Chapter 38:
Left to his own devices, Alistair will make breakfast awkward, not out of desire but natural and unfortunate inclination. So when she's dressed and armored, Marian goes to him and stretches up to kiss him on the cheek, in full sight of everyone. He smells good, sweat and man and smoke from the campfire. The tip of Alistair's ears go red, but he grins at her anyway. "Good morning." She can hear faint laughter and Morrigan making disgusted little catsick noises somewhere in the background, but she doesn't care. His smile is worth it.
"Good morning," she says quietly. There's something incredibly intimate about him being the last person she spoke to before bed and the first person she spoke to in the morning.
Someday she'll tell him what she got up to in between. When the time is right.
They pack camp, quicker now with all their practice, and they're on their way at first light. The Imperial highway is close. This part of Ferelden is technically part of the arling of Redcliffe, and it's Eamon's duty to keep the roads clear and in as good repair as he can manage. That obviously doesn't extend to what's little more than a deer track, but once they get to the highway, their pace should improve.
All Marian really wants at the moment is a bath. She is foul. She thinks with wistful longing about the bathtub at Redcliffe Castle. She plans on spending some quality time with that tub. And maybe afterward, she can lure Alistair back to the library.
It's easier going back than it was going up; they're walking in the trail that they blazed on the way to Haven, and every step leads them closer to the warmer weather of the plains. Marian keeps herself to herself, sending Cú up front to Alistair and Zevran. She doesn't want company for right now. Something is changing inside of her. She feels different, unsettled – and yet it doesn't feel wrong, or sick like darkspawn, or inhuman like demons. It feels like the anticipatory tension that drew her to Alistair last night, like possibilities, like excitement. It's like walking the edge of a cliff without a guiderope – she might fall, but oh, what a view.
Marian's not afraid of falling. If nothing else, she knows Alistair will catch her, knows it with the kind of bone-deep certainty that's one of the reasons she's so fond of him. She can just see Alistair from her position in line, his shield on his back and Cú trotting alongside him. His hair gleams in the midday sunlight. She grins.
"The road is ahead!" Zevran calls back to the rest of them. They increase their pace, which is easier when the track starts to spread wider, and soon they're standing on the cracked and ancient stones of the Imperial highway. Marian stamps her foot on one just to feel paving stone under her boot instead of rocks.
Now it's Marian's turn to put her shoulder under Genitivi's, whose leg is still paining him despite everything Wynne can do. He needs the help to keep their pace. She's offered to slow them down before, or split into halves, but he won't hear of it; Eamon is far more important than he is, Genitivi insists.
She hates to agree, but under the circumstances... Still, she does what she can to keep him comfortable, including forcing potions on him until he swears at her. They can buy more elfroot. Genitivi is not a renewable resource.
They make camp that night in a small hollow not far from the road. It's her turn to dig out the refuse trench, which doesn't take long. Leliana and Genitivi have already started the second half of Dane and the Werewolf when she gets back, though, so she lies on her back in the grass with her dog and lets the familiar story take her somewhere else, to a far-away time when werewolves were real.
It's soothing, actually, and between that and the soft grass cradling her, Marian falls asleep. Her dreams are fire and shadow, forming shapes that whisper to each other just out of earshot. If she could just get closer, maybe she could understand them...
Alistair shakes her awake later, his hand curling over her shoulder even after she opens her eyes and blinks at him kneeling over her. "I thought even a mage had the sense to come in out of the rain," he teases.
Marian squints at the night sky behind him; there are clouds rolling in, but they're not directly threatening the camp just yet. "I thought even a templar had the sense not to wake sleeping mages," she says, her voice low with amusement and sleep-rough. She stretches long and hard, dislodging Alistair's hand, but she grabs it before he can get too far and tugs. "Come down here." There's no one else close, though she can hear the others at a little distance.
Alistair shakes his head regretfully. "Wynne wants you, or I would." He studies her for a moment, and she lets him, concerned by the seriousness on his face. "Are you all right?"
"It's just meditation," she says. "In Haven... in the little store..." Alistair remembers what happened, she can tell. His face is grim. She hates that she chased the humor from his eyes. "I lost control, and that can't ever happen. Ever. Meditation helps."
He pulls her upright by their joined hands. "Then you should go," he says, nodding at Wynne's tent. "I wouldn't want to keep her waiting, anyway. That woman is terrifying."
After a moment's hesitation, he leans forward and kisses her, a soft touch of mouths that's a sweet balm to her soul. She wants to pull him to her again, to get her hands in his hair and on his skin, to see if he responds to her the way she responds to him.
