"Must we go to that wretched tower?" Morrigan quips. "Have we no other place to be? No other allies to seek out?"

Eran sighs and runs a hand over his head. A haggard expression mars his features. Deep circles stain the underside of his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, knees bowed slightly as he leans upon a crate repurposed as a table. "We need to contact the mages anyway; the Grey Warden treaties say they're obligated to help us with the Blight. The possibility that they might help us with Connor and Arl Eamon just makes going there make sense."

"Or," Morrigan starts, placing her palms upon the crate. She leans forward, face close to Eran's. "We could forget about the boy and his addled father and continue gathering allies against the Blight. 'Tis sensible, no?"

Eran lets out a sigh, running a hand over his eyes. "Yes, but if we help Eamon and his son, he'd be more inclined to help us speak out against Loghain. It's not like we're abandoning the Blight."

Alistair sidles up next to me, perched against a tree a short distance away. I spare him a withering look before turning my gaze back to my brother and his apparent paramour. "They're still at it, are they?" Alistair asks. I let out an answering huff and cross my arms. "I don't get it. Why is he letting her try to dictate what we do?"

I shrug. "Your guess is as good as mine, but I wish I had his patience."

This goes on for a while before Morrigan takes her leave. Eran slumps further against the crate, a suffering sound escaping his lips. I move to join him; when his eyes come up to find me, they are brimmed with more exhaustion than I initially thought. More than just physical exhaustion, I realize. "What was that about?"

His lips tighten as he sighs through his nose and shakes his head. "I don't know what else to do," he confesses. Eran looks down to the makeshift table where he has his map and notes laid out. He motions me closer. "We're at a crossroads," he says, pointing to definitely not a crossroad on the map, and I eye him incredulously. "The travel time from where we are to the Tower is less than a week, Maker willing."

"Okay, so what's the problem?"

"The problem ," he says, "is that we're low on supplies, and that Morrigan is insistent we go anywhere other than the tower. Have you read the Grey Warden treaties yet?"

I nod, though in truth I hadn't. With Eran at the helm, I didn't feel the need once a summary was given. The shorthand was that the treaties made certain parties obligated to assist the Grey Wardens during the Blight. One of those parties included the Circle of Magi.

He points to another corner of the map near the top left. "We do also need to contact the dwarves of Orzamar to help us with the Blight. But I've done the calculations, and even with some rationing, we'd run completely out of everything by the time we get halfway around Lake Calenhad."

"And we'd be passing the Circle Tower right up."

He hums in agreement. His finger slides across the map again toward the lower right, southeast of our location. "We could also go to the Brecilian Forest and do the same with the Dalish, but we'd have to backtrack a few days and potentially stumble across the horde. And even if we didn't, we'd still run out of supplies."

I give him a questioning look. "Seems to me like the Circle is the reasonable place to go."

"I was thinking we could go to Denerim," he says, and instantly my heart sinks through my stomach. My expression melts away as easily as candle wax. Eran looks up at me after a moment. I can tell from his tight expression that he's looking to gauge my reaction, maybe already aware of my answer. "I was thinking that we could get properly equipped there," he continues. "Maybe buy some new gear, get major repairs done, that sort of thing."

My eyes narrow dangerously on him, searching for an overlong moment. "And checking in with the alienage, I assume."

His face drops with a look akin to a child being scolded by its mother. "The thought crossed my mind," he admits. "I know you don't want to go back," he says, his voice pacifying. "But we're going to end up in Denerim at some point, and it's well-supplied, there's—"

My attention drifts back down to the map, looking between all the points he traced. Eventually, I settle on Denerim, lingering on the twin mabari that denoted Ferelden's heraldry. Eran isn't wrong; we will inevitably travel to Denerim at some point.

A Landsmeet, a council of the nobles of Ferelden, was set to be held there in the coming months. That, Alistair had once explained, would be where we could formally challenge Loghain for his crimes at Ostagar. And to better help with that , we needed Eamon's help.

But all this is little comfort to me, and it doesn't stop a shake starting under my skin, or the thoughts roaring in my head. A thousand venomous words eager to lash like a viper.

But that doesn't matter for now. I'd get my peace, eventually. Maybe.

"The quickest way to Denerim from here is cutting across the Bannorn. I don't know about you, but I don't think going off-road is a sound idea," I suggest, offering him a look. I search the map again. Following the northern stretch of the Imperial Highway will take us weeks to get to Denerim, and we would still be traveling past the Circle Tower.

This is so obvious. Why can't he see it?

"We should keep going to the Tower," I answer firmly. "You have a village plotted just north of here; it's a couple of days away. We can try stocking up there." He says nothing, simply nodding and running a hand over his chin. My gaze lingers on him as a breath passes, expecting some rebuttal. Instead, a nagging worry settles at the back of my mind. "Is everything all right? You look like you got run over by a herd of druffalo."

