Chapter 2: As Long as You're Mine

Dramatis Personae

Orla Amell, Grey Warden and mage of the Circle in Ferelden. One of two remaining after Loghain's Betrayal.

Alistair Theirin, Bastard child of Maric Theirin, late king of Ferelden and half-brother to the late King Cailan. One of two remaining Grey Warden's and Orla's lover.

Zevran Arainai, the seemingly always joyful ex-member of the Antivan Crows, Orla's close friend and confidant.

Leliana, born in Ferelden but raised in Orlais this bard and spy is a close friend and confidant of Orla and Alistair.

Wynne, Senior Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle of Magi a second mother and Adviser to Orla.

Dane, Orla's mabari who chose her after the Battle of Ostagar.

Sten, a warrior of the Beresaad sent by the Arishock to answer the question "What is the Blight."

Shale, a Golem "purchased" by Orla who is in full possession of her free will.

Zevran moved the dagger just under his nails with expert ease as he leaned against the tree trunk. The bark dug into the leather and because of it's protection it didn't bite the skin on his back. Not that he would have minded the pain, though he normally didn't seek it out in such a way.

"It took you long enough, amica mia," the elf said, a small smile pulling at his lips. He liked to think that standing just outside the flickering of the campfires and torches gave him a certain aura of mystique. What did the Orlesians call it? Je ne sais quoi?

"What, Zevran, I am not a bella to you?" Leliana returned, stepping out of the fire's light and into shadow. He couldn't deny the back-light from the fire did a lot to make those very fine curves very noticeable.

"Ahh, you wound me. I think very, very highly of you, Leliana, but tonight it must be business before pleasure, sí? But if you still feel that I should worship at a lay sister's Chantry afterward…"

"Just stop," Leliana said, the tremble on her voice could be either laughter or desire, he was fine with either one.

"Oh, but I am just getting started. I had a good many very lewd propositions prepared just for tonight and you have already dashed my hopes! I suppose we will have to spend the evening doing our jobs then," Zevran said with a sigh, shaking his head.

"Oh, what a great tragedy," Leliana said with pleasant sarcasm. And then, it was all business. The shift in her posture was obvious and Zevran knew that playtime was over. He maintained his lazy stance, however. The act was too much a part of who he was. He could never fully drop it.

"I will be watching your back while you perform wanton acts of thievery," Zevran said, "I have been itching for an excuse to take down a guard or two."

"No killing," Leliana said firmly.

"Did I say anything about killing? You worry far too much, amica mia," Zevran said, tossing the dagger from his fingers only to catch it by its hilt and return it home in a smooth, quick motion. "I can take down many a guard without killing so much as the lice on his head," Zevran said with a grin.

"Well then," Leliana said. She seemed a bit put off by that, and Zevran swallowed a chuckle. He enjoyed the people he had found himself living with. They were both more interesting and better people than the whole of the Crows had been. "That does seem like the best way, Zevran. My fingers do seem to be a good deal more deft than yours."

"And now I cannot tell you how much I wish to put that to the test because my dear amica has demanded no more!" Zevran joked.

"With good reason," Leliana said with a short laugh. It figured that talk that would have left Orla bright red and stuttering did nothing to the Orlesian bard. Of course, if it had thrown her off he would have to question how good of a bard she had actually been.

"Ahh, very well. We shall get to work. Follow me, sí? Zevran said, now standing up straight and moving away from the flickering of lights, "We do have some information to fetch for our friend, after all."

"Is it right for us to do it though?" Leliana asked. Zevran couldn't say the question was out of the blue. In fact, he was expecting it from her. Leliana made no secret of her devotion to the Chantry and the Maker. Zevran had seen too much of the world to think much of Chantry and it's place in the world. The Maker… well, an absent God was the only kind of one who could let such things happen.

"I believe our fearless leader has a right to know about her family," Zevran said with a lot less levity than normal, "Besides, she is no longer a Mage of the Circle but a Grey Warden so what right have they to such information?" he asked, "Besides even if they did still have a right to it, what right has the Arl to it?"

"Yes, but now she's serving the Arl," Leliana replied, "As such he has some right to it, surely." Zevran knew what she was getting at, with the Chantry's 'law' about magic serving man, but still this argument was a foolish one.

