A.N: Well, here it is, chapter three. I didn't think I'd make it this far, but I did! This is really mushy, so if you have an aversion to fluff turn around now. There's angst too though, I promise! Thank you to technoir over at Swooping_is_Bad for the feedback on this! As per usual, I don't own, bioware does, I'm just flexing my creative muscles

Secrets are like articles of clothing that don't find their way to the wash. At first they lay as still as can be, unnoticed—but after a time they begin to stink, screaming for retribution, or at least a testament to the marks and stains they carry. You can hide it, throw it in some long forgotten corner or cover it up with a rug; it remains though, the stench of untended things, so putrid that the thought of possible cleansing is abandoned.

He often neglects laundry, she washes everything twice. He hates secrets, and apparently she's wonderful at keeping them. "People are allowed their secrets Alistair." Wynne reminds him, as he watches Belai walk alone towards a clearing near the camp.

"Yes I know," he replies, "But there are some things that people should just tell you." Things about her family, things about her past, and all the things he's shared—Alistair's sure they've all spilled two or three beans worth to her, after all, who could really deny her gentle curiosity? Surely not himself, he was more than willing to indulge her—when it came down to it though her lack of trust in them, in him, did not set well at all. She accepted his flower hadn't she? Hadn't laughed in his face and even kissed his cheek?

Alistair rubs the spot nervously, remembering how her bottom lip scraped against this stubble, how the outside of it had been cracked, but the faint inside he had felt had been so…soft, warm and…alluring. Normally he would have suggested going to Leliana or even Morrigan for some balm, if only to give her some relief—she didn't though, which caused her to always randomly swipe at the corners and bottom of her lips to bring it some moisture.

He had been caught staring at her more than once like this, much to his chagrin it usually was Zevran, or Oghren (and how Oghren could notice anything was beyond him). The assassin would smile, flip his insufferably blonde hair out of his face and waggle his eyebrows in Alistair's direction. "So I take it that your palate does not only include human women yes?" Alistair stopped dead in his tracks, ducking quickly to avoid a branch in his face's general direction.

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" Alistair had said scowling, slowly reddening at the cheeks and ears profusely. Zevran chuckled; clicking his tongue in the faux charming manner he always did, looping an arm around Alistair's shoulders.

"My dear Warden, it simply means that your tastes are more expansive than some of your fellow Humans, the appeal of an elven woman is a strong one, no? With their fine features and graceful bodies, what is not to love about a beautiful elf such as our other Grey Warden?" Alistair's scowl deepened, causing Zevran's grin to spread. The two of them had been far enough behind the rest of the group that they could still see them, but their party could not hear them—giving Zevran a chance to unhinge his lecherous tongue without the glares from Belai and the other female companions."You may be a novice in the ways my dear Alistair, but you cannot feign innocence on this occasion."

"What exactly am I feigning innocence about?" Alistair replied exasperated, nearing the shade of a ripe tomato by the moment. With eyes glittering Zevran pointed towards the woman in question, who was completely oblivious to the two men who ogled her, too busy playing with Duke to notice anything suspicious from her party.

"Do not tell me you do not see it?" He sighs, in a way that almost sounds like longing, making something in Alistair's gut clench, resisting the urge to break the Antivans arm draped over his shoulder.

Of course he sees it, every day. He lambastes himself for it, but he never looks away. The two of them see her differently though, of that Alistair is sure. Zevran raises his eyebrows in inquiry, "You did not answer the question my friend."

"I think you already know the answer."

"But I want to know what YOU see, how do you ever hope to win her affection if you cannot tell her simply, what it is about her you admire?" Alistair thinks on this, the stupid Antivan has a point, and his expression is all Zevran needs. "Is it how her mahogany hair shines in the fading light of the sun? Or how her skin, swarthy like the shifting sands of my dear Antiva glow beside the campfire where you exchange your fumbling flirtations, perhaps it is her lips—"

"Ok! Ok! I get it! It's all of those things! But it's more," Alistair sighs, exasperated and peeling Zevran's arm from his shoulder. "She's special…I don't expect someone like you to understand, she could have the face of a nug and I'd still love her."

"Who has the face of a nug?" Her alto timbre breaks into the privacy of the two men's conversation, they look at her, with her hands on her hips and the Mabari at her heel. They hadn't even heard her approach.

