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Somewhere in the nighttime Fereldan wilds, hidden from the road by a rise of land and a copse of straight, dark trees, lies the camp of the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden.
All of these surfacer things—soil, trees, night and day—are still foreign to Brosca. Surface geography especially. But that’s okay, because she has Alistair for that stuff. As long as Alistair can point to places on a map for her, she can tell him where they need to go.
And Morrigan can cook almost better than anyone Brosca’s ever met—she just begrudges it every step of the way. (And when she tells her how much she likes her food, Alistair gives her a look of intense incredulity over his bowl.)
They find two new members for their motley crew in Lothering—Leliana, lithe, quiet, eyes the breathtaking blue of the sky before twilight; and Sten, a hulking grey presence who sits cross-legged and upright by the fire, who seems to see everything that happens.
But it’s Alistair she wakes up to, every night, when she fights her way out of queasy green nightmares. (That’s another new one: nightmares.) She finds him sitting by the fire, and sits down beside him, thigh to thigh, let the fire-warmth and the touch of another living person remind her that she too is alive and real.
Sometimes he’s flat on his back on the earth, half-asleep, with his arms behind his head, looking up at the stars and the embers that whirl into the sky. Sometimes they play dice or cards, and even at the Fereldan games she’s never played before she takes him for everything he’s willing to gamble.
Always there’s a cup of warmed wine waiting for her beside him.
Sometimes when Alistair sleeps, he cries out—abrupt, forlorn, and sounding so, so young. Sometimes names of people she doesn’t know, but most often for Duncan.
Brosca doesn’t know if you’re supposed to wake someone up when they’re dreaming, so she waits by the fire, so he can see her there if he wakes.