10

Six: Leliana

Her assignment as a messenger shouldn't have been a surprise, but as she galloped through the rain between one army encampment and another, she cursed the luck that had made her one of the few fast riders the army had access to. The mages had been training – there were now a handful with the ability to shape-change into a bird – but that didn't negate the need for horseback messengers, especially when it came to communications with the Chantry, who none of the Dalish mages would approach after a first, awkward confrontation that barely avoided bloodshed.

All of that meant that she was cold, wet, and exhausted; she'd been riding from dawn until dusk day after day, with no semi-permanent base – so unlike the rest of her comrades, she was stuck sleeping wherever she was forced to stop, usually in a damp tent and bedroll that smelled like horse. It was, in a word, miserable. She hadn't seen Sierra or Aedan in days, hadn't had any down time or companionship, and she was starting to wonder if she hadn't misread the signs from the Maker after all – perhaps he just meant for her to ride herself to an early death, rather than help save the world?

She'd made it to a camp just as the sun was setting, but before she'd had the chance to set up her soggy tent, she'd been approached by the communications officer, or Commie, as they were known – a glorified bureaucrat, to be sure, but still technically Leliana's superior, so she'd had no choice but to listen. Not that she'd paid overly much attention to most of the details; the long and the short of it was that she was needed for one more run – an urgent message for the king that couldn't wait.

With a long-suffering sigh – and several colourful Orlesian curses – Leliana took the proffered envelope and climbed wearily back into her saddle. It was going to be a bit of a harrowing ride, with darkness already falling and the rain still sheeting down, but the Commie had even tried to suck up to the bard, praising her dedication and ability to ride at night, so it was clearly important.

It took much longer than normal to reach the main encampment, as Leliana had had to pick her way through brush in the dark, and even dismount and lead her horse at one point, but she'd finally arrived, soaked and miserable, only to remember she was on the wrong side – the command tent was on the northwest edge of camp, and she'd come from the southeast. The usual chaos reigned over the camp itself, and especially in her tired state, it had taken longer than necessary to make her way across.

By the time she'd handed off the envelope to someone standing outside Cailan's tent, she was all-but-asleep on her feet, and she didn't even have the stamina to blink when the servant pointed her to a large nearby tent and told her to get some rest. She'd stumbled inside, found a bedroll ready and waiting for her, and had barely managed to peel herself out of her wet cloak and armour before falling asleep face down in only a chemise.

The first thing she noticed when she woke was how warm she was; it had been weeks since she'd felt completely dry, and longer since she'd been warm, and she burrowed gratefully into the blankets, desperate to enjoy it for just a little bit longer before she got up and got her first assignment. Her hips were aching, however, from her long hours in the saddle, and it quickly became apparent that she wasn't going to be able to fall back asleep.

As she laid there, eyes still tightly shut, it occurred to her that she hadn't even climbed into the bedroll when she'd finally collapsed there – how had she come to be covered with warm blankets? Had someone come into the tent and covered her? As soon as the thought occurred, she realised she could hear something much closer than the general hum of activity from outside – breathing. She wasn't alone in the tent.

Her eyes flew open, her heart pounding in her chest. Her logical mind reminded her that in the middle of an army camp, it was unlikely she was about to be attacked, but what felt like a lifetime of playing The Grand Game had taught her that you could never be too careful. She leapt up in the same moment that she opened her eyes, throwing off the blankets and landing in a defensive crouch, looking around wildly.

She was surprised by how bright it was inside the tent; there was daylight streaming in, and it was clear she'd overslept. She was also surprised by the tent itself – in the light of day, she could tell it wasn't just any tent, something she hadn't noticed in her exhaustion the night before. The fabric of the tent was waterproofed better than any she'd seen, the bedroll and blankets thicker than hers; there was a camp stool, a desk, and a washstand nearby, and the floor was covered in actual rugs. Any thoughts about that fled at the next sight that greeted her, however: Nathaniel Howe, wearing only an unlaced tunic and cotton trousers, sitting cross-legged on the opposite side of the tent, his chin on his chest, asleep.

