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The letter had been clutched and folded so many times it was as threadbare as the shirt on the back of a lonely wanderer, or the soul of a warden with too little time. The man holding it wasn't feeling much better. The floor lurched again, rolling him to the other side of his dusty mat. He didn't resist.
The song hasn't stopped.
It was one of the only sentences still decipherable on the rumpled note, and it was the one he least wanted to read. The song. They had been hearing it for over a year now, louder or softer depending on how far they were from its corrupted source. It wasn't natural; it wasn't supposed to call to every warden at once. And then it had stopped. Two weeks ago the song had ended abruptly, it hadn't even faded, it was simply gone. The Inquisition's doing, he supposed. Good people. The sense of relief that had flooded him in that moment, an otherwise unremarkable moment in a quiet library, was so blunt and immediate that it winded him. They were free.
For now, at least.
He hadn't wasted a moment writing to her. She hadn't been far from the source, the defiled magister screeching his counterfeit calling out into the void, and he had been worried for her. She was a Paragon, a hero, defeater of high dragons and archdemons; it was a disservice to fuss over her, but it was a habit beyond his ability to break.
His letter had been jubilant. It wasn't like their lives were suddenly their own – that was her mission, their mission, and it would take a hefty dose of cleverness and a dozen miracles to complete it, but it was still a victory. With his mind finally clear, he could devote more of it to helping her find the cure that would truly save them. And that's what he had written her: I'm yours now, all yours, and sent it off to an inconsequential little outpost near the Dragonbone Wastes where he knew she would be able to pick it up. While he awaited her answer, he packed and tied up loose ends with the somber, cagey northern wardens he wasn't sorry to be leaving.
The song hasn't stopped.
He had no right to be as happy as he was. He was a warden, and whether or not the darkspawn magister had been defeated, his life was still forfeit to the cause. And so was hers. Even so, the sudden quiet and the impending reunion with his wife was almost enough to make him dance. Almost. In his lonely room in the barracks of Weisshaupt, he laughed, remembering a promise made long ago to dance for her in a pretty dress. Maybe it was finally time to pay up.
And then her letter came.
I don't have long, I only stopped back here for supplies. The wardens here say they can no longer hear it, that Corypheus must have been defeated. They're saying they're already sleeping better and that their minds have cleared. If that's true, I'm glad, and I hope that it's true for you, too, but
(Two lines are scratched out here, thick black ink pushed through to the other side by a frustrated hand.)
The song hasn't stopped. Not for me. It must have happened while I was out in the wastes, but I couldn't even tell you when because nothing has changed for me. I wish I could think of a more delicate way to tell you, but all I can think is that I'm running out of time. I have to get back out there. I have to find it.
Whatever happens, I love you forever,
Dea
She was only thirty, she should have had twenty years left with him, or something close. They never expected a carefree life of leisure, but he hadn't seen this coming. She was the best of them. She deserved better.
As he crossed the Waking Sea, he couldn't help wondering if they had always been living on borrowed time. The Blight should have taken them, that was the trade. One of them was supposed to have died, and maybe death was coming back to claim its prize. If that was true, was it worth it? Cheating death with some ritual he still didn't understand? He had to admit it was. He would have done all that and more for the ten years he had gotten with her; his only wish was that he had been the one to drive the sword into the archdemon's skull. Maybe then death would have let her be.
He had no talent for wallowing, and he wasn't very fond of it now, but there were precious few distractions on the little boat that carried him back to her. So long, everything always took so long. Weeks to get from the great warden fortress of the north to Cumberland, another week to cross the sea, and two more to reach her campsite in the Wastes. If he could find it. Hopefully she had left some indication of her whereabouts with the wardens of that sad little outpost, or he would be forced to track her, and if there was anything he was worse at than wallowing, it was tracking.
He needed to get off this boat. The crew treated him well, if “well” meant “at a distance, with unmitigated suspicion.” It was the warden thing, and he was used to it, but it wasn't him. At least they hadn't recognized his name. Most of them had been too young, only children at the time.
