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Chapter Text

Distant echoes, memories of a childhood mostly forgotten.

The gentle melody of her father’s violin.

Bann Trevelyan’s love for the string instrument meant he’d play at all hours in the expanse of the open study upstairs.

A flash of dark hair, then a rich baritone – her oldest brother Charlie’s warm, reassuring laughter.

The warmth of a cosy, crackling fire at Satinalia.

Carpet soft and plush underneath her boots, snow falling against the windowsill outside.

Was this real?

How can you even tell what’s real anymore?

The stone hard and unyielding against her clothed knees, the heel of her hand was firm and unmoving against the reassuring leather of the heavy tome. This certainly seemed real enough , she reassured herself. The sharp scent of embrium flower was light in the air from where it flourished in Skyhold’s herb garden, just next door to the small Chantry. Inhaling deeply through her nostrils, she opened her eyes and carefully leaned back against her heels.

The candlelight was far harsher and brighter than she’d been expecting, and she squinted uncomfortably against the statue of Andraste at the altar. She scooped up the research book from where it rested against the stone floor in front of her, propped up against her knee.

Had she fallen asleep whilst reading?

If anybody else had been in her presence, the notion would have been deeply embarrassing. Thankfully, she remained undisturbed.

Truthfully, the younger Trevelyan sibling didn’t have the chance to sit and read very often any more. She had once been fond of reading, and would do so for hours when living within the Circle, finding solace in many a heavy tome, where the protagonist often lived a life often far different to her own. She dreamed of adventure, of forging a life so distinct from the one that had been laid out for her by somebody else.

When she wasn’t reading books, Ysara often found solace in the peace of the Chantry, despite having virtually no interest in devoting her life to the Maker. Her choice had proven a taboo within the ranks of the deeply religious Trevelyan family, and the expectation placed upon her was still very much debated behind her back. Many insisted she should carve her own path, yet many others disagreed. The Maker’s will shall not be defied.

Ysara remained still for several peaceful moments as she clutched the heavy book to her chest, allowing the worries and fears to slowly trickle back into her subconscious through the cracks in her armour. She had left the oppressive safety of the Ostwick Circle and joined the Inquisition at Skyhold upon her beloved sister’s request. It had been too dangerous for Ysara to remain at the Circle, with the war beginning to encroach upon the Free Marches. Despite her relative seclusion within the Circle at Ostwick, she’d known for a while that the brewing tensions between the mages and the Templars had begun to reach boiling point.

It came to a violent crescendo one morning when she awoke to the Circle tower in flames. She’d packed her belongings mere days earlier, and the Inquisition’s soldiers acted quickly to smuggle her out of the chaos undetected.

When news broke that every Warden in both Ferelden and Orlais were beginning to prematurely hear the Calling, of course her sister was the first to investigate.

Ysara sighed resolutely. It was typical of Delysendra to wedge herself into an uncomfortably difficult situation with the hope of trying to resolve it. There was a reason why politicians never got involved in this kind of thing. It was too much of a hassle.

With suddenly too much on her mind, Ysara turned to leave Skyhold’s Chantry, abandoning the heavy book on the stone seat by the entrance. It wouldn’t help anyone to stand in the small room and worry herself sick about the welfare of her now-famous Inquisitor sister. She rested her gloved hand briefly against the brass door handle. She needed to relax. It didn’t help that she was never very good at it.

She paused for a moment, recalling the time her sister had spoken fondly about how proud she was of Skyhold’s tavern. It was perfect, really; an isolated fortress with enough space for a tavern — and Delysendra had ensured it had been one of the first amenities up and running. It certainly seemed to be keeping spirits up.

Conveniently placed, the tavern was located only a short walk across the courtyard from the Chantry. It was one of only a few areas of Skyhold which appeared to still be awake after the moon loomed high above the towers; at least judging by the dim light leaking from the windows and glass door panels.

It was late. Ysara glanced to the glittering depths of the sky, as she often found herself doing within the walls of the grand fortress. She was often comforted by the reassuring presence of the moon, casting a dim glow across the courtyards of her new sanctuary. The moon had been one of the only things that had managed to ground her during her loneliest moments at the Circle.

Shouldering the tavern door open, she wasn’t surprised to see the establishment busy and thriving, even at the relatively late hour. She recognised a few faces amongst the various tables of patrons, but nobody she had outwardly spoken to before. Regardless, she wasn’t really here to socialise. She’d nurse more than one beverage and head off quietly to her chambers.

Alcohol always seemed to help her sleep better.

The ‘bar’, several crates with wooden boards arranged across the top, was mostly empty. One of the Inquisitor’s elven travelling companions was sitting upon a barstool at the end of the bar, one leg crossed over another. She seemed quietly inebriated, not appearing to notice – or care – as Ysara approached the space beside her.

She could feel several pairs of eyes following her, despite having her back to the tables and chairs. She squared her shoulders, straightening her back and setting her jaw firmly. She was in no danger here, she knew that – but she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end regardless. People staring at her unnerved her. Women mages with tattooed faces weren’t really considered the norm this far south, but she should have expected as such.

“Cabot,” she greeted kindly, as the dwarven bartender turned away from her in order to fetch a tankard. She had met him several times before, although this was the first time she had seen him at work behind the bar.

He grunted in response, not extending her the decency of eye contact. “What’ll it be, Lady Trevelyan?”

She could suddenly feel a small minority of the room’s attention turn to her as the bartender announced her title. She tried to ignore it.

Ysara inhaled through her nostrils, leaning against the bar carefully and resting on her elbows. Much like her sister, she detested the noble title. She wished people could speak to her as a person – without seeing her as the legacy of her noble father.

“A mug of the brandy the Chargers brought back from Tevinter, please – I don’t remember the name.”

The dwarf didn’t bother enlightening her with it. Instead, he selected the bottle from the shelf behind him, quickly upending it into a small, wide–rimmed steel mug. She watched as the dark amber liquid poured out and splashed against the sides. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that he had a small stool positioned behind the bar, beside the wine shelf.

Paying the grumpy bartender with a few copper coins and retrieving the mug from the bar, Ysara turned around to look for a table to sit at. The patrons had returned to their drinks and chatter, and not many eyes looked in her direction. The tavern was busier than she had been used to – although she recognised most of the occupants as Inquisition traders and local labourers.

She wasn’t very experienced with navigating a tavern such as this. The Circle had been very orderly, and socialising was limited under strict supervision.

One particular pair of eyes had been following her from the moment she had entered the tavern. She had been able to feel them on her back the entire time she had been speaking with Cabot. Now she was surveying the room, it seemed that the gaze belonged to a man dressed in a swathe of blue and silver, who was sitting at a table in the far corner, his laidback gaze still firm and unwavering. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light at the back of the room.

Why must he stare at her so? He was making her anxious.

Narrowing her eyes as she mentally noted his appearance, she quickly realised the man was Varric’s Grey Warden acquaintance. He’d been in Skyhold for about a week, along with another of Varric’s associates who had travelled from Kirkwall. She’d spoken with him briefly a few times before, albeit mostly in the war room.

Inquisitor Delysendra had requested her sister’s presence amongst her advisors in the war room more than once. There was nobody she trusted more than her own sibling, an accomplished mage with first-hand experience and a myriad of knowledge surrounding the mage rebellion. Ysara had been more than happy to aid her sister’s cause.

A small half–smile began to play on the Grey Warden’s lips as he realised she’d noticed him. After a few moments of internal debate, Ysara’s curiosity won out, and she stepped into the crowd, making her way towards the back of the tavern. There was no harm in going to speak with him. After all, he was a guest of the Inquisition, just as she was.

As she approached him, she noted that the Warden had already pushed the opposite chair away from the table, his warm eyes still watching every move she made.

“Lady Trevelyan,” he grinned. “I’m surprised you noticed me all the way back here.”

“It wasn’t difficult,” she mused, keeping her expression light as she sat down carefully opposite him, crossing one knee over the other. “You’re the only one here who’s still seemingly dressed for battle.”

Ysara tilted the metal mug back and forth gently in one hand, watching as the amber liquid swirled gently like golden waves against their steel cliffs. She glanced into the depths of the brandy before taking a deep drink. The fiery warmth burned and numbed her insides simultaneously as she swallowed, prickling at her throat. Just the way she liked it.

He chuckled lightly at her comment. Politely. It was clear he’d wanted to get her attention.

Placing the mug down onto the table in front of her, Ysara rested her hands comfortably in her lap as she leaned back against the hard mahogany chair. She wore a casual ensemble, a black leather coat thrown over a red shirt with dark pants, embellished with gold buckles.

“It’s nice to hear a familiar accent,” she commented.

The Warden raised a dark brow in her direction. Glancing down at the table, she quickly realised he was without a drink.

“Are there many Fereldans in the Free Marches?” he asked.

“I grew up in the Circle,” she offered. “There were plenty of Fereldans there. It’s… recognisable, I suppose.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” he replied conversationally. “You know; it suddenly occurs to me that I don’t actually know your name.”

“Ysara,” she spoke, offering him a warm smile for the first time since she sat down. She reached once more for the mug on the table. The liquid inside was a very similar shade to the colour of the eyes that were currently fixed on her. “I must admit, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

He paused for a moment, the corner of his mouth teasing a hint of a smirk. She was playing the game he’d started.

“Alistair,” he offered in return, ducking his head slightly in deference before he sat back and leaned against the frame of the chair. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. What’s your poison, my lady?”

Ysara scoffed and waved her hand dismissively as she placed the half-empty mug back down onto the table, despite the very warm blush rising to her cheeks. By Andraste, he was lovely , wasn’t he? His gaze was extremely attentive, despite the fact that it seemed just a little too far away, as if he always had something on his mind.

He hadn’t even asked her about her eyes. She was a little surprised at that, but kept it to herself. The people here always seemed to be asking about her eyes, it seemed. One was a brilliant green — as they both had been, once upon a time — and the other was silver. A loss of pigment had occurred as a result of blunt force trauma.

Not a particularly pleasant memory to revisit, if she was to be honest with herself.

The mages within the Circle had all been mostly aware of her accident, despite it happening when Ysara was only seventeen, so it was a rare occurrence for a mage to broach the subject. In Skyhold, however, it seemed to be the question on everybody’s lips, and it had started to grate on her nerves.

“Well, that Tevinter brandy was something else, but it’s admittedly much stronger than I was expecting.” A pause. “Not– that I’m complaining, of course.”

The left corner of Alistair’s mouth curved upwards into another half-smile as he rose carefully from his seat. “That’ll be sure to keep the demons at bay, then.”

She watched as he stood and manoeuvred himself around the small table, easily slipping into the crowd and making his way towards the bar. The silver of his armour plating reflected the tiny flames in the candelabras hanging from the ceiling, and he wasn’t at all difficult to miss.

Ysara reached across for her mug, finishing up the contents before she placed it back down firmly against the table. Her belly was warm, now, as was her face. The worries and fears she’d harboured almost consistently since her sister left for the Western Approach two days ago were beginning to fade into a dull buzzing that she could just about ignore. She knew her sister was capable enough. The warrior woman was a well-trained swordsman, after all.

Ysara had expressed her desire to accompany her sister on the journey to the Approach with Hawke, but Delysendra had refused. It was clear she didn’t want to put her younger sibling in harm’s way. Ysara was grateful for her sibling’s kindness and selflessness, but worried for her all the same.

Thankfully, Del had made the wise decision to bring Dorian along with her instead. Ysara knew the Tevinter mage well through letters, although she had yet to meet him. She had heard many tales of his prowess through the written correspondence with her sister. She knew of his skill with magic along with his vast knowledge, and had been admittedly a little more relieved when Del had selected him as part of her travelling party. Cassandra and Cole made up the bulk of the party’s knives and swords; although Ysara wasn’t too worried about that – her older sister was a force to be reckoned with. It was the Venatori in the Approach that Ysara was mostly worried about. Powerful and ancient mage cults were not a force to be taken lightly, but she was glad Delysendra had decided on sticking close with a Tevinter mage of her own.

Her thoughts were suddenly disrupted when Alistair placed two large tankards of something that smelled distinctly too sweet down firmly onto the table. Tucking himself behind her chair, he leveraged himself back into his seat, blowing out a breath.

“He’s all out of the Tevinter stuff,” Alistair apologised. “I hope you like this instead. Whatever it is.”

She eyed the tankard on the table curiously, watching as the Warden retrieved his own beverage. He dubiously sniffed the contents, his brows pitching in a suspicious crease. He seemed apprehensive, to put it mildly.

Ysara couldn’t help the amused chuckle that bubbled up in her chest. Alistair’s incredulous glare in response only increased her amusement. She threw her head back and laughed.

A moment passed, and she placed one hand on her chest, her grin still wide. “What did he tell you it was?” she asked.

“Some sort of honey brandy liqueur… thing?”

He took a small sip from the full tankard and furrowed his brows again, before he licked his lips and hummed aloud.

“It’s… really rather nice,” he admitted, looking up at her, “but if I drank it every night I’d probably lose half my teeth.”

Ysara took up her own tankard, looking into the pale amber liquid and raising it to her lips. She pulled a series of expressions as the liquid filled her mouth. It wasn’t anywhere near as strong as the Tevinter brandy, but by Andraste, Alistair was right — it was the sweetest drink she’d tasted since she was served elderberry wine in Orlais.

“I like it.” She took another sip. “Although I do have a bit of a sweet tooth. So I may be slightly biased.”

She placed the tankard back down on the table, uncrossing her legs and re–crossing them, this time with her left leg over her right.

“So – are you here to buy me drinks all night, or did you wish to speak with me about something else?”

It was Alistair’s turn to blush at that.

“Well, probably a bit of both,” he grinned at her sheepishly. “It occurred to me that although we’ve met before, you’re the only person here I haven’t really spoken with.”

Ysara pondered his words for a short while before she replied.

“Well, the night is young,” she commented. “Cabot won’t be shutting up this place for a while.”

“That’s oddly reassuring.” Alistair paused, staring into the bottom of his tankard. “How long have you been here? At Skyhold, I mean?”

Ysara sat forward then, uncrossing her legs and leaning one elbow against the table.

“About three weeks,” she told him. “I’d been travelling for a long while. The Inquisition’s soldiers escorted me from the Circle just in time, it seems.”

The Warden watched her attentively as she spoke. Warm brown eyes followed her every gesture, every movement. He didn’t seem much older than her, if at all.

“I’m proud of what my sister has built here,” she continued. “A haven for mages and Templars alike, all fighting the same cause, under one banner.”

A pause, then, her gaze meeting his. She seemed to notice for the first time the sheer size of his broad shoulders, the strawberry brown hair mussed from restless attention. It was a few moments before the Warden spoke again.

“Will you stay here; do you think? Once it’s all over?”

She dropped her gaze to the sweet amber liquid in her tankard, leaning her head back and taking a deep drink before she decided on how to answer.

“Truthfully, I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe. The Circle was a good, safe place to call home – but it’s gone now. And I want to see the world I never got a chance to see. Fourteen years is enough time to spend in one place, I think.”

Alistair chuckled. The sound of his laugh was warm, despite the hollowness it held.

“I understand.”

He finished the last of the brandy in his tankard, replacing it onto the table with a dull thud. Ysara’s head was already fuzzy. She knew her presence in the war room was required early tomorrow, in a meeting with her sister’s advisors and their Grey Warden ally – but she would be lying if she said she wasn’t enjoying Alistair’s company. She wanted to know more about him.

“You know,” he grinned, “I promised myself I wouldn’t stay here too late tonight, but nothing ever goes the way I expect it to these days.”

She watched him over the rim of her mug as she finished the last of her own drink.

“If you need to retire, Grey Warden, don’t let me stop you.”

The corner of his mouth began to twist up into another half-smile.

“You misunderstand me.” He cleared his throat carefully, resting his elbows against the table and letting his voice drop slightly. “It isn’t a bad thing. It’s not often I’m blessed with such delightful company.”

Ysara crossed her left leg over her right, feeling her blood turn to liquid flame in her veins, licking at her arms, her legs. If she wasn’t sure of whether he had been flirting with her before, then she knew for certain now. She certainly found herself appreciating the game he was playing.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been the recipient of such flattery, Alistair.” She leaned forward, resting her chin against her palm. “Do you speak with all of your new colleagues in such a way?”

He leaned back against the hard wooden frame of the chair, rubbing his chin in mock consideration.

“Hm. I hope not.”

Ysara laughed at that, eyeing him as she began to toy with the leather cord dangling from the shoulders of her fringed jacket. She found herself intrigued by him. He hadn't ogled her, nor had he commented on her facial tattoos, or the unusual variation in the colours of her eyes. Curiosity was natural, of course, but during her time at Skyhold she’d forgotten just how much she didn’t fit in. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to be spoken to like a regular human being.

She realised that the atmosphere of the tavern had slowly begun to quiet down, with only half of the patrons still remaining at their tables. The fuzziness in her head was still there, taking up a comfortable residence in her brain. If not for the welfare of her sister, the younger Trevelyan would have happily accepted drinks and compliments from Alistair all night.

“As much as I’m enjoying your company, Grey Warden, I believe we are both in tomorrow’s meeting, and it is quite late.”

The dark circles underneath the Warden’s eyes seemed more prevalent than ever as he raised one sculpted eyebrow at her.

“Well, I’d be honoured if you’ll allow me to buy you another drink tomorrow evening,” he said after a short while, his voice warm and quiet.

Ysara rolled her shoulders briefly, rising to her feet with a lightheaded smile. Her chair protested with a screech against the wooden floor.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Chapter Text

Ysara woke gently to the sound of birdsong.

Memories of her life in the Circle brought about many thoughts and feelings, and being isolated was often one of the more unfortunate realities of living in a Circle Tower. Birdsong was scarce, could only usually be heard during the summer months, and only if the windows were opened. The structure she’d lived most of her adult life in was too high up for birds to fly past.

She lay on her back against the fat pillows and stared up at the wooden boarded ceiling. She’d been given the quarters along the ramparts from Bull’s. The room was spacious and airy, with two doors on either side and an enviably large bed in the centre. Plush rugs and furs decorated the stone floor. She was half tempted to ask her sister if she could move into Skyhold on a more permanent basis.

The faint sound of Inquisition soldiers sparring in the courtyard below caught her attention, and as she sat up carefully, she quickly realised she’d overslept for the meeting in the war room. It was due to start at any moment.

Oh, fuck .

She froze momentarily as the sudden feeling of alarm coursed through her. She did not want to develop a reputation for being irresponsible and lazy. Taking a deep breath, she sat up in bed, shaking out her curly mess of raven hair and collecting her thoughts.

Realistically, she wasn’t going to show up to the meeting in her pyjamas. She needed to prepare herself regardless – and she was already late. Ysara did her best to quash the feeling of anxiety at the thought of being the last one to show up.

At least I’m going to be doing it in style, she thought.

Rolling out of bed, she got to her feet carefully, willing the sleepiness to leave her so that she could begin her day. The elegant bathtub in the corner of the large room stood full of the water that she had filled the previous night. As her gaze swept across the room, her eyes lingered on the bathtub, and she realised she’d entirely forgotten to use it.

The corner of her mouth twisted into a relieved smile. Last night’s mistake hadn’t been intentional, but she was grateful for her previous self’s forgetfulness. Clicking her fingers towards the bathtub, she watched as the surface of the water began to bubble and emit steam, and Ysara frowned briefly. The thought of non–mages having to wait for the stove to boil multiple times in order to fill their baths, or worse still, taking a cold bath, made her feel momentarily sorry for them. Humans born with magic were considered dangerous by most and cursed by others, but really, non-mages were the ones who were truly cursed. With their cold baths.

She bathed quickly, humming to herself lightly as she rinsed the soap from her hair. A quick pause before deciding on armour rather than clothing – her sister had briefed her on meetings in the war room, and how they generally always led to immediate action. As a senior enchanter, she didn’t have to concern herself with prioritising practicality over style, and pulled on her long enchanter’s coat over her undershirt, which dipped into a low vee at the bottom of her breast bone. Tight, form–fitting black leather pants accompanied the coat, alongside a concealed dagger which rested against her thigh. Wide shoulder pauldrons, a high collar and knee–high leather boots completed the outfit, and Ysara knew she’d look at home at one of Vivienne’s grand soirees.

A generous sweep of black kohl across her eyelids, a liberally-applied cherry-coloured lip stain and her hair pulled into a braid and loosely back out of her face, Ysara was ready to join the meeting. The blue ink adorning her cheekbones, her forehead, and her chin was a beautiful contrast against her pale skin, and the mage smiled at herself in the mirror before leaving her quarters.

The weak sun permeated through the brisk, cold air and warmed Ysara’s back on the walk down towards the main hall. It was a beautiful day, almost too beautiful to be spent within the four stone walls of the war room. Being free to go where she pleased was rather jarring, and it had taken her a good portion of the first few days in Skyhold to remember that the Inquisition soldiers were not, in fact, Templars – ready to concuss her and lock her back up in the tower.

The enchanter's staff sat firmly against her back as she made her way through the courtyard. Several Inquisition soldiers stopped in their tracks as she passed; she heard their quiet, indistinguishable muttering.

They didn’t even know her name. Here, she was the powerful Lady Trevelyan, the beloved sister of their cherished Herald of Andraste. A powerful guest – one they would do well to try not to piss off.

Ysara smirked to herself at the feeling of power that she had drawn from their fear, their apprehension. The confidence radiated from the senior enchanter, keeping her chin high and her strides long and assertive. The tails of her enchanter’s coat billowed behind her as she walked. There had been a time, long ago, as a young mage, where she had hidden away from the attention. She’d been an easy target for the Templars. Bullying was common in the Circle – especially if the target didn’t have the capacity to fight back.

