"You are very brave to adventure into such a place even knowing the danger that awaits! Your courage impresses us greatly!"
Rìona blinked at the Dalish storyteller, taken aback by his sarcasm and barely-concealed hostility. She could feel her people behind her, tense and ready to respond aggressively in her defense. Like a map before her, she saw the possibilities which could branch out from her response to this insult. She saw her people fighting the Dalish, being evicted from their camp as the Dalish refused to honor their treaty with the Grey Wardens. She saw the Dalish dying of their curse, put out of their misery before they could become beasts like the werewolves who had ambushed them. She saw the Blight overwhelming the lush Brecilian Forest and pressing north, ever north, covering Ferelden mile by mile.
Being within the Dalish camp felt like walking atop a tall mound of loose gravel. One wrong step could send her sliding to the ground below in severe pain, she thought grimly. She ought to give this storyteller, Sarel, her most disarming smile and find some way to charm him out of his hostility.
Instead, she turned on her heel and walked away, shaken and feeling ridiculously hurt over the matter.
All around her, there were distrustful glances, or perhaps worse, deliberately blank looks; looks that told her she was other, foreign and unwelcome. The distrust she could understand and even sympathize with; she knew enough of history to know how abominably humans had treated the elves. Sarel's hostility was both just and unjust, and it left her unable to respond. She could not defend her race; how could she possibly make a convincing argument in defense of herself?
"Why do you let these elves speak to you that way?" Sten demanded once they were back within the camp they had pitched the day before at the outskirts of the Dalish encampment.
"Was that unusual? Gracious, I had no idea! After over four months in your company, I'm rather used to being told on a regular basis how inferior I am." Her tone was light, but Rìona couldn't help the bitterness that seeped into her words, and she despised herself for it. Sten didn't deserve to be the target of her frustrations.
"I'm sorry," she sighed as Sten continued to stare at her with that odd combination of annoyance and impassivity only he seemed capable of achieving. "My people have treated the elves badly. They're entitled to their bitterness."
"So you would take on the guilt of all your kind?" Sten made a derisive sound. "An interesting burden to choose to bear, for one who struggles under the weight of her own pack."
He walked away before she could form a response, and Rìona was left feeling she was handling matters in entirely the wrong way, without any clear idea of how better to approach them. She'd promised their aid to Zathrian, but beyond that there was little else she could do.
It made Rìona wonder if she was nearly as skilled a diplomat as she had prided herself on being, once pleasure was no longer an avenue of approach. She could not heal an ailing halla with pleasure, or seduce away a werewolf curse, or erase centuries of conflict with a smile.
"The Sten has a point, Guardiana." Rìona started when Zevran spoke at her shoulder; she'd never gotten used to his silent approaches, and she suspected he enjoyed his cat-like ability to slink up on people. She was surprised that he approached her at all; since he'd stopped sleeping in her tent, he'd placed a great deal of distance between the two of them. Which, she imagined, was no doubt for the best, if he wanted to make a clean break of things.
She looked at him and realized not all of her reaction was startlement. Yes. It was definitely better that he was keeping his distance. She couldn't even begin imagine how complicated Alistair's courtship of her would be, if she was continuously tried by an ongoing desire for Zevran. "How so?"
"How will you make these Dalish respect you if you act as though you owe them a debt of guilt?" Zevran tutted at her, shaking his head. "You must make them see you as different from the rest of your kind."
"And how shall I do that?" Rìona challenged wryly. "Do you think they'll be impressed that I treated my servants well, or that Highever's alienage was frequently lauded as the best in Ferelden? Or perhaps I should tell them that I spent my last evening in Highever seducing Lady Landra's elven lady-in-waiting?"
Zevran didn't appear fazed by her irony. "Why should they be allowed to see you the same as the—shemlen is their charming word for it—they have known before? Do you see them as the same as the elves you have known before?"
"I certainly try not to. I've never seen you in such a manner."
He gave her a slightly chiding look. "Are you so certain? Do not take this the wrong way, dulcita, for it is not a complaint. My time in your tent, it was pleasant and I have no regrets, yes? But would you have been quite so quick to declare from the outset that it was pleasure and nothing more—complicated, as you put it—if I had been taller, and with rounder ears?"
