53. Preparations and Plans

He walked away from her, fighting his guilt and shame. He hadn't meant to do it. He'd just intended to kiss her. That was all. A kiss, to remind her, or perhaps more honestly to test her.

But he hadn't expected her response. She hadn't pulled away. Her body had melted against him, and the soft moans she'd made had urged him onwards. He tried to satisfy his Chantry upbringing by reminding it that he'd offered to stop. She'd said nothing. That was agreement enough.

Except it wasn't. He knew it wasn't. She hadn't consented so much as he'd ignored her protests, telling himself that if they were sincere, she'd have punctured him with her sword and fled.

Because, after all, the sarcastic part of his mind reminded him, she so very greatly enjoyed killing. It was so much fun for her that she tried to grind her skin off after every battle.

He groaned and fought to keep the emotions assailing him at bay. He hated himself very much in that moment. His first experience with a woman—with Sherry—should have been a profound and beautiful experience. He'd turned it into something tawdry and brief. He hadn't done anything he was supposed to. No foreplay, no preparation.

At least he'd had the presence of mind to keep himself from getting off the instant he'd felt her heat engulf him. Templar training to the rescue. He snorted at the thought. It had taken everything he had not to lose it immediately... yet later on he'd played with her, feeling powerful and in control.

Altogether bastardish behavior. But then again, that was what he was. How unsurprised the Chantry would be to find him behaving in such a manner.

He arrived at the camp and found that there was indeed food left for Sherry. Sitting down, he stirred the fire. He ignored the others, neither noticing nor caring what they were doing.

"Oh look, he's brooding. Anybody surprised? No?" Maryanne said. "Me, neither."

"You don't know me," Alistair snapped.

"Yet, every time I've seen you, you've been brooding. Like a little chastised puppy. Adorable, if you're the bitch that birthed the puppy, I'm sure."

Alistair turned away from her and saw Sherry walking up the path. He looked at her, trying to find something to say to her. But she didn't meet his eyes, simply walking to her bedroll and beginning to wrap it up.

"So what's the plan?" Wynne asked.

When Sherry didn't answer, she asked again, more loudly, then called the other woman by name.

Sherry sighed. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "The best that I can think of is that we need to go to that Summit meeting. The others need to know Loghain's stance on morality, and I need to investigate the truth of some things. I heard a rumor that he's selling elves as slaves-"

"That's true," Wynne interrupted her.

"We'll need to get proof," Sherry replied. "I think I know where the slavers would be holed up. The problem is, if I'm wrong, we'll have wasted a day's trip. It'll take us at least that long walking, and the Summit is in three days."

"I kin take ya to your resupply station," Peep told her. "Ya'all can pick up horses there, and that'll shorten the journey signif'cantly. If yer thinkin' the Old Passage in Greenland, then getting the horses is a bit out of the way. It'll shave time off'n the journey, though, in the end."

"That's an excellent idea, thank you Peep," she continued cleaning up, and the others began to as well.

She still refused to look at Alistair.

"Doesn't anyone want to know what I think we should do?" he asked.

"No," several voices answered at once, and he sighed. "Well, I'm telling you anyway. I think we should send someone to Sherry's Walk and find out what the situation is like there." He crossed his arms and glared.

"That's actually a good idea," Sherry said. "But I have no idea which of us might be the best to do such research."

She still didn't look at him. His throat ached from holding back the apology he owed her, but still he said nothing.

"I should go," Zevran told her. "I can move about undetected. It's less likely for me to be noticed there, as elves are not shunned there as they are in Portsmouth. Provided that I do get caught, I can pick all the locks there, too."

Roaring jealousy blew through Alistair like a punch to the gut when Sherry looked at the white-haired elf and grinned. "Why do I get the feeling that that isn't actually good news, Zevran?"

He grinned back. "My dearest Sherry, you wound me. Why should I never need to pick your locks for any reason besides mere curiosity? I would never betray such a beautiful and charming woman."

"Zevran, you think that Wynne has attractive bosoms. I really find myself hard-pressed to believe you find any woman unattractive—with all due respect to Wynne, whom I'm certain was quite the catch in her prime."

"No offense taken, my dear," Wynne piped up. "And I suspect you're right on Zevran, as well."

"Ah, I do appreciate the vast array of women, my dear. But you are amongst the loveliest. And if you ever feel a need to be properly hard pressed, do come and find me."

Alistair's fist constricted, he wanted to hit the smug elf in the face. But the anger collapsed into heartbreak when he saw her wince and look away, her face a stark mask of pain.

But all trace of it was gone when she smiled back at him. "I'll remember that if I ever get desperate enough to stand in line," she sallied. "Now, let's get a move on. You can ride a horse until you're close in, then walk. You'll draw less attention if you walk in."

"Even less so if I sneak in," he told her.

"Indeed," she agreed. "Release the horse, and he will return to his home barn."

"That's a neat trick," Zevran said.

"They all do it, if they're kept in the place they were raised and treated well."

They set off as the sun sent impotent rays through the frigid afternoon air. Sherry walked quietly in the rear, following in the wake of Peep and his powerful horse as they broke trail for the rest.

Noticing her falling behind and realizing it was his best opportunity to speak to her, Alistair fell back as well.

"Sherry?"

"Go away, Alistair," she told him, her voice dead and without inflection.

"Wait," he said, gently taking her arm to try to get her to look at him.

Her reaction was swift, certain, and uncompromising. Her katana was against his neck and cutting into his skin before he realized she had even moved. A trickle of blood warned him that he stood on uncertain ground.

She looked into his eyes for the first time since he'd walked away from her in shame at his own behavior. "The next time that you touch me, for any reason at all, I will kill you." Her eyes were as dead as her voice.

Without taking her eyes off of him, she sheathed the katana and left him bleeding in the churned snow.

A shiver wracked his spine. If there had ever been a chance for them to recover from all of this, he had killed it that morning, and he knew it in that fateful moment. If he was wrong and she really remembered nothing of their relationship, he had destroyed a heart more beautiful and kind than any other he'd ever known—no matter her need for surface gruffness.