Then she’d learned how to truly harness her gift. No Templars had bullied her after that. Many of them were too afraid to even look at her.

Her boot heels clicked against the smooth stone as she walked through the hall. Pushing open the door to Josephine’s office, she followed the corridor in the direction of the grand war room. She listened to how her boot heels were muffled by the thick carpet runner, which had been laid from the war room entrance and continued all the way through Josephine’s office. She paused for a moment outside the grand oak door to the war room itself, unwilling to disturb the meeting if it was currently in progress.

It was quiet. Light, indistinct chatter. She couldn’t make out any voices in particular.

Ysara shouldered open the door, stepping over the threshold into the room and closing the door carefully behind her. Four pairs of eyes stared up at her. One of those pairs of eyes she’d become rather acquainted with.

“Good morning.”

She greeted the Inquisition’s advisors warmly. They’d welcomed her without any suspicion or ire, and being cordial with them was the least she could do.

Delysendra’s trusted spymaster Leliana was the first to return the greeting towards the younger Trevelyan, her mouth twisting into an honest, pleasant smile as she acknowledged her.

“Lady Trevelyan,” she greeted. “I’m pleased you could join us. Come, we were just about to begin.”

“Please, Leliana, call me Ysara – I insist.”

Josephine bowed her head respectfully, raising the quill up from her noteboard and taking a step back as Ysara approached the war table. The young ambassador appeared slightly nervous, despite the confident way in which she held her writing instrument.

The mage turned, catching Cullen’s eye. Ysara understood the tall ex-Templar to be Delysendra’s most trusted advisor, and the commander of her army. He definitely seemed like a Templar – strong, brooding and somewhat withdrawn. Del had given her the heads up about her advisor’s past as an ex-Templar, assuring her that it was long behind him; but as long as the man respected Ysara, she wouldn’t have an issue with him. She gave the tired-looking Commander a warm smile, to which he reciprocated. There was no hint of malice or suspicion in his eyes.

Finally, she looked to Alistair. The hollows of his cheeks had darkened slightly, and he wore a sheepish, lopsided smile. Now, as the morning sunlight poured through the open windows, she could really see the Warden – the scar across his jaw and under his eye, his sharp, regal nose, the slightly pointed tips of his ears.

His sudden flushed appearance was not lost on Ysara, nor, unfortunately, was it lost on the Inquisition’s spymaster.

“Are you not feeling well, Warden Alistair?” she asked, her voice having adopted a gently teasing lilt.

He turned his gaze away from Ysara in order to scowl at the Nightingale.

“I’ve never felt better.”

Ysara felt a knot forming deep within the pit of her chest as she continued to take in the sight of the Warden. He seemed around thirty, but his playful, often chipper voice suited a man much younger. The dark circles underneath his eyes indicated he hadn’t been sleeping well – which was probably more to do with the false Calling than anything else she could think of.

She felt immense sympathy for him. The Wardens were infamous for not having a particularly easy path in life.

The feeling in her chest didn’t go away even as Cullen cleared his throat, beginning the meeting. She made her way to stand beside Josephine, watching as the Commander leaned forward, pushing a silver token with the Inquisition’s emblem across the map in the direction of the Western Approach.

“The false Calling that the Wardens have been hearing,” Josephine began. “I trust that you are familiar, Lady Trevelyan?”

Ysara glanced across the war table towards Alistair once more. He was a whole head and shoulders taller than Leliana, who stood beside him.

“I am.”

“Correspondence arrived from the Inquisitor this morning,” Leliana added. “Our suspicions were correct – Corypheus is indeed responsible for the Calling that the Wardens have been hearing. The Inquisitor and Hawke interrupted a blood magic ritual performed by a Venatori magister named Erimond.”

Oh, this was bad. Very bad. Of course, they had all known that the Calling had been false – surely, not every Warden would hear theirs at the exact same time – but this meant the Wardens were in deeper trouble than she’d initially thought.

A deep frown began to mar Alistair’s handsome face.

“Blood magic?” he repeated, carefully.

Josephine hummed thoughtfully. “It appears so. It seems the Warden mages are being manipulated into binding themselves to demons – through the use of blood sacrifice.”

“Blood sacrifice of their own ranks,” Leliana spoke, folding her arms across her chest. “The rogues and warriors are volunteering for the cause. They’re desperate.”

“Erimond, then,” Cullen added, letting his gloved palms rest against the war table. “I presume he’s working for Corypheus.”

“If he is,” Ysara pointed out, “then the mages are effectively enslaved by this Venatori magister. He’s trying to build a demon army.”

Alistair blew out an overwhelmed breath from the opposite side of the table.

“What else did the letter say?” he asked.

Leliana shook her head, her mouth set into a thin line. Her face was unreadable at the best of times – but now...

“Only that the Inquisitor and Hawke are heading to Adamant, an abandoned Warden fortress in the Approach. Logically, it makes sense that the Wardens would regroup there.”

Cullen reached across the table for the silver token standing on the top of Griffon Wing Keep, using a gloved finger to push it further north in the direction of Adamant.

“I can only imagine the size of the forces they’re amassing,” he spoke. “That demon army would be a force to be reckoned with.”

“We need to act quickly.” Leliana leaned against the table with one hand. “Demons do not tire.”

“The Inquisition forces can breach the gate,” Cullen interjected, “but if the Wardens already have their demons…”

“I’ll meet with Del at Griffon Wing Keep,” Ysara found herself saying. “It isn’t far from Adamant. I can get there quickly and stay undetected.”

“Lady Trevelyan–” Cullen began.

“Send the soldiers only after I send word. I can scout the place out first if I go on ahead.” She swallowed firmly, resting the heel of her left hand against the war table. “I am an experienced mage – and I have a sending crystal. Venatori and demons are no issue for me, but they will decimate the Inquisition’s men if we are unprepared.”

“A… what?” came Alistair’s curious voice. “A sending crystal?”

“They’re found in Tevinter, I think – elven origin.” Ysara began to unbuckle the small pack at her hip. “Here. You take one, and I can communicate with you using the other.”

All eyes watching her movements, she produced a palm–sized magenta hued stone from the pack on her belt. It was semi–transparent and filled with prisms, reflecting the sunlight against the smooth stone floor. She gave it to Josephine, who took the crystal gingerly and stared at it with great curiosity.

None of the advisors seemed particularly thrilled by the idea of both Trevelyan sisters going to tackle an abandoned keep full of demons, but Leliana pursed her lips, glanced at the pink stone in Josephine’s hand, and nodded her head.

“Ysara is right. We are completely out of our depth here. We have no idea how many demons the Wardens have already bound. And that crystal – it could give us the advantage.”

“I’ll go with her,” Alistair spoke suddenly. “After all, it’s the Wardens who are responsible for this mess. You could use an extra sword arm.”

Ysara turned to look at him, barely able to conceal her surprise.

She had been fully preparing to travel alone – she could get there faster than a movement of soldiers – and truthfully, she was looking forward to seeing her sister again.

The Inquisition had met Alistair in Crestwood, in hiding due to his exile from the Wardens. He’d never agreed with the Warden-Commander turning to Tevinter for help, and had been vocal about his scepticism. Perhaps a large part of him felt responsible for helping the Wardens – after all, it was a well-known fact that they were acting out of desperation.

She was somewhat taken aback by Alistair volunteering himself for such a dangerous task. Regardless of her surprise, she recovered quickly, and nodded her agreement to the Warden.

“Then we’ll head off this afternoon,” Ysara nodded. “I’ll need to map out the route for the Approach. If that will be all?”

“One thing, Lady Trevelyan.” Josephine grasped the sending crystal in one hand, her clipboard gripped tightly in the other. “How do we use this artefact to communicate? I have never seen anything quite like it.”

Ysara smirked at the young woman’s obvious barely restrained excitement.

“It’s easy. It’ll be like I’m in the room with you.”

Chapter Text

Ysara hadn’t been given the opportunity to travel on horseback for many years. She learned as a child, mastering archery whilst on horseback at her family’s estate, but after she was sent to the Circle as a ten-year-old, she had been expected to remain there for the rest of her life. A natural adventuring spirit, she hadn’t taken kindly to essentially being locked inside a mage prison, and that restless temperament remained strong within her. As she matured into an adult, it took somewhat of a backseat, her studies and skills taking priority as she rose through the ranks of the Circle to eventually reach the title of senior enchanter.

She’d escaped the Circle on horseback alongside her sister’s soldiers almost two decades later.

Ysara had never forgotten the way the horse’s hooves thundered along the ground, how much core strength it required to remain upright as the horse galloped across uneven meadows and shallow streams. The wind in her hair, the worn leather of the reins gripped tightly within her gloved hands. More than anything else, she’d never forgotten how it felt to feel alive . She’d laughed aloud, causing the two nearest soldiers to stare at her in alarm, but she was lost in the feeling of her newfound freedom.

She was incredibly grateful for another opportunity to ride, although she’d been slightly unnerved at the variety of creatures the Inquisition’s horsemaster had chosen to fix saddles and reins to inside the stable.

The cold air was brisk, and she was glad to have packed another coat as the soft flakes of snow began to melt against her hair. It was early afternoon, and her and Alistair had taken maps of the area and packed up plenty of food and supplies before setting off from Skyhold. It couldn’t hurt to be too prepared – the journey to the Approach was a long and dangerous one.

She rolled the hart’s reins together, tucking them just underneath the bump of the saddle as she turned around to sift through her pack. From behind, she could see Alistair eyeing her curiously.

Annoyingly, she’d packed her coat towards the very bottom of the supplies pack. She huffed in irritation, her breath coming out as a small puff of condensation against the bitter air. Her hart continued to walk in the same direction as previously guided, oblivious to the fact that Ysara was no longer holding the reins. She’d never ridden on the back of a hart before – she’d never even seen one before that morning – but she was taken aback by how superbly well trained they were. And how absolutely massive they were compared to a normal Fereldan horse.

Still, Alistair said nothing, even as she watched him narrow his eyes with curiosity. She could tell the Warden had plenty of questions on his lips.

Eventually, he settled on the most obvious.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s cold,” she huffed. “I packed another coat.”

He snorted in amusement.

“Ah. I see. You know, we could have just stopped. Or you could have asked me for help. Or put the coat on before we left.”

Ysara narrowed her eyes at him. If looks could kill, he would be lying dead in the snow.

Alistair laughed aloud at her expression before catching her eye and immediately quietening.

“I’m sorry!” he grinned sheepishly. “Sorry – you looked so menacing just then. I didn’t mean to laugh. Please, don’t turn me into a rat.”

“A what? A rat ?” she repeated. “ That’s what you’re worried I’ll turn you into?”

Alistair squeezed the heels of his boots gently into the flank of his hart, letting the huge steed trot up beside Ysara’s black hart, matching its pace. He reached across into her lap, untucking the reins from the saddle and holding them beside his own, tugging Ysara’s hart slightly over to the right. The two mounts seemed conscious of how close their antlers were, and remained steady.

She glanced across at him, and then back in the direction they were travelling.

“We were heading towards the lake,” he told her helpfully. “Unless you wish to bathe?”

Finally, Ysara freed the thick fur and leather coat from the pack. A gift from her sister, who’d received many gifts in turn from the Stone-Bear Hold. As she shrugged it on over her shoulders, she turned back to the Warden.

She shook her head, pursing her lips as she pulled her left arm through the thick sleeve. “Now that’s far too much water to heat.”

As she pulled her right arm through the other sleeve, she could practically hear the cogs grinding in Alistair’s head as he tried to understand what she meant. She re-fastened her pack, turning back to face the neck of her hart as Alistair handed her the reins. She began to slip the boar tusk buttons through the fastenings, stopping just below the collar.

His face was a picture – confused didn’t quite cut it.

“Why– why would you be heating it?”

“To bathe, of course,” she replied, amusement playing in her tone. “Why else?”

Maker, he was easy to fool, wasn’t he? This was surely going to be a fun way to pass the time during their travels to the Approach.

“Oh, of course,” Alistair rolled his eyes. “Let me just warm up Lake Celestine later because I fancy a bath! How silly of me!”

Ysara watched him as his voice raised an octave and couldn’t help the uncontrollable laughter that burst forth.

“Wait–” he interrupted, a smirk teasing at the corner of his mouth, “–you’re serious? I can’t tell if you’re serious.”

“What do you think?” she pressed.

He hummed thoughtfully. “Put me out of my misery, Lady Trevelyan. Enlighten me.”

She was enjoying herself. Despite the fact Alistair had given her back the reins, his hart was still walking beside hers, rather than behind.

“Well, I’ll admit,” she mused. “I’ve never attempted to heat up a lake of that size.”

Alistair stared at her.

“Oh, all right!” Ysara chuckled, appreciating the warm white fur of her coat around her collar. “I always heat up my baths. I’d never bathe in something so vast, though. I wouldn’t know what was lurking in there.”

The Warden appeared more and more perplexed with every word she spoke.

“You’re gonna have to start from the beginning.” He cleared his throat deliberately. “Ahem. Hi, my name’s Alistair, and I’m from Ferelden – and here, we don’t heat up lakes to bathe.”

“I do pity you,” Ysara mused, shaking her head. “A cold bath makes one ever so grumpy.”

“So how do you heat up your baths then, Lady Trevelyan?”

Smirking wordlessly, Ysara turned towards him, snapping her gloved fingers. A small flame burst forth from her fingertips, balanced between her thumb and forefingers.

“Oh,” he spoke.

The Warden was instantly transfixed. His warm eyes reflected the glow of the tiny flame as he stared at the fire she carried in her hand.

“You know,” he began softly, “it’s so easy to forget sometimes that you’re a mage.”

“Why’s that?” she asked, extinguishing the flame and watching the smoke dissipate into the cold mountain air.

“I grew up amongst Templars,” he explained. “Not in a Circle, but in a Chantry.”

Oh.

Her back straightened a little in response.

She hadn’t known he was a Templar. She couldn’t tell at all, not like she could with Cullen. Admittedly, she may have been a little more guarded in the tavern if she had known.

“Don’t panic, I never took my vows,” he explained, reaching across and patting her knee with a gloved hand. “I was never officially a Templar. Not really. And all the mages I’ve ever met have been wild and angry. Uncaring. Cold. You– you seem different. Somehow.”

He faltered then, smoothing down the mane of his hart absentmindedly. “Don’t ask me how.”

She didn’t know what else to say, then. She’d always harboured an innate distrust of Templars – like most mages, she would imagine. She was respectful of them, and she’d take them at face value, but the majority of them had very strong views on mages. Strong views on whether people like her should be afforded their own autonomy.

That didn’t sit well with her, usually.

The first man to break her heart had also been a Templar. That had a small part to play, too.

“What do you mean, anyway – you’ve never bathed in a lake? Would you just not bathe on a long journey?”

His overactive brain was working again, and Ysara was grateful for the distraction.

“Where would I be travelling to, dear Alistair?”

He appeared thoughtful for a brief moment before his eyes grew wide in realisation.

“Ah. Right. Yeah, good point. Sorry.”

Ysara laughed, the redness blooming against his cheeks very much not a result of the cold air. The feeling was nice. They didn’t know anything about each other, and his curiosity was oddly endearing. He clearly wanted to get to know her, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want to make a new friend.

“I’m not very good at this, am I?” he murmured.

“Makes no difference to me,” Ysara reassured him. “You only met me properly yesterday.”

“You’re giving me too much credit.”

“Maybe.” She brushed her gloved fingers through her hart’s mane, setting some loose snowflakes free. “I can’t wait to show you how I heat up food.”

Alistair sighed exasperatedly, his broad shoulders sagging. “I’m never going to live this down.”

The mage laughed aloud at that.

“Of course you’re not.”

Chapter Text

Watching the sun setting against the cold, hazy skies of the Frostbacks was something Ysara would never quite get tired of seeing, no matter how many times she knew she would have the opportunity. She’d pulled her hart to a standstill and sat there, still, against its back, listening to her own heart beating and watching how each exhale left her body in a small puff of white. As the sun sank down below the horizon, she appreciated Alistair’s silent observation. He must have known, somehow, that her room had been at the opposite end of the Circle Tower, and that she’d only ever seen the sun rise.

The dying sun was still bathing half the mountaintops in golden light when she heard Alistair’s hart whinny, and the scuffling of its hooves in the deep snow. The grand, antlered beast walked to stand beside her own hart, and Alistair turned to look at her.

Their gazes met, then, and oh. The glow from the remnants of the sun illuminated the flecks of colour in his eyes beautifully. Embers of a dying fire met caramel and honey, and her next words caught in her throat, against her will.

He paused for a moment, and she suddenly feared that he’d been able to read her mind. But then he gently suggested finding shelter. He had better survival instincts than her, admittedly. She was glad he’d insisted on coming along.

Oh, but now she’d seen the sunset in his eyes, her stomach was involuntarily clenching, threatening to eject the contents of her dinner. She’d never seen eyes quite like his – still young, but having witnessed so many living nightmares.

Nightfall was beginning to creep in bit by bit as the last of the sun slid behind the mountains, and although they’d both made good time, Alistair definitely seemed to be conscious of how quickly the landscape would become inhospitable. He covered the front, leading them both further along the valley until he seemed to spot something within the snow.

“Look – deep mushrooms. They tend to grow in groups at the entrance to caves.”

Ysara peered through the relative darkness. She could see the faint green glow of the mushrooms poking out just above the snow. She eyed Alistair curiously, confused as to how he had been able to spot something so small obscured within so much snow.

“Come on,” he insisted, unhooking his boot from his hart’s left stirrup and swinging his left leg gracefully over the saddle. He landed firmly on both feet in the snow, leading his hart gently by the bridle as he began to traverse towards the cave on foot.

She was glad he’d volunteered to come with her. Travelling alone, her plan would have included traversing the main roads via caravan and stopping at inns during nightfall. Riding atop a hart alongside an experienced adventurer, travelling as the crow flies, however – she assumed it would prove to be remarkably quicker.

Ysara copied his movements, sliding down from the saddle of her hart and stumbling only a little as she landed on her feet. The snow didn’t give away how deep it lay, and as she glanced down at the ground she realised her feet and ankles were no longer visible. Slowly, she began to lead her own hart in the direction of the cave, watching as Alistair ducked underneath a sweeping sheet of tree leaves. As the vines shifted, the snow that had been gathering precariously on top of them became loose, and fell with a heavy whump against Alistair’s armoured shoulders.

“This seems sheltered enough,” he called from behind the leaves, shrugging the snow from his shoulders. “The mounts can be tethered just inside. There’s more than enough room to camp.”

Ysara ducked underneath the jutted rock face and swept the vines aside with one arm. Through the darkness, she could see that the cave had a relatively low ceiling, just tall enough for her to stand, but not enough so for Alistair nor the harts. She stamped her feet, watching the compacted snow fall onto the patchy grassy ground in chunks. Busying herself with tethering the harts, her Warden companion began setting up the camp towards the rear of the narrow cave. The harts appeared grateful for an opportunity to rest, and knelt against the ground up close to one another by the entrance to the cave as Ysara pulled out clumps of hay from her travelling pack.

She threw Alistair the travelling packs that had been carried by their harts before sitting and resting with the two mounts for a short while. Although they couldn’t communicate with her, the great creatures seemed to appreciate her company, especially as she combed the snow out of their manes with her gloved fingers. They were large, majestic animals, capable of bearing massive loads and travelling long distances. She was very grateful for their help.

A sharp scrawp of stone against stone drew her attention. Then once more. The sound was quickly followed by the instrument falling against the dirt ground with a thud.

“Ah, blast it.”

Her curiosity well and truly piqued, Ysara patted the harts’ noses in farewell and moved to stand. Moving deeper into the cave, she could see Alistair kneeling over something in the darkness. As she drew closer, she realised he was kneeling over a small pile of detritus and kindling, and had been trying to light a small campfire.

“Let me help with that,” she told him, and he paused to look up at her as she knelt down beside him. He was silent as she snapped her fingers, creating another flame, just as she had done before. She allowed the flame to grow larger this time, and Ysara leaned forward, touching her fingers to the pile of branches and kindling. The magical flame took to the wood slowly but surely, the fire taking hold of the densely–packed detritus underneath.

The flames grew relatively quickly, gradually bathing the cave in warmth and light. Alistair sat back against his boot heels, blowing out a breath and replacing the flint into his pack.

“That’s not fair,” he grumbled, reaching to unbuckle his left gauntlet. “You make it look easy.”

Ysara smirked. “It is easy.”

He narrowed his eyes at her before the corner of his mouth twisted into an easy grin. She watched him shuck both gauntlets into the pile where his sword and shield already lay, followed by the heavy steel of his pauldrons and chest plate.

“It must be quite a relief to get out of that armour,” she commented absently, shucking her coat.

“What?” Alistair paused, his tabard halfway over his head. “Oh, yeah. It is. You’ve no idea how much this thing weighs.”

After divesting himself completely of his armour, he sat back down against the dirt ground, crossing his legs in front of him. He was dressed in nothing but brown slacks and a beige tunic held together with a belt around his waist. The large man seemed considerably less intimidating without his Grey Warden armour, but something about the way his broad shoulders slumped made him appear almost too vulnerable without it.

Behind them, he’d unrolled both of their packs, laying several thick furs on the ground with their bedrolls on top, placed a short distance apart. Ysara felt a sudden, unexpected warmth rushing to her cheeks. It was thoughtful of him to prepare hers, too. He’d evidently done this before, and seemed to be well aware of her lack of experience.

Although, if he was aware, he hadn’t mentioned it; much to Ysara’s relief.

