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Chapter Text

A powerful jolt seemed to shake the very foundations of Adamant Fortress, followed by an intense flash of green light.

With a loud thud, her body thrown like a rag doll, Farie's back slammed into a solid stone wall. She groaned in pain, fighting to catch her breath. A mess of blood and dust covered her eyes. Wiping her face with her sleeve, she blinked several times, trying to regain her focus.

Something had gone very wrong.

She struggled to put it all together. Funny how, in the most stressful situations, the mind tries to grasp something logical and find meaning. Had she missed something? Had her senses finally failed her and allowed the whole operation to go down the drain? Her mind raced through every scrap of information she had managed to gather before the siege.

More and more silhouettes appeared in her field of vision; people screaming, running, tripping over pieces of debris. At one point she caught a glimpse of Commander Rutherford racing through the fortress, a mixture of fear and anger written all over his face.

What if this is all my fault?

Finally, the rational part of her mind came to the fore. This was no time for brooding. It was time to get up and save her ass.

She began to stand up slowly, holding on to the wall she had just been thrown against. She still felt a little dizzy, but her blood was already pumping faster through her veins, giving her body the strength it needed. Finally straightening up, her hands instinctively found the handles of her precious daggers. Both still in place, they gave her some sense of security, even if only illusory. She pulled the blades from their sheaths and gripped them tightly as she slowly moved forward. Her first steps were shaky, but after staggering a time or two, she finally found her balance.

Her first instinct was to head downstairs and get closer to the gates, or one of the secret passages that would provide a shorter route out. As she took the first steps towards the lower levels, a thought crossed her mind, stopping her in her tracks and sending a cold shiver down her spine.

Rylen.

He was still out there, on the upper levels. She had seen him not long ago as she shuffled along the shadows of the battlements, watching the demons that had tried in vain to press against his people. The situation could be very different now, with an unexpected blast added to the equation.

Run.

Her instincts tried hard to keep her on the path to safety, but she took two deep breaths and turned around. He was a man the Inquisition could not afford to lose. A friend she could not afford to lose.

She ran up the nearest stairs, heading for a large wooden gate. It was barely hanging on its hinges, presumably weakened by the mysterious quake. Tightening her grip on the handles of her daggers, she slipped through the door.

She ducked at the last second as a fireball hit the wall above her head, so close that Farie could smell the stench of burning hair

As expected, she found herself on one of the stone bridges connecting the towers of the fortress. Layers of ash and blood showed that heavy fighting had taken place here. She swept her gaze out across the bridge and relief washed over her. Rylen was there, still alive, but without any other men at his side. He had lost his helmet somewhere along the way, his curls damp with blood and sweat. His sword flashed in the misty light that now engulfed all of Adamant, an eerie green glow gliding through the battle dust. With a scream on his lips, he moved towards a rage demon, no doubt the one responsible for the fiery missile that had almost reached her a second ago.

A glance at the stairs on the other side revealed two more creatures moving slowly towards him. Their prominent humps and long claws left no doubt - these were shades, drawn by the sounds of combat, with destruction their only goal.

Taking on three demons at once would be too much even for this cheeky bastard. She leapt over a smoking pile of rubble and ran. Oh, how she wished she had her old bow and arrows with her.

“Rylen!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “Two more!”

He whirled to avoid a fiery blow from his furious opponent, and with a triumphant cry, pierced it with his blade, making it shriek and disappear with a burst of green light. Then he looked at her, brushing wet strands from his eyes.

"If it isn’t my favourite bird!" he called back, before turning to assess the approaching enemies. She saw him take position, the steel of his sword once again flashing in the greenish light, his shield apparently gone as well. “Well, lass,” he looked at her over his shoulder and flashed her a brazen smile. “Shall we dance?”

"Where are your men?!" she asked dashing past him to flank the approaching creatures

“I hope you don't mind if I explain later!” he shouted back.

