A/N: Hi everyone! Thank you for your reviews and staying with this story. Just to clarify a few things—I'm definitely not leaving Leliana alone when it comes to romance, but I won't reveal the name of her lover just yet. In fact, I'm going to make it as sweet as it can be for her, seeing as how you all probably know her story from before the events of Dragon Age: Origins. There also might be a little drama here and there, a whole bout of jealousy perhaps, but that's all I can say for now. I have drafted out a lot of possible romances/storylines for almost every character, so don't worry.

IX: The King's Son

The sun was already setting by the time camp was set up—the sun had turned into an auburn sphere, slowly sinking in the far horizon as Logan stood to watch it silently. He had never watched a sunset out in the open before—not since a few nights ago—because of his life in the Circle. Now, he was free to admire the scenery and breathe in the fresh air, but he couldn't feel the sense of contentment and satisfaction of freedom. Admittedly, being able to travel out in the open was exhilarating sometimes, but there were constant reminders that he was going to fight an archdemon and stop the Blight for the sake of Ferelden and Thedas.

He cringed as he thought about the road ahead and wondered if Alistair, Garrett or Bethany felt the same. He cast a glance at his companions, to see that they were all getting along well. It puzzled him to see that there were no traces of unhappiness in their faces—especially Leliana and Garrett—because he had expected them to, and immediately felt a strange sense of embarrassment wash over him. Here he was, sulking over the Blight and fearing defeat, while the others remained calm and kept up their optimism to carry each other through. Some leader you are, Logan thought to himself bitterly.

Logan turned back to face the orange sun as a breeze swept through camp. There was no danger here—he would be able to sense if there were darkspawn now that he was a Warden—and Logan secretly wished that time would stop so that he could let go of his fears for once. All he could do now was to hope that Arl Eamon would quickly agree to helping the Grey Wardens against the Blight so that they could move on to the other potential allies.

He could suddenly hear footsteps amidst his wandering thoughts, and realized that someone was approaching him. "Can I talk to you for a moment?" Alistair asked, appearing by his side with a stoic expression, "I need to tell you something—I, um, should probably have told you earlier."

"Go ahead," Logan nodded, turning his attention on his friend.

"I wasn't raised by dogs," Alistair said, so seriously that Logan nearly laughed, "But you already knew that, I gather? I said that Arl Eamon raised me and that my mother was a serving girl at the castle and he took me in… that is true, but I should tell you the reason why." Alistair fiddled with his steel gloves for a bit, as though contemplating whether he should go ahead with it or not. He swallowed hard and looked up at Logan with a sort of apprehensive look on his face. "The reason he did that was because… well… because my father was King Maric."

Logan raised his eyebrows and felt his jaw drop slightly. "King Maric?" he repeated in disbelief, "The King that ruled Ferelden? The King that was Cailan's father?"

"Well," Alistair said, grinning slightly, "Yes. That made Cailan my brother—half-brother, actually."

"So," Logan scratched his cheek lightly, grinning slightly, "That means you're not just a bastard but a… royal bastard?"

"Ha!" Alistair laughed, a sheepish expression crossing his face, "I guess it does at that. I should use that line more often, you know. It sounds better than just 'bastard', I suppose." His expression suddenly became serious again as his laughter died down. "Look, I would have told you, I swear. It just… never really meant anything to me, you know? I was—I was inconvenient and a possible threat to Cailan's rule so they kept me secret. I've never talked about it to anyone. Everyone who knew either resented me for it or coddled me," he went on with slight disgust in his tone, "Even Duncan—Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn't want you to know as long as possible." Alistair sighed. "I'm sorry, Logan."

Logan smiled warmly at Alistair and patted him on the back. "I understand," Logan said reassuringly, "No harm done, Alistair."

The Grey Warden heaved a sigh of relief. "Good," he said, laughing slightly, "I'm glad! It's not like I got special treatment for it anyhow. At any rate, that's it—that's what I had to tell you, I guess. I thought you should know about it."

"You sure you're not hiding anything else, then?" Logan teased.

"Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no. Just the prince thing," Alistair said. "Other than these aspects of me, I think you'll find me to be a very boring person."

"Alright then," Logan said, before adding for good measure, "Your Highness."

Alistair groaned despite his lips stretching into a wide, bashful grin. "I shouldn't have told you that," he said, "Now you're never going to let it go." He looked at Logan carefully. "Are you?"

