Several years and many roads later...

Alistair took the stairs up to the battlements overlooking the Vigil Keep's grounds. All was quiet, even with the busy courtyard and flourishing tower defenses and all the traders pouring in.

Peace allowed them to replenish the Wardens' ranks in Ferelden. After a few years' work, Vigil's Keep bore a capable army with Wardens at its core and Loghain in command.

Under Alistair's watchful gaze, their Keep stood still now in the sleepy summer afternoon, just as its walls stood strong against many dangers, at the time when it counted most.

Alistair sighed: Broodmother's bloody bits! Glad that battle's over.

"Loghain! Loghain? Andraste's arse! You-... YOU!"

"Umph. I'm here - right here. It's done. It's fine."

"It's not! You could've been-"

"But I'm not killed. Shh. Listen, Alistair. I'm safe. It's over."

"Yes, yeah - I just - we're good. You're alive!"

"And so are you. That's the plan, remember."

"Yeah, that's definitely the plan."

The Mother... The sturdy dwarven walls of their Keep survived the assault of her darkspawn brood, and proved impervious to any boulder an ogre could throw. During the bloodiest of the battle, the Vigil held: one night, then two, then a week, until the attacking horde broke upon the walls. What a battle it was. Afterwards, the soldiers had hoisted their best archer (second best, counting Loghain) up on their shoulders and paraded him around the courtyard as a hero. They then directed all attention to Anders, poor unsuspecting sod - in ruffled, bloodied mage robes - and dragged him to the fire, to engage him in a drinking contest.

Alistair didn't participate in that one drunken orgy with their Keep's varied inhabitants, instead, he let Dog lick the gore from his splintmail, adjusted his collar and ran to find the actual best archer at the Keep for a different sort of celebration for just the two of them. It spawned off a series of nights to remember.

"Sure?"

"Yeah, m'sure! Again."

"You'll tell me the second you feel lightheaded, or numb."

"Loghain, -ahh, honestly, I can take it, so can the bedposts."

"I mean it. Your safety is not a game. Say it."

"I know, I know. 'Flemeth.'"

"Good. Use it."

"Don't need to. Oh! Ohhyes."

What a night it was, that first night of peace in their lives, in their own Keep. And amid it all, he still remembered Loghain's victorious, wicked grin.

The bards sing songs about this Keep now, they sing about us. We did good.

The stir of the Taint he felt, soft as a settling feather, warm as a lantern in the night, was only the presence of another warden nearby amid the sea of calm, of silence. It has been that way for many seasons now.

Down below, in the shadow of a busy smithy, Dog napped with only his nose to the sunlight. The extra years had mellowed out the mabari, put a shade of grey in his muzzle and the spatter of white hairs around his ears and eyebrows, gave more depth to his bark. In his company, one of the Keep's mousers, that yellow one, always trouble, with a capital T and a title to boot - Ser Pounce, was it? - curled up without a worry about those teeth or claws, tail a-twitching against Dog's nose. Around the two beasts, the Keep with all its inhabitants in it carried on standing.

"'Ser'? Really? Just how spoiled is that cat of his?"

"Dunno, can't be that bad. I just gave it to him five weeks back."

"Well, last I heard he's been carrying it around in his pack on missions! I can't afford distractions."

"Oh please, it's a trained warrior, it swats anything that moves close enough, darkspawn or not."

"Hmph. I suppose it's a distraction for them as much as us, if anything."

"Look at the bright side. Even Dog likes him! Dog can't be wrong."

We did very good.

Yeah, Alistair smiled, turns out Loghain - both of us - are rather good at safekeeping. Safe- Keeping! Ha! He stuck his hand in his pocket. Things were going well for the past few years of tentative calm. Even the pair of keepsakes that had survived intact through his many journeys this far were safe. Black stone, white stone, both of them, still here.

"How did we end up collecting this much? Did you ever look at our weapons rack and wonder, whoa, that's a ton of gear."

"What? And that's from someone who just ordered a new forged sword from the blacksmith?"

"No, seriously. We've got all these new shields and weapons, and Maric's stuff has to go on the wall, not down here with the dragonbone blade. And something really does need to go in storage."

"Hm, maybe a larger weapons rack is in order."

"Hey, can we get a second one to keep around and... for things. If it's tall and sturdy enough... and, has supports, um, I have to fit like this and grip here and here as well."

"I don't see how this would keep you entertained for more than an hour, obviously you haven't had enough splinters in sensitive places... Oh, stop making that face… So. Leather wrapped. Ram? Stag? Do you have a preference?"

"Anything but nugskin. ... supple, good for gripping. Not too furry either."

"Bearskin for the floor, I'll not have your knees ruined."

"OK, ooh, and belts too."

"Belts... As in many?"

"I don't see how any plan can't be improved by a sturdy belt - or two or three - buckled in all the right places."

That night the moon was new and the air crisp, as Alistair settled into bed that became more familiar to him now than a bedroll out in the wild. He watched Loghain in firelight, surrounded by scrolls and stacks of parchment at the table, a feather quill in his hand, as he inked in the mark first made in charcoal on the fresh parchment of an unfinished map.

