A/N – Sorry for the delay, we all know how life can get. I wound up throwing in some game dialogue. I was in the middle of writing this cheese encrusted romantic bit while on vacation when I received a phone call that my cat had dropped dead. What a mood killer.

Ch.14

Meanwhile, Back at the Hall of Alistair

Arl Eamon thumbed the thick stack of parchment that lay before him on the desk. An unspoken tension hovered in the air as he and Alistair finished the last of the month's complaints from the Banns. While the king had grown quite strong in the previous months, his awkward boyish quirks were still apparent. More so when faced with lying to the one man he considered the last glimpse of anything resembling a father figure. Even that was fragile.

He absently fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve. "Oh, and there will be three guests staying in the unoccupied quarters in the east wing." He looked up to meet the inquisitive eyes of his uncle before continuing. "A mage, Finn, the templar, Ser Carroll, and a Dwarf student of the Circle, Dagna. They were sent here to update the inventory of the phylacteries stored here in Denerim." He searched Eamon's eyes for a hint of disbelief, curled his fingers into a fist, and coughed into his hand. "I gave them the privacy of that particular area as they will not be disturbed while working."

Eamon twisted at the heavy silver beard covering his wizened features. "Funny, I don't remember reading any missive from First Enchanter Irving or Knight-Commander Greagoir," he said in his usual placid tone, searching Alistair for a response.

Alistair hesitated briefly, and righted his posture trying to dislodge any doubt his uncle may have had. "What with all the issues of the Bann's and resolving any hesitation regarding the crown, it must have slipped my mind," he said assuredly.

Arl Eamon drummed his fingers on the desk. "I see," were the only words he spoke, knowing that Alistair wasn't telling him the full story, and taking note of how he only looked him directly in the eyes in short intervals. Deciding not to press the matter further, they adjourned for the evening.

Alistair walked swiftly down the hall and rounded the corner, exhaling and slumping his shoulders in relief. He returned to his quarters, nearly managing to avoid any contact with his personal guards.

"Sire." A staunch man of remarkable height nodded to him as he entered his chambers. With a short wave of his hand, Alistair motioned for the guard to step inside.

Ser Ferren had been promoted to the Commander of Alistair's personal guard after much debate. Alistair liked the stern abrasiveness of the older man's personality when giving orders and often used his stature as a point of intimidation. Despite his menacing appearance, the man had a kind heart and was loyal almost to a fault. He reminded Alistair a bit of his old traveling companion, Sten, and this brought him a familiar comfort.

Ser Ferren was quite the contrast to his predecessor, Ser Angus. Having been witness to the King's tryst during the palace's last masque, Alistair had never been truly comfortable with the way the man had looked at him. Knowing better then to express his personal opinions, the greasy, ginger haired man had held his tongue, a snide smirk barely visible on his gaunt freckled face as he overheard Arl Eamon expressing his disapprobation over Alistair's indiscretion. This alone was enough to make the king demote him regardless of Eamon's thoughts on the matter. He was less then accommodating when Ser Ferren had been promoted.

In the months past, the two men had developed a bond. Despite a rocky start, Ser Ferren disagreed with Alistair's knack for sneaking out of the palace to dress down and drink with the commoners. He had even gone to such lengths as to find and nail the secret entrance in his chambers shut. After some struggle on Alistair's part, he managed to pry the door open once again, this time prompting Ser Ferren to nail it shut from the inside, leaving the drunken king hopelessly trapped behind the wall.

After becoming lost for hours and overhearing one of his men in coitus with a chambermaid, he finally found his way back to the front door of his chambers. The two guards posted outside his door were quite startled to see their king haggard, covered in dirt and smelling like a brewery. A private screaming match took place between the two men. They had agreed to disagree when Ser Ferren let it slip that he had been acting on Arl Eamon's orders. Instead of pulling the overused power card, Alistair instead persuaded the man to join him in a beer. Several pints later, the two men drunkenly made their way to the alley behind the tavern and haphazardly making idle conversation, unaware of two bandits shadowing their path. It was Ser Ferren who received the first blow, knocking him to the ground with a loud thud. The two bandits thought to make quick work of the smaller man once they had disabled the larger threat, but they were mistaken. As one man swung his sword, Alistair ducked, pivoted, and grabbed the man's wrist wrenching it backwards and forcing him to drop his weapon.

"Ser!Behind you!" Ser Ferren shouted, picking himself up off the ground.

Still holding the man firmly by the wrist, he spun the man around just in time to use him as a shield, blocking what would have been a mortal blow. An arm flailing wildly, the attacker was lifted off his feet, two huge arms wrapped around his chest, a sharp wince and a gasp escaped the man's lips as Ser Ferren snapped the man's spine. His body crumpled, his torso lay at an odd angle as he twitched lifelessly on the ground. With his head still spinning from the blow or the ale, he didn't see a third assailant approaching from behind. In one swift movement, Alistair had retrieved the man's sword, parried to the left, and struck the would-be attacker, sending his head flying toward a stunned Ser Ferren. The statuesque guard slumped his shoulders and breathed a heavy sigh.

"Some Commander I am," he grumbled, "allowing my King to do all the fighting, while I stand around like a stunned little girl."

Alistair laughed, reached up, and put a hand on the man's shoulder. "I was a Templar and I'm still a Grey Warden, you know," he said, trying to restore the man's pride.

"I seem to forget that fact. Something I will have to remedy in the future," he said assessing his king in a new light.

Groaning from stress, Alistair poured himself a chalice of fine liqueur from the decanter arranged neatly on a small table by the fireplace. He slunk heavily into his favorite armchair, thoughts of Mira's last missive weighing heavily on his mind.

