Legam scanned the forest clearing, focusing all his senses on detecting any potential threats. Typical forest noises filled his ears – squirrels scurrying, leaves rustling, birds chirping. His eyes, green as the leaves surrounding him, observed only branches, brambles and small woodland creatures. He didn't sense any darkspawn nearby, either. Nodding confidently, the mage determined the area safe.
He turned to his comrades, "It appears safe. Let's break here." His friends sighed in unison, each finding a spot to settle. Legam himself plopped down on a nearby boulder. A bit too hard, in fact. The Grey Warden grumbled, rubbing his sore bottom. Once the pain subsided, he reached into his belt pouch, pulling out a folded piece of worn parchment.
Setting it in his lap, Legam spread the crinkled paper, revealing a detailed map of Ferelden, complete with personal notes and shortcuts. He leaned over it, studying the geography carefully. His russet finger traced their trail, dragging to a stop at their current location. He tapped the spot a few times, calculating how much ground they could cover before nightfall, and where they would break camp.
A soft wind blew through the trees, rustling the map. Legam scrambled, grabbing the edges tightly to prevent it from fluttering away. As the mage cursed the weather, the corner of his eyes caught a blur of white movement. He turned, tensed and prepared for combat if need be. Realizing the blur was just a cluster of flowers waving in the breeze, the mage allowed himself a self-depreciating chuckle.
Legam peered back at the flowers. His laughter died down, taking note of their shape. Curious, he folded the map back up and secured it inside his pouch. Leaning forward, he examined the flora more closely. Four large, curled white petals spread from the center of each wildflower. Red splashed against the center, seeping into the petals. Maker's Breath! These were Andraste's Grace!
The mage squatted down by the flowers, carefully touching the soft edges. Though Legam knew the flowers grew all over Ferelden, he'd never seen one in person before: Only detailed sketches in tomes back at the Circle. He inhaled deeply, taking in their sweet scent. Legam smiled, thinking of Leliana.
Granted, these days it didn't take much for his mind to settle on the Orlesian bard. Sometimes, even subjects as irrelevant as dwarven ale brought Leliana into his thoughts. The flowers, at least, were much more relevant in this case. He recalled a conversation with her – many, many months ago. It might have even occurred before the encounter with Marjolaine's assassins.
However far back, Legam remembered Leliana talking about the Orlesian noble who took her in as a young girl after her mother passed away. She spoke with great sadness, admitting her young age at the time left few memories of her parent. What she did recall was that her mother kept her homeland of Ferelden close to heart. The maid owned dried petals – taken from Andraste's Grace. Their scent was the only link Leliana had to her deceased kin, but they rarely grew in Orlais. Leliana hadn't seen one in years.
Legam frowned, knowing all too well the connection between scent and loved ones. Like most Circle mages, the templars came for him shortly after the first signs of magic manifested in him. Unlike most other mages, however, his parents did not give him up happily.
Immigrants from Rivain, his mother and father were not Andrastians. Instead, they believed in the Natural Order, and as such, their faith did not view magic as negatively as the Chantry did. They knew better than to fight against Ferelden law, however, and reluctantly turned over their eight year old son to the Circle.
For years, his mother kept up correspondence with him. Her letters always smelt faintly of cinnamon, like the incense she burned. By the time Legam reached adolescence, the letters stopped. He knew not why, but held his own suspicions.
Perhaps because he converted to the Chantry after being raised first on the Natural Order, Legam held a high tolerance for other religions. He knew most Fereldens did not, however… And he also knew many distrusted the Rivaini. Even as a child back in Denerim, he witnessed several occasions of persecution.
His mother's final letter mentioned several drunken men assaulting his father in a tavern one night. Though the guards broke up the fight before it escalated beyond fists, the hooligans harassed his father again on two other separate occasions, increasing in violence and threats each time. Legam remembered the tone of fear and concern in his mother's writing… When he never received letters from her again, his heart told him something dire happened, and likely related to the assaults.
Legam sighed. The pain subsided some with time, but he still preferred not to think back on the situation much. His original point, he supposed, was that the scent of cinnamon reminded him of his own mother, much like the connection between Andraste's Grace and Leliana.
