Nights in the camp meant sharpening weapons, repairing armor, and, if they were lucky, sleep. Charlotte usually volunteered for the first watch, and no one argued. During these quiet times, she cut feathers to repair her arrows, crushed elfroot for health poultices, and wrote in her journal. The book was filling steadily as she added unembellished tales of their journey.

"Today," she wrote, "we killed three large ogres along the West Road, near where the Southron and Drakon Rivers fork, saving some caravanning folk who were on their way to Denerim. This was slightly after we single-handedly saved the Circle of Magi from abominations, during our fight against the most powerful Teryn general of the country. Oh yes, he's also regent to the crown." No one would ever believe this, she thought.

There was a rustle and creak from across the camp. Alistair emerged from his tent, stretching and yawning. He grabbed up his bundle of armor and came over to join her at the edge of the camp.

"It's not time for your watch yet."

"Isn't it? Well, I was awake anyway." He began pulling his chainmail over his head. "If you don't want the company, I'll go over there and leave you alone." There was a smile on his face as he buckled the strap for the pauldron across his chest.

"You know that isn't it," she replied. "I thought you could use some more rest. You seemed tired after the Tower."

"I'm fine." He sat down next to her on the log. "That was difficult for all of us."

Charlotte nodded, but stayed silent. She fanned the ink on the page to dry it before she closed the book. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. She still couldn't quite explain to herself the attraction she felt for him, but she wasn't sure if her feelings were returned. Unlike the newest addition to their group, the assassin Zevran, Alistair was shy, rarely talking about himself unless asked. Zevran was a shameless flirt, and everyone knew how he was feeling at any given moment.

As if sensing her thoughts, he suddenly asked, "Do you really trust him? Zevran, I mean?" He stared into the fire, his face twisting into a slight grimace of distaste.

"I do," she said. "I believe his story about the Crows, and about what would happen to him if he returned to them now. I think he has no reason to betray us now. At least, no more reason than Morrigan, for example. Or Sten, for that matter."

Alistair grunted.

"The fact is," she continued, "I have to trust them—all of them. I can't fight an enemy from within as well as one from without."

"True," he said, clearly not liking her answer. The acceptance of the elf into their group was the first real point of contention between them. "But I saw him talking to you earlier. I didn't like it."

"Oh, you mean the flirting? That was entirely one-sided, trust me." She laughed. "He talks like that to everyone, even Wynne."

"Do women like that sort of thing? I mean, does it work?"

Charlotte shrugged. "I suppose they must, or he wouldn't continue. Why? Are you jealous?" She meant the last phrase lightly, as a joke, but he scowled harder and his armored shoulders came up defensively.

"Zevran looks at me like every noble man I met in the last three years: like a piece of meat, or a Mabari bitch ready to breed. If I sound a little bitter, it's because I am. I hate being looked at like that, as if I wasn't a person with feelings, just a thing to bed. It leaves me absolutely cold."

He opened his mouth, wide-eyed, apparently ready to apologize. She cut him off.

"Yes, he flirts. I believe it's a part of his nature, how he speaks to people. I have made it clear to him that I am not interested in being more than his travelling companion, his leader, and hopefully his friend."

"I… I'm sorry. I didn't…" Alistair looked thoroughly abashed by now.

She leaned over and took his hand. "I prefer the company of gentlemen to rogues."

Blushing deep red to the roots of his hair, Alistair closed his callused hand over hers. They sat for awhile like that, neither speaking, until his face returned to a normal color and Charlotte thought she could speak to him further without risking his embarrassed stuttering. Maker, why was he so nervous around her sometimes?

"So," she began, feigning carelessness, "since you were raised in the Chanty, have you never…?"

"Never what?" He glanced at her before dropping his eyes back to their clasped hands. A smile played on his lips. "Never had a good pair of shoes? Never seen a basilisk? Have I never licked a lamppost in winter?"

"Now you're making fun of me." Despite herself, she was grinning too.

