In the original, this chapter featured explicit sexual content that can't be posted here. If you're interested, it's on AO3, same title, under author name calypsid.

That night at camp, Leliana and Brother Genitivi put on an impromptu performance of Dane and the Werewolf. Marian sits on a log, her chin resting on her hands, and listens. The story is always the same, but the singer who brings something of themselves to the song can transform this old and familiar tale into magic. And there's magic in the clearing tonight. Even the trees are listening, leaning in like they can't get enough. It's pitch-black outside of the surrounding circle of trees, and the little circle of firelight feels – cozy, intimate, like there's nothing outside of this place, of these people, of this story. Genitivi sings the part of the werewolf, Dane's opposite, who takes his place amongst the humans for a year and a day while Dane runs with the werewolves of the forest.

Cú sits at her feet, watching Leliana intently, for all the world like he understands every word. Just how smart are mabari, really? Zevran lays on his side between them and the fire, chewing on a strip of dried boar in an abstracted fashion, and Wynne is repairing her staff off to the side while she listens. Morrigan is somewhere behind her, pretending not to listen, and Sten is already lying on his bedroll, though she can see that his eyes are open.

The log she occupies is hers alone, though, or at least it is until Alistair sits next to her with a sigh. He'd been doing his share of the dishes, which doesn't amount to much while they're without Bodahn and his kitchen gear, but the little stream that winds its way parallel to the path is fed by the mountains above and he's scrubbed his hands red with cold.

Her eyebrows draw together as she watches him rub his hands together for warmth. Are you all right? she mouths at him, silent so she doesn't interrupt the performance.

He shivers melodramatically, but when she grows truly concerned and calls magic to her hands, he shakes his head and grins at her, so smug now that he's tricked her into concern. More fool 's still got his hands curled inside each other, though, so Marian takes one of his hands between both of hers and blows on it. She can tell he's staring at her, but she doesn't look up. Instead she slowly rubs the warmth of her breath into his skin.

Leliana and Genitivi are singing a duet now, their voices twining around each other, but she's not listening to them; she's listening to the man beside her, to his slightly uneven breathing and the tension in his thigh pressed up against hers. They're both in soft clothes. She can feel everything. His hand is large, his fingers long; it takes both of her hands to do a proper job of warming his. He's trimmed his nails to the quick sometime recently, she notices.

When his hand feels no cooler than hers, she looks up at him at last, and flushes at the look in his eyes. She's so aware of every inch of him, especially the ones she's touching, of every tiny movement of his body, of the way he's watching her, like she's something he's not quite sure he's allowed to have.

Have me, she nearly says.

Instead she reaches over and takes his other hand with one of hers; it's not so cold as the first one was, and she sets him right with only the warmth of her hands.

Her excuse to touch him is gone, and she doesn't want to push too hard. She hasn't had time to think about his curious reluctance, they aren't exactly alone... Still, it's a long moment before she can convince herself that enough is enough. She lets go of his hands, intending to put hers back in her lap –

Instead, Alistair captures her right hand with his and holds it tightly. He's avoiding her gaze now, watching Leliana with bright eyes, but he folds his hand around hers, interlacing their fingers and resting their joined hands on his thigh.

His very muscular thigh. His very close thigh. His thigh that leads... elsewhere.

It's hard to pay attention to Dane and the Werewolf after that, but who could blame her?

She's so caught up in the way she feels, in the way her body rises to meet his, that Marian jumps ten feet in the air when Cú howls, long and loud and mournful. She gasps for breath, her heart thundering in her breast – but Zevran and Leliana are laughing at her, like the assholes they are, and even Wynne is hiding a smile. After a long, excruciatingly embarrassing moment, Genitivi stands up, drawing their attention away. He takes a deep, theatrical breath, tilts his head back, and howls at the moon – but Cú's actually the one howling on Genitivi's cue. Marian laughs a little, completely dumbfounded.

"You are so smart," she murmurs to Cú, scratching him a little just where he likes it. He grins at her, so pleased with himself that she has to laugh again. Alistair's knee nudges hers. This is a good night.

