First Warden,
You are hereby prohibited from any attempts to contact, aid, or assist the Ferelden Grey Wardens. Any disobedience on your part will be interpreted as a desire to resign from your post and its associated privileges. You will issue letters to every Commander of the Grey in Thedas detailing the same orders. You will not interfere in Ferelden. Do not mistake us; insubordination is a sin reviled by the Maker.
3 Justinian, 9:31 Dragon
By the Blessing of Our Lady
Bless the Peacemakers, the Champions of the Just
Warden-Commander Karstein,
It has come to the attention of the First Warden that Warden-Commander Duncan of Ferelden perished in battle. An impostor whose name is currently unknown has attempted to usurp the traditions of our Order and take his place without reporting to Weisshaupt. Any attempts by the Wardens of Nevarra to contact, investigate, or assist the Ferelden Grey Wardens at this time will be interpreted as insubordination and punished accordingly. The punishments for insubordination are traditionally as follows: first garnishing wages, the second flogging, third imprisonment, and finally death. As this order is of the utmost importance, any Grey Warden who attempts to disobey it will be immediately imprisoned and sentenced to death by quartering.
As dictated by First Warden Bernhard
13 Justinian, 9:31 Dragon
"What does it mean, Commander?" Warden-Constable Mila, the Nevarran Wardens' second-in-command, looked worried.
Karstein, a distant cousin of the Pentaghast clan who had been glad to join the Grey Wardens and escape the political grasping of his family, went to stand pensively in front of the window. Outside, it was a sunny day, and the sprawling marble metropolis of his Nevarra City sparkled under the bright rays. Kerstein, handsome and dark with the striking hazel gaze of his forefathers, frowned at its magnificence, his eyes following the line of their gate into the yard outside. Men and women sparred playfully and with some concentration in the yard; most of them were enjoying basking in the sun, their faces sweaty but smiling. He imagined what it would be like if they were left to the mercy of the darkspawn, while the First Warden sat in the safety of his throne and waited. The letter crumpled in his hand.
"I do not know, Mila." Turning back to his trusted second, the Warden-Commander muttered, "But I don't like it."
"Ha!" Commander Ianuarius threw his head back, laughing.
"What is it, Commander?" Servius, his second, asked with a smirk. "Is the First Warden asserting his authority again? I'd like to see him come here and try it in person." A few sparks danced threateningly between the young mage's hands.
"It is inconsequential," Ianuarius reduced the vellum into ashes with a quick flick of his wrist, sprinkling them carelessly over the stone floor. His face stretched into an icy leer, "Those foul barbarians will finally be taken care of and whatever's left can serve our purposes when we're ready." Making to leave his office for more important matters, he added, "Maybe once we've emptied the land for slaves we can grow our grain there." Servius laughed appreciatively and they went to join the other Senior Wardens in one of the compound's great towers.
Commander Holger, a grouchy sod at the best of times, merely grunted and stuck the letter in a pile on top of his desk. He would have to compose a suitable reply, but not right now. He had other things to deal with, not least among them that batty Knight-Commander in Kirkwall who kept trying to imprison his mages. Damnable woman; as if recruiting and scouting in the Free Marches wasn't already enough of a burden.
The fierce Adelina narrowed her eyes, displeased with the contents of her letter.
"What it is, mio comandante?" Gavino, one of her Senior Wardens, paused over his review of their rosters. The handsome elf, previously of the Crows before his recruitment, was in charge of their guard and its various rotations. Their weekly meeting had been interrupted when a messenger, breathless with haste, arrived announcing a letter from the First Warden himself.
Her dark hair cut into a sleek bob over almond-shaped green eyes, the Commander of the Grey in Antiva was known well for her shortness of temper. Without comment, she handed Gavino the letter, who scanned it with increasing height of eyebrow. Adelina began pacing in front of the empty hearth, currently vacant of fire in the summer heat.
"This is…. Unusual." Gavino commented carefully.
"Che cazzo di stronzata!" Adelina fumed; Gavino's eyes nearly popped at the profanity, especially from a former noblewoman.
There was a light knock at the door; "Yes!" Adelina ceased her pacing, her face still pinched with rage. She had known Duncan a long time ago and she resented his death being neatly swept away like so many ashes.
Warden Renata, a young recruit who Joined the year before, entered timidly. It was widely understood that it was prudent to avoid the Warden-Commander when she was in one of her rages. Renata tried not to quake.
"Commander, the other Senior Wardens are assembled. They await your command in the main hall." At Gavino's quick nod, the girl saluted and withdrew, eager not to be the receptacle of her Commander's displeasure. Adelina huffed.
