Jowan was understandably quite nervous during the couple of days they spent in Denerim, seeking out Brother Genitivi – not home, but his assistant was able to tell them where the man had last been headed to – and resupplying. He stuck to Alistair's side like glue, so it seemed like Alistair was bumping into him every time he turned around. It annoyed him – briefly, very briefly – and then amused him. He had to admit, he was feeling rather protective of his dark-haired friend, and any templar that recognized the maleficar for what he was and tried to take him away would have had to get past Alistair first. Not that any of them did, thankfully.
They'd have been hard-pressed to, anyway. He looked very little like a soft, tower-bred mage any more, and nothing at all like the frightened dungeon mouse they'd left Redcliffe with. He was fit, richly tanned, and while he was still nervous around strangers, had a ready smile for any of his companions. The only item he carried or wore that was even slightly mage-like was the rough oak branch he used as a staff, and as it looked exactly like a walking stick – and he used it as if it was one – no one even appeared to notice it. He looked like a yeoman or some farmer's son, not a mage.
But then, Alistair found himself thinking, that was part of the ongoing tragedy that was the circles; so many of the mages locked away in them were the sons and daughters of farmers, millers, merchants, smiths, craftspeople of every breed, ripped away from their families and immured in a world where even a simple breath of wind was a wonder to savour. He wondered if it was easier for people like Jowan, who'd been brought to the tower so young he had little to no memory of the world outside, or for older children, who'd have clear memories of family and friends and life outside and being accepted. Being loved.
From Denerim they headed back west again, taking the northern route this time.
Three days west of the city, they had their first encounter with darkspawn since leaving Redcliffe; surprising, really, that they'd entirely missed them travelling east, even though they'd passed within a few miles of the haunted ruins of Lothering.
One moment they were walking along the rutted dirt track, conversing quietly, Leliana humming some jaunty tune to herself. The next Alistair and Arren stopped, dropped their packs and drew their weapons, both turning to look to the south, moments before a group of darkspawn boiled out of the the concealment of a dry stream bed. Most of the group, used by now to the warden's preternatural ability to detect nearby darkspawn, were already unlimbering their own weapons or staffs, shedding their own burdens. Jowan was the only one who wasn't sure what was going on, though he was smart enough to raise his own staff and look the way everyone else was when he saw what the others were doing.
Still, it was his first actual encounter with darkspawn, and at the sight of the oncoming group of genlocks and hurlocks he was hard pressed not to turn tail and run away out of sheer overwhelming terror and revulsion. He thought later that it was only that he was too frozen by fright to move that prevent him from an ignominious retreat.
And then Alistair was between him and the oncoming creatures, Arren a few feet to one side, his massive two-handed sword already drawn back for a blow, the rest falling in to their assorted positions – Zevran and Mouse ready to dart in and harry things around the edge, Sten falling in on the other side of Alistair from Arren, Leliana and the mages clustered behind them. Jowan quickly took the couple of steps necessary to place him to one side of Wynne, Morrigan opposite him, so that anything trying to get at the elderly healer would have to get by pretty much everyone else in the party first.
It got hectic after that, the air filled with the crash and sizzle of spells, weapons moving in bright arcs through the air, temporarily darkening with blood time and time again as they pierced hearts, slashed bellies, removed heads or limbs. Even caught up in his own role in the battle – which mainly consisted of casting his limited repertoire of spells very, very carefully – Jowan had a moment to feel astonished at the skill and grace of the warriors and rogues. Alistair, with his bright armour and loud cries and glittering shield seemed to be a magnet for the creatures. Sten and Arren winnowed through them with their great blades like harvesters scything grain, while Zevran and the mabari darted in and out, attacking whatever vital spots they could reach. Leliana's arrows cut through the air with an uncanny ability to clearly miss her friends while sinking into her foes with deadly accuracy.
And then as quickly as it had started, it was over, the men resheathing their weapons, pleased grins on their faces as they viewed the carnage. Wynne hurried over to check that no one was in need of her healing talents, concerning herself first with the qunari and assassin, since they were most in danger if they chanced to get darkspawn blood into an open wound.
Jowan saw Alistair and Arren slap each other on the back, then Alistair stretched, lithe as some great predator even in his heavy armour, sun glinting in his golden hair, a wide smile still on his face. Maker, he was magnificent... Jowan quickly turned away, looking for his discarded backpack, unsettled by the direction his thoughts had just veered.