Zevran's eyes widen in surprise, for once having nothing to say. Alistair blanches, "N-no one, no one has the face of a nug, maybe except for…"

"Morrigan, with her nose, the way it flares and twitches—when she's angry. It must be a chasind quality, but it is in all ways endearing! How the lovely Witch has captured my heart!" Alistair sighs in relief as Zevran interjects at the last moment, Belai's eyes narrow but Duke barks happily at her feet.

"That isn't very nice."

"Morrigan isn't very nice," Alistair points out, hoping she doesn't notice how scarlet his face still is, "But you are, very nice that is, as a person."

"Ravishing too, Alistair and I were just commenting on how sumptuous you look when you've worked up a sweat, in fact—he said that—" Alistair clamps a firm hand over the elf's mouth, as Belai blinks, eyes wide and almost frightened—a scarce shade of pink rising to her cheeks.

"It's time to go now Zevran! We have so little time and so many people to horrify!" With that he drags the laughing Antivan off, avoiding her wide eyes and blush as it follows him.


"You look very much like the proverbial cat has your tongue Alistair," Blinking, Leliana's red hair swims into focus, she smiles cagily at him. "Did she really bring back remains of Andraste?" He nods wordlessly, pulling the pouch that hangs on a strip of hide from around his neck. Her blue eyes glitter, a whimsical sigh escapes her and for a moment, he too remembers the miracle in it all.

"Is that why she has taken solace? Was she so moved by Her that she needed respite?"

"Err… something like that." Alistair tucks the ashes back into his shirt, Leliana's focus still on him. "Did you need something?"

"Why are you not going to her? It is obvious that she is upset, she may prefer her space now, but I've seen looks like that before. She is troubled, and who better than you to alleviate those troubles?"

"Me?" Alistair asks incredulously, only hoping that she is right, that his companion would prefer that it were he she confided to. "I, I don't know. She doesn't really seem to need anyone to alleviate anything, I've tried—"

"Bah!" The bard waves her hand in front of his face as to dismiss him, her Orlesian lilt making his ears ring. "Have you ever really asked her? She's not unapproachable, just cautious, who of us is not?"

She was right—every time he had approached her about certain things he had lost his nerve. Giving her the rose had been different, if not the largest act of courage he had mustered around her, not involving Darkspawn.

"It's cold, you had better get a move on before the storm hits," Leliana said, gesturing to the snow cloud ridden sky overhead. "Do not worry…just be patient with her, like we are all patient with you!" Before he has a chance to retort she's skipping off humming some tune he's heard before, he doesn't hide his grumble over her comment as he snatches an extra blanket from his tent; only hoping it's as easy as the bard made it out to be.

The hair on the back of his neck stands up, and the tingling in his fingers announces that he's found her—her footprints were getting too faint, covered up by the fresh snow. They're still high enough on the mountain that the snow sticks, but it isn't as dreadfully cold as when they were at the temple. The clearing is a small one, one she had commented on earlier for the view and overlooking the rest of the valley they have to head down in the morning, surrounded by tree's he almost doesn't see her, but he feels her.

He had wanted to be quiet, but the crunch and his cursing at getting wet snow in his boots causes her to stir, casting a look over her shoulder her expression inscrutable—By the Maker that look is unbearable! Dark eyes listless and mouth forlorn… Alistair sighs to himself, he continues to march through the snow, teeth chattering and breath coming out in small gasps; she hates the cold, has told him on several occasions, but why isn't she shivering?

"You didn't have to come and collect me you know, I was headed back any minute." She speaks finally, as he's a shoulder width apart from her.

"Actually, I did, the sodding stuff is near up to my calves and it's up to your knees! Wynne would kill me if you had gotten frostbite now, instead of up there when it was really coming down," Alistair replies, shaking out the blanket he's brought with him he lays it down carefully. He sits down on it, and looks at her expectantly, "Aren't you going to join me? It's a very lovely view you've picked out here." A dark eyebrow raises, he notices now that she is shivering, her bottom lip quivers in that way that instantly makes him think of himself as a terrible man.

Belai shifts a bit and manages to free a foot from her spot, and the other until awkwardly she falls, knees first on to the blanket. It's reactionary, and as she tries to steady herself his hands have found their way around her waist—he feels her stiffen and resist, causing her to fall backwards on top of him.

Air escapes him in a whoosh, coughing and spluttering she's scrambling off of him, apologizing profusely for the buckles on her braces that hit him squarely in the throat. "Alistair, are you alright!?" She has a tight grip on he's shoulders, the pain in his throat is meaningless, all he can see is the snowfall reflected in her eyes— her iris's eclipsing and merging into the rest of the space, bottomless, he thinks again. Stupid.

