Bryce Cousland's Little Spitfire

Alistair lay awake long past the time the rest of the estate had quieted. Being in the city again was…odd. When he'd arrived as a Grey Warden recruit, he'd welcomed the bustle of Denerim after so many years in the serene monastery near Redcliffe, but now he almost longed for the solitude of camp. Almost. Some things he didn't miss. Like the bugs, or having to serve on watch, or waking up with dew all over his face, or…ugh…the sounds emanating from Oghren's tent. Snores, and worse. Sleeping in a bed again was a nice treat, too.

But right now, he'd rather be at camp, laying on the opposite side of the fire from Bryn, able to unobtrusively check on her, to assure himself she was really there.

He closed his eyes, his breaths growing ragged as he struggled to get his emotions in check. Maybe it was the stress of the day, or the memory of the fear he'd felt when Bryn had succumbed to his smite, but all of his templar discipline had fled for the moment. His hands fisted in the blankets. With a grunt, he pushed himself up and out of bed. He'd just peek through her door and make sure she was okay. No one could fault him for that, could they? And no one had to know, at any rate.

Her room was just down the hall from his. Fifteen paces. Sound leaked through the door and he paused, his hand hovering over the handle. Maker, was she…was she crying?

His hand fell back to his side as he considered just turning around and heading back to his room.

Coward.

She sniffled as he entered, wiping the back of one hand over her cheeks. "Alistair. Andraste's blood. Don't you know how to knock?"

He shrugged. "There were no doors in the stables. Just lots of hay, you know. It's tough to knock on hay."

"Leave me alone," she whispered, rolling over. "I just want to be alone."

"I thought you might want to talk. Or--" He fidgeted, missing the familiar weight of his armor. Everything was easier to face with a sheet of metal folded around your body. "Or maybe a shoulder to lean on."

Her back quaked as her sobs renewed. Something in his chest twisted and demanded he fix things. He perched on the edge of her bed and rubbed her back. "Bryn, love, don't cry." He stilled as the endearment flowed past his lips effortlessly, but she didn't notice it.

"I killed him." She hiccupped. "The things he said…oh, Maker, I know he said them just to prod at me, but it worked. I thought about my mother and father, about Oren and Oriana, about Fergus, and I--I killed him, Alistair. I thought it would make things better. I thought this--this…" Her voice trailed off and the ex-templar thought for a moment that she wasn't going to finish. "This emptiness," she whispered at last, "would go away. But it hasn't. It's like…I'm dead inside. Howe met justice like Father wanted, and…there's nothing left of me. I don't know who I am anymore." She shifted onto her back to look up at him. His heart clenched to see her eyes so red-rimmed, so uncertain. "Who am I?"

The woman I love. Oh, Maker, now was not the time for that confession. If it was even true. He pushed the confusion aside and focused on Bryn's watery eyes instead. "You are Bryn Cousland, daughter of the real Teyrn of Highever…which, I guess, makes you the teyrna, now," he said softly. "You are The Warden, a symbol of hope for all of Ferelden. When we defeat the Blight, Bryn, it will be because of you, and no one can deny that." He reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. "You are noble, and kind, and you see things in people that no one else can. You want to find the good in everyone, and when there's none to be found…" He gave her a tight smile. "You didn't fail anyone, Bryn. Not yourself, not your parents or your brother or his family. Certainly not Rendon Howe."

"I feel…" She hesitated, searching for the right word. "Tainted. Yes, I know. Don't say it."

One corner of his mouth quirked. "Me? Make a smart comment? Never."

Humor flashed in her eyes, there and gone almost before he recognized it. "It's just…I was living with this hate for so long, and I never really knew it. Not until…" She rolled away from him again. "And now, I can still feel it there. Even though it should be gone, it's not. And that's not who I am, Alistair. It isn't."

His hand squeezed her shoulder. So terribly inadequate--the gesture, his presence, everything. "I know."

She nodded. "Yes, you do, don't you? You're probably the only one who really does."

She didn't continue, but she didn't have to. Alistair knew exactly what she meant. He'd harbored an intense hatred for Loghain since Ostagar, something he'd never tried to camouflage. The Blight--important, yes, the fate of Thedas was in their hands. But Loghain had to be dealt with first. The regent would pay--for the deaths of Duncan and Alistair's brother Wardens, and for the death of Cailan. The half-brother he'd never really known.

He felt a hand on his knee and looked down to find Bryn staring up at him. "It's my turn to ask if you're all right," she said with the barest hint of a smile.

"Just thinking."

"You know, if you keep that up, people are going to figure out that you're not as dumb as you look."

Alistair scowled at her. "Very funny. You know, I think that comment deserves some punishment. And it just occurs to me that you are without your armor, so…"

"Alistair…don't you dare… No!"

Her protests disintegrated into giggles as his fingers found just the right spots for tickling: along her ribs, at the hollow of her neck, across her stomach. His lips stretched into a wide grin and he found himself laughing too as she struggled vainly to escape the merciless torture. At some point during the attack, he shifted, half-covering her body with his. She looked up, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed…and he was lost.

He captured her mouth with his, a groan emerging from his throat. She responded eagerly, her lips hot against his. Her back arched, and one of his arms snuck underneath her to pull her closer. Her hands whispered through his hair, her fingers finally coming to rest at the nape of his neck. The shift she wore, the nightshirt covering his chest--both felt insubstantial compared to the armor that usually separated them. But it was still too much.

Some instinct he hadn't even known he possessed prompted him to position himself above her, his arms braced on either side. Her knees parted, and he settled just there… Her breath hitched as she moved, moved just right… Maker, they had too many clothes on. Her shift bunched in his hand as he began to push it up.

Alistair froze. He wasn't actually--they weren't going to--

"Maker's breath," he gasped and pushed himself up and off the bed.

Bryn frowned and levered herself up, her elbows shoved behind her so she could watch his panicked retreat. "What is it?"

"We can't…" He swung one hand in a wild gesture. "Do that."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" he echoed. Good question. "I…because I…"

She sat up all the way, her hands twisting together in her lap. When she spoke, she wouldn't meet his eyes. "I've never been with anyone, either. You know that. There were…opportunities…but I never wanted a casual thing. Maybe it was foolish of me, but I always hoped…I always dreamed…ugh." She blew out a breath and glared at him. "I can face down a broodmother but I can't just say this. I love you, all right? Happy?"

"You…what?"

"Andraste's ass. You're not going to make me repeat it."

His brows drew down. If she'd said what he thought she'd said, she should be smiling, right? Not looking as though she'd sensed darkspawn. So perhaps he hadn't-- "Uh…maybe?"

"I love you." Her voice was less irritated this time, softer. "I don't know when it happened, but I know when I finally figured it out. The road outside Redcliffe, when you gave me the rose. I…" Her voice trailed off, her brows dipping as she watched him. "What is it?"

Love? But…Maker, he thought that was what he felt, but how was he supposed to know? He was just a bastard, worthless, unworthy of that level of emotion from anyone. Love was merely a concept, not something he'd ever experienced in any of its forms. And here she was--this amazing, beautiful, strong woman, this hero--professing to love him? A--a nobody who should have died with the rest of the Wardens?

"I--" He shook his head and fell back a step, then reached for the door handle. "I have to go."

"Alistair--"

He darted into the hall, ignoring both her protests and the voice in his head mocking his cowardice.