Sorry for the slow posting lately, guys – work is crazy this time of year, and of course there's family stuff to do, too. Fun family stuff, but it's awful hard to work on fanfiction while out shopping for Christmas trees or dismantling pumpkin pies!
Three hurrahs for mille libri's jiffy beta duty! As always, thank you for reading and especially for reviewing, you're awesome!
BTW, this chapter earns its M rating toward the end, just letting you know.
I woke after some hours of fitful sleep and rolled onto my back, stretching slowly. I felt bruised and beaten, and not entirely because I'd slept on the hard stone. When I lay still for too long, Rocky snorted and heaved himself to his feet before nudging me pointedly with his cold nose. We slogged through the puddle toward the windmill entrance of the tunnel, intending to get some food at the inn, but the trap door refused to open without Teagan's signet ring.
"Guess there's no putting off seeing the others," I said to Rocky's pricked ears. He woofed in affirmative and led the way back to the castle at a purposeful trot.
But when we emerged into the pantry, it was quiet but for the baker, who looked up with surprise when we emerged and narrowed his eyes at the hound. "No dogs in the kitchens, I won't allow it," said the baker in a tone of command that an army general might envy. He turned his back on us and returned to shaping a tray of rolls for breakfast, which was still a few hours away.
I snagged a couple of meat pies on our way out and gave one to Rocky. "He might be a pompous ass, but he does make good pies," I told the dog as we headed for the bathroom.
I washed up a little and brushed my hair, and, feeling civilized again, went looking for Bodahn at the inn, sidling out the servant's entrance without encountering anyone I knew. As often as we'd told my fellow dwarves that they were welcome to join us in the castle, Bodahn insisted Sandal was more comfortable in the less crowded accommodations, meaning that the inn's stables never had any other occupants and they had the place to themselves. Them and their mules, anyway. The sun finished rising while we walked, and we found the two merchants just finishing getting dressed.
"Can we leave for Orzammar today?" I asked Bodahn as he climbed down from the wagon tongue.
His cheery face was briefly creased with a frown. "I did have some trading I wanted to do first, if it's not too much of a delay."
"Sure, I'll come along," I offered quickly.
Bodahn made his rounds through the town, visiting the general store (which had finally reopened under new ownership by a widow named Jetta), the tavern, the smithy, and a few other odd places including a fisherman who sold him an iridescent powder made of fish scales. At first I plodded along in his wake, but after a while I get caught up in the shopping and I bought perfume and a set of combs made of horn for Rica, and some great leather boots for Leske, much better than the ones available in Dust Town. One couldn't overestimate the value of good boots. I bought some for myself, too, after a moment's dithering over the price; mine had seen an awful lot of use lately.
Zevran, may the Stone bless his heathen elven heart, had everyone packed and ready to go by the time we were back to Bodahn's wagon. Wynne was there, standing on the edges with her bag over her shoulder. She watched me warily as I entered, wondering if she was coming or not, and I gave her a short nod when she caught my eye; I didn't have energy to waste harboring a grudge against her. Relieved, she dropped her bag onto the pile and we all began to help Sandal and Bodahn organize the extremely full cargo area.
Alistair 'coincidentally' found himself helping me hand bolts of silk and linen up to Sandal. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and I bit my lip at the deep resonance of the sound, remembering feeling his chest rumble under my cheek when he spoke. "Um..." he began.
"How's Eamon?" I asked. Please let's not have this talk right now, not in front of everyone!
"Eamon?" He sounded startled by the question. "He's fine. Marching around, delivering orders, making impassioned speeches. You know."
"Yeah."
"Uh..." He cleared his throat again, handing me a thick bolt wrapped in burlap and labeled 'yellow linen.' "Are you, uh... okay?"
"Yeah," I lied. We worked in heavy silence for a moment before I added, "I'm sorry I yelled at you."
"Oh! Me, too!" His shoulders sagged with relief and he almost dropped the wooden crate he was holding as he reached out to touch my arm. "Really, Tisha, I'm really, really sorry-"
I stiffened, unwilling to publicly embarrass myself by either losing my temper or, worse, bursting into tears. He noticed I wasn't looking at him, and glanced around to see what I was scowling at. All other work in the barn had ceased as our little band waited in breathless anticipation to see what happened next. When Alistair was thus reminded that we weren't really alone and this wasn't really the time, he flushed darkly and turned back to the wagon. The others sighed and went back to work, except for Zevran, who gave Alistair a critical look for a moment before tsk-ing and shaking his head in a disappointed way.
As Sandal was giving his beloved mules a final check to ensure no shoes were loose and no buckles needed tightening, a shadow fell through the barn door and we looked up to see Teagan holding the lead lines of two handsome mules, sorrel where Bodahn's were dark but otherwise very similar.
