They've been on the move since noon, well over seven hours, by the time the rain starts. There have been other days of ill weather like this one, Tali knows as much as they press onward, seeking cover, bent against the driving wind. But it's still maddening to know that they could have stayed an extra day with the Dalish, as Eva'len had offered at breakfast that morning. If that were the case, they certainly would be dryer than they are right now, and warmer, and far more comfortable had they stayed. But here they are, pressing onward at Sav's insistence. We appreciate your hospitality, she had said, barely touching the food laid out in front of her, but we have already been delayed by…unforeseen circumstances in our trip to Orzammar. We must make up for lost time, if we can.

Savreen hadn't looked at Zevran when she said those words, "unforeseen circumstances," but Zevran had certainly looked up at her. In fact, he'd also caught Tali's eye, and Alistair's, and winked, the expression so unexpected that Alistair had choked on his drink. The memory of them all sitting comfortably around a table, joking, eating an abundance of fresh food and drinking cold water is frustratingly close at hand, while the table itself—with its soft chairs and spiced breads and cured meats and overflowing cups—is even more frustratingly far away. It's enough to sour even the finest of moods, and sour Tali's mood it definitely does, though hers is by no means fine. The rain makes everything colder, and it seeps into practically everything, moisture hanging on her skin like an extra layer of unpleasant fabric.

At least the Dalish will be traveling to Redcliffe soon, Tali thinks, trying to console herself. Another set of allies, ready and prepared to fight when the time comes. It has to count for something in the dreary frustration of her mind, and though it does count, it counts only a little bit—far less than the rain, and certainly far less than the mud Abarie's paws fling up into her face at just that moment.

"Are we ever going to stop?" Tali yells in frustration, swiping a hand across her nose and jaw. She regrets her outburst almost immediately—they're all having a hard time with the weather, she isn't the only one, and she's no child, she shouldn't be asking if they're 'there yet,' not when Sav seems to be buckling under the weight of something she won't share even with Tali. But it's too late, she's uttered the words, and Sav has turned to look at her. Wind whips strands of waterlogged hair torn from her braid across her cousin's face as Tali looks into her eyes, and her guilt only grows.

"There's a rise up ahead." Sav's voice is barely louder than the storm, but Tali hears it thundering in her ears, all the louder for the exhaustion and hurt in it. "We should be able to take shelter behind it." Nodding, looking down at her own feet, Tali swears herself to silence until they reach the rise. Savreen turns back to face front, Sher bracing her legs as she goes.

Thankfully, they reach the rise before another half hour is up, and the rain and the wind both lessen somewhat, the rain fading into a chill drizzle. There is some shelter in the shadow of the small hill, at least from the wind. Morrigan goes about setting a fire that won't be blown out or drowned, and the others hurriedly raise their tents, trying to ignore the sodden ground.

"I shouldn't have gotten frustrated," Tali says, bending to help Sav. "I'm sorry."

"We're here now." It's not a response, and it makes Tali feel worse. She knows this is Sav's way of being diplomatic—if there is nothing kind to say, then there is nothing to say—but she wishes that her cousin would throw diplomacy to the wind sometimes.

"I'll take first watch?" It isn't the smartest thing Tali has offered to do, especially not since she's tired already, but Sav needs the rest, and it makes her feel better to take the watch she knows her cousin would otherwise shoulder.

Relief floods through Savreen's posture.

"Thank you." Tali tries not to think on how sudden and complete the change to Savreen's demeanor has been since they returned to the Dalish encampment. She tries not to think about what it means for Sav as the de facto leader of their party, and as Tali's cousin, and instead she focuses on getting her cousin's tent set and finding some way to keep dry as she sits, legs folded, by the flickering purple flames of Morrigan's fire. In the end, she winds up wrapped in the un-erected canvas of her own tent. It works tolerably, keeping the worst of the chill out and, when she's propped up against Abarie, Tali almost feels warm.

