A/N: Alistair is such an emo bitch. x3 The rating will go up in the next chapter, dreams are potent things. Hehe.

The elf had wasted no time, they fled the tavern or brothel, whichever term tickled whomever's fancy. Alistair tightened the cloak around his body, thinner than during the blight, his hair long and trickling near his beard. Even though the harsh winter winds pushed them, they pushed on. They had two horses, big brutes. One – Zevrans—had rolls with tents on it's rear, food and money pouches dangling carefully, the other was saddled with the same holders, but Alistair had no such possessions. "I hope you brought two tents, I'd rather sleep on the ground in the snow than with you."

The elf seemed to have lightened a bit, a grin flashing over his features as he pulled his hood up, "Aye, friend. I brought a second tent, I am not as foolish as you'd believe, plus, these had been prepared for when the Wardens came looking for you."

From then on, Alistair was quiet, at least that day. It was hard to cope. Even through the snow, the sun was blinding and burning him through the thick layers he wore. That warmth he welcomed, even though it brought throbbing to his head. They travelled towards the shared border of Ferelden and Orlais, covering a good amount of land. Alistair vaguely wondered why they hadn't bought horses during the Blight. It would have been so much simpler.

The thoughts of the Blight made his mind wander as the two travelled along. He remembered their first meeting:

"Get out of my way, fool!"

Alistair turned towards where the newest figure stood, short—probably Elven by the looks of it—and made a witty comment: "Isn't it wonderful how the Blight brings people together?"

"Oh, indubitably so," the figure returned, the pale skin that showed from under it's hood twisted into a smile. The voice was rather light, a little high even. Most definitely an elf.

"You know, we haven't had many Elves in the Wardens."

"And?" Was it's simple reply, the hooded figure tilting it's head.

Alistair was shocked for a second, before the figure started to laugh. Muttering an apology and lowering it's—her—hood. Strawberry blond tresses were tied into a loose bun at the base of her neck, her skin a smooth ivory, a soft yet strong jaw, full thick lips pink with cold, a small button nose and large white-blue eyes. "M-my apologizes, M'Lady—"

"Oh dear Maker, not this bull again, really, call me Emily. You can even call me 'hey you', just not 'lady'." Though the woman was smiling at him, he could see the flicker of a deep sadness in her eyes. It was quickly smothered as she allowed her grin to widen, "I take it you are Alistair, Duncan spoke of you."

"I hope he didn't say anything bad," it was meant as a joke, but to Alistair's own ears it seemed more earnest.

She seemed to catch the joke—he liked her, "Oh not too many things. He mentioned something about cheese, what can I say, I'm intrigued, cheese is a personal favourite."

If his smile got any wider his face would explode, he liked her all the more now, "Well, we should get a move on, Duncan is probably waiting, I promise to share my secret stash of cheese with you later, though."

"Deal!"

A soft sigh left chilled lips as the memory slipped away like a leaf between fingers on a windy day. His once shimmering golden eyes flickered to the elf, who was getting himself down from his horse, motioning for Alistair to do the same. "Tonight we shall camp here, we are not a half day's ride from the border. Then we must cross Ferelden, does it ring of old times, friend?"

Alistair was never as dumb as he let on, he knew Zevran knew this. The assassin was stretching out a figurative hand to the man, wanting to made amends, help him. The thought of reconnecting the friendship was indeed temping, he could not lie. But her words rung in his minds, making his chest close down on itself.

"I hereby conscript Loghain Mac Tir into the Grey Wardens."

A snort issued forth from Alistair, "I don't think any of you have right to call me friend." Even in himself he flinched. Zevran sighed, but Alistair knew the sneaky elf would not give up that easily.

The elf continued to speak though, of 'old times' travelling across Ferelden, he seemed to bring her up more than he should have. The got their tents up, and the bastard was tempted to just head straight into the thin confines of the tent. Instead, the smell of the stew Zevran was concocting allured him to stay. When he settled down, he sat across the fire from Zevran, trying to soak up details.

The man was different than he remembered, there were more lines on his face, his grins were less lurid and less frequent. But his chatter was much the same, though; it seemed his accent was even failing slightly. As he stirred the pot, he began to explain the past few months, had it really been nearly a year? Alistair had to snap back to hear his words: "So when I returned from Antiva, she and the dwarf had drunk themselves into a haze, the pair of them were singing some song about dwarven women, if I do remember correctly. Then this mage tripped onto the Warden and they all burst into laughter, though, she did not seem all happy. I made my presence known to them then, with all their weapons out, Emily did that walk, you know the one, where she sways her hips with her hands resting on her rear? Oh yes, all the way over to me, before passing out on me."

The Antivian chuckled, "thankfully for me, the Dwarf recognized me through his drunken stupor, and called the Howe off—"

"What?!" Alistair was bewildered by the last name.

"So you have been listening… hrm yes. She seemed to have taken in the eldest Howe, Nathaniel was his name? Quiet brooding type, that one. Then there is Anders, he actually reminds me of you," Finally that lurid grin returned, "except with less muscle and more magic. Then there is Oghren, you remember him. He's a Warden now. There were those other ones, Sigrun a Legionnaire; if only she were human… then the bitter elf, Velanna. And… an undead named Justice. And that's only the Ferelden Wardens."

Alistair felt Zevran's gaze, knowing he must look incredibly silly with that expression.

"Oh, and Lieutenant Tucker. He is her second, your second, when we get there. Now eat."

Being the same Alistair he'd always been, trying to absorb too much, he wandered back into his tent after his full of stew, nearly three times more than Zevran ate. Why was there such a lack of description on this Tucker person? Alistair wondered this as he fell into his first sober drink since the Landsmeet.