"Hello!" Belai's tone is sharp now, he manages a half grin, her eyes roll on their own accord.

"Yes, sorry, trying to recover the use of my windpipe—sorry," He rubs his throat, noticing that her hands are still on his shoulders and she's still staring at him. They had touched before of course, the simple things, handing off weapons, sharing silverware when they've forgotten to wash—a kiss to the cheek. This was bewildering though, how her hands, cold, but so—warm. Her heat soaked through him, or the contact between them caused it—sinking in deep, until he was sure his body would melt under her touch.

Alistair took a deep breath, she must feel it too, he thought idly, but pushed it back; there were important things to be said, and his own raging would not stay his words. "Listen," he begins, still fumbling for the right words, her hands slip off his shoulders (he needs to concentrate anyway), "We need to talk about what happened up there and…about what happened before Ostagar…" He trails off and watches as she recedes into herself again, lowering herself down into a sitting position. They're sitting across from each other, but they are worlds apart, she hasn't run away and I won't give her the chance—he simply waits for her, patience.

"What is it exactly that you would like to know?" Belai says slowly, her hands folded gently in her lap.

"Well, umm, you see, I've talked so much about what happened in my life as a boy, and well…you've never really talked about your life, in the Alienage that is." She nods, shifting, the plates on her armor jingle. "And well, that woman, Shianni was it? The Guardian asked about her, and she appeared to you. She called you cousin, but her shade…she was upset with you, why?" He has never seen a person more uncomfortable, even himself. Unwillingly she's radiating this helplessness, even as she tries to throw up walls—his method is derision, hers is fortification, not entirely different.

"There's something you must understand first, before I…before I tell you what I am about to tell you," Belai says, "First know that I am…sorry, for how I acted up there, you've come to depend on me and I let you down."

"You didn't let me down, it's just confusing, and I thought that since I can trust you — well you could trust me."

"I…I can trust you, it's just a very old, and very deep wound that recently just began to… ache again," She rubs her arms idly, her teeth now chattering. Alistair can't help himself as he scoots closer to her, she doesn't move away, "If you, if you understand my meaning."

"I do." He replies, assuring her as best he can. Belai sighs, looking past him, her eyes close, she begins to speak.

"The first thing you must realize is that my culture, my people, we are a people of denial. We believe that even though our situation is dire, it could be worse, it can always be worse. It does get worse though, and I…I have seen those things, with my own two eyes—shatter the illusion we've created for ourselves for generations." Alistair nods slowly as she pauses, considering, he will not speak until she has said everything that she needs to.

Belai talks about her mother first, the one Duncan had briefly mentioned to Alistair. It was his reason for going to Denerim in the first place, to track down Adaia's only living child, Belai, this he remembers.

"I have come to understand that my mother, and her sister, my cousins mother, they were once a part of a clan of Dalish. Something terrible happened, something she would not speak of to anyone, even my father…whatever it was, and it plagued her. Despite this though she remained as she had always been, proud…"

She takes a shuddering breath, the air releasing in a wisp of cold around her, she opens her eyes and looks at him hard. "Life for her in the Alienage was torture, having to submit to the humans, after a life of wandering free and alone. She loved me and my father dearly, but one day she couldn't take it anymore, she simply snapped." She gestures with her hands, the motion of a breaking twig, "They came for her, the guards. Someone on the inside, one of our own people—they told the guards about my mother's plan for a supposed rebellion, that she had been training the younger elves to fight. It's illegal to have weapons if you're an elf, that's basis enough to be put to death."

"And she was training them, wasn't she?" Alistair asked, she nodded, smiling ruefully.

"I sit here before you as one of the last. The rest of them were slaughtered, taken from their beds at night and murdered in front of their families. My aunt had been wise, she had taken Soris and Shianni on a trip to see their father…they too were spared."

"They killed her." It was not a question, simply a statement in disbelief. Alistair swallows slowly and takes it in, beginning to understand bit by bit the woman who sits before him.

"Yes," she says finally, wrapping her arms around herself she rests her head on her knees. "They took her in broad daylight, as I watched with my father in the garden—she was screaming at him, at them. One of them tried to grab me, but she stopped him, broke his neck." She begins to laugh, it comes out like a sob, and she rubs snowflakes and tears out of her eyes.