Marian holds on when he starts to pull away. "I wanted to talk to you," she says regretfully. They have so little time to themselves when the pace is this hard.
"Tomorrow?" Alistair suggests.
"Only if we take point." She doesn't want anyone overhearing this conversation, and from the look on Alistair's face, he agrees.
It's a bad night's work. She's left heartsick with a sore and aching mind, like someone's scraped her insides with a spoon. Leliana is asleep already, and Cú is snoring at the end of her bedroll, but she can't face sleep yet. Not like this.
Her pack of potion ingredients is close. The box she wants is all the way at the bottom, of course, but she digs it out without waking anyone and settles crosslegged on her bed before opening it. Alistair's rose is as perfect as it was the day he gave it to her, the color rich and the petals soft and silky against her skin. Marian puts her nose in it and lets the scent sooth her ragged edges. She's still a little shocked that he gave her something like this, something so outrageously sentimental – and so lovely. It should have been a mawkish moment, ruined by his insecurities and her fears, but somehow they'd met in the middle with honesty.
Alistair thinks her rare and wonderful. She can almost hear him saying it, replaying the moment in her mind, the look in his eyes and the gentle touch of his fingers...
Oh, she's being completely revolting, but it's hard to care. Doesn't she deserve something – someone – that makes her happy? No one's ever treated her with such respect and care before. No one's intrigued her like this before. No one's ever given her a flower before.
...this flower. The flower he gave her weeks ago.
Marian looks at the rose in her hands, confusion dawning. It looks like it was picked this morning. It's perfect. But Alistair picked it in Lothering, and he's been carrying it around ever since – And she's had it for weeks and never given it a second thought until now. It should be long dead, petals dropped away and the stem withered and brittle.
But it's not. It's practically dewy. Marian strokes one of the petals, reaching out with magic and all of her senses, but she can't feel anything strange or magical about it. It's just a rose. She cups it in her hands, sending more of her magic into it, but still, there's nothing. Magical objects are almost always exude magic like a perfume, but there are some, like dweomers, that need to be activated before they can be used; before that they don't advertise their magical origins. Still, she feels nothing. It's not dead, or an object, but it is still just a flower, lying inert in her hands.
It just is. But what it is is impossible.
She scrambles up to talk to Wynne before she remembers that everyone else is asleep, and that includes Wynne, who is old as dust and needs her beauty sleep. She swears right out loud. She'll have to wait until tomorrow – but the curiosity is riding her, and she wants to know now.
Leliana murmurs from her bedroll, and Marian freezes, hoping Leliana will just roll over and go back to sleep.
"Marian?"
Her luck's run out, it seems.
Leliana sits up, pushing hair out of her face. "Is everything all right?"
Immediately Marian folds her hands around the rose, hiding it from sight. She doesn't want Leliana to see it. "It's nothing," she says, willing her face calm. "I spilled flaxseed everywhere."
Marian opens the bottom of her cupped hands, dropping the rose back into its box, and closes the lid. She has no real hope that she's actually convinced Leliana of what she said, but she just... she doesn't want Leliana to see it. The rose is her secret, the tangible proof of something lovely growing between her and Alistair, and she wants to keep it close. Leliana wouldn't do anything but coo and tease, but even that feels unbearably intrusive right now. She shoves it back into one of her bags. She hopes it was the right one.
"A little late to be making potions, isn't it?" Leliana asks. She tries to hide a yawn, and Marian laughs.
"Go back to sleep – you're on third." Third watch means getting up three hours early and helping whoever's on breakfast duty. Thank the Maker, that's not Marian. Her cooking still hasn't improved.
Leliana lays down again, but instead of closing her eyes and even pretending to sleep, she watches Marian getting ready for bed. She strips to her underthings and takes down her hair, raking her fingers through it to check for debris before braiding it with quick fingers.
"Have I ever told you I really like the way you wear your hair?" Leliana says drowsily, curling up on her bedroll, pillowing her head on her hands.
"My hair?" Marian barely remembers what her hair even looks like anymore, it's been that long since she saw a mirror. "No, I – thanks?" It comes out like a question. She cringes. She's totally forgotten how to take a compliment, too. Fantastic. She ties off her braid, climbs under her blanket, and shoves her toes under Cú's massive bulk. Brrr.