Jowan had been unusually quiet ever since their encounter with darkspawn the day before. Alistair put it down to the upset any rational being would feel after first encountering the vile creatures. He'd asked Arren once if it was easier or harder to face them now that he was a Grey Warden, and immune to the taint. Arren had thought about it seriously for a long time, and then confessed that he couldn't really say. His one experience of them prior to being recruited by Duncan wasn't long enough in duration for him to remember more than how frightening it had been, how concerned he'd been to try and locate his missing friend Tamlen. And it had been a different experience again in the Korcari Wilds, when he'd at least known what to expect and been with others, and mainly had been feeling sick and shaky and just wanting things to be done so he could be cured of the taint he could feel poisoning his body.
"The best answer I can give is that it's differently hard every time we have to face them," he'd said.
And Alistair had had to agree with that summation, since his own experience seemed to agree with it.
"We're going to camp early today," Arren called out. "I know it's only mid-afternoon, but I remember a spot we camped at near here that had a good bathing spot and I am dying for a bath. Any objections?"
Dead silence and pleased grins from everyone was his answer.
"Motion carried then," he said, and a few minutes later led them off the road and up a narrow trail to a small clearing well back from the road, tucked in among a heavy stand of trees and with a stream curling around one end of it, with a sizable pond discretely screened from the camp by a tall growth of cattails along its banks.
By popular consensus the women took care of setting up camp while the men went to bathe; Morrigan, Wynne and Leliana all planned to linger over their baths, and didn't want impatient stinky men making comments while they did so.
Zevran had shucked off half his armour before they even reached the screening mass of cattails; the others waited until they were out of sight to begin stripping.
The area with the cattails was a rather mucky shallows along one side of the stream, but the pond itself was large, chest-deep out in the middle, and had a sandy bottom. After stacking their armour and clothing on the small sandy beach at one end of the pond, the men waded out. Alistair found himself noticing how differently each of them approached the task of washing up.
Sten waded straight out to the middle at a steady pace, ducked under – the water was only about waist high on him – then started lathering up with a hard bar of oddly smelling soap that barely foamed. He'd mentioned once that it was made from oil pressed from a kind of sour tangy berry that grew on trees and was good to eat dried, salted, or pickled in brine, as well as being an important source of the oil, which was used both in cooking and in lamps.
Zevran boosted himself into a tree growing beside the pond, ran gracefully out along an overhanging branch, and dived into the water, barely making a splash as he cut the water, after which he languidly floated around on his back, gently waving his hands back and forth to keep himself up, eyes closed and a content smile on his face. He'd use a very foamy, spicy-scented soap once he was ready to actually bathe, Alistair knew from prior experience.
Arren was much like Sten – a straight-forward entry to the water, after which he cleaned himself using a paste of herbs and roots he regularly made up whenever he could gather the correct materials.
Jowan was picking his way nervously out into the water. He stopped before reaching the deepest part, and ducked himself a few times, then set to scrubbing at himself with sand and water. He'd use real soap later, the same strong lye-based soap Alistair used. Alistair bought that because it was inexpensive, it did the job well, and it was what he'd become used to in his years in the Redcliffe stables and the Denerim chantry. Jowan used it because they shared the soap.
As he waded out into the pond himself, aiming at a spot in the deeper water beyond Jowan, he couldn't help but contrast the mage's appearance with everyone else – and with how changed he was since that first bath after leaving Redcliffe.
He looked... healthy, now. Still skinnier than anyone else currently in the pond – even Zevran had wider shoulders and more muscular arms and legs – but filled in, not gaunt. Not any fat on him though. Not that he didn't have muscles, as he twisted and turned to scrub at himself Alistair could clearly see them bunching and shifting under his tanned skin, just... he was lean. Spare.
Jowan rose to his feet again, and slicked his hair back from his face, locking his fingers behind his head and stretching, back arching, the top curves of his buttocks momentarily rising above the surface of the water as he rose on tip-toe. The water drops clinging to his skin glinted like jewels in the sunlight, jewels that were slipping and sliding down his exposed flesh, some leaving little bright threads of moisture behind them.
Alistair swallowed, mouth suddenly gone dry. Jowan's arms dropped, and he started to turn, undoubtedly to head back to the shore and fetch a dollop of soap. Alistair quickly turned and looked a different direction. It would be bad to be caught staring at another man. Especially by that other man. Bad. Very bad.
He found himself facing Zevran instead. The elf was standing instead of floating and giving a very appreciative look in... in Jowan's direction. He continued staring for a long moment, then abruptly met Alistair's gaze. A slight smile – no, a knowing smirk – crossed his lips, and he raised an eyebrow at Alistair.