He disembarked in Jader, just north of her old home in Orzammar. She would have laughed to hear him call it her home. Or maybe she would have socked him. She had never felt any driving need to return there, and he couldn't say he blamed her, but it meant something different to him. They had learned so much about each other that year; so much of who they were now had been planted there.
It was refreshing to be back on Fereldan soil, too. He played the role of the dispossessed warden well; his loyalty was to his order, his oath, his Joining, and more personally to his wife, but deep down he was a Dog Lord to the core. Just one more way he couldn't escape his own blood. Judging from what he'd learned in the Weisshaupt archives, he never would. Maybe that wasn't always a bad thing.
He hired a horse in Jader to make the going easier. That was a luxury they hadn't enjoyed back in the day, and one he would gladly take advantage of now that his rank commanded some kind of authority, no matter how begrudging. Anything, anything to get to her sooner. How much longer did she have?
The North Road was long, but well trod, and as safe as could be expected so soon after suffering yet another cataclysm. Thankfully the war was fading, only stray pockets of countryside requiring any level of alertness. Someday he would have to buy a round for the Inquisition.
He was so tired of traveling alone.
The town of Crestwood lay about halfway to his destination. It wouldn't be his first time there, but he wasn't looking forward to seeing it again. If he had to describe it in one word, it would be soggy. He stopped at a village along the way and stocked up on socks, but when he got there the place was virtually unrecognizable. Red dust and desiccated trees spread as far as he could see, where once he had noted only sodden gravel and dank caverns. So much had changed in so little time; the whole place felt like a metaphor for his life. At least the undead were gone. He still slept in spurts though, with only himself to man the watch. Crestwood gave him the willies.
The rest of the way was quiet, plains and hills broken up by only the occasional farmstead. That meant it was unguarded, but it seemed the wardens at Amaranthine were still doing their job. Or maybe just the idea of them was enough to keep the peace. She would be glad to hear that.
He checked in at the outpost on the way to her camp and asked if they had any word from her. There were fewer than half a dozen wardens sleeping there, and two of them were only passing through. She hadn't been kidding about that skeleton crew. “Hopefully that isn't literal,” she'd said. They were good people, relieved, if skittish, after enduring the threat of Corypheus, but none of them had heard from her in weeks. He left the horse with them and pressed on, drained, but unwilling to spare any minutes without her when he couldn't be sure of how many he had left.
The bleak desolation of the hills provided few distractions from the growing panic looping through his mind. The song hasn't stopped. She hasn't been seen in weeks. I'm running out of time. He fought back by tossing critical comments at the dry, ghastly landscape and wishing grass could talk back.
He found her camp easily enough, no tracking needed. Her tent was wedged underneath a ribcage the size of a Marcher estate. Her bedroll was rumpled, but the fire was cold. Next to her frying pan, still glistening with whatever she had last cooked in it, sat the letter he had sent her.
I'm on my way.
Before getting her letter, he had toyed with the idea of surprising her. Three years they had been apart, and they had only just missed another anniversary. During his time at Skyhold, he had managed to procure a replacement to the simple, unassuming ring he had given her when they married, a celebration of their reunion and a promise that it would be forever this time. Three years had seemed endless, but staring down a lifetime without her made everything else feel so trivial. The ring still rattled around in a pouch at his waist, nestled amongst a handful of dried rose petals, but he had given up on the surprise.
Large paws and stocky footprints led away from the fire and down into a valley. He gathered extra supplies from her tent and started once more on his way.
As he descended into the shadowed valley, her tracks became harder to follow. Tufts of crunchy grass and prickly brambles dotted the landscape in increasing frequency, and the dusty land beneath it shifted in the breeze. What he wouldn't have given to have the old dog with him. Long past his prime, too old to join them in battle but too loyal not to, he still had a nose that could track a falcon through the Frostbacks. Better that she had kept him, though; her road had been lonely enough these past few years, and it was a relief knowing she still had her faithful companion by her side. His heart ached to think that even the dog would be leaving him soon, but he had lived a long life of adventure and camaraderie, many years longer than he should have been allowed, and it was safe to assume the pup was ready for a rest.
