Ask the Lonely

Part 1 - Alone

Alone in my tent, I decided it was time to read the letter I'd received in Denerim. I'd recognized Sebastian's handwriting the instant I saw it, and I felt no urgency to hear anything he had to say. A couple of weeks had passed since I'd gotten it, and curiosity overcame reluctance. I pulled the letter from the pack and broke the wax seal.

Brother Sebastian, as he called himself these days, apologized for his "sins" against me ("crimes" was a more fitting word), and asked me to join him at the chantry in Kirkwall where he was now living as a full-fledged brother. He went on and on about the wonderful Grand Cleric Elthina, and related how she'd agreed to counsel me and to accept me when I'd repented of my blasphemy. Since he'd left Starkhaven for good (where I was no longer welcome, thanks to his lies, let us not forget), we could finally be together and have that gloriously boring chaste marriage he wanted. He didn't word it quite like that, but since he remained bound to his precious chantry and his beloved Andraste, his meaning was clear.

After falsely accusing me of treason, sentencing me to death, then reversing himself and banishing me from my homeland without cause, did he really believe I would come crawling back to him? Did he think I was so needy and so desperate for affection that I would settle for a man I couldn't trust and confine myself to his hands-off marriage? And more, did he still think me a blasphemer who needed the approval of some grand cleric? For all the time we'd spent together, he didn't know me at all.

He made reference to the house I'd bought—the Amell Estate, if you recall. He'd run across Gamlin Amell who saw fit to blab my private business to him simply because he was a countryman of mine. (Gamlin visited the chantry? I would almost have found it more likely that the good brother had found Gamlin while visiting the brothel, were he not so smitten with a dead prophetess.) Sebastian informed me that we would live in a suite in Kirkwall's large chantry and had no need of a house. Awfully presumptuous of him, wouldn't you agree?

His condescending, imperious letter did nothing but stir up the pain I'd buried. Fresh anger rose in me, and I detested the feel of it. I crumpled the pages, stepped outside my tent, and tossed them into the campfire. Several pairs of eyes were on me, but I didn't look at anyone. In my current mood I needed to be alone long enough to get my rage under control. The letter was confirmation that my past life was over and what life I had left was here. Ferelden was my home, and my companions were the closest thing I had to a family.

Well, some of them were. Alistair and Aiden, mostly. Aiden was like a big brother who showed his affection by picking on me to see if he could get me riled. He was pretty good at finding what annoyed me, I'll admit. It was all in good fun, but the man had a gift for irritation.

Alistair, on the other hand, was more like... I wasn't quite sure, but we had grown closer in recent weeks. He was especially touched when I gave him the locket I'd found in Arl Eamon's study. He recognized it immediately as his mother's, and he thanked me profusely. I was happy to have been the one to find it, if for no other reason but to witness his reaction.

Though he never let on, I believed he was lonely. He'd been ignored by his father, orphaned as an infant, denied by his half-brother, and finally pushed out of the only home he knew by the hateful Isolde. His humor, I was sure, masked deep wounds made by people he'd trusted when he was younger. Because of that, I felt protective toward him. There was nothing romantic between us, but we could usually be found together during our waking hours. Rumors flew, of course, but they were without substance. We were just close friends. (That's what I kept telling myself.)

Alistair, Aiden, Leliana, and Zevran watched Winter throw a wad of vellum into the campfire. By the stone-set of her countenance, they knew she was angry. Beyond angry. She didn't look up or speak to anyone, but ducked back in her tent for a moment, then reemerged and set off in the direction of the waterfall, making as if she were going for a bath.

"That's a good strategy to keep others away," Aiden remarked to Alistair. "She's already had one bath today, so I think it's safe to assume she's avoiding us. No one would dare approach her when she's in a mood anyway. I know I wouldn't." He added with a mischievous grin, "If you want to go check on her, though, I'm sure you could find a way to calm her down."

