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“Whatever are you doing?”
Alistair spun around, cast iron skillet in hand.
Morrigan’s shadow loomed suddenly on the cavern wall, projected in the campfire’s glow.
“Ah, the Witch of the Wilds.” Alistair converted his defensive skillet maneuver into a smooth shake-and-toss move. Chunks of glowing blue mushrooms leapt and sizzled in the pan. “I’m sauteing, obviously.”
Morrigan stepped forward with a sarcastic chuff. “Well, I’m flattered you assume the aforementioned Witch of the Wilds doesn’t eat everything so raw it’s still kicking. I may have underestimated your Chantry education. Perhaps it is top-notch.”
Alistair eyed her suspiciously, unsure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult, and reached for a flask. “It was, yes. I took culinary arts as an elective. So, now I’ll add a dash of ichor to deglaze the pan and make a nice, flavorful sauce for our roasted nug—"
Morrigan interrupted with a snort. "That can’t be edible. ‘Tis no more than a recipe for fleshrot poison. You may apply it to your dragonbone sword, but it shan't go anywhere near my mouth."
“Really? Two weeks into the Deep Roads and that’s when you decide to be picky?”
“Picky about not being poisoned? No, that’s still the same as ever. I shall have my meal without any of your unnecessary accoutrements. That is all.” Morrigan turned to go.
Though he tried to shake off her words, sticks and stones and all that, Alistair could have sworn she’d just riddled his body with tiny cuts.
“Hey!” he shouted after her. “What you said before? Well, I accept your challenge to try—”
“To get near my mouth?”
Heat threatened his cheeks as realization crept in. But Morrigan would never deign to flirt with him. It had to be another trick. Unless…
“Cheese!” he exclaimed, and the word reverberated through the cavern.
The other companions who were lounging nearby on bedrolls and playing cards glanced up. At least two of them rolled their eyes. Morrigan assessed him, appearing far from fooled.
Alistair lowered his voice. “I mean, cheese would do it, right? A lovely slab of cheese melted over slices of tender nug meat, and grated cheese stirred into the sauce to make it thick and creamy. Would you put that near your mouth?”
Morrigan’s eyes locked onto his. “Keep going. Pretend I’ve let you put it near my mouth. What happens next?”
Alistair could almost feel her resolve weaken. It unnerved him.
“Oh, um, are we pretending I’m the one holding the spoon? I assumed you were.”
“Forget it,” Morrigan grumbled. "You know as well as I there is no cheese left among the shared rations, nor any other condiments we haven’t foraged for ourselves. In fact, the reason we're reduced to eating spit-roasted nugs in the Deep Roads in the first place is because a certain templar in our party has demolished our rations due to feeling lightheaded between meals. I won't embarrass him in front of the others by mentioning his name."
At this, the Warden’s head whipped around. “What’s this about a templar stealing rations?”
Beads of sweat prickled Alistair’s hairline while his face flamed and his patience sublimated into thin air. “What? No! I’m not—She’s—It’s nothing. I’ve got this. And I’m not a templar!” Drawing closer to Morrigan, his voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Enough! How dare you mock me in such a manner?”
Morrigan only looked amused. “Well. How would you like me to mock you? I take requests.”
“Well…” Thrown by her wit, the flash of anger ebbed. “For starters, there should be more cheese thrown in my general direction.” He gestured wildly to the pan. “It would make cooking in the Deep Roads for a large group easier, for one.”
“Oh, yes. By all means, let me just make a quick stop to see if Bodhan has just the right type to lob at your head.” Morrigan’s mouth quirked into a momentary smirk. “A large wheel, preferably. But I suppose we are both out of luck there.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not picky when it comes to things I’ll put in my mouth or on my dragonbone sword,” declared Alistair with a finality that, unfortunately, did not end the conversation.
She choked on a laugh. “No, I should think not.”
Alistair refused to acknowledge her evident mirth. “Roasted nug in deep mushroom sauce is a traditional delicacy in Orzammar, I’ll have you know. It’s really quite—” He raised the spoon to his lips, and an intense earthy, bitter flavor slugged him right in the palate. He tried and failed to hide his grimace.
“I suppose, Alistair, you’re going to tell me that it would have tasted, I don’t know, amazing if only you had some cheese to balance it out.”
“That’s exactly what I was going to say.”
“You idiot.” She paused. “Oh, my apologies. I almost forgot you prefer your mocking to come in a cheese-based form.”
Something small and yellow flew at his head. Alistair’s skirmish-sharpened reflexes kicked in. He executed another defensive move with the skillet, this time catching the cheese—a Ferelden farmhouse variety, by its buttery color—right in the sauce.
