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He first noted it with Bodahn; a furtive look and a forced smile. That is what greeted Alistair when he happened upon the dwarven merchant and Solona, their whispered conversation abruptly terminated. Immediately it roused feelings within him; long buried but never forgotten. A sense of shame; of guilt; of quaking resentment.
Too many times as a child he had rounded a corner of Redcliffe Keep to catch people talking about him. The memory of their scornful or pitying expressions and hissed remarks were branded upon his heart. Too young to understand or know better, he could not help but feel that he was to blame — that these people must have good reason to treat him with such disdain. He must have been a very naughty boy indeed.
He was a man grown now, and knew that he had never been at fault as a child. It was not possible for him to ever earn Isolde’s favour, no matter what he did.
The Arlessa could barely even bring herself to be polite when they’d arrived to help at Redcliffe. It seemed that Isolde would rather perish than ever be indebted to the likes of him.
It had stung a little, but at least he had the maturity now to know that Isolde was at fault, it wasn’t him. It had never been him. These feelings of shame however, how quickly they bubbled to the surface with something so simple as a look.
Yet when Solona turned from Bodahn and gifted him a breezy smile, all innocence in her expression, he dismissed those old fears and feelings readily enough. How could they linger when Solona was near? Such dread could not match the warmth that spread through every inch of his being at the sight of her. It could only be his imagination that something was amiss; his own insecurities.
Until he came upon Solona and Leliana later in the week, huddled together by the dying fire. So deep in the other’s confidence, they seemed almost one person in the flickering shadows.
Girl talk, he assured himself, doing his utmost to ignore the creeping unease that prickled in warning at his nape. He could live in this delusion, if he ignored their nervous shushing and the peculiar, knowing gleam in Leliana’s eyes.
He retreated hastily to his bedroll and stared up at his tent, searching the threadbare canvas for some insight. Just girl talk, no different to what he’d seen a hundred times before. Didn’t Solona deserve some secrets? Someone to confide it other than him?
Even if they clearly were talking about him, he should not presume that their remarks were unflattering. Unless they were laughing at him? Surely to Leliana, his inexperience and fumbling efforts at flirtation were farcical. Maybe Solona did think the rose he’d given her was pathetic and inadequate.
No. Solona wasn’t the sort to secretly mock people. She was honest and forthright, and had been a loyal friend to him since they first met at Ostagar. He was certain she would have politely declined the rose if she did not like it.
At last he was able to fall into a fitful sleep, having convinced himself that Solona would not have given him false hope in regard to her affections.
His hard won certainty crumbled down around him the very next day when he overhead Solona making a request of Sten.
“Is this truly your desire?” Sten asked her. He caught sight of Alistair then, and never one to hide his feelings, shot him a look of unbridled disdain. Whatever Solona had just requested of Sten was clearly repugnant to him. Even so, the stern Qunari acquiesced to Solona with a curt nod and made himself scarce.
The quiet hostility surrounding him was all too familiar, the same he had experienced all his life with Eamon and Isolde. When Duncan had brought him to the Wardens, he thought himself finally free. Free to be himself without rebuke; to earn friendship and respect through his actions. Free from whispers about his suspected parentage.
He thought he’d found that same freedom and respect here too, with this little band of misfits, but now he wasn’t so sure. Well, he wasn’t some helpless child anymore, that didn’t know better or how stand up for himself.
His pulse raced as he approached Solona. What if he was wrong? He didn’t want to cast any unfounded accusations, and if he had misread everything, she might think he was needy and insecure. He breathed deeply and worked up the nerve to broach the subject of his growing unease.
“Everything alright?” he asked, as he sidled up to Solona.
“Of course. Just checking in with everyone,” Solona assured him with a shrug. Her normally easy smile was now a little hesitant as she eyed him cautiously. Alistair couldn’t determine if she’d intended it, or if it was a mere slip of the tongue, but her words told him she was aware he’d noticed her recent conversations with their companions.
“Some of the things we’ve seen…” she slowly shook her head, a faraway look in her gentle brown eyes as she reflected on their recent misadventures. “I don’t even know how to begin to make sense of them — how to come to terms with them.”