"Even if you could argue that Orla is serving the Arl - which she is not - he would not have a right to the information about her family," Zevran pointed out. The seriousness in his voice must've had the desired effect as Leliana stopped in her tracks. Zevran stopped walking as well, but didn't turn around, "As such this is one thing we need to do for her. We could not call ourselves friends otherwise."

After a moment of silence, Leliana's voice broke through, "You're right. Information on her, he may be entitled to, but her siblings? Her family? Let us get these for her, Zevran. And thank you."

"Whatever for, amica mia?" Zevran asked, "On second thought, do not mention it. The first of the guards are coming. I will whistle when it is clear," Zevran said, moving forward silently. It was time to get to work.

Leliana waited in the shadows without so much as a muscle twitch until Zevran's signal came. The single whistle cut the air and Leliana made her way around. The front door of the tent would be too obvious, but there was more than one way to get inside. She had done these sort of things for a living, after all. Even now she couldn't deny there was a thrill to it.

Of course, the addiction to the game died out quickly in prison for a crime she didn't commit, but now she could choose where to direct her talents instead of being forced one way or another.

The Arl's tent was empty. Not that she'd be too concerned if he was there. Zevran was, however, making good on his promise to run interference. No guards, no Arl… Leliana had to wonder exactly how he pulled it off before she decided it might be one of those things that was better not to know.

It didn't take long to find what she was looking for. A leather bound stack of parchment on the travel desk with the seal of the Chantry stamped on it. It gave it a blazing sun right in the middle. Leliana picked it up, resisting the urge to untie the leather strip that tied it shut when she noticed a second one there.

It threw her off for a moment until she remembered Wynne. Of course, with two mages there, the Arl would have requested two files. And by Zevran's very sound logic the Arl had no right to that one either, as Wynne was serving with them. With deft fingers, she added the second one to the first and slipped out the way she came, not minding the bit of dirt that came with it.

After all, the front door was doubly out of the question if you didn't enter that way. With a silent roll she stood up, not bothering to brush off the extra dirt that stuck to her armor as she made her way back to their end of camp. To minimize the risk of getting caught this tended to be the easier way to do things.

Leliana counted on Zevran being experienced enough to know this, and sure enough he was already back at their fire tormenting Wynne.

"All I am saying," the elf spoke, "is that they are such nice bosoms, therefor not having them touched on occasion is a grave sin against the Maker."

The older mage didn't look up from her bread but shook her head and gave an exasperated sigh, "Zevran, how many times must I tell you I am old enough to be your grandmother."

"I still fail to see how this is a bad thing, lovely silver haired vixen of my heart," Zevran said happily.

"Shall I crush the Painted Elf's head, Elder Mage?" Shale asked, sounding slightly annoyed, "Its yapping is about as palatable as a pigeon's."

"Zevran," Leliana said, making it to the outer circle of light with silent steps, "I do hate to pull you away from your adorations but Orla was asking after you."

Zevran stood up, a smile on his face, "It is exhausting, but my work is never truly done. I shall return to you soon, dear Wynne! Await me!"

"Please," Wynne said, "Do try to take your time."

Falling into step beside Leliana, Zevran's smile spread, "She is simply ravenous for me!"

"Obviously," Leliana joked in return. She wasn't quite sure how much of Zevran's innuendo was actual flirtation and how much of it was an act. She was quite good at reading people, it had been a part of her job description. It was possible that because of how Zevran was raised and what he was that he was harder to pick up on.

It wasn't that Leliana doubted his loyalty to their little group, his protectiveness of Orla was obvious to everyone involved. She just wished she could help him ease the pain she was sure he covered up with his glibness. Leliana understood such pain, having been put through it herself by someone she loved.

"So quiet," Zevran's voice broke into her thoughts as they crossed the camp, "Surely you have stories you could tell to pass the distance?"

"It is a short walk, Zevran," Leliana pointed out, "Not every moment has to be filled with our chatter."

"Seems a shame though, not to use such a lovely voice," Zevran said.

"You are a very shameless flatterer, you know this," Leliana said, shaking her head.