"It's very nice," Leliana says, yawning. "It suits you. Simple, not like the elaborate hairstyles we wore in Orlais. Flowers, ribbons, jewels..." She giggles. "One year, feathers were all the rage, and Lady Elise decided she needed to outdo everyone else, and actually wore live songbirds in her hair. The chirping was quite charming for a while, but you must realize, terrified little birdies often have loose bowels."
Marian tries to picture it for a while; she knows nothing of Orlesian court fashion, so all that comes to mind is massive skirts, tight, ornamented bodices, and towering curled wigs, and those little square-heeled shoes with embroidery or jewels pasted on. "I hope she got what was coming to her," Marian says finally. She closes her eyes – Leliana won't mind. She knows Marian is still listening.
It's comforting, actually. She used to talk to Lissette like this after lights out, curled up either together or in separate beds and talking about – oh, anything they could think of. Gossip and secrets and who's tupping who, speculating on the senior enchanters' apprentice years, seeing who could come up with the most outrageous stories about Greagoir and which ones actually made a strange kind of sense. Lissette had sworn up and down that he'd had a secret liaison with a mage when he was young – but how could she know? Marian still can't imagine that.
She misses Lissette so much. She can't make Leliana into her replacement – that's not fair to any of the three of them – but she fits so neatly into a hole in Marian's life that it's hard work. They don't look anything like. Lissette looked like temptation personified, mouthwatering curves and wicked eyes. Leliana's softer, sweeter. That helps.
Leliana murmurs her agreement. "You can imagine what she looked like at the end of the evening, I'm sure..." She opens her eyes wide. "But I was trying to say something nice to you!" She stares at Marian like it's her fault they got off topic.
"Bird crap is my favorite topic of conversation, it's true," Marian says, laughing.
"You – " Leliana stops mid-sentence, sighs outrageously, and then joins Marian in her laughter. "It's just that I feel so comfortable talking to you," she says, smiling at Marian affectionately. "Like I could say anything and you wouldn't judge me."
"That's what you think," Marian says, closing her eyes. She's warm now, and comfortable. "Cú and I gossip behind your back. About all of you, actually – did you know that Wynne talks in her sleep?"
"I hope it's scandalous." Leliana's got a nice voice, and now it's rich with sleep and fond affection. It's just... it's nice. She could fall asleep to this. "I haven't felt this close to anyone in a long time. I really enjoy your company."
It takes a second, but that rings all sorts of bells in her head. Marian opens her eyes to find Leliana smiling at her, just the way she had before. Nothing's wrong, or off, of course, but Marian could have sworn... For a moment, Leliana's voice seemed to hold a particular tone she's only heard from girls who were looking for a night's company.
She's being ridiculous, of course. Leliana's never even hinted that she's interested in Marian like that. No, Marian's imagining things. It's definitely time for sleep.
"I enjoy your company, too," she says. She doesn't have to fake a yawn; one springs itself on her as soon as she lets her guard down. She smiles at Leliana and then closes her eyes. "It's nice to have a friend again..."
She falls asleep between one yawn and the next, and if Leliana replies, Marian doesn't hear it. Perhaps that's for the best.
When they've put about a mile between them and the rest of the group, Marian looks down at Cú and tells him to keep an eye on them for her. He barks once, rubs his whole body against her leg in farewell, and turns around to trot back to the others.
Marian takes a long, deep breath. "This is nice," she says, sighing. "I like them, or, most of them, but I like space, too."
"I know what you mean. That stuff Sten wears – phwoar," Alistair says, waving his hand in front of his nose. "I don't even want to know what it is." He glances over at her curiously. "It looked like they kept you in close quarters at the Circle – aren't you used to being around people?"
"In a way, yes," Marian says, thinking back. "But we weren't in the dormitories all the time, you know. We had classes and tutorials, meals, and even some free time." She wrinkles her nose. "I spent quite a lot of that in the library," she confesses.
"You shock me," Alistair says gravely, laughing when she sticks her tongue out.
"Even when we were in the dorm, we weren't exactly socializing." Marian slides a glance at Alistair out of the corner of her eye, and decides to take the opportunity to steer the conversation. "Though of course, there was quite a lot of bed-swapping after lights out..."
Alistair laughs. "And what else do they expect, cramming a bunch of teenagers in a room together? They used to beat the ones they caught at it at the monastery, but that never stopped anyone either."
"So..." Marian does her best to keep her voice casual. "I was wondering... have you never..." She still can't figure out how to phrase it, though, and her idea of last night – just coming out and asking him straight, Are you a virgin? – seems cruel in the light of day.
