"Andraste's lacy knickers!" Alistair's voice was too loud, more of a squawk than anything, and in a panic she yanked him inside the tent. He stumbled, grunting as he landed nearly headfirst onto her bedroll.
"Keep your voice down, you dust brain!" She re-wrapped and tucked her prize out of sight for the moment, all too aware that unwanted attention could easily have been drawn. "Remind me again why I never take you along on scouting? With all that stealth and all." Carefully, ignoring her companion's defensive grumbling, she opened the tent flap a sliver and peeked out.
"I didn't know we were being stealthy! You never said! Of course, I see now—"
"Hush," she snapped, not looking away from the campmates giving her tent obviously curious glances. "And don't you dare touch that yet."
"You are a mean and spiteful woman."
"You are damn lucky I know better than to take your sulking seriously," she answered, then turned back to face him once it became clear that the others were not going to approach. "Move your hand or I'll stab you in the eye."
"You wouldn't. You think my eyes are pretty."
She grinned grimly. "Circumstances are extenuating. Hand. Move." He retracted his hand, folding it morosely in his lap. His eyes were still glittering hungrily. "Ancestors save me, you're like a spoilt child."
"It's entirely your fault, dangling such sweet treats in my face. Tease." They both realised the direction the conversation had gone down nearly simultaneously, and neither could control their blushes. Alistair's ears were burning, and she felt her cheeks and neck grow warm. After a moment of silent awkwardness, she coughed and shifted to sit across the small tent from him.
Digging under the pile of blankets, she retrieved the bundle of wax-coated paper. It was barely as big as Alistair's thumb, and with the greatest of care and the nimblest of fingers she unfolded the small packet. Nestled inside the thick paper was a tiny pile of sliced fruit sprinkled with crumbled nuts and spices, all coated in a subtle honey coloured glaze. Orlesian honeyed sweets.
"Maker's breath," Alistair whispered. Five pieces of the rare delight; she'd found the packet on the body of an unlucky traveller they'd been moments too late to save from the bandits they'd then soundly dispatched. Her hands had been quick enough that none of her companions had seen her secret the precious packet away as they'd all rummaged for useful supplies amongst the carnage.
She'd felt enormously guilty for not sharing her surprising find, but she'd only seen honeyed sweets once before in her entire life, and that had been a gift for her mother from her father. King Endrin had made some Orlesian merchant wildly happy and risked the wrath of his deshyrs for spending so much royal gold on such a little, frivolous thing, but the Queen had been well loved by their people, and no one would fault a husband for moving earth and stone to bring such joy to the last days of his dying wife.
She chose not to think too hard about why she'd chosen Alistair to share this moment with, why she hadn't chosen to hide away alone to remember and grieve. She hadn't explained to him why these sweets were even more special to her than their extreme rarity would explain, but suddenly she recalled the single wilting rose tucked away safely in a book she'd borrowed from Wynne. If she could tell no one else, she needed to tell him.
She took a deep, shaky breath. "Could you just, um. It's just—I want to tell you something first."