"Mio comandante, let us consider." Gavino rose gracefully from his chair and refolded the letter, reaching out to pat her on the shoulder with one hand. "It is very noble that you wish to be of assistance, but we have been expressly forbidden. Let us wait and see; perhaps we will learn things that can be useful. La prudenza non é mai troppa, yes?"
Adelina frowned, but Gavino could see the fire fading (at least to its usual glowing burn under the surface). While he soothed his commander back into enough of a humor to inform her Senior Wardens that the trip to Ferelden was off, Gavino resolved to see what he could do with his old contacts to discover more of what was behind these strange orders. It seemed very unusual to him that the First Warden would ignore rumors of a Blight; Gavino had been a Crow long enough to know a stinking political scheme when he smelled one.
The Warden-Commander of Orlais had made the announcement that morning; immediately, many rumors began to spread in the Warden Compound of Montsimmard. Some were indifferent to the Fereldens' plight, wondering only if there were truly a Blight and whether it would spread northward. Too many were unkind and jeering, mostly loyalists to the Empress who took pleasure in the fall of their brothers of Ferelden. Those who had hailed from that country or who knew people there were less irreverent, paying respects to their dead brothers and sisters in the Chantry.
That was where Riordan sat all afternoon, thinking hard about the choices before him.
Duncan had been his friend; granted it was a long time ago and they had fallen out of touch, but that hadn't changed the kind of man Duncan had been. If there was a Blight in Orlais and Riordan had needed him, he knew Duncan would have answered his call without question. Whatever had taken place between their countries or in the last few months among Duncan's men, their duty as Grey Wardens took precedence.
It was many bells later before Riordan went to write the message he needed in order to get things moving. The sun had begun to fall behind the austere tops of Monstimmard's peaks, which eventually gave way to the Gamordan Peaks further south. He knew he could only get one missive out without rousing suspicion, so he chose his ally carefully. It had to be someone with enough personal investment to be willing to take the risk. It had to be someone who he could contact during this time that the Warden-Commander might understand. It had to be someone who would come against orders, who would be defiant enough to find him, even if it was the forbidden thing to do. That left him with only one option. As soon as his letter was sent, the dark fog that had seemed to hover over his mind and body since that morning evaporated. Riordan began pacing back and forth in his small chamber, shared with one of the other Senior Wardens. He looked out the window, following the beautiful orange sunset across the horizon. It would be at least two weeks before he got a reply. What if she didn't come? What if she said she wouldn't help?
Impatient, but resigned, Riordan sat to wait.
Gobbling and gibbering, darkspawn emerged from the ground, brandishing axes and stubby blades of their own making.
The party broke ranks, scattering to flank their attackers. The horses screamed, rearing back and only failing to dislodge their riders because of a hasty force spell cast by Aneiren, who was still at the rear and not yet facing the same dilemma. Charlotte took Keirstrider in hand, murmuring soft words to comfort him as her eyes focused on the Hurlock leader. She unsheathed her weapons, the cool slice of her blade breaking through the noise of unfolding chaos.
"Dismount!" Charlotte roared to Wynne, who was struggling with her horse. Morrigan transformed in her saddle, first soaring into the air as a hawk – she issued a loud, "Creee!" as she rose into the air – and landing as a bear, her maw opening wide as she roared, her teeth sharp and issuing spittle. Morrigan charged into the fray.
Keirstrider was made of sterner stuff than his brethren; he bellowed his displeasure and reared up, galloping forward. As Charlotte circled the monsters, cutting a Gemlock down with a swirl of her blade, Zevran seemed to melt off his saddle, bent low and tearing into his opponents without a sound. There were eighteen darkspawn; a sizeable force leaving them about two to one. Now that they were also organized by the Archdemon's song, training had become essential. Charlotte and Alistair had spent the better part of the last two days trying to prepare the others; as she watched them out of the corner of her eye, she saw they had taken their tutelage well. Aneiren stumbled and nearly fell as he tried to join the fight, but once there he cast a powerful storm of lightning that thundered out of a cloudless, blue sky and promptly electrocuted a group of four darkspawn on the spot. When the spell dissipated, their twitching bodies crumpled to the ground, gently steaming. Aneiren did a little war dance of triumph and dashed off after another group, a ball of fire licking in his hands.
