She waited, wrapped in quilts on the big soft feather bed, writing in her journal. When she had first begun the journal, she had no idea it would become something that sounded like a bard's tale from the old legends. Charlotte had decided to leave it for Brother Genitivi, if he had successfully refugeed from Denerim. Someone would know their story if they fell fighting the archdemon.
At the back of this book, neatly pressed between two plain sheets of paper, was the rose Alistair had first given her when their flirtation first changed to true courtship. She wrote a few lines in the journal, and then flipped the pages back to look at the rose again, running her fingers gently over the dried petals. Charlotte smiled to herself as she recalled what he had said when he gave it to her. Her experience with templars had left a bad impression, until she met him. His jokes always made her laugh, even in the darkest moments.
And even now he was in bed with Morrigan... at her request. She pushed that image away from her with a grimace.
Then her thoughts wandered the first time he kissed her. She could call to mind perfectly the pressure of his lips on hers, his arms around her, and the hesitant touch of his tongue. The memory and its accompanying flush of warmth on her face made her think of the first time they had made love.
She snuggled lower in the bed as she remembered how nervous he was when he asked her to spend the night with him. Maker, how he had stammered, like he was actually worried she would say no! Closing her eyes, she recalled the tentative way he had undressed her, his surprise and delight at her pleasure at his touch, how willing he was to let her guide his hands on her body … and it had been so sweet. It was no less sweet after these months together than it was the first time.
The door to her room clicked open and she sat up quickly. The journal fell to the floor with a clunk. Alistair stepped inside, his normally healthy complexion pale and wan. He held his shirt crumpled in his hand, and as he dropped it to the floor, she noticed it was spotted with blood. He threw himself face down onto the bed beside her, groaning. His back was covered in cuts and bruises.
"Woman, I will follow you into the jaws of the archdemon, into any pit in the Deep Roads," he growled into the pillows, "but don't ever make me do anything like that again."
"Was it so bad?" Charlotte murmured as she reached for the pot of healing salve she had placed near the bed.
"Yes. No. Yes." He burrowed his head further into the pillows. "It was… a bodily function with no feeling behind it. I did it for us. Let's not talk about it anymore."
His hair was wet, plastered to his head. Water beaded on the taut muscles of his shoulders and the small of his back. Charlotte sat next to him and began smoothing the salve into the clawed furrows on his shoulder blades. She rubbed the tension from his back and he began to relax slowly, warmth and color returning to his chilled flesh.
"There. Turn over."
He rolled onto his back, wincing at the sting from the scratches, and folded his hands behind his head. There was a long, shallow cut high on his chest, and his ribs were badly bruised. She pulled her long shift up to her knees and threw her leg across him, straddling his hips, and was surprised to find hardness there. She looked up at him through her lashes and smiled a little.
"What?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "You can't expect to massage and pamper me without a bit of… excitement in return." He reached up and tangled his hand in her hair. "Besides, this is how I'd rather spend the night before we set off to assault a besieged city and try to save the world. Just in case, you know." He pulled her face down to his.
"Alistair," she said, leaning down to brush her lips along his chin, "we've come entirely too far to fail at this point.