A/N: Sorry for the long wait guys! I just finished writing an actual book, lol. So no time for fanfics. I've got more time now. The chapter after this one is going to have a semi-lemon in it, just a warning. I'm also upping the rating to M because of it. I'd rather be safe than have this deleted. Thanks again!

For once, everybody gets to sleep in beds.

Beds are rare, beautiful things, Alistair decides. Things to be worshipped. He jokes at dinner at Arl Eamon's estate that when he's king, he'll make a holiday just for beds. Bedday, right in between Market Day and the Feast of Maferath. Leliana lets out a small giggle. Wynne chuckles. Zevran groans like someone had physically stabbed him, and Sten mirrors his feelings by putting on an especially big grimace. Oghren is too drunk to do anything but laugh like a constipated nug.

Amell looks down into her pudding and excuses herself.

Throughout the days leading up to the Landsmeet, the mage had taken her intrepid party around Denerim, gaining the support of nobles and leaders alike by introducing them to Alistair and helping with their problems. They'd paid a visit to Marjolaine, and killed her in cold blood that Leliana seemed to equally enjoy and loathe. They'd stormed Howe's estate and found enough incriminating evidence to sway the hard courts of the Tevinters. The Landsmeet was theirs, if the people of Ferelden were willing to listen.

The party has noticed a change in their leader.

Morrigan was the first to bring it up to Wynne through a offhand comment. The two did not normally speak. Water and oil didn't normally speak either, and they got along better than the two women did.

"Her spells are quite inaccurate." The witch of the wilds sighs.

Wynne looks up from studying a book in the library of the estate. "I have noticed it as well. The Fade weaving of her incantations has been loosening considerably. Perhaps she is sick."

"She's done nearly all of the legwork of uniting Ferelden herself." Morrigan sniffs. "If she's not sick, or at least weary, we will be forced to come to the conclusion she is possessed by an Endurance spirit."

Morrigan shows a strange kind of concern – she spends much time in Amell's room, the two often walk the courtyards together. Wynne offers herbs and poultices to help Amell sleep. Zevran turns to offering her bed company, if she needs a way to fatigue herself enough to sleep. Oghren brings in hard spirits to drink. Nothing really works. Amell still tends to be awake at all hours of the night.

When Alistair finds her, she's passed out on a bench in the gardens, leaning heavily on Sten's bulky shoulder. The Quanri stares ahead, glancing to the side only when Alistair clears his throat.

"The Kadan is resting. Do not disturb her."

"I-I, don't you think we should move her? Someplace...flatter, maybe?"

"No."

Alistair has learned, by this point, that arguing or trying to convince Sten to do anything he didn't want to was impossible. He sits on the other side of Amell, awkwardly shuffling his feet as Sten stares ahead.

"She is tired."

Alistair looks up at the words. Sten seems a statue of cloud-gray marble, with his mouth the only thing that moves.

"Is Ferelden so incapable that it has to place all the weight of uniting itself on the shoulders of one female mage?"

Alistair doesn't have an answer for that, but Sten doesn't seem to need one.

"You will be king of this land, if all goes in correct form to the Kadan and her advisor's plan." Sten continues. He had taken to calling Eamon the 'advisor'. "You must see to it that Ferelden grows every stronger. I will not have my people waste their time invading a weak country."

"I..." Alistair swallows. "I'm not even sure I want to be king."

"You must." Sten grunts. "Kadan plans to remove Loghain from power. If he is removed, the defacto ruler would be the woman Queen. This is also unsuitable."

"Remind me again why I should care about the Qunari's opinion?"

"It is not just the Qunari." Sten shifts, but only slightly. "You have formed a bond with the Kadan. You will not disappoint her. She believes you being King is the correct future for Ferelden, therefore, it is."

"You're really good at oversimplification. Scary good, actually."

Sten doesn't say anything more. Alistair stays with him and watches Amell breathe softly. The garden around them is heavy with flowers and the heady smell of pollen. The greenery casts dark shades over her cheeks made pale from exhaustion. She spent her nights up late with Eamon, most of the time, discussing tactics and speeches for the Landsmeet.

She was trying hard.

Eventually her eyes open.

"H-How long was I out?" She straightens away from Sten's shoulder.

"Approximately four hours, Kadan."

"I'm so sorry, Sten. I –" She looks closely at his bared arm. "There's drool! Oh Maker, I'm so, so sorry."

Sten shakes his head and she gives a nervous laugh. The sound is high and soft, and dies out when she turns her head to see Alistair. He starts up from the bench immediately.

"I-I, uh, I was just going. Somewhere. Anywhere other than here."

"Alistair! Are you alright? It's very late. And...why are you here without your guards? Didn't Eamon tell them to stay with you? You should get used to having them around."

Her smile is very convincing.

"Didn't like them much." He murmurs. The mage nods thoughtfully.

"They are a little wax-figure like, aren't they?"

"You think if I brandished my fire-rune weapon, they'd melt?" Alistair quirks an eyebrow.

"We could put a fiber in the tops of their heads and use them in the bedchambers as conversational candles." Her eyes twinkle.

The silence settles in, and Sten nods a goodnight to his Kadan, but not him. For a few moments, Alistair can convince himself they were in the old days, when banter like this was common, and her smiles more the kind that warmed him from the inside out rather than the recent type that froze his heartbeat in its tracks with chilly, fake pleasantries.

"Arl Eamon has graciously found the address of Goldanna's home." She starts softly. Alistair starts. "We'll visit her tomorrow, if that is convenient for you."

"Of course!" He smiles. "Now I have to worry about my hair, and pressing my shirt. Damn you."

"You have servants for that, now." She laughs.

He dreams that night about it being different. He dreams about a night in the camp before their journey got hard – the two of them beside the fire, talking over the nuances of their eccentric companions, or the day they'd had. Simple things; her life in the tower, stories of chantry mishaps of his. His dream goes on past dinner, past the time in which the party settled in to clean their weapons and armor to ready them for the next day.

The dream goes farther, and somehow she's shyly kissing him now, and it's the moment in his life he wants to hold on to forever, even when he's old, even when he's dead. It's impossible, this kiss, and he knows that and that's what makes him realize it's a dream, and that the way he leads her to his tent is impossible, and the way she laughs as he struggles with taking her robes off is impossible, and her hot mouth on his skin makes him twitch, blush, moan, and that she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen, will ever see, and she's enchantingly willful and witty and obliviously adorable and a hundred other things, and she makes him feel okay, and he needs to feel okay, that he can't go without feeling okay, feeling her, before he's shackled to the throne with golden clasps that will drive them even further apart.

He wakes from the dream, flushed and angry and determined all in one. He throws his shirt on and marches past the guards, through the halls, around the late-cleaning elves. Just before her door he stops, hand raised as if to knock. He will knock, and he will tell her. Everything. Even if it ruins their friendship, even if she hates him for it.

The wood in front of his eyes is a thin barrier between them. The candlelight is bright under the door. She's awake. He remembers the cold indifference, the polite tones in her voice that have turned her into a distant, busy woman. She sees him as a good friend, a best friend. A most trusted ally that she'd give her life to protect while she fights to free her country.

His vigor flags. He can't disturb that. She has enough problems, so many that she doesn't sleep anymore. He can't trouble her with his stupid feelings. Not when Ferelden needs her most.

He can live on the dreams.

Goldanna is a bitch.

He apologizes.

Amell smiles and tells him it's simply life.