Farie shook her head, but quickly focused on the task at hand. Compared to the hordes of creatures the Inquisition forces had cut through so far, or the giant pride demons she herself had barely escaped only to see entire units knocked off the battlements with one single swipe, these two shades didn't seem like difficult opponents. Rylen had already balanced the battle in their favour, managing to best the rage demon on his own, though he certainly owed her a debt of gratitude for the handy distraction she provided. They were both wounded however, and these were still the ravenous spews of the Fade they were dealing with.

She could feel her palms sweating under the leather gloves. Her daggers seemed terribly inadequate, even the enchanted flame not bothering the shades much. Her only advantage was her speed and agility - a terrifying thought as she could feel every painful inch of her bruised body. Farie gritted her teeth. There would be time for all that self-pity later on. Right now, they needed to send those nasty things back to where they came from and get out of this demonic trap as fast as possible.

The shades quickly noticed her flanking them and with a screech they moved towards her. Farie silently prayed that Rylen would quickly grasp her strategy. There was nothing more infuriating to the shades than a living, breathing creature. The longer she could dance around their claws and keep them disoriented, the more time Rylen would have to dismember at least one of them with his sword. 

When they were close enough, she lurched forward, carefully avoiding their murderous jabs. She felt slightly dizzy - it wasn't just her own fatigue, but their strange, demonic aura that could, over time, suck every ounce of sanity from a person. Undeterred, she tried to reach them with swift strikes of her daggers. The sigmoid bodies bent so quickly that she barely scratched one of them. Another jump and spin saved her from being torn from throat to stomach.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could already see Rylen manoeuvring into a position that would give him a clear strike, without endangering either of them at the same time. 

“Don’t worry about me!” she shouted at him, ducking to avoid another blow. “Just slice them!”

Rylen swung his weapon, but at the same moment the demons seemed to suddenly sense their intentions. They split abruptly, the sword slicing through nothing but air and forcing Rylen to quickly regain his balance. One of the creatures rushed straight at him, but immediately bumped into his blade, which he raised to block at the last moment.

Farie had no more time to worry about him, as the other shade came at her with a deafening shriek. Now it was one on one. She liked those odds.

The dance began anew as she started to exchange a hail of blows with the enraged demon. Its movements were faster than she anticipated, murderous cuts coming one after another. Suddenly a sharp pain shot through her thigh where the shade’s nasty claw had torn through her leggings and skin like paper. Muscles intact, she convinced herself, trying to ignore the stinging wound as she shifted her weight to the other leg and swung at the creature's exposed side.

Sneaking up on enemies and striking from the shadows, this was the kind of confrontation Farie was used to, what she was trained for. Silence, efficient tightening of the garrote, a quick flash of the blade when necessary. When her dagger finally cut through the alien body of the creature, shimmering with mysterious magic, she let out a loud cry of relief. The sound still echoed through the walls of the fortress as demonic dust fell all around her, forming a nasty, sticky layer.

Suddenly, a strangled groan brought her back to reality. Next to a similar pile of ashes, Rylen was lying on the ground, trying to stop the blood gushing profusely from his arm.

Shit, shit, shit!

Barely able to trust her legs, she hobbled over to him and dropped to her knees. A brief thought crossed her mind, that she had collapsed far too many times today. The sight of her injured friend and the huge pool of blood around him soon drowned out any more pointless musings. She cupped his face in her hands, hoping to keep him from drifting away.

“Rylen? Commander? Tell me you are still with me.”

He blinked at her. His eyes were a little hazy, but he managed to put something resembling a smile on his face.

‘Lass, good thing ye are covered with filth, otherwise I'd be sure I was seeing a ghost."

“What?”

“Ye look pale.”

And you look half dead. She shook her head, but hearing him speak more or less sensibly made her almost cry with relief. It must have been all the stress, boiling in her veins and causing such emotional reactions.

There was no time to talk, as his wound was still bleeding heavily. She had to find something that would make a decent tourniquet. Without thinking much, she unbuckled one of the straps holding his armour together.

"I was hoping that you would be undressing me under more pleasant circumstances," he said, speaking through his panting breaths.

“You are unbelievable,” Farie snorted quietly as she tightened the strap above the wound. The corners of her eyes stung, no doubt from the dust that still hovered over Adamant.