Loghain turned out to be something very unexpected to Alistair: a skilled Warden and a dedicated Commander. He was sly and wry and full of surprises, and the pointed arch of one brow over that blue-steel stare, or the wicked way his lips twisted in amusement made Alistair's mouth go dry. He was someone to share half the world with - or at least their world, Ferelden, the good and the bad, tainted and clean. If it took the rest of their years together in Amaranthine and beyond, mapping out the dangers for the benefit of Ferelden, well, there were worse causes a man could pledge himself to.

Loghain's quill hand traced a winding path down. Must be a road, Alistair thought absentmindedly, or a river.

"Amaranthine riverbeds?" He muttered squinting at the light. The farmers could use that, so will the hunters and the trackers.

"Roads." Loghain raised his head from the parchment, "Two, to be precise."

He drew another line then, a straight, slow one made with painful precision, the feather quill struck the parchment like lodestone against steel. A series of short marks followed, too uniform to be letters. A highway? Whatever it is, it's long and thick - has to be paved. He's even marked the bridges.

"Planning on drawing all the bridges in Ferelden in one night, are you?"

"Fine, fine." Loghain groused as he rolled his shoulders back and stretched. "I'm done for the night. You may stop ogling me quite so hard."

Alistair couldn't help the grin on his face. "'Bout time. I've been keeping your pillow warm for ages."

"Two roads in a day's work... And there's a crossing in Amaranthine yet to be named."

"Oh? Best bring that quill with. I've got a crossing for you to name."

"Well-well. You're developing finer tastes for feathers," Loghain's eyebrow lifted over a wry stare. "Practically Orlesian of you. How will my mere arrow fletchingsever cope with the betrayal?"

"Not just the feather bits! Arrow tips are coated already, but a bit of ink should be safe. That's good, right? No marks, nothing that won't wash off anyway."

Loghain put out the light over the worktable and strode over purposefully, touching the tip of the feather to Alistair's earlobe. "Is that what you want ? Something sharper than a feathertip to mark you."

Alistair exhaled. "Yeah. That's... yes." Nodded against that feather stroking down along the jaw, across the exposed neck. Alistair's bone collar already rested on the nightstand, bright, like an open cage of bone and leather cord.

"So, what do you need , my quill or my arrows."

Yess. Fuck. "Both. You choose. I want you to choose it."

"Then quill. But where?"

"Everywhere!"

"Be specific."

Alistair swallowed back against the heat in his cheeks. It was a particular sort of challenge, to voice to Loghain what he needed in necessary detail. To put things into words, dirty words like 'cock' and 'arse' and 'come', precise instructions to describe their body parts fitting together before Loghain ever agreed to put his fantasies in action, or uncertain, strangely intimate whispers of 'ohfuck', 'love this', 'please!'. Some nights Loghain wanted Alistair to describe just precisely how the bonds would be placed - around his wrists or ankles, and how hard they would hold and stretch and bite into skin. Other nights Alistair gave in and spoke, describing the hot biting need for one more strike of knotted leather cord against his back, the torture, the uncertainty of having to wait for the next stroke of Loghain's heavy palm against his arse. He babbled sometimes, sweet, dirty things. How good Loghain's grip felt on his wrists, how beautiful his stare looked in the light of a candle dripping hot wax, just how needed his touch was, how Alistair loved this, loved him. Sometimes he thought that Loghain asked for this on purpose, to push Alistair's limits regardless, just to hear him stammer out things he already knew Alistair craved .

"Anywhere ticklish or sensitive is fair game. All the fun bits you can reach that aren't covered by rope."

"You didn't specify rope. Good to know."

"Doesn't have to be rope, really. Bowstring. Sharp and thin, like a snare."

"A snare? Where and what should it catch, do tell?"

"Wrists. Shoulders. Chest." Alistair inhaled. "Cock."

Loghain's answering grin was far too wicked. "You'd like that too much. Far, far too much. How about we start with something a bit more challenging, hm." The soft tip of the feather was replaced by Loghain's warm hand at his cheek.

"Subjects worth mapping out should not be bound too frequently. Not by someone planning to actually grow his borders," a whisper spilled into his ear. "You're perfectly capable of holding still all on your own, I trust?" They were face to face now, with Loghain leaning so close, meeting Alistair's curious stare, giving up none of the answers to Alistair. Not just yet. His face was hot. Alistair could feel that flush spreading to his chest and abdomen, as he obeyed and felt the laces of his shirt pulled, then the fabric stripped away.

"Do I have to hold still? All I want is for you to spread me open, ties and all, and mark me up like one of your maps. Is that too much to ask?"

"Only one map? Don't underestimate yourself." Loghain huffed amusement. "You're far more precious than a caseful of parchment. We've got visitors from the City tomorrow, I prefer not to leave visible marks."

Alistair looked up at Loghain, trying the sharp point of the quill on his own palm, to test the pressure. He beamed, and wiggled closer, trying to convey a dare.

"I'll lace up my shirt. Long sleeves, high collar. I'll wear a visored helmet if I have to! Go wild!"

