Chapter 30: Leliana

Sneaking back to her tent was a simple matter. Nathaniel had demonstrated his abilities back in Denerim, and he’d been half-starved and weakened from weeks of torture at the time. Now only her own, considerable skills even allowed her to follow him when he disappeared into the shadows of the darkened camp. It would have been even easier, if not for the slight shaking in her hands, and the queasy sort of quaking in her stomach. It had been a long time since she’d had nerves related to going to bed with someone – but then, it had been a long time since she’d done that, too. She supposed a bit of anxiety was probably normal.

It would have been easier with anyone else, she thought; not that she wanted to take anyone else to bed, but knowing that she likely had only this one encounter – one single night – to prove to them both that they had something worth fighting for was nerve-wracking. If they were somehow incompatible – or if he regretted it the next day, for whatever reason – she’d never see him again, she was sure.

So it was with sweaty palms and a tremulous smile that she parted the flaps on the tent he’d given up for her. He followed her inside, his warm breath on her neck giving her goosebumps. The last light of dusk was fading, so the shadowy interior of the tent was difficult to see. She sighed; she’d have preferred to have more light, not only to allow her to admire his lean, archer’s body, but also to be able to watch his face for reactions – to her, to what they were doing – and any indication how he was feeling about it. But despite having access to one of the miraculous little arcane lamps from Soldier’s Peak, she wouldn’t use it. Neither of them wanted to advertise what was happening between them, and in the dark, with the light on, anyone passing by would be able to see their silhouettes. She had no intention of sharing him with anyone.

His arms wrapped around her from behind before she had the chance to turn; he was warm, and she leaned back against him almost involuntarily, enjoying the feel of his chest against her back and his arms around her waist. He pressed a kiss to her temple, and she sighed happily as some of her nerves settled. She turned in his arms, draping her own arms around his neck and lifting her face expectantly. Instead of the kiss she anticipated, he pressed his forehead against hers, his nose nuzzling her own gently. His face was lost in the shadows of the tent, but she fancied she could feel his gaze on her.

His breath caught in the way that it would if he was about to speak, but after a brief pause, in which he said nothing, he shifted and pressed his soft lips against her own instead. She gasped in surprise, but arched against him and returned the kiss in kind when his tongue flicked across her lips teasingly. Her tongue sought his, her fingers wove into his still-damp hair, and she gave herself up to the feel of him, his hands stroking her back, his taste in her mouth, his hard body pressed against her from knees to shoulders. He groaned softly as she fisted her hands, using his long, silky hair to pull him closer.

When he released her lips to shift his attention to the long expanse of her slender neck, she hummed in pleasure – but backed away, running her hands down his chest softly before reaching for the top button of his doublet. He froze, his hands on her hips clenched, and she paused briefly before popping open the next button, and then the next. He stayed still, rapid breaths escaping from his lips until it was time to shrug out of the doublet entirely. He tossed it aside, and after a brief moment of hesitation, pulled his tunic over his head to join the doublet on the ground.

She reached for him before the fabric had left his fingers, her cold hands pressing against the warm skin on his shoulders. She could feel him shudder as she explored his chest: the small patch of sparse hair covering thick bands of muscle, the scars scattered across his skin like confetti. She edged closer, until she could press a kiss directly over his heart.

And then she was in his arms again, one of his hands tilting her chin up so he could kiss her deeply, the other around her waist holding her close. She continued tracing her fingers over his skin, from his chest to his shoulders, his ribs to his back, until he gasped and pulled away laughing.

“Don’t tickle!” he chuckled, and then, as if imagining the enormous grin that spread across her face in the darkened tent, he moved, quick as a snake, to pin her arms against her sides. “I said don’t,” he whispered, his tone trying for low and dangerous but the laughter in his voice made her giggle.

“I apologise, m’lord,” she teased. “I’m a naughty girl. What will it be: whips, or the rack?”