Alistair agreed absently, not catching Aiden's innuendo. He was busy trying not to get his hair singed off while he tried to retrieve the papers from the fire. The edges of the vellum were beginning to burn and if he didn't hurry, it would be consumed. He snatched up a stick and pushed the papers from the fire, then reached in with a quick motion, like a snake's strike, and snagged the crumpled paper with two fingers, receiving a mild burn for his troubles.

"Nosy," Aiden chided him.

"Right, like you aren't curious," Alistair answered dryly. "I recall it was you who wanted to know more about her past."

"And you don't? So what are you waiting for? Let's read it."

Zevran spoke up in her defense. "One should not take it upon themselves to pry into another's personal affairs. If you have questions, why don't you simply ask her?" Leliana was like his echo, voicing the same objection to the other wardens' curiosity and their digging into Winter's belongings, discarded or not, without her consent.

"Thanks for your unasked-for advice," Alistair said. "This is on me, and if she learns of it and gets angry, she can be angry with me. I'll be sure to tell her, before she rips my head off, that the two of you did your best to stop me."

"Read the letter," Aiden prompted again. Leliana and Zev's objections were just noise to him.

Alistair refused. "I'm going to hang on to it for a while. I may or may not read it, but if I do, I won't be sharing its contents with anyone."

They bickered over the letter until Alistair and Aiden were so upset with each other that each went to his own tent to sulk. Zevran took the opportunity to shmooze Leliana, who was flattered by his attention. Until he, believing her a willing target, openly propositioned her. She took offense and went to her tent as well, leaving him outside alone. He shrugged off her rebuff. He'd been refused more times than he'd been accepted, but there was always someone else willing to have sex with him. In his present state of confinement, though, he might have a challenge finding partners. Ever the optimist, he was willing to bide his time. One of the lovely ladies in the camp would eventually succumb to his charm. Maybe, if his lucky streak held, he would eventually bed them all, and the handsome Aiden, too.

Alistair debated whether or not to read the letter. His curiosity was killing him, but he didn't want to cross Winter or lose her trust. Still, as their leader, she should be a little forthcoming about who and what she was before she became a Grey Warden. After all, he had been open with her. Well, not at first, but now she knew his lineage, which was his deep dark secret. What was hers? Why was she so distant, even now that they'd become close?

He pulled at the edges of the papers, smoothed them out, then laid them aside. No, he couldn't. Could he? It wasn't right to pry. She'd probably never speak to him again if she knew he had her letter. But he worried about her. No, that wasn't all of it. He had begun to care for her as more than a friend. She might never feel anything for him, but his growing affection for her wasn't something he could stop and start at will. He cared. And because he cared, he ought to know…

"Sod it," he muttered, and grabbed the papers. It was expensive vellum, not the cheap kind of parchment he usually saw. Whoever wrote this letter had wealth. Only nobles wasted good coin on writing paper. His inner battle raged—curiosity against honor—but he read anyway. When he'd finished, he was more curious than before. This "Brother Sebastian" referred to a chantry, but Winter wasn't the chantry type. They were evidently betrothed at one time…

This must be the person the Guardian referred to!

He read the letter again, keeping in mind the question the spirit had asked of her. Now the Guardian's remarks, and the letter, made more sense. It was far from the full story, but he could see why she kept everyone at a distance. This man must have wounded her badly. Not in the physical sense. She could take that kind of pain as well as any man, and better than some. This bastard had broken her heart.

He lay down and pondered what he'd just learned about his companion, and the unanswered questions that nagged at him. Why would she become involved with a chantry brother in the first place? From initiates to the Divine, including templars, all were pledged to the Maker and Andraste. Taking vows was the final step to seal their commitment. The man referred to marriage so maybe he hadn't taken his vows. Maybe he wavered in his decision to devote his life to religious service. But why did he call himself 'brother'? That title wasn't earned until one had taken their vows.

Even if the chantry would permit this marriage—which it wouldn't—why straddle two worlds? Brother Sebastian had to know that the chantry forbade sex (as Alistair was achingly aware). Every person who served was required to remain chaste, with or without vows. So again, why would Winter become involved with a man who couldn't give himself to her emotionally or physically? She was a level-headed woman. She had to know how such a relationship would end.

