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Alistair watches the dress flutter in the wind, the shadow of a sun hat end at the curve of a nose, the soil fall through calloused fingers. He rests his chin on his hand while he crouches next to her, clenching his jaw when a strand of black hair falls from a bun and bounces near ears pointing straight and up in a determined angle. He frowns.
This is a dream, he tells himself, but Alistair reaches out to tuck the hair back in its loose bun. Rua moves suddenly, sits upright and wipes the sweat off her brow, streaking her skin with dirt. The carnations she had been planting sway in the breeze, their faces turned towards hers, and as if responding to some secret conversation, she beams and fondly tweaks a petal.
Drawing his hand back, Alistair buries his face into his knees and grips his arms tightly until they might bruise.
She stands up a moment later, stretching her back and shaking out tired legs before moving onto another plot of the garden. He follows a moment later, sitting down close enough to imagine her arm brushing against his and far enough to know they would never actually touch.
-
Rua never talks in his dreams, he discovers early on, but it is something he accepts as easily as the fact her hair is black and her arms could lift a man. It is only when Alistair finds himself in his tent, the cold seeping through his worn bedroll, his back protesting faintly from sleeping in an awry position, his eyes blinking languidly at black hair sliding through his fingers, does he truly feel his heart might stop.
The curve of her nose is nestled in the crease of his arm, a hand splayed out against his chest, rising and falling with every breath he struggles to keep steady, as if any irregular beat would wake her up. She's smiling, he notes, and he commits to memory the laugh line beginning to form with her mouth tilting upward just so.
It takes another heartbeat, his fingers twitching to comb through her hair, before he realizes the brisk morning air is more tangible than the legs tangled in his own. He watches the hand on his chest move to rest on his shoulder and feels nothing.
Alistair holds his breath when Rua rolls closer towards him, wrapping arms around his neck and nuzzling fondly against his skin. He shivers, suddenly aware of how cold he is.
He wakes up then and firmly tugs the covers over his head.
-
He does not remember the walls of Amaranthine being this tall. He also does not remember the weather being so perpetually overcast, or there being so many recruits eagerly clamoring to catch a peek of his face.
He most certainly does not remember Rua's armor looking as if it fit for once instead of dwarfing a diminutive figure. Her cheeks are rounder than what he normally dreams, her complexion ruddier, her wrinkles deeper. There's a new crease in between her brows, and he keeps his thumb balled in his fist to stop himself from smoothing it out.
Alistair catches her eye and he swallows, stands straight, and peeks over his shoulder to make certain she is not looking at something else. He sees a recruit jump nervously when they make eye contact, and Alistair quickly turns his head back around with a cough, ears a faint shade of pink. Rua is frowning when he looks up at her again, the crease in between her brows more pronounced.
This time, he reaches out and revels in the warmth of her forehead against his thumb.
"What are you doing?" she asks, a perplexed smile pulling at her lips. "You look like you're about to cry."
His thumb is still brushing her brow in soft, repetitive motions, as if in a trance.
"This isn't a dream is it?"
"What?" Her brow furrows again, and he smooths it out again. "No?"
"Great," Alistair breathes out, and in one movement he wraps his arms around her, armor and all, and swings her up to kiss her.
He feels dry lips let out a sigh against his mouth, feels loose strands of hair tickle his cheeks, feels warm hands tighten on his shoulders, and he is home.