Truce

Emma sat by the window, watching the tower rise from the lake. Their crossing had been mercifully brief.

Kinloch Hold seemed now as Emma remembered it: round, indifferent, wet stone and narrow windows. Heavy and watchful. Its solidness reassured her the moment her boots struck the dock. The sensation of a held breath, old and patient.

Alistair returned from the bar with two mugs and a plate of something allegedly edible. He set them down carefully.

“They claim it’s rabbit stew,” he said. “I have my doubts.”

Emma wrapped her hands around the mug.

“I noticed, while we were sailing,” he sat, not quite meeting her eyes, “You turned approximately the color of this alleged stew.”

“Yes. The waves make me nauseous,” she eyed the soup warily.

He remembered how she had leaned forward next to him. Small. Braced. He had wanted to do something. He still didn’t know what.

“Are you alright?”

“I will be, soon.”

Alistair accepted that, because that was what he had learned to do lately.

Across the room, Leliana was smiling at the innkeeper in a way that usually preceded secrets changing hands. Morrigan was nowhere to be seen. The tower’s silhouette pressed against the window, dark and patient.

“I miss you,” Emma said.

Alistair looked up, startled. “I’m here.”

“Not really.” She met his eyes.

“I decided to stop embarrassing myself,” he said.

“How?” She leaned back, letting the chair creak.

“I thought,” he said carefully, “after… everything… maybe it was better if I didn’t say the wrong thing.”

“So you said nothing.”

“Yes.” He winced. “Which appears to be worse.”

She watched the surface of her drink settle.

“I liked when you told me the first thing that came into your head,” she said. “About anything. Even potentially embarssing things. Like when those templars stole lyrium, and you set the evidence on fire.”

“That was an accident.”

“I know. That’s why it was funny.” He smiled automatically, then seemed to catch himself doing it, and stopped when he realized she wasn’t. She sighed. “You don’t have to try so hard.”

“After Leliana I just—started thinking maybe I was out of my depth. I’m a rube and you’re—” He cut himself off.

“What?” she said. She’d heard this kind of explanation before. Not from him, not about her. But it could have been boilerplate: It’s not you, it’s me.

He didn’t finish. She didn’t push. She looked back into the mug instead, annoyed.

“I just can’t treat something like this casually,” he said.

“But…” Emma sighed. She felt serious. It wasn’t helping. They sat there, for awhile.

“Can I ask you something?” He looked up. “Leliana. When you let her down. Was that because of me?”

“Yes.”

He swallowed. “So you chose this.”

“I did.”

It struck him.

“Why would you ask me to choose you,” she pressed the advantage, “and then stop being you?”

He put his elbows on the table, face in hands, apparently without an answer.

“We can stop,” she suggested. “If you’re uncomfortable with this.”

“Right. Of course.” He looked away. “I understand.”

“No—” She corrected so quickly he had to look back. “You don’t. You got scared. And I—” She hesitated. “I don’t want to scare you.”

He realized she was worried. About him. Emma saw it hit—his shoulders eased like he’d been bracing for a blow that never came.

“My magic,” she said. “Is that it?”

He stared at her for a second.

“I have fought abominations,” he said, almost stern. “I have fought darkspawn and ogres. We have fought them together. I am not afraid of you.”

“I doubt it’s that simple.”

“Then what did you mean? That I see you as a risk? As something to manage?”

She didn’t answer.

“I know what you are,” he said, quieter now. “I’ve always known. It’s never once been the part that worried me.”

“Then what is it?” she crossed her arms, doubtful. “You can barely look at me.”

“What worries me,” he said reluctantly, “is me ruining this.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes,” he was irritated now, also crossing his arms. “That’s all. Just the little matter of I don’t want to take you for granted. And how I’m trying to, for once in my life, think before I say something stupid. Is that so horrible? Why am I defending myself, here? I’m trying to do you a favor.”

“You’re treating me like I’m fragile.”

“I’m not–”

“You think one wrong word and I’ll stop talking to you? Decide you’re not worth it? Do you think I don’t know who you are?”

He sat back. “I didn’t realize…I was just…” She leaned forward.

“Please stop,” her own voice sounded pathetic.

“I don’t know how to do this. Not without getting all… stiff and wrong. I’m sorry. I’ll-” she watched him cut off at try.

“I need you to actually be here.”

“Alright. I-I’ll try. I’m sorry. I don’t know if I can stop. I didn’t do you any favors. I know that now.”

“Alistair–” she held her head in her hands. “This isn’t an audition.”

“What is this, then?” he asked, slowly. “I should tell you… I don’t know if I’m ready for anything like… well, you know. Not yet.”

“I’m not worried about doing that,” Emma frowned, following the logic. Jealous, but retreating. It was contradictory. But she didn’t need that, which was rather the point. So she let it go.

“It’s a truce,” she said. “We don’t escalate. We don’t audition. We just… talk. Like before.”

“I’ll take it,” he said immediately, then softened, with a nervous smile. “If that’s what you want. Very romantic, by the way.”

“I’m not good at romance,” she said. She picked up her mug. It was cold, now. “You should learn this.”

“That’s tragic.”

“For both of us.”

He looked down. Something tightened in his shoulders.

“You chose this,” he said again, like he was testing the shape of it.

“Yes.”

“And you’re not… reconsidering.”

“No.”

“And I don’t know where this goes,” he said.

“So?” She raised an eyebrow. “The truce.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

“Although–” he stopped. “Nothing. It’s fine. Truce.”

She stood, pushing her chair back. “Morrigan’s back. She’s doing the ‘you’re being tedious’ look.”

He glanced over. Morrigan was, in fact, radiating pointed boredom in their direction.

“How can you tell?” he asked. “That’s just her face.”

“I just know.”