Ysara began to unfasten her thick fur coat, watching as Alistair began to root around inside the depths of his travelling pack. She stared as he pulled out bread, cheese, fruit, crackers, and a bottle of something unfamiliar.

“By the Maker, Alistair – how much food did you manage to bring?”

He flashed her a wide grin in response.

“Sleeping on an empty stomach isn’t pleasant, Lady Trevelyan.”

That she could agree with, although she suspected she may not be as hungry as he was. She shrugged off her enchanter’s coat after the fur outer coat, happy to be rid of the stiff collar and wide pauldrons. It was cold in the cave, although nowhere near as cold as outside. The small campfire was steadily crackling, and although she only wore a linen tunic, she found herself warmer than she’d been expecting.

She rubbed her tattooed left arm, glancing down and appreciating how the dark lines peeked out from underneath the long sleeve of her linen tunic. The ink was just as vibrant as it had been when she’d had the tattoos made, all those years ago.

Reaching underneath the dipped neck of her tunic, her fingers connected with the reassuring warmth of the enchanted crystal she wore around her neck. It had been a godsend during her time at Skyhold, and she wouldn’t go anywhere now without it.

She always carried a spare, just in case.

“Hey,” she thought aloud, interrupting the comfortable silence as Alistair pulled apart a croissant with his fingers. He glanced up at her, the gentle crackle of the flames illuminating his tired, handsome face.

He smiled then, the burden of responsibility absent from his face for the first time since she’d met him.

“Yes?”

Ysara faltered for a few moments, suddenly taken aback by his relaxed smile. Andraste preserve me.

She said nothing at first, instead turning to root around inside her pack for the other scarlet stone. She’d already wound a rough leather cord through the wire loop of this stone, too. Retrieving the pendant from an inside pocket of her pack, she dropped it carefully into Alistair’s open palm.

“I want you to have this,” she told him.

“Oh!” He blushed deeply and suddenly as his gaze flicked between the stone and her face. “Thank you, Ysara – what is it?”

“It’s a stone I enchanted to keep the wearer warm,” she explained carefully, trying to keep her face neutral as she realised he’d used her name rather than her title. “I– uh. It gets cold in the mountains, and I always keep a spare. I thought you might appreciate it. Because it’s pretty cold out here, uh–”

Alistair stared down at the small red crystal in his hand. He remained silent for a few moments as he turned the stone over and over in his palm, an unusual, distant look in his eyes.

A few moments passed and the Warden looked up at her again, the apples of his cheeks noticeably red. He took hold of both ends of the leather cord and brought them to meet at the back of his neck, deftly tying the ends into a knot. Lifting the collar of his tunic, he let the enchanted stone fall against his sternum, and Ysara watched as the scarlet crystal began to glow underneath the fabric in the same way she knew hers did.

Alistair made a sound of surprise in the back of his throat, pulling the tunic’s collar down and away from his chest so that Ysara could see the stone.

“Is it meant to – oh! Oh, that’s weird –”

She laughed at that, realising the crystal had warmed up to match his body temperature and was quickly regulating the warmth of his body.

“Yeah, it’s meant to do that,” she told him, pulling the neck of her own tunic aside to show him where her own glowing pendant lay, at the top of the valley of her breasts. “It keeps you warm by keeping your whole body at the same temperature as your core.”

Alistair stared at the crystal against her chest, and then his gaze shifted quickly back to her face. His entire face flushed in embarrassment. Turning away, he hurriedly busied himself with the evening’s food, and she couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face.

She hadn’t intended on exposing so much of her chest to such a degree, but she’d only realised after she noticed his gaze shift. Truthfully, the mage did enjoy flirting, as she knew it could end up being both tactical and rewarding. She got the impression that her Grey Warden companion was operating with the same mindset, but she didn’t want to push her luck. She was enjoying his company regardless.

He turned back to her with a carefully wrapped cloth full of fruit and bread. Placing it down between them, he shifted closer so they could share the contents of the wrapped–up cloth.

“Thank you,” he spoke softly, the tips of his gently pointed ears still holding onto the flush of embarrassment. “That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s not a problem,” Ysara smiled, reaching forward to pluck a peach from the vast contents of the cloth. “I feared you may get cold after the fire goes out.”

“Yeah,” Alistair agreed, picking at the variety of cheese. “I’d usually put my armour back on.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “What, to sleep in?”

He nodded.

“Well, now you don’t.” She bit firmly into the soft flesh of the peach. “Have you ever worn anything enchanted before?”

Alistair shook his head. “No, I haven’t.”

“Well, it’s almost like it’s alive,” she commented. She sucked at the wound she’d made in the peach flesh. “Sometimes you feel it vibrating slightly against you. You’ll get used to it.”

A few moments passed without a response, and she realised that he was staring at her again, his brows raised slightly as he watched her eat the ripe fruit. The corner of her mouth began to twist into a smirk, only now realising the effect that she was having on him. Just like earlier, she hadn’t intended it to be so, although realistically, a peach hadn’t been the tamest thing to eat. She hadn’t been thinking that far ahead.

Alistair shifted, crossing his legs firmly and clearing his throat as he turned his focus onto tearing up a small fruit loaf. The tension between them remained heavy in the air. Ysara had to mentally chastise herself and remember where she was and who she was with, and where she was meant to be going.

“Well, thanks for the warning,” he replied after several more moments of silence. “I can’t say I wouldn’t be surprised if I woke up to the stone buzzing around my neck.”

A few minutes passed as the two travelling companions shared the contents of the wrapped cloth. She felt comfortable sitting by his side, despite having only really spoken to him properly a day earlier.

“Alistair,” she spoke suddenly. “Can I ask you a question?”

He glanced up at her, his mouth full of bread. “Of course.”

“Only because it just dawned on me that I don’t know much about the Wardens.”

He nodded as he swallowed his mouthful.

“I’m an open book, my lady. Ask away.”

Ysara took another bite of the peach whilst she considered what to ask him. The fire crackled warmly beside them, and she watched how his slender fingers strategically tore apart bits of bread.

“The Taint,” she spoke gently. “And the Calling. I’ve studied the effects, albeit only briefly. To learn about what we’re up against.”

“It isn’t pleasant,” he affirmed.

“You… you can hear the music, can’t you?”

Alistair hesitated briefly as he gazed at her. The corners of his mouth began to turn downwards.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice suddenly despondent. “It’s quieter when I’m fighting, or talking – like this. But it does keep me awake at night.”

Her heart wrenched at his quiet voice. She almost wished she hadn’t mentioned it.

“But it’s a false Calling, right? After we take down this magister, it’ll stop for good – surely?”

“Not forever,” he responded, staring into the flames for a moment before turning back to look at her, shrugging. “Every Warden hears the song eventually.”

Ysara hadn’t remembered this from her studies. She’d heard of the Calling and what hearing it entailed, sure – but she hadn’t realised it was an inevitable fate for every single Grey Warden . She’d assumed it just affected a few.

“There’s no way to stop it? None at all?”

Alistair looked at her blankly. “No.” He shook his head. “First there’s the nightmares, and that’s followed by the song. It gets so loud you can’t take it anymore. Then you’re meant to go down into the Deep Roads and die honourably, fighting the darkspawn. Such is a Warden’s duty.”

She suddenly regretted bringing up such an awful topic. She hadn’t realised the extent of the sacrifices the Wardens were expected to make. Willing to make.

“In death – sacrifice,” she realised aloud. “I understand.”

Alistair stared down into his lap sombrely, tearing up the croissant into even smaller pieces. 

“There must be a cure for the Taint,” she pressed. “There must be. What – five Blights and nobody has thought to find one?”

Alistair brought his knees up to his chest, crossing his arms over them and shrugging once again.

“Warden Stefan – sorry, the Hero of Ferelden – before he died, he was researching a cure.” He swallowed firmly. “As far as I’m aware, there hasn’t been anybody else willing. Personally, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

She frowned, her brows forming a crease as she thought long and hard about his words. The Wardens were selfless and devoted to their order, and would sacrifice everything to save Thedas without a second of doubt. Their reputation preceded them. She had to do something , now that she had learned that it was inevitable.

She’d thought about it often since the rise of the mage rebellion, but realistically, Ysara knew that she couldn’t ever go back to the Circle, regardless of whether it was rebuilt. She’d called the place home for many years, but the mage-Templar war had heightened opinions and given weight to serious extremist beliefs. It simply wouldn’t be safe there anymore — if it even existed after the war was over.

Maybe, then, that’s what she’d do. After the Breach had been closed, and Corypheus slain – she’d stay at Skyhold, and search for the cure for the Taint. She was certain her sister would welcome her. She was an accomplished enchanter and a senior member of the Ostwick Circle. If anything, she had the best idea of where to start looking.

Regardless, she was doubtful she even wanted to return to any of the Circles in the first place. Now she’d had a taste of freedom, she wasn’t about to give it up.

“I’ll do it,” she told him firmly. “I’ll find a cure.”

Of all the things she may have expected, the last thing was for him to throw his head back and laugh . To laugh so hard he almost toppled backwards, a hand pressed firmly against his chest to help him catch his breath. The sound warmed her, despite the mocking intent. She was perplexed to say the least, raising a brow as his laughter faded.

“I hope I live long enough for you to find it,” he chuckled. “Then I’ll eat my boots.”

“You underestimate me, dear Warden,” she mused, irked at his mockery. “You don’t know how much I have at my disposal. Disbelieve me if you must, but I will find it one day. That I can promise you.”

Alistair nodded his head, a smirk on his lips as he turned back to the bread he’d been tearing up. “Of course, of course. Not doubting you. Nuh-uh.”

She reached across and plucked the piece out of his hands before he could even react.

“You’d do well to trust me.”

He stared at her incredulously as she chewed thoughtfully on the bread she’d pilfered from out of his hands. He hadn’t been expecting her to do that, clearly.

“This is good,” she commented. “Really good. Hey, don’t look at me like that. You were hoarding it.”

He laughed then, and she found herself laughing too, spurred on by his amusement. The deep rumble of his laughter vibrated through her, and she felt almost lightheaded.

Alistair leaned backwards, reaching towards his pack which was still open and lying on its side a short distance away. He recovered a bottle from within, dark brown and opaque in colour.

“Here,” he explained. “Last night, I offered to buy you another drink, didn’t I?”

He twisted the lid, meeting a slight amount of resistance before it came free. Ysara stared at him as he handed her the bottle, a sheepish grin on his face.

“There aren’t any taverns out here – nor do I have any clean tankards – but I hope this will suffice.”

The warmth that flooded through her as he smiled was unlike anything she’d ever felt before, but the fact he’d remembered his offer was truly what surprised her. She took the dark bottle from his hand, letting her fingers linger against his for a moment.

She could feel his eyes watching her as she tilted her head back, taking a drink from the bottle. Strong, fragrant alcohol brought back a rush of very recent memories. She swallowed the mouthful of spiced familiarity and appreciated the ever–so–satisfying burning sensation.

She smiled happily. Tevinter brandy.

Ysara leaned forward, pressed the bottle back into his hands. “I love this stuff,” she beamed. “How did you even know?”

“I might have asked the bartender after you left last night,” he replied, raising the bottle to his lips and taking a swig. His eyes narrowed as he forced down the liquid, the mouthful of alcohol evidently not what he had been expecting.

He coughed briefly, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he stared at her.

“Andraste’s holy knickers–”

“Too strong for you?”

“No! No… just, uh, not what I was expecting.”

He took another, considerably smaller drink from the bottle, as if to prove his point.

Ysara chuckled at his choice of expletive. “I’ll admit; it does keep me warm at night. And that explains why Cabot had run out last night, then.”

They passed the bottle back and forth between them as the cold night grew darker, chatting comfortably about their predicaments. It was an unusual situation for either of them to find themselves in. Ysara had lived her whole life without many concerns at all, aside from the initial torment of being shipped off to the Circle at ten years old, but now – it all seemed irrelevant. She’d been thrown into the world outside of the relative safety of the Circle, where demons poured from a tear in the sky, where Venatori magisters made deals with darkspawn and where Wardens were sacrificing themselves for blood magic rituals… It was a lot to contend with.

For years, she’d dreamed of where she’d go if the Circles ever fell. She’d never expected it to be like this.

As the flames of the fire began to flicker and dim, Ysara placed several magic wards around the cave entrance. The Warden and the enchanter finished the bottle of brandy between them, retiring soon after to their bedrolls. Alistair’s idea of placing thick pelts underneath their bedrolls had been a good idea, of course – he’d done this plenty of times in his life. It was surprisingly comfortable, and Ysara felt not only safe, but protected.

They talked quietly as they lay within the darkness of the cave. The fire was cold now, and the mountain wind was howling outside, indicating a storm. She was glad she was safe inside rather than out there.

It wasn’t long before Ysara quickly succumbed to unconsciousness. The brandy had warmed her through to her bones, giving her enough of a distraction to be able to find sleep quickly. Alistair listened to her slow, calming breaths for a while, letting the sound gradually lull him to sleep, too.

She wouldn’t know that Alistair fell asleep with the palm of his left hand resting over the enchanted pendant she’d given him.

Chapter Text

Ysara wasn’t a light sleeper by any means. Living in the Circle as a teenager meant sharing quarters with fifteen other mages, and some were quieter than others. Her subconscious had learned to adapt.

Despite not being awoken easily, something in the cave caused her to stir, and as she awoke quickly, she suddenly realised she could hear movement close by. She froze, feeling her magic coursing through her veins. It took a moment for her to remember where she was, and that instead of being nestled into the expanse of a luxurious feather bed safely inside the Inquisition’s secluded fortress, she was lying on the hard ground inside a cold, dark mountainside cave. As she came to, she strained her ears, quickly recognising the sound of fabric shifting followed by soft, incoherent mumbling.

Her eyes opened wide against the darkness of the cave. She had no idea what time it was, but she knew the night was still young. There were no signs of any sunlight from the cracks in the snow-laden curtain of leaves obscuring the cave’s entrance.

“Alistair,” she whispered out into the darkness. There was no response.

Another brief rustling of fabric, and Ysara sat up, quickly realising that the noise was coming from the direction in which Alistair lay. She flicked out the fingers of her right hand, letting her upright palm fill with warm yellow light. Squinting against the darkness of the cave, she waited briefly for her eyes to adjust before she crawled forward, out of her bedroll and onto the furs.

It was freezing.

Most of the Warden’s body was outside of his bedroll as he lay with his back to her, the linen of his shirt having ridden halfway up his torso. He appeared to be still at first glance – as if he was sleeping – but as Ysara approached, he shifted suddenly onto his back. His eyes were closed, but his torso was as straight as a board, his hands clenched firmly into fists. He groaned softly, shifting once more unto his right side. Ysara’s brow furrowed deeply, a crease forming in the centre as she watched him, her illuminated hand held above him.

He was having a nightmare – that much was obvious.

Another hoarse groan accompanied the Warden moving once more, his arms shifting to bracket his head, his knees rising towards his chest as he rolled onto his side. Sucking in deep breaths, he was subconsciously trying to calm himself.

Staring at his heaving torso in the dim light, the mage considered if she might wake him. She’d heard of the nightmares that were caused by the Calling, but she’d never really understood how bad they were first-hand. Surely if she woke the Warden, it would stop his nightmare?

Alistair shifted onto his back once more, one arm thrown over his face as he groaned again, struggling with whatever horrors were plaguing his dreams.

She needed to wake him up. She knew first-hand how much anguish nightmares could bring, and she wasn’t about to let him suffer without intervening.

Ysara crawled the short distance across the grassy cave floor towards him, kneeling beside him on the furs. His face was contorted in agony, his screwed-shut eyelids fluttering. She reached out, resting her illuminated hand firmly against his chest. His heart was pounding beneath her palm.

“Alistair,” she spoke firmly.

“Ngh?”

He stirred, and she attempted to pull gently at the arm that was thrown over his face. “Wake up, Alistair. You’re dreaming.”

He awoke suddenly at that, jolting up from the bedroll and backing away instinctively from Ysara. He stared up at her with wide eyes, confusion and fear evident on his face, sweat beading on his brow as his chest heaved for air.

“It’s me,” she reassured calmly, returning her hand to rest carefully against his chest. “You’re safe. It’s alright.”

His wide, terrified eyes flicked from her face to her glowing hand against his sternum, and she felt him relax all at once as he moved to cover her hand with his much larger one. The weight of his hand was firm, and she could feel the calluses on his palms from his years of handling a sword. The gesture was entirely unexpected and rather intimate, and a pleasant, dizzying knot began to form in Ysara’s gut.

He blew out an exhausted breath, leaning back and propping himself up with one elbow against his bedroll. He ignored the linen shirt which had ridden up along his torso, exposing his navel. His hand kept hers firmly against his chest.

“I— I’m sorry if I scared you.”

His heart was still pounding against his ribs, and she could feel it clearly, even as the Warden now appeared visibly calm.

“You didn’t,” she told him. “I was more concerned about you. You seemed to be in a great deal of pain.”

He shook his head. “I’m okay – don’t worry about me. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

His hand slid from where it was holding hers in place against his sternum. His heart was still beating hard, but Ysara decided not to mention it, nor did she move her hand.

“Are you feeling alright?” she checked.

“Yeah.” Alistair swallowed firmly, anxiously spearing his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He was most certainly not fine, but Ysara didn’t know what else she could do to help. He sucked in a deep breath through his teeth, expanding his ribcage, and she watched as he blew it back out carefully.

He met her eye then, and he smiled kindly against the soft illumination of her hand.

“Get some rest,” he insisted. “I’m fine – I promise.”

She nodded, withdrawing her hand from his chest and retreating back to her bedroll as she left Alistair in darkness once again. She knew that he didn’t trust her enough — not yet — to share what was bothering him – understandably so, as they had only been travelling companions for less than a day.

She understood that, and respected it. She didn’t trust him entirely yet, either. The mage found it incredibly difficult to trust anyone , in fact, and preferred to keep to herself around the majority of people she met.

The cave was significantly colder than it had been when she had retired to her bedroll earlier in the evening, and she was glad to have packed such a thick bedroll as she pulled the furs up to her chin. She glanced in Alistair’s direction once more before extinguishing the illumination spell.

“Thank you,” she heard him murmur softly.

She smiled.

Chapter Text

Ysara awoke naturally early to the smell of sweet tea and warm bread. She flinched as she opened her eyes, temporarily forgetting where she was and realising too quickly that she was no longer within the safety of the Circle.

Calm yourself. You’ll need to get used to this.

Propping herself up with one elbow, she suppressed a soft yawn, adjusting the crystal around her neck. The pendant had fallen behind her onto the pillow during the night.

“Good morning,” Alistair’s chipper voice called from the direction of the mouth of the cave. “I made breakfast.”

Ysara sat up a little too quickly, turning to stare in the direction his voice originated from. She didn’t quite know how to reply. Breakfast , in general, had always been a relatively foreign concept to her. Whilst living in the Circle, it was routine practice for her to wake up just before dawn and take a philter of nutrients and minerals specifically adapted to help her focus and enhance her abilities. Occasionally, the younger mages would bring her treats while she studied.

She’d never had the chance to appreciate food as much as she had whilst briefly living at Skyhold.

She packed away her bedroll neatly, meeting Alistair at the entrance to the cave where he’d built another small fire. It seemed he hadn’t needed her magical assistance this time. The flames had firmly taken hold and were licking insistently at the base of the small copper pot he’d fixed over the campfire. He supervised it, an elbow resting against his knee as he surveyed the silent mountainside.

Peaceful.

She’d barely taken the seat beside him before Alistair was pushing a small warm tin bowl into her hands, filled to the brim with what smelled suspiciously like sweet apples. A plate sat on the ground between them, piled with warm bread and cheese.

“Good morning,” she spoke kindly, returning the greeting. “You haven’t been awake long, I hope?”

“No, not long,” he replied, smiling at her. “I usually like to get up and bathe before the rest of the camp, but… I remembered the conversation we had about warming up baths. ”

Ysara took a sip from the small bowl. Her suspicions were correct, and the drink was indeed hot spiced apple. The warmth and the smell of cinnamon had unwittingly brought back dozens of happy memories of Satinalia at Ostwick.

She’d tell him about it at some point. The memories were a lovely reminder of her family, if she only ignored how much they stung to remember.

Instead, she swallowed down the memories along with another sip of the drink he’d made and smiled.

“Oh, I see. You were waiting for me to wake up so I could heat up your bath.”

He beamed at her, his grin telling her all she needed to know.

The snowstorm from last night had stopped, and the mountains on the horizon were visible – a rare moment of clear skies. A thick blanket of white covered every surface, every tree – and if not for the ominous, looming Breach in the sky, the landscape almost resembled a Satinalia painting. It was beautiful .

They ate breakfast in relative silence. Ysara was impressed by Alistair’s gargantuan appetite, which she knew was a side effect from the darkspawn taint and affected many, if not all Grey Wardens. She noticed he still set a large amount of food aside for her, despite how easily he was tearing through their rations.

She rolled up the sleeves of her linen shirt as she continued to sip at the bowl of tea, relishing the feeling of the sun warming her skin, and it wasn’t long at all before she could feel the Warden’s eyes tentatively roaming the inked arms she’d revealed. He remained quiet – pensive, perhaps – before pulling his gaze away after a few moments. He’d realised that he’d been caught staring.

“You’ve never seen tattooed skin before?” she asked.

“Only once,” he explained, rather bashfully. “Yours seem very… different to his.”

“If the Circle was good for anything, it was teaching young mages how to learn new, forbidden skills in secrecy, and ensuring that they had to form organisations in order to support their creativity.”

