It was her hands sliding along the pommel of her sword, gripping it with the familiarity and ease of a seasoned warrior—those hands Alistair decided, he wanted to know, and he wanted her to know his.

What a way to become enraptured with a person he thinks idly, by watching them day after day killing things, people and Maker knows what else. With what little experience he has had, and what notions he has gained in life about love, he knows this is an entirely wrong way to fall in love with a person. He knows its cliché, knows it's so very naïve and foolish of him, but isn't the first thing he's supposed to notice is her eyes? Or some dribble like that…

At Ostagar the first thing he noticed were those hands, even bound in simply leather gloves he became entranced as the tapering masterpieces brushed across the side of her face; a nasty bugger of a bruise stretched so horridly across, blackening one eye—busted part of her lip. She fingers it like a fresh scab, the memory of the pain anew each time she flirts with the prospect of letting it bleed again. Or at least that's what he would feel with a wound like that, and Alistair knows it isn't entirely inaccurate with the look in her dark eyes as she drops her hand away in defeat.

Yes they were dark, brown he was sure, but in the current lighting he's observing her in they might as well be the blackness of the sky overhead—starless and abysmal. How romantic, to describe the object of one's affections having a quality of abysmal. You're a desperate and tragic fool Alistair, and you don't need Morrigan's reminder because you know it all on your own.

Oh! But those sensual and dangerous things—how they grip to her shield and shatter the face of a Darkspawn scout in a sweeping arc. He can hardly focus on deflecting the barrage of arrows coming his way as he watches her stand over the wretched thing, its squealing cries in a language he can hear but fails to understand; he feels himself smile as she lops its head off effortlessly and the cries desist.

"Well I'll be a nug-herders pale ass! I've just cleaved my five hundredth Darkspawn head!" There is a barrel of laughter that wakes Alistair from his reverie as he shifts his focus to Oghren as he marks the handle of his axe. "You are a most incorrigible liar dwarf," Morrigan interrupts flippantly, the smoldering of embers dying on the tip of her staff, "…'tis no concern of mine however, who am I to crush the delusions of a drunkard?"

"My lovely Morrigan," Zevran said, siding up to her, his eyes glittering in mirth, "The way you use that mouth so! To abuse us so rapturously, one would think it had other talents it could be engaging in…" The temperature surrounding the party dropped as Morrigan stalks off, hands coated in ice, throwing curses at the howling laughter of Oghren and the merciless chuckle of his elven partner in crime.

He laughs as well, standing and clearing off the arrows that pierced in the melee he looks back over to where she's standing—he's caught by surprise, she's staring right at him, with those eyes he should have noticed first; her expression is unreadable and her lips are parted as if to speak but remain wordless.

That comes second right? In the scant books he's read they tell of the maidens lips, and how tempting they are every waking moment to him. He would be lying if he said they were not, but as they look at each other (he with astonishment and what he guesses from her is curiosity) he is drawn to the outline of her ears—and the slope of her neck attached to them.

She is an elf, this is fact. When they engage in conversation she either cocks her head upwards to look at him or he leans forward a bit too much in her direction, causing him quite a lot of grief from the others. All of these things though, they're shallow things, details without substance; he feels like a boy in a man's clothes—all the intent in the world but none of the experience required.

"You know, when you have your face scrunched up like that you look rather like a new born Mabari pup," she says, standing in front of him with her hands on her hips, a delicate smile threatening its way on her face.

He blinks and notices he's stopped in mid stride to think about his predicament, Morrigan, Zevran and Oghren are blurs of light against the fading sunlight; she had been the only one to stop. "I was raised by dogs, remember? It wouldn't be too much of a stretch of the imagination to think I looked like one," he answers as smoothly as possible, she chuckles and he sighs inwardly.

"No, no, I guess not. We've got a ways to go yet though, let's not dally any longer." Her pigtails whip about her head as she's marching on, all business and duty again—it takes him a moment to recover, he wonders how he survived the skirmish not even fifteen minutes ago, with nothing but thoughts of her in his head.

This is really bad.

Which was an understatement really, he silently cursed himself as he began walking again, looking down at the ground instead of her. It doesn't even really make sense, there are more beautiful, more enchanting women he's encountered, but his mind makes its way back to her. Alistair has witnessed discrimination against elves, but at every stop and every conversation she engaged in there it was: Knife Ears—he feels himself get angry, bitters words that edge on to his tongue that he's more than willing to throw at whomever has uttered the says nothing though, regarding them with a pensive silence, but it's there in her eyes.

He can't even begin to imagine what she's gone through, a part of him wants to know, the desperate and longing part, but the other part begs him to consider things carefully. Be reasonable, just because you're the last two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden doesn't mean she's interested in becoming chummy, or anything of that sort…

When they reach camp daylight has retreated from them, and night begins its long and torturous reign—everyone is already going about what they usually do, he for once is at a loss at what he should be doing. He feels controlled, no, compelled to hide away in his tent to ponder on his predicament, as if otherworldly forces have taken over him utterly.

It was in Lothering, he thinks, rummaging through his belongings with intent in mind; she had seen that little boy, with that unruly red hair, dirt smudged face, he was begging people to stop, "Have you seen my mother?" Alistair is sure he sees her ears twitch, because they are headed in the opposite direction when she beelines for this little boy.

"Have you seen my mother?" She shakes her head, kneeling to be eye level with him, "Mother said she'd come back for me, but mother hasn't returned…" Oh by Andraste's knickers Alistair thinks as he watches his companion take out a handkerchief, she cups his small face in her hands and she wipes away the tear stains that have left lines in his dirt covered face. Morrigan makes a choking sound in her throat but they both ignore her.

"I haven't seen her, but I will look for her, I promise," she says, taking out a few silvers she folds them into his hand and his eyes are wide with something like wonder.

"Are you really an elf?" She laughs, actually laughs and Alistair is in shock as well.

"The ears gave me away did they?"

"It's just, father says that elves aren't very nice, but you're nicer than everybody here—thank you for helping me."

He smiles a toothy kind of smile, and he makes his way towards the Chantry, she stands up and it's then when he looks at her he sees something very hidden, and she knows something of herself has been given up and she's all pursed lips and business again but his stomach is aflutter and Marker—help him he hasn't the faintest idea why.