"But of course! If you are so very good at something you should never be ashamed of it!" Zevran chuckled. They reached the tent then, the flap on it closed while Sten stood guard, silent and imposing. It was unfair that to have any time away from the Arl's interference that the Qunari had to be posted outside the flap.

Leliana and Zevran stopped in front of Sten. The large Qunari nodded at them once, "You are both expected," he said with a slight incline of his head towards the tent flap.

"Thank you, Sten," Leliana said. They stepped into the tent that was barely large enough for two. Orla and Alistair were sharing a simple meal of bread and cheese. Dane, the mabari, sat by Orla his tail thumping on the ground as he waited for any scraps to fall.

"You've got it?" Orla asked when the flap closed behind them.

"Got what?" Alistair asked, looking confused as a few crumbs fell from his lips, "What's going on?" Leliana frowned, the Prince-Errant's confusion made it obvious that Orla hadn't mentioned or spoke of this little caper.

"You didn't tell him," Leliana said simply.

"Tell me what?" Alistair asked, perturbed.

"Come now, Leliana, does he really need to know?" Zevran interjected.

"Well now I do!" Alistair said, trying to stand up and gesturing with the half-eaten loaf of bread as he spoke, "What in the Maker's name is going on?"

"Alistair, it's okay," Orla said, putting a hand on his arm, "I just asked them to fetch something from the Arl for me."

"Oh, well why didn't anyone say so?" Alistair said, exasperated.

"Because you weren't letting us, silly," Orla said, reaching out to take the satchels Leliana had. The mage paused, "Two?"

"Two?" Zevran repeated, giving Leliana a questioning look.

"Two," Leliana confirmed with a nod of her head. She wasn't going to open them there to see which one was Orla's and which one wasn't. Getting a look at them now in the light she wasn't sure she would have been able to anyway.

Orla paused a moment and then nodded once, "You had better go get Wynne, Leliana."

"I will go fetch her now," Leliana said, turning around and walking out of the tent and past Sten with her singular purpose. Nothing could ever be just a simple job. Not anymore. With Wardens and Mages nothing was ever simple. Leliana couldn't say she minded. A part of her really had missed the game.

Orla held the two files in her hand, she could feel the magic of the seals radiating off it, like a buzzing in her hands. She shouldn't have been surprised that Arl Eamon had requested both of the files. After all two mages would be twice the danger as far as he was concerned. Especially in light of what had happened with his son.

"Is that… a Chantry seal?" Alistair asked, leaning over her shoulder.

Orla looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. Every child in Thedas would at least know Andraste's sun seal. It was a question he really didn't have to ask, unless he was doing so to convince himself that it wasn't. This was exactly why she hadn't told him anything about this and simply waited the few days for Leliana and Zevran to have their chance.

"It is, isn't it?" Alistair said, he stood up facing Zevran. Orla just sat, staring at the embossed, magically sealed leather, "What did you two get for her?!"

"Nothing that was not already hers," Zevran said with a shrug, "And possibly Wynne's," he added as an afterthought, "Unless there are other mages running about in camp. I have to admit, we did not consider that one."

"What are those, Orla?" Alistair's voice was harsh.

"Files from the Circle of Magi," Orla said simply, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Alistair. I really am. But you can be so easy to read and the Arl…" she trailed off, still not looking up at him.

"What, you think because the Arl gave me a barn over my head I'd go running to him straight away if you told me? After what he's been trying to pull?!" Alistair's temper was breaking over his voice, cracking partway through.

"You wanted the information on my past that the Arl had?" Orla snapped in return and held up the top satchel, the one that made her hand feel like electricity was coursing over it, "Well it's all right here, Alistair. The Circle has had me since I was six years old. This could probably tell you when I stopped being afraid of the dark or when I started losing my milk teeth!"

"So you thought it was okay to walk right in to the Arl's tent and take them? What's gotten in to you!" Alistair snapped.

"Uh, technically she did not. Nor did I. Nor did Leliana," Zevran said, "I believe Leliana crawled."

"You put her up to this, didn't you?" Alistair accused, leveling an accusing finger at Zevran, "I'm not going to stand for-"

"Alistair, stop. Zevran didn't put me up to this. No one did. The Arl isn't even supposed to have my file!" Orla returned, standing up. She might have only come up to his shoulders, but in that moment she made her presence the largest in the room. She would speak and he would listen, Maker help her!