“So I've been told,” he sighed, letting his head fall back. “Ye know, one is not really a Templar if they don't get their guts spilled from time to time.”

"Shhh… Don't waste your energy,” she whispered, checking his body for any more life-threatening injuries. “You're not a Templar. And I'd rather you didn't drag your guts across the floor today.”

The absurdity of the conversation was obvious, but she was glad he was still able to speak coherently. So she just stayed there, kneeling in a muddy mush of dust and blood, talking to him calmly, but feeling more and more helpless as time went on. There was little chance she could escape the fortress on her own, let alone drag him with her. All she could do was wait.

Rylen seemed to slowly drift away, his breathing becoming shallow. “Hey!” she took his face in her hands again, trying to keep him conscious. “Stay with me, Rylen, just a little longer! Everything will be alright!” An iron grip tightened around her stomach at the thought that this was a promise she could not keep. Her gloves were drenched in blood, leaving red smudges on his face. He did not say another word but he smiled at her weakly.

Her body began to tremble, the rush of battle fading. The pain in her leg came closer to the surface of her perception. She was weak and helpless and she hated it.

She was not sure if the silence around them was more comforting or terrifying, but it felt like an eternity before it was broken by the sounds of footsteps and shouts. A hand gripped her arm, shaking her gently.

"Soldier! Are you wounded?"

An overwhelming fatigue began to numb her senses, but she made an effort to answer.

"I'm fine," she said, an obvious lie. "Commander Rylen is badly wounded."

"I can see that," the man gestured at two soldiers with stretchers.

"I can walk, Doyle," Rylen muttered, in a sudden flash of recognition.

"He can't," Farie took another soldier's hand as he lifted her up.

"Can you?" The man looked at her sceptically.

"With a little help."

He grabbed her waist and threw her arm around his neck. She looked back at the sky, full of smoke and an eerie emerald glow.

"What happened there?" She asked the soldier who was now slowly leading her towards the gates.

"We don't know yet." His answer was short and firm. 

They really don't know. And they are terrified.

She fell silent, concentrating on taking steady steps. Whatever had shattered Adamant Fortress, it was best to get away from it as quickly as possible.

***

Strangely, the tent serving as a field infirmary seemed to be the most peaceful place in the Inquisition camp. The scattered sunlight barely penetrated the thick canvas of the walls, and only the occasional groans of the wounded broke the heavy silence. Meanwhile outside, bizarre tales of the Lady Inquisitor's miraculous escape from the Fade continued to circulate.

At the moment, Farie could not care less about any of them. She was sitting on a low stool, her arms wrapped around one knee, her other leg carefully bandaged and stretched out in front of her. They tried to put her in one of the beds, but she firmly refused, as she could only imagine how many people needed it more than she did. Still, she gratefully accepted the elfroot paste and fresh bandages over her wound. After scrubbing all the blood and dirt off her body, she could finally assess the amount of scratches and bruises she had earned. Not as much as she had expected, but still more than she had hoped for. Almost every part of her body hurt in some way.

She turned her head to look at Rylen, whose condition had not changed much since they had fortunately made it back to the camp. Those had been frightening moments, and they had become horrifying when she realised that he had finally lost consciousness. The medics had somehow managed to patch him up, and so he was still here, breathing steadily and calmly at last. Her stomach churned at the thought of what would have happened if she hadn't gone looking for him. Or if the fight hadn’t gone their way. Or if the Inquisition soldiers had not found them in time.

Farie took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut. Such thoughts didn't help at all. She should count herself among the lucky ones. And Rylen too, or so it seemed so far. 

His men and his friends were constantly trying to get into the tent to check on him, but the medics were determined that no one would disturb the injured unnecessarily. So Farie was happy to use her status as a wounded soldier to keep an eye on him as long as she could. Irrationally, it seemed to her that something very bad would happen if she left his side for even a moment.

Despite the staff's best efforts to keep everyone out, a silent shadow suddenly appeared at Farie's side. Friend or foe, she did not even have the strength to react.  