His thoughts went round and round like a dog chasing its tail, a pointless pursuit that yielded no satisfaction. He was pulled from the brink of driving himself mad by the aroma of roasting meat. Food. That's what he needed to clear his head. He hadn't eaten all day, and someone had kindly taken his turn making dinner, since he'd been so wrapped up in his snooping that he'd forgotten. He rose and went to lend a hand to the cook. It was the least he could do after nearly starving his companions with his neglect of duty.

Leliana was turning the spit, roasting the last of the deer Aiden had killed the previous morning. Winter was sitting cross-legged near the fire, gazing into it. Alistair noted how beautiful she looked in the firelight. She was always beautiful, but this evening she was exceptionally so. She wasn't angry as she'd been earlier. Her flawless face was serene. She glanced up at him and gave him a slight smile of acknowledgement, and her green gemstone eyes captured a bit of the flame and cast it back at him.

Beautiful? What an understatement! She's magnificent.

"Maker's breath, but…" he began, and stopped before he could say something stupid. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for the rest of his comment. "Makers breath, but you're too close to the fire. I was afraid you'd combust before my eyes. By the way, how's your arm? Wynne healed it, am I right?" he babbled. That's it, change the subject. Throw her off the scent.

"Good as new," she said, raising her elbow and showing the pale, thin pink scar on her upper arm.

"Well, I suppose it's too late to give you a get-well gift." He'd wanted to give her the rose as soon as he'd found it, but there was never a good time. This probably wasn't great timing either, but the rose was wilting and he wanted her to have it before it was a dried-out stem.

"Is it ever the wrong time for gifts?" she countered.

He crouched beside her and produced the rose. When he'd picked it, it was ready to bloom, more vivid in color than her lips but not nearly as appealing to behold.

Get hold of yourself, Alistair. She's as likely to throw it in the fire as accept it.

Her face brightened when she saw the flower. "Wherever did you find this? It's lovely."

"Can you keep a secret?" he asked, sotto voce. She nodded solemnly. "I stole it from Arl Eamon's gardens. Risked life and limb to get it, too. His garden guards are vigilant fellows." That was partly true. It had come from Eamon's gardens, but the guards despised Isolde so much that he could have uprooted the entire bush—imported from Orlais on her orders—for all they cared.

"I won't breathe a word," she said, playing along. "Thank you for risking all for my gift. I'll treasure it." She brought it to her face, closed her eyes, and took in the scent that still lingered on the blossom. When she opened her eyes he was still watching her.

"Something else on your mind?" she queried.

He'd been caught ogling. What to say now? Yes, of course. "I've been wanting to talk to you about what happened at Redcliffe Castle," he said.

Her smile faded. "I know. It was callous of me to break the news about Isolde to Arl Eamon right after he woke from a coma. I just couldn't see how waiting would benefit…"

"Stop," Alistair interrupted. "That's not what I wanted to say. I think you did a marvelous thing by saving Connor, finding the ashes that healed Arl Eamon, and uncovering the conspiracy against him. You've done so much good. Those people were strangers to you, but Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan are practically family to me. I wanted to thank you."

She flushed, which was something Alistair never though he would see her do. "I did what anyone would have done," she said. "Nothing extraordinary."

"Nonsense. You did what nobody else could or was willing to do. You saved the life of a good man, and maybe the only one respected enough in the landsmeet to deal with Loghain."

She agreed, "Yes. It was well worth our effort, wasn't it?" Her brow furrowed. "I thought magic was an hereditary trait. If Connor is a mage, how did he get his magic? Certainly not from the arl, I'd wager."

"Teagan and Eamon are looking into Isolde's family background. They're convinced Isolde was an untutored apostate or that one of her parents was a practicing mage in Orlais. No evidence yet, but that's where they believe Connor got his… talent."

