Apologies for the immense delay, but real life happens, unfortunately. Also, the DA2 bug bit hard, leading to some other fics being started up. However, both this and Samsara will be finished, no matter how long it takes in the end. Fortunately, this dialogue was written long ago, so I had some reference points.

At least there's loads of Alistair to go around, right?

o.O.o

More than Ever After

o.O.o

Nimue really needed to get away from this all. Get away from people who liked to push her in directions they approved of – she needed to stop obeying their whims for the sake of keeping the peace.

How dare she? Senior Enchanter or no, Wynne had absolutely no right to intrude on what little personal life she had left. She could very well proclaim her undying love for Sten and convert to the Qun and it wouldn't be anyone's business but hers. She wouldn't do it, considering what they did to mages in Seheron, but the point was there.

Damn Jowan for being persuasive in his desperation. Damn Duncan for turning her chance at freedom into hell.

And damn Zevran, with his entirely effective way of chipping away at her resolve not to plunge into what could in the end mean a simple fling to him. It was hard to think rationally, though, when intense eyes were boring into yours yet offering no promises beyond those he could fulfill.

The mage kicked hard at the nearest rock, relieved that her new heavier boots could take the blow without injuring her toes.

"Taking out aggression on innocent rocks? Someone has been taking lessons from Shale, I see." Alistair looked no worse for the wear after their trek through the forest, save for perhaps the few twigs he had had to take out of his hair. In any case, if anyone's company was relatively welcome at this point, she could have done worse. "You look better, Nimue."

"Less grime-covered and leg-snapped, you mean?"

"Don't forget the twigs, those were quite scenic." the templar laughed, surveying her new attire with interest and the faintest blush. Yes, she did notice. "Not too eccentric, compared to the usual mage head-gear. Though your new choice of attire is somewhat…"

"Different?"

The smile remained. "I was going to say intriguing, but your word works too. I thought you had other robes, though. I mean-"

"Gifts are always nice." The soft leather of the gloves that had instantly reminded her of a story told not so long ago… Nimue shook the thought off. "Besides, I hardly think we're rich enough to be able to ignore food and hospitality."

"Your priorities are still in the right place, thank the Maker. Though I suppose we'll be dining a little differently once we get back to Redcliffe… and then to Denerim…"

"I don't want to go."

Alistair watched her throw a few berries from a nearby bush to a squirrel that wasn't able to get a proper foothold there. "You don't? Why?"

"I just feel…" Lost. Frightened. Uncertain. But more so, more than ever. This wasn't her world, the one they were going to enter. "I've gotten used to this. Running around the country, hunting down obscure items, attempting to solve life-threatening problems… I sort of wish Arl Eamon would do the whole political dance alone and leave the fighting business to us."

"You know it doesn't work that way. Besides, I'd think you'd be eager to get to Denerim. That business in the Tower of Magi…" Alistair chose not to elaborate, which she was thankful for.

Nimue's eyes dimmed a little nonetheless. She would never forget the moments spent there. How all reason seemed to have fled from her when she had screamed at Greagoir with all the pent up anger of many years, called the templars useless and marched through the accursed doors herself, the others trailing behind. How Uldred had thought she might succumb. How Niall had died. How Cullen-

She didn't want to think about him. The poor templar's attraction to her hadn't gone completely unnoticed, if only due to the powers of gossip residing in the Tower, but she had never thought that it might be so deep. Only strong passion could turn into another emotion just as powerful, given the right impulses.

"Yes. Yes, it was…" Nimue couldn't continue.

This was an expression of grim loss that Alistair was well acquainted with. And so, he repeated the method of comforting that Duncan had offered him after his joining; he placed a tentative hand on the mage's shoulders, gripping gently.

"The day when Loghain pays for his crimes is coming." he promised, both to himself and to her.

"It won't bring them back." Nimue didn't shrug him off, but didn't seek out his embrace either. She could feel other eyes upon her, though whether it was from the Dalish, Wynne or someone less ill-disposed towards her, she couldn't say. "The Wardens, the king… or the mages."

"But it cannot go on like this." No, it couldn't. "It has to stop and he must pay the price."

Once upon a time, when she had been just a small girl in the Tower, tales of the outside world had been limited to history books. Templars and priests refused to talk about the outside and their permission to leave the grounds was always minimal and rare. And so, Nimue grew up reading about the heroes of the rebellion, their golden king, warrior queen and shadow general. Two of the three were dead and gone; she had never imagined that the third might one day become her enemy.