Looming bluffs darkened the opposite end of the valley. The landscape was studded with the yellowing arcs of ancient beasts and their faded, splintering skulls. It might have made him sad once, to see such waste, but the dragons were returning now, their melancholic legends becoming a deadly reality.
An empty flask lying amid twisted roots caught his eye. Strangely careless for such a seasoned veteran as his wife, but at least he knew he was on the right path. Several caves dotted the base of the bluffs, empty black mouths against the chipping limestone. Inside one of them, he would find her.
This was not a time for guessing games. For years he had anticipated this as one of the happier moments of his life – he would finally see her again! - but instead he was standing alone in a valley dotted with death playing the worst shell game in Thedosian history. Which cave hid her? And would he find her alive or dead inside? He took the one on the left, pulling a light from his pack before venturing in. Luck. So much of his life had revolved around it, but he could never quite tell if his was good or bad.
Drips echoed through the stone just a few paces in, and he could see the reflection of his flame flickering in whatever it was that dribbled down cave walls. His hand moved to rest against the hilt of his sword, loosening it.
A few paces ahead, he spotted a trio of old barrels against the wall. Why did every cave in Thedas contain barrels? Something was picking at his mind. A warning? A memory? The words to a song he couldn't quite remember? It was going to come back to bite him, but he couldn't waste time sorting it out.
His steps echoed as he strode deeper into the maw. Glowing mushrooms grew from carcasses in every corner, useful flora if he had the time for it, but not good for much more than faint light while he was in a hurry. More barrels clustered at a bend just ahead. As he passed them, he realized his mistake.
Sudden heat burst against his armor, throwing him to the ground and dousing his light. With a cry, he rolled in the dust, biting through his cheek until it bled. If he was in need of the element of surprise, he had just lost his chance, his ears still ringing with the crash of the explosion. He lay on the ground, catching his breath as the wild pounding of his heart slowed to something resembling normal. He was getting too old for this.
In the blinding dark, he fumbled in his bag for his flint and struck them together against his torch. As the flames spread, he looked down the passage and whimpered at the sight before him.
Traps of every kind lined the floor and walls for as far as the light traveled. Only one or two of them had been triggered, maybe by Dea herself, and while they were likely ancient there was no way for him to tell which among them were still active. With his luck, maybe all. He had never been very good with traps. This was going to take all night, and time was not something he was willing to waste. He got his legs under him, placing his hands gingerly to either side of the bear trap in front of him to push himself back up.
Once upon a time, he'd had a friend or two to do this part for him. In the evening, when they made camp, the assassin would give him lessons in disarming, but when he would try to put it into practice in the field, his armor nearly always got in the way. He shrugged his shoulder now to secure his shield and reestablish his balance, but it was clear he wasn't making it out of this tunnel without a scratch or two.
Carefully, his breath heavy with determination, he stepped around the first trap. There was only enough room between them for one foot at a time, and urgency and over concentration left him wobbly. Three steps in, his toe grazed the second trap, snapping it shut. The clang resonated throughout the chamber, scampering down the hall as if it were a living thing.
With a sigh, he knelt back down now, eying the rest. They were standard bear traps as far as he could tell, and not overly difficult to disarm, if he was careful. He loathed the idea of disarming each one, spending precious minutes on a puzzle that wasn't intended for him, but the alternative was failing, trapping himself there for Maker knew how long, and for all he knew he wasn't even in the right cave. He reached for the nearest release lever, but before he had so much as breathed on it, the trap snapped shut half an inch from his nose.
For a moment, he considered calling for help.
To the void with his.
Muttering under his breath, he scooped up a handful of pebbles from a ledge in the stone and tossed a few at the next trap.
Nothing.
Maybe he needed bigger rocks. Spinning around, his eyes landed on the splintered carcasses of three old barrels. He picked up one of the boards. It wasn't quite long enough to risk just poking at the trap, but it was certainly big enough to throw.
