{ Part 4 }

Asala - his soul. The blade crafted for him when he came of age and took upon his role.

When he had spoken of it to the Warden, it had been because of her questions as to why he could not go back to Seheron. She had been bewildered, much like other things he'd told her, but it was not because of the reasons he believed.

At first, when he'd spoken of his sword, his soul, he had thought she could not understand his connection to it. Why he would be killed on sight if he were to return without it.

He had been incorrect, and not for the first time when it came to the small elven warrior.

She had not understood why he spoke as if it were final, as if he could not find it again. He'd told her of how it had fallen from his hands during the ambush. It was lost, and there was nothing he could do.

She shook her head. "We will search the riverside," she told him. So much certainty in her expression that he found himself believing along with her, if but for a moment. "I'll help you find it."

As she sat beside the fire that night, tending to the string on her bow, he watched her. It wasn't the first time he'd done that, either.

He berated himself for it. She was not of the Qun, and he had no business looking at her for personal pleasure.

It was wrong, in his world, and yet he could not stop from admiring her curved ears, much like his own but far more delicate. The pale column of her neck, decorated in fine black ink in patterns which disappeared beneath her armour.

He forced himself to turn away, to take a walk in the line of trees which surrounded the camp site. It was an effort to keep his eyes from finding her at every turn.

It wasn't long after their discussion that Sten found himself stood on familiar soil. It was where he and his men had been ambushed by the Darkspawn. She said nothing, and neither did he from his place behind her.

He almost wanted to see if she would remember.

The warden paused when she saw a man beside a pile of bones. Sten pretended his stomach did not clench at the remains of his brothers, then seething anger boiled inside at the bas who searched around in them.

The warden strode up to the man with purpose. Her presence made him jump to his feet, but she did not back away, instead stepped into the looters face even more. He found his lips curl as the sides. The man's eyes flickered to him, his bas skin pale, and then back to the elf who undoubtedly had fire in her eyes.

"What are you doing?" She asked, her voice lyrical but deadly.

"I - I," the man stuttered. "I was told there was some good things here, is all!"

The warden titled her head. "You should stop," and it was advice in such as way that if he didn't, she would stop him forcefully.

Sten felt himself pull up to his full height behind her. He'd crush the man's head if he so much as made a move towards her. Not that the Bas would, he was already pissing his small clothes.

The warden was far smaller than the Bas male. Didn't even have a weapon to his throat, and if anyone asked, he would say she was being quite reasonable.

"I hate looters," the warden said. "But, seems as though you're here. Have you seen a sword?"

"S-sword?" The man repeated. His panicked gaze kept flashed back to Sten. "N-no. There was a guy here before me. A dwarf. Sold me the spot, actually. Didn't tell me he'd already taken everything of value."

"What's his name?"

"Er, ah, he's a merchant," the man babbled to them. "Should be heading back to Ozahmmar. You could catch him there."

The warden thought of a moment. Then gestured with her chin for the man to move on. "I don't care what you paid for this spot, leave. Now."

The man didn't hesitate. "O-of course," he looked to Sten, to one of the people he had been poking around in. "M-my apologises."

As the man ran off down the hill to the nearest tavern, the warden sighed. Then knelt down beside the remains. She didn't look up at Sten as she spoke, but he found himself wanting to see her expression. "The Dalish plant seeds of trees over the dead. So that they may join the earth and give back to the land."

There was a hitch to her voice which he could not understand.

She looked up at him then, squinting in he moonlight. "What do Qunari do with their dead?"

He studied her face. "There is nothing which can be done for them now," he explained, his voice gravelly. "Their souls have left their bodies and there is no other use for them."

The warden looked back down the bones, quiet for a long moment and then rose. "Let's go," she told him, and brushed her hands down the front of her armour. She did not touch him, had not since their first meeting. It made him frown that he was thinking of such things, but then he also respected that she didn't touch him unnecessarily - like many of her companions attempted to do.

Perhaps it was part of her culture...No, he was positive he'd seen her make contact with the others. Whether it be a pat on the ex-Templars shoulders, a soft punch to the assassins side or a small touch when the Bard wanted help fixing her hair.

He could not identify the emotion which filled him at the thought, and he should have non of those feelings at all.

He watched her for a moment in the moonlight which reflected off of her pale skin, and white hair. She turned to him when he had not moved. He made his face unreadable, then started after her as they walked back to the camp close by.

She had not forced her cultures dead rites on his people, she had respected that their bodies were no more - for that he was glad, and the pain he felt over it lessened some what.

His eyes softened when he looked to her, even as his heart and mind were in turmoil.