"He does, but…" Thinking about such things served no one, the elf realized with a sigh. Politics was tricky enough without someone like her interfering; perhaps they might yet find a solution with the nobles' support. "Wynne has asked me to return to the Circle."

These words came like a surprise stab to the gut, if Alistair's expression was any indication.

"Return? Why?" he demanded, and Nimue wished he would remember that this was Wynne's delusion, not hers. "You're a Grey Warden now; you don't have to adhere to those rules anymore."

Ah, that was the problem. Strange, that a day should come when a near-templar would be defending her right to remain free of the Circle. Nimue hid a small smile. This human… this man had changed so many of her preconceptions about templars. He was kind and courageous, everything like the princes from stories ought to be. Despite this, in many ways, he was more naïve than she, which was a dangerous thing.

She knew that Eamon hadn't inquired about her intentions towards him out of parental concern alone. This entire arrangement – putting his former ward on the throne, and who better to advise him in the absence of other authority figures? – could be termed convenience or a fortunate set of incidents. But it could also be exploited quite well, if the new king remained uncertain about his decisions.

Funny how a few months ago, she would have readily trusted the arl's charity and goodwill. Now, it seemed that enemies were anywhere and everywhere. Or at least those more than willing to use her for their own purposes.

"No, no… she wants me there willingly. Said I could restore the Circle. Maybe she expects me to take over from Irving, I… I don't really know."

"Ah, so that's why my wayward socks haven't been the target of her stink-eye today." Alistair nodded, but still frowned. It was an uncommon occurrence for Wynne not to spot travelling items of clothing, especially the dirty kind.

"How do they do that, anyway?" Nimue would have to remember to keep her tent away from his next time if it was so easy for the socks to migrate. "They must really dislike you to sneak off every time."

"What can I say? Ours is a forbidden love. But now you're changing the subject… what did she say?"

"Aren't you going to ask what I said?"

"No, because you've been very clear about your opinions about the Circle for the past year." Alistair didn't necessarily agree, but he understood a mage's perspective. A year ago, he would have been vehemently against it, but the thought of Nimue back in that prison, against her will… he wouldn't allow it, no matter what Wynne said. "Now that you've turned all forest resident on me, you could practically be Morrigan's sister…"

That was a disturbing thought. But the revealing armor did nothing to turn his mind away from the thought of Nimue's pale skin in the moonlight, dancing among the trees…

The elf's eyebrows arched. "Forest resident?"

… clothing only strategically covering her modesty as she danced in the light of fires, performing ancient magic without even having to resort to her powers…

"… and I probably should have found a nicer way to put it because it's not that you look bad or anything and that armor actually suits you and I'll just be shutting up now and possibly switching the topic." Alistair tried to say all that in one breath, willing himself not to blush or look anywhere near her neckline. "What did Wynne say?"

"She prodded. I snapped." A surprisingly terse explanation. Bad, then. "She was… is… displeased. Is it such a wonder that I don't want to return to the Tower? Never mind, you probably share the same viewpoint."

"Well, in a way, but you know my allergy to nervous mages… and I don't really share it, just so you know. You always look sad when the Circle is mentioned." It made him want to cradle her in his arms and say things beyond empty assurances; make real promises that only death could stop him from keeping. Perhaps not even that, if she returned his affection. "No, not sad, more like… I don't know, resigned. Angry and resigned at the same time. It really isn't that hard to see."

"Will things change for mages when you take the throne?" Nimue asked suddenly.

"Whoa there, whoa, whoa." Alistair raised his arms defensively at the innocent question. She sounded so certain, so… confident. "Since when did this become that kind of conversation?"

She supported his bid for the throne. The idea terrified Alistair to the core, because it meant that she either didn't see his feelings or didn't return them. He had wasted so much time… and if it came to the worse, if Eamon had his way… he would lose this woman forever, to Ferelden, to the Wardens, to his own damnable stupidity.

The King of Ferelden couldn't marry an elf, a mage, or a Grey Warden who couldn't bear children. To marry all three would mean nothing short of a coup against him.

But he wasn't the King of Ferelden – not yet, a small voice in his head whispered – and so he could. Marry, that is. The fact that he was thinking of the final step of a relationship before it had ever truly begun was almost staggering, but Alistair decided it was because he truly wished it to become reality that he was imagining this future.