“Hey, Sifter.” Farie had not heard this alias in a long time. She opened her eyes to find Charter leaning over her. “You did a good job, but now you need to rest.”

“Did I really?” Farie grumbled, but let Charter pull her to her feet. Her mind wanted to stay in vigil, but her body was screaming for rest.

“You did. Everything went according to plan.”

“Until it didn’t.”

“Believe me, that was something no one could have predicted,” Charter snorted, leading her out of the tent. “Either way, a win is a win.”

Farie could not help but look back at where Rylen still seemed to be sleeping soundly, undoubtedly treated with an appropriate dose of painkillers and sedatives.

The harsh light of the setting desert sun blinded Farie for a moment as they left the makeshift infirmary. The atmosphere outside was very different - the battle rush had worn off and the high of victory seemed to have taken over the camp. The first songs and laughter could be heard around the evening campfires. Despite the stark contrast to the place she had spent the last few hours, she allowed a little relief and hope to fill her heart.

Chapter Text

Weeks had passed before things were back to normal in the Western Approach. Farie had to admit that the battle had taken a greater toll on her than she had first thought. She had to rest for a couple of days before she could leave the tent on her own, her wounded leg a visible reminder that demonic cuts did not heal easily.

As soon as she heard that Rylen had regained consciousness, she limped back to the infirmary as if lifted by relief. He was still weak, and she could only imagine what his wound looked like under the thick bandages. Nevertheless, he brightened immediately when he saw her in the tent entrance. On an impulse she soon regretted, she rushed to hug him, resulting in a very awkward embrace as she realised at the last second that she should avoid touching his arm. He didn't seem to mind though, as he gently stroked her back with the uninjured one and croaked a few words of thanks before a stern looking medic arrived and announced that it was time to change the dressings. As soon as Farie left the tent, she realised the awkwardness of the situation and could only hope that he didn't think she was taking too many liberties.

Sister Leliana used her brief stay in the West to regroup her agents in Orlais and assign them new missions. She informed Farie that the Western Approach would remain her assigned post, due to her physical condition, but also her previous experience. The Venatori still posed a major threat, and scouts had brought back alarming reports of their movements in the north of the region. To Farie's surprise, the first thing she felt was relief. Had she grown accustomed to this arid wasteland? Or to the familiar faces of all those with whom she shared the harsh desert life?

Whatever the reason, she didn't waste too much time on introspection. The final days of the Inquisition's stay among the desert sands were a busy time for all. As the last of the wagons finally set off eastwards, Farie was relieved to be able to return to her usual routine. She spent the next few days on the Old Chantry Trail, trying to set a trap for any unwise members of the Venatori who seemed very interested in the ruins hidden in the mountains. The siege of Adamant and the presence of the Inquisition must have alarmed them however, for they seemed far more cautious than usual. Her weekly report to Leliana would be sparse, beyond making note of their increased activity, and with a few scraps of information she had risked her life to overhear.

As she hurried back to the Keep to write up her report, she hadn't really expected anything out of the ordinary – the desert had become uneventful. So she was a little taken aback by the hustle and bustle she encountered as she passed through the gate. Soldiers carried dozens of chests and barrels up the steep stairs, and a general, carefree atmosphere had seemed to envelope everyone, from the scouts to the merchants.

A young soldier almost jumped out of his boots when she silently appeared at his side and asked what all the commotion was about.

“We’re celebrating the victory tonight, messere,” a Marchian recruit replied, still visibly shaken by her sudden materialisation. She would be lying if she said it didn't give her a certain satisfaction.

She stood there for a while, watching the unusual turmoil, but soon moved to the upper courtyard, shocked to see it decorated for the first time since she had arrived at the Approach. Perhaps decorated was too strong a word, but the Keep crew were clearly preparing it for dancing and feasting. She decided to hide in her tent and write the reports as soon as possible, before the party would take over Griffon Wing.