"Making fun of you, dear lady? Perish the thought!" He was almost laughing this time. "But tell me: have you ever licked a lamppost in winter?" He drew out the words. Was he trying to be seductive, finally?

"Yes, I did, once. But you know what I mean…" She dropped her voice and leaned closer. "Sex?"

"Oh! Is that what you're talking about? Well I've never had a woman… come right out and ask me, that's for sure." He gave a little laugh. "Truthfully, I've never had the pleasure. Training most of your life for a chaste monastic order doesn't leave much time to meet women, you know."

"Ah," said Charlotte. That would explain much.

"Ah? That's it? I confess something to you and that's all you say?" His tone was still light. He was not truly offended then. But she would have to be very, very careful.

"What about you," he continued, "since I told you my little secret, which is apparently something to be ashamed of, if you listen to some of our company." He was smiling, but she couldn't read the expression in his eyes. Did he really want to know?

"There was one man," she began, and he immediately cut across her.

"Maker, I didn't really mean…"

"No," she said, "you were honest with me. I want to be honest with you." She squeezed his hand gently. "His name was Willem. He was between Fergus and I in age, and his father was one of the more prosperous merchants in Highever Village. He came to the castle often, and we all became playmates when we were young. As Fergus got older, he was less interested in playing than in learning to fight, and Willem and I…" She trailed off.

"Did you love him?" Alistair's voice was gentle. She didn't look up at him for a moment, but when she did he saw her eyes were full of hurt.

"I suppose I did. But we never said it. We knew each other for years, grew up together. But we knew that we wouldn't be allowed to marry, even if we had wanted to." She stopped again, dropping her gaze down to their entwined fingers. "He… died. In a boating accident, almost five years ago. Drowned, off the coast of Highever."

"Maker's breath," Alistair said softly. "I'm sorry. I had no idea."

Charlotte shook herself and brushed her eyes with her wrist. She wasn't crying exactly, but she missed him sometimes more than others.

"My parents thought I mourned for him as a friend, which I did, but perhaps more than I should have. If Fergus suspected, he said nothing."

Alistair said nothing, but drew her into an embrace. Surprised, she rested her cheek on the cool metal covering his shoulder as his arms went around her.

"This is probably the most inappropriate time for this," he said, his voice sounding a little thick with emotion, "but I wanted to tell you that I've come to care for you a great deal. I know we haven't spent much time together, but you're very special to me." He chuckled. "I bet I sound like a complete fool. Do you think you could ever… you know, feel the same way about me?"

She sat up, looking him full in the face. His expression was completely open and vulnerable, his brown eyes searching hers for a response.

"Alistair," she said, "I think I already do."

As the words sank in, he smiled, and his whole face changed. Before she knew what he was doing, he leaned forward and kissed her.

His lips were warm against hers, and for a moment she didn't react. Then she leaned into him and slid her hands up his back. Heat stabbed through her as their lips parted and tongues met. He smelled like leather and metal and musk.

"Oh, Maker," she thought, "I'm in trouble now."

After long, long moments, the kiss ended and she leaned back. Seeing her flush of color reflected in Alistair's face, she giggled, which elicited a laugh in response. She leaned toward him again and planted a small kiss high on his cheek.

"What was that for?" he asked, touching the spot with his fingertips.

"For being you," she answered. Standing, she recovered the forgotten journal from the ground. "I think I'll go to bed now. I'll see you tomorrow." With a last smile, she walked to the tent she shared with Leliana.

The bard was, of course, awake, and once Charlotte had stripped off her armor and crawled under her blankets, Leliana whispered, "Was it fire, or was it lightning?"

"What?"

"First kisses either burn like fire or scorch like lightning. Which was Alistair?"

"Both."

With a giggle, Leliana rolled back over and covered herself again. Charlotte lay awake for a few minutes more, then fell asleep with a smile on her face.

Author's note: So much for "real" writing- the fangirl in me comes out again!