Chapter 8: 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.