As the sun sank behind the reddish humps of the mountains, the first sounds of music filled the air. Curiosity did not let her stay away for long, as colourful crowds were always an interesting subject to observe. She crawled out of her shelter, leaving her stiff armour behind. It seemed an occasion to allow herself to put on her best, carefully embroidered shirt. An attempt to match the festive atmosphere, if only in a small way. After all, the relief and joy of the battle won, and of simply being alive, eventually washed over her as well. The simple celebrations did, to some extent, resemble the joyous holidays that once filled the life of her clan. Yes, she could use a little light-heartedness tonight.

The first dancers were already jumping to the rhythm of lively music played by slightly uncoordinated instruments. Small groups enjoyed their lively conversations and loud toasts. Some of these were certainly toasts to the fallen, which might have seemed a little odd in the midst of the joyous revelry, but Farie had long since learned that grief did not always have to be accompanied by despair.

She took one of the clay cups on the table, prepared for the revellers, and filled it with wine from a large oak barrel. It was surprisingly cool, considering the temperature of the air, and she took a sip with great pleasure. She could certainly enjoy a cup or two without losing her reason and dignity.

More and more people joined the dance, and she did not even notice as she was drawn into a joyous circle, trying to keep track of every jump and turn, laughing uncontrollably when she lost her step. It did not matter, for soon the circle was moving forward, unfazed by the slightest disturbance. Then the circle split into fours, then pairs, and before she could think, she was spinning around with one of the young scouts, then another, and then...

She found herself standing in front of a familiar face. Rylen firmly grasped her hand, but she automatically stepped back to avoid accidentally bumping into his injured arm. He still wore a sling, and she could only assume that was to protect it from further damage and to give the regenerating muscles some relief. When she looked up at him again, an unexpected shiver ran through her body.

Despite the joyful atmosphere, recent dreadful memories flashed through her head. Of the giant pool of blood spilling over the stones of Adamant Fortress. Of how she had watched the colours drain from Rylen’s face and listened to his every ragged breath as if it might have been the last; how she knelt in the bloody mud praying silently not to lose him.

How close they had come to never speaking again, left to rot somewhere far away from their true homes. Yet here he was, as full of life as ever. With that typical wry gleam in his eyes - were they always so blue? - emanating a warmth that seemed to permeate her now too. The unexplored feelings that Farie had kept buried somewhere deep inside her heart began to come dangerously close to the surface.

"Welcome home," he quipped, grinning broadly at her as they slowly began to turn to the next tune.

"Thank you," she snorted in an attempt to sound unfazed. "I have to say, the last time I saw you, you didn't look like you'd be dancing any time soon."

"It certainly didn't feel like it," he admitted, putting his arm around her waist for a little spin and jump, prompting another gentle shiver to run down the length of her body. “Besides, I was not the one with their leg sliced,” he teased as they found themselves standing face to face again.

“And how do you know that?” she asked, raising her eyebrow sceptically.

"I remember a thing or two," he winked at her as the loud call reminded the dancers to change pairs. His eyes studied her face for a moment before he let go of her waist. Beneath the usual mischievous glint, she noticed something else, something she had never seen before, or perhaps had never noticed: a sincere adoration, accompanied by a hint of relief. She could feel her heart beating faster, as if waiting for him to confirm that she was not imagining it. But soon he moved on so as not to disturb the rhythm of the dance.

While she felt a pang of regret when he disappeared back into the crowd, she was also relieved that he had recovered so quickly. It was hard to imagine Griffon Wing Keep without Rylen. Her throat tightened for a moment, but she grunted softly and soon a smile came to her face as another dancer took her hand and spun her around in a pirouette.

The dance couldn't last forever, though, for Farie had to admit that she was just terribly tired and her barely healed wound started to ache again. She slipped out of the merry circle and leaned against a stone wall. She wished it was cold enough to cool her down as well. Unfortunately, the walls of the keep seemed to stay warm no matter what. The fires lit to illuminate the courtyard did not help. Even the wine seemed warmer than before, but still she swallowed another gulp of the sour liquid with satisfaction.

A light breeze moved the torchlights, giving her a moment's relief. She decided it was time for a break, away from the cheering crowd, so she crept towards the grand staircase leading down to the lower battlements. It was already a little easier to breathe. She held her braid up, away from her neck, to dry a little as she took the steps that led to the outer walls. Preoccupied with loosening the ties of her shirt, she did not notice that someone was already there.