"He's not?" Alistair asked, having the decency to at least look shocked, especially when Dane picked up on her anger and started barking. It sounded like the large dog was verbally giving Alistair a piece of his mind. Orla hushed the mabari with a hand on his head.

"No, he's not," Orla said, "Duncan was supposed to have it but the Knight-Commander made excuses and claimed it would be sent to Weisshaupt as soon as he got word that the Denerim Chantry had sent my phylactery. Well obviously both were never sent there, but to the Arl instead."

"Both?" Alistair asked, shock on his voice, "How do you know he has both?"

"Because, young man, to open these you need blood," Wynne's voice came from the door of the tent before Orla could answer. The Senior Enchanter's short white hair was out of it's usual tight pony tail and fell around her face in grandmotherly waves. Leliana stood behind Wynne, her face tight with concern and her eyes going between Orla and Alistair.

"But that's…" Alistair trailed off.

"Blood magic?" Orla said, managing to keep most of the sarcasm off of her voice, "Most of the leashes they keep on us are."

Wynne shook her head, "The young, always so melodramatic. We do what we must for the good of everyone involved. Yes, the files are both sealed and opened with blood magic. Now, if you would?" Wynne said, holding her had out.

Orla handed her the other file, "Here's yours, Wynne."

"Thank you, my dear. Do you need to see how to open it?" Wynne asked, "Because you are right, in your case the Arl has no right to the information, but you do. Otherwise I would tell you to march these both right back and apologize."

A year and some outside the circle and she still hung her head when the Senior Enchanter took that tone of voice with her, "I know; I'm sorry."

"No need to be, now if someone has a dagger or small knife?" Wynne said, looking around to silence, "Please, I am standing in a tent with an assassin, a bard and a trained Templar and not a one of you has a dagger?"

Everyone started digging, almost scrambling for one while Orla pulled hers out of the sheath on her arm and offered it up, "No, dear, not yours. We wouldn't be sure we were able to get all of the blood off." That made sense once Orla stopped to think about it, to open the seal the blood had to belong to the person it had been attuned to. If it wasn't at the very least it wouldn't open. At worst…? She wasn't sure, but there were many interesting traps out there for mages who got too curious. Better safe than sorry.

Orla put hers back as Zevran produced a dagger allowing the others to stop fumbling for theirs, "Thank you," Wynne said, taking the small satchel to the tiny wooden table that had an oil lamp on it, "Come and watch, Orla. I'm only going to do this once," Wynne said, "and not just because I don't particularly enjoy the sight of my own blood."

With an easy motion, Wynne took the dagger and cut her index finger from tip to base, a line of blood bubbling to the surface. She took the crimson finger and ran it clockwise over the large, embossed sun on the front cover of the satchel. There was a flash of light and crackling of energy. The leather string holding it closed fell away from it. With an easy motion, Wynne ran her hand over the hurt finger, healing it before opening the file on the table.

"Just like that. Now your turn, Orla," Wynne said with a motherly smile.

"Still teaching, Wynne?" Orla said with a faint smile.

"Always," Wynne said, "It warms these old bones to have had a hand in such an attentive and talented student."

"I haven't been lately," Orla returned, placing the satchel down on the small table next to Wynne's open one.

"Well," Wynne chuckled, "We have been quite busy."

Orla smiled at that and took her dagger out of it's sheath and held it to the tip of her finger. As the point bit into the flesh, a strong hand took her wrist. Orla looked over at Alistair, his face close enough to her that she could feel his breath on her skin.

"You don't have to do this, Orla," he said, pulling the hand with the dagger away from her other hand which had been ready for the cut and sported a pink spot where the dagger had started to pierce the skin.

"Yes, I do," Orla said firmly.

"No, you don't. We already know everything about you we need to," Alistair pleaded.

"This isn't about me," Orla returned, resisting the urge to pull her hand away which would have been a foolish action while holding on to a dagger. "We don't know everything we need to. Unless you've found my siblings and haven't told me!"

For a long moment he just stared in to her eyes and Orla worried that he really wasn't going to let her do this, "Please, Alistair. I have to know."