Astonished, Rìona recoiled. "I beg your pardon! Maker, how can you...?" Hurt by the accusation, she couldn't even formulate a coherent protest. After a moment of floundering, she finally sighed and said, "That was never a consideration, Zevran. Not ever. If I ever led you to believe such a thing, I'm sorry. You of all people know what a state I was in at that time. I would not have considered such an entanglement with anyone."
"Oh?" Zevran's amused eyes slid to Alistair, who was halfway across the Dalish encampment... Maker, what was he doing, speaking to Sarel? Neither of them appeared irate or confrontational. Instead, Alistair appeared to simply be... listening.
Distracted by the sight, Rìona had to force her attention back to Zevran. "Yes, and him least of all. Even now, I dread what might come of this courtship he's so set upon. But then? It would have been unthinkable. If I seemed quick to dismiss the possibility of anything more with you, it was due to any number of factors, but none of them were that you were an elf."
That much, she realized, was true. Iona she had seen as an elf first and foremost, but she'd shared her tent with Zevran for months without ever thinking of him in terms of his elven heritage. He had always merely been Zevran to her, and the only significance posed by his pointed ears had been that of a delightfully sensitive erogenous zone to explore.
"Perhaps my cynicism does you an injustice, and if so, I apologize." Zevran accepted her denial with no argument. "If my being an elf was not a consideration for you, then you are one of a very, very few for whom it would not be. But it brings us back to my original point, does it not? You do not look at me and see an elf, so clearly you are capable of making such a distinction, yes? However, they look at me with disdain and see a flat-ear, though I have little more in common with those who live in the alienages than they do. And they look at you and see a shem."
"I'm not sure it's so much that I'm capable of making the distinction as it was that you always presented yourself differently; neither elf nor human, but simply you. I always saw you in terms of pleasure given and received, not in terms of race or politics. You made it easy to see you as a man, no more and no less."
With a dip of his head, Zevran acknowledged the point. "It is true, I place little stock in my elven blood. But if, as you say, it was I who dictated the manner in which you saw me, can you not do the same with these Dalish?"
Apparently content to have had his say, Zevran walked away, leaving Rìona alone and thoughtful. She was tempted to call him back, to ask if the mistaken assumption he had made had any part to play in his decision to begin sleeping alone. For all her rather extensive preoccupation with Alistair and his proposed courtship, she found she was haunted by a sense of something left unsaid between her and Zevran. She had agreed—even insisted—from the outset that she would make no demands upon him. She had to respect his decision enough not to question it, yet that nagging sense that the matter lacked finality would not dissipate.
Perhaps the problem was simply that she missed him. She missed Zevran's presence beside her. Since he'd stopped sleeping in her tent, he'd become more aloof and guarded. She missed him not merely for the pleasure he provided, but for the sense of safety and support she had felt with him. She could never tell him that, for the same reason she could never ask why he had ended their affair. He would not welcome such an attachment, and that didn't even address the complicating factor of her feelings for Alistair, which continued to grow apace with the persistence of his courtship.
Speaking of whom...
As Rìona attempted to make her way back to the large campfire in the middle of the Dalish camp and rescue Alistair from Sarel's sarcasm, she found her arm seized by Leliana.
"Come with me!" the bard commanded, tugging Rìona insistently toward the craftsman the Keeper's second, Lanaya, had pointed her toward earlier when Rìona had inquired about purchasing supplies.
The craftsman, Varathorn, began taking her measure the moment Leliana deposited Rìona before him. "Hmm, yes," he murmured thoughtfully. "She's larger than our own women, but not by much. I may be able to alter some of the armor our females wear to fit her. And in exchange, you will seek out some ironbark for me when you venture into the forest?"
"We will," Leliana agreed, beaming.
"What is this, Leliana?" Rìona let herself be escorted into the aravel behind the armorsmith to remove her armor so he could get a better idea of her size.
"Have you not noticed the armor the Dalish women are wearing?"