Alistair turned away from him as well, and ducked under the water, hoping no one else would notice the flaming red of his cheeks.
Jowan transferred a large dollop of the soft, acidic-scented lye soap from the earthenware container it was stored in onto the palm of his left hand, then re-corked the jar one-handedly before turning and wading back out into the pond. He kept his left hand carefully above the water as he waded out to where Alistair was crouched in the deep water, gazing off into the surrounding trees as he scrubbed at himself with handfuls of sand.
"Alistair – here," Jowan said quietly as he drew close. Alistair started, then turned and looked back over his shoulder at him, gaze dropping to his outstretched hand.
"Oh, thanks," he said, and straightened and turned, stepping closer. Jowan glanced nervously up at his face, and was relieved that Alistair was looking down at his hand, not at him. He glanced down as well, just as Alistair cupped his own left hand under Jowan's, supporting it across his fingertips, and then used the side of his right hand as a scoop to scrape about half the gooey soap off Jowan's hand and onto his own. Jowan's felt his own breathe catch at the casual contact, and was sure his cheeks were colouring.
Alistair quickly turned away, and Jowan did the same, so that they were standing side-by-side, facing in slightly different directions, angled away from each other.
Jowan quickly rubbed his hands together, evenly coating them in the soap, then began running his hands across his chest and stomach, his shoulders and arms. The lye soap did a good job of getting things clean, but you wanted to be quick in using it, or the caustic stuff would start to inflame and then peel your skin.
Alistair was using his with equal alacrity, Jowan noted out of the corner of his eyes. He found himself feeling horribly conscious of how close the other man was, how big he was – a head taller than Jowan, and easily twice as wide through the shoulders, though he tapered down to surprisingly narrow hips. Jowan found himself listening attentively to the even sound of Alistair's breathing, the faint hisses and grunts he made as he contorted himself to scrub as much of himself as he could reach with the soap. Jowan turned his head away, to remove the distraction from his field of vision, wishing he could so easily block out the little sounds as well.
He found himself facing Zevran instead, the elf lathering up with a smooth bar of very pale yellow soap, the distinctive scent of sandalwood and – what was that, musk perhaps? – filling the air. His eyes weren't on what he was doing, however, but were instead... glued on Alistair. Zevran's eyes flicked to Jowan for a moment, and he gave him a cheerful smile, then looked at Alistair again, the tip of his tongue emerging to lick sensuously along his lips. Jowan froze for a moment, then frowned, and moved a little to the side, blocking Zevran's direct line of sight. The elf met his eyes again, winked, then turned and faced the other way.
Jowan rubbed the soap into his hair last of all, keeping his eyes and mouth tightly closed during the procedure, then ducked under, scrubbing furiously to make sure he removed every trace from his scalp. He rose to his feet, gasped in a few lungfuls of air, then ducked under again and repeated the rinse before he was satisfied. Alistair had finished at about the same time, he noticed.
He sank back in the water, so only his head remained above the surface, in no hurry to leave the pond. Alistair did the same. They floated there side by side in companionable silence.
"Yesterday was your first experience with darkspawn, wasn't it?" Alistair hesitantly asked.
"Yes, it was," Jowan agreed. "I'd made it from the tower to Denerim and then back west again before they'd moved north from Ostagar."
Alistair frowned and nodded. "If you have any questions or worries about them, I can try to answer your questions," he offered. "Though if it's anything magic related, obviously Wynne or Morrigan would be a better choice to ask."
Jowan nodded. "Thanks," he said softly.
Alistair suddenly felt something sharp poke him in the back of the neck. He twitched and yelped, clapping one hand to the back of his neck, before rising to his feet and spinning to look behind him. Jowan turned as well. Zevran was standing behind the two of them, a cattail in each hand, an amused grin on his face. He flourished the cattail that was in his right hand, aiming the pointy dry spike rising from the plump brown cattail as if pointing the tip of a weapon at Alistair. "I demand satisfaction!" he spat out, then abruptly tossed the second cattail, until then held upright in his left hand, toward the warrior.
Alistair caught it automatically, feeling surprised, then his sense of the absurd kicked in and he was suddenly grinning as well. He changed his grip on the slender stem to more properly grip it, the point of his cattail lowering to almost touch Zevran's. They both shifted into a guard position, left sides of their bodies turned away from each other. Alistair heard Arren give a bark of laughter as he caught sight of what the two were up to. That seemed as good a signal to start their dual as any – Zevran appeared to think the same, as both exploded into motion at the same time.
