When Fate Summons (a Dragon Age fanfiction)

Whataya Want from Me

It was a quiet campfire that night. Sigrun and Dirnley lay recuperating in their tents, injuries healing, with Anders in devoted attention on them both. This seemed to make Dirnley uncomfortable—he was a devout Chantry follower, and wasn't entirely pleased to be traveling with two apostates—but he was too weak to protest. Jens had taken to his bed early. His injuries weren't as extensive as those of the other two, but he'd been wounded pretty heavily for all that.

Morrigan, of course, kept to herself by her own fire. Some things never changed, Alistair reflected. And Thora had taken first watch. If he knew her, she'd probably take second watch, too, spending her own strength instead of relying on someone else's.

Alistair took a seat near the campfire and sat in silence with Oghren and Xandros. They were the two Grey Wardens he felt most comfortable with, given his history with Oghren and how closely he worked with Xandros now that the elf was the official Grey Warden liaison in Denerim. Xandros's influence was a great help in Alistair's continued focus on improving the lives of the Alienage elves. Bitterly Alistair thought to himself that he could well have ended up as one of them, a half-caste hanger-on in the Alienage, neither one thing nor the other. Instead here he was, the sodding king of Ferelden. Without thinking, he took the mug Oghren handed him, draining it.

Oghren laughed as Alistair coughed. "Time was, boy, that woulda had you flat on your back." He took the mug, refilled it from wherever he kept all the ale, then handed it back. "Drink up, ya nug-humper. Sodding darkspawn. Just like old times, eh?" He dug Alistair in the ribs.

"Riiight," Alistair said. "Just like them. Those charming old times, how I've missed them." It would have been funnier if it wasn't true, he thought. He took another swallow of the ale. Not bad, on the Oghren scale. He watched Anders emerge from Sigrun's tent and look around the campfire before ducking into Dirnley's. Looking for Thora, was he? Alistair thought. Thora treated Anders with an affection she didn't show the rest of her team, and Alistair had seen how the mage ended up in Thora's tent at the end of the day, hearing the man's laughter night after night. Of course, Alistair had also seen Anders exiting the tent every night. Not that he'd been watching, of course. It was just something he'd noticed. He looked down at the mug of ale, wondering when it had gotten so empty. Oghren refilled it for him.

Xandros, on the other side of the fire, sat cleaning his knives. In general, drinking only made the elf more quiet, but now he leaned toward Oghren. "Is this wise? I don't believe the Commander would be happy if she saw you feeding the king so much of that brew of yours."

Oghren chuckled. "Sometimes ya gotta stir the pot a bit, get some action goin'."

Raising a silvery eyebrow, Xandros shook his head. "My friend, this kind of action doesn't seem healthy." He looked at the king. "Your Majesty, I think I will retire."

"Oh! Uh, sure, Xandrosh. Good idea. Sleep, good stuff." Alistair stood up as well. "I b'lieve I will ... take a moment." He walked unsteadily off into the trees.

"See?" Oghren said. "Even three mugs o' my best can't get the duty-stick out o' that blighter's rear end. Got the wrong one drunk," he grunted, tipping his own mug up deeply, wishing he had his wife and children with him right now. Felsi'd straighten out the whole lot of 'em, he thought, and toppled over the log he was sitting on, snoring happily on the ground.

Xandros moved across the clearing toward the fire where the witch sat, brooding. She didn't talk to him much, but he felt that his quiet presence was comforting to her.

Alistair came out of the trees, feeling a bit more steady. He caught sight of the mage again, the mage whose eyes constantly swept the camp looking for her. Well, not tonight, ser mage. Tonight the blond in her tent wasn't going to be wearing a skirt, he thought. It felt more than a little illicit to be fumbling with the flaps of her tent, but everyone else was in bed, passed out, or otherwise occupied, so he thought he'd managed it without detection. Then he was in her tent, surrounded by her smell—still so familiar after all this time, the flowery, coppery scent that was just her. "What exactly is the plan here, Alishtair?" he asked himself, but he had no answer.

Thora, true to Alistair's expectations, had intended to take second watch, but Xandros emerged from the trees, gently urging her back to her tent. There was something in the elf's green eyes that had her moving warily, expecting something ... unpleasant.

Then she felt him, and she knew. For a moment, she contemplated turning tail, finding a nice thicket to sleep in like a wild animal. Anything to avoid whatever confrontation was coming. But another part of her quickened, her breathing coming more rapidly. It was Alistair, after all, and when it came right down to it she'd rather argue with Alistair than do just about anything with anyone else.

She checked on the injured party members first. Anders slept on a bedroll near Sigrun, and the dwarf looked well. Dirnley was tossing and turning a bit more fitfully, but he also appeared to be on the mend.

With no further delaying tactics available, she turned toward her own tent. Before she'd even fully stepped in, he said, "Took you long enough."

"Duties, you know," she said briefly, trying to ignore the aching of her body as she saw him sitting there, sprawled in his adorable way. What would happen, she wondered, if she went over there and— But she knew what would happen. Without a doubt. And she wanted it. By all the Ancestors and the Stone itself, she wanted it. But in the morning, nothing would have changed. She ran her hands over her face, trying to calm the fires raging within her. "What are you doing in here, Alistair?"

"Expecting shomeone else, were you?" he asked. The slight slur in his voice left her with no question as to the catalyst behind his presence there.

"Oghren," she growled. That dwarf would be getting a talking-to in the morning.

"Oghren?" Alistair blinked. That wasn't what he was expecting. "But ... I thought ..."

"No, I meant I'm going to kill Oghren tomorrow," she snapped.

"Oh. Seems a bit drashtic," he said.

Groaning, she cradled her head in her hands. "Alistair, what do you want? I'm exhausted, it's been a long day, I want to go to bed."

"It's right here," he said, pointing to the bedroll right next to him, his eyes taking on that dark fire that had always melted her. She drew in a sharp breath, and he stood up, a bit unsteadily, his body filling the tent, and her senses, in a way Anders's had not. "Would it be so bad?" he said huskily, his voice making her knees weak.

"No," she said, breathless. Then, stronger, "No. Not going to happen."

"What? Are you waiting for your precious mage?" he growled.

Suddenly the whole thing was too much. "What business is it of yours?" she asked angrily, staring up at him.

He reached out, grasping her by the upper arms and shaking her. "Because you belong to me!" he cried, anger and frustration and longing and all the years of missing her frothing in his voice. "You belong to me," he said again, more quietly, still holding her by the arms.

"No, Alistair," she said, though her body was crying a different word altogether. "No, I don't. Not in a long, long time."

"Why not?"

"You know why. Because all it took was a few tears from her and you cast aside everything we had promised, everything we were to each other. Because this is the first time you've touched me in four years."

"No, that can't be true," he scoffed.

"It is," she said sadly, all too aware of the warm hands on her arms. "Remember last fall, we were walking on the parapets, talking about the possibility of reopening Kal'Hirol, and I tripped and fell and sprained my ankle. You wouldn't even reach down a hand to help me up. You called for Anawyn, and she helped me back to my room. Not even a hand to help me up, Alistair! In years. And yet you still think you have some claim on me?" She bit down on the inside of her cheek. Hard. She would not cry. "Go back to your wife, Alistair, and see if what you got was worth what you gave up."

He swallowed, taking his hands off her. "Do you— Don't you love me anymore?" He knew exactly how pathetic the question sounded, but that didn't make asking it any less imperative.

"Get out. And don't think you can come in here uninvited again," she said. White-faced, he turned toward the entrance. As he ducked through the flaps, she reached out, uncontrollably, wishing he would look back just once. But he didn't.