She feels warmer still, though, when her mind wanders back to Alistair. It's impossible to smother the grin that rises to her lips, the hot feeling of the blood rushing to her face as she thinks about kissing him. But it's only a moment before she frowns, doubt creeping back into her thoughts. Elation, warm and bubbling, is met with guilt, too hot and viscous. Tali knows Alistair makes her happy, she knows that this is what she wants, that she would rather have this, have him—even with the possibility of an unhappy end—than to put it off in some misguided attempt to save herself pain. And yet, her thoughts interrogate her: what have I done to deserve it? To deserve him? Only a few weeks ago she'd been at Sav's throat, lost in her own grief, and now she still doesn't know what to do to help her cousin. Their families are dead, the Blight threatens Ferelden, and they are without allies in Denerim while Loghain wants them killed or imprisoned or worse.

There is so much to consider, so much else to think about, and yet Talvinder finds herself here, when she should be focusing on her watch, thinking of Alistair. But is it really so wrong, she asks herself, to want to think about a future? Something after the Blight, something to look forward to?

"We haven't even talked about this," she says out loud, reminding herself. And it's true—they haven't had a chance to speak in private, not since the others found them together after returning from the ruins. But—and there's that word yet again—they have talked about futures, about dreams, about their very specific dreams, and maybe that's enough to build a hope on. Isn't it? Next to Tali, Abarie whines in her sleep and twists around into a circle, letting out small snores. It pulls Tali out of her mind, and she notices that the rain has all but stopped, turning into a fine mist that is far more bearable than the heavy droplets that assailed them all earlier.

"Maybe we have talked about this." There is something so silly about the way Tali reassures herself, so very inane. Not even Abarie pays attention to her pathetic musings, which in some ways, Tali supposes, is for the better. The dreams, though, fill her mind. The thought of that perfect world: Highever Keep still standing, her family the same as it used to be—only with Alistair there, too. She lets herself dissolve into the desire of it all, lets herself think just for a moment about her mother, perhaps, meeting Alistair. How would prim and proper Eleanor Cousland react to her daughter courting a royal bastard? Talvinder thinks for a moment, trying to balance out her mother's ardent application of finishing-school diatribes to her own upbringing with Eleanor's equally stringent insistence that Talvinder be trained in combat.

Then she remembers her mother's occasional couched smirks at yet another prank pulled on an unwanted suitor, her stern reminders that Tali should be careful not to be caught scaring off those who sought her hand. The memories make Tali smile wistfully, achingly. No, Lady Cousland would have been thrilled. Besides, it was Fergus her parents had had to worry about. And since he had married an Antivan noblewoman and produced an heir to boot, well, Talvinder would have probably been free to run off with the stable boy. Chadda and Bikram would never have disapproved, she knows that much. And her father…he would have been nothing but happy.

But that's all conjecture now, thought and imagination, empty shapes conjured by a demon of dreams and desires and nothing more. Because not only is her mother dead, but so too are her aunt and uncle. And her father. And her brother's wife, and her nephew, even her brother and her cousin. All are gone. Dead. Eleanor and Birsingh, Chadda and Bikram, Oren and Oriana, Fergus and Sikander. Did Howe even bury them? Or did he leave their bodies in the keep as it burned and crumbled? Or, even worse, did he allow—or encourage—his men to have their fun, to mutilate and humiliate?

Tali lets her head drop into her hands, trying to rub her palms hard enough against her eyelids that the images of her imagination will leave. Instead she's left only with dancing stars of pressure against the black of her eyelids. She hasn't thought about these things in weeks. She had thought she might even be through the grief, focused now on the Blight, on everything else. Her hope had been that there would be no room for such thoughts, but maybe this is punishment for her willingness to forget in favor of Alistair's kiss. Maybe it's what she deserves, more than she deserves him, his kind touch, his friendly presence, his reassuring words. She should stop this, now. She should focus on the tasks at hand—it's what Duncan and the others died for, shouldn't she at least honor them? Shouldn't she focus on the grief? Shouldn't she at least wait until their bodies are cold? Instead, here she is, chasing her own happiness, and they are gone. Is she squandering everything the dead have given her?

That's how Alistair finds her, wrapped in the canvas of her tent, slouched in on herself, hands pressed hard into the sockets of her eyes, trapped in the chasing swirling riptide of her own mind.

"Tali?" His voice startles her, and Tali shoots upright again, her back ramrod straight.

"Alistair, I—hi, hello." He sits next to her with a slightly quizzical smile.

"Hello yourself. How's the watch going?"

"It's…fine." Alistair raises an eyebrow at Tali's response, at that particular combination of word and tone, and it makes her slump back into a ball once more. "I keep…thinking."