“You can always talk to me,” he offered. A gentle prompt, to try and understand why she hadn’t done so. Maybe he had been too harsh after Redcliffe. Maker knew, Solona had done her best to save everyone. What right did he have to scold her and question her choices? Especially after he had laid the burden of it at her feet, rather than taking the lead as the more senior Warden.
“I know.” She smiled again more readily, a warmth in her eyes that he couldn’t mistake for anything other than genuine affection. He swayed toward her, drawn as always to be close to her. Solona’s brows pinched, an apologetic wince pulling the corners of her smile down. “Another time perhaps,” she blurted hastily and stepped away from him, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. “We’ve still a long trek ahead of us.”
Alistair’s heart quailed in his chest and the boldness he’d felt a moment ago fled. He stood there and watched her walk away, unable to give voice to the questions that burned in his mind; that painfully gnawed at his insides.
They finally reached the outskirts of the Brecilian forest by early afternoon, and he stumbled along in step with the rest of the party, not even registering the terrain around them, with his feet moving of their own accord. If they’d been ambushed today, he would not have seen it coming.
At first glance, this forest was nothing like the ones he had known. Around Redcliffe, the forests were filled with a range of pretty, flowering ground cover, the woods themselves always awash in a golden, dappled light. Pathways and clearings amongst the trees were abundant due to high traffic by the local residents and traders alike, as well as regular timber harvesting.
The undergrowth at the outskirts of the Brecilian forest was nigh impassable, choked with tangling vines and shrubs. The party struggled to make any headway as they attempted to scout for a suitable place to make camp. As they slowly pressed forward, the woods became gloomier and a damp chill seemed to settle into Alistair bones.
No-one spoke, afraid almost to disturb the eerie silence that surrounded them — yet something stirred deep within. Alistair had thought the Korcari Wilds to be spooky, the swamps there smelling fetid and full of decay, but at least there had been a vibrancy of sound; a sense of motion and life. The smell here was fresh at least, but the sounds that occasionally drifted through the still air were otherworldly. The gnarled old trees even seemed to be groaning and whispering to one another as they passed by, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
It only grew darker as they struggled further in, and then suddenly it was as though they had breached some defensive wall of vegetation, and the forest opened before them, lush and inviting.
“Finally!” Oghren groaned, the dwarf sweating profusely from the effort of their journey, and he plonked down wearily onto the nearest moss covered log.
They all seemed to converge on Oghren’s location, for though it looked peaceful and idyllic, Alistair couldn’t shake off the unease he felt in his shoulders and he suspected his companions felt the same, seeking safety in numbers. Solona and Zevran scurried around the clearing, eyeing the perimeter and darting from view on occasion as they scouted a little ways beyond.
“This will do,” Solona announced at last, as she returned from her inspection, and a collective sigh rose from the party — relieved that they could wait until dawn before pressing on into the fabled and mysterious forest. “Nice little river down the slope there, and this seems a defensible position.”
No other command needed to be given, they were well practiced now at setting up camp in an orderly manner. The exhaustion of being on the move and constantly hunted had been good motivation for learning to set up and pack down with extreme efficiency.
“Alistair?” He dropped the sack that contained his tent on the ground where he wanted to erect it, and turned toward Solona. “Could you go with Zev to find firewood? Thanks,” she added with haste and then rushed away on some other errand.
Alistair grimaced. Now that was unusual, Solona usually left them to sort out their tasks amongst themselves. Not that he had an issue with gathering firewood, he truly didn’t mind, and it was easier for him than the others. He just felt strangely dismissed by her manner.
Rejected.
He huffed quietly, attempting to expel these unpleasant feelings. Instead, he took up his hatchet and headed into the woods, with Zevran close on his heels. He let Zevran gather up scraps and branches for kindling, while Alistair busied himself searching for larger branches and fallen trees. He found one at last and took to it with gusto, hacking out his frustrations on the thick, dry branches.
Before he knew it, he had nearly dismantled the entire tree. He straightened, stretching the aching muscles in his back and wiped the sweat from his brow. The sparse light in the forest had grown even dimmer, sunset drawing near, but he had not even noticed, so occupied was he with his task. So occupied with keeping his thoughts from drifting to painful, unpleasant conclusions.