They quickly found there were problems with trying to use land-based moves in an aquatic environment. The water slowed their motion, negating much of the effect of attempts at fancy footwork. And they had to keep their weapons unnaturally high, to avoid smacking into the water, which had a distinctly deleterious effect on weapon speed. And, naturally, that meant cuts or jabs at anything below roughly waist-level on Alistair and mid-chest on Zevran were right out of the question.
"What is the purpose of this exercise?" Alistair could hear Sten asking Arren, sounding puzzled and faintly disapproving.
"Entertainment, Sten," Arren responded. "Here, let's give it a try too," he said, and a moment later he entered Alistair's field of view, wading over to the cattail bed, a puzzled Sten following in his wake.
It all got dreadfully silly after that. Even Jowan got in on the act, snapping off replacement cattails as quickly as they were needed to keep everyone else supplied with weapons. At one point Zevran was holding off both Sten and Arren, a cattail rapier in one hand and the broken-off head of a cattail as a dagger in the other. Then Alistair and Arren were fighting back to back while Sten and Zevran circled them, doing their best to separate the pair. Jowan discovered around then that the cattails that had started breaking apart into loose rolls of silk-suspended seeds would explode into an impressive cloud of fluff if thrown with sufficient force against a reasonably hard surface. Such as the back of a large muscular warrior. The air filled with floating organic matter as all three warriors and the rogue turned on the hapless mage, chasing him around the pond until they succeeded in catching him and ducking him.
"Boys!" Wynne's voice cut through their revelry. "Am I going to have to come over there and drag you all out by the ear? We're still waiting for our turn."
The men stopped their playing, grinning at each other like mischievous children.
"Sorry, ladies," Arren called out. "I'm afraid we got a little carried away. We'll be right out." he assured her.
"Good," she said dryly.
They all had to duck under the water a few times to wash the coating of fluff off their skin, before returning to shore, dressing enough to be reasonably modest, then gathering up their gear and vacating the pond so the women could have their turn.
They'd dried off, fully dressed, erected the remaining tents, and had the never-ending stew heated and some pan bread to go with it baking in a lidded cast iron spider, before the women finally returned from their own baths, all three of them smiling, looking relaxed and pleased.
It ended up being a very pleasant evening, everyone sitting around the main campfire – even Morrigan deigning to join them for once, instead of keeping off to herself as she normally did. They ate, and talked, told anecdotes of their pre-Blight lives, or jokes, or stories. Leliana sang them an Orlesian folk song. Sten quoted them something in his own tongue – something from the Qun, apparently. None of them understood the words, but the sound of it in his deep rumbling voice was lovely. Arren told a Dalish story about a foolish hunter and all the trouble he got into by being too impatient to do things the right way. Jowan shyly piped up and told a funny anecdote about a prank he and a couple other apprentices had once pulled on a fourth apprentice.
Wynne laughed when he'd finished, then smiled widely. "So that's what happened to Anders' orange robe! That was very naughty of the three of you. I highly approve," she added, eyes twinkling, then yawned and looked surprised. "Oh dear, it's much later then I thought, isn't it. I'm afraid it's past time for me to head to bed."
That signalled a general withdrawal towards tents and bedrolls. Alistair and Jowan remained by the fire, neither of them feeling like retiring just yet. They sat in silence for a few minutes after everyone had left, either to their tents or, in Sten's case, to take the first turn at watch.
The silence was broken as Arren re-emerged from his tent, he glanced at them, smiled sheepishly and nodded his head when they saw him looking at them, then turned and strode off across the clearing toward Morrigan's little almost-separate encampment.
"He's a lucky man," Alistair said softly.
Jowan gave him a curious look. "I thought you didn't think much of the witch?"
Alistair shrugged. "I think we mainly snipe at each other out of habit, actually. Woman's got a sharp tongue and she isn't afraid to use it. But I grew up around some real shrews. If anything it's kind of... oddly comforting, to have someone to bicker with that way."
"Isolde one of them?" Jowan asked, very softly.
Alistair darted him a look. "Yes. Though I shouldn't speak unkindly of the dead," he answered, equally quiet. "She... wasn't always as selfish and cruel a woman as she seemed. From everything I've heard she was... rather sweet, as a young girl."
"What happened to change her?"
"Me," Alistair said ruefully. "I was a bastard born in the Arl's household, and he... looked after me. More or less. So rumour of course had it that I was his."
"Ouch."