Jowan was twisting his hands nervously on the edges of the fight, undecided on how to intervene. When a Gemlock stopped mid-charge at Alistair and saw him, the beast changed his course towards the petrified mage. Jowan squeaked and issued a push of force that knocked the Gemlock off its feet. Once on the ground, the darkspawn froze, encased in a block of solid ice. Charlotte helpfully rode over him, scattering his flesh into mushy fractures all over the ground. Jowan watched queasily as they oozed over the dirt.
Alistair and Sten worked to push the bigger darkspawn away from the smaller fighters. While Leliana covered them from a tree with her bow, one swift shot following the other, the two warriors cleaved through their enemies with fearsome cries of war. Wynne stayed back with Bodhan's cart, healing everyone periodically and summoning her mana in case she needed to protect the two dwarves with a shield spell.
As Charlotte turned to steer Keirstrider back towards a grunting Hurlock who was closing in on Cullen, a Gemlock assassin seemed to materialize out of thin air at her left flank. Keirstrider whinnied in alarm, stumbling away. Before Charlotte could panic, Mastodon drove past the horse, snarling. He grabbed the beast's throat in his mouth and shook, his enormous paws pushing it to the ground, ripping out the carotid artery and spitting black ichor in large drips.
"Good boy!" Charlotte shouted; Keirstrider was too ruffled to ride. She dismounted him with a spry jump and bent low, coming up underneath the Hurlock who was bashing his sword onto Cullen's shield. She stabbed her foe deeply in the leg, pushing up her dagger and twisting the blade. The Hurlock screamed and fell on one knee; Cullen took the opportunity to behead him. He twitched and fell over. For a moment, all was still.
No more darkspawn attacked; Charlotte's senses for them were sharpening, and she could feel that more were close by. Although from a quick sweep she saw this had been a well-won victory, she did not relish the idea of pitching her tired comrades against more.
"Gather and quickly, there are more darkspawn nearby. We need to gain distance." She sheathed her blades; Zevran watched her with admiration. There was a spatter of blood on one of her cheeks and a few strands of hair had worked free of their braid. Her movements were clean and precise; she spun both daggers and neatly slid them into their scabbards at her back, her stride confident as she took Keirstrider's reins and led him back onto the road. She was really quite something.
"We need to wash," Wynne interjected; she was not nervous - she had too much of a calm nature to appear outwardly anxious - but her eyes flickered over everyone's faces and hands, where they had come into contact with the poisonous ichor of the darkspawn.
"Yes," Charlotte agreed, deftly mounting her horse. "But first we need to get away from here safely. Everyone ride out and use the water from your skins to get as much of the blood off you as you can. Don't touch your eyes or mouths and do not swallow anything. Let's go."
Everyone clattered into place; some of the horses were reluctant to come. One had galloped away into the forest. Charlotte already knew it was a lost cause.
"Morrigan, fly for now," she ordered. Morrigan had just come within preening distance, gently dusting off the feathers on her shoulder guard. She quirked a small, satisfied smile.
"As you wish," Morrigan bent and reared back up mid-transformation, her body smoothing out into a smaller form. She fluttered in a brief circle around their commander's head before taking off to scout in the distance. Charlotte's mouth pursed while Aneiren looked on in awe.
"She's so arrogant!" Leliana chuffed irritably, coming up to Charlotte's side. Wynne nodded in agreement.
"She is dangerous," the elder enchanter declared. "She is not to be trusted."
Charlotte looked at them both, her expression sharp. "In this party, we do not speak ill of our comrades. She has fought bravely and done her part. You will both do well to remember it."
Alistair grinned to himself, trying to hide it. Though he disliked Morrigan, he couldn't help but enjoy when Charlotte's fire got lit. While Leliana looked scandalized but remained quiet, Wynne's mouth opened in outrage, before she took in the girl Warden's uncompromising expression and fell irritably silent.
"As I said, move out." Charlotte led the way, a grunting Sten following after her, Mastodon panting on her other side. Bodhan was nervous and glad to be getting out of the way of more trouble; he clicked his tongue at the oxen and gave a good tug on the reins. The oxen had seem rather unbothered by all the fighting, and slowly clacked forward. They mooed balefully.
Shortly after, Aneiren followed on Morrigan's horse, still studiously ignoring Jowan, who rode a respectful distance behind him. Leliana, Zevran, and Alistair followed closely behind Charlotte at the front. Wynne and Cullen rode together at the far rear, both pensively silent.
"Enchanter Wynne," Cullen spoke after a time, his tone inquisitive. Everyone was doing their best to wipe the ichor off their hands and faces, soiling handkerchiefs with sticky blackness. The sounds of creaking wood and chuffing horses made a steady rhythm.
"Yes, Cullen?"
