My undying love to Olndina for her awesome beta work on this (you can thank her for the fantastic opening line). And a big hug to FantasyFiend09 for being such a great ideas-bouncer.

Nathaniel knelt down on the ground next to Anders as he instructed the other man on proper tent erection, and, Maker, he's thankful he hadn't called it that. Anders would have had a field day! Working on the tent together brought Nathaniel far closer to the mage than he was comfortable with. He felt jumpy, on edge. Every time Anders' hand brushed against his, while they were stretching the canvas or adjusting the tent pegs, Nathaniel's skin tingled.

The third time he dropped a tent pole, he stood, no longer able to stand the closeness, making the excuse that Anders would learn more quickly if he did the work himself.

Nathaniel had expected a snarky comment from Anders, perhaps about Nathaniel's inability to get it up, but to his surprise, Anders actually looked relieved. Anders' abnormal behavior was unsettling, but now that he came to think about it, Anders hadn't flirted with him all day. Since the day they had met, Anders had taken every opportunity he could to get under Nathaniel's skin. Anders' restrained behavior was unprecedented, and Nathaniel wasn't exactly sure how he felt about this change in the mage's personality.

It had something to do with that woman, Rylock. Anders had been badly shaken by the incident, even though he seemed to have casually brushed it off afterward. Nathaniel would not soon forget the look of terror mixed with resignation on Anders' face as Rylock prepared to skewer him with her sword.

And, as he walked to the nearby creek to wash up for supper, his mind kept returning to last night. The sound of someone moaning had awakened him, and he had become instantly alert. Years of training forced him to remain motionless, to assess the danger before making any moves.

Just as he realized that the sound had come from Anders, he heard another moan, and there was no way in Thedas that the noise could be mistaken for distress. Before he could stop himself—and he honestly wasn't sure what he had expected to see—he had cracked his eyes open and looked over at the mage lying in the other bed.

Though Anders was under his covers, Nathaniel's now very wide opened eyes could very clearly see Anders' hand—and the pumping action it was making. Nathaniel's face flushed with heat as he realized the mage was pleasuring himself. He watched, hypnotized, as Anders' hand moved faster and a few quiet whimpers indicated how much the other man was enjoying himself.

Anders' free arm had been covering his face, but it hadn't done much to muffle the loud groan he emitted as his hips bucked upwards.

Nathaniel had lain awake for the rest of the night, his mind reeling from what he had seen—from what he had watched—for he had definitely been watching. He should have closed his eyes when he realized what was happening, turned his back on the sight and pretended not to know what Anders was doing, but he hadn't. Something, some uncontrollable force, had kept him from being able to turn away. He had been—

Nathaniel closed that door of thought immediately. He had been surprised, nothing more.

oOoOo

As they tucked into the rabbit stew Gideon had prepared, Nathaniel thought back to their encounter with Rylock. "What exactly are phylacteries?"

Anders paused in his eating. "They're vials of blood, mage blood. It's how the Templars find us." Nathaniel looked at him questioningly and Anders continued. "The first thing that happens to a mage when he arrives at the Tower of Magi is that the Templars collect a small sample of his blood and put it in a vial. Well, actually, the first thing they do is show you where the washroom is—because believe me, after a long boat ride across the lake, you're desperate to have a wee. Then they take a sample of your blood. If the mage ever escapes, they can perform some sort of ritual or something with the blood, and they can see exactly where the mage is."

Nathaniel's mouth dropped open in surprise. "You mean the Templars use . . . blood magic?"

Gideon chuckled mirthlessly. "The Chantry can be a tad bit hypocritical at times."

Anders nodded in agreement. "I don't know if it's blood magic, exactly, but it seems to be pretty close."

Nathaniel shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe they'd do that! All of their teachings—"

Anders cut him off. "We're mages. The Templars can do anything they want to us, so long as they keep us in check." His tone was bitter.