"Indeed. So... I can't say I ever liked the woman, nor she me, but... she had reason. Or at least thought she did," he said quietly, looking down at the ground between his outstretched legs. "I guess the Arl came to regret his generosity in the end. He sent me away to the chantry. Where at least I got a better education than I'd have had if I'd continued as a stable boy, and eventually learned how to fight, and then a while after that went into templar training," he said, grinning.
"Fighting first, training second? Sounds like me, nasty spells first, harrowing second. Except I've still not ever actually been harrowed. On the other hand I haven't been made tranquil yet either, so I suppose that's a plus..."
"Don't" Alistair said, voice cracking, reaching out to touch Jowan's arm. "Templar trained, remember. I know all too well what being made tranquil involves. We had to study that, along with all the other horrors committed in the name of keeping a lid on mages. Just the thought of it... worse, of it being done to you..." he broke off, unable to continue, hand tightening uncomfortably on Jowan's arm.
Jowan looked wonderingly down at the hand on his arm, then slowly raised his head and gave Alistair a searching look. "You... care that much about what happens to me?" he asked, voice very small and full of wonder.
Alistair didn't even hesitate. "Yes," he rasped out. "I do. Care, I mean. Very much."
Something felt like it broke inside Jowan at those simple words Or no, not broke – released. He drew a deep shuddering breath, and then started crying, near silently, tears just spilling from his eyes, his breaths rough and uneven.
He felt a strong arm circle his shoulders, was tugged over against a large, solid, warm body, tucked in under Alistair's strong right arm like a chick under its mother's protective wing. He turned his face into Alistair's shoulder, letting the tears flow, his own hand grabbing a fistful of Alistair's collar. He felt Alistair's other arm come up around him, hand cupping the back of his head, thumb gently stroking up and down against the nape of his neck in a soothing motion.
Part of him felt horribly embarrassed by his involuntary reaction to Alistair's words. That it was taking place out here by the fire, in clear view of anyone who happened to look out of or exit their tent, made it even worse, it made him feel even more self-conscious about it. Yet at the same time, being held so securely, so comfortingly, Alistair making quiet little soothing sounds right beside his ear, the warmth of the man, the solidity of his arms, the sheer amount of caring in what he was so unthinkingly doing, made Jowan feel treasured in a way he couldn't ever remember feeling before. Appreciated. Wanted. Not the unlovely scrawny mage that no one cared about, that could count his friends on the fingers of one hand and have most of the digits leftover. That had managed to lose even those friends from one moment of frank stupidity and panic.
He cried until he was all cried out, head feeling thick and stupid, body trembling with after-reaction. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was sleep. Lay down and curl up and just let the world go away for a while. Anywhere. Here, if there was nowhere better.
"I'm so tired," he managed to whisper, his voice a thread of sound, mostly muffled by the sodden shoulder of Alistair's shirt.
He felt Alistair nod, then shift. For a moment he started to panic, thinking he was about to be abandoned again, and clutched convulsively at Alistair's shirt. "No!" he choked out.
"Shhh, it's okay, we've just going to our tent," Alistair said softly. "I'm still with you. Come on, stand up, it's just a few steps away. Or I could try carrying you, but I don't think that would be good for either of our dignity."
Jowan managed a weak laugh at that, and somehow, with considerable help from the warrior, made it to his feet and stumbled the few paces to their tent. Alistair helped him in, then there was a few minutes of muttering and fumbling around while Alistair helped him change into his night shirt, covered him with blankets, then stretched out beside him, draping one arm protectively over him.
He sighed. He was safe, he was secure, someone cared, and... he slept, deeply and dreamlessly.
He awoke feeling oddly empty and light. Some time during the night he and Alistair had shifted positions. The warrior was on his back, right hand resting on his stomach, left arm hooked out to the side around Jowan's shoulders and back, so that Jowan was pressed along his left side, head resting on Alistair's shoulder, his own right arm trapped somewhat uncomfortably under him and left arm draped over the man's torso. He felt his face heating with embarrassment at how... intimate... a position it was. About the only worse position he could imagine waking up in would have been the two of them spooning. With one or both of them with a morning erection. Which, thank the Maker, didn't appear to be a problem at the moment.
Alistair's chest rumbled with a low chuckle. "Awake, are you?"
Jowan swallowed nervously. "Yes," he rasped out, surprised at how rough his voice sounded. "Sorry," he muttered, and started trying to disentangle himself from the larger man.
Alistair obligingly moved his left arm out of the way, folding it under his own head and rolling over onto his side to look at Jowan. "You don't have anything to be sorry for," he said softly.
Startled, Jowan darted a look at his face. He was watching, a very slight smile on his lips, and his eyes were so warm, and accepting... even Lily had never looked at him that way. He felt a tremble pass through him, and almost started weeping again.