It doesn't take long for Leliana to recapture their attention. Marian is genuinely disappointed when the performance is over. They've only made it through about half of the story; they're promised the second half the next night, when they're safely on the Imperial Highway.

Marian stretches her legs out in front of her and wiggles her toes. She's got enough callouses now to cover half of Denerim, but her feet still hurt of an evening, especially after a full day's march. At least she doesn't have to suffer the blisters, not with Wynne around.

Regretfully she loosens her grip on Alistair's hand. It's time to get up, to go to bed and try for what little sleep she's allowed. The rest are taking themselves off to bed, too, all except Alistair, who has first watch. Sten just has to close his eyes – smart man, Marian thinks, smiling. She might steal that idea tomorrow if it's warmer.

But Alistair isn't letting go of her hand. Marian frowns at him, but he's not even paying attention to her; instead he watches as Wynne settles Genitivi into one of the tents and goes in after him. After that, they're alone – almost. Sten can sleep anywhere, through anything, though she's no doubt that if there were an attack he'd be on his feet in an instant. He has the gift of falling asleep in an instant, though, and he'd never eavesdrop. That would imply that he cared about their conversation.

No, they're alone. Even Cú has abandoned them in favor of Morrigan's solitary little campfire in pursuit of his frankly strange doggy crush on Morrigan. A thousand possibilities crowd Marian's mind, and her insides go all taut and tense.

Alistair lets go of her hand to rub his own against his legs in a nervous gesture. "I wanted to talk to you," he says. "I wanted to..."

She waits as patiently as she's able for him to finish that sentence, with all of its interesting implications and possibilities, but he doesn't. He looks nervous, and her expectant eyes on his face seem to be making it worse, so she tips her head back and looks at the stars burning brightly through the gap in the treetops. She can't make them fit into the star charts she knows by heart, no matter how she tries. Her books are not as representative of the real world as she would like. Is that Silence's horn, or the hilt of the Sword of Mercy? Is that Satina playing for the Maiden as she dances across the sky? She rather thinks that one is the Wolf, guarding his section of sky like he's afraid it'll be taken from him.

She wonders if one of the others can point out where the constellations live in the sky. She wonders if Sten knows different constellations than she does. Maybe that information is just useless enough for Sten to give her – if he's decided that she's worth following, after all. He hasn't spoken to her since their conversation in Haven. She hasn't been successful at getting much of anything out of him, actually. She doesn't even know why he's here in Ferelden, or the story behind the cage.

That's a sobering thought she wishes hadn't come to her just now.

All in all, it comes as a surprise when Alistair takes her hand again; she tips her head to the side and looks at him out of the corner of her eye. He's watching her, a little determined, a little nervous. His pupils are dilated, and half of his face is in shadow, carving his features into strong lines. He holds his mouth soft, and uncertain. She wants to kiss him. She's wanted to kiss him since, oh, Lothering. He's been hovering just out of her reach for so long, seemingly uncertain about what he really wants. She wants to give him space. She wants to let him decide what he wants without outside interference. But she has other wants, and she has needs, too.

Marian slides her fingers between his and slowly smiles at him, a smile full of something shared and secret that lives between them. She offers the smile as a gift, as an invitation, with the full scope of what she feels for him. It's more than desire, more than affection and humor and steadfast, unfailing loyalty. She's not really interested in defining it right now, content to let it be what it is, to let it glow a constant warm heat in her chest.

His eyes flicker down to her mouth. His eyes are... very intent.

Is he...

Marian sits upright, turns to sit sideways on the log facing Alistair. He glances away, but then he looks back, like he can't stop. Like he can't look away. Neither can she. There's something suspended between them, drawn taut, pulling them together.

She puts her spare hand on his knee for the balance that she needs to lean up and kiss him. He opens his mouth –

And then Alistair starts to talk, like it's what he meant to do all along. "So... " he says, playing with her fingers, drawing back to put distance between them. His nerves are so apparent that any irritation Marian may or may not be feeling dissolves beneath resigned amusement. She may go mad from sexual frustration before he gets his head around her intentions, but at least he's thinking about it. "All this time we've spent together... you know: the tragedy, the brushes with death, the constant battles with the whole Blight looming over us... will you miss it once it's over?"

