have to run back to his friends, both sporting that brilliant bruise and crying of the nasty shemlen who put him in his place. I do not believe we have to worry."

…

Lyna did not tell the Dalish about Zathrian.

When she returned to the camp with the story about how Zathrian had broken the curse and died in the process, leaving out the entire portion where he was responsible for the whole mess, Alistair didn't object, though he did have to elbow Zevran in the ribs to silence his skeptical snort at that slightly skewed version.

It wasn't that she approved of the Keeper's actions, or even tried to make excuses for them. Alistair remembered the fury in her eyes, the way her knuckles had gone white in the grip she had on her bow, her entire body shaking with rage as she stared at the ancient elf in outraged disbelief.

"You would risk the life of your clan, of those you are blood sworn to protect, for the sake of your own vengeance?"

No, she had not approved. Alistair had never seen her look so completely lost, the disillusion weighing down her shoulders like a physical burden. Yet she went through with the lie, unwilling to be the one who caused the others to feel the same grief over their misplaced trust in their Keeper, or to steal their faith that the elves might one day achieve the glory of their lost past.

If any of them doubted, wondering why Zathrian had the power to break the curse, they didn't ask. But they warmed to Lyna considerably after that.

She sat on the edge of things now, a small smile on her face as she watched the Dalish clan go about their daily business. The sense of relief that had fallen over the entire scene was nearly palpable, as was the dissolving of the distrust that had overwhelmed them when they first arrived. Leliana was in the distance, speaking to the lore master with the animated enthusiasm of two people who share their greatest passion. Zevran was demonstrating his use of daggers to a couple of curious young hunters. A few faces had even become familiar over the past few days—some were more willing than others to make themselves known to the outsiders. Alistair spotted Cammen, clutching the hand of his lady, both of them wearing identical bandages around their hands.

Alistair flopped down beside Lyna on the grass, gesturing to the young couple. "What do you supposed happened there?"

She glanced up. "They likely performed their bonding while we were away."

"I see. Wait—no, I don't. What does a wedding have to do with anything?"

She regarded him a moment before she shrugged. "It is a blood vow. Those who are bonded are recognized amongst our people by the scar they bear here." She reached over and took his hand, turning it so that it was cradled in her own, and lightly traced the curving line down the center of his palm with a delicate finger. He shivered. "It is the life line, the final destination of the heart's blood. The participants mix that blood in a promise to become one heart, one life." She paused. "I would thank you not to share this with anyone else. My people can be… hesitant… about sharing our customs with those outside of the Elvhen. They would be outraged if they discovered how much of the language you have learned."

Alistair thought of the hunter in the woods and flushed. Probably better not to tell her about that just yet. "I don't mean to cause trouble for you, Lyna. You don't have to teach me."

She looked at him, and the depth and smile in her dark eyes took his breath away. "But you are my clan, now. Silly shem."

…

She was beautiful and fierce, a creature of grace and courage, and he was completely transfixed by her. As winter gave way to spring, the ice around her seemed to melt with the frost, the warmth of her laughter brightening his days as she would run ahead of the others with Falon at her side, or play in the mountain streams with Leliana, their happy shrieks filling the campsite.

He figured it out, eventually, on a night when the stars shined brightly overhead. She sat with him beside the fire, talking comfortably amidst the smell of smoke and magic, her quiet laughter seeping into every ounce of his being. It struck him like a bolt of lightning, frightening and powerful and wonderful all at once, and he didn't know how he couldn't have realized it sooner. He forgave himself this once, because even though he might have been a little slow on the uptake, he knew now.

This was what falling in love felt like.