Alistair sighed and let go of her hand, "I'm going to go out for some air," he said, bitterness staining his voice, "Let me know what you find."

Everyone was silent as he walked to the flap of the tent, "Alistair," Orla said, reaching out, before her hand dropped back down to her side. He didn't turn around, standing against the darkness of the night.

"What?" he asked, his voice flat.

I love you, Orla thought, "N-nothing. I'll see you when you get back," she muttered.

He left, the flickering light in the tent making it look like he walked into a world of solid darkness. Orla stood there for a moment, clutching the dagger to her chest like it could give some kind of comfort. The steel offered none, but the warm hand on her shoulder did. Orla turned around to see Wynne's gentle smile.

"Opening it is your choice, you don't have to," Wynne said. For a long moment, Orla considered whether or not she should. If it was worth the price, worth the fight just now.

After a long moment she nodded once, "Let's find out what happened to my family."

The night air was brisk. Not enough to have him seeing his breath, but enough to make him wish he had grabbed a cloak on the way out of the tent. The light jerkin and doublet didn't really provide protection against the bitter Ferelden Winter air. He supposed he should count himself lucky it wasn't snowing.

He stopped and realized he had wandered out of the camp. He could still see the shadows of the firelight on the trees and hear the sounds of the people behind him. Alistair looked over his shoulder and considered walking back. At least by the fire he'd be something resembling warm. Then he had a vivid image Orla slicing her finger to open that damned Circle of Magi file and decided against.

Blood Magic, Alistair thought bitterly. Nothing good ever comes from that. If they had sealed those files with it, then they were kept shut for a reason and there wasn't any need to go digging around in them. As far as he was concerned Orla didn't need to opening up secrets that had sounded like they were better off buried. What little she had told him about it had been tragic. It made him feel like an ass for complaining about his own childhood.

In the end though, wasn't it enough to at least know her siblings were alive in a Circle somewhere? That being said, why had the Arl even needed it in the first place? The one thing he agreed on was the fact that the file and the phylactery should have been given to the Wardens. In his mind it was one more thing to blame Loghain for.

Alistair sank back against a tree until he was on the ground, holding his head in his hands, "Maker, what am I even doing here?" he muttered. He had stalked off like a child, but he still believed firmly that in this he was in the right. No good was going to come of it.

He looked up, the cold wind rustling the branches of the bare trees and blowing off some of the last remaining greenery while it howled eerily through the needles of the pines. The longer he sat there the more he wondered why he stormed off in the first place. He had never expected things to be simpler in the Wardens but neither had he expected things to become so complicated.

Alistair wasn't sure how long he had sat there when the bushes rustled. Startled, he scrambled for the sword he realized wasn't there. Instead he fumbled for and found a small stick and looked at it before tossing it away. Yes, he'd really defeat whoever was walking up with a dry winter twig.

He stood up, ready to lunge forward with his fists if he had to. Even though they were traveling in a large group, bandits, monsters and darkspawn were always around. What walked into his field of view wasn't any of those things.

"Leliana?" he asked, his stance relaxing.

"There you are, Alistair," Leliana said, relieved, "We've been looking all over for you."

"You have?" Alistair asked. How long had he been out here? Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure.

"What are you doing all the way out here?" she asked as he stepped over some brush towards her, almost tripping in the process. He had apparently been sitting down long enough for his toes to be cold and tingling through the leather boots.

"Uh, the air is fresher, without all the fire and warmth," Alistair said, trying to make it seem like he had intended to be here the entire time, "You?"

Leliana gave him a very dry look, "Searching for you, for at least half an hour."

"Why?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. It wasn't like there were screams from the forest or he was overly important to anyone but the Arl. Or Orla. But she was a big girl, she didn't need him around when making foolish decisions.

"Orla needs you," Leliana said. Alistair wasn't sure whether or not it was the cold or her Orlesian accent that added the bite to the words.

"She didn't need me around enough to listen to me earlier," Alistair said, crossing his arms over his chest, as much for warmth as to take a stubborn stance.

The look Leliana gave him in return was a punch right in the stomach, "What would you have done to find your sister before you knew what she was?" she snapped, "And instead of a shallow, greedy woman you found another sibling you knew nothing about who had his emotions ripped from him because witnessing the death of his mother left him too volatile?"