His brows scrunch before his features soften again, and he waves a hand dismissively at me. "It's nothing, just the dreams. You know how that is."

"Yeah, I do." We exchange a look, but I hold his gaze until he relents. I stand upright, crossing my arms. "So what's this thing you have going on with Morrigan?"

Confusion returns, a little cautious this time. "What 'thing,' exactly?"

"Don't be stupid with me. I'm not that dumb."

He scoffs. "I never implied—"

"Is this something serious," I interrupt, "or just…fun?"

Eran's jaw falls open, expression shifting, before clamping shut again. He slumps forward onto the crate, palms flat, and his head hangs between his shoulders. "I'm not really sure how to answer that without sounding…"

"Weird?"

"I was thinking inappropriate, actually."

I roll my eyes and bite down a scathing sigh. "Listen, what you get up to in your downtime isn't my business, and honestly, I don't really care if you're sleeping with her or not." He makes a face, jaw set. I shrug. "I get it. What we're doing is stressful. If that's what makes you not stressed, then—"

Eran lets out an ungainly noise. "Maker, I can't believe I'm having this conversation right now."

"My point," I offer, "is that I don't care if this is casual. But if it's not casual and something more…" Eran gives me a look, momentarily pausing the words. "I don't want you to get hurt, is all."

Another heavy silence settles as his eyes fix back down on the crate. His nails, slightly overgrown from neglect, scratch at the wood grain for an overlong moment. Finally, his frame slacks. "I appreciate the concern, but honestly," he says, straightening himself once more, "nothing is going on."

He doesn't sound too convinced, but I don't pry. "Good, because we're fucked if she turns you into a toad." He lets out a tired laugh at that, a stupid grin lingering on his face, and it proves infectious. "So it's decided then; off to the Circle Tower?" He lets out an affirming noise, and I turn to take my leave, needing to prepare for our departure. I stop when he says my name, twisting back around.

"Thank you."

A smile flickers across my features. "Don't worry about it."

There is something about the open air, out here on the road, that makes me feel uneasy in one way, and liberated in another. It is so unlike the oppressive fog that clung over Denerim like a heavy blanket; familiar, but suffocating. Out here, almost everything is fresh to my senses; great rolling hills, birds of the like I have never seen or heard before.

Most beautiful, I think, are the myriad of reds and golds and oranges that crest countless trees. This is not new to me; the vhenadahl would do the same in the fall, and the few times I scaled Denerim's walls, it was easy to spot waves of color far off in the distance. But up close like this, the colors seem so much richer. And there is something about the smell, crisp and earthy, that dredges up memories of a time when world-ending bullshit wasn't at the forefront of my mind.

All of that is just barely enough of a distraction against the enigma of a woman who invades my thoughts.

Every wayward glance flickers with a gentle yet purposeful smile, one singing gratitude, mischief, and promise all at once. It's so easy the way I forget to breathe, errant thoughts cascading through my head like a war party. It's easy to remember fleeting touches, all of them benign, safe with the protection of cloth or leather; feeling their weight, a gentle pressure betraying the strength of her grip.

And it's easy to lie in my bedroll at night and wonder what that might be like without a barrier. To crave more.

It's a dangerous line of thinking that hedges further, made clear with the idle patterns my fingers trace across my stomach. Nonsensical touches creep beneath my skin, sinking deep and burning my blood, and squeezing my throat with desirous intent. An ache I'm familiar with, unique in the way it feels at once unpleasant and incredible.

It makes its soothing all the more difficult to bear. Waking the next day, smiling at her good mornings as if nothing was amiss.

I'd suffer the ache of a small death before I told her anything. That is easier than admitting the truth. It's easier to keep her here, at arm's length, rather than admit my increasingly intrusive thoughts and lose this.

And I don't know where they were conjured from, or why. I am no stranger to such lecherous thoughts, having indulged many whims beneath Eran's nose. But that's all it ever was; just shorthand whims. Nothing deeper was ever attached.

And never with a woman. Certainly never a human.

I had thought about it. Once. Nola nearly had me until my betrothal, and even then—

In truth, it's not what I want. An idle fancy periodically indulged to satiate some base need.

I want more than that. I want so badly to be looked at and loved and comforted, desired in a way that was not exclusively of the flesh. Not this.

It is an idle want, one I'm sure will flame out, given enough time.

We stop and make camp for the night. Once my responsibilities are done, I slip off to one end of the camp with only my journal for companionship. My frenetic journal-scribbling pauses when a raven noisily lands at my feet. I look up, exchanging a long look with the golden-eyed bird before going back to my writing. She croaks at me with displeasure.

"You've heard of a thing called privacy, Morrigan." I look back up after a bout of silence to find the transformed witch still watching me. I stomp my boot against the ground, and she flies off with a bevy of protests. But it isn't long until I feel her presence again and I sigh, snapping the journal closed. When I look over my shoulder, it's to find her standing there, a scrunched look twisting her features. "Can I help you?"