"Never," Logan chuckled. "In fact, I'll break the news to the rest of the camp later on during dinner."

"Peachy," Alistair said sarcastically, "I was hoping someone might tell them for me. This is as awkward as it is. Just don't make fun of me in front of Arl Eamon or anyone else, please. And one more thing," Alistair paused for a while, slightly hesitant, "Let me tell Bethany personally."

Logan smiled and immediately understood. He always did notice the Grey Warden looking in the direction of his younger cousin—and he could not blame him, for Bethany was a beautiful woman, very much like her mother before her—with a sort of a mesmerized expression on his face, laced with a foolish little grin. "You like her, don't you?"

Alistair reddened immediately. "I—no—I mean, yes, but I'm not—" he sighed with a rather uncomfortable and constipated look, "I'm not good at this."

"If it makes you feel better, I think she likes you too," Logan said—which was partly true, as he recalled how much he noticed that the younger Hawke enjoyed Alistair's company though the latter did not notice, "But you'll have to get into Garrett's good books if you want a peaceful, uninterrupted relationship with her—"

"But I'm not sure if I'm ready—" Alistair stood up, beginning to sound flustered.

"Alistair, just how oldare you—" Logan raised his eyebrows and marveled at the man's shyness. For a prince, he didn't seem very princely and confident—then again, when has he ever been?

"But I've never actually done this before—" The Grey Warden buried his face in his hands and let out a strangled groan, feeling his cheeks flush.

"Maker's breath, Alistair—"

"Alright, alright," Alistair relented, raising his hands in surrender, "I'll be a man about it and tell her myself. Just don't listen in, okay? And make sure Garrett's somewhere else while I'm doing that, it—it's going to be a bit awkward."

"I don't need any fortune-telling to know that," Logan mocked Alistair, chuckling as the Grey Warden glared at him, turning even redder. "Look, just be yourself. It'll be okay."

Alistair mumbled something incoherent under his breath, frowning, before looking at Logan again with a mischievous look in his eyes. "Heeey," he drawled, grinning slyly at Logan, "What about you and Morrigan, hm?"

Logan tensed immediately as he glanced quickly behind them, making sure that no one else was within earshot. "What about her?" he hissed, rolling his eyes. Logan tried to appear disinterested and nonchalant, but the look on Alistair's face told him otherwise—that he wasn't very good at subtlety. "There's nothing going on between us and you know it, Alistair."

"But you like her," Alistair nudged Logan in the ribs, "And Garrett has been theorizing that she likes you too—"

"You people actually talk about us?" Logan asked, "Gee, Alistair. I thought we had a Blight and an archdemon on our hands—or was that actually all a dream?"

"We're not gossips!" Alistair said defensively, "We just happened to find an interesting topic—"

"I will punch you in the face," Logan growled.

Alistair laughed nervously. "Look, if it makes you feel any better, Morrigan would probably do the same, except with the sharp end of her staff," Alistair grinned at Logan, "But honestly, you should see the looks she gives you—oh, wait. You can't."

Logan rolled his eyes. "Not if I have eyes on the back of my head."

"Do you?"

"You're really asking me that?" The mage looked disgruntled, but he could feel his heart racing and pounding furiously in his chest. It was both shocking and exhilarating at the same time, and Logan was sure that he was turning red as he felt the heat reach his face. Alistair laughed and walked off, leaving Logan to his own thoughts again. Logan glanced at Morrigan from afar, who had set up camp a distance away from the main group. He wondered if what Alistair said was true as he watched her arrange her own belongings neatly—if she had been looking at him when he wasn't looking at her.

A grin crept upon his face as he looked elsewhere when he caught Alistair looking at him with a knowing smile.

Dinner was a terrible affair.

Logan noticed that Garrett looked livid when Alistair had announced that he helped Bethany to make dinner—little wonder, really. Bethany looked rather amused despite the extra-cheesy stew that everyone was consuming with much difficulty. Leliana looked rather mortified but, out of courtesy, did her best to finish her share of the stew. Sten looked uninterested and unaffected by the taste as he downed it—Logan had an odd feeling that Sten was used to odd tastes in Ferelden.

Morrigan had, as though on instinct at the very mention of Alistair's name, refused and resorted to making her own meal—something Logan suspected would be much better than what he was eating right now. Alas, Alistair was still his friend, so Logan kept quiet and forced himself to eat, thinking more of his stomach than his taste buds. The only one that didn't remain silent was Garrett, who was now waving his father's staff wildly at Alistair.