"Do you doubt the… purity of this troop?"
Wynne studied him curiously, not immediately answering.
"The purity?"
Cullen was solemn, his eyes forward on Charlotte's straight, high posture. "Yes; though Grey Wardens are known for their noble cause and powerful warriors, we seem to be composed of little more than petty criminals and the rejects of polite society."
Wynne considered her answer for a time before actually replying.
"I think," she said slowly, "That Wardens Charlotte and Alistair have done the best with what they have. You were not at Ostagar, Cullen. I witnessed the slaying of their fellow Wardens; it was gruesome, and obviously intentional on the part of the darkspawn."
Cullen's forehead creased; "You are suggesting the darkspawn isolated the Grey Wardens from the other soldiers?"
Wynne replied calmly, "I have no doubt of it."
They rode without speaking for several moments, kept company by the gentle pace of the horses' hooves and Cullen's creaking armor. The smells of magic, blood, and leather were still sharp in the air.
"So, if they died honorably, why are they considered traitors?" Cullen queried.
"Teyrn Loghain quit the field rather… unexpectedly." Wynne's blue eyes flashed, the line of her mouth hardening briefly before smoothing back out. "It was especially astonishing as the beacon signaling need for him was lit; belatedly, but still. It was as if he chose to interpret its signal to have an opposite meaning. Were it not for the mages' distance from the main battlefield, we too would have perished. As it was, we narrowly escaped with our lives, not all our brethren among us." She gave him a sidelong glance, "I doubt that is something that Teyrn Loghain wishes us to speak of publicly."
Lifting her chin in a haughty manner that reminded Cullen strongly of when she scolded a student, Wynne continued, "Whatever the Teyrn's intentions that day, I know Charlotte's are of a purer nature. She has withstood trials that would have foiled a lesser person; she and Alistair deserve our respect." Her eyes followed Morrigan's soaring form with distaste, "Even if they sometimes make unusual choices." Cullen tracked the hawk's progress as well, his Templar senses uneasy.
"They are chatting rather amicably," Zevran commented, the look in his eyes not matching the half-smile on his handsome face. "It is interesting, yes? That our two recruits from the Circle are so friendly with each other?"
While Leliana peered back with a frown, Alistair looked confused. "What do you mean? They would have known each other a long time, especially with Cullen rising so quickly through the Templar ranks."
"True," Zevran allowed, not taking his eyes off the pair. "But it is still curious; they do not speak with Aneiren or Jowan this way. I wonder what separates them?"
Without turning, Charlotte answered that for him. "I would expect that is related to Jowan's status as a blood mage and Aneiren's charges of betraying the Circle by trying to help him escape. Wynne is a Senior Enchanter and Cullen is a devoted soldier of the Chantry; do you honestly think either of them would approve of such behavior?"
Alistair looked concerned, "But Wynne is such a nice old lady."
Leliana pealed with laughter, "Oh, Alistair! The things you say!"
Alistair was more confused, "I… what?"
"Do not worry, my friend," Zevran assured him, finally tearing his gaze away from Wynne and Cullen. "It is your sweet nature that appeals so much to us."
Alistair looked mulish and grumbled, sure that was somehow a jab at his naivety. Charlotte bestowed him with a gentle smile.
"Your faith in others does you credit, Alistair. Never be ashamed of it." While Alistair was busy being mollified, Charlotte raised a sharp eyebrow at Zevran behind his back. Zevran chuckled.
As soon as a clean source of water was found and Alistair and Charlotte were sure they could sense no lingering darkspawn, they made camp. While Morrigan circled the perimeter casting her mother's complex shield and illusion spells to cloak their location (all of which made Wynne highly irritated and disapproving, as it was not Chantry-approved magic), the others pitched tents, gathered water and firewood, and began taking shifts to wash. Alistair and Charlotte went last since, unlike the others, they possessed an inherent protection against the Taint. Charlotte watched fretfully over Mastodon, who had swallowed a large amount of ichor, but he panted doggily up at her without a hint of ailment. She supposed he was officially a Grey Warden now and felt relieved that she would not have to worry more over his safety –at least as far as poison by the Taint was concerned. Ruffling his ears, she got up and went to get her pack, eager for her own bath in the river.
Zevran passed her on his walk back, his soiled linens rolled tightly in one hand.
"Going to partake of the river's charms, I see." He grinned wickedly at her, his white teeth an attractive flash in his golden face. "Such a pity; had I known, I would have waited to join you."
Charlotte raised her eyebrows, shocked. No man had ever dared speak to her in such a way; for a moment she contemplated what to do with him.