She doesn't immediately respond, watching me with criticality equal to a bird of prey. "You know she is not what she appears," she answers cryptically.

I can't help but stare at her with utter exhaustion before a sigh seeps from my lungs. I stuff the journal beneath one leg and twist halfway around to better scowl at her. "We're talking about Leliana, I assume."

She rolls her eyes. "Unless one of the little boys has been keeping secrets from us, yes. We are." Silence. "I find it curious that she is allowed to stay, knowing her fickle nature."

"You find that curious, do you?"

"In fact, I find it even more curious that you seem content to let a spy sleep among our ranks."

I feel a furrow start in my brow. "What the fuck are you on about?"

She shifts from one foot to another, the motion far too fluid and nonchalant, and her head tilts. "Do you not wonder what she did? Are you not curious what became of Loghain's men?" My throat tightens, but I work to not let the sensation rise to the surface, lest she see and use it.

"Maybe she killed them," I say blatantly, unbothered. "Why should that change anything? She was protecting us."

She makes a hum low in her throat. Doubtful, I think, as she tilts her head the opposite way. "Was she? Do you not wonder how she did so? Three men, armed to the teeth and loyal to a tyrant, falling victim to a pitiful, cloistered woman? 'Tis most unlikely."

"I imagine she stuck knives into them, you know, the way one would normally go about killing someone."

"Perhaps she lulled them into complacency," Morrigan offers, her tone dropping dangerously in pitch. "Perhaps she lured them away from prying eyes. Do you not wonder at the last thing they saw? Do you wonder if she came away with the stench of men clinging to her skin? Why she fled for her dear Maker once the act was done?"

My tongue passes over my teeth, lips working into a frown. I rise from my place; pain flares through my scarred leg, only adding to the acuteness of my scowl. I step towards Morrigan, holding her gaze that I'm sure is as baleful as mine. "I don't care what she did," I hiss.

Morrigan's eyes flicker as they search, a corner of her lips twitching with mild annoyance until, "Perhaps you are a bigger fool than I initially thought. A shame, given a woman of your sensibilities. I thought you would not allow yourself to fall into such a primitive trap."

"And what trap is that, exactly?"

A disgusted noise filters from between her teeth. "You are taken with her. Maybe you even love her."

My brows flash up, head tilting. "You're wrong."

"No? 'Tis not the first time I have told you this, and if your belligerence is to continue, it will not be the last."

"You were wrong then; you're wrong now."

"Am I?" she challenges. She holds herself with a certain air, chin raised, that leaves my body tense. "Tell me this, then: does it not explain your reaction? Your fascination with her? The lingering looks, the coy grins? You are drawn to her." Her gaze sharpens, teeth flashing as she speaks. "Deny all you want. You play a dangerous game, letting her stay here."

My head turns toward the fire when a peal of laughter catches my attention. The rest of the group sit around it, Eran making wild gesticulations as he recounts a tale I've heard a hundred times. But my eyes quickly find Leliana, watching the mirth on her face, features soft and radiant in the twilight.

She eventually finds me, and my eyes snap away with a flood of embarrassment.

My focus switches back to Morrigan, finding her watching me, hands on her hips, with a smug look on her face.

"This isn't a game. Never was," I say, and the look melts away into a frown. It's hard not to feel my own smug satisfaction upon seeing it, but I somehow keep it down. "And you. Is my brother just a game to you?"

She shifts on her feet, making herself a long line and crossing her arms over her chest. It does little to conceal her exposed neckline; quite apart from anything, the action makes it more prominent.

"I've no interest in a game in which the participants do not wish to play."

"So?"

"He is willing, as am I. What more needs to be explained about it?"

"But you don't love him." Not a question; an accusation.

And she infuriatingly laughs . "Why does love need to be involved? 'Tis sex, passion. No flimsy sentimentality need be attached. Surely this is not so foreign to you. Or are you blind to such base notions?"

My lips twist into a scowl. "I'm familiar with sex, thank you."

"Good, because I'd hate to be the one to enlighten you."

A ragged sigh burns out of my lungs. I turn, snatching the journal from its resting place. I give Morrigan a hard glare. "Don't toy with him," I hiss as I walk past her back towards the fire.

You play a dangerous game.

That statement lingers on the edge of my mind like an accusation. Maybe it is, but by Andraste's flaming sword, does it piss me off. It works itself into every thought I conjure, so pervasive that it echoes even through my disjointed dreams.

And I can't help but think it laughs at me when I have to sit still for Leliana to braid my hair, heart aflurry so loud I'm afraid she might hear. It howls in pleasure when we take to the road, as my eyes trace her features as though to commit them to memory. I'm right, it screams at me.

It feels heavy whenever thoughts of Leliana drift by. It makes me feel the intensity of her gaze tenfold; to the point I become clumsy and reckless with the weapons that are an extension of myself.