Nathaniel wanted to ask Anders more, but he wasn't quite sure he wanted the answers. Instead, he returned to his meal, contemplating the mage's words. He had been raised to be a devout Andrastian, had learned at a young age that mages were dangerous and that the Chantry and the Templars protected people from their wicked ways. To hear that the Templars would take such extreme measures to control mages was unsettling. He had always assumed the mages appreciated, or at least tolerated, the Chantry's control of them. But he realized now that that was a foolish and naïve thought. For the first time, he found himself wondering if perhaps mages really were treated unfairly.

Anders had persuaded the commander to procure a few bottles of brandy before leaving the inn that morning, and after supper was over Gideon suggested they all have a little "nightcap," which, given how many bottles of brandy the commander had purchased, Nathaniel suspected was a euphemism for "let's get piss drunk, and see who throws up first!"

"Antivan Brandy, huh?" Oghren scooted closer to the commander to read the label. "Never tried it myself—that sodding elf wouldn't let me have any of his."

Gideon smirked. "I can't imagine why not, a charmer such as yourself." He passed the bottle to Anders and faced the dwarf again. "I doubt you'd care much for this stuff, seeing as how you favor proof over taste. Which is why," he rummaged into his pack once again, "I got you this."

Oghren's eyes widened. "Is that Dragon Piss? Hot damn!" He grabbed the bottle out of Gideon's hand and pulled the cork out with his teeth.

Nathaniel looked at his commander bemusedly. "Dragon Piss?"

Gideon shrugged. "It's a figurative name." He seemed to think for a moment. "Probably."

"I bet," Anders said suddenly, "that I can finish off this entire bottle of brandy before you've even drunk half that bottle of piss."

Oghren guffawed. "Yer on!"

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" he directed the question to both of them.

"Don't worry," Gideon said. "I've got four more bottles of brandy, and I'm sure Oghren has other spirits hidden away somewhere."

"I wasn't worried about running out of alcohol," Nathaniel said dryly. "I just don't know that it's a good idea for a heavy-drinking dwarf and an inexperienced mage to have a drinking contest."

Anders looked affronted. "Who're you calling inexperienced?"

"I meant when it comes to drink. I doubt the Templars let mages have alcohol very often."

Anders shrugged. "That's true," he said grudgingly. His lips curved into a wicked grin. "All the more reason to do it." He raised his bottle in a toast. "Ready?" he asked Oghren.

The dwarf grunted. "Aye." He smacked his bottle against Anders' raised one before bringing it to his lips.

Nathaniel watched in a sort of horrified fascination as both man and dwarf began drinking from their bottles, the glug-glug sound of liquid ringing through the clearing. Gideon grinned at him and shrugged, as if to say what can we do?

He took a small sip from the bottle of brandy Gideon had offered him, not really interested in drinking, but not wanting to distance himself from his fellow Wardens. Several minutes passed as Nathaniel and Gideon drank from their own bottles and watched as Anders and Oghren continued their competition. The spirited guzzling didn't last very long—Anders wasn't an experienced enough drinker to have that kind of stamina, and Oghren's Dragon way too potent for it to be drunk like water.

Or at least he assumed it was, judging by the vapors that had wafted from the bottle after Oghren had removed the cork. Judging by the acrid smell wafting through the air, Nathaniel wouldn't have been surprised to know that it really was dragon's piss in the bottle.

Anders was doing his best—he wasn't drinking nearly as quickly as Oghren was, but he seemed to be holding his own, more or less. He had started wobbling a bit after his first few mouthfuls of brandy, and that wobble got more pronounced as the game continued. Nathaniel strongly suspected that the mage would be lying horizontal on the ground if the competition didn't end soon.

Oghren won, of course. He'd had more experience with drinking than the mage. Even so, he looked more than a little green as he wiped his mouth after finishing off his bottle of spirits. Anders' bottle was slightly more than half-full, which was actually impressive for a novice.

It was extremely obvious, however, that even that much brandy was too much for the mage. He was having extreme difficulty maintaining his balance, and his eyes had a slightly glazed cast to them as he stared about the clearing.

