AN: Here's more Alistair for everyone :) I was going to hold onto it until I got some feedback for the last chapter, but I was in the writing mood and this was edited pretty quickly. This was actually the first part written for this whole story, when I was planning on it being a one-shot, and eventually I decided I wanted it full-length and took out the other bits that made up some of the other chapters. Anyways, a quick thank you to those who have reviewed so far! They make me smile when I see them in my inbox. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Same as always. Quote by Josephine Hart

"Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive."

The estate was the epitome of silence in the bustling city of Denerim. While some of the noise of the market filtered in, it would barely pass the thresholds of windows and doors only to be swallowed up by the feeling of melancholy that had descended upon the company within. Alistair could hear nothing from where he stood, staring into the fireplace in Eamon's study, one hand on the mantle while he kept the other at his waist to keep from punching something.

He knew he should have gone with her. He should be going after her now, but Eamon decided it'd be best for two of their companions to sneak in under the cover of darkness, when the guards would be less vigilant and less prone to ask questions. Of course, he was still not allowed as Eamon thought it would jeopardize his chances at the Landsmeet. He figured if he still had a fortnight before anything would be decided, he should bloody well be able to do the things he wants while he can. For now, his mind was left to run over scenarios, one more horrid than the last. Leliana had relayed to him what had been in the Arl of Denerim's estate, and he was none too please with both Anora and Eamon at the moment because of it. Eamon should have warned Quyne of the madness that was Arl Howe, and he wouldn't even let himself think of that shrew. If things went as he wished them too, the queen would be thrown into Fort Drakon herself and never see the light of day again. He knew she was cunning, but to be so cruel as to let her saviour be captured by her father's own men…his fist shook under the strain of his grasp.

His heart hurt to think of Quyne being kept in that fort. To think of her being pulled across floor of the estate, tied to the back of Cauthrien's horse and dragged through the back alleys of Denerim to be thrown into some cell, bound by iron to a wall and subject to whatever torture Loghain would sink to. He felt a tear slip down his cheek and had to push himself away from the fireplace before he let himself take a burning log and throw it at Anora. By the time Zevran and Wynne got there, four days will have past with Quyne in Loghain's grasp. Eamon knew if they tried too soon, they'd be walking into a trap. He strode over to the window and stared down at the busy market, muddled through the glass. The sun was just starting to descend across the sky, but he knew it would still be hours before darkness fell. Resting his head against the cool glass, Alistair closed his eyes and tried to remember her face, the shape of her blue eyes, the turned-up tip of her nose, the swell of her bottom lip, always so enticing. They hadn't been apart long and, yet, his hands itched to remember the feel of her body. He had tried to sleep the night before last, but nightmares reminiscent of those he'd had in Orzammar haunted him more than ever. He hadn't had dreams this bad since his joining, and he knew the Archdemon was to blame.

A commotion from the hallway drew his attention from the window, the sound of footsteps and raised voices echoing in the stone room. He crossed the room in great strides, throwing open the door to find the staff in a flurry and Leliana trying to make her way to him. Meeting her gaze, his heart stopped when he saw the sad smile on her face, a look of alarm in her eyes. In that moment, Alistair knew she was back. He rushed through the halls of the estate to the entrance hall where he could make out Oghren's flaming hair against the sea of dull brown clothing crowding around. And there she was, leaning against the dwarf for support and laughing of all things. His heart stuttered, his stomach dropped when he met her eyes. One was swollen completely shut, and blood dripped down her left cheek, but a smile still graced her beautiful face. She limped towards him and slipped her free arm around his neck, the limb trembling under the strain of movement. He felt her breath hot on his neck as he helped her to their room, "I love you."

Later, after the mages had been and gone, he stared into the fire's glow for the second time that day. He couldn't bring himself to look at her for long, the bruises slowly fading, skin still pale. The old mage had healed her injuries, and she would be fine, but the marks would remain for a little while longer. He had helped remove the stolen guard armour, too big for the small elf inside, leaving heavy marks on her shoulders. The ribs an angry red, the wrists and ankles rubbed raw, the fingernails broken, the elbows and knees swollen and loose. He knew the signs, and his stomach heaved to think of her small form subject to that rack. He had heaved when Morrigan had pushed back the chopped hair to reveal her disfigured ear. The bastards had pierced her left ear, the pointed tip gone leaving only a ragged edge. Rushing from the room, he had emptied his stomach in a nearby vase and lingered outside the door until Wynne called him in.

He heard movement from the bed and he moved quickly to her side, eyes searching for signs of distress. He saw her eyes move rapidly under the lids, and hoped she dreamed of better things. Looking down on her, he tried to memorize her face again. The hard, bitter truth was that, if she hadn't managed to escape, she would have been too far out of reach when their companions rescued her. It shook him to his core. On their travels, they'd had so many injuries from the darkspawn and a variety of other foes, but this was done with a different kind of intention, by the very men they were struggling so hard to save. Alistair wanted to laugh at the twisted reality of it. He was drawn from his thoughts when he noticed the turned-up corners of her lips, "If you're going to stare at me Alistair, can you at least smile? I'd rather not be the reason you wrinkle prematurely."

His eyes focused in on her face, the left eye bloodshot and bruised, lips dry and cracked. Her hair was dirty and hung limp, but seemed to be free of the mattes there had been when she'd came in. Her skin looked raw; the women had obviously tried to clean her up to make her feel more comfortable. By the time he'd realized he was staring, a grin had broken across her face and he could barely contain his tears. He swiftly lowered himself to the bed and grasped her small hand in his. She let out a chuckle and brought her other hand to cover his, causing him to promptly put it back at her side.

"Don't move too much. Wynne said you need to rest as long as you can."

She laughed softly, "It's just a little moving. I'm not broken, Alistair."

At her words, he felt his control slip and before he knew it, hot tears rolled down his face. He lowered his head to rest against the hand he held. He felt ridiculous, but the tears, the sobs came unbidden. He felt like a fool for crying when he knew she was the one in so much pain. Still, the hand she rested on top of his head was a comforting presence when he should have been comforting her. "Quyne, I-"

She shushed him with a tap on his head, "Hush, Alistair. You don't need to say anything. I'm here, I'm safe, I'm whole."

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