Of course, it would all be for naught if she accepted Bann Teagan's proposal…

That was what he needed to ask her. Did she love Teagan? His uncle – well, step-uncle, in a way – was a good man, even a great one, but also older than Nimue by at least fifteen years. He was a noble as well, which would provide some complications, but Rainesfere wasn't one of the most important bannorn, so it could perhaps be manageable…

"I'm curious." Nimue was answering him, refusing to let the question go, as if he were already crowned. Perhaps they had spent more than just two encounters together, her and Teagan, and with Eamon's support… "And you've never really mentioned what you think you'll do. Not about the Circle or anything else."

"Maybe because I'm still very much against this crazy idea floating around that I would make anything close to a good king?" Alistair now understood that selfishness was often rewarded in an unfair world. Perhaps it was selfish of him to want something more than to serve Ferelden. "Have you forgotten the cheese incident?"

That impish smile alone was a force to be reckoned with. "Which one?"

"The one two weeks ago. I think." Alistair added, his face scrunched up in remembering.

"It's a tough game, but I still support your bid for the throne." Here, blue eyes softened and Alistair almost forgot anxiety and fear, almost blurted out what would have likely been the most un-romantic confession of love in the history of Thedas. "We all do what we must, Alistair. Besides, I do actually think you'll make a good king."

"Oh, really?" So she didn't know; this was merely her opinion of his competences. Something in his chest, clutching hard until then, loosened a little. "Such a vote of confidence coming from Lady I-Don't-Want-To-Get-Involved-In-Politics."

"You said you studied history as a templar." She remembered. She always remembered these things, the things no one ever listened to. "Well, we have books about politics as well."

"Really? Huh, I would have thought the Chantry would like to keep you mages as isolated as possible." The Tower had certainly done its best to be a prison without appearing entirely like one. Though it was a difficult thing to look accommodating in any way when there was unnatural growth all over it.

"Yes, well, even the slower of us eventually start to wonder what lies outside the tower. It's a small… confined world." Nimue explained, a strange contradiction in her face. She had loved the Tower and hated it in the same measure, though possibly at different stages of her life. "Though the books can be a great thing, for a while, at least. Anyway, my original point was that you'll be a good king. You've got experience in fighting for what you want, have seen your whole country, don't lose your pants anymore when needed as a temporary leader…"

"Speaking of that, don't ever force me into such a situation again, do you hear me?" Don't ever make me see you limp and helpless, don't ever make me see you bleed, don't ever make me witness others leap to your defense while not giving me a chance, don't leave me… "Next time you need some heavy lifting done, take at least one sword-swinging person with you."

"Zev was with me and he qualifies." Nimue pointed out, using the nickname as freely as air.

Alistair wasn't very impressed. No, he was more worried and irritated. She hadn't cast the assassin aside yet and with the way she had allowed him to proclaim her his wife – for a good cause, but still…

Teagan was a distant threat that he could possibly counter. But Zevran was always there, always watching and at her side more often than not, more often than even he was nowadays.

The elf was shifty, damn it all, and Alistair didn't trust him around Nimue in more ways than one. If it wasn't because he would stab her through the heart if given a chance, then his other designs on her body (heart possibly included) were transparent enough.

"Yes, well, forgive me for not doing my happy dance. When I mean sword-swinging, I would prefer it to be someone who actually fights. Dancing around and stabbing people in the back doesn't really count, you know."

"Another kingly trait there – keeps a firm standpoint on things. But you could lay off a little bit with the suspicion." Nimue noted, a bit weary of this. "He doesn't seem to be about to try anything funny again."

One night of pleasure that I would much rather turn into many, my Warden. Are you not cold, fair nymph, in those wet clothes? When we return to camp, I will gladly assist you in warming up…

Nimue… no one has ever simply… given me a gift before. Thank you. That you thought of me at all…

"Speaking of that… what's this I hear about you being - what's the word I'm searching for – oh, yes, married to him?" Alistair was red to the very roots of his hair, though more likely out of embarrassment than anger. Nimue almost laughed; at the very least, it served to bring her away from thoughts that were most definitely not productive to rational thinking, let alone sanity. "When did that happen?"

She gave a sheepish smile and laughed a little, quite certain that if she had had any elder brothers, this was the look they would have given her for maidenly misbehavior. "Oh, yes, that…"

"Oh, yes, that?" Alistair's voice was usually pleasing and even mellow, but rose in pitch very quickly when he was exasperated. "You don't think news like this might have deserved a casual mention at the camp before I heard it from Dalish elves we barely know?"