"My lips 'posed to feel numb?" he asked Gideon, his voice louder than normal.

Gideon shook his head, smiling. "Not usually, no."

Anders started chuckling quietly to himself as he tried to lean back against thin air. There was a heartbeat in which Nathaniel thought he was going to fall off the log and land on the ground, but Anders jerked and planted his feet, momentarily averting disaster.

"This is . . . this is . . ." he seemed to be thinking, staring at the bottle of brandy intently. "this is ver' good stuff." He nodded his head a few times. "Ver' good."

Oghren let out a huge belch and looked over at Nathaniel. "Yer not drinkin' very much."

Nathaniel grimaced. "I don't have much taste for drinking, I'm afraid. I spent too much time around my brother, Thomas, to find it very entertaining.

Oghren grinned. "Liked to have his fun, eh?"

Nathaniel shrugged. "He could find his fun almost anywhere." His lips twisted into a wry smile. "And then he'd vomit on your shoes."

Anders and Oghren both started roaring with laughter. Nathaniel blinked at them bemusedly.

"Thomas always was the more interesting one," Gideon grinned.

"Depends on your definition of 'interesting,' I suppose," Nathaniel replied.

The other two Wardens finally seemed to get themselves under control. Anders was hiccupping quietly, letting out the occasional quiet chuckle.

Oghren pulled the bottle of brandy from Nathaniel's hand. "Since yer not drinkin' this . . ." he took a large swig. "Can't let it go to waste." He grinned.

Nathaniel didn't bother protesting. Oghren's confiscation of the bottle gave him an excuse to quit drinking. It wasn't that he disliked drinking, not really. It was the loss of control that came with it. The alcohol dulled your senses, made you vulnerable . . . and it also made you do incredibly stupid things.

The four Wardens sat there for some time, enjoying the unusual camaraderie that had unexpectedly sprung up among them. Gideon and Oghren continued drinking with abandon, while Anders slowly nursed his first bottle of brandy. Nathaniel was content just to sit there, one ear cocked for any unusual noises. If they were ambushed by darkspawn, at least one of them would be alert enough to fight.

Eventually, Oghren's eyes started to droop. Along with the Dragon Piss, he had managed to polish off two more bottles of regular brandy by himself. "Welp, time fer me to hit the sack!"

"Wait, wait!" Anders staggered to his feet, a mischievous grin on his face. He swayed back and forth for a moment before finally gaining his equilibrium. "I'll walk you," he hiccupped, "I'll walk you to your tent."

Oghren scowled. "Don't even think about it, Sparklefingers. Yer not my type."

Gideon let out a snort of laughter. "As drunk as you are right now, I'd think even a bronto would be your type."

"Hardy, har, har," Oghren growled. "I'm goin' to bed. By myself!" he shouted at the drunken mage currently trying to sidle up to him.

Anders gave him an impish grin. "Suit yourself."

They all watched as the dwarf stomped off to his tent, grumbling to himself about man-skirt-wearing freaks.

Gideon looked at Anders, who was still standing. "You weren't really going to join him in his tent, were you?"

Anders snorted. "'Course not! I just like giving him a hard time."

Nathaniel looked up at the tall, lean man standing near him. Unbidden, the image of Anders completely naked sprang into his mind. He turned his head back toward the fire, hoping that no one would notice his burning cheeks. Why the hell did the mage have to sleep naked? And why did he feel the need to . . . take care of himself . . . when he was sharing a room with someone else? Curse him!

"Sit down, Mage," he said through gritted teeth, "before you hurt yourself."

"I'm just standing," Anders replied. "How could I possibly hurt myself?" As soon as the words were uttered, the mage seemed to finally lose his balance. He staggered backward and his legs hit the log sitting behind him. As he fell backward over the log, he pinwheeled his arms wildly and a bolt of lightning shot from his fingertips high into the sky.

"Aaand that's why mage's shouldn't get drunk," Gideon murmured.

"Maker's breath!" Nathaniel exclaimed.

