She was so very, very beautiful.
Certainly, the other young women travelling with them had their charms. He wasn't blind. Maybe it was strange that his gaze lingered so much longer on her than either of them.
Leliana was lovely, in her way, but she was just too… Chantry. Maker this, Andraste that—he'd had more than enough of that in his life, thank you.
Morrigan was…yuck. Nasty and evil, and no matter what she looked like it still didn't change the fact that she talked.
But her. Ever since she'd called him handsome. Ever since she'd joked about dreaming of them together, in her tent. He just couldn't stop watching her. It was getting dangerous.
Watching her eat, watching her oil her armour, watching her sit by the campfire and read— all those things were dangerous in an embarrassing way. What if she caught him staring, all slack-jawed and lecherous?
But when he caught himself watching her climb an ogre, and had less than pure thoughts about the way the skirt of her armour flipped about her thighs and the way her chest heaved when she plunged both of her blades hilt-deep in the monster's neck… that was a different kind of dangerous all together.
He'd managed to make it out of that fight with his brains intact, but just barely. If Zevran hadn't been right there to slit that hurlock's throat, the hurlock Alistair hadn't noticed coming up on his flank, things might have ended a little differently. As it was, all he'd had to contend with was a knowing smirk and bruised pride at being caught gawking by the assassin. Really, it was only slightly better than becoming darkspawn chow.
Later that evening, when they'd finally made camp after a gruelling day of slaughtering all monstrous fiends in their path, he found himself caught unawares again. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Zevran chuckled, close enough that he felt hot breath against his ear.
"The view is spectacular, my friend." Alistair cursed as quietly as only a former Chantry boy could, and considered how quick he'd have to move to just break the smarmy little Antivan's neck right there. "You seem altogether…enraptured."
"Please don't purr so close to me. It gives me nightmares." Zevran laughed again, then clapped Alistair on the back in a brotherly way. It was the first time Alistair had ever regretted getting out of his armour at the end of a long day. Maybe if he'd left it on, the smug little lecher would've hurt his hand.
"May we speak man to man, Alistair?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Of course, and if I may, you're making precisely the wrong one! Look at that—" Zevran motioned over to the view that had most recently caught Alistair's attention. There she was, sitting by the edge of the fire and grinding deathroot into a small pot. The warm, flickering light played across her skin; her face and neck shimmered like the smoothest gold, and shadows played in the curve of her breasts. "How can you not partake in such a glorious bounty when all can see that she is, for whatever reason, besotted with you? How can you be so selfish?"
"Selfish? What?"
Zevran tutted, crossing his arms. "There is an expression in Antiva, I am not so sure it translates directly. The closest, I think, would be 'shit, or get off the pot.'" Then that too pretty, too creepy face went all serious. "There are others who would worship such a woman, were she at their disposal. To leave her unsatisfied, yet still unavailable— that is selfish, my friend. It is also all I will say on the matter."
Then Alistair was standing alone, staring at the empty space the assassin had so recently occupied. He felt headache bloom behind his eyes.
Retreating from the fire, away from the dual tortures of nosy elves and shadowy, sumptuous bosoms, Alistair considered his options. He certainly knew what he wanted, and oh Maker did he want. He just—
He cared about her. He'd told her as much when he'd given her that fool rose. But what was one meant to do then?
Battling darkspawn? He was your man. Bringing down dangerous apostates? Just call Alistair. Need a sharp, hilarious wit on an otherwise gloomy mission? Look no further.
Romancing a woman? A gorgeous, intelligent, spirited woman who lit his very soul on fire— well, he was a fumbling boy.
One warm spring day, when he was about nine years old and still living at Redcliffe, he'd happened upon a small wooden box in the back of Bann Teagan's armoire. Of course, Teagan hadn't been a bann then, but he had been a bit like an older brother.
Happened upon probably wasn't the most accurate choice of words either. He'd been hiding from one of his tutors, and Teagan's closet had seemed like a good idea at the time. Then, as nine-year-old boys were wont to do, he got bored.
In his defence, the box had only been hidden behind a loose panel. It's not like anything had been locked.
He remembered opening the closet door just a crack, letting in a sliver of light. There were cards inside the box, made of thick creamy paper. There was an elegant woman painted on the first card, with a long pale neck and dressed in a blue silk robe. She was lying on a chaise, and her provocative pose had made young Alistair's stomach tingle. Then he'd thumbed the card open and nearly dropped the whole box.
The same woman, painted in the same pose, but she had no clothes on. Once young Alistair had gotten his breathing under control, he'd checked the rest of the cards to make sure the first wasn't a fluke. A dozen gorgeous women, all in various, sultry positions, and all unclothed if one happened to open their cards.
Nine were humans, two were elves, and one, one was a dwarf. He remembered that she was…generously endowed, and sitting on an anvil (something he now realised was rather corny and maybe a little racist). She had long dark hair pinned up in braids, and a gentle smile.
His lady (hardly yours, he reminded himself sharply) looked quite different than his memory of that risqué painting. That didn't stop him from imagining how significant those differences might be, however. Under the steel and the leather and the rough wool, would she be soft curves and welcoming warmth?
He shook his head fiercely, trying to dislodge those thoughts. They were no more than a day outside Redcliffe— that was why his mind was straying to such fancies. He already had worry gnawing away in his gut about Arl Eamon's illness, and about the strangeness they'd found in Brother Genitivi's home when they'd followed the lead from the late Ser Henric's note.
He needed to focus. One of the lessons the Chantry made sure to beat into its templars was how to resist temptation. Purity of spirit, purity of body, all that hogwash. He would just focus on the mission, not on the curve of her back and the slightly cheeky smile she had just for him.
Then there were undead, and demons, and she managed to save them all, and she even found his mother's amulet, so maybe he could be forgiven if his focus was just blown away.