She reached out her left forearm, showing the Warden the sketched map of the Free Marches inked into her skin. Sharp, clean lines carved out in a similar pattern to her facial ink accompanied the map, and Alistair leaned in for a closer look, eyes curious as he admired the work.

“Wow,” he murmured. “It’s beautiful.”

She smiled at his expression of awe. “I know.”

Alistair glanced back up at her, his curious gaze now roaming her face.

“Are your facial markings tattooed, too?”

She nodded, subconsciously touching her hand to her cheekbone.

“My grandmother is of the Avvar,” she explained. “She had magic, too. Nobody else in my family did, except me. She… uh, refused to submit to the Circle – she was the one who taught me not to be ashamed of my power.”

She smiled happily at the memories revisiting her.

“She made these tattoos for me, just after I turned sixteen. The First Enchanter allowed her to visit, just before she moved away.”

Alistair sat and listened, seemingly transfixed by the tiny snippet of her past that she’d allowed him to see.

“The Avvar are a hardy and resilient people,” he said warmly. “Your grandmother must be very proud of you.”

Smiling, Ysara glanced down at the half-empty bowl of sweet spiced apple. Her grandparents had moved from Ostwick after the death of Ysara’s mother. Bann Trevelyan, unable to deal with the mounting pressure from the Templar Order, had sent Ysara to the Circle. Communication outside of the Circle had been forbidden after the incident at Kirkwall, so the mage hadn’t heard from her father nor her grandparents in several years.

“I hope so.” She took another sip from the bowl. “I think she and my grandfather live in the mountains now. I’d love to see her again.”

After breakfast, the pair packed the camp up quickly and saddled up their harts before heading out into the mountains. It was unfathomably cold so early in the morning, so Ysara bundled herself up in multiple layers. The Avvar coat she had been gifted wasn’t just thick and fur–lined – it was waterproof – and she was so glad she’d decided to bring it along on the journey.

Alistair took the lead this time. He’d pulled a thick fur-lined cloak over his armour, and sitting on the back of a mount it almost gave him the look of a seasoned bandit chief. Or a rogue prince from a distant land.

Ysara stared at the back of his head as their harts trotted idly through the snow. From their day of travelling together, she felt comfortable around the Warden, almost like he was an old friend – but at the same time, she got the feeling that she didn’t really know him at all. He reminded her of Blackwall, in a way – not particularly secretive, just unwilling to divulge his experiences unless he thought they were relevant.

The Wardens were probably instructed to preserve their secrets.

It would be a few days until they reached the edge of the Frostbacks. They were heading in the direction of the Western Approach as the raven flew, and the route had taken them directly through the winding hills and blustery valleys of the mountains. Their trudging through the snow had spared them several days of travelling on the roads.

She squeezed the flank of her hart with her boot heels, letting the mount catch up with Alistair’s hart to walk side by side before she tugged gently on its reins. Little by little, her confidence on the back of a mount was returning. She hadn’t ridden a horse properly since her childhood, let alone a hart , but it seemed she’d never truly forgotten.

He turned to look at her, a half-smile on his expectant face.

“Yes?”

“Alistair–”

A sudden, almighty roar took them both by surprise, interrupting Ysara and compelling both of them to pull their harts to a halt. The sound echoed throughout the valley, causing all of the nearby birds to launch into sudden flight. Ysara froze, her hands involuntarily clenching into fists as she twisted around, looking to see if she could spot the source of the roar. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Alistair move to rest the heel of his right hand against the pommel of his sword.

Another sudden roar echoed throughout the mountains – closer this time, and significantly louder. Abruptly, Ysara’s hart bucked, rearing up on its hind legs. She yelled out in surprise as the pack it was carrying fell backwards into the snow. Digging her heels into the flank of the mount and pulling at the reins did nothing, as the hart reared up once again and threw Ysara to the ground unceremoniously.

Her fall was cushioned significantly by the thick layer of snow covering the frozen earth, but landing roughly on her back knocked the breath out of her, and for a few moments, all she could do was lie there, staring up into the sky. Flecks of snow melted on her cheeks.

“Ysara – hey!” Alistair called, panic rising in his voice as he swung one leg over the saddle of his hart, sliding down from its back. “Are you alright?”

The hart took off running immediately after dumping its passenger, and as Ysara sat up in the snow, the only thing she could do was to watch it disappear into the mountains before she blew out a disgruntled breath. At least the animal had the decency to dump her travelling pack, too – but that had definitely set their progress back somewhat.

Oh, but Maker, that hurt . She hissed through her teeth as the sudden kick of adrenaline began to wear off. She’d landed mostly on her left side.

The mage sat forward in the snow, groaning and moving to rub her lower back where she’d fallen. That would leave a bruise, she was certain of it.

“I’m okay,” she reassured him as he approached.

He leaned down to pull her to her feet, letting her lean forward against his arms as he helped her up from the ground. She tried her best to shake the compacted snow out from her coat. It took her a moment to realise the creature responsible for the roar was still nearby.

Alistair retrieved her staff from where it had fallen to the ground beside her, watching as she took it from him and affixed it to the leather fastening on the back of her belt.

“Thank you,” she smiled up at him.

“That sounds like a bear,” he told her, leaning down to retrieve the dumped travelling pack. He began to affix the waterproof pack on top of the bag his hart was already carrying.

The roar rang out once more across the valley, as if to respond to Alistair’s words. The animal didn’t seem to be getting any closer – at least judging by the sound of its roar – but neither Warden or mage were keen on taking any chances.

“A bear?” she repeated. “This deep within the mountains?”

“I wouldn’t want to stick around and find out,” Alistair huffed, hooking one boot back into the stirrup of his hart and hauling himself back up. “Come on.”

She hesitated briefly before following him, realising foolishly that she now had no other way to traverse the Frostbacks. Alistair extended his gloved hand out to her, and she gripped it firmly, using his weight as leverage to pull herself up into the small space in front of him. She adjusted the stave on her back slightly to the right, ensuring it wasn’t stabbing into either the hart or Alistair’s leg.

Alistair’s hart was a much larger creature than her own mount had been, and there was surprisingly enough room for her in the saddle, but she barely had time to register Alistair’s arms around her waist as he seized the reins in front of her.

“Bad news,” he murmured, digging his heels firmly into the hart’s flank. “Bear.”

“Oh, shit,” she gasped, registering the feeling of his chest against her back and his breath in her ear. She barely even heard the word ‘bear’.

“Hold on.”

Her stomach lurched as the hart kicked up the snow and rushed straight into a gallop. She clutched at the reins in front of her, leaning backwards instinctively against the speed. Alistair’s steel chest plate was solid and reassuring against her back. She turned, glancing over the Warden’s shoulder in the direction from where they had come, and her eyes widened at the sudden sight of the giant, lumbering black bear.

It was chasing them now, and the enormous creature was approaching much faster than she’d anticipated. She’d never seen such a huge bear with so many teeth. Behind her, she could feel Alistair’s thighs clench as he dug his boot heels harder into the flank of the hart. They would never be able to outrun the bear at this rate, especially in snow as thick as this.

Gripping the hart’s reins for balance with her right hand, she twisted against Alistair’s chest, closing her left fist and letting a rolling ball of flame envelop her hand. The adrenaline was searing through her veins now, and as Alistair pulled the mount suddenly to the left, Ysara let the flames loose, tearing through the powdery snow and distracting the aggressive animal.

Aggravated, the bear let out a deafening roar. It echoed loudly throughout the valley, and Alistair tightened his grip on the reins.

“That noise will bury us,” he told her, his breath coming heavy in puffs of white. “Can you slow it down somehow?”

Realising he was right, she switched tactics. She’d heard how her sister had been buried by an avalanche at Haven and narrowly escaped with her life. She didn’t want the same thing to happen here.

Raising her left hand once more, swirls of frost began to crackle along her forearm and her wrist as she pulled on her magic reserves. She aimed quick and indirect, letting loose a flurry of sharp icy blades in the general direction of the enormous bear. She felt Alistair lean slightly to the left, out of the way, and she used the opportunity to summon another torrent of enchanted ice whilst she had a clear view of her target.

The frozen knives struck the bear head–on, rapidly exploding into needle–like shards on impact. The creature roared in agony, the enchanted frozen water expanding rapidly and suddenly and violently reducing the beast to little more than large, bloody chunks.

Ysara grimaced in disgust, turning back to face the way they were travelling and blowing out a sigh of relief as she leaned back against Alistair’s chest, trying to catch her breath. She stayed like that for a few moments before she realised suddenly that she was leaning back against him, and she felt the heat rush to her face in response. A small, rational part of her brain was screaming at her to shift, to move away. This was inappropriate .

He tugged on the hart’s reins, slowing the animal’s speed to a light canter now that there were no signs of any immediate danger.

“Well, that didn’t sound at all pleasant,” Alistair mused breathlessly into her ear, his voice very close indeed. “I must say, I’m glad you’re as skilled as you are with magic. I didn’t fancy the idea of getting… up close and personal with that bear.”

His tone wasn’t missed by the mage, and she glanced down at his gauntleted forearms resting on either side of her waist as he held the reins of the hart. She let herself relax again against the Warden, her back and shoulders supported almost entirely by his much larger torso. The adrenaline was beginning to fade now, and the fatigue began to grip her, her back beginning to ache from where she’d fallen. Even through his armour, Alistair was warm, and the arms loosely bracketing her middle were infinitely reassuring.

“That’s the good thing about magic,” she commented dryly. “You don’t have to get up close and personal with many things.”

“No?” he pressed.

“You can kill most things from a distance. You only need to get up close and personal with the dangerous things.”

She felt the warm rumble of his chuckle from behind her. She’d only known the man for a matter of weeks, but his warmth and openness had been a pleasant change to the attitudes she was so used to.

The hart trotted along through the seemingly endless valleys of white, and Ysara was content to sit comfortably upon its back, allowing her mind to drift and become lost in thought. Her feet didn’t quite reach the stirrups – and besides, somebody else’s boots occupied them, regardless. It was an interesting feeling, one that she was quite happy to sit with and attempt to interpret.

It may have been partially to do with the fact that their gentle flirting had been making her feel lightheaded, but having a Grey Warden on her side made her feel invincible. Part of her wanted to ride into Adamant unchecked and plunge her bladed stave deep into Erimond’s chest herself. She hadn’t gotten this far without experiencing her fair share of manipulators like him, but for it to get this bad…

She was lucky that Alistair had reached out to request the help of the Inquisition. Delysendra was a powerful woman who had lots of powerful allies – and a senior enchanter of a sister, of course.

But focusing on Alistair himself – his presence made Ysara feel almost vulnerable , despite her unmatched power and skill. Beneath his self–deprecating humour and sarcastic, razor sharp wit, she could read him like a tome. It was a coping mechanism she was overly familiar with; in his case, deployed in order to hide a truly deeply traumatised past. His eyes were a little too dark, and she’d bet that he’d gone through more than he’d ever be willing to let on. She could tell by his gaze – it always seemed just a little too distant.

Ysara glanced down again at his large gloved hands resting almost in her lap, his grip gentle on the reins. Her cheeks flushed with heat at the sight. She decided she wanted to get to know him better.

Chapter Text

Progress had been slow, and the treacherous, snow-covered valleys of the seemingly endless mountain range were beginning to wear heavily upon the mage. Their travelling time had been impeded considerably by the loss of Ysara’s hart, but despite the setback, the Warden was insistent that they had made good time.

The endless hills of white were starting to make Ysara’s retinas ache. The sunlight was weak, if not a welcome relief from the constant grey cloud cover. She shielded her eyes with one hand against the sun, grateful for the warmth that the crystal pendant brought her through her thick layers of clothing. She didn’t have to really concentrate on their direction – Alistair seemed to have a good idea of which way to guide the hart, so she allowed herself time to relax and think about the not-so-distant future. She was worried for her sister, and she silently prayed to Andraste to keep her safe – at least until she got there.

“Can I ask you something?” the Warden spoke suddenly from behind her, interrupting the comfortable silence that had formed between them.

“That depends on what you’re going to ask me,” she mused, smirking as she turned her head slightly towards him. “If you’re going to ask me to divulge the secrets of the First Enchanter, then no. But if you’re about to ask me what my favourite thing to bake is, then of course.”

He was quiet for a moment, clearly not having anticipated her response.

“Well, it wasn’t going to be either of those, but now I’m curious. What is your favourite thing to bake?”

“Apple and rhubarb pie.” She reached forward, absently combing her gloved fingers through the hart’s short tuft of dark hair. “A Satinalia treat.”

He cleared his throat. “Mm, yeah. Probably shouldn’t have asked you that. I’m, uh, ravenous.”

“We’ll stop soon, stretch our legs, eat something,” she suggested. “I’m hungry too, come to think of it.”

She heard him hum in agreement, watching as he flexed the fingers of his left hand against the reins.

“So – my original question.”

“Oh, yes.” The corner of Ysara’s mouth began to quirk at his tone. “Do go on.”

Alistair inhaled deeply through his nose before he spoke, as if he were bracing himself.

“Ever since we first met,” he said, “I’ve been ever so curious about your eyes.”

Ysara blanked for a moment, her gaze lingering on the middle distance before her.

“My eyes?” she repeated.

“I’ve never seen eyes like yours,” he continued, a little quieter, now. “How– how did they get like that?”

It took another brief moment for her to realise he was talking about the variation in her eye colour. Of course . In the Circle, it had been easy for her to forget about it. The mages all knew what had happened, of course, and it was never really discussed. Besides, she rarely looked at her reflection in the mirror. The woman who stared back always left Ysara with a haunting feeling.

Of course, upon moving to Skyhold, everybody immediately wanted to know why her eyes were two drastically different colours. After the first four rounds of questions, she began to spare them the details. I was born like this, she’d say. She didn’t have the time nor the energy to explain the gory details to fifteen curious strangers a day.

She took a sharp intake of breath, the sting of the painful memories dissipating almost immediately from the clarity of the sharp mountain air. She trusted Alistair enough now – at least enough to tell him what actually happened. It was almost twelve years ago, after all.

“I was born with green eyes,” she explained, grateful that she was still sitting with her back to him. “The silver one… that came about when I was seventeen, and I’d been an apprentice for around five years, I think. Every Circle mage has to undergo a rite of passage at that age – a test, almost, to become a full member of the Circle. It’s called the Harrowing.”

Alistair remained quiet as he sat behind her, and she absentmindedly stroked her gloved hand along the hart’s tufted mane. She was surprised — the memory of her Harrowing was suddenly as clear as day in her mind, more and more details emerging as she recalled it out loud. Her voice was the only sound for miles, the thick snow deadening any echoes from any nearby wildlife, and she was grateful for the silence that the Warden gave her.

“You have a choice. You can either go through the Harrowing, or you can be made Tranquil instead. You know what a Tranquil is, right?”

“Mm-hmm. I remember one or two from the Fereldan Circle.”

“Well, I didn’t want to become Tranquil — obviously — so I decided to go through with the Harrowing,” she continued. “When they tore open the Fade, I found myself face to face with a fear demon.”

She opened her mouth to continue, but closed it again just as quickly, swallowing down the sudden dryness in her throat. She hadn’t revisited these memories for months – perhaps even years . She’d protected herself from the torment by building a fortress within her mind, burying the memories as deep as she could within the fortress’ cellar.

“What happened?” Alistair pressed gently.

“It almost killed me,” she told him, finding her voice. “I’d faced demons before, but this one – this one took a lot of strength to beat. It nearly took my arm off. I threw back gallons of poultice.”

A slow exhale from the Warden made her pause, helping her to gather her thoughts.

“You were seventeen…”

She nodded. “I resisted the demon and completed my Harrowing, thank the Maker. Then I was slashed across the face by a Templar sword. A shield to the head knocked me unconscious.”

Feeling Alistair inhale deeply behind her, she tried not to think about how she was divulging one of her most traumatic lived experiences to a man who she’d known for less than a few weeks.

“I found out later that he was hoping I would die during my Harrowing,” she explained. “He’d been the Templar that had been assigned the killing blow in advance – just in case the demon possessed me. He tried to lie, making out as though I’d failed my Harrowing. If Knight-Commander McGrath hadn’t been in the chamber, he– he probably would have ended up killing me.”

Ysara watched as Alistair’s left hand let go of the reins, his gloved open palm turning up towards her. She didn’t quite understand what he was intimating, but her lungs were now too tight to be thinking too deeply into it; the panic of waking up inside the Harrowing chamber suddenly too fresh in her mind. Quietly, she reached forward to rest her much smaller palm within his, watching as his fingers immediately closed around hers.

She stared at their gloved hands for a few moments, closing her eyes briefly and focusing on the chill of the frozen air.

“Three days… I think I was out for about three days. I couldn’t see out of my eye for another week. The sword had missed my eye — I was very lucky, really. More damage was done with the shield, and even that was minimal.”

A few moments of silence passed before Alistair spoke. The silence of the mountainous Frostbacks wasn’t quite so stifling anymore.

“I’m so sorry,” he spoke earnestly, his voice quiet. “I– I had no idea. I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question.”

Ysara sighed, her shoulders drooping as she leaned forward. She’d accepted what had happened and moved on, but the memory still hurt to revisit, even eleven years after. The Templar who had almost cost her sight – she hadn’t even known his name, much less his motive.

“It’s okay, honestly,” she told him. “I don’t even know why he wanted to kill me. I was only seventeen… I mean, I hadn’t done anything wrong!”

He squeezed her hand lightly, a response to her rising tone. She glanced down, moving to fidget with one of the loose buckles affixing Alistair’s gauntlets to his forearms. A distraction was necessary.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he told her. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry that happened to you.”

The kindness and warmth in his voice suddenly began to pull at something deep within her, unravelling a thread she hadn’t thought to secure properly.

“It’s alright,” she replied quietly. “It was a long time ago, and I’m a different person now.”

The relative silence was interrupted by the unceremonious growling of her stomach. It wasn’t particularly noisy, but it forced her back uncomfortably into the present. She wasn’t in the Circle anymore. She was in the mountains, miles and miles away from the Templar who hated her, and getting arguably too close with a Grey Warden.

“Sorry,” she apologised shamefully, sliding her hand out of his grasp. “Hungrier than I thought.”

He chuckled quietly behind her, using his left hand to tug carefully at the reins, slowing the hart’s trot to a gradual stop. Ysara sat forward, feeling Alistair swing his leg across the saddle of the steed, a sudden lack of warmth quickly following as he dropped down into the snow with both feet.

She turned, sliding her leg across the hart’s back in order to sit sideways in the saddle. The hart was much larger than her previous mount, and significantly taller than a Fereldan horse; and the stirrups were much too far away for her to use to climb down from its back.

As though he could read her thoughts, Alistair braced one gloved hand against the side of the hart as he reached up to offer his other hand to the mage. Grasping it firmly, Ysara pushed off from the back of the hart. She landed roughly on both feet, stumbling slightly and exhaling in surprise as the Warden steadied her.

A sudden warmth rushed through her as she caught her balance, finding herself staring up into his handsome face. He smiled back down at her rather bashfully, the steady grip of his hand still firm around her upper arm. The more she travelled with him, the more she noticed how much he seemed to prioritise her. She couldn’t help wondering if he behaved like this with everybody he travelled with.

She gazed at him without reservation, trying her damndest not to think about the strength of the grip he still had around her bicep. She hadn’t seen his face for what seemed like an eternity.

“Would you like me to cook?” he asked, but Ysara wasn’t thinking about food. The thread was still unravelling, and it had no intention of slowing down. Alistair had almost been inducted into the Templar Order himself, she recalled, but she couldn’t imagine a man like him ever joining the Order. Despite her years within the Circle, she’d never once met a Templar who treated her with respect and kindness.

She was so glad the Order hadn’t had a chance to ruin such warmth and decency.

He didn’t react straight away as she encouraged her arm free of his grasp. Reaching up on her tiptoes, she moved carefully, resting both hands against his shoulders before reaching up and sliding her arms around his neck.

He froze for a split second as she struggled to reach him, his arms remaining slack by his sides for the briefest of moments as his brain caught up with the series of events.

He came to life then, and suddenly she felt the Warden move, stooping a little to accommodate her considerably shorter height, his arms wrapping protectively around her middle. Allowing herself to be gathered firmly into his embrace, her cheek rested comfortably against the quilted fabric of his tabard.

The aching, lingering sadness she felt at the reminder of the traumatic memory was difficult to focus on the longer she remained in the Warden’s surprisingly firm embrace. He was clutching her now as if she might suddenly slide out of his grasp, one arm tight around her ribcage and his other hand splayed flat between her shoulder blades. She could feel her sudden heartbeat in her throat, which she was trying her hardest to ignore.

She shifted to rest her head in the crook of his collar and took a deep, slightly shaky breath, exhaling firmly through her nose. He smelled warm and good . Her eyes closing, she relished in the unfamiliar feeling of safety .

Feelings like this weren’t made for mages like her; she was certain of that — but she was long past the point of caring. In that moment, she allowed herself to be selfish and greedy, taking anything that Alistair could give.

“You alright?” he checked, his voice quiet, soft.

Her stomach twisted further, threatening to expel its contents. Her jaw clenching, she burrowed further into the crook of his high collar. She desperately wanted to be selfish, just this once, but she wasn’t naive. There was still much to do.

“I’ve brought some baked goods,” she replied, still muffled by the fabric of his tabard. “You don’t need to cook.”

He paused before letting out a sudden bark of laughter at the lighthearted statement. The warm sound vibrated through her, and she held onto him for a few more moments before letting go. She was grateful that he seemed to understand. It wasn’t often the mage found herself in need of reassurance — but it wasn’t often she bared a facet of her past.