"Which lunatic would put that much cheese?" Garrett bellowed, accidentally tipping over his own bowl of yellow goo with random pieces of meat in it, "Are you trying to kill some of us here?"

Alistair grinned when he noticed that Bethany was giggling. "You'll have to live with it," Alistair said simply, casting a glance at Bethany, "If Bethany lets me help more often, of course."

"I'll have to think of the others first," Bethany said coyly, "But if you have to help, you'll just have to listen to me. No more suggestions from you, for the sake of all of us."

Logan chuckled into his bowl as Garrett returned to his spot and muttered something inaudible as he huddled by the fire next to him. "I swear, I'll kill him one day if the Blight doesn't," Garrett told his cousin darkly, "I don't understand why my sister likes him."

"Well, I like him too," Logan said, grinning, "I think he's a good man, if a bit eccentric."

"Eccentric," Garrett repeated grimly, as he picked up a long branch to poke at the logs of the campfire, "More like completely insane and out of it. Do you think he likes Bethany? He's been ogling her a lot—"

"He wasn't ogling Bethany—"

"I'm pretty sure—"

"Garrett," Logan protested gently, nudging his cousin, "Give him a chance."

Garrett shook his head. "He's a bumbling idiot, and that's the only thing I'm giving him," he muttered gruffly, clearly adamant in his decision. "Look, I can't trust him with my sister. Would you trust him with your sister, if you had one? If you were me—would you trust him to take care of your sister and not poison her to death with an overdose of cheese?"

Logan sighed. "Just… observe him," Logan said, "He's not that bad, I promise."

"Fine," Garrett said, rolling his eyes, "But the minute he dips even a slice of cheese in that pot—"

"Yes, yes, I know," Logan said, laughing, and rose to leave the campfire.

Half an hour later, Leliana offered to clean up for the group. Garrett instinctively went forward to help her, much to the former lay sister's delight. They spent a few minutes collecting all the bowls and the pot before leaving camp to find a nearby stream. Garrett could not help but wonder how such an attractive woman could end up becoming a sister in the Chantry, and was sure that she wasn't like this her entire life.

Leliana noticed his soft gaze on her and glanced sideways at him, smiling. "What are you looking at?"

Garrett nearly dropped the pot—filled with the familiar, irksome stench that Alistair had so brilliantly concocted—and chuckled nervously. "It's nothing," he said, "I'm just wondering why someone like you would be in the cloister."

"What is meant by someone like me?" Leliana asked, turning a light shade of pink. She was thankful that she turned away at that moment, so that the mage would not see her face. She continued washing the bowls as he spoke again.

"I mean," Garrett said, turning back to his own task as well, "You're so beautiful and… skilled. Surely you didn't learn all your fighting from the chantry."

"You flatter me. There are far more beautiful sisters in the chantry than I," Leliana smiled appreciatively at him, "And you're right. I did learn my skills elsewhere before coming to the chantry in Ferelden."

"Why did you choose to become a sister?" Garrett asked.

Leliana seemed to recount this with a sort of wistful look in her eyes. "I had to," she told him, "Back in Orlais, things were getting complicated for me. I was—" She stopped mid-sentence, looking rather hurt at a certain recollection which Garrett immediately noticed.

"It's alright," Garrett said kindly, "You don't have to if it hurts you."

"Thank you," the former lay sister said quietly, "I just don't think I'm quite ready to go back to that yet."

"Oh, I understand," Garrett said, nodding, "Truly, I do. It took me a while before I could talk about my father properly without wanting to cry and kick and scream." Leliana noticed that the mage had closed his eyes momentarily, as though fighting back the tears he thought he had conquered. "I was just a boy, then. I couldn't deal with the fact that he was gone. The only man in my life I could truly model myself after, and hopefully become someone Carver could want to be as well. But look at me—I crack jokes and offend people all the time. My father would be so disappointed." His voice cracked with strain as his knuckles began to turn white from his stranglehold on the pot he was holding.

Leliana felt a fleeting urge to hold him. "I'm so sorry," she said sadly, "I don't know what else to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Garrett smiled at her, "But I appreciate it."

"I can always listen, yes?" Leliana's blue eyes turned to meet Garrett's. "I'm here for you—since we're battling the Blight and all, we might as well get comfortable."