He wants to reach out and do it for her, brush the hair from her eyes and kiss away the tears that fall and leave angry trails on her cheeks. "My father tried to shield me from it…but I saw it all…everything. They beat her first, there were six of them against her—it took that many to get her on the ground…and then they did it. They slit her throat, and I still remember the bastard stepping away…not wanting it to touch him, my mother's blood."

She begins to rock, trying to stifle the torrent of emotion bursting through her. Alistair can stand it no longer as he moves in as close as he can be, wrapping his arms around her, she buries her face in his chest. He smooth's away the hair that has fallen in her face, the snowflakes like speckled stars against the night sky. With his teeth he pulls his gloves off, but doesn't break contact with her for second—his thumbs run deftly over her eyes and cheeks as the tears pour ceaselessly.

"They tried to take her too," she whispers, pulling back to look at him. "Shianni and the others, the Arl of Denerim, his son did—they beat her, and raped her and I was too late to stop them." Her hands are on his now, gripping at them, her knuckles white, "But I killed him, I killed all of them. Every guard, armed or not—Maker, I even killed the dogs…" She covers her mouth to try and stifle the tortured whimpers, and Alistair is held in disbelief at her words, not because she isn't capable…but the nature of the crime she is confessing.

Always so calm, controlled, level headed. She was the disarmer, not the instigator. Alistair willingly let her take control of their rag tag group not only because he simply preferred it, but because she was always the note of sanity amidst the lunacy choir they partook in.

"And Duncan came, conscripted me before they came to take me to the gallows. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to leave her, I never…I never wanted to be a Grey Warden, never in all my dreams. I would have rather died I thought…"

He gathers her in his arms then; she's too exhausted to struggle even if she wanted to, but she doesn't—her head rests in the crook of his shoulder, and he's glad he took the time to remove his heavy plating before coming to find her.

"I hope you can forgive me." She says after sitting with him in silence for a time. Alistair places a small kiss on her forehead, his own anxiety suddenly forgotten in the wake of her need, almost insignificant—he feels humbled and embarrassed for his past whining.

"Of course, I can't—I can't hold something like that against you." He says softly, sincerely. "We all have our ideas on what we want to do in life…and for whatever reason you're here now, and I hope..." Belai raises her head off his shoulder, her head tilting upward—their noses inches from each other.

"What do you hope Alistair?" And when she says him name, part murmur part sigh, he's lost his words again.

"I hope you'll stay." He swallows and searches her face for any inclination of rejection, but he finds none, just her, with her dark eyes open and wondering. "Thank you for telling me, I can't pretend to know the kind of loss you feel—even with Duncan, it doesn't quite compare, and I wouldn't try to…." He trails off and he feels on the verge of pubescence again, all tinny voiced and no chest hair, trying to get a peek under the Sister's skirts when he thought no one was watching.

"There's something I need to know though, if you might oblige me."

"Yes?" She asks and Alistair's gaze is drawn downwards, to her lips and her chin—she has a way of pursing her lips that reminds him of eating fruit, cherries specifically, or maybe it's peaches…he can't remember though, suddenly lost in the idea of what lips, her lips represent. He's seen her chew cinnamon bark when she thinks no one is looking, he's been meaning to pick some up since being in Denerim.

"I know it…might sound strange, considering we haven't known each other for very long, but I've come to…care for you. A great deal in fact." Her eyelids do that wonderful thing again, the quick fluttering of lashes, the same kind when she inhaled the left over scent from the rose—his pulse quickens, he's sure she can hear his heart beat like he can, thundering in his ears. "Maybe it's because we've gone through so much together. I…I don't know…or maybe I'm imagining it all, fooling myself."

She's either speechless, or she thinks he's a complete idiot. The too familiar feeling of dread worms its self inside his gut, and before he can stop himself he blurts it out before it becomes too much to hold back. "Am I? Fooling myself, that is, or do you think you might ever…feel the same way, about me?" He knows his tone tinges on desperation, but she's so agonizingly close, and deep inside he's still a boy raised by the Chantry, forever unknowing and self- flagellating.

"You…you don't care that I'm an elf?" He almost laughs but knows it wouldn't be appropriate, if only she knew.

"No, that doesn't matter…and it never mattered—will never matter." He replies steadily, he'd like to believe that something like relief has washed over her, but her eyes are still locked on his, the same serious expression.

"I think I already do, Alistair." She says is slowly, thoughtfully, the way he's come to know that when she says it, she means it.