“Thank you,” she told him, ducking her head as she turned back towards the hart in order to reach for her travelling pack. She didn't dare look at his face. She was already totally overwhelmed.

Alistair didn’t say a word as he watched her rummage around in the duffel bag for her supplies. They both knew that he didn’t need to say anything at all.

Chapter Text

It would have been an understatement for the ex-Circle mage to say that she had been glad to leave the Frostback Mountains behind. The pair had been travelling for days, and the snow was beginning to impede their journey somewhat. One of the two mounts was missing – and although they were making good progress with Alistair’s hart alone, they’d both realised that they needed to stop much more frequently for breaks. It wasn’t fair on the existing mount to carry so much weight without recurrent rest and sustenance.

She’d wrongly assumed that once they were out of the Frostbacks, it would be relatively plain sailing — at least, until they reached the desert. The vast, flat landscape of the Dales had instead greeted the pair with almost continuous heavy rainfall.

The level, winding plains were a far cry from the desolate, frozen valleys of the Frostbacks, but there was always a downside, it seemed. There was no cover, no shelter, and seemingly plenty of hostile wildlife. The latter had certainly taken them both by surprise.

Ysara leaned backwards, breathless and exhausted, against the firm reassurance of Alistair’s chest plate, feeling how he dug his boot heels into the flank of the hart in order to encourage its haste. Strands of dark hair were plastered against her forehead from the pelting rain, and she tried her best to comb them out of the way with a wet leather glove. Blood streaked across her cheek from a painful, yet superficial cut, and she couldn’t catch her breath.

The torrential rain lashed down in sheets, reducing their vision considerably. The thunderous drumming of hooves against wet earth was somewhat reassuring as the hart galloped across acres of mud and grass, faster than she ever thought harts were capable of running. She could barely see, squinting against the needle-like raindrops that whipped against her skin. The visibility ahead was dangerously low.

Alistair’s right arm was wrapped firmly around her middle, his left hand tangled within the steed’s reins. The tension in his frame was palpable.

Almost an hour prior, their almost complete lack of perceptibility had led them directly into the path of wandering demons. It was only after dismounting from the hart with the intention of cutting down the demons and moving on that Ysara had realised that the demons were in fact pouring from a Fade rift. The Warden and the mage had made a grave mistake – there was, of course, no way of closing the Fade rift without the help of the anchor that Inquisitor Delysendra possessed, and the demons continued to spill out of the rift with seemingly limitless vehemence. Demons were unable to feel pain, nor exhaustion, and were notorious for relentlessly and aggressively pursuing their targets.

Overwhelmed and exhausted, the Warden and the mage had been slow to retreat, making the eventual, wordless decision after Ysara had been kicked into the dirt. They’d managed to escape from the violent demons relatively unscathed.

Ysara’s magic reserves were on the cusp of dwindling. After throwing most of her power into offensive spells and protective wards, she’d begun to make short work of the shades and the fear demons she’d become so accustomed to fighting. She found that her preferred long-range combat style complimented that of her Grey Warden companion, who was a well-trained, up-close swordsman, and back to back they had cut down almost a hundred demons between them.

It wasn’t too long before the Fade creatures had begun to learn to work together in order to exploit the pair’s weaknesses. The huge, mindless creatures began to target Alistair en masse, forcing Ysara out from the safety of her magical barriers and into the open. From there, their loose spells and uncoordinated slashes began to chip away at the defences of the Warden and the mage, leaving the pair unable to gain the upper hand.

During the briefest moment of distraction, a colossal, towering fear demon had struck Alistair in the stomach, winding him and leaving the Warden in a crumpled, wheezing heap on the floor. Ysara had flown to his immediately, roaring with anger and unleashing a vicious, overwhelming tornado of flames around them both in order to protect him. They both knew, after that, they couldn’t keep up with the onslaught, and they were fighting a losing battle.

Alistair continued to push the hart forward, his heels digging into the flank of the powerful creature, and she could feel his chest expanding and contracting as he tried to catch his breath. The torrential downpour had soaked them both to the skin, and Ysara just focused on her own breathing, trying to regain her strength. Her body was still in fight or flight mode, her heart thrumming against her ribcage in time with the heavy thudding of the hart’s hooves against the sodden earth. She could feel the mud plastered to her cheek and jaw, having been blasted into the sodden ground multiple times during the fight. She knew the bloody cut on her cheek would heal quickly – it wasn’t deep, but it stung. It wasn’t on her list of current priorities.

She twisted harshly to glance over Alistair’s shoulder. Nothing appeared to be following, although it was difficult to see anything at all through the torrential downpour lashing across the fields of the Dales. She pushed a lock of wet, clumped hair out of her eyes, inadvertently smearing dirt across her forehead, and rested a hand against his gloved forearm. She frowned at where the dark leather had been torn.

“It’s alright, they’re not following,” she told him, her voice quiet and exhausted, barely audible over the patter of the rainfall. “We should find somewhere to shelter.”

She felt his lungs deflate a little, breathing a sigh of relief against her shoulder. His strong, protective arm slackened around her waist.

“I don’t want to be caught off-guard like that again,” he said, his voice sounding quieter, more defeated than she was expecting. “It could have cost us dearly.”

“We’re okay,” she reassured, her voice almost lost within the sound of the pouring rain. “Just a few cuts and bruises, right?”

He was quiet, then, and remained quiet for a few moments.

“We got lucky.”

Ysara frowned suddenly at his avoidance of her question. There was something in his tone that she couldn’t quite ignore.

“You’re okay, right?”

“Mm,” he affirmed.

Still unconvinced, Ysara tried her best to shake off the feeling of unease. If something was bothering him, he’d tell her, right?

She squinted into the distance, her eyes roving across the landscape in an attempt to spot adequate shelter. It wouldn’t be long until they reached the safety of the forest, and if they couldn’t find a place to rest, then at least they could utilise the giant trees as cover from the rain. Alistair’s chest was still heaving against her back as he once again attempted to catch his breath — something that he never usually seemed to have an issue with.

Straining her eyes through the rain, Ysara made a mental note of a distant, shadowed protrusion just within the space where the first trees began to gather. She stared at the stationary lump, wondering whether it was a natural variation in the rolling landscape, such as a hill; or whether it was something that would try to kill them instead, such as a bear.

Cantering onwards, Ysara realised their hart was not following a particular route, trotting in a generally forward direction. Alistair’s hand, wound within the reins, was holding them slack. Her brows began to gather together as she shifted on the saddle a little, her fingers instinctively reaching to touch the back of his hand.

“Are you certain you’re okay?”

There was a brief pause as he stretched out the fingers of the hand she touched.

“Just tired. That’s all.”

Still unhappy, she chewed carefully at the inside of her cheek. She wouldn’t press him any further – but something still bothered her. She couldn’t quite articulate it.

Close enough to see it clearly now, Ysara suddenly realised that the shadowed shape at the entrance to the forest was a small, grassy hill.

“There,” she spoke abruptly, catching Alistair’s attention with another hand, firmer against his arm this time as she gestured in its direction. “Look at that. What do you reckon? Shelter?”

“Yeah,” he huffed in simple agreement, winding his free hand firmly around the reins and pulling the hart further to the left, directing them towards the partially tree-obscured hill. The hart carried them beneath the cover of the dense trees, the thick leaves providing a rudimentary shelter, and the rainfall feeling significantly lighter against Ysara’s shoulders.

Upon closer inspection, there indeed lay a small, covered entrance, hollowed out within the side of the hill. Almost resembling a cave, the structure was just within the entrance to the forest, surrounded by trees on all sides. A perfect shelter.

“Jackpot,” she mused aloud, to no response.

Once again, Alistair seemed too quiet, and Ysara narrowed her eyes as he slowed the hart to a careful walk. His arm was once again firm around her middle, his large, gloved hand splayed out across her stomach. The more she stared down at it, the more she began to feel lightheaded. There was no reason for him to be holding her so closely now that the hart wasn’t galloping forward at speed – but she wasn’t complaining. The thought of him being so protective over her made her feel strange . She had always sought her independence, and loathed people's endeavours to ‘protect her’, but the idea that this particular Grey Warden with such a colossal civic duty would go out of his way to look out for her drew Ysara in and refused to let her go.

Interrupting her thoughts and making Ysara jump a little, Alistair withdrew his arm from around her waist rather abruptly. Manoeuvring his leg over the hart’s saddle, the Warden slid down from the mount from behind her and landed somewhat unsteadily on both feet. Ysara’s brow began to furrow as he stepped forward like nothing had happened and took hold of the mount’s bridle. Watching him lead them further into the trees with her still sitting atop the hart, she stared at the back of his head.

What aren’t you telling me?

She’d never seen him land so unsteadily on his feet before. Something was evidently wrong, but Ysara couldn’t tell what .

The dark crimson staining the majority of his tabard beneath his armour would have been alarming if the mage, too, wasn’t also splattered with blood. They must have both looked utterly awful, and Ysara was a little glad that they hadn’t encountered any travellers or merchants.

They soon reached the entrance to the short, sheltered cave, and Alistair secured the hart just within the entrance. As he secured the rope to its bridle, Ysara took the opportunity to slide down from the hart’s back, landing heavily on the woodland carpet of wet leaves and quickly regaining her balance. He glanced up at her.

The moment their eyes met, she knew immediately that something was wrong. His skin was pallid, his eyes unfocused. He continued to stare at her wordlessly for a few moments as she walked forward, closing the distance between them.

“I think I’ve got blood on your coat,” he said, simply. “Sorry.”

All of a sudden, his legs appeared to buckle, and Ysara lurched forwards to catch the Warden as he collapsed, supporting his weight entirely as she wrapped her arms around his middle. He was heavy . She gasped into his wet hair as she began to struggle.

“Oh, shit– Alistair–”

Panic surged through her as he groaned. The Warden was significantly larger than her, and the weight of him and his armour combined was far too much for her to hold upright. She could only lower him to the forest floor, sitting him upright against the nearest tree trunk and dropping to her knees in front of him.

Idiot, idiot, idiot!

He was still conscious, and looking at her – which was good. It was always more difficult when a patient was unconscious, in Ysara’s experience. His heavy-lidded eyes watched every move she made as she got to work, pulling at the buckles holding his chest plate together. It was clear he’d been injured, but she had no idea where, or how. He hadn’t been willing to disclose it previously.

“Where is the–”

“Here,” he gritted out. He didn’t move to gesture where, but as she gave him a visual once-over, she noticed the palm of one gloved hand pressing firmly against his abdomen.

Alistair assisted her as best as he could as she pulled him forward, discarding his heavy chest plate and gauntlets to one side. The panic was tugging deeply within her chest now, and it was difficult to stay focused as she began to tug at the fastenings of his filthy, bloody tabard. She could see underneath where his blood had soaked through the wet navy fabric. The rain wasn’t too heavy underneath the umbrella of leaves far above them, and she was grateful for that, at the very least.

He attempted to move in order to accommodate her, leaning forwards as she worked the heavy blue tabard off over his head. The linen shirt he wore underneath was stuck to his skin, a large, wet, blood-soaked patch near the hem.

That was a lot of blood.

She inhaled deeply through her nose as she ever so carefully peeled the fabric away from the wound. She heard him suck in a breath through his teeth, and as she freed the bottom half of his tunic, he shifted to help her remove it entirely, leaving him in just his boots and slacks. Her head was pounding now, the fresh adrenaline coursing through her utterly exhausted body.

The nasty laceration across his abdomen was deep and long, scoring from his navel across to the side of his torso. Judging from the state of his undershirt, he’d lost a considerable amount of blood already, and the flow didn’t appear to be slowing down. Her gloved hands were stained crimson already.

She didn’t have much magic left after their encounter with the demons, but she was a good healer. It didn’t seem as though they had much of a choice. The blood should have clotted by now – unless that was just another quirk of being a Grey Warden that she didn’t know about.

“Alistair,” she breathed, staring up at his face with an irritable frown, “why didn’t you tell me?”

He shook his head slowly, rubbing his nose and inadvertently smearing dirt across his cheek. “I thought it was just– ah, just a cut. Didn’t hurt that much.”

Ysara sighed resolutely, pulling off her blood-soaked gloves and discarding them to one side. The panic had begun to subside a little, but she was aware that she needed to work quickly, considering he’d almost lost consciousness. She pressed her fingertips to his bare chest, shifting the enchanted stone he wore around his neck to one side, feeling his natural magic resistance as she let the healing spell trickle into the spaces in between his ribs.

Pressing her palm down firmly against his sternum now, her healing magic easily bypassed the rest of Alistair’s magic resistance and began to surge through his limbs. He let out a short, surprised gasp at the feeling, and Ysara watched carefully as the flesh of his wound began to adapt, knitting itself back together. She could barely see the progress for the blood, but she knew her magic was doing its job.

She glanced up at him, and his eyes were wide, watching in bewilderment and mild awe as her softly illuminated hand pressed insistently against his wet skin. Perhaps he’d never been healed by a mage before , she thought. Colour was starting to return to his cheeks, and he ran his hand back through his damp hair, shifting it out of the way of his forehead.

This was good progress. It was more intimate than she had been prepared for, but his injury was all she was focusing on. She’d never had a warrior buckle against her quite so suddenly.

All of a sudden, the flow of her healing magic began to stumble and falter, and Ysara stared down to where her hand lay flat against his sternum. The still-bleeding wound was somehow resisting her attempts to heal it. She could feel something distantly blocking her magic — something from within Alistair himself.

Lyrium?

She pressed her palm more insistently against his chest, the warm light growing brighter, but still, the barrier remained. Her magic was powerful, but time was running out. She didn’t have much energy left in her, and her magic reserves were dwindling. It wasn’t something that happened very often – but she remembered the first time it happened well enough.

“Did you ever take the Templar vows?” she asked quickly.

He shook his head. “No. I–I never made it that far.”

The corners of her mouth curved downwards as she frowned deeply. As she suspected, then. There wasn’t much that could stop healing magic, especially not hers. Years of training and practice had never failed her thus far. Lyrium was one notorious contender, but Alistair wasn’t a Templar. Unless–

“You’ve been poisoned,” she realised aloud.

She had a suspicion that it would have taken more than just a stab wound to incapacitate him. Judging by the number of deep, raised scars painting his chest and arms, he’d been caught by blades many times before. Suddenly, she understood why he may not have wanted to cause alarm by alerting her.

Alistair watched her as she spoke. She could feel his gaze lingering on her face as she turned back to focus on her healing.

“I guess that explains a lot,” he told her.

She kicked herself mentally as she realised that she hadn’t been prepared enough . Venatori magisters, straying demons; even rogue Templars — she’d predicted how she’d handle each of those with relative confidence, but she hadn’t considered what would happen upon approaching a rift. She hadn’t even considered poison . Neither of the pair carried antidotes.

“You should have told me,” she chastised, but there was no malice or anger in her tone.

She frowned, bracing her fingers firmly against the flushed skin and all but emptying her magic reserves into him. Concentrating hard, the mage worked her way through the blood thinning effects of the poison, slowly but surely overcoming the blockade, and the wound gradually resumed its healing. The healing light engulfing her hand began to flicker as the flesh of the wound finally began to knit itself together.

Ysara didn’t stop forcing the healing light into his chest until the glow emanating from her hand began to flicker for the final time. It faded somewhat abruptly, leaving the heel of her hand bracing against his sternum. Minimal evidence remained, including a lot of splattered blood and a deep, pitted scar.

She’d drained her magic reserves completely, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to defend them if they were attacked again. She needed to rest and to eat as a matter of urgency.

Her hand remained against his chest, her slender fingers splaying out against his sweat-slicked skin. The adrenaline still hadn’t faded. The fear that had gripped her so violently a mere few minutes ago had now morphed into something more distinctly intimate.

He had a very appealing physique. Softer around the middle than she’d first realised, the man was hefty and well-muscled, filling out his shoulders and chest nicely. Ysara resisted the very real urge to slide her hand along his pectorals. She could feel her face burning with shame at her thoughts. She had been healing him, Maker be damned!

Alistair continued to stare at her as she withdrew her hand, releasing the breath he’d been holding. She silently prayed to Andraste that he couldn’t read her thoughts.

Sitting up carefully, he leaned down and gingerly inspected the blood-smeared scar.

“How did you do that?” he murmured, running his fingers across the raised scar tissue with intense curiosity. Of course, it was always an odd sight – blood remained splattered across the expanse of his skin, but there were no open wounds to be seen.

She watched as he prodded the wound carefully. The realisation that he was going to be fine flooded through her, and she allowed herself to sit down wearily against the wet leaves of the forest floor. He was going to be fine. He was going to be fine.

Her shoulders were heavy with the weight of the stress and fatigue that still burdened her. She didn’t care that the sodden ground was currently soaking her through to her underclothes. Alistair would be fine, and that was all that mattered to her.

She was beyond glad they had left the fight when they did. Had she used more magic to fight off the demons, she wouldn't have had enough to heal the Warden, and Maker knows what she would have done in that situation.

She shivered, and whether it was from the cold, or from the thought of losing him after failing to heal him, she didn’t know. She didn’t particularly want to think about it.

“I didn’t know I’d been poisoned,” he spoke, looking up at her after a few moments. “I knew I’d been caught and I knew I was bleeding, but injuries like that are usually no big deal to me.”

“I could tell something was wrong when you wouldn’t really speak to me,” she replied. “That was a pretty big giveaway.”

He reached up, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I—uh, didn’t want you to worry.”

She glanced up at him, allowing her eyes to linger momentarily on his upper arm definition, his chest, his shoulders. It seemed that years of fighting darkspawn and nursing a ginormous appetite had been more than kind to his body. She realised a few moments too late that she was staring.

“I’m naturally cautious,” she countered, making a mental note of how the dark flush now painting his cheeks seemed to spread down the length of his throat and across his sternum. “I’m just glad you told me when you did. I wouldn’t have been able to keep you propped upright on the back of the hart.”

He snorted a laugh at that. “I’ll make sure to tell you as soon as possible next time.”

“That would be ideal — but I hope there won’t be a ‘next time’.”

She took a deep breath, bracing herself firmly before rising unsteadily to her feet. It took her a few moments to gain balance — her magical ability was an integral part of her, working in tandem with her nervous system, and when her magic was depleted, it put her at a dangerous risk of dehydration and fatigue.

Alistair watched as she stretched her arms out in front of her, bringing her hands high above her head and taking another deep breath, this time through her nose. The rain still filtered through the rudimentary forest shelter, but it was minimal, and Ysara focused on the way the humid air filled her lungs as she let her eyes close momentarily. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off, forcing an unpleasant shiver down her spine. It was cold now, she realised, now that she wasn’t fighting, filled with adrenaline, or being clutched against Alistair’s chest plate. Her coat was soaked through, and she needed to warm up quickly . The pendant around her neck kept her core temperature warm, but not warm enough for her limbs to retain sensation.

She took a step closer to where the Warden was sitting back against the tree trunk, offering out a hand for him to take. His eyes remained on her face for a moment before he reached out and grasped the offered hand.

He struggled a little as she helped him get to his feet, bearing most of his weight against the trunk of the tree behind him as he stood upright. Her hand lingered as she made sure he was steady before letting him go.

The lightheadedness began to creep in, and Ysara took a deep, steadying breath, shivering a little once more as she turned towards the entrance of the small hillside shelter. She needed to rest, and she had a feeling that her body would make her rest if she didn’t prioritise it soon.

Stepping after her, it was Alistair’s turn to be concerned, watching how Ysara hurriedly stripped herself of her thick, heavy coat. It was dripping wet, smeared in blood and grime and Maker knows what else. She discarded it onto the ground carefully before sitting down cross-legged with her back against the carved-out hillside, tilting her head skyward and drawing in a long, steady breath. Her shivering soon began to subside, despite now only wearing a damp tunic.

Ysara could feel Alistair’s eyes remain on her even as she began to meditate, unconcerned with the fact he was watching her. She trusted him enough by this point — what did it matter? Admittedly, hearing his boots now begin to move against the wet leaves was distracting, as she wanted to know what he was doing — but she reassured herself that she’d find out soon enough.

The sounds of nearby buckles being unfastened was enough for her to crack one eye open, a sudden rush of heat to her cheeks quickly following as she realised that it was not , in fact, Alistair’s belt buckle. He was pulling at the travelling packs that the hart was patiently carrying, waiting for one of the humans to remove their cargo so that it could lie down against the grass.

She watched him as he lifted one of the packs and slung it effortlessly over his shoulder. Continuing to observe him as he approached, he seemed to realise she was looking at him, and he smiled. Her stomach clenched uncomfortably.

“You should be resting,” she commented, as he placed the pack he was carrying at her feet. “I’ll fetch those in a moment. I just need a few minutes.”

He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You healed my injury, didn’t you? Look — I’m fine. Better than fine.”

He was still devoid of a shirt and covered with rapidly drying blood, and she gave him another visual once-over, he gave her a stupid toothy grin. Ysara stared at him with wide eyes, something in her chest suddenly wrenching into a tight, uncomfortable knot.

“I suppose you do seem more sprightly,” she replied softly, after a few moments of slack-jawed staring, and watched as he beamed at her in response. Turning away from her, he returned back to where the hart was waiting to retrieve the second of the two travelling packs. Her eyes watched him, following his every move, observing how the muscles of his shoulders and back flexed as he lifted the weight of the pack.

Letting her eyes close once more, she focused on the distant sounds of pattering rainfall filtering through the trees, the native birds chirping high above her head. Her skin was still cold and damp, and she was thankful that the pendant she wore continued to keep her body temperature above the necessary minimum, despite how numb her fingers might have been.