She stopped dead in her tracks when she realised it was Rylen, sitting on a block of stone, leaning slightly on one hand, with an untouched bottle of wine next to him. Her first instinct was to retreat and not disturb his moment of peace. Her second thought however, no doubt prompted by the wine coursing through her veins, was that she simply missed him and had not really had a chance to talk to him properly since the dreadful battle.

Farie coughed politely, not wanting to surprise him as much as she had the young Marcher earlier. He turned abruptly and smiled softly at her, reflexively making room for her beside him, shifting slightly and pushing the bottle away. Out of uniform, his hair tousled and his shirt slightly dishevelled, Rylen looked more like a village boy enjoying the festivities than a serious officer on duty. She couldn't help smiling back.

“Hey, Birdie,” he greeted her once again as she cautiously sat down, still watching his injured arm out of the corner of her eye. If someone else had tried to call her a similar nickname, she would have quickly and effectively brought them to their senses. Coming from Rylen, however, it did not sound mocking or belittling, just heartfelt and cordial.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” she admitted.

“I should add surprising a Dalish spy to my list of achievements,” he chuckled. “But why is that?”

“I thought you’d be feasting with your soldiers all night long is all,” she tilted her head at him.

“And why are you here?”

“Well, I just needed a break,” she looked out into the desert. The spectacle of stars and moons had already begun, joined by the distant fires of the Inquisition’s camps.

"There, mystery solved." She saw him smile at her again, but then immediately fall silent, prompting her to look at him again.

"What?" Farie smirked, pretending not to be confused by a strangely warm look in his eyes.

"I vaguely remember thanking you for saving my ass in Adamant, but I'd like to thank you again now that I'm conscious and don't sound like a hoarse druffalo."

She laughed, "We should both thank the soldiers who got us out of there. But you're welcome. And yes, you did thank me. Actually, I am sorry for disturbing your rest back then, I was just very happy to see you alive." She felt her cheeks and ears flush at the embarrassing memory. Fortunately, he probably wouldn't have noticed in the dark.

The same warm gaze fell upon her again, so she quickly turned back to admire the night sky.

“Well, a'm glad tae see us both alive,” he said, reaching for the lonely bottle. “So I propose a wee toast.” He skillfully pulled out the cork with his teeth and handed her the wine. “To beautiful and deadly elven lasses with braw timing.”

Farie laughed again, but felt the blood rush to her cheeks even faster as she took the bottle from him and took a small sip. She handed it back immediately and watched as he took a firm swig. For a second she let her eyes wander over the strong line of his jaw and the tattoos that adorned his face. She looked away as soon as he lifted the bottle from his lips.

“So why were you there, fighting all alone?” she asked to break the silence.

“I sent my soldiers forward when we heard the blast” he scratched his jaw pensively. “It was a wee bit reckless, I admit, not knowing what awaited them there…”

“That was the reckless part?” she snorted. “Not staying back to fight demons?”

“No, that was the responsible part,” he grinned.

She shook her head and sighed. She knew he would rather die than leave anyone behind. Being honest, that was one of the things she admired most about him. Besides, Rylen radiated an aura of solidity and composure, and she was definitely far from questioning his decisions. Of course, she noticed how safe people felt under his command, believing in his leadership. His cordial personality combined with unwavering principles gave everyone a sense of security. Even now, sitting with him under the dark desert sky, feeling the warmth emanating from him, she could also feel all the tension leaving her body and mind.

For a moment, she allowed herself to enjoy the scene. The distant sounds of music and laughter, the stars flickering above her head, the taste of wine still lingering on her lips, the pleasant scent... It took her a minute to realise it was Rylen, smelling of a nice soap and a distinct mixture of spices, with that faint, bizarre undertone that always seemed to follow the Templars. She guessed it must have been the Lyrium coursing through his veins. Silently, she took a deep breath to feel it all more clearly.

“You okay, lass?” Rylen's voice snapped her out of her musings. To her surprise, there was not a trace of mockery or amusement in it, but rather a tender concern that caught her slightly off guard.

“Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just very tired,” she sighed. “But it’s a beautiful night,” she dared to remark.

“It pure is,” he agreed, although she saw that his gaze fell nowhere near the desert nightscape. “And I couldnae ask for better company to enjoy it.”

It must have been the wine that finally hit her head, or at least she could not otherwise explain what happened the next moment. A sudden impulse made her turn abruptly towards him, to reach for his face and plant a soft kiss in the corner of his mouth.

For a brief moment she felt the roughness of his stubble and the uneven line of the scar on his cheek under her fingers, as well as the surprising softness of his mouth where their lips met.

A second later Farie regained her senses and immediately jumped down and away from the stone block, covering her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide with shock. Not only had she stalked him into the night and stolen his moment of peace, now she had certainly crossed the line.

Rylen was still sitting in the same position, slightly leaning back, but his eyes widened as well and his lips parted as if he was about to say something.

“Fenedhis, I’m so sorry…” she whispered before he could speak, taking a few steps back. “Don’t mind me, I’d better go to sleep.” She turned away and rushed towards the stairs, trying her best not to start running and embarrass herself even more.

She shouldn't have indulged in such a casual atmosphere, and she certainly shouldn't have been drinking wine when she was so tired. One stupid impulse had probably just ended the most precious friendship she had managed to make here.

“Farie!”

She stopped immediately. No ‘lass’, no ‘birdie’. Just ‘Farie’, her name which sounded so sweet when he called it, his accent making the sounds vibrate as they rolled off his tongue. She closed her eyes for a second before daring to face him.

Before she could say anything he was already at her side in a few quick strides. The next moment he had one arm around her waist, pulling her close, leaning in to catch her lips in an eager kiss. A thousand thoughts stormed through her head, but she parted for him, sighing quietly as he pressed her tighter to himself, his fingers slowly stroking her back through the thin fabric of her shirt. His tongue slipped between her lips, savouring her, making her melt in his embrace. She threw her arms around his neck as a wave of heat travelled through her body.

The last bit of common sense tried to convince her that she was making a grave mistake. But it was too late: her senses were aflame and all the outside world vanished, as she was completely, unbelievably lost in him. A soft moan escaped her throat as he turned his head slightly to further deepen the kiss, his stubble lightly scratching her face. Her palms slid up, fingers gripping the dark curls at the nape of his neck.

Surrounded by his scent, immersed in his embrace, she could only ride on the wave of euphoria through which her racing thoughts broke from time to time. It was Rylen; it was her friend, it was her comrade in arms, it was the Commander of the Inquisition. And yet it was happening, and by the gods, it felt wonderful.

Maybe it was a couple of seconds, or maybe it was an eternity, but at last he pulled away from her, his hand immediately rising to cup her flushed face. She let go of his neck, breathing heavily, not sure what was about to happen next.

Rylen held her gaze for a little longer, then leaned closer again, their foreheads touching.

“Ye have no idea how much… For how long I wished tae do this,” he whispered through his gasping breaths. She could have sworn that for the first time in her life she heard his voice tremble slightly. “And how grateful I am that yer still here. That we’re both still here. That I can hold you tonight.” His lips brushed against her temple, sending a shiver down her spine, before he looked her in the eyes again. ”Even if only with one hand," he chuckled, seemingly unable to say so many tender words without adding a small quip.

How could it be that she was so oblivious to how he felt about her? Every time he flirted with her and she took it as mere jokes, every time he cared for and looked after her more than his duties required. Or maybe she just denied it herself, afraid of what a sudden burst of affection might bring. Well, it was too late now anyway.

“Right. Your… Your arm,” she mumbled awkwardly, still drowning in the deep blue of his gaze.

“What about it?” he gave her the warmest smile, that somehow made her melt even more.

“Hope I didn’t hurt you?” she gulped.

“Not at all.”

“I have no more questions.”

“Wonderful,” he murmured as his hand moved to the back of her head, dipping into her silver waves. “Maker, yer so beautiful. Now let me…”

Another perfect kiss made the desert night swirl in her head.