"Pity," Winter said, gazing into the fire again. "So much deception, and for what? Selfishness, pride, wealth, power? Is it ever worth the price?"

Alistair knew she wasn't thinking of Eamon's family any more, but of the man who'd betrayed her. There was a lot more to her story than he'd gleaned from the letter. "No, it's not worth the price," he answered. "Not when it costs you everything dear."

Winter got to her feet, asked him to tell the others to have dinner without her, and excused herself. She went to her tent and secured the flap.

"You never know when to stop talking, do you?" Alistair berated himself under his breath.

Aiden appeared beside him. "What did it say?" he whispered. "What was in the letter?"

"Nothing," Alistair replied. "It was just a letter. Nothing important or revealing."

Aiden snorted. "Sure, now tell me the one about the unicorn and the mermaid."

"It was nothing," Alistair repeated in a firmer tone.

Aiden held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, fine, so it was nothing. Keep your little secrets if you want. You don't have to be an ass about it."

"I think I hear Morrigan calling you," Alistair sneered.

"Jealous?"

"Nauseous."

Winter's voice floated out to them from her tent. "Enough, children. Mum is trying to sleep."

Aiden grinned, turned to Alistair to offer an apology, and noticed the sappy, adoring look on his friend's face. "Well, someone's got a great big sloppy crush on the boss lady," he said as quietly as he could, while still managing to turn it into a stinging taunt. Alistair gave no reply. His silence was as good as a signed confession. "Good hunting," he finished, then dove into his dinner.

Part 2 – More Than a Feeling

Zevran moved his tent between Leliana's and mine—not surprisingly, since he was an insatiable womanizer. I'd heard he had tried to lure Aiden into his tent for a massage. Aiden was horrified, and after he set Zev straight—that he was a ladies' man only—he avoided the "creepy little elf". Alistair and I went out of our way to tease Aiden about it. We liked to watch a grown man shudder like a little girl, and it was a chance to get payback for all the razzing and pranks Aiden pulled on us.

We spent two rest days in camp to gather our strength before setting out to find the Dalish and the dwarves. I made the rounds of the camp trying to get to know Morrigan, Zevran, and Sten better. Morrigan was as hard to get to know as was Shale, but once I gave her the grimoire I'd found in the tower, she dropped her defensiveness and sarcasm, and we developed a guarded friendship. Over time I'd come to know her as a highly intelligent, practical woman.

Zevran freely answered any question I had about his past as an assassin, and about his Dalish roots. He loved to talk about himself, and every one of his anecdotes contained a reference to his prowess in the bedroom. For all his experience with women, he hadn't figured out that the last thing a woman wants to hear are tales of all the women a man has bedded. He assumed I was jealous, but the truth was that I found the stories of his conquests distasteful. I steered the conversation to less personal topics, but he always found a way to bring it back around to sex.

"You're obviously Dalish, but you don't consider yourself Dalish?" I asked, hoping he wouldn't have a sex story to go with the answer.

"Not at all. I consider myself Antivan. My mother was a Dalish whore in Antiva. I do not know who my father was, but it appears he was also Dalish—an elf, to be sure. Anyone with enough coin to pay for my mother's services could have been my father. To answer your question, I have to say I do not think myself Dalish. They are forest-dwelling savages, content to live in simplicity and commune with nature. I am nothing like them. I fancy the finer things in life, not a squalid camp in the woods."

That's an improvement. Almost no reference to sex this time…

"Is that so? What kind of things do you fancy?" I regretted the words as soon as I'd spoken them.

"I fancy beauty, and danger, and above all, beautiful and dangerous women, like yourself."

"Let me be clear. Ours is a business arrangement. That's all it will ever be."

"I am sure I could change your mind, given the opportunity." His tone was sly and arrogant—two qualities I despised in a person. I liked Zev, but not his enormous ego.

"Stop right there," I said, thoroughly annoyed with him. "I don't want to hear any more of this. I'm interested in your experiences as an assassin, and I'm concerned about you as I am any other member of our group, but I am not interested in your sex life—past, present, or future."