Dear King Alistair,

It seems as if our new traveling companions have left us bereft of our horses and our senses alike. After a peculiar evening of muddy memories, we found ourselves waking up with no small effort, our supplies, mounts, and company absent. We have made it to a small village not far from the West Hills.

I, however, do not remember arriving here. As we were walking, I began to feel ill, a churning in my stomach followed by a wracking pain throughout my body. Not unlike what I felt when taking the Joining. I seem to have vomited blood. Zevran believes it was poison. I am not so sure. Although I am weary, I seem to have recovered. This leads me to ask if there is any post illness associated with being a Grey Warden.

Zevran is hell bent on pursuing our said traveling companions after we have reached the Circle Tower. I must admit I am not against the idea.

Fare you well, Alistair, I will keep you informed.

Best Regards,

Mira Mahariel

He was concerned, to say the least. No Warden he had ever heard of had experienced any type of sickness related to the Joining. Leliana had done her best to calm his fears, telling him she was in the safe hands of a particularly skilled assassin. This reminder did not settle him at all. Still harboring animosity towards Zevran, he sneered and weakly accused the elf of being the culprit. Leliana would hear none of it and chastised him for his childish behavior. Frustrated, but knowing she was right, he finally relented.

Several months later, he had received another missive from Mira, this one much more serious than the last. As he read her vague description of the incident at the Tower, he realized that this was no illness. To make matters worse, she had in her custody a child apostate, something that the Chantry did not take lightly.

Alistair sat back in his chair and stretched his legs in front of him. He tilted his head back and dozed off.

The feisty Dalish elf had come crashing into his life; his closest confidant and at one time much, much more. Thoughts of him silently watching her by the pond at camp, her angled features illuminated in the moonlight as she danced to some melody heard by her ears alone. She was remarkable, like nothing he had ever seen before. Amidst all the carnage and treachery, all the needless slaughter and all the pain and fury, there stood this untarnished beauty, floating and twirling in the wind as free and careless as nature itself, and just as deadly. At that moment in time, she represented the embodiment of the freedom he so desperately wanted. Always remaining just out of reach, she was truly wild.

The sound of a twig snapping under his foot barely broke the silence before her dagger nearly missed him, burying it deep in the bark of a tree, mere inches from his head. It was then that he had nearly exploded, folded her in his arms, and confessed the feelings that had been boiling over in his chest.

Instead, he had slipped in what he thought was mud and came face to face with the business end of her longsword.

"Mira!" The sound of his own voice startled him as he regained his footing. She stood over him, a look of shock turned quickly to embarrassment as she realized whom he was.

"I- I'm-," he stammered, lifting himself off the ground and brushing off the dirt and twigs clinging to his pants. He sighed heavily realizing the look on the elf's face. "It's not what you think, I swear." He continued to grasp blindly at the words evading his mind. She folded her arms, her mouth pulled into a tight scowl as she stared at him through narrow eyes.

Hanging his head in defeat, he continued to ramble on some semblance of an excuse or apology, neither of which was remotely close the Queen's English. Mira watched his struggle for quite some time before she couldn't allow him further anguish. She smiled up at him, chuckling softly and sheathing her blade.

"It's alright Alistair, I believe you." A softness warmed over her jade-green eyes. "Are you sweating?" she said tilting her head in curiosity.

A fear gnawed at his insides as he wondered if she could hear his thoughts. "Am I?" he said with a nervous titter and wiped his brow. "Oh, I guess I am, a little, maybe."

He fumbled around the pockets of his trousers, finally producing something folded in his hand.

"Here, look at this. Do you know what it is?" Gently resting between his thumb and forefinger was a red rose.

Mira smirked. "Your new weapon of choice? " The corners of her mouth curved into a teasing grin.

He threw his head back in a laugh, relieved at the broken tension. Holding the delicate flower by the stem, he flicked it back and forth. "Yes, that's right! Watch as I thrash our enemies with the mighty power of floral arrangements! Feel my thorns, darkspawn! I will overpower you with my rosy scent!"

This was one of the reasons he had grown fond of her so quickly; she shared his sense of humor, laughed at his jokes no matter how corny they were and surprised him with a quick retort. "Or, you know it could just be a rose; I know that's pretty dull in comparison." He looked sheepishly down at the flower.

She tilted her head curiously looking back and forth between him and the rose. "You've been thumbing that flower for a while now."

"I picked it in Lothering, and I remember thinking 'How could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?'" A small sigh escaped his lips, and he shrugged slightly, and then continued. "I probably should have left it alone but I couldn't. The darkspawn would come and their taint would destroy it. So I've had it ever since."

Mira stood in front of him contemplating his intentions. "What do you intend to do with it?" she had finally asked.

"I thought that I might...give it to you actually. In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you. " He paused for a moment, unsure of what to say next. A nervous pang rumbled in his stomach and he swallowed. "I thought maybe I should say something; tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are to find amidst all this... darkness."

Mira had been taken aback by his unexpected sentiment. Through all of the recent horrific events, the most painful was the loss of her first love, Tamlen. She had all but given up on kindness. Suddenly at a loss for words, she reached out and took it from his hand.

"Thank you," was all she managed to say.

Alistair watched the bewildered look in her eyes. Suddenly feeling the urge to run screaming from her as if she were the arch demon it's self, his mouth spoke before his brain could catch up.

"Now if we could move right on past this awkward embarrassing stage and get right to the steamy bits… I'd appreciate it." He scratched the top of his head and turned to look anywhere but at her.

To his amazement, an unexpected pair of arms reached up around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. His body reacted where his mind could not and before he knew what was happening their lips had touched, and in an instant, they were pressed against each other.

"Alistair, "she said in a whisper, her lips barely grazing his.

"Yes?" he answered, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

"You stepped in something foul."