"Well, there's your problem. Never think. Bad for the mind." As he speaks, Alistair taps one finger on his forehead. Tali scoffs lightly, bringing her knees up to tuck them under her chin. Hesitating, Alistair waits a moment or two before speaking again, this time a question. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Tali doesn't know her answer immediately. She thinks she wants to talk, but still there's that small nagging feeling, the thought that maybe that's selfish, too. But then, when she looks into Alistair's eyes and she sees him gazing earnestly at her, she thinks instead that perhaps it would be selfish not to talk it through with him—especially since it concerns him, after all. She sighs, heavy and reluctant, confused about the definition of selfish and what, exactly, counts as such. In the end, she decides, he did ask.

"I worry that I'm…doing everything wrong."

"Everything is quite a lot to do wrong. Are you sure?"

"Well—yes. I know it sounds silly—"

"Nah. I get it." Alistair moves his own knees up, pulling them against his chest until he's sitting almost exactly like Tali is. "It's easy to think that way. You aren't, though. In fact, I do think you're doing some things right, if that helps."

"Yeah? Like what?" The fire in front of Tali dances, purple flames licking at sparse fuel with a hunger she thinks she might understand. Alistair is so close to her, after all.

"Well, I mean, you do happen to kiss correctly." The smile that tugs at Tali's lips is impossible to fight, and instead she just whacks Alistair on the shoulder. "Ow, ow! Alright, alright!" He laughs, the sound light and airy. "That was the wrong answer. There's other stuff you do right, I promise."

"You're on thin ice, Alistair." He isn't really. It helps to know that he's thinking about her in the same way, because she doesn't think he's selfish, and if he isn't selfish, then surely she can't be. "I think you're making fun of me, you know."

"Making fun of you? Never. Perish the thought, dear lady! After all, you are quite excellent at swordplay, and you do a wonderful job at keeping watch without falling asleep. And I am also sure you could thoroughly trounce me were I to make fun of you." Tali rolls her eyes, but her guilt is momentarily forgotten as she and Alistair slip into the easy and comforting routine of teasing, smiling, poking at each other. Adopting an air of superiority, tilting her posture so that she's speaking down her nose at him, she responds to Alistair in a lofty, uptight voice.

"I think you're trying to save face, Grey Warden. How will you ever make up for that?" There's a glint in Alistair's eye as he responds, shifting to turn more fully towards Tali.

"Well, you see, I had a thought about exactly that."

"Oh? Do tell." He reaches out to cup her face as he responds.

"If I just—" The kiss happens quickly. Smoothly. It threatens to consume Tali, if only she'll let it. The debate flares, white hot in her chest. Does she let herself sink into it? Does she push it away? What is right? And is it a lie to forget her anxieties and her fears, even for a moment? But when his lips, his mouth, his breath, his hands are so warm, so soft, so insistent and somehow still so gentle—He leans back, and she doesn't expect the kiss to stop. She's sure that she looks like a confused fish as her eyes flutter open.

"I don't want to give you more to deal with, if you really truly aren't ready," he starts, hands still soft on her cheeks. "But I don't want to not—well, do this, whatever this is." Alistair's voice is strange, a mix of naivete and fear and the knowledge of the possibilities laid out before the both of them and, heavier than all, the hope, and the accompanying fear that that hope won't come to pass. He looks into her eyes, a faint blush on his cheeks, and she has an idea of what it is he's not saying. They've both lived so little so far, the king's bastard and the teyrn's daughter, and yet it might well be all they get. The two of them have had lives that would never have met had it not been for the Blight, had it not been for tragedy. Now here they are, both Grey Wardens, surrounded by shadows and the tents of the only people in the world they can trust. Here they are, faced with the knowledge that they are both young and different, but that they might never be much older than they will be tomorrow.

In that moment, Tali knows. She knows it isn't a lie, isn't unfair, isn't irresponsible or somehow unkind to feel what she feels for Alistair while still she feels that fear, that loss, that anger—while still the world spins on around them, while still the Blight persists. Her family would want her happiness, not her self-flagellation. They would want her to live.