Finally, she found her voice, "You say that as if it would have actually happened."
Zevran put one hand on his heart, tilting his head back in a dramatic gesture. "I am wounded! Such ferocity! Such disdain!"
"Then perhaps you shouldn't be so presumptuous," she suggested.
Zevran laughed, his voice husky. "It would not be so if you would admit you are helpless against my charms," he leaned forward a little, one eyebrow raised in invitation.
Charlotte turned away, deadpan, "You're impossible."
"Is that Ferelden for virile and sexy?" he called after her.
"No," she replied, "It's Ferelden for 'I'll break it if you come any closer.'"
His guffaw followed her all the way to the riverbank. To her surprise, she smiled.
That night in camp, Charlotte sat and spoke with the others around the fire, her wet hair pleasantly cool on her neck and the stew Leliana had made both filling and delicious.
"This is delightful, Leliana, what is it?" Wynne scraped the last bite from her bowl, wiggling in her seat with pleasure.
"It is based on a recipe called Cassoulet, although I did not have the right beans to go with it. But the mutton was good!"
"Indeed," Sten replied solemnly, "A most satisfactory meal." He took another serious bite, his brow furrowed.
"I can't cook at all," Alistair declared cheerfully, swallowing a particularly large mouthful. "I usually know whatever I'm making is ready when it's a uniform grey color."
Leliana shuddered delicately, "Perhaps we can skip your turn at cooking!"
"I wish we had a wider selection of fish available to us," Zevran mourned regretfully, "It would be nice to enjoy a good Cacciuco stew."
"Tis most agreeable not to eat fish, I feel," Morrigan was in one of her rare social moods, lounging at the edge of their circle as she worked on tying her bundles of herbs. "My mother was most fond of swamp fish that stank more dead than they did when alive."
"How disgusting," Charlotte made a face, trying not to imagine what that would have been like. She could remember the boggy smell surrounding Flemeth's hut all too clearly.
"It could be worse," Jowan interjected shyly, "You could eat rat. I had to when I was…" he looked anxiously at Cullen, who hunched largely on top of a log. The Templar did not deign to comment, pretending he hadn't noticed Jowan's hesitation.
"When you were?" Charlotte prompted.
Jowan opened his mouth, but Aneiren's cold voice cut across him. "Running away from your mess?"
Everyone went silent; the fire crackled, little sparks dancing away into the night. Aneiren was sitting stiffly diagonal to Charlotte, who met Alistair's worried gaze with a cautious one of her own.
Snorting with disgust, Aneiren chucked his bowl to the ground and stood up, walking angrily away to his tent.
"Ah, how he moans and cries. Tis quite pathetic," Morrigan smirked. Jowan looked sadly into his bowl.
"Shut it, Morrigan," Alistair snapped. Charlotte jumped up, put her bowl on the ground, and went after Aneiren.
"Aneiren, wait."
"Please leave me alone… I'm tired." Aneiren's shoulders were stiff and nearly up to his ears; Charlotte sighed.
"Please stop."
Aneiren froze, obedient but resentful. Charlotte came to his side, her face concerned. After a moment's thought, she told him, "Walk with me."
The two of them circled the perimeter of camp, not speaking for a time. Every so often, Charlotte's eyes would slide thoughtfully over the elf's face, which blushed with irritation. He wanted nothing more than the privacy of his tent, but he owed Charlotte his life and so he remained respectfully quiet.
"There's something I have that I'd like to give you."
Aneiren stopped, surprised. This was what she came after him for?
Charlotte stopped him and marched quickly over to her tent, bending to reach in for something. When she came back, the shadows and light of the fire danced playfully together over her body and face, her hair a gentle halo in the dark.
"These are for you; I thought you could use them after I saw you casting today." Charlotte held out a pair of gloves and Aneiren took them automatically, too surprised to say anything.
They were beautiful equipment; inscribed with lyrium to enhance his magic and made of fine leather. The moment he slipped one on, he felt the power course up his arm. It was stimulating.
"Thank you," he said finally, still thrown off by the gesture. "I don't know what to say."
Charlotte smiled, "That was sufficient. Bodhan had them in his stores and thought they might be useful to us. I'm glad that you like them."
He looked at her and asked what he felt he had to, "Why? Why are you giving these to me?"
She studied him shrewdly, "Because you're a talented battle mage and deserve the best equipment as a Grey Warden."
He did not answer, unsure how to reply.
"Aneiren," she said carefully, "You are a very important addition to our order. I did not simply recruit you to save your life; I believed you would be very useful and I've been proven right. But if you cannot put aside personal differences, your performance as a mage will become next to meaningless. We cannot afford to present a dissonant front."