The mage was splayed out on his back, staring up at the sky and giggling.

Slightly unnerved by the mage's lack of ability to control his magic, Nathaniel got up from his own seat and pulled him to his feet. "Are you all right?"

Anders continued chuckling as he sat back down on the log, using Nathaniel's arm to steady himself. "Sorry about that. Magic has a tendency to get a bit out of control if a mage lets his guard down. It can be a real problem during sex, having to explain to your partner why the bedroom curtains are suddenly on fire." He snorted with laughter.

Nathaniel shook his head, half amused and half horrorstruck at the idea of the mage casting a fireball whilst in the middle of having sex. And why was he even thinking about Anders having sex?

"So," Anders drawled. "Commander. How 'bout you tell us about that witch of yours?"

Nathaniel froze, casting a quick look at Gideon to see the man's reaction to Anders' indiscreet question.

Gideon cast the mage A Look. "We're Wardens, Anders, not a bunch of gossiping fishwives."

Anders pouted. "What's the good of getting drunk if we can't tell each other juicy secrets that we won't remember in the morning?"

Gideon actually laughed at that. "I'm not that drunk. And neither is Nathaniel."

"Pssh, don't worry about that—rogues are used to keeping secrets. Right, Nate?"

Nathaniel felt a tiny shiver run down his spine at Anders' use of his childhood nickname. Suddenly his mouth felt very dry, and he couldn't quite find his voice.

"Come on, tell us about her!" Anders cajoled. "Is she beautiful? I heard from some of the mages who saw her in the Tower that she has really big ti—"

"Anders!" Nathaniel cut him off. "Surprising as it may seem, there is actually more to a woman than her breasts."

Gideon smirked at him. "You would say that."

Nathaniel opened his mouth to ask Gideon what he meant by that, but he was interrupted by the mage.

"Just tell us about her, already! She's not really Flemeth's daughter is she? The Witch of the Wilds?"

Gideon nodded. "She is," he said quietly. His eyes stared into the fire crackling before them. "She's Flemeth's daughter, and she betrayed me. But, I loved her—still do, actually." He sighed. "The Grey Wardens keep a lot of secrets—I've already told you most of them. But there's one that I suppose you could call the 'father' of secrets. The biggest of them all." His eyes were focused intently on the flames. "You see, in order for the Archdemon to be killed, a Grey Warden has to die."

Nathaniel started in surprise. "What?"

"Near the end of the Blight, Alistair and I rescued a Grey Warden from Orlais." He grimaced. "We found him when we invaded your father's estate." Nathaniel looked away—he did not want to hear about that day, not from Gideon.

"His name was Riordan, and the night before the final battle in Denerim, he told us the truth about how Grey Wardens end the Blight. He said that the Archdemon is an 'empty, soulless vessel.' When an Archdemon is killed, its essence—or spirit, or whatever it is—jumps to the nearest darkspawn, who's then transformed into the Archdemon—making the bastard pretty much immortal. But if a Grey Warden is there, he or she will absorb that essence instead. I'm not entirely sure why, but it's something to do with the Taint in us."

Nathaniel shook his head in disbelief. "How could someone survive something like that?"

Gideon looked at him, his eyes almost dead. "They can't," his voice was flat. "The transference destroys the Archdemon—and the Warden."

"Then how come you're still alive?" Anders asked; the weighty conversation seemed to have sobered him up a bit.

"That's where Morrigan comes in." He paused for several moments, seemingly uncertain as to whether or not he should continue. "What I'm about to tell you can't ever be repeated. To anyone." He looked from Anders to Nathaniel. "If the other Wardens ever found out the truth about what happened, it could be very dangerous. At the very least, they'd try to hunt Morrigan down."

The two Wardens quickly reassured Gideon that his words would not be repeated to anyone, at least not by them.

"According to legend, Flemeth is the most powerful witch who ever lived, and I believe it. She told Morrigan about a ritual that, if performed on the eve of battle, would save the life of the Grey Warden who defeats the Archdemon. I don't really know how the specifics, and I don't want to know. But it basically boiled down to my needing to have sex with Morrigan."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Anders said, most likely trying to lighten the mood.