Occasionally, the sound of Alistair disturbing something within the boundaries of their makeshift camp disturbed her focus, but she mentally shook away each intrusion and continued her meditation. She could feel her strength gathering, slowly but surely. All she needed now was to eat something and to get some good, undisturbed sleep.

Far too much had happened within the last few days for Ysara to be able to focus on just one event. Kicking herself internally for not at the very least predicting a Fade rift once they’d left the remote wilderness of the mountains, she blew out a short, frustrated breath.

What if you hadn’t had enough magic to heal him?

Inhaling carefully through her nostrils, she forced herself to think of that possibility, despite how uncomfortable it made her feel. The Warden was a well-trained warrior — a survivor of the Fifth Blight — but he could have easily succumbed to his injuries.

It wasn’t going to happen again — that was something she would make sure of. She’d let her guard down, and it embarrassed her to think it may have cost them both dearly.

She was interrupted once more by the distant sound of splashing water, and Ysara opened her eyes again, sitting upright and frowning. Alistair was nowhere to be seen.

I don’t remember seeing any water…?

Another sound of splashing water, louder this time, and the mage narrowed her eyes, trying to discern where the sound had originated from. Bracing herself to stand, she heard another splash followed by a distant, recognisable gasp. Her brows began to furrow, and she glanced around hurriedly for any sign of the nearby Grey Warden.

“Alistair?” she called.

“Hah — I’m here,” he called back, his voice carrying on the light breeze. “I, uh— I found water. Cold water. Taking a bath.”

It didn’t sound like he was particularly far away. She sat back down against the grass a little too quickly, a pink flush dusting her cheeks. His explanation made a lot of sense, although she still couldn’t recall seeing any bodies of water.

“Ah. Well. Try not to drown.”

“Noted,” he called, and Ysara attempted to return to her meditations, trying her hardest to ignore the thought of accidentally stumbling on the Warden taking a bath. She was exhausted enough to slip straight back into her meditative routine, and felt herself quickly drifting away into the Fade in her mind, where not even Alistair returning from his bath still shirtless and damp ten minutes later could rouse her.

Chapter Text

Ysara stirred.

The smell of fresh cooking suddenly and rather abruptly invaded her senses, and she straightened her back as she carefully brought herself into the present, feeling a satisfactory click between her shoulder blades. Awakening fully now, her eyes opened to the soft light of a low campfire, the darkness of nightfall having blanketed the forest. Disorientation flooded through her. Everything about the situation she found herself in was unfamiliar.

How long have I been meditating?

Glancing around as she stretched out her legs in front of her, she realised she was alone in the warmth of the sheltered hill, aside from the presence of their mount. The gentle hart was sleeping soundly, a heavy waterproof tarpaulin draped over its torso like a blanket.

A steel pot was affixed over the top of the campfire, the contents bubbling gently. Ysara eyed it, now confident that the appetising smell was originating from the pot.

Heavy footfalls could be heard nearby, and she squinted in the direction of the noise as Alistair made his way back into the makeshift camp. He was still shirtless, but he was noticeably clean, and missing all the dirt and blood which he’d been plastered with earlier. His red hair was damp and fluffy.

“Hi,” he greeted her softly, noticing immediately that she was awake. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine,” she told him truthfully, glancing down at her hands. She felt much better, but her clothes had seen better days. She was dishevelled and muddy, her bare hands still caked with blood. She didn’t want to even think about what her face might have looked like.

“I do need to bathe as a matter of urgency, however.”

Alistair exhaled through his nose in amusement as he knelt beside the campfire, raising a brow. He was doing a good job of pretending not to have noticed.

“There’s a small-ish lake behind the trees, just over there.” He pointed in the direction he was referencing. “It’s cold, but it’s pretty private.”

“I’ll just have to have a cold bath,” she smiled, carefully standing and briefly stretching out her tired muscles. “Too tired to warm up a whole lake right now.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up into a grin at her words.

“I guess having to take a cold bath every once in a while humbles you, huh?”

Ysara nodded in agreement, a smirk reflecting his own. “You’re not wrong.”

Retrieving the small bag of soap from her travelling pack, she glanced back once, observing how Alistair busied himself with the pot over the fire. She knew he was concerned for her, and the strange feeling from earlier began to tug once more at that steadily unravelling thread inside her.

Meditation had been a good choice. Despite her exhaustion, she could at least feel her magic at her fingertips again, should she need it.

Recovering from her pack some fresh, and now thankfully dry clothing, she was careful not to let any of the grime plastering the majority of her left hand transfer to her clean garments. Glancing across the camp to where she’d remembered leaving her coat, it took her a few moments to realise that it wasn’t there. She cocked a confused eyebrow, her eyes flitting across the camp in an attempt to spot where it might have been moved to. It took a few more moments, but eventually she noticed it hanging up within the lowest branches of a nearby tree, the sleeves of the coat spread out across several other branches. It was clean, she realised, and hung side by side with Alistair’s tabard, which, aside from a few tears in the fabric, also seemed relatively unscathed.

The mage couldn’t help the small smile that began to pull at the corner of her mouth, turning back to stare absentmindedly into her travelling pack. The Warden had certainly made himself useful during her meditation time, then, despite having nearly bled out a mere hour previous. She shook her head, the smile remaining the more she thought about it. He was stubborn, wasn’t he?

Then again, so was she.

She found the small freshwater pool after just a few moments of exploring behind the trees. A small, still-burning torch was jammed into the dirt, illuminating the path beside the water, which she could only assume Alistair had left there for her. She appreciated the gesture, and she barely even hesitated before she began to work herself out of her clothes. The rain had soaked her garments through, and although they had mostly dried out since, she was glad to be rid of them.

It was definitely a lake rather than a pond, and Ysara dreaded to think of all the travellers who had fallen into the chilly expanse of water — people who had been unfortunate enough not to have spotted it earlier. It was rather remote, curtained off to the south by a small cluster of trees.

Now as bare as the day she was born, Ysara walked down the short rocky embankment and waded carefully into the water, letting the biting chill of the lake surge through her limbs as she paused for a moment, a sharp gasp on her tongue. She had nowhere near enough energy to heat a pool of water this size, so all she could do was grit her teeth and continue deeper into the darkness of the lake.

Ripples formed across the calm surface the further she walked, and the mage watched as the water lapped gently against the opposite side of the small lake. Standing deep enough within the midst of the lake now, Ysara ducked and submerged her head beneath the surface entirely for a few moments, a violent shudder wracking her whole body as she emerged again. It was freezing.

Her long, dark hair was full of twigs, mud and detritus, and as she began to work on detangling it, she suddenly couldn’t shake the thought of how her Grey Warden companion was only a few metres away.

She began to lather up her hair with the soap she’d brought, gazing down at how the dark water settled around her sternum. Starting at the back of her head, Ysara began to work out the knots and twigs, separating the locks with her fingers.

She knew he was too respectful to even attempt a stolen glance, but honestly; she wouldn’t have minded if he did.

That thought thrilled her regardless of how shameful it made her feel. The longer she’d spent travelling with him, the more she’d come to harbour a deeply-held attraction towards him.

She wasn’t sure if the feeling was mutual – it would probably be easier if it wasn’t – but he had many qualities she admired. His sarcastic humour, his good looks, his lighthearted attitude towards the majority of situations they found themselves in. She didn’t know him well enough yet to pass judgement on his character, but along with his Grey Warden duties, it was clear that he wouldn’t be sticking around Skyhold for long. That much was obvious.

Maker, and he was beautiful to look at. Now that she’d seen him without his shirt, the image of him like that was enough to remain in her mind for weeks. The gaze that had seemed so far away when they first met was now the most attentive it could have been, his warm golden eyes observant and focused. To know that she was often the subject of such attention warmed her from the inside out.

She ducked her head under the surface of the water once more, submerging her hair and rinsing out all traces of soap. She cleansed herself carefully, taking the time to scrub the bloodstains and dirt from her skin. Her body temperature had adjusted now, and she didn’t feel the cold quite so badly… but her arms were beginning to feel heavy and numb.

Realising that the torch was burning low, Ysara finished up, wading briskly back onto the wet grass beside the lake. Without drying off, she pulled a clean linen shirt over her head, jamming her legs into a clean pair of slacks and absolutely not bothering with a breast band. I’ll dry off quickly in front of the campfire, she thought, shivering.

Alistair greeted the mage warmly as she returned to the camp, turning away from her briefly to stir the pot of stew. He had seemingly found another shirt to wear during the time Ysara was gone. She took a careful seat beside him at the fireside, slowly and carefully untangling her wet hair with her comb as he began to dish up their meals.

He paused briefly, watching as she began to tie the majority of her damp hair into a loose braid. He seemed mildly interested in her ministrations, but realised all too soon that he’d been caught staring, and quickly shifted his gaze back to the pot.

Wordlessly, he began to divide the pot of stew into two separate bowls, kneeling back against the grass and setting them both down in front of Ysara.

She finished tying her hair into the braid, shaking the damp curls that framed her face out of the way and glancing down at the bowl of stew Alistair had laid in front of her.

“Beef and mushroom stew,” he explained. “An old favourite. I hope you like it.”

She smiled at him, watching the tips of his ears begin to turn red under her gaze, suddenly realising that there was a smudge of dirt along the bridge of his nose.

“Alistair,” she said, “come here – you have something on you.”

He leaned forward, confusion and apprehension clear on his face as she shuffled towards him. She reached out to him, cupping his stubbled jaw in one hand, keeping him still as she rubbed at the dirt on his nose with the thumb of her free hand.

He leaned into her hand after a few moments of sitting rigid, suddenly uninterested in whatever she was doing to his nose and paying much more attention to her face. She could feel his eyes unashamedly roaming her features, and she began to grow hot under his unwavering gaze. She found herself relishing in his attention. Admittedly, she’d never had the chance to see him this closely – his dark lashes, the careless smattering of freckles, the thin creases at the outer corners of his eyes; from where he was always smiling.

She brushed her thumb across the bridge of his nose one final time, murmuring “there, got it” before her hand dropped back into her lap. The hand cupping his jaw remained for several moments, relishing the feeling of his flushed, bronzed skin beneath her fingertips before she withdrew her hand.

“Thanks,” he spoke, his deep voice quiet amongst the crackling of the flames as he retrieved one of the bowls from the ground.

They sat quietly together for the first few minutes as they ate. Ysara was beyond grateful for the warmth of the fire and the hearty stew the Warden had prepared for them – those tangible things were easier to focus on than the deep, aching pit in the bottom of her stomach.

He’d done a lot of work whilst she had been resting. She couldn’t imagine it had been easy to light a campfire in humid rain with nothing but a piece of flint and some damp wood.

She smiled at the thought.

“So,” she spoke, warming her hands against the bowl as they sat side-by-side. “It occurs to me that despite travelling with you for several days now, I barely know anything about you.”

Her comment was met with a knowing smirk.

“Go on then – I’ll indulge you,” he replied. “What do you want to know?”

“Well,” she spoke, swallowing her mouthful of stew. “Your Fereldan accent is unmistakable – where did you grow up?”

Alistair exhaled through his nose in further amusement, glancing away from her and looking into the fire.

“Redcliffe,” he told her, after a few moments of thought. “I was raised by the arl and his wife in the castle. Weeeell , it was the castle at first . Then I had to sleep outside with the dogs.”

Ysara stared at him, his answer taking her by surprise. “They... weren’t your parents, then?”

Alistair shook his head, a sly grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Oh no, no. My mother was a love-struck elven maid, and my father – well, he was the King of Ferelden, so I didn’t get much of a choice in the matter.”

Ysara dropped the spoon into the half-eaten bowl of stew unceremoniously, her eyes wide as she stared at the now greatly amused Warden.

“You’re fucking with me,” she spoke, her voice quiet.

“Oh, how I wish I was,” Alistair laughed aloud, leaning towards her and resting his hand against her knee. “I would have told you eventually, I promise. No, I’m King Maric’s bastard.”

Ysara stared at him. It was all she could do as her brain struggled to digest the shock. The uncomfortable knot in her stomach had begun to twist almost painfully. She could feel the warmth of his large palm against her knee.

“You’re a prince ,” she spoke aloud, testing the word on her tongue, “and you had to sleep outside with the dogs? ”

“The arlessa hated me,” he confessed. “She couldn’t deal with the rumours that I was in fact the Arl’s bastard son. So the arl sent me to a monastery, where I was to become a Templar when I became of age.”

The mage put her bowl of stew down on the grass. Struggling to wrap her head around what he’d just told her, she continued to stare at him. The sarcastic Grey Warden exile who spent most of their travels cracking jokes and humming was in fact the King’s only surviving heir.

“You’re a prince ,” she repeated. He was still deeply amused by her reaction, and nodded as she spoke.

“Try not to tell absolutely everyone you meet,” he smirked. “It’s not exactly common knowledge.”

She stared at him. “Alistair–” she began suddenly. “Will you ever become King?”

He wrinkled his nose in sudden disgust.

“Oh, Maker – no! I’ve no interest in Fereldan politics or ruling anything. I’m happy with the life I’ve got, thank you very much.”

She nodded her acknowledgement carefully, retrieving her bowl of stew from the ground. The shock was gradually beginning to subside. She still needed some time to process it, but she could think about the implications of his royal blood later.

“I hope that doesn’t make you think of me any differently,” he spoke carefully. He squeezed her knee gently.

Ysara was quick to glare at him. As if he would think otherwise!

“No!” she told him, shaking her head. “...No. It doesn’t. Not at all.”

He raised a sculpted yet disbelieving brow at her.

“Really?”

She reached down, stroking her fingertips across the back of his scarred knuckles in a gesture she suddenly realised was perhaps a little too bold. His quickly reddening cheeks told her he’d realised the same, and she withdrew her hand quickly, as if she’d been burned.

“Really. I promise.”

Chapter Text

The pair awoke early the following morning, both eager to press onwards towards the Approach. The vast, rolling expanse of the Dales were quiet and serene, and Ysara almost felt as though they shouldn’t really be there. The morning dew was still fresh, settled and still against the grass, the distant sound of birds chattering high within the trees. A light, cloudy mist still shrouded the highest hills, obscuring the peaks from view. For once, it wasn’t raining, and it gave the mage the chance to really be able to see the beauty of the Dales.

Ysara’s brain had been conditioned to wake her at the first light of dawn regardless of the time of year, which was common practice in the Circle. It was something that she had learned to appreciate, despite the mage being very much a night owl; getting up early meant having more time to start her elixirs brewing and allowing her salves to cure. Now, of course, it meant she was able to see the world before it awoke, listen to the birdsong she may have missed, and witness the morning fog lift from the ground; ready to fall again by dusk.

She’d also noticed that Alistair didn’t tend to sleep much, either. She’d assumed it was something to do with the false Calling plaguing his every waking moment, which he’d been doing his best to try and hide. Coupling his lack of appetite for sleep with his utterly insatiable appetite for food, it meant that he’d been more than eager to start their mornings by fixing a sizable breakfast for them both. It was something the mage had appreciated more than she’d initially realised.

Unlike her Grey Warden companion, Ysara had slept deeply that past evening, not rousing even slightly after Alistair had jolted himself awake – another Calling-induced nightmare. The power required to sustain a mage’s strength required regular supplements – or food, if, for whatever reason, a mage was residing outside of the Circle. Due to her burnout, she’d been physically unable to cast protective wards around the camp before they’d retired to their bedrolls, so the Warden had slept with his sword at arm’s length, intentionally keeping himself half-awake most of the night. It had been the least he could do, he’d insisted, especially after Ysara had healed his injury – but he’d been glad for her to rise so that they could get moving.

The rolling, flat hills of the Dales slowly gave way to the winding, well-travelled roads of settled Orlais, and the landscape was quick to change as their hart cantered through rolling fields and along makeshift dirt paths. It had taken a mere few hours to reach their next destination of Val Firmin. A small farming village at the southern end of Lake Celestine, it was their last stop before their final descent into the Western Approach.

The anxiety of being apprehended whilst in the village made itself firmly and suddenly at home as a heavy weight in Ysara’s stomach. From one glance, one could easily tell that the woman was a mage; from her lack of heavy armour, to the large, twisted stave she carried on her back. Alistair had gently reminded her that there was currently a war between rebel mages and rogue Templars ravaging the land and nobody would really notice her.

She nodded, trying and somewhat failing to convince herself to believe his words. She was apprehensive. Surely the war would have likely skewed the villagers’ opinion towards either mages or Templars – either way, it was unlikely that she would be seen as a friendly face.

It turned out Val Firmin was much smaller than either of them had anticipated. The village had a blacksmith and an inn, and along with several houses and a Chantry, not much else.

The pair, well-practised at this now, dismounted the hart carefully at the outskirts of the village. Alistair tugged at the leather straps holding their travelling packs together on the hart’s back. He threw the smaller of the two bags in her direction.

She reached out to catch it firmly, swinging it over her shoulder by the sturdy strap. Stray locks of dark hair caught in the light breeze as she turned towards him.

“Definitely the right place?” she asked.

“Mm-hm.” Alistair glanced around. “Definitely looks like a farming village to me.”

A few small children rushed out into the village to greet the two travellers, with wide, nervous eyes and skittish smiles. One of the young boys held a large brown chicken tightly in both arms, a huge beaming smile on his face as he walked confidently up to the pair.

“Hello,” he spoke politely.

Ysara melted at the sight of him, her eyes widening as she noticed the chicken. “Hi,” she sputtered.

The boy beamed up into her face, pleased that he’d been brave enough to greet the newcomers. As the children scuttled away to play, she turned towards the Warden.

“Alistair–”

“Uh-huh.” He was grinning knowingly, one hand gentle against the small of her back. “Come on. Let’s drop these bags off.”

He shouldered open the door to the inn, striding over the threshold and holding the door aside for her. He was a gentleman, really, and it suddenly seemed appropriate in her mind that he was a Fereldan prince – he certainly had the manners of a noble.

He was using those manners again as he spoke kindly to the woman behind the bar, who had introduced herself as Laurette. She was tawny–haired and elven, around fifty years, with long, pointed ears peeking out from behind her pin–straight curtain of hair.

She illuminated at his polite request. “You’re in luck,” she spoke warmly, with an unmistakable Orlesian lilt. “There’s just one room left. Attic room, all the way to the back of the inn, at the top of the stairs. Two silver per night.”

“Wonderful. I’ll take that. Just for the one night, please.”

Alistair quirked a smile at the barkeep, reaching into the pouch at his belt and thumbing two silver pieces onto the counter.

Laurette had the key to the room already held in her hand, and she slid it across the bar towards the Warden as she collected the payment.

“Come and see me if you need anything,” she smiled. “Do enjoy your stay – both of you.”

Ysara bowed her head politely in Laurette’s direction and smiled as Alistair led them both out of the room towards the stone staircase. The inn seemed ancient, and was the only building in the village seemingly not to have been constructed from wood. The stone steps were worn and bowed slightly in the centre, a testament to how many patrons had walked the same path up to their rooms over the years.

She followed the Warden up the stairs, ignoring the first door as the staircase turned to the right. Two more staircases followed, along with two more doors, and they finally met the door at the top – imposing and heavy and much older than the previous three doors.

Alistair bent slightly in order to push the key into the lock and turn it. The mechanism clicked firmly, and he braced his gloved hand against the wood, pushing the heavy door against the thick resistance of the carpeted floor runner inside.

Ysara followed him into the room, gazing around with great curiosity. The room was fairly spacious, but not large by any standard – enough for a few evenings, at least. Fading tapestries hung across the stone walls, and four large torch sconces sat at equal distances around the room. A large window in the centre of the room allowed daylight to flood into the cosy space, with diagonal panelling overlaying the glass. Her eyes lingered for a few moments on the singular four-poster bed in the centre of the room.

Alistair seemed to notice it at the same time she did.

“Ah.” He sniffed. “You don’t mind… uh, sharing, do you?”

She shook her head quickly, her face suddenly quite warm at the idea.

“Of course not. It’ll be nice to sleep in something that isn’t a sack against a dirt floor.”

Alistair exhaled through his nose in amusement.

“I was going to suggest – I could sleep by the door, if you’d rather I gave you some space–”

Ysara rolled her eyes at him.

“No.”

He laughed genuinely at that, a deep, pleasant sound that reverberated directly through Ysara, travelling straight to her core.

“Honestly. I wouldn’t mind.”

Ysara shook her head. “I’m not about to make the son of the King sleep on the floor.”

She moved to drop her bag down against the wall, making her way across to the window. From the attic, the view from the window was exceptional, and Ysara reached up onto her tiptoes, struggling for a moment with the rather high window catch before a gloved hand closed over hers from behind.

“As long as you’re comfortable,” he spoke, choosing his words carefully, “I’m happy.”

She paused, letting warmth bloom across her cheeks as she expected to feel his chest against her back. She’d become so accustomed to that feeling lately, with having to travel on the same hart. When she didn’t, she leaned back against him, dropping down from her tiptoes and feeling the steel of his chest plate firm against her shoulder blades.

Alistair pulled the catch out of place with relative ease, unlocking the window and letting go of her hand as quickly as he’d arrived. One hand rested against her shoulder briefly as he stepped back, away from her.

She turned to look at him with amusement, but he had already busied himself with his back to her, unpacking his travelling bag. Slightly puzzled, she turned back towards the window. Her head was beginning to ache. Perhaps he really was just trying to help her with the window catch? He was considerably taller than her, after all.

The breeze was warmer than it had been that morning, and judging by the height of the sun, it was just beyond midday. Learning the time by the position of the sun had been a helpful skill, especially in winter, when it had passed the window of her study at around 1pm.

