Notes: Hawke gives Alistair some real talk on the eve before Adamant.

The floorboards creak as Hawke walks across the Keep's wooden walkway and she winces apologetically; in the muted stillness of the courtyard it sounds like a cannon shot. A few heads turn her way but they're soon drawn back to their fires or their friends, or whatever other distraction they've chosen for this last night before the final march to Adamant.

It's cold. The usual searing heat of the Western Approach having fled as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, and with a clear and cloudless sky above, there's nothing to stop the warmth from leaching into the night. There are few places in the Keep where the Inquisition's soldiers can seek out warmth, no barracks, no mess, only a few ramshackle tents hastily assembled when the Venatori were driven out. And so the soldiers huddle together in small groups, taking whatever heat they can from small, improvised fires.

It's a dismal sight, Hawke thinks while pacing along the high, suspended walkways, but then Griffon Wing Keep was not built for comfort. The Keep is only a small outpost, built by the Wardens to support the larger fortress nearby and probably only intended for short visits by small groups of Wardens. Whoever had built it had probably never imagined that a whole army would be housed within its walls.

Still – Hawke is impressed that the morale among the Inquisition's troops seems relatively high, all things considered. She's heard little complaining so far – Varric's habitual grousing aside – and while conversations are hardly lively, a pleasant camaraderie seems to permeate every small group of soldiers as they tend to their weapons and chat quietly amongst themselves.

Hawke quickly grows bored of her pacing (after all the view from the Keep's suspended walkways is hardly inspiring when the landscape is cloaked in impenetrable darkness) and gives only a cursory glance in the direction of Adamant before making her way toward the lower levels of the Keep and, hopefully, some camaraderie of her own.

She finds Varric and Alistair huddled around a small fire in the Keep's main courtyard, but while Varric is talking in his usual animated manner, Alistair doesn't really seem to be listening. He's nodding along with Varric's story, muttering the occasional uhuh when Varric pauses, but his eyes are very obviously drawn to the fire and the dancing shapes of red and gold within.

She can't really blame him for being distracted; he's been searching for the Wardens for so long, stitching together every possible hint and scrap of information, and now that he's finally, finally found them, he learns that they're enthralled to an evil, ancient Magister and dicking around with blood magic. Whatever internal monologue Alistair is wrangling with, it's probably pretty pissed right about now.

Everyone is wary of what horrors they might find inside the walls of Adamant but few have as vested an interest as Alistair. He may insist that he's no longer a Warden but it's clear to Hawke that he still feels a keen connection to them, they are, after all, the only family Alistair has ever really known.

"Hawke," Varric says in greeting as she nears, "how was the walk?"

"Piss poor, to be honest," she replies, "can't see a bloody thing from the ramparts."

When Hawke sits down cross-legged beside the fire Varric immediately hands her a mug. It smells mostly like coffee, although there's a sharp, sweet aroma that suggests Varric has doused it with something a little harder. She takes a long, indulgent sip and enjoys the burning sensation as the drink slips down her throat and warms her from the inside out.

"So what were you two talking about?" Hawke asks when it's clear that no one else is going to speak first.

"I was telling Alistair about that time you slayed the High Dragon in the Bone Pit," Varric replies.

"Ah yes, I like that story," she says before taking another long sip of her drink, "it's far more exciting than the reality – which is that I spent most of the time running around trying to not be set on fire while Aveline did most of the hard work."

"Yes, reality has a way of ruining all the greatest stories," Varric says with a dry chuckle and Hawke is surprised when Alistair chuckles softly as well; apparently he is listening.

"So why were you two talking about dragons and how great I am at slaying them?" Hawke asks.

"Varric said 'there are worse things than marching into battle against a fortress full of Wardens and a demon army' and I told him to give me some examples," Alistair says and Hawke can't help but let slip an unladylike snort of laughter – his Varric impression is surprisingly good.

"Look, Snowflake, I was just trying to lighten the mood! I didn't realise I was going to have to provide references!" Varric gripes with an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders.

"Spiders," interrupts Hawke before Varric can complain any further, "if Adamant was full of spiders, that's worse than an army of Wardens and demons."

"Spiders? Really?" Varric cries in disbelief, "you've taken on dragons, darkspawn and a wide variety of demons – not to mention facing the Arishok in single combat – and spiders are the worst thing you can think of?"