Rìona laughed softly. "Only insomuch as to wonder how they manage not to freeze. Wait, are you thinking—?"
Leliana giggled. "It would certainly solve the problem of not being able to fit into your armor, no?"
"But it's so... bare!" Aghast, Rìona stared at her. "It will offer no protection against the cold, not to mention leaving my vital organs—and my babe—vulnerable if I should be attacked."
Leliana shrugged. "It will not be winter for much longer. Already the nights are not so cold, and your cloak will do until warmer weather arrives. Come summertime when you are heavy with child, you will be grateful for lighter armor to wear. And you have been doing well with the lessons Zevran and I have taught you, fighting from concealment and evading attack. We often go entire battles without you drawing the attention of our foes; you've not taken so much as a scrape since Haven. What you need is not protective covering, it's something that will allow you to grow with your babe without having to worry about replacing your armor or clothing again."
"Our females do not find themselves any more vulnerable wearing the armor when they are with child than when they are not," Varathorn observed. "They are trained to evade blows, or stay to the rear, behind those who wear heavier armor."
"I have the highest respect for your female warriors and scouts, Master Varathorn, but they do not fight darkspawn on a regular basis."
"They may very well do so, soon enough," he replied, shrugging. "Particularly if you have your way and we come to your aid against the Blight. And this is the armor in which they will fight if we do."
Realizing she was being ungracious when the two of them were only trying to help, Rìona bowed her head and acquiesced.
Varathorn gave a nod of satisfaction. "I have a set of armor nearly complete. It was meant for one of our females who died when the werewolves ambushed us. When you return from the forest, it will be ready."
"Thank you, Master Varathorn." Rìona smiled and exerted herself to be more diplomatic despite her misgivings. Maker, what would the dwarves, or the human nobility, think when they saw her? She'd look like a savage to them, with her great belly hanging out! But that was a consideration she would have to deal with at another time. "I would be deeply honored to wear armor meant for one of your fallen clanswomen."
She managed to make it out of the aravel and Leliana's exuberant company without giving anyone offense. Honestly, what was wrong with her these days? she wondered in annoyance. Lately, she possessed all the congeniality of a bereskarn.
Alistair was no longer sitting by the storyteller, Sarel. Instead, he was speaking earnestly to a young Dalish man, his posture authoritative and the tone of his voice—carried on the breeze over the bustle of the elves going about their evening—stern. When she approached, Alistair bade the young man farewell and rose, following her to the outskirts of the encampment.
"What was that about?" She knew her voice failed to strike the casual, unconcerned note she was aiming for.
"Oh, man stuff." Alistair gave a small chortle, then relented when Rìona narrowed her eyes at him. "All right. The young fellow was moping because the girl he wants to marry won't give him the time of day until he completes his apprenticeship, which he can't do because of this pesky werewolf problem the Dalish are having."
Almost afraid to inquire further, Rìona blinked very slowly. "And?"
He offered her a smile that managed to be smug and self-deprecating at the same time. "And—being the voice of vast experience in all matters pertaining to moping, of course—I told him that he wasn't going to get his girl by sulking about it."
"That's it?"
"Well, I also told him we'd take care of the werewolves and he'd be able to complete his apprenticeship eventually, so his time would be better spent courting her than feeling sorry for himself."
"How could you know to promise him that?" Rìona demanded. "You were setting up our camp when I agreed to give our aid to Zathrian."
Alistair shrugged in a way that said everything and nothing. It was, oddly enough, the sort of enigmatic gesture she would have expected from Zevran, rather than Alistair.
"What else were we going to do? Anything to build our army, right? We need the Dalish."
"Yes, but you don't even know what we need to do."
"Does it matter? We'll do whatever has to be done."
Perplexed by his demeanor, Rìona asked, "Just like that?"
"That's usually the way you handle things. And I'm trying to learn some of that, you know."
"It's true," Leliana added, catching up to the two of them and falling into step behind them. "He spent all afternoon asking the Dalish storyteller, Sarel, for information about their history with the werewolves to try to get some insight into how we could help the Dalish."
Alistair blushed under Rìona's astonished stare and ducked his head. "What?"