Maker, what an ass I've been, Alistair thought, No, 'ass' doesn't even begin to cover it. Suddenly his thoughts turned away from himself, his own anger and discomfort as he realized Orla must be feeling as it hit him what Leliana just described was being made Tranquil. He wouldn't have bat an eyelash if his shrew of a sister suddenly was an emotionless doll, Orla wasn't like that. She had been set on her family, the last few days she had answered all of his questions about it. She had been set on it, and it had brought a light to her eyes.

"Where is she?" Alistair asked desperately.

"Right where you left her, in a pile of parchment streaked with tears," Leliana snapped, it sounded like there might have been something else, but he was already on his way and Leliana wasn't what he was concerned about.

He barely noticed the scratches the low hanging, bare branches and pine needles left on his face. It wasn't hard to make his way back to camp he just had to follow the sounds of fire and people, the smell of wood and horses. He was back in a quarter of the time it had taken him to stomp off in the first place. He now felt the fool for having stomped out in the first place.

After all, children threw tantrums like that. Not grown men. Sten still stood outside the tent, the only change to his expression a raised eyebrow. That didn't bother him at all compared to the sounds from inside the tent. Each soft sob felt like it was cutting into his soul. He pulled the tent flap open to see Orla on the ground, paper spread around her. Wynne was there, holding on to her like a mother would. Alistair just watched for a moment, unable to swallow the lump in his throat to speak.

It took him a couple of tries to get her name to pass his lips and even then his voice was raw from just watching her cry. Both women looked up. Wynne's face still had the composure that he had always associated with her. Orla's, on the other hand, was anything but composed. Tears streaked down her face, her eyes red and puffy making the blue irises even more stark in comparison. She had once lamented that she looked like a drowned rat when crying, but even in this state he couldn't find her anything but beautiful.

"Alistair," Orla said his name with a hitch in her voice and suddenly she went from Wynne's arms to his. He held her tightly, his hand tangling in her hair. She buried her face in his shoulder and Alistair took the moment to shoot a questioning look at Wynne. The old woman's eyes were heavy with unspent tears of her own.

"She needs you right now," Wynne said simply, her own voice strained. She didn't say another word as she walked out of the tent, the flap falling closed behind her. Left alone with Orla sobbing into his shoulder at a loss for what to do next and no real idea what the damn file had said.

As much as he wanted to pull away for a moment and try to look at the papers the urge to do so was quashed by the need to comfort Orla, or at least calm her down enough to ask what she had found out. First step was to at least get her looking up at him and not crying all over his shoulder. With one hand he gently pulled her head away from the puddle she was making on his shoulder. That first look into her eyes almost killed him. She looked so lost.

"Orla," Alistair started, "What…?" he couldn't keep going, not when she bit her lip like that and twin rivers flowed from her eyes. "Hey, hey…" he started, not letting her bury her face away from him again. He wanted to, needed to see her. He needed to take those tears away. Alistair knew he couldn't fix everything, but he could at least relieve some of the pain and sorrow. At least enough to get her to be able to talk about it. That, and he hated seeing her like this.

"I…" Orla started but a hiccup swallowed the next part. He brushed the hair away from her face, the strands wet with tears. Orla looked like she was trying to speak again; Alistair leaned in and gently touched his lips to hers.

"You don't have to say anything," he muttered against her mouth, his hands gently holding on to her face, "You don't have to tell me," he whispered tasting the salt the tears had left on her lips before moving his mouth to her cheek, "It's okay, Orla."

Orla shook her head. She was so close to him that the motion moved her skin against his mouth, "My brother," she managed.

"I know," Alistair returned, "Shh, you don't have to say a thing," he whispered into the tears that stained her cheeks. Maker help him, he would kiss all the pain away. He brushed them with his lips, the taste of tears a bitter tang. Kissing them away wasn't all that bad of an idea. It would also be an apology of sorts. He shouldn't have stormed off; he should have been here.

Alistair chose to show her without words that he always would be there. There were so few things in his life he could claim had any sort of permanence. Maker help him, he would hold on to this. His lips lightly brushed her cheeks again, moving towards her lips. Those swollen, beautiful lips.