To her relief, Alistair doesn't seem angry – or defensive, which was the reaction that worried her more. "Never...?" He trails off inquisitively. He's teasing her, Marian realizes with a strange mix of amusement and shock. Every so often, Alistair surprises her. She likes it. "Never what? Had a good pair of shoes?"
Marian lifts an eyebrow at him. "Really? This is where you're going with that?"
"But you could be talking about anything," he protests, grinning. "Have I never seen a basilisk? Ate jellied ham? Have I never licked a lamppost in winter?"
A lamppost, eh? Marian laughs. She hasn't heard that one before, but she'll take anything over the old and hoary standards of staff, wand, and rod. "You know what I mean," she says. "And if you don't, I really question the thoroughness of your education."
He likes to make her laugh. She's noticed that before. He gets this pleased, mildly smug air about him that's not unattractive, like the one that he's wearing now.
"It's not like I could ask the sisters," he points out. "Well, tell me: have you ever licked a lamppost in winter?" It's clear from the suggestive lilt in his voice that he's not talking about actual lampposts anymore. One hard shiver climbs up her spine and lodges in her brain, an electric spike of possibility. If he's all right talking about this... She looks at him; he's watching her with a grin and raised eyebrows. It seems that he is.
Still, she can't help teasing back. "Did it look like we had lampposts in the Circle?"
"We didn't check all the wardrobes or under the beds," Alistair says, laughing. "Maybe you were keeping the good stuff to yourself... No?"
Marian rolls her eyes at him, giving that comment the silence it deserves. "I've never licked a lamppost in winter, no," she says, giving up. "But I have had quite a lot of sex."
Alistair grins at her, but she's watching closely; she doesn't miss the way his pupils dilate just a little bit. She thinks it's desire. She hopes it is. "Oh, so that's what we're talking about. I admit I've never had a woman just... come out and ask me like this, that's for sure."
It's not like you were getting around to it on your own...
Alistair scratches at the stubble on his cheek, the only outward sign of nerves he makes. Otherwise, he may as well be talking about the weather. "I, myself, never had the pleasure. Not that I haven't thought about it, of course, but..." He shrugs. "You know."
Marian lets the silence linger, sorting out just how she feels about that. It's not a plus, not in her book, but there is something appealing about showing Alistair how fun it can be, how rewarding, how intimate. It leaves the pace of their relationship entirely up to him and what he's comfortable with, which is a drawback, but one she can live with.
It doesn't make a blind bit of difference except that she won't be throwing herself at him until she's sure he's ready, then. All right.
Marian looks over and realizes she's been silent too long; Alistair's gone all tight-lipped and quiet. She swears at herself and reaches out, curling her fingers around his. She wishes they weren't both wearing gloves. He looks up, startled. "I'm sorry," she says. "I wasn't thinking – well, I was thinking," she corrects herself. "That's the problem."
"About what?" Alistair asks, with understandable wariness.
She squeezes his hand. "About you," she says, looking over and offering him an affectionate smile. After a moment he returns it, and she knows she's been forgiven. "Did no one ever catch your fancy?"
"No more than in passing," he says easily. "Not until... " He glances at her, looking away just as quickly. Marian smiles to herself. "And living in the Chantry is, well... not exactly a life for rambunctious boys. They taught me to be a gentleman, especially in the presence of beautiful women such as yourself. That's not so bad, is it?"
It never ceases to amaze Marian that Alistair will open his heart and soft, tender emotions to her at the drop of a hat. How can she repay this trust? What can she possibly do to deserve it?
He thinks she's beautiful.
"I like you just the way you are," she says softly. "So no, I don't think so."
"Good. You'd... want a gentleman to court you, wouldn't you? If... if you were to be courted by someone, that is."
Courting? It shouldn't be a surprise to her that he's that serious about this, about them, but for some reason it is. Courting implies long-term intent. Courting is a very definite word.
She looks at him, but he's carefully watching the road in front of them, not her. Marian tugs him to a halt by their joined hands, forcing him to look at her. "Alistair, if there's to be courting, I only want it from you."
He touches her face, his eyes intent and so fond that she can't look away. "That's good to know," he says, a grin pulling at the side of his mouth. "I'll have to remember that."
Marian tilts her head to the side, raising her eyebrows in challenge. "And how would you feel about being courted?"
Alistair laughs. "I think that would be my cue to grin a bit and look foolish for a while. Why do you ask?"
"No reason," she says, grinning. "No reason at all."