"What's wrong?" Alistair asked, voice as soft and caring as the look in his eyes.
"I... it's..." Jowan stuttered. And then drew a deep breath, and started telling Alistair about Lily. How beautiful she'd looked the first time they'd ever met. How surprised he'd been when his first awkward overtures were well received. The friendship that had so quickly sprung up between them, how they'd spend time together in the chantry, her tending to her chores around the room, him sitting somewhere near, the two of them endlessly talking about their dislike of the tower, their wish to be somewhere else. How much in love with her he'd felt.
They'd started discussing plans to escape the the tower. Not entirely seriously, of course, he'd still so desperately wanted to get through his harrowing first, putting the fear of being made tranquil behind him – because once you were harrowed, it wasn't allowed to tranquil a mage without extreme provocation. And then Lily's discovery that he was going to be made tranquil anyway, with never a chance at passing his harrowing. His panic at the news, how he'd recruited his only two friends – safely past their own harrowings – to help him destroy his phylactery and attempt an escape. How they'd succeeded at the first part, only to be caught as they left the basement.
He risked a glance at Alistair. The man was listening attentively, his open face showing only concern for the mage, no distaste or dislike. It gave Jowan the courage to keep talking, to tell the worst part of it, the part that had haunted him in nightmares ever since.
"Greagoir sentenced me to death on the spot. He was absolutely certain I was a blood mage. I wasn't even going to have a chance to argue my side, to explain... yes, I'd studied blood magic, it was a fascinating subject, and I was even curious enough that I'd cast a single spell, once, just to see what it was like... but I'd sworn to myself I'd never use what I knew. But... I panicked. I so desperately wanted to escape, I used my belt knife and stabbed my own hand, and... Lily looked horrified. She backed away from me, with such loathing in her eyes. I wanted to die on the spot, it hurt so much. So I ran. I used my blood to power a spell to knock everyone out, and I turned, and I ran. And I lost everything I'd ever wanted... my friends, my home, someone who... who cared about whether I lived or died..."
He started weeping again, and then Alistair was sitting up and holding him, making little soothing sounds as Jowan wept. This fresh bout of crying thankfully didn't last as long as that the night before, but by the end he was feeling equally drained, equally in need of sleep.
"Rest," Alistair told him, helping him to lay down, and gently tucking the sheets in around him. "I have to go away for a minute, but I'll be right back, I promise. All right?"
He nodded drowsy acceptance, and drifted off to sleep.
Alistair rose to his feet and stretched after exiting the tent, and looked around. He was mildly surprised to find that the only person in sight was Arren, sitting by the fire with his mabari Mouse at his side, keeping an eye on breakfast.
Arren looked up as he stepped over. "Is he all right?" he asked quietly, tipping his head toward Alistair's tent. Somehow, Alistair wasn't surprised that the elf had divined that there was a problem; Arren was good at reading people. And tent walls weren't exactly soundproofed material. Whether or not Jowan's earlier words had been understandable, undoubtedly the broken tones of his voice had been audible.
"He will be," Alistair said softly, dropping down into a squat by the fire. "He's... working through some things at the moment."
Arren nodded understandingly. "I've told the others we're taking a rest day," he said. "And asked them to make themselves scarce for the morning. Zev and Sten have gone hunting, Wynne and Leliana have gone herb-gathering, and Morrigan is flying around somewhere, keeping an eye on things. And as soon as you've taken custody of this frying pan, Mouse and I will be heading out after Zev and Sten.
Alistair grinned at his words. "Thanks, Arren," he said.
"No problem," the elf said, and rose and walked away, Mouse falling in at his heels.
Alistair stirred the contents of the spider – a fry-up of chunks of potato, wedges of onion, and strips of smoked ham – put aside a small serving on a clean plate for the mage, then inhaled the remainder himself, straight from the pan. One less thing to clean that way.
When he returned to the tent, Jowan was already stirring again, having only had it in him to take a brief nap after that latest bout of crying. He handed the mage the plate of food as soon as he sat up. "Get yourself on the outside of that," he gently advised him. "You need some food in your belly."
Jowan nodded, and started eating, picking dully at it for the first few bites, then his hunger woke up and he devoured it as single-mindedly as if he, too, was a Grey Warden.