"Look – I've faced some fucking big spiders in my time, Varric!" Hawke snaps back, "I stand by my answer." There's a momentary pause while Hawke takes another sip of her drink. "Spiders – or Aveline," she adds.

"A whole fortress full of Avelines? Now there's a thought…" Varric muses with a thoughtful scratch of his chin.

"We wouldn't stand a chance," Alistair says with a smile and Hawke can't help but nod emphatically in agreement.

Aveline's image surges unbidden to the forefront of Hawke's thoughts and she tries desperately to push it away. Now is not the time for nostalgia. Thinking of Aveline, being with Varric – it just reminds her of all the things that she's lost, the people and a place to which she may never return. But wallowing in memories is just a distraction; a distraction she can ill afford with a battle looming on the horizon.

"I miss Aveline," she says before she can stop herself and she immediately scowls at having let the admission slip.

Varric nods solemnly, staring into his cup, and even Alistair looks a bit wistful. He and Aveline had quickly become friends during the short time that Hawke had fit Alistair in with her little gang, before he'd got his first mercenary job and left Kirkwall. They both had the same burning sense of righteousness, that strong sense of justice that Hawke only possessed in Varric's stories.

"Well on that depressing note," Varric says as he stands from the floor, brushing his hands across his trousers to dust off the dirt, "I'm going to call it a night. Bianca's waiting for me in my tent and I don't want to keep her up."

Hawke rolls her eyes at Varric's comment; his relationship with his crossbow has always bewildered her. But despite his attempt at humour, there's a shadow of concern resting in his expression and Hawke is not comfortable with just leaving it there.

"Hey!" she calls out as Varric walks away. He stops and looks over his shoulder. "We're going to be all right, you know – I'm the fucking Champion of Kirkwall! What's the worst that could happen?"

He shakes his head at her endearingly, casting her a withering glare for having asked something so ridiculous (tempting fate, she knows he's thinking). But she can see his shoulders bobbing slightly from laughter and there's a tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

"Just like old times, right Hawke?" he says, voice laced with affection.

And while she can appreciate the sentiment, Hawke can't help but marvel at the sheer absurdity of Varric's statement. Because this is not at all like old times.

Hawke has done some pretty crazy shit in her life: battled crazed Templars, fought through a city beset by Qunari warriors, fallen in love with a runaway ex-slave with rage in his eyes and Lyrium under his skin. But none of these compare to laying siege to a heavily fortified fortress to face the Venatori, the Wardens and a shitload of demons.

Hawke isn't a soldier; she's an apostate with a big mouth and poor self-preservation instincts.

"Yeah, Varric, just like old times," she says, smiling at him with all the optimism and encouragement that she can muster. He gives her a nod, smiling fondly in return, then turns to find his tent.

With Varric gone, it feels a little colder. Hawke takes several long, deep gulps of coffee to make up for it. Across from her, Alistair is back to staring at the fire again. She frowns in disapproval. He shouldn't be here, lost in thoughts and staring at nothing. He's about to march into battle, maybe to his death, he should be enjoying these last few moments with his friends, reminiscing or joking or just – something!

"Stop it, Ali," she snaps, "stop… thinking."

"Excuse me?" he squeaks, head jerking up from the fire.

"You need to stop thinking," she repeats, "tomorrow we march on Adamant. And I don't know what we're going to find there but I bet you it'll be fucked up. So – for tonight – you need to laugh and joke and… be with people. Don't waste these last moments of peace on lonely introspection."

"I was thinking of the Wardens," he says quietly, "I was thinking of how much this all reminds me of Ostagar, that final night before we faced the darkspawn."

"Well stop it – right now!" she orders, eying him sharply.

He looks a little startled at her barked command but then a cautious smile breaks out across his face and he nods. Good – he understands her.

"I'm sorry," he says, nodding slowly, "you're right. You're absolutely right. There's no point thinking about the past now."

There's a pause as he looks around, eyes flitting haphazardly as if he's searching for a topic of conversation and is hoping to find one lying around their little corner of the courtyard

"So… um… do you think you'll stay with the Inquisition?" he asks, then adds, "after Adamant I mean."