Alistair kissed her, lightly at first. He paid attention to her responses. In the year or so they had been together they had learned to read each other. More than just the undertones of dialog, but in the way they walked and the gazes they exchanged. How their lips opened up like books to each other, imparting worlds undiscovered.

Orla's slightly parting lips may well have been the opening of city's gate, inviting him and only him in. With the invitation he took the kiss deeper, their tongues entwining. She responded to it with a fire equal to his own. Alistair pulled away for a moment to take off the doublet and shirt tunic underneath, Orla's hands getting tangled up in an attempt to help. He couldn't complain about that small snag when the reward was her hands on his bare chest.

Alistair had to fight with himself to break the kiss for a moment, one hand cupping Orla's face, the other holding her hand gently. He pressed his forehead to hers as he tried to steady his breath. Hers was also coming in short, ragged bursts. He hoped he was more to blame for it than the tears. He could deal with that.

"I love you," Alistair said, "I love you so much."

"Love you too," Orla replied, her voice barely above a whisper, "Alistair?"

"Hm?"

"Don't stop. Please," she said, leaning in for another kiss. This one just a light touching of lips. It was the kindling that sparked the fire, "And don't go," she finished.

"I," Alistair started, punctuating each word, each breath with a kiss, "am not going anywhere. Promise," he said, feeling her breath hot on his lips before covering her mouth with his. His hands pulled at the folds in her robes, struggling to undress her without breaking the contact. After a deep kiss that seemed to hang forever on a moment, Orla pulled away. Alistair couldn't keep his hands to himself and they tangled in her robes as she pulled them up over her head, leaving her in muslin shift.

They both laughed as they tossed the heavy blue and silver robe aside, Orla having to shake her arm to get it to finally fall free. Alistair's hands instantly made their way under the muslin, feeling the the bare skin of her perfectly formed rear. He buried his lips in her neck and nipped at the skin. He wanted nothing more than to coax those small gasps and moans she made out of her.

His plan worked. He grinned to himself as his teeth grazed her earlobe, his breath pushing read strands of hair around. Orla turned the tables on him in an instant when her fingers undid the knot keeping his breeches closed and her hand slipped inside. Those long, nimble fingers closed around him and for a moment he lost the ability to think at all.

"Dear Maker," he gasped and her response was a breathy laugh.

Her hand, the sound of her laugh, the feel of her breath against his skin all conspired to break him. He had wanted to make this all about her but here Orla was taking those plans and shattering them with each kiss she planted on his chest. Maker help him, he was too distracted to notice exactly what she was planning until she paused and looked up at him.

"Stand up," she whispered in his ear, one hand still stroking his member. That snapped him back to the present even if it was hard to think through everything she was doing.

"No, no… this was supposed to be about you," Alistair managed.

"Then stand up for me," Orla returned with an expert twist of her hand.

Alistair swallowed, managing to make it to his feet. His breeches falling in a pile on the ground. Orla helped him stumble out of them and put them to the side. Once that was done, she sat on her knees in front of him. Alistair's hands tangled in Orla's red hair as she ran her tongue over him. While this was the complete opposite of what he had planned he couldn't claim to be upset by the change in plans.

Especially when it went from just being her tongue on him to her mouth closing around him. His hands tangled in her hair some more as the sheer pleasure of it washed over him. Though Orla's eyes were still puffy from tears spent, they now had an impish glint in them and it was infectious. He smiled down at her and then groaned as she took him deeper than she had before.

That was new and almost a breaking point. Alistair was determined this wouldn't be the end. Not so soon, no matter how hard Orla was trying to speed him along that path. It took an act of extreme willpower to get her to pull away, and he dropped down to his knees to be with her. Alistair took her mouth with his the taste of him on her tongue nearly driving him mad.

He needed her so much that it was painful. He laid Orla down without bothering to remove the thin shift and with one easy thrust buried himself inside of her. He paused for a moment, soaking up the feeling of being buried in her and to give himself enough of a pause that things wouldn't end too quickly.

"Alistair," Orla's voice hitched in the middle of calling his name and she wiggled and shifted beneath him. He almost lost it when her lips slightly grazed his neck, but he held still for another moment before he had to start moving or risk going insane.