It mocks me when we find ourselves in the thick of battle, at how I always seek her out, furiously lashing at anything that dares come too close. It torments me when I lose sight of her, how the world becomes a blur as I whip around, only to be met with the wrong end of a weapon—It tortures me when that unfortunate foe succumbs against a dagger's edge or the bite of an arrow; and amidst it all, she stands there, watching over me.

Eran endures my frustrations during our morning bouts. Each wild swing that contacts his shield resonates across the camp, drowns out my thoughts, his shouts for me to stop. His shield raises higher and higher until he's no longer holding, but practically cowering behind it. Eran peeks over its edge as I move in for another strike, and somehow, it freezes me in place.

A sheepish grin stretches across his lips as he lowers the shield to the side. He rakes a free hand through his hair, laughing, "If you keep at it like that, I might just have to delegate our spars to Sten."

I huff in response as if I detest the idea, though at this point, that might not be a bad thing. "Are you surrendering?"

Eran lowers his guard completely, the mirth on his face replaced with that damned sense of worry and protection. It's difficult not to sneer at it. "Is something bothering you?" He takes a cautious step forward, arms open in a display of submission. "You're acting like something's wrong."

Nothing was wrong, except for, well, everything .

Twin flashes of metal come crashing down; Eran thankfully has the grace to bring his shield back up in time to catch them. "Less talking," I snarl, holding his wide, steely eyes, " more fighting."

We make our way to a nameless and forgettable village a few days downwind from the Circle Tower. Like Redcliffe, it too is a village reliant on Lake Calenhad, and thus reeks of fish. Unlike Redcliffe, however, it and its inhabitants are much better off. So much, in fact, that the dirt paths are clogged with people.

The group files off in different directions with a plan to reconvene at the inn at dusk. Morrigan makes herself scarce, observing from afar in raven form. Eran and Alistair try to wring information from the villagers as to who was in charge here. Sten absconds with Maggie to some quiet field just outside the village proper.

I'm not entirely sure where Leliana has gone off to; in one moment, she walked a few steps ahead of me, looking around with a mix of wide-eyed wonder and deliberation. In the next, I lost her amongst the people and buildings.

I elect to remain with Bodahn, Sandal, and their cart, accompanying them to the ramshackle market square set along dilapidated docks. I rest against the side of the cart, arms crossed, passively watching as the dwarf goes about merrymaking and bartering with the locals. My gaze roams over the crowd of people: all unremarkable. Many of them are clad in work-worn clothes, stained with mud and toil.

"Don't think I've seen this many folk in one place since I met you and your kin back in Lothering," Bodahn casually remarks, stuffing away a few silvers into his coin purse. I don't answer, simply watching him go about his business. "Can't really complain though," he adds after dealing with another passerby. "All this Blight talk is bad for business."

"These people don't look like the refugees in Lothering."

"Don't they? I reckon a few might've made their way up here on the stop to Denerim."

"Why stop here, though? Why not keep going to Denerim, or west to Orlais? These people seem so…" It's a struggle to find the correct word, so much so that Bodahn offers me a questioning look. "Unaware? Unbothered by the darkspawn?"

He shrugs. "Bah, I can't claim to know what goes on in their heads. If they're happy, I'd say let 'em be. Plenty a'strife in the world these days. Nothing wrong with finding happiness wherever you can get it."

Something cold and hollow coils within me at his words, threatening to spill over, and melting away my expression into that of disquiet numbness.

His words echo Leliana's. Fuck.

"No," I finally answer, "I guess not."

Bodahn shoos me off well before the agreed-upon meeting time. With little recourse, I ask around and eventually find myself at the tavern.

It's packed to the brim with patrons. The thrum of innumerable voices fills the air, punctuated by clinking glassware and roars of laughter. The atmosphere feels thick and heady, a mixture of the scent of people, drink, food and fire.

I wade through the sea of people, my eyes scanning across countless unknown faces. And though some stare back at me with curiosity or misplaced mirth, they are not the faces I seek. I turn once reaching the back of the room, searching across one last time, and feeling a bit lost and maybe crestfallen.

A firm grip captures my upper arm, the feeling spiking through my chest to react; I turn, barbarous words prepared on my tongue, a hand feeling for the grip of a sword.

But I am greeted by bright eyes and a sympathetic smile conveying a silent apology. The primed response in my blood freezes over; thaws into some regret, and Leliana's grin widens into a laugh. And Maker, does my skin feel hot.

"I didn't mean to startle you," she says, leaning in so that I might hear. She lingers there, pressed against my arm, for maybe a moment too long. A glint of teeth as she pulls away, dragging me along.

She leads me up to the second floor, which is more of a glorified balcony overlooking about half of the main floor. The tables here are just as filled, but she takes me to one, set on its own in the corner.

"You'll have to be careful about that," I say as I take a seat across from her. "The last time you spooked me like that, Loghain's bogies showed up, you went missing, and I went on a rampage."