Zevran reappeared at his side, and began to bundle together the last of the logs Alistair had cut. Alistair plonked down on the nearly stripped trunk of the once mighty tree, and took a moment to catch his breath.
"Still more to go," Zevran remarked and jerked his chin toward the remaining branches.
"I think we've more than enough," Alistair scoffed.
“We'll burn through all of this in no time and I have no desire to be stumbling about in the dark, in this creepy place, searching for wood.”
"You're welcome to cut more yourself.” Alistair testily held the hatchet out for Zevran, not in the mood for his blithe cheerfulness.
"Solona asked you to help me,” the rogue pertly returned. “Besides, you looked in your element hacking away at this poor stump. What’s troubling you?"
Alistair looked away from Zevran, his mouth drawing into a thin line. The last thing he wanted was to pour out his troubles to Zevran of all people. “I’ve had a long day."
“Haven’t we all,” Zevran sighed dramatically. “But you know I can’t abide when the fire dies out half way through the night. This cold country of yours, it is not for me,” Zevran wheedled at him.
“That sounds like your problem then.” Alistair pushed himself up off the stump, secured the hatchet in his belt and picked up the remaining logs.
“I’m going to make it everyone’s problem when I crash around in the middle of the night, cursing and bemoaning the cold,” Zevran smirked at him and that pulled Alistair up short.
A few months ago, he wouldn't have noted it; wouldn’t have known Zevran well enough to recognise when he was trying to charm and distract. He knew better now though, and Zevran was clearly trying to stall him. He couldn’t fathom why Zevran would attempt to do so, but given what he had witnessed and overheard recently, he could only assume it was at Solana’s behest.
“Enough, Zevran," he barked and strode off into the woods.
“Oh alright, alright,” Zevran relented hastily as he chased after Alistair. “I’ll chop, but you need to help me carry it,” Zevran tried to turn him back, but Alistair ignored him, shaking the rogue off and marching determinedly back toward camp.
He dumped his logs onto the pile that Zevran had made on one side of the fire pit, the campfire already lit and crackling away.
“Oh, you’re back,” Leliana announced as she approached him, throwing a pointed look to where Zevran still scurried behind him. Zevran gave a quiet sigh of exasperation and Alistair ground his teeth together in annoyance. He was starting to feel less hurt and more angry by this entire plot — or whatever it was.
“Yep,” Alistair snapped curtly. “Let’s get dinner started shall we?”
“I’ll take care of dinner, Alistair dear.”
“Oh… thanks Wynne.” He swallowed hard, trying to squash down the quivering that started in his chest at the sight of Wynne; at the sound of her soft and motherly manner. He wanted nothing more than to sit down at her feet and pour out all his worries and sorrows to her.
“You wouldn’t mind fetching some water from the river for me though, would you?” Wynne held up the empty bucket for him and his stomach dropped.
You too, Wynne? he thought, disheartened that even she seemed determined to be rid of him.
To his great relief however, Leliana immediately interjected, “Surely we don’t need more water?”
“Indeed!” Zevran seconded. “If there is not enough, well… can’t we make do with dry rations tonight?”
“Don’t be silly,” Wynne remarked, looking from Leliana to Zevran with such a perplexed expression that it further filled Alistair with ease. He should never have doubted Wynne, she of all people would not turn upon him. “We’ll all feel, and sleep, a lot better with some warm food filling our bellies.”
“But—”
“Let him go to the river, Leliana,” Morrigan interjected, seeming to appear out of nowhere, and her dark voice sent a chill down Alistair’s spine. “This nonsense grows tiresome.” She sneered at Alistair with disdain, turned on her heel and marched off to her tent.
Alistair blanched at her words, which verified what he had long suspected. Something was afoot and he was being made a fool of by being kept in the dark.
He did his best to give Wynne a cheery grin as he took the bucket from her, throttling the handle in his tight grip. He stomped out of the clearing, not caring if he looked a petulant fool as he barged through the clinging vines and ferns that stood in his way.
He crashed through the undergrowth as he marched down the slope, and could soon hear the rhythmic gurgling of the stream. Not even that peaceful sound could soothe his sour mood. Finally he came upon a recently trampled path, presumably where Solona had scouted earlier on. The trail led toward a large, moss covered rock formation, and by the sound of it, the river was just beyond.