She reminded him of an angel the more he looked at her. Garrett didn't quite know what to think of her—what, with her stunning beauty and her deathly fighting skills; it was rather hard to figure out who she was. A part of him liked wondering about her, like she was a thrilling mystery, and another part wanted to know exactly who she was. He knew she was Orlesian, but that was as far as she had revealed to them.

Well, other than that vision she claimed to have had.

"So, about your vision," Garrett started again, looking at her, "I heard from Logan that you said you dreamt of the Blight?"

Leliana looked taken aback and visibly uncomfortable, but answered him nonetheless, "I did. I know it sounds crazy, but I swear to you that it is real and is from the Maker. I am certain of this, I am. Besides, I think probably would have chosen to help even if I never had this vision in the first place."

"I suppose you're right," Garrett said.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" Leliana asked.

Garrett smiled. "No," he told her, "I believe in you. Well, as far as my faith in the Maker will take me."

"I really hope you're not just saying that."

"I wouldn't dare, not after I saw the way you fought those darkspawn. You might as well be a Grey Warden!"

Her giggle sounded like music to his ears. "I really hope you don't mean that. Being a Grey Warden sounds far too scary for me."

"Bethany, can I talk to you for a moment?" Alistair asked as he approached the mage. He had made sure that everyone else was occupied with something else before he decided that the time was right.

Bethany stood up and smiled warmly at him. "Sure. What is it, Alistair?"

"I have something to tell you," Alistair said, so nervous that he began to break out in cold sweat, "I, uh, think you should know something about who I am—something I should have told you since the start."

Bethany gasped. "Alistair, are you saying that…" Her voice trailed off as her cheeks turned crimson, which led Alistair to wonder what she was thinking exactly.

"I'm… what?" asked Alistair, looking rather confused and bewildered. "What—what am I saying?"

"Are you… ga—"

"Maker, no!" Alistair stopped her before she could even finish her sentence, looking flustered and turning red as well, "Nothing like that, I promise! Oh, Maker's breath, that was sufficiently awkward. No, no, I'm not…"

Bethany looked away, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," she said, "That—I mean—"

She tucked her hair behind her ear nervously as silence fell upon them, finally feeling the heat drain away from her neck and face. She felt the former templar move closer to her and offer his hand to her, as though inviting her to trust him. Willingly, she reached out and held onto his hand and he pulled her aside gently, his brown eyes constantly fixed on hers. They stopped a distance away from Bodhan and Sandal, who were already preparing to sleep.

Alistair cleared his throat. "Well, I'm… my father is, well, uh, a dead king," Alistair began, looking away for a moment to regain his composure, "And that king is… King Maric, Cailan's father. Which essentially makes Cailan my… half-brother," Alistair paused for a moment, before adding as an afterthought, "My dead half-brother. Which then makes me the heir."

He glanced at Bethany, whose lips had only parted slightly in mild confusion. "You're King Maric's son?" she breathed, blinking, "I—Alistair… why didn't you tell us?"

"I already told Logan," Alistair explained, "I didn't want anyone to coddle me or hate me."

Her hand found his again in the darkness. "I'd never hate you," she told him, "And just because you're a prince doesn't mean we'll go easy on you, you know? We're Grey Wardens—and you're one of us. This prince thing… well… shall we cross that bridge when we get to it?"

Alistair smiled. "Only if I get to burn it."

"You shouldn't be afraid of this," Bethany told him seriously, "If others knew, they might start considering you to be the next king…"

"Maker, that's what I'm afraid of," Alistair mumbled, "I swear I've had more nightmares about being king than the Blight and the archdemon. I'm just not used to responsibility—especially after Duncan's death. What more ruling an entire country? I could never be a good king… not like Cailan or Maric himself. It's just not in me."

"But the Theirin blood is in you," Bethany said, "It always has been. You just probably don't feel it yet, but I know that if you're ever going to be a king one day, you'll make a good one. And I'm not just saying that to make you feel better. I believe in you."

"You do?" Alistair stuttered, "I mean—not that I don't appreciate it—I don't and no one's ever said that to me and—and—"

Bethany giggled. "Well, get used to it! We're in this together."

Alistair chuckled lightly and nodded, his heart hammering in his chest. "Yes, yes we are, I suppose. Together," he said, inwardly thankful that Bethany could not see the foolish smile that was on his face.