She laughs as she leans back in her chair, taking a glass and raising it to her lips. "That will not happen again. You'd make sure of that, wouldn't you?" The teasing lilt in her words combined with a coy glance makes my heart clench. I don't answer, save for a fleeting grin. Instead, my eyes switch down to the table, studying the wood grain and scratches on its surface.

But my eyes flick up to watch her now and again, all the while she's content to watch the gathering of people and worrying at her drink.

"So what have you been doing here?" I don't even realize it's my voice until she inclines her head towards me, an elegant brow raised. She lets out a small laugh, then gestures with her glass to the surroundings.

"Observing," she answers, finishing the drink.

"Seriously?" I lean back in my chair, the wood creaking heavily. "You've been watching people this whole time?"

"Is that so unusual? People are quite curious." Her eyes find mine, holding them there until my heart gallops. She stands in a deliberate manner; languid, fluid, almost certainly done on purpose. Leliana motions with her head in silent request, and I follow without question.

She takes me back to the balustrade, leaning upon it with her forearms. I join alongside her, keeping upright, and follow her gaze to the gathering of people. "When I was in Orlais, I spent time around powerful circles of people. If one were to entertain the nobility, they must know how best to please them."

I toss a questioning look, and she smiles wickedly at me.

She continues, "I watched them lay out their petty squabbles in court. It was quite entertaining, but watching and observing are two very different things, you see." Her voice drops as she speaks, her accent thicker, dripping like velvet, and my heart suddenly feels loud . "What they wear, what they say, how they act; it can tell you things without ever needing to ask, reveal secrets they would never say otherwise."

Her features flash with something more, a sharp facade reminiscent of the foreboding woman I saw before, tempered still by the woman I know her as. And it all combines deliciously to throw most of my higher thinking into a pyre—

She bumps against my side, jostling my thoughts, and a faint laugh spills out. "A useful skill, no? It is part of my old life that I never quite left behind."

A wave of clarity washes over me, thought and senses flooding back in. I take a minute, considering, calculating , before lowering myself to my forearms on the rail. Eye level with her. The sound of blood in my ears, a dull ringing, starts as she wordlessly gazes on as if in challenge, and it is exhilarating . "Is that why you're fond of watching me? Or have you been observing?"

A corner of her lips curves up, then, "I've done a healthy bit of both, I think."

It only takes a few words, but they disarm me completely, making flame flood my veins. I can do nothing for a moment with what must be a dumbfounded expression, if the way her lips widen into a grin is an indication. A strained laugh escapes and I look away, down; anywhere but at her. Still, my brain manages to conjure a response. "Have you learned anything interesting about me, then?"

Her weight presses into my arm; a shock of red filters into my periphery, and she says, "You know more about yourself than I do, I hope."

The rest of the party filters in throughout the evening. Alistair is the first to join, unknowingly rescuing me from embarrassing myself further. Another table and chairs get absconded from other places and shoved together as more of the band scurries in. Conversation shifts quickly from strategy to wild tales, our corner's uproar melding with the crowd's rest.

All the while I sit at my end, silent and staring at some indeterminate thing while my thoughts race. I sink further and further in my chair as the hours go on, chin perched in one palm; the other hand gripping the fabric of my breeches, trying to contain a nervous tic.

I'm so lost in the cacophony that I start when Leliana leans close enough to nudge my shoulder with hers. And when I look at her, her features are soft with mirth, but her eyes betray an underlying worry. She leans a bit closer so that I might hear, and simply asks, "Are you all right?"

The innocuous question leaves me dumb for a second too long. I look down at the barely touched plate of whatever food was brought up, trying to ignore the scent of wine that lingers in our shared space. "Yeah, I'm just tired."

I suppose I'm not, really, but that doesn't matter so much. Still, she leans back into her chair, raising her glass to her lips, but not before she shifts enough that her leg touches mine. It's just a simple tether, one I could break if I so wished. Peering back up at her, it's obvious she's asking for silent permission. But I sink further in my chair, relaxing into the offered contact. A small tug of her lips doesn't go unnoticed.

Some time passes; the mention of our sleeping arrangements comes up. The inn was in no order to house us, so Eran and Alistair had taken it upon themselves to secure a camp on the outskirts of the village. I spare little time in rising from my chair, stating my intent to retire for the night when my brother levels a curious gaze at me.

A cool night's wind greets me when the tavern door flails open, threatening to steal the breath from my lungs, while also offering renewed vigor. It wrenches away the oppressive air that sheathed itself around my shoulders; a cloak that clouded my thoughts and left me unable to think past noise and smell and sound.

My heart feels like a caged bird as I traverse dirt pathways. The sound of merrymaking fades but does not abate the further I go, avoiding prying eyes, feet carrying me as quickly as my injured leg allows.