Furiously, Aneiren glared at her. His temper – never something he controlled well at the best of times – flared quickly.
"So that's what this is about – trying to win my loyalty? Trying to buy my good behavior?"
"No," she replied, her tone coloring with a touch of warning. "I am simply demonstrating that you are valuable to me and that I wish you to remain so."
"Or what?" he spat, ripping off the glove. "You'll kill me? Smite me? Throw me in a dungeon?"
Charlotte's eyes narrowed; Aneiren's heart skipped a beat. Suddenly, he felt he knew a part of her she had not previously shown. Something that unfurled coolly in the dark.
"You have not yet been introduced to our Warden's secrets, so death would not be imminent." Her tone was speculative, but the quiet of it unnerved him. He swallowed hard and tried not to show his unease. "However," she continued, her face leeching of all pretense, her expression dangerous, "if you attempt to thwart me, I will end you."
The two of them stood there for a time, taking the measure of the other. Gradually, the warmth entered back into her face.
"But that is not what I want. I do value you, Aneiren and what Jowan did was terrible. The important word being 'was'."
She stepped toward him, reaching out one hand; he flinched and then glanced in amazement at the gentle touch on his shoulder, before looking back into her eyes. They were kind; they disarmed him.
"But that is the past, of which Grey Wardens know nothing. We are defined by our mission, obligated to save our country not just from any enemy, but that which was born from evil itself. If you cannot stand by me resolute in our cause, then you cannot stand by me at all." She dropped her hand and stepped away, her eyes boring into his. "It is your decision."
As Charlotte walked away back to the fire, Aneiren called, "And if I leave?"
She stopped to look back, half her expression hidden in shadow. "I will let you go. But if you stay and you learn our secrets, there is no turning back." After a moment's silence, she added, "Grey Wardens get paid well when we're not traitors and we can protect you from the Chantry. But if you stay, it must be under your own power. I cannot afford the distraction of an unwilling solider."
"Consider carefully, Aneiren," she coaxed softly. Her lips curved upward, full and pink even in the darkness. "It could be a very great adventure."
Charlotte was exhausted; she plopped onto a large, flat stone to take first watch over the camp, something for which she had volunteered simply to escape the others. With Morrigan's spells, watches were almost unnecessary, but it was still an intelligent precaution.
Being a leader was too much work; everyone needed so much attention. Not that she wasn't beginning to realize her talent for persuasion, but the constant shamming and cajoling was draining. She almost couldn't remember the careless Highever girl who wanted so badly to be free, who dreamed of a day when she answered to no one. It seemed that reckless abandon was not as glamorous as she had dreamed; that being on your own meant a great deal more responsibility than simply looking after yourself.
Then again, that could be partly blamed upon her circumstances, but still. Even if she had managed to run away, would she have lasted more than a few days? She couldn't decide what would be worse: making a go of it on her own, or being forced into brutal reality with some help. Either way, she was here now and stuck with a mission she didn't particularly want. It may have given her purpose, but the more time that passed the more her veneer of determination slipped and her true feelings seeped in.
She missed her mother and father; thinking of them, a painful ache flared in her heart, tears pricking at the edges of her eyes. She missed her bedroom in Highever and the fussings of Nan. She missed Oren's playful giggles and jumps and Oriana's tolerant clucking. She missed Fergus' booming laugh and the way he called her "Sister." Most of all, she missed the feeling of safety and comfort, of being surrounded by love and knowing her family was with her. No matter how much she had longed for the freedom of choice, she had never wanted to be without her family.
Charlotte sniffed and rubbed her nose, shuffling her feet on the ground to distract herself. Mastodon had been investigating the edge of the forest for any squirrels or rabbits; sensing her distress, he padded over to her, issuing a soft whine. She stroked his head and he sighed, sitting down in front of her with his head rested on her knee. They sat together in the quiet for some time, both trying to comfort the other, when footsteps from camp drew their attention.
"I thought you might like some tea," Alistair's voice floated out of the shadows, his feet crunching noisily in the grass. "It's a bit chilly. And you must be tired." He sat next to her and held a steaming cup out, his eyes soft and kind.
"Thank you," she cleared her throat and accepted the offering, curling her hands around its warmth.
"You had this hunched, sad look about you. Are you alright?"
"I was just… I was thinking of my mother and father." Fighting back tears, she looked from under her lashes into his eyes. "I miss them."
