She'd been sure it was a trap. There hadn't been a doubt in her mind that there would be blades and poison and death waiting for her when she strode into that room in the Gnawed Noble.
That was why she'd brought Alistair along— there was no one she'd rather have at her side during a battle, and she had a great deal of respect for the skills the Crows had at their disposal. She was not so stupid as to dismiss the abilities of the most feared assassins in the known world just because Zevran had been charging in on a suicide mission.
Now, though, with the conversation turned in a more… polite direction than she'd anticipated, she sorely regretted not leaving Alistair to wander about the shops.
Ignacio was waiting for her answer, arms crossed, and with every moment she silently considered the offer, the tension in the room slowly grew.
She'd been ready for a fight, but now that something else was offered, something that might gain her a powerful association… she held out her hand, not daring to glance to her right. She refused to deal with Alistair's condemnation here, in front of such astute and dangerous people.
"Hand me the scroll."
Truly, Alistair's silence in that cramped tavern room shocked her more than the lack of an ambush. He hadn't said a word as Ignacio passed her the rolled parchment, and he hadn't raised a fuss when she'd nodded and tucked the paper away. He came with her to meet Paedan, and they'd fought together just as smoothly as ever, cutting through the murderous bastards with barely any strain. He'd even come, silent and inscrutable as granite, back to Ignacio and the chest. The chest from which she'd taken two more contracts.
It wasn't until they were back at camp, after supper had been cleared away and the fire was burning low, that the storm broke.
She and Zevran were sitting close together (which, in hindsight, probably did nothing to help the situation), quietly discussing plans for their future undertakings. The qunari mercenaries seemed like a promising target to strike first, given their current proximity to Denerim. It would likely take word longer to reach Gainley in Orzammar, if the assassination was recognised, than it would to filter down to the qunari if they killed the ambassador at the outset. The very best target was an oblivious target.
She was distracted with thoughts of strategy when Alistair walked over to their little meeting, and it was only Zevran's quiet exclamation that alerted her something was wrong.
"Oh my—" Zevran was already getting to his feet, and she glanced back over her shoulder to see what had put such a tense expression on the elf's face. Then she saw Alistair standing there. "I think I'll just leave you two alone, yes? Yes, I think that would be for the best."
Alistair did not look happy— that, she had expected. He didn't look especially angry, though, which was a bit of a surprise. She knew he often had trouble accepting how far into the shadows Grey Wardens must sometimes go in the name of their duty, and she hated those times she was forced to remind him.
He just looked so utterly disappointed and frustrated that she felt her stomach lurch. Hesitantly, unsure of the tone this conversation might take, she patted the grass beside her.
"Will you sit?"
He was staring at her, hard, as he lowered himself to sit some distance away. In truth, only about an arm's length separated them, but his demeanour made the gap feel yawning and cavernous. With an especially quick flick of her wrist, she made the two contracts disappear from sight.
She thought it might be a good thing that he was still meeting her gaze, even if his expression was grim. She waited, but when the quiet and the staring became too much, she took a deep breath.
"Ali—"
"So we're killing people for money now?" Her teeth clicked shut so fast it actually hurt. "We've sunk to murder for hire? All for the good of Ferelden, I'm sure."
He was snappish, very much on the offensive, and she tried hard not to bristle right back. "We're trying to gain allies, Alistair— very powerful ones. At the very least, we're weakening the enemies currently out for our blood. The Crows will try again." A hint of sourness crept into her tone, drawn out by his derisive snort. "And we're not doing anything. You're staying in camp."
"I'm what?"
"Staying in camp. I'm not taking you with me." She could understand his shock— in all their travels thus far, from the familiar halls of Orzammar to the terrifying depths of the Brecilian Forest, she'd never left him behind. She hadn't met a single battle without him at her side since before Duncan died.
It was difficult to face him as his anger gave way to hurt, but she managed— she wouldn't look away, and she'd make him understand. Stamping down her own hostility and frustration, she reached out and touched his knee with the very tips of her fingers.
"This is not something I want to do, Alistair. Please believe that." The silence was tense, and she felt as though a wound was slowly opening in her chest. "Please tell me you believe that."
"I—" His hand was heavy over hers, lifting it away from his knee. "I need some time, I think. I know I probably sound like an utter ponce, and I know you think you've got to do this, but just…" He was getting to his feet, and now he was looking everywhere but at her. "I think I'm going to set up the extra tent. Just for tonight."
"Alistair, please wait—" Every ounce of pride was shoved aside by a gnawing fear that this was a much more serious argument than she'd hoped it would be, and she latched onto his calf. "These are all men working for Loghain! If we'd learned about them from a chanter's board or a rumour in some tavern, you'd have no issue with this!"
When she resisted his attempts to gently shake her off, Alistair threw his hands in the air. "Fine! I don't know why I hate this so much, but I do, all right? It doesn't feel good."
Using a burst of momentum and the element of surprise, she climbed up his leg and wrapped her arms tight around his middle. He was still wearing his armour, but she pressed her cheek against his chest anyway. "I know it doesn't, my love, and I'm sorry."
"You're still going to do it, though." His fingers carding through her hair felt like meagre comfort when accompanied by that defeated assertion. "Even though I hate it."
"I'm sorry," she said again, but she wasn't about to let him go.
The extra tent remained bundled that night, yet she still felt painfully alone staring at Alistair's back across the bedroll.
AN: A pair of rather dismal chapters, I know, but a few of you were jonesing for me to try a little more angst. There'll be something romantic or funny next, I think, but we'll see. I'd also like to write a few of the other companions into some scenes. 'Reconstruct' is eating away at my time, but I won't forget 'Of Steel and Stone.'
Thank you all for the reviews, and I'm honoured that some of you feel for my characterisations. I've become rather attached to my little woobies, and I'm glad some of you have too.
In particular, I'd like to thank pickleeatingcontest for the amazingly sweet and hot fan art she did for 'Of Fantasies.' It can be found on swooping_is_bad here: http:// community. livejournal. com /swooping_is_bad/ 314594 .html When I first saw it, I had one of those Alistair gift reactions: "Is that for me? Really? Wow, just wow..." Thank you so much!