He seems really and truly interested in her answer. Maybe he's not brushing her off after all.

"Oh, I just love scrubbing darkspawn out of my clothes," Marian says, wrinkling her nose. "I can't wait until I don't have to worry about washing darkspawn blood off of my teeth."

"No more abominations..." he says, grinning.

"Or insane dragon worshippers..." she adds.

"No more running for our lives from assassins, no more darkspawn... ugh, and no more camping in the middle of nowhere." He shudders theatrically, making it clear that that's the real issue at stake, and she has to laugh.

"You know, I think I will miss it," she says in surprise. She hasn't really thought about it, but... If she hadn't joined the Wardens, she'd be in quite a different place right now. She'd have been slapped into the cells with Anders, poor sod. She'd probably be demon fodder.

They hadn't found Anders, either. She hadn't even thought to check. Maybe the cells had been low enough on the rebels' list that he'd been spared Lissette's fate, but she doubts it.

"Duncan saved my life when he recruited me," Marian says. "I knew that then, and I was grateful, but I didn't have to stay. I could have fled at any time." She meets Alistair's eyes squarely, making the choice to let him in, to give him whatever he's looking for. "I made a choice to join the Wardens, to do what I could, and I don't regret it." She smiles at him a little, tightening her fingers around his. "How could I?"

He looks down at his hand in hers. He seems to take some courage from it, which hurts Marian in a tiny, obscure part of her heart. He can't be this unsure of her, can he? Hasn't she made it clear that he can talk to her about anything? "I know it... might sound strange, considering we haven't known each other for very long, but I've come to... care for you." Alistair looks up then at her then, his heart in his eyes and in his voice, that heart she'd once said he wore on his sleeve, that heart she can't bear to have hurt – he's just giving it to her. "A great deal."

He doesn't know. He doesn't know how she feels about him. There are real nerves on his face, in his voice, in his hand on hers. There too is hope, desire, and that wry, self-deprecating amusement that she loves. How could he not know?

He drops his eyes to their hands again, playing with the fingernail on her thumb in lieu of the worry stone he keeps in his pocket. "I think maybe it's because we've gone through so much together, I don't know." A new, more vulnerable note enters his voice as he looks up at her face. "Or maybe I'm imagining it. Maybe I'm fooling myself. Am I? Fooling myself? Or do you think you might ever... feel the same way about me?"

He's so delightfully earnest, so anxious as he waits for her answer, that any pique blows away with the breeze rustling the trees. If he needs a clear and direct affirmation, well... There are worse things. At least she knows her feelings are welcome; Alistair hadn't even known that, even if she thinks he should have. She admires his courage, both in combat and out.

Marian swings herself into his lap, settling herself close to his knees rather than cuddling up to him the way she wants to, avoiding areas that she's no right to be touching just yet. She's shocked him, she can tell. His hands go to her waist to steady her and then they freeze there; she imagines that he's having the same concerns about what he's allowed to touch. She'll clear that up with him later. Marian leans down to touch her forehead against his, closing her eyes and sighing. "I care for you, too," she says softly. She opens her eyes again to find Alistair staring at her, stunned delight blooming in his eyes. "Very much. More than anyone I've ever met."

He tugs her a little closer in his lap. "So I fooled you, did I? Good to know." His voice drops into a deeper register, something that's probably intended to be amused, but to Marian it's like he's seducing her with his voice, with the transparent happiness in his eyes, the way his body feels between her legs and under her hands.

Her breath sounds so loud in her own head that she can't believe he can't hear how unsteady it is. "Alistair..."

Alistair slides his hand behind her neck and pulls her face just a little closer, so she feels the quick, steadying inhale he takes on her mouth.

And then he kisses her.