"Sarel... spoke to you?"
"Well, it wasn't easy at first. He's not a bad fellow, really. He just lost his wife to the werewolf curse."
"How did you get him to speak with you, though?"
Alistair glanced away, looking a bit uncomfortable. "I just... did what I used to do as a boy in the monastery, when one of the other initiates was harassing me. Stared at them as though I didn't understand they were being insulting, until someone else stepped in and told him to stop being a prat. Which, by the way, one of the other Dalish did. Not everyone is unwilling to give us a chance."
She was staring again, until Alistair squirmed uncomfortably. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No. Nothing." Rìona shook her head quickly, dismissing a host of tactless inquiries. "I, ah... Thank you, Alistair. I appreciate the assistance."
Before she could unwittingly say anything to make him feel he'd erred in trying to contribute to their endeavors, Rìona walked quickly away, ducking into her tent to remove her armor. She emerged in a ragged, mended linen shirt and breeches, carrying her armor and a flask of oil to clean and condition the leathers and prevent rust on the fine chain mesh. She spied Alistair standing outside his own tent, as Zevran helped him with the buckles on his heavy plate cuirass and greaves, and once again she blinked in wonder. Alistair had barely given Zevran a friendly word since Rìona had begun sleeping with him; when had they become so companionable with one another?
"Has everyone gone mad today?" she murmured. Alistair thanked Zevran for his assistance and disappeared inside his own tent to finish removing his armor.
"You've been distracted a lot lately," answered Leliana.
Rìona grimaced to realize she'd been overheard. She turned to look at the bard, who was smiling softly as she stirred the stew. "Is that your way of telling me I've not been paying attention?"
Leliana shook her head. "No one faults you for being preoccupied after all that has happened. Morrigan's betrayal took us all by surprise, even though I think we all suspected all along that she was up to something. And then the situation with Zevran and Alistair and your babe..." Her voice trailed off and she gave a bewildered shrug. "Well, anyway. I think mainly we've all just wanted to leave you in peace."
Unable to respond to that, Rìona sat and began cleaning her armor, oiling the leather to keep it supple. Moments later Alistair emerged, bearing his own armor and sat beside her, companionably helping himself to her flask of oil as he began to polish his silverite plate and the leather straps that held the buckles which kept it secure.
"You know, I wasn't just trying to help you," he remarked after a moment. "I mean, I was, and that was certainly a large part of what I was trying to do. But I had other reasons as well."
Silently, Rìona waited for him to continue, reaching for a stiff-haired brush to loosen some dried darkspawn blood that had gotten between the links of her light chain mesh.
"The thing is..." Alistair hesitated a moment, seeming to grasp for words. "As much as I don't care for the idea of being king, and as much as I'm really hoping to find an alternative that won't drop it all on your babe, I suppose I need to accept that there's a chance it's going to happen, whether I want it or not. So I guess I'd better start... learning. I need to learn how to be a diplomat, and how to deal with others who want you to take on all their troubles for them, and how not to be a complete clod who's liable to stick his foot in his mouth at any given moment. I need to be able to do what you do."
Rìona's eyes began to burn and she swallowed hard, stunned into speechlessness at his rushed admission.
"Maker, Alistair." Her voice was subdued when she finally spoke, still struggling to grasp all the implications of what he'd just told her. "I hadn't the vaguest idea you were thinking in such terms."
"You're the one who told me to start looking out for myself." He seemed embarrassed by what he had said, and yet there was something resolute in his expression as he met her eyes. "You even implied Arl Eamon might try to run Ferelden through me. I don't know if I agree with that; he is a good man. But I'm done with letting others decide my fate for me."
Once again Rìona waited in silent astonishment for him to continue. When had Alistair become this man to whom she was speaking?
"All my life, my decisions have been made for me." He snorted derisively. "Go to the monastery, become a templar... Maker's breath, I even had to be conscripted to become a Grey Warden. I never questioned it when Arl Eamon told me it was better not to get involved, better to just obey. But I can't do that anymore. I've got more choices now than I've ever had before. Am I just going to wait and let someone else whittle them down again until any chance I ever had for happiness is gone?"