Hawke smiles at his stilted attempt at making conversation then gives a frustrated little sigh while shaking her head.

"No, Ali, not me," she says, "you should go talk with Bron."

He furrows his brow in confusion, clearly baffled as to how Bron fits into all this.

"Bron? Why?"

Hawke sighs again, this time a little louder and accompanied with a dramatic roll of her eyes. "Because… because if you don't tell her how you feel then you'll regret it, Alistair. And if something happens tomorrow – if it all goes to shit – then I don't want your last moments in this life to be filled with regret."

Surprise now joins the confusion on his face and Alistair's mouth opens and shuts a few times as if struggling to find the words he needs. "I don't know what you mea-"

"Don't," she snaps, cutting him off before he can come up with some poor denial, "don't try to lie to me – it's obvious you care about her. Care a great deal."

Now he just looks a bit panicked. "It is?"

"Yes."

"To everyone?"

"Yes."

He looks back toward the fire as if expecting some sort of revelation there. Then he shakes his head and lets out a thoughtful, huh.

"Oh come on, Ali!" she cries, and she doesn't know whether she should laugh or weep at how ridiculously oblivious he seems, "the way you look at her – it's like something from a bard's ballad."

He finally raises his head from the fire and for a moment Hawke thinks he's about to deny everything. But then he just nods his head with a sigh.

"If I say something –," he begins, placing far too much emphasis on the word 'if', "do you think… do you think she feels the same way back?"

"Honestly? I have no idea," Hawke says with a shrug, "I don't know whether you've noticed but Bron's pretty hard to read."

He nods in agreement.

"But, if you ask me, the very fact that she's here is pretty telling," she continues.

"What do you mean?"

"Bron's a spy, not a soldier. She doesn't have to be here. In fact she almost certainly shouldn't be. So why is she here? If you ask me, she's here for you."

His eyes widen with momentary shock before softening into something more pensive. After a few minutes of thoughtful silence, a small smile starts to reach up to his cheeks. Whether he believes Hawke or not, her suggestion that Bron has come to Adamant just for him is clearly an appealing one.

The sentimental fool, Hawke thinks, though the less cynical part of her can't help but be pleased at how happy he looks.

"Right – I'm going to… I'm going to-" he trails off, looking lost.

"Go?"

"Yes – exactly," he says, "I'm going to… um… go." He stands up abruptly, eyes scanning the courtyard as if expecting to see Bron just standing there. After a moment of bemused hesitation, he starts picking his way across the courtyard, weaving between the huddled groups of Inquisition soldiers.

Suddenly he stops, as if he's forgotten something vitally important, and turns to hurry back to where Hawke is still sitting cross-legged next to the fire. He leans forward and kisses her on the crown of her head.

"Thanks, Hawke," he murmurs into her hair before stepping back and hurrying back across the courtyard and up a set of stone stairs.

She watches him go, stumbling hastily up the stairs and further into the Keep. He's a good man, she thinks, and he deserves to be happy.

And perhaps he can find some of that happiness with Bron.

Hawke may not know Bron as well as Alistair does but she is strangely confident that Bron returns Alistair's affections. After all, she's seen the way they look at each other. Alistair looks at Bron with awe, like she's larger than life, a glittering hero, bathed in gold. But when Bron looks at Alistair, she doesn't look at Alistair like he's a hero; she looks at him like he's home. It's a different kind of affection, quieter but no less intense.

As she sips on the last few dregs of luke-warm coffee, Hawke's mind drifts to thoughts of Fenris. More than anything, she wishes that he were with her now (although, to be honest, she's also glad that he's not – she'd left Fenris with only a hastily scrawled note to explain her intentions and if he were to suddenly arrive at Griffon Wing Keep, there would probably be a lot of yelling). She can imagine him in their small cabin at the edge of Wycome, repairing his armour perhaps or, more likely, reading a book in his favourite worn armchair. They had not lived in the cabin for long, and they probably wouldn't be able to stay there much longer, but it was theirs and it was home and it was perfect. Once this was all over she'd find them somewhere more permanent, somewhere the title of Champion would not follow her, and she'd build them a home together, maybe even a family.

It is a nice thought, even if she doubts its feasibility. But she keeps hold of the fantasy as she makes her way to her tent, lets it take seed and grow as she curls up in her bedroll.