Her breath hitches a little before she holds it in, unwilling to do anything to interrupt this. His mouth is soft and very warm on hers, almost shy, like he doesn't know if this is what he's supposed to be doing. Oh, Alistair. Marian curls her hands around his neck, her thumbs on his jaw. She can feel the fine tension in his muscles – he's still nervy. Her insides melt. She kisses him back with the boundless affection and tension and excitement that he brings to life inside of her, hoping that she can get across just a little of what he means to her.

She draws back regretfully. His hand twitches a little on the back of her neck, like he wants her to come back, like he's not done with her yet, and that pleases her immensely. She knows she's got a huge, foolish grin on her face. Alistair's blushing a dull red, but he's grinning too, and she rubs her nose against his just to hear him laugh. Marian can't stop touching him, running her thumbs along the line of his jaw, scraping the bristly growth of red-gold beard that he carefully grooms every morning. His fingers are playing with the tiny wisps of hair at the base of her skull, tugging the curls straight and letting them spring back into shape. It pulls on her scalp a little. It's nice.

"That wasn't too soon, was it?" he asks softly.

Marian gives him a hugely scornful look that should tell him what she thinks of that idea. "You clearly have no idea how long I've wanted to jump you," she says, ducking in to kiss him again before he can ask the question. She's not hiding it, because she's not ashamed, but she's feeling playful and Alistair doesn't seem to mind. They come up for air again, and this time he's smirking.

"I'll take that as a good sign," he says, waggling his eyebrows in exaggerated lechery. She makes a face at him and reluctantly shifts her weight back, sitting upright. It's time to get up; he's got this watch, and neither of them are in any fit state to be on guard when the other's around. But Alistair's hand tightens on her waist, the grin sliding off his face. He looks at her like... It's almost reverential, the way he watches her, his face nearly enveloped in the shadows created by her body. "Maker's breath, but you're beautiful," he says, his big hand warm on her face. He is so sincere in his affection, in his open regard for her, that it sends shivers down her spine. "I'm a lucky man."

"I think I'm the lucky one," she says, leaning down for one more fleeting kiss before she slips out of his lap. "Good night, Alistair."

"Good night," Alistair echoes. She looks over her shoulder when she reaches her tent. He's watching her go. If they had a little privacy and five minutes of free time...

She slips into her tent. It's empty. Leliana must be – She has no idea where Leliana is, actually, which is a good thing right now. She needs some time alone. She can feel the ghost of Alistair's touch on her waist, on her face and on her hands, the way he looked at her, like she was the only thing he could see. Her breath is unsteady; she closes her eyes and traces her own face. He'd touched her here. He'd kissed her. Marian traces her lips, imagining how she'll kiss him tomorrow. She won't push him... but she can offer him the things he doesn't know how to ask for.

She'll open her mouth, just a little, so he can feel her breath on his lips. She could press against him to bring the rest of her body to his attention the way she'd avoided doing tonight.

If she's going to do this, it needs to be fast to finish before Leliana returns. That shouldn't be a problem with the way she's feeling.

She strips down to her smalls and crawls beneath her blanket. It's cold tonight, and in an abstract sort of way she can feel it, but her skin's radiating heat like a bonfire and her bedroll heats up quickly. She pulls the blanket over her head and cocoons herself underneath, in a space that's just her and her imagination.

And her imagination is fertile, indeed.

It doesn't take long to finish herself off; she was more wound up than she realized.

She's taken the edge off her physical need, but she still wishes that Alistair were really here with her, not just in her mind. It's a pipe dream, at least for now. She'll wait for him to be ready, because she's not interested in pressuring him, but she's sure to be spending a lot of time with her own hands.

He doesn't exactly act like someone with a lot of relationship experience. Actually... Eamon shipped Alistair off to the monastery when he was ten, didn't he? And then he was sent to templar training. Marian's never seen a female templar, and the Sisters at the monastery would have been dedicated to the Maker and Andraste when they enter service.

Oh Maker, could he be – is he a virgin?

Marian rolls onto her back with a groan. It would explain things, but...

Maybe she's wrong. Maybe he's just shy. She'll have to ask him soon, sometime when it's just them and their nosy companions aren't around to eavesdrop. The last thing she wants is for someone like Morrigan to get hold of this. She'd never stop laughing.