Before he could confirm his assumption, Solona popped out from behind the rocks and came scurrying up the path, looking flushed and cagey.
“Alistair!” she declared loudly, tidying her short mop of black hair that had somehow become tousled. “You’re here!”
How often he had dreamed of being the one to run his fingers over her glossy hair, to put in back in place after falling askew during a fight. To be able to hold her close in the calm of night and bury his nose in those sable locks, confessing the secrets he held close in his heart.
Had it all been nothing more than a wild, delusional fantasy?
“Just fetching water,” he ground out, bitter disappointment upon his tongue. “Unless you have some other task for me?”
“Oh!” her eyebrows rose in understanding. “You don’t need to worry about that, I can do that for you.” She stepped forward and tried to snatch the bucket from his hand. Alistair pulled it out of her grasp and when he tried to step around her, she blocked his path to the river.
“Forget it, I’m here already,” he grumbled as he attempted to evade her once more.
“It’s no trouble, honestly. You can go and relax back at camp,” she did her best to sound bright and nonchalant, but he could see the worry forming a deep furrow between her brows.
“Wynne’s waiting to get our supper ready,” he insisted. “And you can drop the act.”
“The act?” That stopped her dead in her tracks, her eyes flaring wide and Alistair finally dodged around her with ease.
He did not make it very far, for in the next moment he nearly lurched full tilt into Sten.
The warrior frowned up at him sternly and then remarked to Solona, “I will return to camp. There is no further need for stalling.”
Now it was Alistair’s turn to be frozen in disbelief, as Sten strolled away.
Stalling? Why was Solona out here alone with Sten? And trying so hard to keep him from finding out? He didn’t even know what exactly was going on, but the answer couldn’t be anything good. Not for him in any event and he braced himself for disappointment.
“Can we talk?” Solona asked as she sidled up beside him.
“I’m all ears,” he rasped, though he felt sick in his heart. Alone with Sten, flushed and dishevelled. What had they been up to? He dreaded to think. He might be innocent, but he wasn’t that innocent, not so much so that he was unable to imagine the worst.
“The rose you gave me, it was such a sweet, romantic gesture…”
“Mhm,” he muttered. There was no air left in his lungs to give voice to any of the emotions he was feeling.
“I’ve been…I’ve found it difficult. Well, that is to say, given current circumstances with the Blight and everything,” Solona babbled on and how he desperately wished she would get to the point. Though to some degree, it pleased him to hear how difficult she was finding it to break his heart. “I can’t return the gesture. Not in the way I would like to.”
“Right.” He was surely in a state of shock, for he suddenly felt numb; as though this wasn’t happening. Not to him. Not with her. Had he truly been so utterly deluded in thinking that she returned his affections? He thought he had been quite careful and conservative, not letting himself get carried away with the giddy infatuation he had developed — letting her behaviour be a guide for his own. Now it seemed, he had misread her intentions toward him entirely.
“What I’m trying to say, Alistair—”
"I understand. I get it,” he interjected, barely managing to croak the words out, his throat feeling thick and raw. He realised he didn’t actually want to hear her say the words, he couldn’t bear it.
“You do? I’m so relieved,” she gushed and it pained him to hear how genuinely happy she sounded. “I knew you would, but still, I was worried. I wanted this to be perfect, I wanted…” she sighed heavily, finally falling silent.
His jaw ached from the force with which he had been gritting his teeth. There was something hot and fierce roiling in his guts. A long suppressed rage, fed over the years with pain; rejection; resentment. He could feel it burn up the back of his throat like bile, fighting and clawing to be unleashed.
“It doesn’t matter I suppose,” Solona quietly murmured and laid her hand upon his arm. Indignant at her touch, he rounded upon her at last, preparing to unleash the venom that churned inside him. The soft, adoring expression in her eyes took him aback. “I want you, and I hope that’s enough.”
“Uh… you…? What?” He blinked down at her, his brain scrambling to make sense of what she had said.
Eagerly, she closed his hand in hers and tugged him along after her. Alistair stumbled in her wake, witlessly following her as she led him around the large rock and into a little clearing by the river.