For the entire night, a part of him had been focused on Morrigan. It didn't help that he knew she was alone on the far side of the camp—it merely gave him one more reason to walk over to where she was sitting alone. She noticed him as he approached and made no movement to welcome him and went on cleaning her own staff, silently regarding the handsome Warden from the corners of her eyes.

"Can I sit?"

Morrigan sighed. "If you must," she answered flatly, appearing to have no interest in him at all. Inwardly, she felt immense relief that he could not hear her accelerating heartbeat—what, with the way he was looking at her with those curious, beautiful blue eyes, she was almost certain no one could resist a glance or two—and kept herself busy with her staff, all the while feeling his gaze upon her.

"You don't like the rest?" he asked, his voice thick with concern and worry. "They're not all that bad—look, Sten's the quietest, so I think you wouldn't have a problem with him," Logan went on as he motioned towards the Qunari standing vigilant in the moonlight, his face perhaps better off made from stone, "And Leliana seems to really like you, you know? Garrett and Bethany don't have much of a problem with you either and Alistair—" Logan paused and chuckled as he thought about his fellow Grey Warden, "Alistair likes you too, even if he won't admit it because he's never had anyone around him who didn't take his jokes well. I think there's a certain balance about it he appreciates silently…"

While he looked elsewhere and his cerulean orbs were no longer fixed on her, Morrigan glanced at him. It surprised her how endearing he had started to become in her eyes—more often than not, she looked down on the rest of the human race, detesting their sickening behaviors and mannerisms, so she felt taken aback when she found herself looking upon Logan Amell in a different light.

Then, just as quickly as that rare, terrifying affection had come, it disappeared as though on instinct when Logan turned back to face her. "If I had to appreciate one person in this camp, it would be the Qunari," Morrigan said, regaining her composure as she avoided Logan's gaze, "As you said, 'tis a good thing he is as stoic as a boulder. But I doubt you are here to talk about how exceptionally wonderful those people are."

"And what did you think I was here to do?" Logan asked curiously, hugging his knees and resting his head upon them, his expression almost like that of a child, looking up at his mother with a sort of wonder in his eyes.

"Do men not make decisions based on their innermost earthly desires?" Morrigan looked up at him quickly before returning her concentration to her staff, his crooked smile making thinking difficult for her. She cursed him for possessing such fine features and desperately wished for him to go away. And yet, she realized soon after, she had been wishing for him to stay as well.

Logan shook his head. "Not all men are like that," Logan told her, "You assume we are beasts without restraint and better sense?"

"Most," she said curtly. Logan swore he saw her smile for a split second, unsure of whether he was seeing things or not.

"That's what you truly think, then?" His tone was amused, rather than offended which she had expected.

"In this case, no, I do not need to think," Morrigan said, "'Tis what I know!"

"Then you still have much to learn," Logan said, "I wonder why you would assume that of most of the men in all of Thedas."

"Many men have desired me," Morrigan explained, smiling coyly at him as though to stir the feelings she knew he had for her, "And even before me, more have desired my mother, Flemeth."

Logan felt his mouth become dry as he looked into her eyes—a pleasure he suspected she was keeping from him, because she knew how it would affect him and turn him into a stuttering fool—and could not tear away. He studied her eyes carefully, as though he was trying to find something deeper in her golden orbs, and often found himself getting lost in them rather than understanding the witch in front of him.

Morrigan felt the sudden urge to just take over him and set loose his desires and show him how she was right and he was not, even though, frustratingly enough, she could not see an ounce of lust in his eyes. It was almost maddening as she looked away from him and wondered how such a man could even exist. Was he even a man?

"Your mother, Flemeth," Logan asked, "Was she as beautiful as you?"

"I once recalled her being younger once," Morrigan said, a distant look in her eyes as she started to remember, "I suppose she must have been, being my mother. Do daughters grow up to look just like their mothers? 'Tis something I believe."

"I can't imagine," Logan grinned, "Is Flemeth really what she appears to be?"

"That depends on what you think she is," Morrigan said, a small but sly smile appearing. "What do you think she is?"

Logan chuckled. "A nutty old bat."

Morrigan nearly lost it right there as she laughed. It startled Logan to see her laugh—yet he could not stop the sweet sound from ringing in his ears like music—and at the same time, it pleased him. He had never seen her like that before, and he wanted more of it. Her smile was beautiful, especially when it made her eyes twinkle with a few tears of laughter. Logan felt his heart lift and laughed as she tried to regain her composure and glared at him—he knew she didn't mean it then.