I'd angered him with my bluntness, but that was his problem. He bid me a curt good night and went to his tent, even though it was mid afternoon. The thing with Zev was that he couldn't stay mad for more than a few minutes. I left him to work through his little tiff and get over it. He was a cheerful fellow by nature and an incurable optimist. Sure enough, he was back outside in no time, chatting amicably with whoever would listen, as if nothing had happened.

Sten admitted that I was a stronger leader than he'd originally thought. Earning the respect of a Qunari was no small accomplishment. He was a "born warrior" as he put it, and he'd seen few non-Qunari with any sense of honor, and no humans among them. Until he observed me.

We were to leave for the Bracilian Forest the following morning. I decided on a party of five—Alistair, Aiden, Zevran, Morrigan, and myself. Morrigan's magic and Aiden's bow skills would come in handy in the forest, and Zev being Dalish might be useful in gaining the elves' trust. Before I retired for the night, Alistair had a request.

"Can we talk for a moment?" he began.

"Uh-oh, is it secret-sharing time already?"

"Right. Very funny," he said without any real sarcasm. "What I wanted to ask you is this: we may be going to Denerim again soon, and if possible, I'd like to look someone up while we're there."

"I hadn't planned on going to the Bracilian by way of Denerim. It's a bit out of the way…"

He smirked, not finding my humor to his liking tonight. "I meant after we deal with the Dalish."

"Alright, what's going on with you? You have a friend outside the wardens, I take it?"

"Not a friend, and definitely not the kind of friend you're thinking," he said. (I wasn't thinking what he thought I might be thinking.) "I have a sister in Denerim. With the blight coming and all, I'd like to see her before… well, in case..."

"Of course, Alistair. We'll make time for you to see her no matter what we're doing," I answered. "Have you written to tell her you'll be visiting?"

"No, I don't know what to say to her. I never actually met her."

"Awkward," I remarked. "Yes, by all means, we can stop by and see her. You can visit her alone or I can come along for support if you'd like. Your choice."

"Thank you, Winter. I'd like you to be there when I meet her," he said, seemingly relieved to have it off his chest, or relieved that I hadn't refused. "You're a good friend. I don't tell you this nearly often enough, but I do appreciate you."

"Oh, stop with the schmoozing," I teased. "I already said we'd go, didn't I?"

"A little extra buttering up never hurts," he teased back.

I found it impossible not to like Alistair. He was a gentleman and never made crude remarks around me like Zevran did, or dropped not-too-subtle hints about my nonexistent love life as Aiden did. I enjoyed his company, his occasional and possibly accidental wisdom, and when he wasn't being positively absurd, his good humor. Even his cynical remarks were usually funny. He was kind-hearted to a fault. All in all, he was a fine man. One just had to get past his jokes to find the real Alistair. That was no easy feat. All of that, and he was easy on the eyes, too.

"You're very handsome, you know," I blurted out unintentionally.

"Do you think so? I've always thought myself the dashing but unattractive hero type. You know, with hideous facial scars and disfigurements," he answered, as if he had rehearsed the lines and been waiting for a chance to say them. "Horrible to look at, but so famous that women fall at my feet. You've seen them chasing after me, right?"

"It was a genuine compliment, Alistair. Must you ruin the moment?"

He answered, "I… I just didn't expect to hear it, especially from you."

"Oh? You think me incapable of recognizing an attractive man when I see one?"

"Far from it. You fawned over Bann Teagan so shamelessly that I was afraid I'd have to drag you away from Redcliffe by your hair."

"What rubbish!" I protested. Truth be told, Teagan was the first man I'd been drawn to since Sebastian. He was handsome, and he hadn't been shy about voicing his attraction to me. He impressed me with his compassion for others and his loyalty to family. To be honest, I hadn't seen a single negative quality in him. If I'd met him at another time, under better circumstances, and if he were a few years younger, maybe there could have been something more between us. But it was a moot point. Our brief, superficial relationship—if it could even be called such—wasn't going anywhere. We'd helped them when they needed aid, and when our work was done we moved on, as we always did, and would continue to do. The blight was our highest priority.