It isn't until I reach camp, get a fire going, and collapse before it that I feel like I can breathe for the first time in hours. But with it comes back all the repressed thoughts, rushing through like the flooding of the Denerim docks during a storm. A thick swallow follows the leaping of my heart, and my stomach twists against nothing.

I'm starting to believe that I can't go a moment without thinking about her, and it feels maddening. It's like my brain has been set alight with the most vitriolic fluid imaginable.

I likely just imagined all those overlong looks, put too much stock in the familiarity she shared with me. She was covering for me, watching over me when I was too stupid to do it myself; we're part of a team, it's what she's supposed to do.

My hands entwine themselves into my braid, undoing it before I even realize it's happening. A coiled strand of it twists restlessly around one finger.

This is fine, I think to myself. Nothing unusual about any of this, the way my heart leaps, my breath aches. It's innocent fun the way she effortlessly stops my brain with just a look, or a coy remark, or a fleeting touch. She's a friend. Completely normal.

Maybe it's some odd fascination. Maybe it's the lure of the unknown; the fantasy of what could be, what I could be like had my life been different.

Maybe it's the blatant regard she offers at every unexpected turn. Maybe it's the way she watches me, like a puzzle in need of solving. Or maybe it's the vulnerability she masks herself in around me.

She's a question begging to be answered. And I'm not sure what I fear more: the question, or its answer.

I remember the last time I felt this way, and I wish I didn't.

So maybe I like her. Fine. Maybe she occupies a little too much of my thoughts, whatever. There isn't anything about me that's interesting or noteworthy; this must be one-sided, and if I ignore it long enough, it'll go away. She's my friend; I'm a Warden, I have a responsibility and anything deeper would be—

A dread chill shatters down my spine, putting an end to frothing thoughts; the heat of eyes rest heavy on my consciousness. It takes all my being not to whip around toward their origin, though I know to whom it belongs without ever needing to.

I swallow down a harsh breath as I rise to my feet, and feign muted surprise when I turn and find Leliana's silhouette against the night. A crooked grin stretches across my face upon seeing her. A gesture she returns before looking down, pinning her hair back behind her ears. Embers threaten to fan under my skin. I duck away into my tent as casually as I can.

The tent confines do little to starve the flames; rather, it kicks up into an inferno, its heat damn near unbearable against the cramped space. I've half a mind to shut myself in here for the night, but I'm not tired, and I know the way my mind races that it would be fruitless anyway. And so my hands shake as I fumble through my belongings, searching for something to keep me occupied within her presence. The journal comes to hand first, and then a whetstone and oilcloth that has seen more use recently than in all the months since Ostagar. A final steadying breath gets sucked in before throwing myself back into the night.

Leliana tilts her head back to greet me from where she sits, perched not far from where I sat. Her saccharine expression forces a fleeting smile to my face before I avert my eyes and retake my place, not wanting to make things amiss. A quick look over tells me she's got the Chant open across her lap, attention seemingly invested in it. Mine, however, gets snared on the way the firelight and its shadows capture her face; dips of bone, the plane of a cheek. The blue of her eyes flickering with golds, and red hair brilliant as autumnal colors.

Something finds the willpower to pull my eyes away, down to my boots instead, then ambling around into the night. I abandon the journal, feeling too engulfed to attempt writing my thoughts and stow it beneath my leg. And so I go about sharpening my swords again; a useless endeavor, and I'm sure if I keep doing it, they'll turn into rapiers instead.

One long stroke follows another, the sound a soothing remedy alongside the crackle of the fire. The smell of metal and oil and woodsmoke make for an interesting concoction, but there's something else carried on a cool wind that I can't quite place. Rain, maybe.

The distraction only lasts until Leliana rises and steals back into her tent, reemerging a moment later with that worn cloak. She retakes her place and shuffles the cloak around herself.

And I can't help myself. "Cold?"

I don't look up, but I can feel her gaze, sharp as the sword I hold in my hand. "I was never one for cold weather," she answers.

A short huff leaves my lips as I hold up the sword in the firelight. "Being outdoors doesn't make it easier, I'd guess." Her laugh is melodic, enough that I find myself staring again, but this time she holds my gaze with a coy grin.

"I've grown too accustomed to sheltered life, it seems."

We share this overlong look, something unspoken smoldering in the short space between us. The spell breaks when she looks down, reopening her book and thumbing through the pages. My thoughts are left stumbling over one another for a moment longer before I look back to my hands. I let out a breath, trying to sound noncommittal. "Take it you didn't have much in the Chantry."

"You saw the things I had with me when I joined you at Lothering; I entered the cloister with just as much."

"Right. I guess it would be too much to ask the Chantry to give out luxuries like warm linens. Elaborate robes for the Revered Mothers, or a new statue to Andraste? High priority."

She lets out a laugh through her nose. "The Chantry certainly is not without its faults," she agrees.

Isn't that the understatement of the Age?