"I think you'll agree that time is of the essence," he said with a smile. "I asked one of my brother's tenant farmers to lend us his mules – he hasn't much use for them this time of year, anyway. If you have two teams, they can take turns on the long climb into the mountains, and you'll make better time."
Bodahn practically fell over himself thanking Teagan, wringing his hand and promising extraordinary bargains by way of thanks, and somehow Teagan left the barn as the new owner of a hat and a matching cheese knife, with the slightly dazed expression worn by victims of the skilled merchant's gratitude.
The weather held fine for most of the day, but more of the indecisive gray clouds blew in with the sunset, the kind that couldn't decide whether to rain now or rain later, and wore out their welcome by occasionally spitting experimentally down at us. Still embarrassed about putting himself forward that morning, Alistair didn't try to talk to me again but took refuge in his armor, keeping his helmet on and striding manfully in the front of our little caravan to deter bandits. I might have teased him for making a bright, shiny target of himself, but I wasn't sure I could get the words out. I wasn't sure of much of anything, except that the surface world had lost some of its shine.
So, when we made camp, I joined Bodahn and Sandal and helped them make spaetzle noodles for dinner. We talked about how a nug roast would really hit the spot and it wouldn't be long now before we could get some proper food, and complained companionably about how nobody makes anything good anymore and the only worthwhile smithing to be found is what the scouts bring back from the Deep Roads, and wasn't it outrageous the way the Chantry throttled the lyrium trade when it was our lyrium and we should be able to sell it to anyone we wished, and I could almost pretend I couldn't sense Alistair's heartbeat in my veins as he paced the perimeter of the camp.
The second day's travel went smoothly despite the continued Ferelden-style drizzle, the road well-paved with no mud to mire the wagon wheels. Our company's behavior was businesslike, with little of the usual banter, but I was proud of myself (and, if I would admit it, of Alistair) for not letting the quiet mood become grim or depressed. After all, I'd borne pain before; I could bear it again. Eventually it wouldn't ache so much. Eventually. And in the meantime, there was work to be done.
When the day had worn, and I saw a likely-looking campsite under a copse of trees from my perch atop the wagon, I cleared my throat and called, pointing, "Alistair, should we make camp there?"
He looked back at me, his eyes veiled behind his visor, then at the trees. "Yeah, okay. Sure."
There! A successful interaction. We're all adults here. Nobody needed to sulk. I left him digging the firepit, as was by now routine, and entered the copse with Rocky to look for wood, throwing my cloak over my shoulders in case the clouds decided to rain after all.
The 'copse' turned out to be the top edge of a forest that extended into a valley I hadn't seen, so that I had wandered far from camp before it occurred to me to wonder why I hadn't come to its end yet. Stupid duster, getting lost in the trees. Stupid trees, all looking alike.
I remembered that I would be back underground soon, expecting that to be a comfort as I frowned at the blackening sky and tried to get my bearings, but as every step today had taken us closer to Orzammar, the idea had moved closer to reality. And the reality was that I would very likely be refused entrance, Warden or not. If I did make it inside, how would I get into the Palace? Brands weren't even allowed to muck out the latrines in there. I shivered at facing their sneers again, alone, without Alistair's safe haven.
I was on my way back to camp, clinging on to my level mood with clenched teeth and fingernails, when I felt Alistair coming out to meet me and stopped walking. Not here, I thought desperately. Not now. I can't bear it.
"Hey," he said with hearty cheer, when he emerged from the trees. "Want a hand?"
I missed the beat, so that when I did respond, my tongue tripped over itself trying to catch up and not show how uncomfortable I was. "Yeah sure, b-but aren't you supposed to be lighting the fire?"
He gave a disgusted snort. "Evidently Wynne can light a fire by giving it a stern look. When I asked why she'd been letting me burn my fingers lighting it myself all this time, she said it was important for me to feel useful."
I let out a startled bark of laughter that made Rocky flick his ears. "Ha! And the ability to send a hurlock's head flying isn't useful?"
"It's my ability to lift heavy objects that really sets me apart. You need a box moved, or a stubborn jar opened, I'm your man." He scooped the branches out of my arms and lifted them easily up onto his shoulders to demonstrate.
"Or a scholar carried nuggy-back." I tried to continue the limping conversation as we started back to camp.
"Yes. I'm still mad that I missed out on the drake, you know. Not fair of you to keep all the excitement to yourself like that."
"I didn't even properly appreciate the battle. Perfectly good drake, wasted on someone who just wants it dead."
He didn't pick up the thread, and the silence stretched long enough to get uncomfortable before he said, in a very different voice with a lot less bravado, "You're... satisfied with this?"
"This?" I repeated as though I didn't know perfectly well what he meant. This friendly banter, held at arm's length. This denial.