"Will you miss it?" Alistair broke my reverie with an odd question. "The fighting, I mean. When this is over and we've nothing to do, will you miss it?"

"In peace, vigilance," I quoted with a wry smile.

"I'm serious."

"Miss it, or miss you?" I asked, putting him on the spot to watch him squirm. It worked.

"Well, no, that's not what I meant. Anyway, you haven't answered. Will you miss the fighting? And since you brought it up, would you miss me? Would you remember who I was, or would I just be that irritating fellow you used to know but can't recall his name?"

I thought on it for a bit. "I do love a good, bloody battle," I sighed with exaggerated wistfulness.

"And still she won't answer me," he said in exasperation.

"Yes, Alistair, I would miss you if we had to part company. I don't see that happening. We haven't seen the full extent of the horde, but it was enough to obliterate thousands of soldiers in a few hours. We won't have nearly that number when we face them again. So if anything, I expect we will die together in battle."

"You certainly know how to cheer a fellow up."

"Don't mention it," I said, rising from my perch by the fire. "Good night. Early start tomorrow." I heard a muttered "Good night" from him as I entered my tent. It was late, I was tired, but my mind kept running over the events at Redcliffe. I'd become quite fond of the Guerrin brothers.

Who am I kidding? I was thinking of Alistair, and my growing attraction to him. Much of what I did for Eamon and Teagan was to please my fellow warden. It wasn't something I wanted to happen, but I was beginning to care deeply for him.

But with the blight coming, a romantic entanglement was just plain foolish.

For the first time since I left the Free Marches, I dropped my emotional guard and felt the sharp barbs of loneliness.

Part 3 – Torch Song

Eamon had little to say, and he hadn't mentioned Isolde's betrayal or her execution. Teagan was concerned for him. He'd just been through more trauma than any one person should have to handle in a few days. Or in a lifetime. And it came on the heels of a near-fatal illness.

"I appreciate all you've done, Teagan, but I don't need a babysitter. I'll be fine," Eamon said. "Go home and see to your bannorn. I'm sure your people have need of their bann after all the time you've been absent."

"Perhaps they do, but my steward is capable," Teagan replied. "I should stay a bit longer to make sure you're fully recovered. What if you need…"

"Thank you, truly, but I'll be fine on my own," Eamon interrupted. "I'm good as new, the poison is gone, and my health is better than ever. There's no need for you to worry about me." He went on in a more subdued tone, "I can't believe my wife was a traitor. The adultery is easier to accept. She made a fool of me. A pretty face, a much younger woman… I should have known better."

"No one knew or suspected her until the Grey Warden found her out," Teagen said. "You can't blame yourself."

Eamon sighed heavily. "I suppose I don't, deep down. The worst of it is that I'll have to send my son to the Circle. I'll never see him again. It's the right thing, it's best for him, but it's the hardest decision of my life, harder than when I sent Alistair away." He looked up at his brother with pained eyes. "Alistair was like a son to me, as you know. I failed him as I've failed Connor."

"The failure is not yours," Teagan insisted. "These are circumstances beyond your control. No one knew Isolde was an apostate. Her jealousy is what made you send Alistair away. She was threatened by the boy, and it was just as irrational as her possessiveness of me."

"Don't think I didn't notice that," Eamon scowled. "She denied it, but it was obvious even to the servants and townsfolk. I didn't suspect anything between you for a moment, for what it's worth. Not that she was trustworthy. But maybe the gossip will finally be buried with her."

Teagan didn't know what to say. Isolde's execution was only three days past. His brother had to be suffering greatly, but he wasn't ready to bare the fullness of his grief to anyone. He ventured, "If you'd allow me to stay one more night, I'd like to spend some time with Connor." Templars would be arriving in the morning to take his nephew to the tower.