Despite the impending battle, Hawke has good dreams that night.

Alistair hurries up the staircase, although he's not really sure where he's going. He hasn't seen Bron in several hours, not since they'd been discussing the impending battle with Eleri and her advisors in the Keep's central tower. He knows she won't be in the main courtyard; there are already too many people there, all the Inquisition troops squeezed into a space far too small for an entire army. She would have sought out somewhere with solitude, somewhere away from people.

He works his way up through the Keep, heading higher up the building to where he suspects there will be fewer people. As he passes the doorway to the central tower, he ducks his head in to see whether she'd loitered after their meeting. He's disappointed to see only Eleri inside with the Inquisition's Commander, Cullen.

They're standing together at the other side of the room, heads bowed together as they talk in hushed tones. The wide table next to them is strewn with maps and Alistair assumes at first that they're finalising a few more battle plans. But then he notices that they're holding hands, their fingers laced together, and while he can't hear what they're saying, he can see Eleri's soft smile and the tint of pink spreading across her cheeks, and even he can deduce what they're talking about.

Huh – so Hawke's right, he thinks. The eve of battle should be spent with the people you care about.

When his methodical searching yields no sight of Bron, Alistair starts to feel oddly nervous. Surely she can't have gone anywhere? But as he stalks across one of the Keep's topmost parapets, he comes to an abrupt halt when he hears something unusual, a quiet murmuring – no, singing.

It could be one of the Inquisition soldiers, of course, trying to distract themselves as they patrol the battlements. But then Alistair's sure he's heard the tune before – an old Orlesian lullaby that he's heard Bron singing many times during their journey to reunite with the Inquisition.

He follows the sound to the high wall just ahead of him and when he peers over the wall, he spots Bron sitting on a wide ledge on the outside of the Keep walls. It must have once been a weapons platform of sorts, although the weapon in question is now long gone. Robbed of its intended function, it now serves no purpose except as a hiding place for anyone brave enough to risk clambering over.

It's a rather daunting sight, Bron perched primly on this ledge towering high above the sandy stone below. She looks so small silhouetted against the open night sky, this tiny figure surrounded by endless blackness, and he fears that only the smallest gust of wind would be enough to send her tumbling to certain death below.

At first he thinks it's an odd place to hide, this precarious perch so high above the ground. But then he remembers the ease with which she climbed into Vigil's Keep in search of Warden secrets and he wonders how often a young Bron clambered up trees and walls in search of some solitude from her raucous brothers. It doesn't actually look too hard. Maybe if he holds onto that shield carved into the stone, and then braces his legs against the crenelated edging decorating the side of the walls. No – it can't be that hard.

He thinks that perhaps he should leave her, she seems so content sitting on the ledge singing quietly to herself, but then he remembers Hawke's words – no one should be alone on the eve of battle - and decides that she could probably use his company just as much as he is craving hers.

Carefully, gingerly, Alistair swings his legs over the wall and shimmies along until he can lower himself onto the ledge. With his hands clutching tightly to the wall's decorative coving, he lowers himself down until he's sitting next to Bron, legs hanging over the yawning abyss below.

She looks surprised to see him, and maybe a little amused too (he may have climbed to the ledge successfully but he doubts he looked particularly elegant while doing it).

"You found me," she says when he's safely settled, and he's pleased to see the gentle smile playing on her lips as she speaks. His intrusion on her solitude may have been unsolicited but it doesn't appear unwelcome.

"Yes I just – I saw your feet dangling," he lies. During their many months of travel together, Bron had never sang in front of him; had only ever sang quietly to herself when she thought him out of ear-shot. Clearly this was a talent she'd rather keep private and Alistair would not rob her of her privacy.

"Nice view," he quips as he gestures toward the vast blackness that blankets the Western Approach, hiding every sand dune and rock formation from sight.

She laughs, although it's a lot weaker than he would like. "It was nice when I first came up here, peaceful," she explains, "but now it's beginning to get a bit creepy. All this darkness."

"It could be worse; there could be spiders," he says, smiling as he remembers his recent conversation with Hawke and Varric.

"Spiders?" she asks with evident confusion.

"Sorry – it's a…. just a bad joke."