The second trap snapped shut with a more satisfying crunch. It bit off a few inches of the board, but left enough of it for him to move on to the next. Three traps. Four. The fifth missed the board, clanging loudly down the passage, but the warden was so satisfied with his new trick that he thought nothing of it. He might actually make it out of here with a limb or two still in tact, and quickly, too. Speed. That was the thing.
Halfway down the hall he spotted another tripwire. At least his talent for spotting traps was improving, but this one would take more skill to disarm, and he wasn't looking forward to the scent of his own skin roasting. Just as he was contemplating standing at the far corner of the passage and throwing one of the barrel's iron rings as hard as he could at the wire, he heard an echo from far around the next corner.
Pat pat pat pat pat pat pat.
Footsteps, fast ones. Deepstalkers, maybe? He could handle deepstalkers, but he didn't relish the thought of staring into their uncanny faces. He listened again. How many? With the echo it was impossible to tell. He considered dousing his light again, but if it was deepstalkers or darkspawn or any other thing that thrived in darkness, that would do little more than serve them the advantage on a gilded platter. If it was deepstalkers or darkspawn, that seemed proof enough that Dea wasn't here. Fight them and retreat. She must be in another cave.
Pat pat pat pat pat pat pat.
They were getting louder, but without visibility around the bend, he still couldn't tell how close. He glanced around for a weapon, shaking his head as he remembered his sword, and drew it as quietly as he could manage. One step back to the wall. Two.
He knew what was happening before he felt it. Sharp teeth snapped against his greave, pinching the metal to the meat of his calf. He hissed, falling back and grabbing at his leg to make certain it was still attached, but the ancient rust in the joints had weakened it just enough to preserve his flesh.
“RUFF!”
The oncoming creature had turned the corner. The warden gripped his hilt, pushing himself up on one leg, but when he looked up his eyes met those of an old companion.
“Barkspawn!”
For a moment he forgot that he was trapped. The mabari danced, his nails clacking against the stone twenty paces away, his short ears flicking merrily over his thick skull. The warden waited, his breath taken both by pain and anticipation. She was here. She was in this cave, and she was coming. Just around the corner, surely, not doing anything so foolish as wandering the Deep Roads. He would see her soon, and he would know. They would walk whatever remained of their road together.
But she didn't come.
Once the dog had calmed himself, he began to weave through the traps, nose to the ground as he picked his way to the warden. If he'd had it in him to be embarrassed that a dog was handling the passage with more care than he had, he might have felt ashamed, but the relief that filled him at seeing his stocky, clever friend outweighed nearly every other emotion. He slid down the wall to give his leg a rest while he waited Barkspawn out.
When the dog reached the tripwire between them, he stopped and let out a whine. How had he gotten past it before? It certainly hadn't been set up behind them. Unless they had found a different entrance.
“Where is she?”
Barkspawn's ears pricked and he danced again, glancing back at the other end of the passage. The dog was perceptive, and impressively empathetic; if something was wrong, he would find a way to communicate it. Instead, he licked at his graying muzzle and yipped.
“She's here?”
The dog's squat head cocked to the side. Of course, she's here, numbskull, he seemed to say. Only one other person had ever made him feel as stupid as Barkspawn could make him feel, and briefly he thanked the Maker that she couldn't see him like this. At least the dog didn't do it on purpose.
Having enough of standing around, the old pup slunk to the ground and began to shimmy under the wire. Despite everything, despite the trap slowly cutting off circulation to his foot, despite his wife's letter, despite years of loneliness drawing out mercilessly just when he thought it was ending, the warden started to laugh.
The dog woofed darkly. It was not a respectable position he found himself in, and he was doing it for the good of the family; the warden knew he shouldn't mock him, but he couldn't stop. What was he going to do once he got to the other side? Dislodge his leg with his deft canine thumbs?