"Of course you can stay," Eamon said. "I wasn't trying to run you off. By all means, let's give Connor some good memories to take with him to the Circle. He might even let you beat him at chess if you go to him with that pitiful look on your face."

Teagan lost to Connor, as usual. The boy was a prodigy. He'd rule the tower with his mastery of the game, assuming chess was allowed. He gave his nephew a bear hug, lifting him off the floor. It saddened him to know he'd never be able to hug him again. When the boy went to his suite, Eamon bid his brother good night and retired as well.

Teagan climbed the stairs to his guest suite, the room Eamon reserved just for him. It was at the end of a hall on the upper floor, and the door next to his led to a terrace overlooking the lake. He bypassed his suite and went to the terrace.

It was a moonless night. The lake below was inky black in the darkness. From the dim village fires and lamplight, he could make out a vague outline of the shore. He sat in one of the wrought iron chairs, hoping the brisk night air and the whisper of the waves would clear his head. His concern for Eamon and Connor wasn't the only thing keeping him at Redcliffe Castle.

He had memories of her here. Not memories of Isolde—Maker's blood, he couldn't forget that treacherous harlot soon enough—but memories of Winter, the beautiful, courageous Grey Warden. He was enthralled by her. Her outward beauty—breathtaking as it was—was but a reflection of her character. He had witnessed her indomitable spirit, her compassion, and her selflessness. Their brief exchange at the tavern would haunt his memory for as long as he lived. Now she was gone, and chances were he'd never see her again.

He thought himself the unluckiest of men. For almost twenty years he'd waited for the right woman to come into his life. When she finally did, she was out of his reach. He had convinced himself he was content as a single man, but now that he'd met her, his solitary life held no appeal.

He went to his suite and lay across the bed, not bothering to disrobe, hoping fatigue would calm his racing thoughts… but knowing sleep would elude him. After a couple of hours of miserable restlessness, he decided he couldn't stay in Redcliffe with the memories after all. He slipped out of the castle in the predawn hours, collected his horse from the stables, and rode to Rainesfere.

After greeting his steward and being brought up to date on the situation in the bannorn, he went to his study to write a letter. He'd been considering this for some months, but with the present disquiet in his emotions, he couldn't put it off any longer.

He'd been dating a widow in Denerim for the past four years. Theirs was both a friendly and a physical relationship. He and Adele Kendells, sister-in-law of the late Arl Urien Kendells, shared common interests in several areas, as well as a disdain for politics. During one of Teagan's infrequent visits to King Cailan's court, he met Adele and a friendship grew between them. They were lonely, and because neither was looking for marriage, it made sense that they draw comfort from each other. The arrangement had been pleasant in its way, without being confining.

As with any long term, non-romantic tryst, it had become unexciting. Not that Adele wasn't a fine, attractive woman. She would have no trouble finding another partner, if she hadn't already done so. If she had, Teagan was indifferent. He hadn't seen her since before the battle of Ostagar, and that was months past. Until he met Winter, he'd frankly forgotten all about Adele.

Being a gentleman, he felt it necessary that there be a formal end to their arrangement. He worded his letter kindly, wishing her well, but asking that she refrain from contacting him in the future. An unexpected shudder ran through him. For the first time, the idea of sleeping with her disgusted him.

"I think I'll omit that from the letter," he muttered to himself with a half-smile. He sealed it and gave it to his steward with instructions to have it delivered to Mrs. Kendells right away.

That done, he would start again with a clean slate. He would be no worse off without the occasional tumble. (Another shudder of revulsion hit him.) That he could think of it in such base terms bothered him.

It's because of her. I can't think of being with another woman. I've fallen for Winter, and while I know I'll never have her, I'd rather be alone than to entertain a cheap substitute for love.

Immediate business settled for the time being, he went to his suite to rest before plunging into his work. Maybe there, in the comfort of his manor and familiar surroundings, with his routine to keep him occupied, he would begin to forget her face, her voice, her laughter, and everything about her that made him long to be with her.

But he didn't truly believe she was forgettable.