"Ah – and do you tell any other kind?" she teases with a wicked curl of her lips.

He frowns at her theatrically in response then starts to lift himself up from the ledge. "Well – fine – if you're going to be rude about my jokes, I guess I'll just go."

"No!" she cries with surprising ferocity, one hand snatching out to grab him by the forearm, "please stay."

He's surprised by the tenderness in her plea and immediately sits down again on the ledge. He places his hand over hers where it rests on his arm. "Of course I'll stay," he says, and he feels a little thrill of hopefulness that she appears so desperate for him to remain at her side.

Some of the panic dissipates from her face and her posture relaxes to lean against the wall behind them. He notices that she makes no attempt to remove her hand from where it rests on his arm, and so he makes no move to withdraw his hand either. And so they sit, bodies pressed together side-by-side and hands holding tightly to one another.

They sit in silence for a while, the kind of comfortable, companionable silence that has become a staple of their relationship. He's tempted to just enjoy the moment as it is, to simply take comfort from Bron's presence and keep his feelings to himself. But then he can picture Hawke's pointed stare in his mind, quietly judging him for not having the courage to say what he needs to say, and he decides that he just needs to be honest with Bron. However she reacts – well – he'll just have to take it in stride.

He takes a deep, fortifying breath before saying, "Bron I need to talk to you – I…"

He stops talking when he notices Bron's stricken expression. She doesn't seem to have noticed him speaking, her eyes instead staring intently into the distance. Her brows are pulled low and tight, and her lips are drawn thin with tension.

She looks terrified.

Alistair's seen Bron angry and he's seen her sad. He's seen her stone-cold eyes as she's slain opponents with a merciless stab of her rapier. He's seen her tears for the friends she thought lost with the destruction of Haven. But he has never – never – seen her look afraid.

"What's wrong?" he asks, suddenly concerned.

She tries to wave away his question, throwing him a brittle smile in a poor attempt to relieve his concern. He just narrows his eyes at her, staring intently. Tell me, Bron.

She gives a resigned sigh. "I'm… scared," she admits with a small voice, "I'm just – this. Fighting off bandits is one thing but – this is an army, Alistair. What can I do against an army?"

"Well, you alone can't really do anything," he says, attempting to keep his voice light and playful, "that's why we brought an army of our own."

"I'm being serious, Alistair," she reprimands gently, hand squeezing into his arm, "this isn't a fight, it's a battle. I'm not sure I can – I'm not sure what I'll… I'm afraid. Really afraid."

"It's going to be fine," he says, and he's trying to comfort himself as much as he is her, "just… I'll be by your side the whole time. We've done so much together already. I'm sure we can overcome this one… last challenge."

"One last challenge?" she says doubtfully, "maybe this is the final challenge for saving the Wardens. But then we have to save the rest of Thedas. Defeat Corypheus, end this war between the mages and Templars. There are still… so many more challenges ahead."

"Well then we'll overcome them too – just like we have everything else."

"Together?" she asks hopefully.

"Absolutely," he says, then adds tentatively, "if you're willing to put up with me."

He can feel her shuffling slightly along the ledge, pushing her body even closer against his. He lifts his arm to give her more space then drops it around her shoulders, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her closer until she's held snugly against his side. She lets her head drop until it's resting on his chest.

"Well I suppose I can keep you around a little longer," she murmurs into his shirt, voice suddenly sounding weary, "I have become… rather fond of you."

Rather fond? Well it's not particularly sterling praise but it's certainly better than nothing. He'll take it.

Bron's held so closely against his side that she's almost sitting in his lap. There's something profoundly intimate about the embrace, as well as the solitude afforded them by their hiding place. Alistair relishes in her proximity, the warmth of her body contrasting with the cool, crispness of the night air.

"Oh wait," she suddenly says, craning her head back to look up at him, "earlier – you said that you needed to talk about something,"

"It's… it can wait," he says, deciding to forego any confession of his feelings for now.

Because everything can wait. Awkward conversations can wait. Possible romantic rejection can wait. Hell – the sunrise can wait and with it the impending battle against the Wardens. Everything and everyone can wait – all Alistair wants is this one moment with Bron held tight in his arms, her warm body curled against his own. This moment is perfect, and even if he dies tomorrow, he will not regret it.