He smiled, glancing over his shoulder to spot said bard sitting only a dozen feet away, facing away from him as she fixed a loose string on her lute. Her closeness never surprised him anymore: For the past two months, Leliana tended to walk and rest near him. Likely this habit made starting up their myriad conversations easier. A part of him hoped affection played a role as well, though he never asked.
Thoroughly smitten with the Orlesian, Legam had yet to gather the courage to admit his feelings. Instead, he remained content enjoying her company as a friend. As things currently stood, he'd rather not risk jeopardizing the close friendship if his feelings remained one-sided.
Legam turned back to the wildflowers, contemplating them. Still, romantic or friendly in nature, he doubted Leliana could reject a gift like this. Perhaps if he gauged her reaction, the mage could get a better understanding of where her feelings lay. If not, it was still a meaningful gift for a dear companion. That alone was enough for the Grey Warden. He reached out, plucking two flowers from their roots.
Leliana finished tightening the chord. Testing, she plucked the note a few times. Pleased with the result, the bard set aside the instrument, sensing a presence behind her. Already, a warm smile spread across her lips. She knew her leader by the shifting of his uneven steps, the ever so slight occasional wheeze in his breathing: results of a previous time spent mostly absorbed in books, unaccustomed to all the trekking and combat their current life required.
Rising from her seat, the bard turned to face Legam, still smiling widely. "I'm here for you. What do you need?" Leliana noted the mage's right arm remained behind his back while the other rubbed his neck nervously. He closed it into a fist, placing it before his mouth and clearing his throat.
"Well, I was just sitting around and…" Legam's words faltered. He started again, "You know how forests have nice things sometimes? Eh…" Again, coherence flittered away.
Leliana giggled, finding his bumbling endearing. She waved her hand, encouraging him on. Legam inhaled deeply, frustrated at his tongue's sudden ineptitude. "Oh, sod it…" he muttered, pulling the flowers out from hiding and thrusting them forward before the bard.
Leliana's eyebrows shot up towards her hairline, unable to hide her surprise. Bemused, she carefully placed her fingers around the stems, gently pulling the flowers out of his grasp. "Flowers? For me?" She gasped, touched. "Oh… they're beautiful."
Attempting to deflect his awkward feelings, Legam reverted to teasing mode. "So, do I get a kiss?" His eyes widened, realizing his slip. He didn't mean to say that! The Warden mentally cursed up a storm that would send Oghren away blushing.
Leliana appeared less taken aback. Instead, her lips curled into a warm smile that reached her eyes. "Just a small one."
Legam's stream of imagined vulgarities screeched to a halt. "Wh–" He felt her fingers press down on his shoulder, using it as support to raise her face to his. Leliana's lips brushed against his cheek in a chaste, appreciative kiss. Heat immediately flared in his face.
The bard released her hold, shrinking back down to her height. "There." Leliana smiled again, this time content – and perhaps a tad smug. She looked down at the gift in her hands. "And, thank you for the flowers."
His mind scrambled, trying to recover his ability to speak, to elaborate. He managed a sputtered, "Smell them."
Leliana tilted her head, confused. He didn't clarify but softly rubbed his cheek absentmindedly. She lowered her head, inhaling the scent. Realization struck, her eyes widened. "These were… These were her favorite…" Breathless, joy filled her breast as pleasant memories poured into her mind. "Oh, I haven't seen these in such a long time! They smell just like Mother used to."
Deeply touched, she found herself oddly at a loss for words. Finally, she breathed, "Thank you… Thank you so much for remembering."
He managed a, "You're welcome," before muttering something about maps and waving his hands haphazardly. Excusing himself, the mage stumbled back to his perch on the boulder.
Leliana sank back down on her own rock, sniffing the flowers once again. The thoughtfulness of his gift warmed her heart, rekindling feelings long ago forgotten. She sighed contently, glad to lose herself in the first completely blissful thoughts since she left Lothering. Perhaps the Blight wasn't the only reason the Maker nudged her away from the Chantry…