"I suppose she is," Morrigan said, softening visibly as Logan tried to stifle his laughter and covered his mouth with his hand.

"So you really grew up in the Wilds all your life?"

"Why do you ask me such questions?" Morrigan snapped, glaring at him, "I do not probe you for pointless information, do I?"

Logan smirked. "You can probe me anytime."

Morrigan chose to look past the irony in that statement despite the heat rushing up to her face and continued nonetheless, "What is it you asked? If I 'grew up' in the Wilds? A curious question," Morrigan tilted her head and studied Logan, "Where else would you picture me? For many years it was simply Flemeth and I. The Wilds and its creatures were more real to me than Flemeth's tales of the world of man. In time, I grew curious. I left the Wilds to explore what lay beyond. Never for long. Brief forays into a civilized wilderness."

"So you remained unnoticed?"

"For the most part. Flemeth had taught me much."

"And did you like it there, then?" Logan asked, his attention fully on her like a diligent student to his teacher. Morrigan found that both amusing and annoying.

"No," Morrigan shook her head, "It was not what I had expected. For all that I had been taught, the truth of the civilized lands proved to be… overwhelming. I was unfamiliar with so much—so confident and bold was I, yet there was much that Flemeth could never have prepared me for."

Logan remained silent and listened intently, never knowing how much it was unnerving the witch.

"Once, I was accused of being a Witch of the Wilds, and that by a Chasind who happened to be traveling with a merchant caravan," Morrigan recalled, "He pointed and gasped and began shouting in his strange language, and most assumed he was casting some curse upon me. I acted the terrified girl, and naturally he was arrested."

"That was quick thinking," Logan smiled briefly at her before letting her continue.

Morrigan laughed mirthlessly. "Men are always willing to believe two things about a woman: one, that she was weak and two, that she finds him attractive."

"Hey!" Logan sat upright, unsure of whether she was taking a dig at him or not. "If that's not sexism, I don't know what is."

"To each his own," Morrigan said, "I merely played the weakling and batted my eyelashes at the captain of the guard. Child's play." Logan couldn't help but visualize a younger Morrigan being as coy as she was right now—he couldn't even imagine anyone refusing her, even if it was all just a disguise—and wasn't quite sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

"The point is that I was able to move through human lands fairly easily. Whatever humans think a Witch of the Wilds looks like, 'tis not I."

Morrigan shifted in her position and made herself a little more comfortable as she put away her staff. "I did have a bit of trouble, however. There are things about human society which have always puzzled me, such as the touching—why all the touching for a simple greeting?"

Logan lifted an eyebrow. It was clear that Morrigan had indeed lived most of her life in the Wilds, but he didn't expect it to have such an effect on her and her social behavior. Somehow, he pitied her and somehow, he found the image of Morrigan snapping at the slightest physical contact rather adorable—but he wasn't going to tell her that unless he had a death wish.

"I—were you upset by all the touching?" Logan asked, "I mean, like a handshake?"

"To begin with, yes. What is the point of touching my hand? I find it an offensive intrusion," Morrigan said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"That is…" Logan's voice trailed off as he tried to find the appropriate words to finish his sentence, feeling Morrigan's stare heating up as though she was expecting an unpleasant description, "…a rather interesting perspective of things, I think."

Morrigan scoffed loudly at that. "If you were in my shoes, you would understand," Morrigan said, "There were many nuances that Flemeth could never tell me of. When to look into another's eyes, how to eat at a table, how to bargain without offending… none of these things I know."

Logan smiled. "Well, I could teach you—"

"Don't even think about it," Morrigan glared at him, "I will not subject myself to more lessons on useless things."

"They're not useless—"

"'Tis something I regard as useless," Morrigan cut him off again, sighing. "I am not like you, nor you I. We are both two different people, as you can already tell."

"Well I'm glad it worked out this way, then," Logan said, deciding that it was getting late. How long he had been listening to her, he did not know. He just knew that he enjoyed listening to her. He only realized that sleep was necessary when he noticed that everyone had returned to their tents, save for Alistair who had decided to be the first one to keep watch in case any darkspawn stragglers decided to ambush them.

Morrigan chuckled. "Oh? Let's ignore the entire darkspawn threat and the presence of a simpleton as our watch for this hour, then."

"Good night, Morrigan," Logan laughed as he stood up and dusted himself, careful not to dust anything onto Morrigan, "Sleep well."