Everything about his mother hen appearance suggested that she had ruffled more than her share of feathers today and You Have Some Explaining To Do, Young Lady.

"It's my attempt to not sabotage our recruitment efforts by having half of this camp go after us." Now she was the one on the defensive, trying not to back straight into the nearest tree. "I thought it might be most believable if it were me, since we're both elves."

"So you're - you're not-" Dear Maker, had he actually thought-?

Nimue had to concede that it was possible, yes, given how often marriage kept popping up in casual conversation nowadays. But if Alistair was so familiar with Zevran's motives as he claimed to be, he would have quite easily been able to tell that such vows of fidelity were rather far from the elf's vocabulary.

It was enough that the silly Dalish girls and boys didn't know that.

"While we're in this camp, yes. Once out of earshot, not that I know of." she explained firmly. "You don't have to be so distressed about it. I didn't sign a pact with a demon or anything. It's a thing of convenience."

Not that it would stop Zevran from milking it for all it was worth while they were here. Perhaps that was part of the reason why leaving for Redcliffe and then Denerim continued to grow less appealing the closer it got. The comments, she had gotten used to and the hints at groping by virtue of proximity…

Maker, but she was a silly girl herself.

"Oh, good, because I was really worried about my cluelessness level if I missed something like that." Alistair breathed an audible sigh of relief. No doubt he would have had a heart attack if he had tried asking Zevran about this first.

"I would be a bad person to not invite you to the feast, wouldn't I?" Nimue grinned, "Especially since you actually managed to get me to like cheese."

"Hey, don't say it like an accusation!" The relief pouring through him was as welcome as flowers in the spring. "Cheese is an experience that shouldn't be denied to anyone! I never really understood how horrible you mages have to have it in that tower until you told me that. So then, funny story, how did you end up with a snapped leg?"

Best steer the conversation away from Zevran. The strange look in her eyes when they spoke of the elf was a little worrying, but Alistair chalked it up to discomfort. She had sacrificed her own personal space for a bunch of elves she barely knew. If that wasn't dedication to Grey Warden ideals, he didn't know what was.

"That was my fault, sort of. Got too close to a sylvan to avoid getting trapped in its roots and, well, it tried to hug me but missed."

But she had picked up some of Alistair's own humor along their journey, and the ex-templar was quite grateful to see traces of his own influence in her.

"Cute. You do remember that your magic usually works best as a ranged weapon?" And the image of her fighting up close against darkspawn was hardly comforting. "Not that trying to clobber the thing with your staff isn't an inspired choice, but… oh, wait, now that would just be silly, wouldn't it?"

Nimue laughed, thoughts of marriage and Wynne and darkspawn fleeing from her mind for a while. Forgetting about their plight; that was one of the great gifts Alistair possessed – cheering her up. And it certainly was one of the primary reasons why they had become such fast friends.

"That certainly does explain your thought process, Alistair." she teased.

"Doesn't it? You should try it sometimes. It might do wonders for you." Sage advice, that, but it seemed that the human also possessed the mysterious ability not to be distracted by his own humor when the situation warranted it. "Nimue, this is exactly what I meant by having more people with melee weapons at your side – so you don't have to charge to the frontline."

She didn't tell him about how small the chamber had been, filled with spirits and arcane creatures, or how easily separated they had gotten once inside. Mentioning how Zevran had almost tackled a shade that tried to enclose her from the other side was out of the question. It was her own stupidity that had sent her tumbling into the sylvan's path.

"I'm not sure what I was thinking; instinct, I guess." Perhaps more than that, she remembered. She hadn't told anyone else, but perhaps it was time for the secret to come out. "Or maybe it was the arcane warrior implanted memory thing acting up."

"Implanted memory?" Alistair repeated, blinking owlishly. "Arcane warrior?"

On second thought, perhaps she should have told someone with a deeper knowledge of magic, but Wynne was out of the question and Morrigan… well, it seemed that some of the halla had taken an interest in her woodland smell, so getting her to cooperate was out of the question. An irritated Witch of the Wilds meant trouble, friends or no. Those leathers of hers must have carried with her the smell of many a swamp clinging to them to make the creatures so confused.

"Eh, well, there was this vial in the ruins…" Nimue tried to explain in the simplest terms. "I sort of triggered it by accident, but I think it was for the best." she added hastily.

