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“Hey, you have to try this!” Vela plops down next to Alistair at the fire. She holds out a dark bottle with a surface so scratched it’s opaque.
Alistair peers into it and takes a cautious sniff. “Whoa!” He reels back from the fumes. “Maker’s breath, what is this?” His eyes water just from the proximity.
“What do you think?” Vela laughs, bumping shoulders with him.
“Some kind of poison by the smell of it. Where did you even get this?” One eyebrow ticks up as he gets a good look at her. She’s flushed pink and a gently swaying a little, but she’s smiling at him all excited like she has a secret, or when she sees a funny shape in a rock formation, or someone says 'buttress'.
“Just try it! It’s good, I promise.” Her eyes are huge and blue and imploring. “Here, see?” she tips the bottle, taking a little sip and hums in appreciation. “Just don’t chug it.”
“If I do try it—” she perks up. “If I do,” he emphasizes, “will you reveal to me where you found this?”
“Yeah, sure!” she agrees happily.
In their time together, Alistair has learned that it’s usually to his benefit to follow the rare orders Vela gives… even the ones that seem silly. He’ll either get into a wild mess of trouble or end up doing something amazing. It’s usually worth risking the mess of trouble. If that’s the way it goes, at least they end up there together. He tries not to breathe as he sips gingerly. The liquid is thicker than he’d imagined. Almost thick as cream, but sweet like jam.
“Good right?” she prompts him, watching as his face goes from apprehensive to curious in a flash as the flavor hits him.
“It’s sweet,” he remarks, utterly surprised. “Oh, and spicy!” The after-burn hits him with cinnamon and pepper and whiskey. “What…” The warmth fills his chest and he starts to feel a bit flushed. He scrubs a hand through his hair.
“I found it with a note. It’s a Grey Warden’s,” Vela says into the fire. The light reflects off her elven eyes making them flash. “It was labeled ‘Vintage: Warden Calway. Drink up.’ So I did.” She shrugs.
“Oh I’ve heard of this!” Alistair exclaims. His face lights up and it draws Vela’s attention like a moth to a flame. “Ritewine.” He studies the bottle as if it might tell him something more. “Wardens combine bottles to save space, never fully emptying theirs. They start to take on a personal flavor I guess.” He takes another sip, no hesitation this time.
“Really?” Vela looks at it with a new expression. Something like sadness and then determination play across her face. “We should split it,” she says with a certain gravity.
“What? Right now? I think we’d both die! I was hoping to live a few years yet. Think of all the things I haven’t done!” He chuckles and slips his hand into the inside of her thigh and squeezes for emphasis.
She giggles a bit more than she would under normal circumstances. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely,” he says, leaning in for a smoldering kiss that starts slow and sweet, but begins to build with little licks and bites until he’s clutching her to him, keeping them both upright, losing himself in the wonderful slide of her tongue.
Vela starts to slip off the back side of the log and he keeps her from tipping completely over, but she still plops onto her butt on the cold ground. The laughter bubbles up and she tries to pull herself up with his help. “I didn’t mean—” she pulls on his shoulder as he hauls her back up and lands back next to him, trying to pull the hem of her robe back down and giggling over it helplessly. “I only meant—” she tries again, “we should split it and start our own bottles.
“Ohhh, I see. A little starter kit. We are Wardens after all. A toast to Calway then!” Alistair raises the bottle high. “Sacrifice,” he says solemnly.
“Sacrifice,” Vela repeats. They stare at each other for a long moment before she snorts with laughter again. “Sacrifice your ale, you mean?” she sniggers.
“Well I didn’t mean it like that,” Alistair grumbles, trying not to laugh.
“I know, I know!” Vela waves him off, her voice wavering with mirth.
He takes another swig and enjoys the warmth that starts in his chest and spreads out through his limbs. “If we split this won’t our bottles taste the same?”
“Similar I’m sure,” she says easily. “But I like the idea. Maybe someday we’ll be dead somewhere and someone will take our bottles and think, huh, these two go together.”
“We go together, huh?” Alistair asks, all twinkling eyes and sly grin.
“Of course we do.” She threads her fingers through his and leans into him. “We always will.”
He kisses the top of her head. “Always.”