They collapsed against the stone and her head went against Alistair's shoulder, a small metallic sound from her earring as it struck his pauldron.

His head tipped over to look at her, his old sister-in-arms, and his eyes painted her clearly in the shadows—white streaks in her hair, her eyes glazed and half-shut. His belly always full now in hunger, a clawing that made him retch sometimes, his mind flashed to the ache of his youth, her flame-bright hair and a smile held like a knife in her teeth.

He pulled a gauntlet from his hand and turned her face up, his own black blood dirtying her pointed ear. Her eyes opened only a little more and then his mouth was on hers.

Grit on their skin, her tongue flickered out with a clean heat that seared him. He was twenty, he was the templar who loved a mage, he was not dying. He feasted on her, and in the small curves of her lips he found where he was still a human, not a ghoul and never a darkspawn.

He broke from her; she was looking at him with placid eyes. He pulled her up as he stood, and on they went in darkness that was not black anymore.

This is my present to everyone for the holiday. Thanks to valiasedai for the quick beta, and I appreciate all of you who read these creaky old words of mine. You are wonderful!