There were times in which Chantry initiates would float their way into the alienage. Most often it was to conduct a wedding. Other times they'd grace us at a funeral pyre and chant verses for the dead.

Transfigurations. Find me well within Your grace, they would sing as the pyres rose; Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval.

Andraste burned at Minrathous, the Chantry taught, born again in flames, risen to an elevated existence at the Maker's side.

A faith that did nothing for the alienage was often the only thing one had in life. Believe in the Maker, follow the Chant; live a life in worship, and perhaps in death, you will burn as Andraste did, and sit by the Maker's side.

In death, their faith meant nothing. Fire could not burn away the hardships of the alienage anymore than faith and prayer could stop the squalor, the killings, the rapes. The Chantry had placed us there, quartered away behind ghastly walls, and told to keep to the faith.

And many people did just that.

One stroke of the blade, and then another, the scrape of metal cathartic in its rhythm. "So what was someone like you doing in the Chantry?"

She lets out an airy laugh; my eyes flick up to her. "What is meant by 'someone like me?'"

My heart stutters, focus fractures, and the sword threatens to slip against the whetstone. I lower my eyes. "You know, someone…"

Beautiful. Charming; disarming.

"Worldly," I finally settle. I steal a glance to where she watches me curiously. "Most of the Chantry folk I've run across seem quieter than you."

"You think that everyone in the Chantry grew up there?" A smile plays at the corners of her lips. "I was amongst the quieter minstrels from Orlais, you know."

"Somehow," I say slowly, grating the word against the stone, "I don't think I believe you. You? You're something else entirely."

"Really?" Her book thumps closed and gets stowed away. That one word, spoken with perfect inflection, commands me like a siren's call. Flecks of gold flicker in her eyes, hooded and brimmed with roguery. Her lips form into a vulpine grin. My heart catches, my stomach burns , my body feels incandescent, roiling against an acute hunger. Then in a heady Orlesian drawl, she asks, "What am I, then?"

The blade slips, leather rips, and my flesh gets sundered. It's only when a look of concern crosses Leliana's features do I notice the stinging in my hand, and I look down to find red seeping through a newly created fissure. "Oh. Shit."

"Let me see." She moves closer and has my hand, twisting the glove off, before I can fully process what's happening. She tilts my wrist towards the firelight, bent to examine. "It doesn't look so bad," she informs me. I'm too busy trying to calm my heart to reply. "Your glove took most of it. You're lucky."

"Ruined my glove though," I reply, the words scraping against my throat.

She stands, gently tugging me up. "I'll fix it for you."

"The glove? Or my hand?"

She laughs, but the mirth is short-lived as she looks around the camp. "Our supplies are with Bodahn's cart, aren't they?"

"Think so, and he was still parked at the market, last I saw."

She huffs, then drags me toward her tent. "I should still have bandages in my pack."

She pulls me into her tent, rummaging through her pack while I stand there and try not to bleed everywhere. The space is empty, unmade, her things sitting out but not placed. I don't know why, but I expected it to be…luxurious. Or, as luxurious as one could get, sleeping in a tent, I suppose.

She stands a while later and ushers me back into the light. She quickly sets about dressing my glorified wound, brow creased in concentration and she fumbles with the cork to an antiseptic. And I can't help but feel a swell of adoration in my chest, replacing everything else.

"Leliana." I take the bottle from her with my good hand, freeing her from some spell, and she looks at me with an expression somewhere between worry and ire. "It's okay. I can do this."

Slowly, her features soften into a look akin to defeat, but she retakes the bottle from me and finally undoes it, spilling its contents across my palm. I hiss in protest. "I feel like this is partly my fault," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"It's not, but—"

"And I want to."

A genuine curiosity takes hold, brow knitting at the way she avoids my eyes when moments before she was content to enrapture me. "Why?"

"You helped me. I want to return the favor," she says, slowly unfurling a roll of bandages. And then she says something that sobers my heart: "We are friends, yes? Friends help one another."

Friends. That word. One I've used to flippantly describe what she is to me around others, and even to myself.

When I was young, maybe seven or eight, I got it in my head that I wanted to learn to swim after watching the gulls fishing in Denerim's harbor. Except it was the dead of winter, the water was glacial, and the winds were merciless. I remember looking down on myself through a kaleidoscope of water, feeling completely in despair and helpless as the darkness swallowed me.

That's about how I feel right now, except there's no one that can yank me from the depths of this revelation.

My expression slowly falls flat. "Yeah. Of course."

A minute passes in silence as she dresses the wound. "You wanted to know why I came to the Chantry," she finally says.

"You don't have to tell me if—"

"I trust you." The confession smacks me like a thunderclap, and I blink. Her eyes flick up, searching as if expectant, before darting away again. "I did things that…that I am not quite proud of, let's say. I sought refuge in a Chantry in Valance, on the northern stretch of Orlais." She makes one last round with the bandage before securing it. But even then, she does not let me go, does not meet my eyes. "I found solace there, but I could not stay."