That's all he needs, and yet he still feels the compulsion to be humorous, saying something along the lines of fooling her—it's gone though, in the instant he leans down and she slides her lovely hands around his neck. He can't decide whether her lips are cool or hot, the weather would tell him the former but is own lips set ablaze at the contact would beg the latter.

She smells like cinnamon and tastes like salt. Her tears from moments before slipped into the cracked crevices of her once taut mouth, now pliant, yielding, the taste of her sadness no longer her own—but his as well. It threatens to overpower him entirely, but he is no stranger to this kind of feeling, and he only hopes to quell it for her.

She weaves her fingers in his hair, and any wish he'd had before about this moment is thrown away as she pulls him down harder—mouths that breathe hot salutations, willing neighbors in a land both foreign to them. Alistair feels reduced to the basest of forms, all sensations and thoughts autonomous from his waking mind, and they're only kissing. But she's there in his arms, her nails digging into his scalp and her mouth is open stoking that sovereign part of him with the slightest of moans—a flick of her tongue and her wonderfully chapped lips.

He knows she's more experienced, they spoke little of it because the both of them were too embarrassed—he's all ridiculous metaphors, she has the indifference of what he assumes is veteran. Even if it's the case though he can't push it much further without doing something stupid, so he pulls back breathlessly, needing to look at her.

Belai's eyes open, dazed and blinking, mouth swollen and parted—forming words that don't quite make it out. He's winded, utterly winded as she regards him with a look that means more than what it is.

"Is something wrong?" She says at last, his first compulsion is to tell her all the things that are wrong; how utterly impractical he's been, how he'd like to apologize for his lackluster performance, or like the cold for instance—and the Darkspawn. But this newfound independent nation of desire-filled Alistair is grinning and wants to kiss her again. And again, and again, and again.

"No, not exactly…how do I say this without sounding like a complete buffoon?" He sighs, "That…that wasn't too soon, was it?"

A thoughtful look crosses her face as she puts a finger to her lips, "Hmmm. I don't know, I've never had a human man kiss me before, let alone one I wanted to kiss…I think I'll need more testing, just to be sure." By the Maker, if she doesn't laugh and he's soon joining her, the kind of laughing that comes from the deepest part of you—so good it almost hurts.

"Well, I'll have to arrange that then, won't I?" Alistair is in utter disbelief, not only did she like it, but she's implying that she'd like to do it more. How quickly things turned from being dire to her smile spreading coyly, Maker strike me down right now if this isn't one of the loveliest creatures you've ever created.

The smiting never comes as Alistair stands, pulling Belai up with him. "So how are we going to get back?" She asks honestly concerned, a wicked idea forms in his head.

"Well, seeing that the snow is almost as tall as you are that really only leaves one option…" He replies, naughtiness creeping into his voice.

"And what option would that be?" He bends down until his mouth is adjacent to her ear, whispering his intent. A look of horror instantly spreads; protest ready to fly when Belai is interrupted by Alistair lifting her up.

"Alistair, for the love of Andraste put me down! I can sodding well walk!" But he's ignoring her, already wrapping the warm side of the blanket around her as he tucks her into his embrace like a babe.

"See, isn't this nice? Not only are you warm, but a dashing Grey Warden get's to spare you of frostbitten toes! My dear lady I am envious of your luck."

She doesn't say a word, quietly protesting to him the entire way back to camp, but through sneaking glances he catches her smile and blush when their eyes meet. It's only until Zevran catcalls and Morrigan is threatening a rise of bile does she thank him—not in words though, ignoring the blatant murmurings of her companions she offers out her hand to him.

"Thank you Ser Knight, I am indebted to your generosity." She says, in the mocking tones of a lady they both made fun of in Denerim not long ago, her impression nearly spot on.

He bows, eyes stretched up to meet hers he lowers his lips and presses a small promise of a kiss to her hand. They linger there, and he watches her flush again.

"It was my pleasure my Lady," he replies, and it comes out deeper than he wanted it to be but it rings something charming, her flush persisting.

"Well, you two going to stand there all day and make kissy faces, or are you going to bury the one-eyed worm already!" Oghren belches from across the way, Alistair instantly lets go of her hand, spluttering.

"Right, well, umm, see you in the morning!" He's turning on his heel and turning ten shades of crimson as the dwarf's laughter echoes around the camp, interrupted by burping and other bodily noises.

He only turns to look around once, and she's still standing there, his blanket wrapped around her and the hand he kissed pressed to her mouth to cover the smile he knows he put there.