It was truly incredible how much larger the world seemed outside of a Circle Tower.

She sniffed, leaning her elbows against the window frame. The Approach lay to the west, and although she couldn’t see it from the attic window, she was aware of the treacherous environment that awaited them.

She swallowed firmly. I hope Del is okay out there.

Alistair’s tuneless humming brought her out of her thoughts. She couldn’t help the grin that slowly and carefully spread across her face, rolling her eyes as she turned back towards where he was sitting on the carpeted floor.

He glanced up as she began to shrug off her coat and gloves, resting her stave against the wall.

“Do you want some of this?” he asked.

Curious, she peered across at what was in his hands. Curls of thin purple wax had been peeled back to reveal a ball of cheese.

She laughed aloud at that. The way he was holding it – it was almost like a precious stone.

“Do you ever stop eating?”

“Is that a yes?”

He was grinning mischievously at her as she came to join him on the carpet. She pulled her own travelling bag across the floor towards her. She’d packed something small before she left – he’d just reminded her with the cheese. It was something she thought he might appreciate.

“I have something, too.”

Alistair watched curiously as she dug around inside one of the smaller pockets inside the bag, retrieving a small jar. It was unlabelled – she’d made it herself, of course.

Twisting the lid off of the jar, she held out the pot towards Alistair and let him sniff the contents. He furrowed his brow as he looked at her.

“Is it... honey?”

“With rosemary and lavender, and a bit of magic for good measure,” she added with a smile. “I used to make it while I lived in the Circle. Gives you a little boost after a particularly draining training exercise.”

Alistair raised a curious brow in her direction.

“Do you have anything to eat it with?”

“One spoon broke last night,” she told him. “We’ll need to get some more when we resupply.”

She eyed him with thinly veiled amusement. “You can just use your fingers.”

His gloves had already been discarded on the floor, so he shrugged, dipping his index finger into the jar that she held out and bringing it to his mouth. She hadn’t meant to stare, but she couldn’t help it, especially after she noticed how his cheeks darkened with warmth as he glanced up to meet her gaze.

He hummed lightly, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked firmly at the finger in his mouth. Ysara had to remember to breathe – in, and out, and in, and back out again. He looked daft, this huge Warden sitting hunched over on the carpet with his legs crossed like he was – but she was transfixed by him, regardless.

If she wasn’t sure of her attraction to him before, then she definitely was now. The thought burned her through to the core, and she rushed to chastise herself. He was a prince, regardless of whether he wanted to be King or otherwise–

“This is amazing,” he enthused, his eyes wide as he stared up at her. “You know, after all this is over, you’ll have to make a pot that I can take with me before I leave Skyhold.”

Ysara swallowed against the sudden uncomfortable dryness in her throat at the implications of his words. He was going to be leaving Skyhold, right? It was unlikely she’d see him again, wasn’t it?

“Of course.”

She’d gotten rather attached to the Warden, hadn’t she?

He held out the waxed cheese to her, clearly sensing there was something on her mind.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” he chastised gently, a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. “Come on. Let’s eat this and then go downstairs and re-supply ourselves. Maybe I could buy you a few drinks.”

She blushed at that, unable to hide her suddenly shy smile from him as she returned the jar of honey to the carpeted floor. His gentle words made her feel giddy and lightheaded, and she berated herself internally for not only enjoying it, but for flirting with him, too. It was difficult to ignore the fact that he wasn’t just a prince – but a Grey Warden, undertaking a colossal duty. The Wardens’ responsibilities were vast, and the order worked tirelessly; their lives completely dedicated to eradicating the world of darkspawn.

Alistair was watching her now, his eyes narrowed slightly as he tried to work out what was troubling her.

“We don’t have to, if you’d rather we didn’t–”

“No,” she interrupted, forcing herself back into the present and ignoring her persistent, aching thoughts. “No, I’m sorry. I was just caught up thinking about what we’re going to meet when we get to the Western Approach.”

He nodded in agreement, eyeing her for a few more moments. He wasn’t stupid. He knew there was something else bothering her, but knew not to press it any further.

“I–I’d be honoured if you bought me a drink,” she continued hurriedly. “Gifts from a Fereldan prince? Not every woman can add that to their list of life experiences.”

Alistair scoffed, rolling his eyes. “ Fereldan prince. You know, part of me wishes I never told you.”

He tore off a small piece of cheese absentmindedly as he smirked at her.

“Why not? Do you prefer the fame of Grey Wardens over the fame of royalty?” she pressed, letting Alistair push the partially-waxed cheese into her hand.

“Actually – I do.” He chewed his mouthful thoughtfully. “Nobles and royal houses are born into greatness. They don’t have to achieve anything in order to be granted fame. Grey Wardens, on the other hand… even the Joining is a challenge not many survive.”

“Are you implying I’ve achieved nothing?” Ysara suggested innocuously, pulling a strip from the ball of cheese, and Alistair’s eyes widened.

“Oh, no– of course not– no! Maker – I have nothing but the utmost respect for–”

“Alistair, my dear,” she interrupted his flustered panic. “I’m playing with you. I can’t stand nobles either.”

He paused as he watched her bite into the strip of cheese she’d torn from the ball. It was a few moments before he opened his mouth in order to speak again.

“We’ve been travelling together for so long now that I see you as simply Ysara rather than Lady Trevelyan. Is that unusual?”

She couldn’t help the happy smile that spread across her face at his words. That was all she’d ever wanted in a friend. Her surname had ensured she’d stayed in the shadow of her father and his legacy whilst residing within the Circle. She had been the Chantry’s property for more years than she’d like to recall.

“No,” she told him, returning the cheese back to his hands. “I’ve been waiting so long for the world to see me as just the woman I am. You know, rather than Bann Argein Trevelyan’s youngest daughter. ”

She retrieved the pot of honey from where it sat against the floor, unscrewing the lid once more and dipping her finger into the sticky amber sugar. She sucked on her finger thoughtfully, blissfully unaware of Alistair’s sudden wide eyes and clenched jaw. It was his turn to watch her every move, his fingers tightly gripping what was left of the waxed cheese.

He moved to adjust himself ever so slightly.

Ysara was oblivious as she re–secured the lid to the jar. Alistair gave her the last of the cheese, and she accepted it gratefully.

“You know what would be nice with this cheese?” she spoke.

“Hm?”

“Red wine.” She rolled up the wax into a small ball in her hand, fingering the creases distractedly.

“A woman after my own heart,” he spoke softly. “Shall we get changed?”

Ysara smiled up at him, recognising the change in his voice. For now, she’d push the thoughts of incessant and repetitive self doubt to the back of her mind and focus on the present. They finally had a moment to relax. She wasn’t about to squander it.

Chapter Text

The inn was relatively quiet as the travelling companions descended the staircase. They’d both made the decision to leave their armour and weapons upstairs – the last thing they wanted to do was to draw attention to themselves, after all. A dagger still rested comfortably at Alistair’s hip, and the mage was confident that she could summon her magic to her fingertips within a matter of moments.

It was unusual to see the Grey Warden in such a domestic setting – at least, without all the bulk of his heavy armour. The broad-shouldered Fereldan appeared right at home in the inn as he took a seat at the table in the furthest corner, the linen shirt he wore underneath his sleeveless jacket perhaps just a tiny bit too small in the shoulders. Ysara had dressed with intent, so that she wouldn’t stand out so much, opting to leave her high-collared coat upstairs. The royal blue linen shirt she wore underneath her dark jacket added colour to her relatively understated ensemble.

Just as Alistair had promised, nobody seemed to notice the pair as they made their way across the inn. Not a head was lifted nor an eye turned, and Alistair had made the seating decision on behalf of both of them. He’d led her into the obscured, shadowy corner towards the edge of the room, and Ysara had exhaled a sigh of relief – one that she didn’t realise she’d been holding.

The pair were seated for a few short moments before Alistair excused himself to order their drinks at the bar, and Ysara couldn’t help the nervous glance she shot around in the direction of the few other patrons. She wasn’t familiar enough at all to sit comfortably in an establishment such as this without instinctively keeping her guard up.

Time seemed to pass even slower while she was alone. Inhaling deeply through her nose, she tried her hardest to relax. The inn was warm and compact, tables and chairs pushed closely together in order to accommodate the whole village, burgundy and gold cloth draped about the short windows. It was cosy and welcoming, and Ysara tried to convince herself more than anything else that it was safe. She knew she needn’t worry, and she couldn’t sense danger, after all – but that meant nothing.

She knew Templars occupied these villages, often dressed as commoners or farmers. What if they knew immediately that she was a mage? What if they started a fight, and inadvertently put the village folk in danger?

If she killed one of those Templars in self-defence, she knew there wouldn’t be much chance of her nor Alistair being permitted to spend another minute in Val Firmin.

More focused now, she glanced around once more at the inn’s patrons. There were perhaps four traders and two farmers, human and elven alike.

How unlikely was it that she was being watched?

Maker, she was exhausted.

Alistair slid carefully into the seat opposite her, placing two rather small metal cups down onto the table and effectively pausing her steadily increasing worry. Ysara swallowed firmly, focusing on the wood beneath her thighs and elbows and her heels against the ground, and decided that the best thing she could do was to take her mind off the subject. She’d distract herself with the company she was opting to keep, along with the drinks he was buying her.

“You okay?” he checked, pulling his chair up towards the table.

She paused for a second before she responded, straightening her back a little. It felt silly in retrospect, but drawing herself up and maintaining a cool and collected exterior often helped Ysara to remember her strength and confidence.

“Forgive me,” she sighed, watching as he pushed one of the metal cups across the table towards her. “I’m not as familiar with the customs of inns as I perhaps ought to be.”

Alistair shook his head gently at her words, retrieving his own cup from the table. It looked almost comically small as he held it up within his large hand.

“You don’t need to worry,” he told her kindly. “Inns can be fun. You’ll end up enjoying them after this. Just stick close and you’ll see what I mean.”

She was more reassured by his words than she thought she’d be. Reaching for the cup he’d brought her, she peered over the rim as she brought it closer to her face.

The dark liquid was a beautiful crimson red and rather ominous-looking inside the cup, but she recognised the drink immediately. Red wine; the type, she couldn’t tell. She glanced up at Alistair, who shrugged.

“They don’t have goblets, apparently.”

She smiled up at him as she took a small drink from the cup, deciding that she didn’t want to stop looking at him at that moment. The wine was rich, and filled her chest with warmth. The Warden watched her with calm, observant eyes.

“There’s so much I’ve yet to experience,” she spoke wistfully after a moment, watching him sip at his own cup of wine. “It’s almost sad . I’m twenty-nine and this time last month, I’d never been inside a tavern. I’ve never been swimming in the sea.”

He raised one inquisitive brow in her direction as he rested one elbow against the table top.

“I suppose you never had the chance, right?” he guessed.

Ysara shook her head in agreement. “No, you’re right. I didn’t. But I guess, after all of this is over… I can start ticking those things off one by one.”

Alistair gazed thoughtfully into the bottom of his cup of wine for a moment.

“Speaking of… you know, the Circle… What was it really like, living there?”

He paused as if to think.

“You know – with the mages being so incredibly secretive, I’m afraid to admit I don’t know much.”

She took a deep, slow drink from her own cup, knowing that the earthy crimson liquid would stain her lips as she continued to appreciate the warmth it lended her. The Circle hadn’t been too bad of a place to live after she’d become accustomed to it, at least – but the older she became, the more she craved her freedom. She wanted to see the world, just like her siblings had been permitted to do, and felt almost punished by her innate magic abilities.

“Well, it was nothing like my life as a child at Ostwick,” she told him, glancing up and meeting his gaze. “I know , I know. I didn’t know how easy I had it back then.”

She set the half empty cup down against the table top in front of her, her gloved hand still resting around the neck.

“I shared a room with fifteen other mages, at first. We were all apprentices – all children. We all went to classes together. I made a few firm friends. All drifted apart eventually.”

Alistair watched her silently, his eyes never deviating from her face, even when he lifted the cup to his lips in order to take a drink. She appreciated his patience and ability to listen. He seemed genuinely curious.

“I went through my Harrowing as a teenager,” she continued. “I survived it, but… it changed me. Some of my friends died during theirs, and I considered myself very lucky to be alive. I had reason to fear magic, but it also taught me what I could be capable of.”

She drew her gloved index finger lightly across the rim of her cup, gazing at the dark reflections within the dull steel as she recalled the memories. The tavern was quiet, providing the perfect space to share her thoughts. She was grateful for that.

“I worked hard, and studied hard, and I was eventually given more and more responsibilities. I was a senior enchanter at twenty-five. I was granted my own study after that. It was great to not have to share a bunk anymore.” She sighed, a distant smile on her face as she recalled better days. “But I still wanted my freedom. I’d gaze across the city from the tower windows and long for the days of rolling in the grassy fields as a child.”

She laughed, absentmindedly twirling her fingers through the long dark curls of hair lying over her shoulder. “It was silly of me, really. A mage’s whole life is spent inside the Circle. But I never did get used to that being my reality.”

Alistair shook his head, his brow deepening as he frowned. “Not silly of you. It’s natural, I think, to crave your freedom. Being locked up inside the Chantry all day and night will help you realise that, too.”

He cradled his cup in both hands, his elbows resting firmly against the edge of the table as he gazed down into the shallow depths of the crimson wine. “I wanted my freedom too, Ysara. I understand. I’m glad you never got used to being in there.”

She smiled at his words. Honest and true. She was glad she’d never become used to it, either, but it was reassuring to hear those words from another.

“It’s interesting to me that you almost became a Templar, Alistair,” she wondered aloud. “Trevelyan children without magic are expected to follow the standard of devoting oneself to the Chantry in any way possible – becoming a priest, or becoming a Templar. I often used to think that being sent to the Circle was a lucky escape.”

Alistair regarded her curiously for a few moments.

“If you weren’t a mage, then – you would’ve had to have become a Templar? Or a Chantry sister?”

Ysara nodded, an unpleasant shiver suddenly trickling down her spine at the thought. “Yeah. I can’t even bring myself to imagine what it would have been like.”

“Do you believe?” he asked curiously. “I mean – in Andraste?”

She drained the last of the wine from her cup, setting it down firmly against the table top. She knew that the alcohol was helping her to talk. It was a good thing – it gave her the confidence to voice the things she may have initially considered keeping to herself. But she needed to remember that she trusted Alistair now. He wasn’t trying to catch her out, or harm her, or use her words against her.

“No,” she told him, honestly. “Not really, anyway. I’ve reached out to the gods, but nobody ever heard my pleas for help. And there was once a time where I made a lot of pleas.”

Her eyes settled on him, searching for any signs of discomfort at her words. He simply gazed back at her, his eyes calm and warm.

“How about you?” she asked.

Alistair ducked his head a fraction, the tips of his pointed ears reddening slightly. “I guess, technically no, but I do find myself seeking comfort in the Maker sometimes. To an extent. I guess the Revered Mother may have left a very small impression on me.”

She smiled at that, and Alistair returned the smile, gesturing towards the empty metal cups. “Same again?”

“Oh! Yes, please!” Ysara wasn’t expecting his offer. “That’s very kind of you.”

“What kind of bastard prince would I be if I didn’t at least attempt to charm the most beautiful woman in the room, hm?”

She stared at him in bewilderment as he stood from the chair, her eyes wide and her face growing hot as his words settled on her like a fine dust. The corner of his mouth pulled into a sheepish grin as he ducked his head to avoid her gaze, turning and making his way towards the bar.

She continued to stare after him from a distance, watching as he oriented himself against the bar, broad shoulders hunching ever so slightly as he leaned his elbows against the rough wooden surface. The heat had yet to leave her face, and she could feel her cheeks still burning , his compliment catching her well and truly off guard.

He intrigued her endlessly.

Being responsible for establishing the tone upon their first real meeting at Skyhold, Alistair had made no real effort to conceal his flirtatious nature. Was he like that with everyone, or just with her, she wondered? She couldn’t quite tell. Despite having deeply enjoyed being at the receiving end of such attention, and continuing to reciprocate the playful conversations well into their travels to the Western Approach, she still had a persistent nagging in the back of her mind at all times. This is wrong. You need to cut it out.

Regardless of how it started, however, it seemed different , now. Heat rushed to her face if he so much as glanced in her direction. The protectiveness he displayed and the way he seemed to be constantly looking out for her welfare made her heart swell. He paid attention to her in a way that made her feel almost powerful under his gaze. She was drawn to him like a moth to a flame, despite the fact that she knew how much she shouldn’t be.

Her face began to grow hot once more with the realisation. The wine was swirling through her veins already, mixing with the fiery magic in her blood. She continued to watch him from a safe distance, observing as he talked amicably with the innkeeper. He spoke easily and warmly with strangers he had just met, and it wouldn’t be entirely incorrect to say she wasn’t envious of that ability. The Circle hadn’t exactly been the easiest place to forge friendships. It had been a place of death, double-crossing, backstabbing, and radical, dividing opinions.

Alistair returned to her after several minutes, carefully holding the pair of refilled cups so as not to spill the wine. Ysara was grateful for the inn’s distinct lack of patrons, allowing him to cross the room with relative ease. Her eyes followed him as he slid lightly back into the seat opposite her.

It was her turn, now.

“I’ll admit,” she told him, watching him slide one of the cups along the table towards her. “You are a rather charming man.”

The corner of his mouth quirked into a quick grin, his cheeks reddening. Picking straight up off the back of his compliment was something he clearly hadn’t been expecting her to do.

“Ah,” he hummed. “So I had you fooled, did I?”

She retrieved the cup of wine from the table, smiling into it as she took a drink.

“I guess you can say that, yes.”

She glanced around the room once more, finally feeling comfortable enough to relax. She’d never admit it, but Alistair had been right. Nobody had noticed, nor cared, that she was a mage. Nobody had even thrown the pair a second glance from the moment they had sat down. The majority of the patrons appeared to be either farmers or traders, winding down after a hard day’s work with a pint of ale and a chat with their neighbour. Not a Templar in sight.

It was an unusual feeling – one she appreciated more than she realised as she gazed around the room. She blended in. For the first time in her life, nobody cared about her status, her name, her abilities. The working folk of Val Firmin didn’t seem to care about much outside of their immediate circles.

Alistair gently knocked the toe of his boot against her shin underneath the table, pulling her attention back towards him.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly. “We can retire soon, if you’d prefer – if things are getting too much.”

She looked up at him blankly for a moment before quickly shaking her head.

No. She was enjoying herself. She guessed it would have been easy to mistake her quiet reflection for anxiety.

“No, I’m fine. Truly. I’m comfortable here.” She smiled, hoping that the gesture accurately reflected how she felt. “I like it.”

He smiled at her words as he leaned back in his chair. Ysara watched him as he adjusted once, twice, then a final time, mild discomfort on his face. The inn’s sturdy, roughly carved wooden chairs were clearly not designed with comfort as a priority.

“Does every inn tend to be like this?” she asked him.

He took a swig from his cup, shaking his head as he swallowed carefully.

“No. Mmm. It’s fairly rare to find such a quiet inn. Somewhere like Denerim – the taverns there are much livelier than this. More fights.”

Her brows raised at that. “Fights? Really? What about the rest of Orlais?”

“Depends on where in Orlais,” he told her, leaning forward, his elbow against the table. “In the cities, the towns – they tend to get rowdy. But in villages like this, off the main roads; they’re much quieter.”

She mulled over his words, sipping at her cup of wine. As much as she didn’t want to try her luck in proximity to Templars, she almost wanted to experience a rowdy tavern one day. Perhaps she’d look too closely at a pompous Orlesian socialite and someone would pick a fight with her. She smiled to herself. How would she handle it? Part of her would want to diffuse the situation, but another, newer part of her would have no qualms in throwing an accusatory chevalier across the bar.

“You must think I’m such a fool,” she smiled distantly.

Alistair paused, setting his half-empty cup down onto the table a little too quickly.

“Why would I ever think that?” he asked. His brows were gathered in the centre again, but he was missing the frown. He seemed concerned.

She chuckled again, lifting her eyes to meet his as he leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

“Would you believe that the night I joined you for a drink in Skyhold was the first time I’d ever been inside a tavern?”

“That doesn’t make you a fool.” His gaze was solemn, now. “You lived inside a Circle Tower from the age of ten. How would you have ever been able to experience one?”

She sighed, bitter amusement still dancing across her lips. The warmth of the light reflecting across the room from the torch sconces illuminated the copper tones in Alistair’s hair. She didn’t answer his question.

“I wonder – as a Warden, do you often meet people like me? Ex-Circle mages? With little experience of the world beyond their tower window?”

Alistair pondered her question for a few moments, his gaze flitting across her face as she turned back towards her almost-empty cup of wine.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he replied carefully, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Circle mage or otherwise.”

His intonation was enough to force another rush of colour into her cheeks. She distracted herself quickly, combing one hand through the hair she’d pulled over one shoulder and pursed her lips, her eyes trailing across Alistair’s rolled up shirt sleeves. A deep, pitted scar marred his left forearm. She frowned slightly as she realised it must have been a painful wound.

Taking another deep drink from the cup in her hand, Ysara drained the vessel and returned the empty cup back to the table. She could feel the alcohol swirling through her veins, making her feel warm and lightheaded all at once.

“Well, I want to see as much of the world as I can before I die,” she said, watching as Alistair followed her movements and finished up with his own drink. “I’m bound to the Circle no longer.”

Well, there was the small issue of her phylactery still being stored at the Circle. Well, it was a fairly large issue, now she’d come to think about it, and she exhaled quickly, forcing down the thought. She’d bring herself to worry herself sick with stress about that another time.