Alistair nodded and, after glancing to make sure no one was watching, threw caution to the wind and put his arm around her. Approving of this, Mastodon came and pushed his head into Alistair's lap, drooling on his trousers.
"Um, thank you Mastodon," Alistair patted him on the head, rubbing down to his ears. Mastodon grinned, panting again, before he went to lie down next to them, facing out to watch for any approaching threats. Alistair turned back to Charlotte.
"Of course you miss them, how could you not?"
She shrugged, unable to reply. Alistair thought hard, trying to find a way to comfort her.
"I don't know that it necessarily compares, but I know the pain of missing someone important to you. I think of Duncan often and there's not a day that I wake up and can't believe he's really gone." He stroked her face with one hand, trailing a thumb around the curve of her cheek to the edge of her bottom lip. "It must be so much worse with your parents, who loved you and whom you loved very much."
Charlotte fought valiantly not to weep and succeeded; her throat already full and sore, she drank a sip of tea to loosen it, blinking rapidly.
"Charlotte," Alistair murmured; she looked at him, her eyes sad. With a half-smile, Alistair leaned towards her, issuing the invitation but not forcing it. After a moment's hesitation, she smiled back and leaned in, giving him permission. Alistair kissed her.
After a few moments of kissing, Charlotte felt better.
"You're very good at that, you know," Alistair complimented her, his grin taking on that crooked shape that always made her heart beat faster. "Scandalously so, in fact. Are you certain you haven't done it before?"
Charlotte was torn between embarrassment and mischief; when Alistair trailed enticing fingers down a sensitive patch of skin at the back of her neck, heat won over fear.
"Well, I did kiss one boy, but I was young and I ended up knocking him on his backside for taking such a liberty. It was rather disgusting, in fact."
Alistair guffawed, "You what! Never, surely – you losing your temper?" She nudged him playfully and his eyes glinted, the hazel warm and lazy.
"What about you? You never kissed anyone before me?"
Alistair sighed, affecting hammy woe, "It seems none of the laysisters were interested in me. Such a pity."
Another question popped, unwelcome but nonetheless intriguing, into Charlotte's mind. Excitement curled delicately in her stomach and creeped a little… lower.
Alistair sensed her tension and raised an inquisitive eyebrow, "What? What is it?"
Charlotte shifted uncomfortably, trying to suppress her illicit feelings. "Nothing."
"No, not nothing. What are you being so shifty about? Did Leliana finally teach you how to pick my pocket?"
"No! No, of course not!"
"Well, that's a relief, because if your behavior right now is any indication you'd make a terrible thief. Ow!" He rubbed the spot on his chest where she thought she had lightly punched him.
"Sorry," she apologized, only mildly chagrined. "I'm still not use to this Grey Warden strength of mine." Her eyes lowered of their own volition to the muscles shifting under the linen of his shirt. A wave of heat washed over her.
"Hey," his voice was quiet. The tension spread out like the tautening of a bowstring. Charlotte gulped as Alistair's gaze melted into hers.
"What are you thinking?" Alistair whispered, his face very close.
"Nothing," she replied breathlessly, wide-eyed and caught.
"For someone who normally lies so well, you're doing a terrible job of it now." Alistair's gaze grew hooded, his lips parting and his eyes hovering over her mouth. Something warm unfolded in her lower abdomen.
"Have you done this?" She asked nervously, placing a stilling hand on his chest as he leaned towards her. Alistair froze, his gaze widening in surprise.
"Done what?"
Charlotte licked her lips nervously, resisting the urge to shift again. She was all hot and bothered and her instincts told her to relieve the pressure she felt down there, but it seemed so unladylike that she forced herself to remain still.
"You know," she insisted. "Have you ever….?"
A look of pure mischief lit up Alistair's face, "Have I ever what? Had a good pair of shoes?"
Growing cross, she replied, "No, you know what I mean."
Alistair grinned even more widely, his tone deceivingly innocent. "I'm not sure I do," looking contemplative he asked, "Have I ever seen a basilisk? Eaten jellied ham? Have I ever licked a lamppost in winter?"
Irritable that he was making light of such a serious question, she tried to withdraw from his embrace. "Don't you make fun of me!"
Alistair tried to affect a repentant expression, but he couldn't conceal the gleam of amusement in his eyes. "Make fun of you dear lady, perish the thought!" She struggled a bit and he laughed, wrapping his arms more closely around her and stroking back her hair. She sulked and huffed.
Silently laughing to himself, Alistair asked her, both eyebrows raised to belay anything but the utmost seriousness: "Well, tell me, have you ever licked a lamppost in winter?"