"It's not too much," she says after an age, and yet still no time at all has passed. "It's not—I'm ready." As soon as the words leave her mouth, they're replaced with his lips. He kisses her, and she kisses him back. If their kisses in the Brecilian Forest were born of desperation and frantic need, this kiss is one of hunger, of an aching, gnawing feeling. The pressure of Alistair's mouth against Tali's feels like a compress on a wound, cool and healing and oh, so relieving. She wants to touch, to feel as much of him as possible, and her hands flutter and flow across his face, his neck, the back of his head, down to his chest, where she swears she can feel his heart beating through his clothes. The feeling of him, his realness, his simple existence, his presence there, with her—it astounds her.

His hands circle her waist and then slip up her back, under the canvas wrapping she's pulled around herself. He pulls her closer even as he breaks their kiss, both of them gasping for air, and Tali feels like she's liquefying somewhere deep inside, burning and melting at each and every point where their bodies connect. She's too warm, now, and she lets the covering of her tent fall from her shoulders. The cool breeze that gusts across the back of her neck makes her shiver, but it's nothing compared to the resurgence of heat that overcomes her when Alistair pulls her into another kiss.

She will be happy. She will live, with him, for as long as they have. The resolve feels heady, like a drug, stronger than the conscription ale she drank so long ago in the remnants of Ostagar. Talvinder will be happy, as she was among the Wardens that night, as she was before, with her family, and it will not be a lie, or an act of selfishness, but of resilience and effort.

A throat is cleared somewhere—somewhere nearby, near the small magical fire by which Tali and Alistair are sitting, entangled and blissful. The realization that they are, in fact, still in camp, still surrounded by the others, pours over Tali like a bucket of cold water. Frantically, she and Alistair both jerk apart, leaping up to their feet and away from each other, waking Abarie as they do so. The mabari barks unhappily and rolls over with a whine.

"I do hope I am not interrupting something, though by the looks of it, my hopes are to be soundly dashed." Zevran watches them with a smug look on his face, a single eyebrow raised and cocked high on his forehead. His arms are folded across his chest, foot tapping the dirt as he looks back and forth between Alistair and Talvinder. He seems expectant, as though waiting for a story.

"Are you on watch next, then?" Alistair asks, pointedly ignoring the elf's line of questioning. Zevran's smirk only grows, widening into a full grin. The expression makes Alistair fumble, and he glances at Tali sheepishly. "Yes, you, ah, you must be. We—well, we forgot, you see. We were, um, we were just—no you didn't interrupt anything."

"Alistair was just going to help me put up my tent," Tali adds, and Alistair nods enthusiastically.

"Yes, that is exactly what—"

"I do not mind, Wardens. It is simply rather funny to watch you two. I shall take the watch from here. Pleasant dreams to you both." With a single glance between them, Alistair and Tali both scurry off, away from the fire. Abarie follows Tali reluctantly, yawning sleepily, but still snapping playfully at a trailing corner of the canvas Tali carries bundled awkwardly in her arms. Wordlessly, at the edge of the firelight, Alistair helps Tali raise her tent. They both pretend not to hear Zevran whistling, sitting in the very spot they've just vacated. Just before Tali goes to crawl into her tent, though, Alistair stops her, a hand on her arm. He smiles, and presses one final, soft kiss to her cheek, before heading to his own tent. Tali, her whole body buzzing with the beat of her heart, finally enters her tent. She pulls off her boots, shucks off her pants, and clambers into her bedroll, where she simply lies there next to Abarie, staring up at the canvas above her and thinking about the feeling of Alistair's body against hers.

When Savreen was younger, much younger, there had been an exceptionally cold winter. The coldest in living memory, many said. It swept through the Bannorns, across the Waking Sea and the Storm Coast, even freezing Denerim. Times had been lean for all, but in an effort to distract Savreen and the other children, her mother had taken them to a nearby lake. To Savreen, the frozen solid surface of the body of water had seemed a marvel.

Are the fishes frozen too? She had asked. Chadda laughed lightly, but sadly.

Many are likely to be, little dove.

And the frogs? The water bugs? What about the little salamanders? Chadda had crouched down in front of Savreen, then, breath fogging around her lips.

They will have ways to survive. Some of them sleep, beneath the ice. Savreen nodded, grave and serious as she considered the salamanders.

Like bapu ji under the blankets? Chadda laughed again, the sound echoing across the ice. Fergus and Sikander both were busy throwing balls of slush and snow at each other.