The warden's cheeks were wet with mirth and just a hint of delirium. Since he had received his wife's letter, his sleep had been short and restless, fraught with more nightmares than usual. Every minute, his heartbeat danced on the edge of panic, and he was exhausted. By the time he had collected himself and wiped the tears away, Barkspawn stood before him, looking mortified and not a little resentful. The warden swallowed another bout of laughter.
“Well?” he asked. “Now what? How do you propose we move forward, oh noble beast?”
With a huff, Barkspawn shoved his wet muzzle into the warden's hot palm.
“If you insist.”
Dropping his sword, he rumpled the loose skin around the dog's skull, dragging him into a forceful hug. It wasn't how he had envisioned this going, trapped in a panic on a cave floor, embracing an ancient dog while his wife was nowhere to be found, but he was in no position to negotiate better. He was grateful to get even this much.
Barkspawn shook himself free. If he didn't know better, the warden might have thought he was glaring.
“What now?”
Another muzzle to his palm.
“It's rusted shut. I can't just release it.”
“RUFF.”
Loud. Commanding. The bark bounced around the chamber, refusing to lessen in volume until it drove its point home. This time the muzzle nudged at the hilt of his sword.
“Ah.”
It was Duncan's sword. He had taken such pains to preserve it; the smiths at Weisshaupt had only just ground the chips from it, and he had been enjoying the new swish of the blade.
“RUFF.”
“All right, all right, I hear you.”
With a heavy sigh, he grabbed the hilt and smashed the pommel against the rusted release. The trap creaked and rocked, but the teeth didn't budge. The warden bit back a shout as it rattled against his leg. Another whack. Still nothing.
“This sword is irreplaceable, you know.”
“Alistair?”
The word rang clearly across the twenty paces between them and pierced him through the chest.
“Dea.”
Her name slipped out of him like a flower straining toward the sun. He pushed against the curve of the wall, clawing at the rock to pull himself back onto his good foot as she stared, the forget-me-not blue of her eyes sparkling bemusedly at him.
Her face. Her face was... radiant. Tired, confused, unnerved, even, but clear. Beautiful. Nightmares of a blighted, purple face vanished so rapidly it left him winded.
“You're hurt,” she said, moving to cross the trap-riddled distance.
“Careful!”
She stopped just long enough to give him a long-suffering scowl before delicately bypassing the remaining clamps. Beside him, the dog sat wagging his stumpy tail as he waited for her to reach them.
“Alistair, what are you doing here?”
Her voice was steady, but taut with exhaustion. She clutched a fistful of old, flaking papers in her hands.
“Ow!” he whimpered, his chest fluttering with a thousand words fighting to be free, but now that he had the chance he found he couldn't string them together. The sharpness of the rusted iron digging into his leg faded until all he felt was her. “I'm crushed!”
Her brow softened. He reached for her as she drew near, his hands closing on her cool cheeks, tracing the dark angles of her tattoo, but when he tried to close the distance between them, he stumbled. His trapped knee buckled under him, and he only just managed to catch himself without taking her down with him.
With an exasperated chuckle, she bent down and tapped the release. It yielded without protest under her fingers, sending a wave of prickly needles down Alistair's leg and into his foot.
“Are you hu-”
Before she could finish, he lifted her off her feet, sparks of need in his fingertips demanding the relief of her touch. Her lips were dry and cracking, but when his mouth closed on hers she threw her arms around his neck with abandon, pulling herself up and melting into him until the years between them were squashed into oblivion. Her legs popped behind her as she relaxed into the moment, and he couldn't resist swinging her around as they giggled against each other's lips.
A sharp pain in his calf hobbled him, and he stumbled against the cave wall, setting her feet back on the ground so they could both regain their footing. Sniffling, Dea drew a poultice from her pack.
“Sit down, I'll patch you up.”
Alistair did as he was told, sliding down the cave wall, his fingers lingering on her shoulder, her arm, her thigh as she bent down beside him. As she unbuckled his greave, he tugged at the fingertips of his glove, yanking it off to remove the layer between them.