There was no slow start, when Alistair started moving he went full force. He was too wound up to go slow, to be gentle. Each thrust he made pulled the most beautiful sounds from Orla. She was quiet at first letting out little pants and moans with each stroke. She seemed to grow louder with every movement they made together.

"Alistair," she said his name again and the hitch on her voice nearly finished him right there, "don't… go," the was cut short by her trembling, gasping climax. Now with no reason to hold back, Alistair picked up the pace, lifting one of her legs slightly to get a better, deeper angle.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised, riding her climax into his own shuddering release, "I promise," he whispered in the aftermath as he held her tightly in his embrace. "I promise you…"

"One should not make promises they are not able to keep," Sten's voice steady and clear. Orla didn't always agree with everything he had to say, but there were plenty of times his nearly emotionless candor had proven invaluable. Orla spent another moment pretending to study the soil beneath their feet before standing up, leaning on her staff.

"I didn't ask for your advice, Sten," she said simply. They were scouting ahead of the Arl's train, looking for signs of darkspawn. Orla, Sten and Dane would have an easier time taking out any groups on the way to Denerim than the Arl's soldiers would. It also allowed her time away from the Arl himself.

"No," he agreed tersely, "but you still need it."

"Everyone seems to know exactly what it is I need," Orla snapped. There was no need to apologize for outbursts with Sten. The Qunari appreciated honesty over tact and it was a trait in him she had come to value highly. It didn't mean there weren't times when it annoyed her to the void and back, "Is this where I get another delightful story from the Qun?"

"If you like I know several that would fit this situation," Sten said without a hint of irony, "None of them end well."

"Huh. I was hoping for the one about the bees again," Orla said dryly, "I suppose that one is out of the question."

"It is. Of all the sarrebas I have seen, only you have an understanding of the danger of the power you hold. Unless you end up possessed you are only a threat to our enemies," Sten said matter-of-factly.

"And if I end up possessed?" Orla asked as they walked forward. Darkspawn were idiots, talking wouldn't give them away, scent and smell would.

"If I am there, I will kill you," Sten returned. There was something about the way he said it, so calm and simple that stopped Orla in her tracks. She turned around and looked up at the Qunari.

"Thank you," Orla said simply. Sten didn't respond with words but nodded once in a way that showed he understood the thanks were genuine and not sarcastic. After that they walked in silence for a few moments, Dane sniffing the ground as he trotted beside them.

"Don't think your change of topic was successful," Sten said after a moment, "A reminder that having me stand as guard means I hear more than I wish to, kadan," he noted.

"If it bothers you so much stop standing guard," Orla said. She had asked for it, and the Qunari had obliged, this wasn't the first complaint he had made about it though.

"It is time you stopped ignoring your obligations. How will you defeat the blight if you are distracted, kadan?" Sten said, his tone was hard as ever if you didn't know him but Orla could have sworn she was now able to detect softness, sarcasm, humor and friendliness in his voice from time to time. Right now she could have sworn it was worry. It was barely there, but unmistakable.

"Who knew Qunari could worry," she mused aloud.

"Now is not the time to deflect questions, kadan," Sten said. "When we return to Denerim you must be ready to do what must be done."

"And what is it that must be done, Sten?" Orla said, her stride changing as they walked up a steep hill.

"These bickering nobles of yours must either be pacified or killed and then an army raised," Sten said. "You are talented and those we've gathered will fight but without an army we will die," Sten said, stopping at the crest of the hill, "You need to act, kadan. With time not taking action becomes an action of its own."

Orla shook her head but the words on her mouth died as they reached the top of the hill, a view of Denerim below spread out before her. Her stomach dropped and her hands on her staff shook. The time had gone faster than she felt it should have.

"Tell me Sten," Orla said, as she watched a flock of birds fly through the cloud of coal and wood smoke that blanketed the city below them, "I am not going to be allowed a happy ending, am I?" she asked as Dane sat beside her, licking her hand.

"Doing one's duty should be more important. If you do not then no, you will not get your 'happy ending', kadan," Sten returned with blunt honesty.

Tears blurred her vision, causing her view of the city to run like wet ink. She turned on her heel, "Let's head back. There's a lot to prepare for," Orla said, the words catching in her throat.