He stopped in a grassy clearing, and made a vague gesture indicating the space between us. "This. Just this."
"Would you rather scream and yell? Should I burst into tears and run off, sobbing inconsolably?" That sounded pretty good right now, actually.
"No, of course not!"
"Then why are you bugging me about it?" I snapped, hugging myself in the cooling night air. "We're stuck working together, so it's no use moping about and writing lousy poetry. We might as well be f-friends, even if we can't..." I had no idea how to end that sentence, so I just lifted my chin stubbornly and met his eyes.
Which was a mistake, because they were earnest and longing, and I was almost undone even before he started talking. "I know, and I'm trying, but-"
He swallowed, and thankfully looked away before he continued quietly, "But I can't just pretend my feelings have changed. I know you feel... rejected, but I swear on Andraste's pyre, I never – I would never give you up willingly. But being King isn't just a job, and keeping a mistress isn't something an honorable man would do, it just isn't. I know it's different for dwarves, but the Landsmeet members are humans, and they won't accept it."
"I know," I said quietly. "I thought about it, and I think I understand. It's not your fault the Landsmeet are an infighting, fickle pack of deepstalkers. Your claim is already tenuous without inviting scandal – any weakness could be exploited. I couldn't bear it if I were a danger to you."
"I really don't want to fight," he pleaded, taking a step closer.
"We're not fighting." I turned my face away. "I understand. I'm not upset."
"Well, I am!" He abruptly tossed his armload of sticks away and threw up his hands, pacing a few angry steps away and then back again. "I don't want to be king! I never wanted to be king! But I've never had any control over my life, and I still don't. First it was just Eamon controlling me, then it was the Chantry, and apparently now the entire sodding nation of Ferelden is demanding my service whether I like it or not."
"I'm sorry-"
"The first thing I ever wanted to do was be a Gray Warden," he went on, almost to himself. "And I thought nobody could ever take that away from me, but... Even that! I'm supposed to just give up the duty that cannot be foresworn? Do oaths mean nothing anymore?"
"You'll still be a Gray Warden," I said hopelessly.
"You mean, I'll still die of the taint," he spat bitterness. "Alone, in a palace, surrounded by vultures. Or maybe I'll get lucky, and they'll let me go to the Deep Roads, and I can pretend I'm a Warden one last time before I die."
"Maybe you'll be even luckier, and die killing the Archdemon," I suggested with brittle cheer. "Maybe we'll both die fighting it, and they'll build a memorial. It's something to hope for, anyway."
That seemed to sober him a little, and he stopped his restless pacing. "That actually brings me to my point. Believe it or not, I was trying to make a point, and not just rant."
I nodded, miserable, hoping he would stop torturing us both and we could go back and get something to eat and pretend this hadn't happened. "Go on."
"Okay." He took a deep breath. "We don't really know I'll be king. I mean, we do have a pretty dangerous job, and we might die tomorrow, right? And we don't know Eamon can convince the Landsmeet to back my claim, either, I mean, look at me."
He held out his arms, clearly thinking himself a terrible choice of king. I agreed, but mainly because I didn't think any crown could be handsome enough to do him justice.
"So," he went on hesitantly, "so maybe we don't have to, um... Maybe trying to, you know, 'just be friends' is a little premature? Can we just sort of take it one day at a time?" When I didn't instantly shut him down, he laughed a little nervously and added, "Won't we feel stupid if we're doing the noble sacrifice thing, and pretending we don't care for each other, and then it turns out they make Eamon king after all?"
"You're saying," I said slowly, "that I should pretend you're not the possible future King of Ferelden, and I'm not possibly about to be discarded for my inadequacy? We should pretend nothing happened, and go on doing whatever we want, without thinking about the future because the future sucks too much to think about?"
He looked crestfallen. "I guess that's not very responsible, is it?"
"So? I think it's a great idea." I grinned suddenly. "I'm really good at pretending nothing happened. I'm even better at pretending everything is fine. It's a valuable skill when life is awful and there's nothing you can do about it."
"Really?" His eyes lit with hope. "You're not mad at me, or, I don't know, offended or anything?"
"No. You could have boned my mom and I wouldn't care, I've already forgotten about it." I grabbed for his hands and fumbled to hold them, shaking and clumsy, until I gave up and threw myself at him to be caught and held against his chest, crying, "I don't care, I don't care about Eamon or anything else. I need you."
"Oh, thank the Maker," Alistair choked out, holding me tightly enough to press the air from my lungs. It felt wonderful. "You have no idea how relieved I am. Being near you was making me crazy, I felt like my head would explode. Another day or so of being 'just friends' and I think I'd have cracked."
"Mmf."