"So you came to Ferelden," I finish for her. Leliana looks up at last, lips in a line. "In 9:24, right?"

The corners of her lips twitch, eyes brimming with the realization that I had done more than simply carry her book around. "It seems like a lifetime ago now," she admits, wistful. "I wonder if I'd recognize the girl I was then."

"Can't say I blame you. Six years is a long time." She lets out a small laugh. I can't help a half-smile, feeling some of the tension fall from my shoulders. Which is nice, given the two-pronged fork of confession-lightning that has left me confused and unsure, and a little less than hopeful.

"I found myself in Lothering, sheltering from a storm," Leliana explains. Her voice softens as she speaks, eyes lowering to where she still holds my bandaged hand. Her thumb stutters against the cloth, and I hate that it's there to stop her. "When the storm passed, I simply did not wish to leave."

A long moment passes in which we do not speak; I can't, choking on words as my brain tumbles end over end on what to say, how to feel. She looks up, a question dancing on her features. I feel like I'm on the precipice between what I want and what I can't have, reminiscent almost of that nightmare in which I stood upon a cliff of darkness. I decide, ultimately, to teeter just on the edge, so that I might feel the thrill of falling with my feet still on the ground.

My hand turns over in hers, fingers gripping lightly, and I draw myself a step closer. The vulnerability I feel beneath her surprised gaze, locked in the short distance separating us, feels tantamount to the weight of the world pressing down on me. We remain fixed in this uncertainty so long that I feel like I've made a mistake until her fingers tighten, and my heart lurches with a painful swallow. My thumb presses over the heel of her hand, once; twice. "So why did you leave?"

The question is intended to be double-edged, and if the way her eyes waver and head slowly tilts is an indicator, she understands its meaning. She watches, her eyes roam. Her lips part. Close again. Her thumb passes against my skin, fingers squeezing one last time, and she whispers, "I had to," before slipping from my grip and putting a step between us.

It's hard not to feel the way the earth suddenly caves beneath my feet. Another breath passes, fraught and anxious; my fingers interlock at my front, unsure what else to do.

"I'm going to head off to bed. Long day tomorrow," I finally manage, proud that the words are not brittle. I lift my injured hand. "Thanks for this." A fleeting smile is the only answer I receive, returned in kind.

Head ducked, I retrieve my things and retire, flinging my armor off without much care where it lands. My bedclothes scatter into a pile, and I fall into them, where I wallow for what feels like nights on end.

I don't understand why I feel this way, or even what it is. Dejection? Disappointment? This is what I wanted, isn't it?

Maybe I'd been wrong. Maybe I was wrong the entire time.

'I had to,' she said. Layered with meaning, the words haunt for endless hours. Her expression, the mask coming back. 'You can't know me,' it said. 'Dangerous; stay away.'

My other hand marks a course over my bandaged one, pretending the texture of the cloth is something else.

She's a friend, I tell myself. She trusts me.

The night does not claim me as quickly as I hoped. Eventually, after several bouts of waking, I decide I've had enough and rise from my tent early.

The dawn has just barely broken, the sky grey and fog rolling in off the lake. I don't expect anyone to be awake at this hour, but surprisingly, the fire is still going. Just as surprising is that Morrigan sits huddled beside it.

We share a questioning look from across the fire as I go about my business. I sit a safe distance from her, pitching more kindling into the fire before pouring myself a drink.

"What happened to your hand?"

My eyes cut up in a half-glare, finding her expression placid.

"Had an accident."

"An accident," she repeats accusingly. "Really."

"Really," I sneer back, taking a long drink. Golden eyes, reduced to slits, hold mine captive for a long breath until I relent, looking back to the fire.

She gets up a moment later, crosses the distance between us, and snatches my injured hand by the wrist. I hiss and flail in her grip, snarling out a quiet, "What the fuck are you doing?"

Morrigan pivots my wrist, observing, then, "This looks far too clean and neatly done for you to have done it yourself." She lifts her other hand, and her index finger changes into a talon. "Almost as though 'twas done out of love, " she spits. "Disgusting."

"What does love have to do with it?" The talon hooks beneath the cloth, its weight and sharp point threatening against my palm, and then the bandage blossoms open to reveal an angry red line.

"Love is a weakness," she declares. The talon recedes with a sickening crack of bone and sinew. "It is a cancer that grows and makes one do foolish things. It is death, and you would be wise to avoid it."

I try to yank my wrist away, but she holds me firm, her eyes narrowing. "I'm not in love! Stop insisting that I am!"

"Who are you trying to fool: me, or yourself?" That same finger emanates a violet glow, and the crackle of magic stings against my skin. She runs her finger over the wound on my hand, a searing sensation following. When she lets me go, the fissure is closed, and a faint pink line is its only reminder. I level a glare back up at her.

"You are hopeless," she says, and stalks off to her tent.