Alistair settled down on his own bedroll, arms locked around raised knees, and quietly watched Jowan eating. He was all too familiar himself with the lassitude that settled in on one after a good cathartic cry; it wasn't all that many months ago that Arren had helped him work through his own grief at the death of Duncan and the Grey Wardens. It had all come to a head for him when they'd discovered Cailan's eerily uncorrupted body at Ostagar. The brother he'd never had a chance to know, and now never would. It had taken him three days to work through it all, with Arren's help. Cailan, the wardens... even his long-buried grief over Maric, his deeply-buried hatred of Eamon, it had all come out. It took a lot out of you, he knew, both emotionally and in terms of energy. But you came out of it... stronger. It was like lancing an ugly infection; the pus and bloody clotted matter had to be discharged, before real healing could begin.
While there'd never been anything more between himself and Arren than brotherhood, he knew how important in his own healing feeling the elf's comforting presence and caring touch had been. When Jowan finished eating, he had not the least hesitation in reaching out and taking the mage's hand in his own, putting aside the slight disquiet he felt at the rather warmer then brotherly feelings that contact with the mage gave him.
The shy smile of thanks the mage gave him at the renewed contact made his heart lurch in his chest. By Andraste's grace, the man had been so hurt by his past, and yet still he could smile and find joy in the little beauties of the world... which suggested to Alistair another thing that would help his friend with his healing.
"Let's go for a walk," he suggested.
Jowan darted a nervous look at the tent flap, chewing on his bottom lip worriedly. His thoughts were obvious – he was embarrassed at the thought of currently confronting any of their companions.
"We're on a rest day – everyone is out, hunting and gathering herbs and things like that." he said reassuringly.
Jowan nodded, then released his hand and crawled out of the tent, Alistair following along behind.
Alistair led the way into the forested slopes surrounding the camp, neither of them speaking as they threaded their way through the trees. A couple of times things caught Alistair's eye, and he stopped walking, pointing them out to Jowan. A low stump, almost black with damp rot, overgrown on one side with brilliant green moss, its hollow centre cupping a tiny puddle of water, a mottled pale brown frog no bigger than his thumbnail crouched on the rim beside an equally tiny orange peel mushroom. A huge black and white woodpecker, its body as long as his forearm, perched on the side of a cedar tree, the red cockade of feathers on its head and its bright yellow eye clearly visible as it turned its head to watch them, sharp and stark in ever detail.
Eventually they emerged from the eaves of the woods, high on a hilltop, the grasslands of the bannorn stretching off into distance away from them, dotted here and there with other clumps or lines of trees, the grassy slopes reaching as far as the eye could see, like an endless ocean of grass.
A hawk screamed somewhere far overhead. Both of them looked upwards, at the speck circling above the forested area.
"Morrigan?" Alistair asked.
"Yes," Jowan agreed.
Even as they watched, the hawk winged over and dove, dropping toward the ground with astonishing speed. Just above the forest canopy she pulled up, racing along over the treetops for some distance before abruptly dropping down out of sight into the forest.
"I wish I knew how to fly," Jowan said wistfully.
"When I see her do something like that, I find myself wishing the same thing," Alistair confessed, winning a surprised grin from Jowan.
For a while they just stood there, looking out over the world, enjoying the wind in their hair, the sunlight on their skin. Alistair could see the tension slowly draining from Jowan as the mage relaxed, his enjoyment of just being there, out in the world, overcoming the lingering ghosts of his painful past.
After a while Alistair sat down, legs outstretched, hands stretched out behind him to prop himself up. Jowan looked at him curiously, then smiled and joined him, mimicking his posture, settling down in the grass to his right so they were both facing the same way, looking out over the same chunk of landscape.
Their silence continued. Alistair liked that. It was a comfortable silence, a friendly one, one he felt no need to break. After a while he heard a soft sigh, and turned to see that Jowan was now stretched out on his back, hands clasped under his head, his eyes closed and a slight smile on his face. He looked... at peace, completely and utterly relaxed.
Alistair smiled, and lay back as well. He hadn't realized how tired he himself was from the stressful evening and morning. Within a few minutes, he dropped off to sleep.
The faint snore from Alistair startled Jowan's eyes open. He turned his head, ignoring the way it made the grass tickle his cheek, and smiled at the sight of the warden. He was lying bonelessly limp on the ground, mouth gaping just slightly open, head tilted back into the grass. Jowan was surprised at first by the strength of the surge of warm affection for his companion that he felt looking at him. The man was almost-a-templar after all, and the underlying basis of their relationship had been that Alistair was there to guard him, to make sure he didn't use the blood magic he'd sworn never to use. It should have felt like the man was his jailor, as the templars in the circle tower had been. And yet... it never had felt that way.