"Um… could you elaborate?" Alistair looked like he didn't really want to hear the rest, but needed to. "I think I'm a little out of the loop here. In fact, the loop and I have drifted apart a while ago and our relationship was never truly the same ever since."

And so Nimue obliged him, leaving out the fact that it had been only her and Zevran there when it had happened.

Alistair looked like he was about to pop a vein nonetheless, and that was before Morrigan made it within earshot. The dark witch seemed interested in the description and remained much calmer throughout the entire explanation.

"Do you have the slightest idea what could have happened to you?" Morrigan chided, golden eyes flashing. "Demonic possession is nothing to be trifled with. If your body had been taken over by the spirit, 'twould have been most difficult to retrieve your consciousness from it."

Still, it was done, and the warning seemed to be the extent of her intention.

Alistair, on the other hand, didn't find words at first, but lapsed into sarcasm out of habit.

"Yes, Nimue, it would have been dreadful to have to go through with such a process. Do you know how much eye of newt would be required for that?" As the witch's capacity for idiocy was filled for a day, she gave an unladylike snort and sauntered away, muttering about domesticated animals on her way past them. "But could you please repeat that? Because it sounded like you allowed some soul-in-a-jar you barely knew into your own mind on a simple hunch."

"I… guess?"

Wrong answer. The metaphorical vein had popped.

"Have you lost your mind? You could have- could have been- Wynne let you do this?" He had his armored hands on her shoulders again, standing much closer with an expression that was entirely too grim. Not dark enough to be a templar, but definitely enough to be a disapproving parent.

"She sort of wasn't there…?" Nimue had to venture that far, but refused to elaborate.

"Then where was she? Who was there? And are you sure you're all right?" Alistair's initial mask of anger was fading away into pure concern. "It isn't like you to rush to the forefront of a battle. Maybe the spirit is affecting you somehow…"

"It was just memories, Alistair. The spirit didn't posses enough strength to… possess anyone." It had just wanted to die. At times, Nimue found herself sympathizing. "Besides, I have experience with resisting possession attempts."

Letting go with reluctance, Alistair realized that he had gone a little too far. His cheeks were alight with worry and embarrassment, but he composed himself quickly enough. Nimue was the only one who spotted that they now had several observers in the distance, most of which turned back to their tasks immediately upon noticing her staring back.

"Yes, I-I didn't realize."

Wynne was tending to the wounded, her back turned to her, but she seemed to be casting her disapproval in the direction where Zevran was apparently entertaining Oghren with some doubtless off-color jest, if the dwarf's roaring laughter was anything to go by. Strangely, Shale was nearby, not distancing herself from them whenever possible.

Funny, that.

"It's nothing."

"No, I shouldn't have." Alistair repeated firmly, not merely playing the man of honor. The mage felt a smile tug at the edge of her lips, even if her gaze was still directed towards where Rabbit had inexplicably joined the peculiar group. "But I'm still a little worried. Why did you not try this out in the camp before attempting to utilize the technique in battle?"

"Guess I'm taking a page out of your book - I'm improvising."

"Oh, so your potentially crippling injury is actually a result of my influence? I'm so proud of my teaching abilities. What does it mean, then? Did you gain skill only with the sword? Is it a magic thing?" Alistair looked eager and confused at the same time. "Evidently, a staff remains a staff, even in your hands."

Nimue didn't really know how to term what she was experiencing. It wasn't another consciousness in her mind, merely memories that she couldn't really place. Another life… another existence in a faraway land.

"I think I need to use this." she said, finally looking back at her fellow Warden. "I can now hold a sword properly… perhaps it's time to learn how to wield it as well."

"Memories or no, swordplay isn't something you can learn in a day, Nimue." Alistair obviously didn't understand the extent of the transformation, but that was secondary. "I know it doesn't look very impressive compared to your magic, but it actually does take years of practice."

"The archdemon won't wait years."

"The last ones did."

"We don't have years." And she refused to devote all of the years she had to spare to hunting and being hunted. "I'll learn. I'll do whatever it takes. And then…" Her smile was so confident, Alistair almost didn't even recognize the frightened mageling he had first been saddled with. "Then I'll be ready for whatever this Blight can throw at me."

Her eyes were burning with the fire of determination as she turned to walk back to the camp, ready to face those standing against her once more. And Alistair was left alone to ponder what things would be like if their positions were reversed – she the unwanted heir and he the released mage – just as Rabbit was trying to renegotiate the terms of his participation in the ongoing wager.