There was a dour silence in which Charlotte tried to determine whether Alistair was insulting her honor; when she realized this was simply Alistair being Alistair, a hot blush crept up her face and she tried to rally the courage to give him an answer.
Her face shyly turned away, she answered in a small voice, "No."
Alistair grasped her face to turn her gaze back to his; he looked deadly serious. "Good, I've heard it can be very painful. One of the initiates did it on a dare once, and there was pointing and laughing," his voice dripped with drama, "Oh, the humanity!"
Charlotte gaped at him and then laughed, pushing him in the shoulder and pretending she wanted to get away.
He laughed with her, jostling to keep her in his arms. Eventually, she relaxed against him, embarrassed but relieved that he didn't seem disgusted or cross. She wasn't sure if it was the Taint or something else, but no one else had ever made her feel like this. She felt guilty and a little naughty, but also quietly thrilled.
"I've never done that either," he reassured her, now slightly embarrassed himself. He cleared his throat, "Living in the Chantry is not exactly the life for rambunctious boys. Not that I haven't thought about it, but you know."
After a brief, awkward silence, he went on. "They taught me to be a gentleman, especially around beautiful women." Glancing at her nervously, he added, "That's not so bad, is it?"
She smiled to herself; a secret, woman's smile that he couldn't read. It made him more nervous.
"No," she answered softly, "It's not."
"I mean," he shifted, swallowing, "You would want to be courted by a gentleman, wouldn't you? If someone was going to court you?" Instantly, he turned bright red, seeming to regret having spoken.
Charlotte reached up and trailed tickling fingers through his hair, making him jolt with electricity in pleasant places. "Yes, I would."
Buzzing happily, her warm softness curving nicely into his side, Alistair pulled her close and nuzzled her neck, wrapping one arm around her waist. He trailed little kisses up to her temple and sighed with contentment, resting his cheek against her hair while they sat together in a comfortable silence.
Some time later, Alistair and Mastodon sat on watch. Charlotte had fallen asleep against him, her little head resting against his chest. As much as he had wanted to move her so he could properly keep watch, she looked so peaceful he couldn't bring himself to disturb her. As the wee hours of the morning approached, Sten loomed out of the darkness to take over.
"Warden," he grunted, his eyes sweeping questioningly over Charlotte's sleeping form. "I thought the little commander was keeping watch?"
Alistair glanced down at her nervously, not wishing to embarrass her in front of Sten. "It's my fault – I gave her the wrong tea. She fell asleep and I didn't want to disturb her." Sten's violet eyes narrowed.
"Very well: I shall take over. You are relieved."
Alistair rose carefully, cradling Charlotte's legs over one arm and trying to carry her without stirring her from her sleep. Mastodon abruptly rose with him, shaking his coat and snorting. He touched his nose to Sten's hand, who nodded in respectful acknowledgement, and followed Alistair into the camp. When Alistair reached Charlotte's tent, he bent awkwardly inward, trying to deposit her without too much jostling. As he leaned forward, she turned and he lost his balance, falling in with her on the bedroll. Hastily, he tried to slide away, but Charlotte grumbled in her sleep and rolled over, draping one arm over his chest.
Alistair waited for a long, tense moment, his expression frantic in the dark. Charlotte sighed, but didn't stir.
Bugger.
Gingerly, Alistair turned on his side, Charlotte's arm still draped across his chest and top arm. As he lifted the trapped arm carefully from her embrace, it fell with a quiet plop onto his waist and backside. He gasped in surprise and something less innocent; cringing, he tried again to slide back, but Charlotte rolled with him, landing solidly across most of his chest.
Mastodon poked his head in and stared; Alistair froze.
The two males gazed at each other for what seemed like an eternity; Alistair's heart began to pound. He didn't move a muscle, becoming so paralyzed with watchfulness that he almost stopped breathing. Finally, the dog snorted disdainfully and withdrew, lying down heavily in front of the tent. Alistair exhaled.
Looking down, his eyes now adjusted to the dim light, he finally could see Charlotte's face. Her lips were a little pursed rose, long lashes trailing down her cheeks. In slumber, he could see the dark circles under her eyes. Her nose flared slightly, before retracting to its usual button. His heart ached at the sight of her.
With a resigned sigh, Alistair lay his head back down and just hoped that his hands behaved themselves in unconsciousness.
A/N: This one's a bit shorter; I've been sick, booo! It makes concentrating much harder. I hope you enjoyed and please leave reviews! Thank you to those who already have: olivegbg, momongiri and The Winterborn! You guys are awesome.