Chapter Text
Her hands were different than his. Of course this was not the only disparity between his fellow Warden and himself, him being human and she Dalish. But touch was a strange new concept for Alistair and thus why this detail of her had burned itself so deeply into his mind.
Much smaller in size, Lenya's hands still did the same work like his, equally as strong and deft. Perhaps even more so than his own fumbling ones. Her hands firmly grasped around the hilts of her twin blades, she slashed through flesh, rotten or not, in an intricate, lethal motion. Within them lay the power to take lives, but also to save them; to soothe, to heal.
Always clad in armor from head to toe, fighting for their lives each day, touches were a rare, precious thing. The first of them between both Wardens happened by accident, when they were reaching for the plates next to the small cookfire in camp. It wasn't something special, a moment barely noticeable in passing. Yet the accidental touch, the sensation lingered with him all through the meal, his brown cheeks not only flushed by the warming stew.