Taking another quick look around and seeing nothing threatening, Leliana settled onto her knees on the bedroll. She was in Nate's tent, that much was obvious; she could see the Amaranthine Bear heraldry on the armour in the corner, as well as embroidered on the blankets, and she wondered if she'd misunderstood the servant who'd directed here the night before. Perhaps she'd been asked to meet with Nate before going off to bed? If she'd been any less tired, she'd probably have noticed something was amiss, but as it was, it was pretty clear she'd come in, stripped down, and gone to sleep in the bedroll of a nobleman.

She was wearing only the chemise she'd collapsed in, and she was briefly grateful that Nathaniel was asleep – only to realise that the person who'd covered her in blankets in the night had more than likely been him, when he'd discovered her in his bed. She blushed when she thought of him seeing her like that, vulnerable and nearly naked, and she crawled carefully over to where she'd dropped her pack, rifling through it until she found some mostly dry clothes to put on. She dressed as quietly as she could manage, fighting her blush the entire time, planning in her head to grab her things and leave the tent before the Arl awoke – and then she could spend the rest of the Blight avoiding him, and they'd never have to discuss her awkward mistake.

Seven: Nathaniel

Nathaniel watched the bard surreptitiously through half-closed eyes, forcing himself to focus on her face, and not the long expanse of pale skin on perfectly formed legs that he'd been unable to avoid noticing in the night. It was clear from her frenzied movements and her quick, shallow breaths that she was anxious, and he couldn't blame her – when he'd asked to have Leliana directed to his tent once she'd arrived, he hadn't expected to find her undressed and dead to the world in his own bedroll. He'd tracked down the scout who'd spoken to her, and come to realise that she'd probably believed the tent to be meant for her – and had clearly fallen asleep before even finishing getting ready for bed.

She'd been shivering, and her face had been pale and gaunt; he'd chosen to wrap her in his blankets rather than wake her. He'd known the messengers were being run ragged, which was why he'd asked to take over organising them; he'd planned to allow her to sleep in his tent for the night anyway, though he'd rather expected she'd have her own bedroll. But he'd been delayed in his meeting with the king, and by the time he'd found her, she was fast asleep and his bedroll had been occupied. Conscious of how waking half-naked in the tent with a virtual stranger would seem to her, he'd decided to stay as non-threatening as he could – so he'd stayed dressed, planning to sit, awake, as far away as he could and keep an eye on her through the night. But he hadn't slept well since...well, his father, if he was truthful, and he'd been spending long days training with his men and meeting with Cailan and the other leaders, and his fatigue had caught up with him.

But now she was awake and dressed – and he owed her an apology. Several apologies.

"Leliana," he almost whispered; it still seemed loud, in the quiet of the tent, and she jumped like someone had goosed her. He held up his hands with a smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

Her face was red right to the tips of her ears, and she hesitated for a moment before meeting his eyes. "My Lord." She nodded, and he winced, still not entirely comfortable with the title – especially from someone who'd seen him murder his own father to obtain it. "I apologise. It's obvious this morning, but I didn't realise—"

He cut her off with a gesture. "No, no. It was a reasonable assumption to make. I should have made better preparations." She raised a bemused eyebrow, and he shrugged. "I've taken over managing the scouts and messengers. There wasn't anyone really in charge, and you were all being pushed to the point of exhaustion. I'd planned to give you the opportunity to catch up on rest this morning, but I was delayed getting here and didn't get the chance to explain before you fell asleep."

He blushed, an image popping unbidden into his mind's eye – the beautiful bard asleep in his bed, her hair fanned out around her like fire, her mouth soft and slightly open, her long legs on display and the curve of her ass just visible where the chemise had ridden up. He shook his head to clear it, but his expression must have shown more than he intended, because she laughed, her melodious voice appealing even despite her evident embarrassment.

He cleared his throat. "So, the new rider schedule has you making scheduled deliveries between camps, and you'll return here to sleep every night. Each messenger will be assigned a home base and a pre-determined route, so you can leave your things, knowing you'll be coming back to them at the end of the day." He blushed again, making a split-second decision. "This tent will be yours."