“How did you find me?”
“My extraordinary tracking skills never fail me, my love. Dragons couldn't have kept me away.”
She tugged off his boot and rolled the cuff of his pants up, her fingers tickling the hairs along his shin and sending shocks of thrill through his body as she investigated the damage. Without even realizing it, his hand was in her hair, combing through the smooth ginger silk while she applied a cool compress to the cuts in his flesh.
“It'll bruise,” she said. “But you'll be fine.”
That was an understatement. He was so far past fine that for a moment he forgot about her letter entirely, their mission paling in comparison to this one perfect moment. His fingers found their way to her face again, caressing the soft apple of her cheek until her breath trembled.
“Dea.”
She was quiet, her round face drawn and pallid with exhaustion. He tugged at her arm until she climbed onto his lap, collapsing against his chest before she could so much as make herself comfortable. Stroking her hair as she breathed, her fingers playing against the bare skin of his neck, he struggled to suppress his shrieking joy until she could catch up with him.
“How long have you been down here?” he asked.
The weight of her head deepened as she pressed her cheek against the vibration of his voice.
“I don't know. Maybe day and a half.”
“Have you slept at all?”
“A little. I just wanted to get what I needed and get out. I never expected you to get out here so quickly. I hate these caves. The stone is all wrong here, and when I close my eyes...”
Right.
“How...” There were so few details in her letter, and his imaginings had clearly gotten away from him. So much panic, so many nightmares, and now that he saw her, she was as alluring as she had ever been. How advanced was it? How much time did they truly have? He needed to know, but he couldn't bring himself to ask.
“I don't know,” she said. “There's a mark on my leg, but it's small. If it's progressing, it isn't in a hurry. I'm just so tired.”
“We're going to fix this.”
“I know.”
It was a quiet admission, too quiet to tell if she really believed it, or if she was only saying it for his benefit. Her breath was shallow against his chest.
“Dea. We're going to fix this.”
He would believe it enough for the both of them. He had managed to sneak out of Weisshaupt with a note or two relevant to their cause. A breakthrough lay within their reach surely.
“I found something,” he explained now, hoping to spark enough hope to keep her on track, believing in him, herself, their future. “There were notes in the archives about the warden who was cured. I didn't know my father was there, and when they came back, she was... I may have another sibling out there somewhere or... no. I don't know. If I'm right, there may be something-”
Dea pushed off from his chest, reaching with a sudden burst of energy for the papers she had set on the ground next to them. He had news to tell her, big news, but he was so relieved to see the life in her that he accepted the interruption.
“Notes,” she explained. “Taken by bandits or darkspawn, who knows, from the Architect's chambers. They're old, and a lot of them are missing, but they seemed to be talking about Fiona. He thought he sensed something, like the taint had weakened. He wanted to try and duplicate the effect with Utha, but he could never get it right-”
“Because he didn't know about-”
“Alistair, your mother...”
Her eyes were afire, boring into him, studying his reaction. An overwhelming find to be sure, but after a panicked trek across the world, the revelation was out of focus, a distant concern. More interesting was the fact that, halfway across the world from one another, they had stumbled on exactly the same ideas, and while they still lacked a large portion of the puzzle, too large for comfort on a normal day, for a moment he allowed himself to envision a future for her, for the both of them, free of the blight, their lives and bodies their own once more. He eyed the face before him, perfect, beautiful, clever, the color returning to her cheeks, and he couldn't imagine another day without it. The world would have to try much, much harder if it wanted to separate them again.
“We should send these to Avernus,” she said.
“Definitely.”
A slow grin stretched across his face and he pulled her back to his chest. He met weak resistance.
“We should get out of here.”
“But I'm wounded!” he cried plaintively.
“Alistair-”
“I think if you give me just a minute here with you, I might be able to muster the will to go on.”
With a resigned chuckle, she conceded, repositioning herself until she straddled his legs. A soft growl rumbled through his chest.
“Much more of that and it'll be a bit longer than a minute.”