“I’ll take you to Denerim one day,” he told her. “Although there are much nicer parts of Ferelden that I think you’d prefer.”

Ysara felt her stomach clench pleasantly at his words. She leaned her elbows against the table, resting her chin against her palm. After all of this was over, maybe she’d take him up on the offer.

“I’d enjoy that.”

Chapter Text

It was late by the time Ysara realised that the inn was all but empty. It was very late, in fact. Only a single farmer remained at the bar, talking with a tired-looking but still very chipper Laurette. The torches were burning low and dim in their sconces, and Ysara couldn’t recall how many cups of wine they’d drank between them. Alistair had certainly followed through on his promise to buy her drinks, despite seeming nowhere near as inebriated as she was.

She found herself zoning out yet again. The inn was warm and quiet, and as she glanced about the room, her head gently began to spin. In the back of her mind, she realised Alistair was still talking, recalling how, as a Templar initiate, he’d befriended a local mabari.

They had been talking for hours, discussing everything from the castles they had grown up in to their trauma at the hands of organised religious institutions. She’d opened up to him about her place within the Circle, explaining that as the daughter of a Bann she’d been unfairly favoured within the Circle by her mage tutors, regardless of how much the Templars might have despised her. She knew that even though she’d worked hard, she had an advantage that many others didn’t, and despite not particularly enjoying her life there, she knew there were some mages who were downright miserable.

The system in the Circle was broken, and it was evident, at least to Ysara, that there had never been any equal treatment amongst the mages. The Circle had been well overdue a change in dynamics and leadership, but it was too little too late.

Alistair had agreed. Like many others outside the Circle, he’d been unaware of the power dynamic at play, especially between the mages and their Templar guardians. He’d described himself as feeling lucky when being conscripted into the Grey Wardens, despite the common view that being recruited into the Order was considered a death sentence. If a recruit didn’t die from the darkspawn blood they had to imbibe, the inexperienced ones would often die at the hands of vicious darkspawn themselves. Still, he explained, he’d rather take the risk than join the ranks of the Templars – and that was a belief that had only strengthened with time.

Ysara felt a real sense of solidarity as she found she shared more in common with the Warden than she’d realised.

The mage let her gloved hand come to rest against Alistair’s bare forearm, interrupting him mid-sentence. He stared at her expectantly as his next words died on his lips, a light blush spreading across his face and staining his cheeks.

“We should clear out of here soon,” she whispered, “otherwise I fear Laurette will throw us out.”

It was only then he appeared to notice the relative emptiness of the inn, and as he glanced around the room, his brows raised in realisation.

“Maker, you’re right.” He tilted the cup nearest to him, checking to see whether he’d finished his drink. “Shall we go? Now?”

She nodded, carefully standing from her seat and pushing her chair back from the table. It was only after she stood that she realised she’d had ever so slightly too much wine, and the dizziness suddenly threatened to topple her as she gripped the back of the chair.

He was standing before her in an instant, his palms firm against her upper arms as she tried to steady herself with a giggle.

“Careful,” Alistair chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. “At least make it to the room before you go collapsing on me.”

His words repeated over twice more in her mind as he led them away from the table. The inn was suddenly far too warm. She slotted into the space his arm accommodated as she tucked herself against his side, his arm around her shoulders as he gently encouraged her towards the staircase. Laurette sweetly bade them farewell, smiling kindly at the pair as they passed. Ysara noticed that the farmer, a woman around forty, was holding Laurette’s hand across the bar.

She couldn’t help the smile she tried to hide. By Andraste, she was drunk . Drunk, and happy – for the first time in a long time. She leaned closely into Alistair’s side, and the huge wall of a man beside her laughed, accommodating her easily as they began to climb the stone steps up to their room. In all of her wildest dreams, she never would have imagined she would ever find herself in this situation. Her chest was light, her subconscious trying to focus on Alistair’s arm around her shoulders.

She was free . From the Circle, from the Chantry, from her own self doubt and from the years of blaming it all on herself.

Ysara’s head was still spinning. She couldn’t stop laughing to herself, and every now and again broke into a fresh set of giggles, much to Alistair’s amusement. Perhaps alcohol didn’t affect Wardens as much as it did mages.

“Shh,” he whispered, as they passed the first door. “Everyone’s asleep . Not everyone is in on the joke, you know.”

She leaned further into the warmth of his side, pressing her fingers over her lips to stop her laughter from leaking out. He took the lead rather well, directing her around the corner smoothly and up the next staircase.

It wasn’t long before they’d reached the door at the very top of the building, and as Alistair fumbled inside his pockets for the key, Ysara leaned her back against the solid oak door, keeping herself steady.

“I want to go to Antiva,” she declared, her voice little more than a whisper.

Alistair wrinkled his nose with poorly-hidden contempt. “Why?”

“If everybody is as nice as Josephine,” she commented, “maybe I’d be able to make friends and buy a few dresses.”

He dug around inside his trouser pockets, his hands coming up short. Don’t tell me he’s lost the room key.

“I never would have had you down as a dressy kind of woman.”

“I love dresses,” she frowned, folding her arms across her chest. “Just because I’m a woman of action doesn’t mean I don’t like dresses.”

Alistair shrugged. “That’s a fair comment. I just can’t imagine you in one, that’s all.”

“I have a dress from Rivain,” she recalled, twirling a strand of dark hair about her finger. “Backless, strapless, floor-length… looks like it’s made from moonlight. I wasn’t going to be leaving that at the Circle.”

He paused, his face suddenly rather heated.

“How– how does a dress like that stay up?”

Ysara burst into another set of giggles. “Magic, Alistair. And a very intricate knowledge of silk knots.”

She took an unsteady step towards him, reaching forward and letting her gloved hand slip just beneath the open collar of his shirt. He stared at her incredulously, glancing down as she pulled at the string around his neck, letting the brass door key fall against the linen of his shirt.

Swallowing firmly, he gazed down at the key, his cheeks dark with embarrassment.

“Ah. That would explain why it wasn’t in any of my pockets.”

He ducked as he unhooked the string from around his neck, sliding the key into the lock and waiting for the recognisable click of the mechanism. Shouldering open the door, he closed it firmly behind them, locking it once more as Ysara danced around the open space on tiptoe.

The room was airy and slightly chilly — a stark contrast to the stuffiness and warmth of the bar downstairs. She made her way carefully across the room towards the window, pushing it open from where she’d previously left it ajar. Leaning down against the wooden frame, her elbows pressing firmly against the cold surface, she gazed out into the cool evening – the sun long having disappeared over the distant mountains. The sky was littered with stars, and the light from the moon illuminated painted streaks of midnight blue far into the distance.

She’d never seen anything quite like it. In her stomach, she felt a sudden pang of sadness.

How many beautiful sights like this had passed her by without her knowledge?

Her shoulders sank a little. She loved her newfound freedom, and she loved the excitement that came with adventure. It helped that her recent Grey Warden companion was so well accustomed to travelling. She’d always dreamed of seeing the world. And now, she was out here, seeing it – albeit, for an entirely different reason to what she’d have guessed, all those years ago.

Staying in one place meant getting attached to things. To people. To villages. And to go through such an upheaval was a pain like no other. Being torn from her family in Ostwick at the tender age of ten was something she’d carry with her for the rest of her life.

And now, suddenly, she was an adult, having just welcomed her twenty-ninth year. Aside from her sister, she had no family to speak of any more, no friends outside of the Circle. Building everything back from the ground up was a daunting prospect that she’d rather not think about. Especially not after an evening drinking too much wine and sharing stories of youth with her Grey Warden companion.

She let the gentle night breeze caress her face, allowing it to pull strands of her hair free from where she’d let it fall over her shoulder. Turning her face towards the east, she let her eyes close.

It felt wrong – different, somehow, to think of Ostwick as home. She was born there, and she was a Trevelyan – undoubtedly so, she had her father’s nose, just like her sister – but she didn’t feel much of a connection to the place anymore. It was more like a treasured book that she remembered from childhood. She found solace in the memories, but the more she thought of it, the more she dwelled on how her life might have been .

What if she hadn’t shown signs of magic? What if she hadn’t been a mage?

Then I’d have probably been shipped off to the Chantry regardless, she thought. For either Templar training or Chantry sister duties, like Alistair said.

Regardless, she didn’t belong there any more. She’d forged a life outside of Ostwick. She was writing another page to the first chapter of her new life right now .

Ysara was so caught up in her thoughts she didn’t realise Alistair was watching her. He’d shucked his jacket and boots, and was perched at the edge of the four-poster bed in slacks and a linen shirt. He’d experienced similar upheaval, being pulled from the Chantry and thrust into the order of the Grey Wardens at only eighteen, only for his mentor to die a traumatic death at the hands of the darkspawn during the Blight.

In death, sacrifice.

She was so besotted with the view of southern Orlais that she flinched when Alistair touched his hand to her elbow, making her aware of his presence.

“In the morning,” he murmured softly, “we may be able to see Lake Celestine from here. Perhaps even Montsimmard, if we’re lucky.”

Ysara’s eyes widened as she glanced between him and the open window to the night. He was illuminated softly by the torch sconce just to the left of the window, the dark circles underneath his eyes more prominent when highlighted by the warm light. Ysara’s lungs suddenly threatened to cease functioning. He was gazing back at her as if he’d just seen the sunrise for the first time.

She was inexplicably drawn to him, but all she could do was stare, memorising the planes of his face, the sharp, prominent nose, the calm, reassuring eyes. Her mind often liked to remind her that once all this was over, their lives would return to the way they were before, and although she wasn’t ever considering returning to the Circle, she knew his journey was never-ending. It was unlikely that their paths would cross again.

She was in too deep, damn it .

“Come on,” he spoke softly. “You need to rest. I can still sleep by the door, if you’d rather–”

Ysara glared at him with all the drunk indignation she could muster, interrupting him with a single word.

“No.”

He raised a solitary brow, taking a step back as an amused grin began to tug at the corner of his mouth. “Okay. I won’t suggest it again, then.”

The glare melted from her face as quickly as it had arrived, and she pulled at the bottom of the window, leaving it ajar once more.

“Good.”

She leaned back against the wall in order to unlace her boots. The wine was beginning to have less of an effect on her, but not so much as to make her completely overthink the situation, as was customary. She discarded each boot onto the floor, shrugging off her jacket and letting it rest where it fell. Kneeling down beside her travelling bag, she retrieved the pair of linen short pants she’d packed specifically for sleeping in.

Alistair appeared to be waiting for her to change, his back graciously turned as she changed out of her leather pants and breast band. The leather pants proved more of a difficulty than she’d anticipated – mostly because of her excessive alcohol consumption, but also down to the fact that tight leather garments were almost always impossible to remove.

She pulled the linen shirt back over her head, stepping into the short pants and pulling them up to sit against her hips. There was a slight chill in the air from the midnight breeze having been allowed into the room through the window, and Ysara shivered, turning instead towards the four poster bed.

She reached to pull back the thick furs covering the soft mattress, the awe she felt displayed clearly on her face as she pressed the palm of her hand down against the beige sheet.

“Look at this,” she told him. “I’ve never seen a bed so tall.”

He turned back towards her as she spoke, watching her as she used the palms of her hands to steady herself against the mattress before expertly hopping up and twisting in mid-air, landing firmly on her backside against the mattress.

He snorted in amusement, sitting down carefully on the opposite side of the mattress and sliding each of his legs underneath the furs.

“You’re just not tall enough. It’s the perfect height for me.”

Ysara laughed at his petty insult as she slid down further into the bed, taking fistfuls of the furs and pulling them up so that they reached her chin. The pillows behind her head were fat and overstuffed, and she sighed happily as she relaxed, her vision still wobbling slightly from the effects of the wine.

She glanced across to Alistair, who was still making himself comfortable. He allowed himself to shift further into the centre of the bed, and she felt the mattress dip as he rolled onto his side.

He sighed, making a low hum of approval in the back of his throat. She turned to look at him, her gaze drifting across to the arm bent underneath his pillow, his tired eyes watching her.

“I apologise in advance if I wake you,” he murmured, clearing his throat softly.

She shook her head, smiling as she brought her left hand out from beneath the furs. He seemed so vulnerable like this – so beautiful in the soft glow of the torchlight. She had to look away.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Flicking her wrist and making a slight gesture with her fingers, she extinguished five out of the six torches, allowing the one nearest the door to remain burning. Shifting onto her back, she rolled onto her left side, away from the Warden.

“You said you’ve never been to Antiva,” he murmured quietly. “Perhaps, if you were to visit, you’d allow me to accompany you?”

Through the darkness, with her back to him, she smiled. She smiled so much her cheeks began to ache.

“You know what my answer will be,” she told him, after a few moments. “I have a bar tab from a certain Warden that I need to start repaying.”

He exhaled in amusement, shifting slightly behind her.

“I’m starting to enjoy this arrangement, I must admit.”

Ysara shifted onto her back, turning to glance towards him. She could see the outline of his form through the darkness, the torchlight illuminating his back.

“Me too,” she agreed. “And to think I was so anxious about experiencing all of this alone.”

She heard Alistair’s head shift against the pillow as he shook his head.

“And now you’ve got an idiot along for the ride.”

Ysara rolled her eyes, letting them close as she snuggled firmly into the furs.

“I know.”

Chapter Text

Ysara stirred suddenly, forcing her sleep-swollen eyelids to open against the darkness of the room. The single remaining lit torch nearest the door had extinguished itself at some point during the night, and so the room had been plunged into complete darkness – aside from a lone sliver of moonlight, reflecting through the large window. As she lay completely still against the furs and plush pillows, her chest rising and falling steadily, it took her a few moments to work out where she was.

She huffed in frustration as she slowly came to, now more annoyed at the fact she was awake. She’d been deep within the clutches of a vivid dream, and she wasn’t quite sure what had managed to rouse her. She couldn’t sense anything amiss, and she was neither too hot nor too cold. Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud, raspy grunt from the form sleeping next to her.

Ysara arched one brow in surprise as she rolled onto her side towards Alistair, stealing more than just a glance at the sleeping prince. She had never known him to snore before now. She knew he barely slept whilst camping – he didn’t feel comfortable letting his guard down when there were only two of them – so perhaps he had several weeks’ worth of rest to catch up on.

As if on cue, he drew in a deep breath in his sleep, hoarse and loud as the sound echoed around the room. From the sliver of moonlight illuminating the corner of the room, she could just about see the outline of his torso. He lay flat on his back, his left arm stretched out beside him, almost encroaching on her side of the bed.

Ysara shifted closer, resting her head briefly against his bicep and gently touching her hand to his chest to try and rouse him. As much as she was grateful that he was finally getting a decent rest – she knew she wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep whilst he snored so loudly.

He didn’t budge. She watched his sleeping face, being careful not to fully wake him up, and pressed her hand more firmly against his ribs. She just needed him to stir – that should do the trick.

The large man shifted briefly in his sleep, the wide span of his left arm closing around her shoulders and gathering her close against his chest. The breath left her lungs in one sudden rush, her hand still braced against his ribs as she froze solid, her cheek against the warmth of his linen shirt. His chin shifted to rest against the top of her head as he nuzzled into her, still very much within the grasp of sleep.

Her eyes were wide in the darkness. Alistair’s left arm remained heavy around her shoulders, his chest rising and falling gently. He was so warm, and he smelled so good, and being pulled against his chest like this was almost overwhelming.

After a few minutes of sheer flustered panic as she considered what if he woke up , Ysara forced herself to relax, her eyes closing as she inhaled deeply through her nostrils. The large arm around her shoulders was heavy and warm and protective . The pit deep within her abdomen had begun to ache again – in that familiar way that it always seemed to be lately.

She allowed herself to rest a tentative hand against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin and the relaxed muscle underneath her fingers. She would love to get used to this, despite how much she knew it was a bad idea. Alistair was like a furnace .

Her tired brain was struggling to process the situation she was in, despite her conscious effort to ignore it. She ground her teeth as she pressed her knees together, the ache in her abdomen almost bordering on painful.

The sound of Alistair’s gentle breathing was easy for Ysara to listen to, and it wasn’t long at all before sleep overtook her once more. She inadvertently nuzzled further into his side, her head resting firmly within the crook of his neck.

It was still early morning as the warmth from the sun flooded the attic room with light. Ysara stirred gently, her eyes still heavy with sleep as she shifted. Tiny flecks of dust floated around the room, illuminated and visible from the sun’s gentle rays. The slight chill of night still remained in the air, settling as dew in the long grass outside.

Ysara didn’t feel the chill in the morning air as much as she may have been expecting. A furnace of a Grey Warden still lay beneath her, and the mage abruptly came to, realising that she was still lying against her travelling companion’s chest. Her arm was resting lightly across his stomach.

She shivered, tensing in horror as her newfound panic coursed through her, and it took her a few moments longer to realise that Alistair was not only awake , but preoccupied with her hair. She could feel as he stroked his fingers ever so gently through the mid-lengths, untangling the curls as he went. His chest rose and fell steadily, indicating he was clearly conscious.

Ysara couldn’t help the light gasp that passed her lips at the sudden realisation of the fact he was awake . She found herself stiffening suddenly as she considered how long he may have been awake. How long had she been lying against his chest like that?

Alistair paused his ministrations unexpectedly.

“Good morning,” he murmured. His voice was soft and deep, as if he had only recently awoken.

“Hi,” she greeted dumbly, overwhelmed with the sudden tenderness she felt at the fact that he had been stroking her hair. She rubbed carefully at her eyes, shifting backwards slightly and tilting her head in order to meet his gaze.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

He seemed more relaxed than she’d anticipated, his eyelids heavy, a small, earnest smile on his lips. His large arm was still supporting her upper back as she leaned away from him. Lying in his embrace like this seemed natural.

He opened his mouth to speak, hesitating briefly before he closed it again.

She forced herself to look away. She couldn’t bear the tenderness she recognised in the way he regarded her.

She was in far too deep. This was bad – very bad indeed.

Her mind awash with racing thoughts, she tucked herself back into the space where she’d been sleeping, moving her head to rest within the crook of his neck. Despite the innate feeling that this was where she belonged, she couldn’t bear to address head-on her blossoming feelings for the Warden. Waking up in his arms was something she’d never planned on, and now, she most certainly didn’t know where to go from here.

Alistair hummed softly, resting his chin against the crown of her head as he resumed stroking his fingers through her curls.

“Are you alright?” he asked simply.

The question wasn’t a loaded one. She realised she was tense – visibly so – and purposely relaxed her shoulders, taking a deep breath in, blowing it out slowly.

“Yeah. All good,” she told him, partially muffled by the linen of his shirt. “I– I like this.”

Alistair’s hand came to rest against her lower back, shifting her closer to him.

“Me too,” he spoke, after a few moments. “I don’t recall how it happened, but I’m not about to question it.”

“Neither do I,” Ysara lied, letting her arm drape across his chest as she pulled the furs over them both. “I don’t want to get up just yet.”

He chuckled lightly, reaching across her smaller form in order to tuck the furs around the mage.

“It’s still early, I think – but the Wardens aren’t going to save themselves.”

Ysara nuzzled into him, allowing her eyes to close as she let out a contented sigh. She was so warm and so peaceful . The rational part of her brain was still screaming at her to move, but she had managed to tune most of it out.

“We’ve made good time, haven’t we?” she grinned. “Don’t we deserve some more rest?”

Alistair blew out an amused breath, his hand splaying out across her lower back as he shifted them both further down amongst the furs.

“I can’t argue with that. I never was much of a morning person anyway.”

She felt him press a gentle kiss against the crown of her head as his arm returned to where it had been for most of the night – around her shoulders. Heat suddenly rushed through her, threatening to overwhelm her as she clung to him, her eyes now wide and very much awake. The gesture was so intimate, so protective – he had truly no idea how much his tenderness affected her.

The pair rose from the warmth of the furs after another hour or so, both reluctant to leave the bed for the same, unspoken reason. The mid-morning sun was a little higher in the sky now, casting beautiful warm golden rays through the window into the attic room. Ysara was besotted with the striking views across southern Orlais. She’d never seen landscape quite as varied before, and she leaned against the short windowsill for a considerable amount of time in just her linen sleepwear.

“Spot anything exciting?” Alistair asked, a gentle hand against her elbow as he approached her. She smiled at him happily, stepping aside to make room for him at the window.

“You can see the Frostback Mountains from here,” she told him, pointing in the direction from which they had travelled. “They’re incredibly ominous, aren’t they?”

He nodded, peering out of the window, his gaze following the direction of her pointing finger. “Yeah. Dangerous, too. Remember?”

She laughed, turning to look back at him over her shoulder. “Won’t be able to forget that biting cold for a while.”

“Look,” he spoke suddenly, resting one hand on her shoulder as he pointed with the other. “Can you see that?”

He gestured towards a vast, glittering blue lake, several miles from the outskirts of Val Firmin, but clearly visible in the warm sunlight.

Ysara nodded, glancing back towards him. “Oh– is that… Lake Celestine?”

“Yeah.”

She smiled warmly against the morning breeze as she strained to lean out of the window, appreciating the warmth of the sun on her cheeks. She gazed out over Val Firmin towards the lake. It was peaceful and still, and the surface glittered like tiny stars cast out against a shadowy sky.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she mused.

She didn’t notice that Alistair was not looking at the lake. She also didn’t realise that the Warden was gazing at her as if it was the first time he’d ever laid eyes on her, his brows raising carefully, a blush staining his dark cheeks.

“Yeah,” he agreed softly, his gaze unmoving. “Beautiful.”