Unable to respond for fear of being overwhelmed, Rìona looked back down at her armor, rubbing the oil upon it to give herself some other occupation while she tried to make sense of this suddenly altered dynamic between the two of them. Was that what Alistair's determination to court her was all about? If so, perhaps she could begin to let go of her fear that sooner or later he would begin to despise her. Perhaps he truly was capable of embracing her and all that implied.
She was reminded of Wynne's words, after they had left Denerim all those weeks ago. Wynne had predicted this, had seen it taking place long before Rìona had.
"I don't..." Alistair hesitated, swallowing hard as Rìona looked up at him, waiting for him to continue. He voice grew hoarser, more strained. "I don't want to just follow along, anymore. I want to stand beside you... lead beside you. I want to do what I should have done from the start, if you'll give me that chance."
Somehow she didn't think he was referring only to their burdens as Grey Wardens.
Why did that terrify her so?
Perhaps because the last time she seemed to have the exact thing she'd always thought she wanted, it had actually turned out to be the very last thing she wanted.
"I'd like that," Rìona whispered tremulously.
Perhaps Alistair was right in what he had said the night he offered her the rose. Perhaps they simply didn't have time to be afraid of the future, or time to even be certain the circumstances of the present were exactly right. Perhaps all they could do was live, while they had the chance.
"Oh! I almost forgot." Alistair's earnest, seeking expression dissolved into a smile of pure, boyish delight. "I got you something."
Digging into his belt purse, Alistair retrieved an brooch, wrought in heavy silver with a blue gemstone in the center. The workmanship was clearly Dalish, and it was lovely and elegant. Rìona glanced at him in surprise.
"It's beautiful, Alistair, but how did you afford this?"
He dropped his gaze. "I, um, traded one of our unused weapons for it."
"Unused? But there's only the weapons we found at Ostagar." Rìona's voice trailed off in shock. "Alistair. Did you trade Duncan's dagger for this?"
When he looked up again, his face was calm, but determined. "I did. No one was using it. Zevran's blades are a matched, balanced set, and Leliana's—which she rarely uses anyway—are already engraved with runes. I don't think Duncan would begrudge me using it to get you a courtship present."
Alistair set aside his armor and, taking the brooch from her, knelt and reached for the rusted clasp of her tattered cloak. Rìona lifted her chin and closed her eyes, shivering as his knuckles lightly brushed the skin of her neck while he pinned it in place.
"There. Beautiful." Alistair's voice was a deep, satisfied sigh as his fingertips came to rest on the fluttering pulse at the side of her neck. She didn't know if it was deliberate, the way the flat of his thumb stroked along the line of her jaw, but the effect was profound. "The, uh, cloak doesn't do it justice, really."
Rìona tried and failed a number of times to make her voice work, particularly when his thumb brushed her lower lip. Her head slowly tilted to the side to afford him greater access to her neck as his fingers dipped just inside the collar of her shirt to caress the sensitive tendon at the juncture of her shoulder.
She couldn't breathe, couldn't think with him so very close. It would take an instant, no more, to lean forward and kiss him, to give some outlet to this longing welling up within her.
Maker's breath, was she actually being seduced by a Chantry-reared virgin?
Rìona opened eyes she hadn't even realized had drifted shut to see him watching her intently, his hazel-gold eyes dark and filled with desire. That delicious current of awareness sizzled between them, at once maddening and wonderful.
Slowly, his lips curved into a smile. "It was absolutely worth it," he murmured—and moved away from her, leaving her breathless and stunned as he gathered his armor and disappeared into his tent.
It took a long moment to remember how to breathe. When she finally looked around again, everyone else in the camp was studiously ignoring her. Wynne's head was bowed over her mending. Sten polished his sword outside his tent. Leliana stirred the stew as though her life depended on preventing it from burning. No one looked at her, except, far across the way by the edge of the trees, Zevran. His eyes were shuttered, his expression inscrutable as he watched her. But then he gave her the smallest hint of a smile, and a very slight bow, and disappeared into the trees.