Her chest shook against his as she laughed.
“Not that much longer-”
In a flash, his arms were around her, dipping her toward the ground, her sharp, startled eyes only inches from his.
“That sounds like a challenge, dear lady.”
“Alistair-”
“Backpedaling, are we?”
“- your armor is – Look,” she laughed. “I'm exhausted and starving, I'm afraid in my current state I wouldn't do justice to your expectations.”
It was his turn to laugh, a bright sound that ricocheted off the walls around them, a sound neither one of them had heard in too long.
“Perish the thought,” he said. “But I would be a monster to keep you here while you're so malnourished. Come, then. Back to camp. Let your husband prepare a special inaugural mystery stew to get you back on your feet.”
Before rising from his lap, she leaned back, fingers tickling along his neckline while she took in his face. The corners of her lips turned up thoughtfully.
“You look so...” Her eyes searched his face, looking for the word. Where was she going with this? Old? Ragged? Potato-like? She shook her head. “I'm glad you're here. Have I said that yet?”
“You haven't. Honestly, I was starting to worry that you had found someone better and couldn't-.”
“I could search all of Thedas and never find anyone better.”
“Flatterer.”
Maker, it felt good to be home.
She pushed off his chest and stood, holding a hand out to help him to his feet. The purple shadows under her eyes were less pronounced, the shade of her cheeks less pallid. Hope was a powerful potion.
Their respective heights precluded him using her as a crutch as they hobbled their way back through the dank passages, but his sense of urgency was gone now, save for wanting to see her fed and happy.
Night had fallen since he had entered the cave. Satina illuminated the valley stretching out before them, dappled with the massive frames of ancient beasts glowing with moonlight. Shadows reached like fingers across the expanse. Without a sound, Barkspawn trotted ahead, muzzle to the ground as he scouted the area for any dangers that may have gathered in their absence.
“That dog deserves a medal,” Alistair said.
“I'm sure I owe him my life a couple times over,” she agreed. “Not quite the same as having you with me, but he does smell better.”
He gasped, clutching his chest against the affront before bending down to kiss the top of her head.
His fingers brushed against supple leather as he reached for his water sling to offer her a draught, and he recalled the pouch filled with rose petals. He shuffled to a stop and Dea turned back to him, a silent question parting her lips.
He dropped his knee halfway to the ground, then straightened. He had had a plan, a sweet moment, petals on her pillow, mulled wine, but they were in the middle of nowhere. They were drained and dragging, but his heart was light with her nearness, with the brightness of her eyes, and the hope that they might actually find their cure.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, I just...”
He unwound the pouch's strap from his belt and handed it over to her. He would have overwhelmed her with rose petals if he could, but this would have to do.
Petals fell through her fingers and into shadow. The ring inside plunked into her palm, solid and true, and a smile cocked her lips to the side.
“The last time I gave you a ring, the promise rang hollow. It was supposed to be forever, but it... This time it will be. Forever, I mean.”
Her eyes were glassy in the dim light of the valley as she padded up to him and took his face in her hands. The ring was cold as it brushed his cheek, and he bent to meet her lips, taking care not to stab her with his week old stubble.
“Forever this time,” she answered, taking his hand again and starting back on the path.
The Wastes were no place to go looking for a gourmet meal, but Alistair had a decade's worth of experience making do with whatever was on hand. Dea usually teased him about the brown Fereldan slop he was always dumping into their bowls, but tonight she was quiet while he cooked. Even with his back to her, he felt her eyes boring into him, and every now and again she would scoot close enough to put her hand against his back, as if reassuring herself that he was really there.
She ate slowly, acclimating her stomach to the sensation of a warm meal, something he knew she rarely afforded herself when he wasn't near. While she ate, he regaled her with descriptions of Weisshaupt and the things he had learned there, with tales of his time with the Inquisition and his latest journey through the Fade. She listened intently, offering monosyllabic responses between bites. As the minutes passed, her eyelids drooped. Alistair took the bowl from her hands and set it aside. Her eyes fluttered open.