She objected, as he predicted she would; she was intelligent enough to have guessed that the tent was his, he knew, but he really meant it. "Consider it...an apology." They both blushed, but he elaborated, "I know you've been run off your feet, with no oversight on the Commies. There was no reason that message had to be delivered last night, for example. And this damp bedroll," he gestured to where she'd dropped hers near the tent flap, "is practically a guarantee of some sort of illness. I can get another tent, but I can't replace..." he trailed off, suddenly lost in the azure of her eyes, before forcibly tearing his gaze away and coughing awkwardly, "a messenger who becomes ill."

They both lapsed into silence for a moment, but somehow instead of uncomfortable, it felt strangely peaceful. He glanced back at her and she smiled shyly at him. "Thank you, my Lord."

He winced again. "Nathaniel. Please?"

She nodded, and on an impulse, shuffled over on her knees to lean down and press a quick kiss to his cheek. "Nathaniel."

Eight: Leliana

Leliana did end up taking his tent, though when he commandeered a replacement for himself – a much smaller, less ornate tent that he somehow seemed more comfortable in despite being cramped – he set it up beside hers, close enough that they could have carried on a conversation from separate tents without shouting. She got back to work after a half day of rest, to find things had dramatically changed overnight. She now had a route that involved circling from the Command tent, to the Chantry's camp, then to two other camps, before circling back to the Chantry and the Command tent. Assuming nothing untoward was happening, she would be back at her home base before dinner each night.

The added benefit was that, in between brief stints where they were off training with various parts of the army, most of her companions were in the main camp at times, and she got to see some of them nearly every night. She ate dinner with everyone in the army's mess tent, and then spent the evenings chatting with Sierra or Aedan, teasing Alistair, trading stories with Zevran, singing for her friends, and just generally relaxing. It reminded her of the time she'd spent before the Landsmeet travelling with the Grey Wardens, which were – despite the stress of the Blight and the threat of civil war which hung over them – some of the best months of her life. There were some obvious differences: they were surrounded by a large encampment filled with nobles, templars, and soldiers, and they didn't have to spend the day on foot, scavenging for food and fighting bandits, struggling to stay alive. They didn't have to spend nights on watch either, though she knew the Grey Wardens still took turns checking for Darkspawn.

They were also joined periodically by various people who hadn't been with them before the Landsmeet, but were welcome none-the-less: there was Bann Alfstanna, a lovely woman who had a secret love for shoes that Leliana could relate to, and the king himself joined them every second or third evening, keen to be away from his stuffy advisors and spend some time with people who didn't try to vie for his favour with each breath. Ser Cauthrien came by, stopping to chat amicably with Aedan or touch base with Loghain, and Keeper Lanaya dropped in from time to time as well. Queen Sereda spent the odd evening with them, sitting across the fire from Gorim as they studiously ignored each other.

But one new addition was there nearly every night, and she caught him watching her, his gaze heavy and palpable even when she wasn't paying attention. He'd look away, embarrassed, every time he realised she'd caught him, but within minutes he'd be watching her again. He watched her as he chatted with Aedan or Cailan, as he smirked at Sierra and Alistair – whose public displays of affection were still adorable – and as he fletched arrows by the fire. At first, it worried her; was he upset with her? Had she done something wrong? But the longer he watched, the more she realised he wasn't judging her; his gaze was warm, and it made her feel warm right down to her toes every time she noticed it. Not that she assumed it meant anything; she was well aware that he was a nobleman in a precarious position, in a country that hated Orlesians more than they loved their Mabari, and that was saying something. And she was Orlesian, by their standards, no matter how many people she told that she'd been born in Ferelden. She wasn't deluded enough to assume that he was watching her out of anything other than general interest, or perhaps gratitude for her part in his rescue – though the butterflies in her stomach paid no attention to that bit of logic.

Over the next several weeks, they worked together – Nate taking over running the scouts and messengers meant they spoke at least every couple of days – and Leliana found that she slowly began to gravitate to him after her deliveries were done for the day as well. She found herself a fletching tool and supplies and started helping him when he worked on arrows, cautiously joining in on his conversations at times. He was always so calm, so measured, never losing his temper or showing his worry, but neither laughing outright nor seeming lively and enthusiastic. He wasn't taciturn like Loghain, either – he was just composed, controlled, careful. Unflappable. He never asked for help and avoided even the appearance of pity; he was single-minded and intent on any task he undertook, totally serious and focused at all times.