He remembered the warrior's words on a different, distant hilltop so many weeks ago, Alistair's profession to believe that templars were "supposed to be guardians, there to protect the mages, not there to imprison them" – and realized that he trusted Alistair. Trusted that Alistair meant those words, and tried to live by them. Maker knows the man had protected him – protected all the mages, all his companions – from physical harm when they'd encountered those darkspawn. That Alistair was the one of the ground who stood with sword and shield and bore the brunt of the attack, protected everyone else so that they could do their jobs – it was just so right, somehow, that that was his role. It fit him.
And Jowan realized part of his own growing affection for the man was based in that trust. He trusted that if something made him panic, give in to temptation, use those bloody powers he'd so stupidly learned... that Alistair would calmly evaluate the situation, and stop him if need be, or be there protecting him and guarding him if he judged that Jowan's reaction was not, in fact, an overreaction. He trusted Alistair's judgement, trusted him to guard him not just from external threat, but from himself if need be, and most importantly of all, trusted him to never do anything more then what was necessary to guard him, at any given moment. He had little doubt that should he actually prove himself a danger to the group, to their companions, that the man wouldn't hesitate to slay him where he stood, and at the same time trusted that he would not do so unless it was the only thing he could do.
This was what all templars should be, Jowan realized, the epiphany of the moment shaking him down to his very bones. Not jailors, not captors, not the ever-looming threat of death and punishment or tranquillity, but a strong wall to shelter behind, a strong rock to lean against. Support when you needed it, shelter when it was required, death the final option, not the merely convenient one.
The depth of the emotions he was feeling was almost enough to start him crying again. Instead, soothed by the wind and sunlight, by the close presence of his friend, he moved closer, and curled up by his side, not quite touching but close enough to feel the comforting heat of his body, as welcome as the feel of the sun on his skin, and slept again as well.
Alistair smiled when he awoke, and found himself curled on one side, the mage sleeping quietly beside him in a similar position, facing him. He found himself studying Jowan's face. He was a handsome man, now that his pallor was gone, his features relaxed and open instead of frightened and pale. Even as he watched, the mage's long eyelashes trembled, then his eyes blinked open, pale grey eyes meeting his and... not flinching, not looking away. A warm smile curved Jowan's lips, and Alistair felt his own smile deepen.
Jowan's lower lip curled in as he chewed on it in one of his habitual nervous gestures. Alistair's eyes followed the moment, fascinated, wondering what the mage was thinking about now that had him unsettled. Thinking, too, how adorable the little mannerism was, and wondering what it would feel like to nibble on that lip himself. And then Jowan swallowed, and leaned slowly forward, craning his head fa little to one side to brush his lips against Alistair's own.
Alistair squeaked in startled surprise and jerked backwards, eyes widening. Jowan... had just kissed him!
A devastated look crossed the mage's face, and he paled, then hurriedly started to turn over, to rise to his feet. "Sorry, sorry, I shouldn't have..."
Alistair rose to his own knees and lunged, catching Jowan around the shoulders before he could rise and run off. "No, I'm the one who's sorry," he said quickly. "You surprised me. I... wasn't expecting that."
Jowan flushed, hanging his head. Alistair could feel him trembling, knew he was thinking he'd made a huge mistake. Except... he hadn't, had he. He'd read the moment just exactly right.
"That didn't mean I didn't like it," he said softly, leaned his head closer to Jowan's, speaking softly into his ear. "Nor that I... didn't want it."
Jowan froze for a moment, not even breathing, and then he turned his head sharply, looked piercingly into Alistair's eyes. What he saw there... reassured him. Alistair could feel him relaxing within the circle of his arms, then start to shake from the sudden relief.
Wordlessly Alistair pulled him closer, hauling him around so that they ended up sitting on the ground together, Jowan in Alistair's lap, encircled by his arms, their faces for once at an even height.
They looked warily at each other, then Jowan shyly smiled, and Alistair did too, and somehow the distance between their faces slowly went away, until lips touched lips, and oh Maker, he was kissing another man, and it felt good. And so, so very right. Lips brushing softly against lips, then a tongue-tip teasing his mouth open and then oh-so-gently invading it. He sighed, opening wider, welcoming the intrusion. And a while later, when the tongue retreated, he languidly pursued it, invading Jowan's mouth in turn. At some point he found himself sucking that beautiful bottom lip in between his own, and gently nibbling on it, just as he'd wanted to.
It was a perfect kiss. When it finally ended they just sat for a while, arms around each other, Jowan's head resting on Alistair's shoulder, just... being. Both of them, together.