He stared down at the cheese melting slowly into the mushrooms, then side-eyed Morrigan. “What dark and unholy magic have you wielded, witch, to summon such a thing?”
Morrigan’s eyes flashed, and her mouth twitched into a grin “Who, me? Magic? Why do you say?” She pulled back her shoulders and waggled her fingers in his direction.
Alistair couldn’t suppress a flinch. “How else does one transport cheese to the bottom of the Deep Roads after weeks without so much as a hint of sunlight or human contact?”
“Perhaps,” said Morrigan, “you're not the only one who gets lightheaded between meals. Now, do stir in the cheese and take care the sauce is not lumpy.”
Morrigan stalked closer, peering over his shoulder as he worked. The fine hairs on his neck rose in response. The warmth from the coals became unbearable, thick like the tension surrounding them.
Morrigan finally sniffed. “Very well, I shall indulge you. Let us try again. Pretend I let it near my mouth. What happens next?”
Who is indulging who here? wondered Alistair. “There’s no need to pretend,” he said. He turned just enough to hold the spoon to her lips. Her answering glare was no surprise, but the tremble in her chin had him holding out for a miracle.
Her resolve crumbled before his eyes and she accepted the spoonful. The sinful look on her face would have seen her booted from the chantry in seconds, assuming she set foot in one.
“Is it just me,” said Alistair gingerly, “or are you enjoying this?”
That mask of disapproval slipped back into place. “The only thing I’m enjoying is listening to you sound like a complete idiot.”
“Oh? Then I guess you don’t want another bite.” Alistair set the pan aside and fiddled with his utensils.
“I most certainly do not—” Morrigan seemed to be at odds with herself. “Do not want to miss the opportunity to critique your cooking.” She snatched up the spoon and helped herself to another sampling.
The way her features melted in apparent bliss had Alistair considering. How might the flavors change if he tasted them on her lips? He quickly batted the thought away.
“See?” he said. “Everything is better with cheese.”
“Well, Alistair, I stand corrected. Your dish may look underwhelming, and your ingredients may be sparse, but your skill is...surprising. And as for the taste…”
Alistair raised an expectant eyebrow while his pulse thrummed in his chest. Had Morrigan, yes that Morrigan, Witch of the Wilds, just complimented him? Or was it a stranger? Whoever she was, she stared back at him with wide, bewildered eyes, her prickly shell diminished.
“Yes?” he said after a moment’s awkward silence. “What about it? You started to say something there.”
“Did I?” Her eyes narrowed, shifted away as she offered back the spoon. “Well, I suppose I have no words to describe it. But here, I think you should taste it. Or are you too much of a—”
Oh no, he thought. Not again. Her soft bewilderment faded away. Her spikes engaged.
“Not another word.” Alistair closed the distance between them in a step and pressed his mouth to hers.
Morrigan froze at the contact, rigid against him, and for once, he felt he might just have the upper hand. He’d caught her off guard. And then she came to life, one hand curled around the nape of his neck to pull him close. Somewhere in the background, someone definitely whistled.
She pulled back for a moment to murmur, “if you’re just going to stand there with your arms at your sides, we can stop.”
Yes, I’m in over my head, he should have but did not say. Nor did he ask what to do with his hands, yet should have. Her waist, her back, her shoulder—there was too much bare flesh beneath a scant strip of cloth that might blow away if he so much as sneezed. Instead, he wound his fingers in the relative safety of her soft, dark hair. And when he grazed a knuckle down her cheek, she gave a sigh that for once wasn’t exasperation.
His mind emptied as she deepened the kiss, and he followed her lead. Then her free hand settled firmly on his ass. When she squeezed, he squeaked.
“By Andraste’s smallclothes, did you hear that?”
“Should we throw a blanket over them while we eat, Warden?”
“Well, it’s about time those two finally shut up.”
“Hey, move over. A dwarf can’t get a good angle on the action when you’re blocking the view.”
“Such childish antics. What a display.”
Alistair hesitated. His surroundings solidified, and he seemed to fall back into himself. Whatever are you doing? asked the voice in his head. He let his hands drift to his sides.
“Whatever are you doing?” echoed Morrigan. For a split second her expression softened again, her eyes widened, her breath hitched. Just as quickly, her defenses snapped back into place. “‘Twas but a kiss.”
“I see,” he said. “In that case, I’d like to eat before dinner gets cold.”
Her face fell as she released him. “I have more to say to you,” she said flatly, “but I’m afraid I’m completely out of cheese.”
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