"No, it doesn't," Gideon agreed. "It wasn't as if we'd never had sex before. It was the result of that coupling that was hard . . . that was hard for me to deal with." He swallowed audibly. "You see, a child was conceived. And according to Morrigan, when I defeated the Archdemon its essence went into that child. If the child survived that, which I honestly don't know if it did, it has the soul of an Old God. And Maker only knows what the outcome of that will be.

"After I killed the Archdemon, Morrigan disappeared. I haven't seen or heard from her since then. And she told me not to go looking for her—just to leave her be. She wants to raise the child alone, away from everyone else. She has plans for it, I'm sure, but I've no idea what they are." That dead look had returned to his eyes. "But the worst part, the very worst, is that Morrigan had planned it from the beginning. It's why she came along with Alistair and me in the first place. It's probably why she seduced me. And now I'll never really know if she meant it: if she ever really, truly loved me, or if it was all an act.

"She gave me this." He held up his hand to show them a handsome ring made of dark wood, strange shapes and designs seeming to slide along its surface like oil on water. "We'd been together for a few months, and I'd fallen in love with her by then. I never told her, of course. I didn't want to scare her away." He smiled sadly. "Anyway, she told me that this ring was special. That through it she could find me no matter where I went, and she could come to me if I needed her."

He let out a bark of bitter laughter. "Not unlike phylacteries, now that I come to think of it. But I'd like to think that her intentions were better than the Templars'. I think that, to her, it was a symbol of how she felt for me. That I was important enough to her that she always wanted to be able to know where I am and what I'm doing. She said that the ring links her to me as much as it links me to her."

Nathaniel smiled to himself, thinking about the ring Delilah had given him as a child. "That's a nice sentiment."

Gideon scowled. "It's bullshit, is what it is," he said angrily. "The damned thing only works one way. She can find me whenever she wants . . . but I can't ever find her.

"I don't know where she is, or where my child is. I don't—" his voice cracked, "I don't even know if I have a son or daughter." He swiped at his eyes angrily. "I don't even know if either of them is still alive."

"Do you regret it?" Anders asked softly. "Doing the ritual?"

Gideon shook his head. "No, I don't regret doing it. But I do regret not going after her when I had the chance. It's been so long . . . I wouldn't even know where to find her."

A few minutes passed in complete silence before Gideon finally seemed to come back from the dark place that he had withdrawn to during the telling of his story. "It's late. Why don't you two get some sleep, and I'll take the first watch."

Nathaniel knew a dismissal when he heard one. He stood up. "You'll wake me for the second watch?" He nodded his head toward Anders, who was now staggering towards his tent. "I doubt he's in any shape to take lookout tonight."

Gideon nodded in agreement. "I'll wake you in a few hours."

Nathaniel wanted to say something more, something comforting. He wanted to tell Gideon that he understood pain and loss, that he understood what it felt like not to be sure if the person you loved had ever really loved you back. But he couldn't. The gulf between them was still too large—perhaps it always would be. Instead, he bade the man goodnight and headed to his own tent.

oOoOo

Nathaniel lay awake in his tent for a long time, thinking. He thought about Gideon's story, and how much it revealed about the man who was once just Fergus' annoying little brother, but was now Nathaniel's commander. After everything that had happened at Highever, for Gideon to give his heart to someone and then have her betray him . . . it must have been near unbearable.

But there was something else weighing on his mind as he tossed and turned in his bedroll, trying to fall asleep. As hard as he might try, he could not stop thinking about that damnable mage, and not only about what had happened in the middle of the night, but also about what had happened just before he'd turned in for bed—did he truly sleep naked all the time? Nathaniel replayed the image of the nude mage over and over in his head. His skin had been tan and smooth. He was thin, but not scrawny. Nathaniel had actually been surprised to see how muscular the mage was. He was neither bulky nor unsightly . . . in fact he was quite handsome. It was painful for Nathaniel to admit that to himself, but it was true. Anders was extremely handsome—and Nathaniel was attracted to him. And that absolutely terrified him.