A little like that. Little Savreen had turned, then, back to the lake, back to the ice. Her mother must have seen her considering it, because she spoke almost immediately. You can walk on it, if you would like. But you must be very careful.

Really?

Yes. Why don't we go together?

Together, they had stepped out onto the ice. Savreen walked gingerly, expecting to fall through at any moment. But it held as they walked, the surface slippery and slick. Somewhere near the center of the lake, there came a ringing, thwapping sound—the sound of the ice settling beneath their weight, Chadda said. It fascinated Savreen, and as she stared down at the ice under her feet, a deep blackish blue wrought through with veins of white, she wondered how far the ice went, and how hard it might be to crack it, to break it.

She'd learned exactly how hard it might be later that winter, as the days began to lengthen once more, shifting toward spring. Her fear of the ice had long vanished. She enjoyed sliding across it, seeing how fast she could make herself go, how long she could remain upright, gliding across its surface. She liked looking down at the ice, imagining just how the creatures beneath might be faring, what their dreams might be like. She had walked out onto the ice without a care, expecting it to be just as solid as it had been for weeks. But after just a few steps, small cracks and crunches began to echo in her ears.

Savreen had frozen, stock still, and stared at the spiderwebs forming in the ice beneath her feet. The noise sounded almost like the snapping of thread or the cutting of wire, drawn taut. Thwip, thwip. Echoing and reverberating, across the whole of the lake. Even though she had stopped moving, the cracks continued to form, the gradual pressure of even her small weight simply too much for the ice to bear. When she went to turn back to solid ground, her heart hammering in her throat, another crack rang out.

Luckily for Savreen, she really had been only a few steps from shore that day. When her feet punched through the fragile ice, sending shocks of cold up through her muscles, the water beneath barely came to her waist. Fergus saw her, grabbed her, rushed her inside, back in front of a fire, and that was the last time Savreen had trusted ice.

But now, leading the silent column of her fellows back across the plains, back toward Orzammar, Savreen can think of little other than that ice, the way it thawed with time and then, all at once, gave out beneath her. She fears she might end up the same. She can feel herself heading toward it, her resolve thinning even now. It isn't that she feels out of her depth, exactly, nor even that she thinks herself incompetent. But since Swiftrunner's claw found its mark in her flesh, since Tali's brush with death, since they all followed Savreen's own lead into the forest—into danger—without questioning it, she has in turn begun to question herself.

There is, also, the matter of Ranjit. She can tell he disapproves of some of her choices, even though he won't voice it. It confuses Savreen. He was so ready to tell her the truth, to be honest with her when she asked him in the forest, but it's as though that strength comes and goes. Permission seems to still be a stopping point for him, and Savreen is tired of needing to grant it to everyone around her, even as they depend upon her. She leads them, and yet she has been forced into doing it alone, despite the fact that her choices affect them all.

Reluctantly, she glances back over her shoulder, eyeing the rest of the party. They're tired, but that's nothing new. They've been moving as fast as possible for the last week, trudging across the landscape with the hope of reaching Orzammar before there's even a whisper of the fall frosts. The days of high summer seem so far behind them now, as Savreen wraps her makeshift blanket-turned-cloak tighter around herself to ward off the chill. It's times like these when she envies Sher's fur, which has begun to thicken with the season. The others seem similarly chilled, and with a sigh, Savreen turns back to face front. They've lost so much time going back and forth, but there's nothing for it. To keep moving is all they can do.

They make camp that night long after sunset. The moons are high overhead when finally the tents are raised and the fire is lit from the scarce tinder collected from scrub and brush. Savreen would rather keep moving—the plains are too open for her liking—but she knows that pushing forward at such a pace will only wear them out. Orzammar has waited this long, and it will wait a few days longer, even if her own patience wears thin.

There are few words spoken as they break out their carefully packed rations and eat in a circle. Savreen stares at the dancing flames in front of her with a nearly blank mind, eating waybread and yet tasting none of it. One by one, the others finish their food, call out their watch order, and slink off to their tents with aching feet. Sten is the last to leave, doing so with a gentle inclination of his head towards Savreen. It is her turn to take the first watch, and so she sits, listless, and her mind drifts toward the question of what mistake it is she'll make next.