He gaped dumbfounded at the scene before him. Solona’s tent had been pitched further down the slope, near to the riverbank, and a haphazard path of mismatched candles led from the tent up toward one of their rough hewn blankets. It was spread out upon the ground, the flickering, golden light from the candles illuminating the sparse little picnic laid upon it.
“Is that cheese?” he asked, his spirits lifted when he spied the small wheel of soft cheese, and another sliver of a hard, yellow variety beside it. His mouth watered at the very sight. A pair of wooden mugs laid beside a bottle of wine and scattered around that lay various nuts, dried fruit and some all-too-familiar rock hard crackers — all standard items from their travel rations, but arranged with a careful eye.
“Bodahn did his best to source some on the journey here. He’s a miracle worker if you ask me.”
“This is why you’ve been acting so suspicious lately,” Alistair murmured in awe, as everything fell into place. In this light, her behaviour suddenly made absolute sense to him. As did the secretive and amused expressions of their companions, who she had clearly roped in to help her in this escapade.
She hadn’t merely plotted a surprise for him — in the process she had boldly confessed to everyone close to her that she cared for him. That he mattered enough for her to go to this effort. He blinked hard, his eyes inexplicably stinging.
“I wanted it to be a surprise. A nice surprise I hope?”
“Of course. I was starting to think—” he choked off that ill-considered admission.
She studied him, her eyebrows raised expectantly, but he could not bring himself to say what he had been thinking and feeling the past week. It would crush her to know how easily his thoughts had turned to doubt and mistrust. When all the while she was meticulously and lovingly planning this.
For him. And he was an undeserving, foolish arse.
Solona was beginning to look anxious, and he felt even more guilty and ashamed. How she must have worried, fearing that he would not be pleased by her efforts. When how could he be anything less than amazed by it?
“I’m touched by the effort. Even if it is a bit… cheesy,” he drawled, wanting to put her at ease. Solona laughed enthusiastically at his terrible pun and his heart leapt, bursting with joy.
“I’m glad,” she beamed. “I just wanted to give you something you’d like. Something a little bit normal. A moment of peace, away from it all.”
He understood what she meant by that; a moment away from the endless nightmare they had seemed to be living since Ostagar. The exhausting days and the endless fighting. The restless, haunted nights. He could see it in her eyes, the constant fear and strain — the knowledge of what would happen to Ferelden if they failed in their task. A task they were not remotely equipped or ready for. He couldn’t imagine anyone he would rather be sharing this nightmare with however.
“And I was hoping,” Solona edged in a little closer to him, “that you might share my tent with me tonight.”
"Only tonight?” he smirked, trying to appear calm despite the fact that his heart was suddenly galloping as though he’d run a mile — his pulse drumming a fury of desire in his ears.
“You really were eager to skip to the steamy bits,” she laughed again.
“Not at all. This is nice,” he reassured her once more, doing his utmost to calm the hunger that fired his blood. “This is amazing actually. Thank you.”
Solona leaned into him, rising on her toes to kiss him. Alistair felt his nerves beginning to overwhelm his excitement, but he followed her lead, mirroring her, and she sighed into him, deepening their kiss. He stood awkwardly, not sure what to do with his hands, but as she continued to move her lips over his, her tongue dancing into his mouth, his hands moved of their own volition, winding around her to draw her tight against him.
When Solona finally broke from him with a smile, and made to guide him down to the blanket, he caught hold of her instead and kept her close. There was something important that he had forgotten to tell her.
"I love you,” he rasped, almost afraid that his voice would quit on him before he could get the words out. It had seemed such a frightening thing to say, but once he had, how relieved he suddenly felt.
"I know.” Solona grinned at him in reply. The tender affection in her eyes, and the soft timbre of her voice, made it clear to him that she loved him too. He should never have let his own insecurities lead him to doubt it. Certainly, it would be nice to hear it spoken clearly by her in return, but he didn’t want to push her. Given the week he has had, this was already a far greater outcome than any he had dreaded.
To his delight however, she threaded her fingers through his, and finally uttered the words that would fill him with consummate joy.
“I love you too.”