Unbidden, a memory came to him: a summer when the Couslands had come to visit his family in Amaranthine, two years before Nathaniel was sent away to the Free Marches.

oOoOo

It had been an unbearably hot day, and he and Fergus had spent the entire morning together.

The sun had just reached its apex when the two noblemen parted ways—Fergus had agreed to meet his father at midday to practice his swordwork. Unlike Nathaniel's own father, Bryce Cousland was a warrior first and a Teyrn second.

He breathed a sigh of happiness when he walked into the coolness of the Keep's Great Hall. It felt like heaven to get away from the sun's harsh glare. His father was standing in the Hall, waiting for him. He beckoned for Nathaniel to follow him up to the sitting room that connected to his parents' bedroom.

Nathaniel felt a shiver of trepidation pass over him as his father shut the door firmly behind them. "Where have you been, Nathaniel?" Rendon asked quietly, his voice cold.

"I was with Fergus," Nathaniel said, bewildered. "We were in the training yard."

"No, you weren't. Bryce just returned from there. He was looking for his son." Rendon's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You and Fergus went somewhere else, didn't you?" Nathaniel's blood ran cold. He knew. He knew about Fergus and Nathaniel. Or he suspected, at least. But how? They were always so careful. But even the whiff of a rumor would be enough to catch his father's attention.

"We-we went riding after. U-up on the moors." Nathaniel backed away from his father, the fear in him rising as he watched Rendon pick up the belt that had been lying on top of the dresser. Idly, he tapped the belt against his hand—the snapping noise cutting through the silence.

"Where were you, Nathaniel?" Still flicking the belt, his father circled around behind him.

"I told you," Nathaniel's voice was shaky but defiant. "Fergus and I went riding—" He cried out as the first blow landed on his back, the force of it sending him to his knees.

"You dare lie to me?" Rendon's voice was filled with venom. He brought the belt down hard once more and Nathaniel felt a stinging sensation that surely meant the skin had been broken. Rendon growled as he snapped the belt across Nathaniel's back again, and again, and again. "I will not—" crack! "tolerate—" Crack! "lying!" CRACK!

Nathaniel grit his teeth, refusing to make any more noise. He would not show weakness.

"Where were you?" Rendon shouted.

Nathaniel shook his head, too afraid to say what he and Fergus had been doing. It would be far worse if his father knew the truth.

Rendon strode forward and grabbed hold of Nathaniel's shirt collar, dragging him to his feet. Nathaniel couldn't stop himself from cringing away from him. "W-we were r-riding," he sobbed. "I swear. I swear!" He prayed to the Maker that his father would believe him.

Rendon's eyes bore into Nathaniel's, as if trying to read his mind. He waited for the feel of the belt again, but instead his father released him.

"You had better not be lying to me, Nathaniel. You damn well better have been out riding. Because if I find out otherwise . . ." He didn't need to finish his sentence—Nathaniel knew what would happen.

He spent the rest of the day in his room, not speaking to anyone. Not even Fergus.

oOoOo

The adult Nathaniel lay on his bedroll, staring up at the roof of his tent. He wondered why that particular memory had come to him. It had not been the first lesson he had received at the end of his father's belt, and it had not been the last. Indeed, it hadn't even been the worst. But in the end, Nathaniel had learned the lesson his father had tried to teach him. He was a disgrace, wicked. His thoughts and desires, his lusts were disgusting and wrong. So, he forced those feelings down, hid them away until he'd finally been able to convince himself that he was no longer like that.

And then that damnable mage came along! With his easy charm, and his flirting. Nathaniel, who never opened up to anyone, found himself wanting to confide in Anders, to tell him things about himself that he'd never told anyone. But that would be foolishness. Anders would just laugh at him, like he always did. Better just to forget about him, ignore him completely.

It was a long time before he finally fell asleep.