In her fantasies – that she'd never admit to having, but couldn't seem to avoid, especially when she was alone in the tent and bedroll that had been his, able to hear his soft snoring from his adjacent tent – she dreamed about what it would take to break that control, to see him passionate, expressive...even tender. She wondered if, after his ordeal, he was even willing or capable of that. While she'd immediately proved to herself that she was capable of sex despite what had been done to her, Leliana had needed a year to recover enough to contemplate real intimacy after her escape from torture, and it had taken meeting Sierra and Aedan for her to come out of her shell and make real friends. It wasn't reasonable to assume he was ready for anything more personal than duty, at this point – if he'd even consider her for something personal, anyway.

And yet, every time she felt his eyes on her, she couldn't help but shiver under the weight of his gaze.

Nine: Nathaniel

Nathaniel was no blushing virgin; as an unmarried young noble squiring in the Free Marches, he'd had a variety of experiences with women. The first time, of course, he'd thought he was in love; the miller near the estate where he'd lived briefly in Markham had a beautiful, blonde, curvy daughter, and she'd held a teenaged Nathaniel spellbound from the first time he'd laid eyes on her. He'd given her presents, courted her favour, and one day found himself fumbling around in the dim light of an unused storage shed; she'd been gone as soon as he'd finished, and had never spoken to him again. He'd been heartbroken – for a week, until the girl who ran the fruit stand at the market caught his attention.

He'd not made the mistake of confusing lust for love again, but he'd had plenty of opportunities to satiate that lust, earning himself a reputation as a lady's man – but not a knave, either. He was careful never to lead anyone on, ensuring there were no hurt feelings – and no unexpected 'consequences' a few months down the road, either. He just enjoyed himself, without strings attached, and made sure his partners did the same.

But after a while, the novelty wore off. With his future so uncertain – squiring wasn't something he could do forever, even if he'd wanted, but he'd had no inkling that his father would ever recall him, either – he couldn't pursue anything more, and he'd had ten years in the Free Marches to have casual, meaningless sex. He really could no longer be bothered; he hadn't been with anyone for some time before returning to Ferelden, and since the Landsmeet, he'd been simply too busy.

He was rusty. He knew he was. But though he may have been out of practice, he remembered his experiences well enough to know that something about this was...different.

Oh, he desired her, there was no mistaking that; for the first time in a long time, his body stirred, his heart sped up, and his stomach dropped in that horrible pleasant way it always had when he'd pursued someone he found attractive. He had spent nights hard and aching for her, his mind flashing back to that brief glance he'd seen of her in only a chemise lying in his bedroll; he would flush and try to force the image from his mind, ashamed that he'd compromised her so unfairly, even if it hadn't been his intent. He couldn't help but compare himself to the monster he'd called Father for so long, and then he'd be overwhelmed by memories of the depravities he'd seen carried out at Rendon Howe's direction.

So his desire was familiar, if tinged with shame and guilt. And he had no intention of doing anything about it; he was an Arl now, he had too much to do to indulge in liaisons with anyone, and his station meant that any affair he chose to begin would be necessarily complicated.

The unfamiliar part was...something else. He was protective of her, in a way that defied logic; she was his best rider, requested by the Commies of various camps over and over for difficult assignments, but he kept her to the shortest, safest, least taxing route despite knowing he could desperately use her skills elsewhere. He worried about her even so, and spent most of his afternoons feeling like he couldn't breathe, until she trotted into camp before supper and he could finally relax. He was hyper-aware of her, a part of him keeping track of her whereabouts all evening even when he was otherwise occupied, and his gaze was drawn to her as if by a magnet. His cheek still felt warm where she'd kissed it, and he caught himself touching the spot unconsciously all the time. He laid awake nights worrying she would become tainted during the upcoming battle, assuming she wasn't killed outright – he worried more about her than Aedan, who was fast becoming a close friend, and was at far higher risk of death.