“I'm not tired,” she said.
“I wouldn't dare argue with you, dearest, I was only thinking we could continue the conversation in the tent. Out of the wind.”
His every nerve cried out to touch her, to free them both of their armor and avenge them against the years that had forced them apart, but she was beyond the point of collapse. She would protest, insist that she was present and awake, and then she would crash the moment her head hit the bedroll. If he could get her that far.
Shoving an arm under her knees, he hiked her off the ground. She yielded against him, pulling herself up to snuggle against his neck, her breath warming the stubbled expanse under his jaw.
Whistling for the dog, he nudged open the tent flap with his elbow and ducked inside. By the time he had knelt to set her down on the dusty, rumpled blankets, her breaths were already shallow. She muttered something incoherent and rolled away from him. While she slept, he removed her armor, struggling with her various buckles and limp limbs in the darkness before curling up flush behind her. She lifted her head to allow him to tuck his arm under her, and he wrapped the other around her hips, cradling her to his heart as if he could protect her as her thoughts descended into fetid tunnels full of corruption.
Dawn in the Wastes rose bleak and dim, but to Warden Alistair the world was filled with sunshine and roses and a splash of silky copper draped down his arm. Nestled warm against him, Dea drew shallow breaths, her pale eyelashes fluttering as she dreamed. Under her ear, his arm tickled, numb save for prickly needles that had him wriggling his fingers for mercy. The tensing of his arm jostled her and she sighed.
It was a moment before she moved. Taking account of her surroundings, he supposed, and the familiar sensation of skin against skin, of heat and tenderness. Her relief was palpable, the tension of her spine dissipating as she pressed against him with a purr.
“Good morning,” she murmured.
“Perfect morning.”
Despite the lumps of packed dirt against his hip, the tufts of sharp, dry grass under his ribs, the frosty air of autumn peppering goosebumps along their arms, he could hardly remember a more perfect morning. His hand snaked gingerly across her waist to the crest of her hip, and she hummed as he dug his fingertips into the soft flesh there.
The curve of her neck was cool when he pressed his lips to it, gentle pecks progressing rapidly to nips, his teeth grazing against her skin until her breath hitched. He tried to go slow, to savor the moment, to do it justice after so much waiting, wanting, but the heat was already spreading, from his chest to his fingertips, to his core, to his hips as they rocked hard against hers. His hand danced across her stomach to caress the supple curve under her breasts, pinching as she rolled onto her back to seize his mouth with hers.
He clenched his other hand one, two, three times to get the blood flowing back into it enough to support him as he leaned over her, dragging his thigh up until it rested, heavy and tense, between hers. Another thrust, her leg now inching up, coiling over his hip, the slow drag of her flesh against his an excruciating bliss. Warm breath against his face matched his in pace. He needed to slow down; his heart was pounding out of his chest, his tainted blood pumping hard and hot until he thought he would lose himself too soon; he needed to take his time. His hand delved down between them, but she grabbed his wrist and yanked it away. Without warning, she shoved at his shoulders with all her strength, throwing him onto his back and rolling until she towered over him.
His stunned look was met with fiery need.
“We have time, my love,” he breathed, cupping her cheeks in reassurance.
“And we'll take it,” she answered, her fingers fumbling between them, wrapping around him and tugging until his chest tightened. “Later.”
He recaptured her lips, his hands still on her face as she guided him to her.
Three years of heartache and solitude flashed through him in a heartbeat. In the brief moments that they moved as one, he felt the scattered pieces of his life stitching back together, his heart and hers, desire, faith, promise, joining them with every breath.
It was over too quickly, but he had felt eternity in that moment, or the promise of it, which for now was enough. She collapsed against him, pressing sweet kisses to his chest until he felt hot pools welling in his eyes.
“I missed you,” she murmured.
Alistair swallowed it back, his throat clenching as he fought to control the waves roiling through him, fought to remain present in this one perfect moment. They had time, and he intended to take it.
“I missed you, too.”