"Sorry." He loosened his grip. "I'm sorry. Really, I'm sorry-"
"I know," I interrupted him, tugging on his shirt. Damned tall humans.
"I never meant to hurt you, I love you so much-"
"Either sit down or hold me up higher!" I demanded.
"What? Oh!"
His eyes widened with comprehension when I reached up and took his head in both hands and pulled it down, meeting his lips with mine. He started to sit but we got tangled up in my cloak and fell, giggling, to the soft grass with me plastered all over him and trying to eat his face.
"We were apart for, what, 48 hours?" he panted when I let him breathe. "How does it feel like so much longer?"
"It was at least 56 hours," I told him, my hands roving over his shoulders and down his sides to slip under the hem of his tunic, wanting to feel his bare skin under my fingers.
"That – ah! – that explains it." He laughed when I grazed a ticklish spot and caught my hands to kiss the backs of my knuckles. "Maybe we should go back? Find a tent?"
"Nuh-uh, this is more private." We both imagined the entire camp pretending not to be listening as hard as they could, and he nodded, understanding. "Also," I added, leaning down to kiss him again, with more care and thoroughness this time, "camp is much too far away."
"Yes," he murmured between kisses. "Definitely too far." He was as hungry for touch as I was, and open and eager for me to ravish his mouth and let my hands travel where they would.
But still I ached with desire to make him mine, the feeling of having almost lost him still a raw and painful reminder of how transient this moment was. When he reached up to caress my cheek, I leaned against his calloused palm, feeling the strength underneath the gentleness and was suddenly awash with certainty that he would never, ever use that strength to hurt me.
I sat back, ignoring his questioning look, and began to struggle with the laces of his trousers, swearing softly when my shaking hands just tied the knots tighter.
"I'll get it," he offered, and while he was at it I tossed off my cloak and pulled my tunic over my head, and I was struggling out of my boots when his startled gasp let me know he'd finally looked up. I grinned at his shock and knelt over him, pushing him back unresisting to lie on the grass.
"Wait, are you – are you sure? You really want to do this now?" he stammered.
"Yes. Now." Before I lose my nerve.
"I'm not arguing-"
"I can see that," I said coyly. His eyes widened as I took his shaft in my hand and guided its tip against me. "You stay right there," I ordered. "You keep your hands on the ground and you don't move."
"Yes, ma'am!" He lifted his head for a moment to gaze in wonder as I lowered myself onto him.
My eyes closed for a moment in concentration. Almost immediately, a vivid wash of color and sensation poured over me and I shoved the unwanted memory aside, opening my eyes to focus on Alistair. This is different. Nobody's forcing me this time. I want this. Keeping my eyes on his, I began to move, and focused every fiber of my being on pleasing him so I wouldn't think about anything else.
His eyes grew heavy-lidded and glazed with pleasure, and pride mingled with nerves as I caught his wrist before he could touch me and leaned my weight on it, pressing it into the grass. "Stay," I growled.
"S-sorry." He let his head fall back and closed his eyes. "Feels really good."
"Yeah, it does," I lied, and it took me a few seconds to realize I wasn't lying, not quite, and when he stiffened and cried out, and I relented and let him cling to me as he shuddered and throbbed... and for the first time, I began to understand why someone might pay good gold for a good whore.
I lay on Alistair's chest, cooling off while I listened to his ragged breathing gradually slow. After a few minutes he reached out and groped around on the ground with one hand until he found my cloak and pulled it over me.
"Thanks," I said drowsily.
He enfolded me in his arms again and kissed the top of my head. "Are you okay?" he asked, cautiously, as though he was afraid to hear the answer.
"I think so. Yeah... More than okay." My arms tightened around him. Mine. There was no way, no possible way I was giving him back to Eamon, I realized. We'd just have to figure something out.
"Maker's breath, we have to get back," Alistair said suddenly, sitting up despite my wordless protest. "They're bound to come looking if we're gone too long."
I burst out laughing. "Image Wynne's face if she found us!"
"It's not funny!" Alistair insisted as he dragged his trousers on. "I'd never be able to look at her again. And Zevran is going to be insufferable, I just know it."
He was pretty insufferable, it turned out. To be fair, so was everyone else, even Wynne, whose knowing look was somehow far more disturbing than any open lewdness. When she asked, with an arched eyebrow, whether we had indeed found any wood, "since you were out looking for so long," Alistair groaned and covered his face in his hands.
"We forgot it," he sighed. "I'll go back."
"I'll help." I started to follow him.
"No, don't!" Zev cried merrily. "Then we might be waiting until dawn!"
"I hate you so much," I muttered, throwing myself down to sit beside him instead.
He picked a leaf out of my hair. "You might want to brush this."
"Shut up."
"As you command, o glorious leader."