"You're impossible," Loghain purred, sharp and warm as a lovebite against Alistair's collarbone. The kind Alistair had to ask for. Loghain's touch, like lightning, spread warmth from the nape of his neck all the way down his spine.

"Close your eyes."

At the first trace of the sharp point of the quill at the back of his arm, he flexed his fingers against the bed sheets: it was all he could do to stay still, to keep his eyes closed. To pose as a living canvas for Loghain to explore, to mark, discovery after discovery.

There was a feather tip touch at his earlobe, then at the center of his chest between his nipples, at the inside of his left elbow.

"Didn't I say, something sharper!" Alistair felt his mouth form a smile, just as the quill tip tickled the corner of his mouth.

Loghain's hand rested on Alistair's back, steadying him, just as the quill's point slid over his skin for the first time, between the third and fourth vertebrae, a contrasting sensation of something sharp and metal which wasn't a blade or a threat applied so softly, stroke after stroke, on his skin, in contrast with the strength of Loghain's warm hand directing him just so.

The quill skritched against his lower back, sharp enough to leave a red trail, not sharp enough to break the skin. It felt like letters.

"What're you writing?"

"That's for me to decide." Loghain's lips curled into a smile. "You may look," he said much later.

Alistair turned, his vision blurry from squinting, with just a candle on Loghain's nightstand to light their bodies. He turned, the edge of the quill shook as he exhaled against it. There was a trace of a rearing griffon at his shoulder, playful as a winged pup, the kind that danced across Ferelden banners which Loghain the Commander had flown in battles, the kind Loghain the Warden still held to the highest standard.

"Ohh!" Alistair smiled down at the faint lines on his skin, an inky smudge of a tongue. "Griffons are great. I want a tattoo. Something like that. Well, a bit bigger. Alot bigger, to fill my entire back."

"Greedy brat." Loghain set the quill aside, stripping out of his shirt and breeches, his form long and lean and pale in the shadows. "I hope you don't expect me to follow suit - there are a few adventures in the world my back may be too old for."

It felt like a particularly good challenge to Alistair to reach out and sweep his fingers up the entire length of Loghain's spine, from the backside to the nape of his neck. For once, he got a proper shiver for his trouble. Didn't expect that, did you? "Adventures? Ha, I can think of one proper adventure -" Or an improper one, "- you're probably too young for it."

Loghain recovered and huffed amusement, as he reached for the bottle of lamp oil on the nightstand. He lifted the cork and allowed the first drop to drip down his index finger. "Am I? Do tell."

"Well, for starters... It's like I said before, I want something like -" Alistair watched mesmerized at the liquid shine of a single drop sliding from fingertip to the first knuckle, then the rest of the oil spilled freely, coating Loghain's hand. "- that. But a bit bigger. A lot bigger, to fill my entire back... side. Oof-"

Loghain swooped down at that very moment, the slow teasing pace - he was far too fond of - forgotten in favor of speed and strength. His full weight on top of Alistair, even unweighted by armor and weapons, was more than Alistair prepared for. Their sturdy wooden bed didn't even creak and Alistair loved it for that. Pillows broke their fall. "Greedy." Loghain rumbled as his oiled hand smacked against Alistair's buttock and stayed there, - "Brat!" - slick fingers slid over his inner thigh, probing. Pushing.

In. "Yeahh!" Alistair arched into that hand, keeping his hold on Loghain's torso, steering him, leading them both into a fast-paced series of heated thrusts, cock against cock, skin against skin. Alistair didn't even realise that he was leading: giving directions as instinctively, as he usually surrendered to his lover's lead. "Do it."

Loghain's stare was dark, as he pressed his forehead against Alistair's. "You-" he breathed.

Alistair was not bound by leather or rope, not trapped by spider silk, but caught nonetheless. Loghain's fingers were slick inside him, thrust after thrust. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He shuddered, overwhelmed. Please was but a gasp caught in his chest. "Loghain!"

"Mm?"

With his mouth on that throat, Alistair could feel the teasing sod humming something that was too much of a question still. "Now!" I thought I was clear enough. "Fuck! "

"Yess." Loghain hissed as he pressed his lips against Alistair's as an answer. Loghain's hands were between their bodies, lifting Alistair's legs, bending him, spreading him open, and then Loghain thrust in, hard and slow, and gave him what Alistair asked for, just what he needed all along.

As always, he was just what Alistair needed. For a rare moment, Alistair was thankful for his hands not being bound, since he could do this: slide his arms around Loghain, up his sides and down his back, and pull him close, nudging him into the faster, reliable pace. He was folded under the weight of another, his knees almost touching his chest, his legs folded over Loghain's shoulders, their bodies knotted together, thrust by thrust, all heated flesh and heavy breathing and skin contact. Letting each other come as close as one gets.

As intimate as one comes.

Above the bed with two sleeping Wardens, two runestones, smooth as river rocks rested in the niche of the headboard. The black stone shivered first - the bright grooves of its warrior rune glowing silver as the sliver of a new moon setting, then the mirrored gold ridges of the white stone glimmered, suddenly the stones turned, rumbled, and snapped together as if magnetized with a click, the grooves of gold fitting into the ridges of silver, forming a single pair.

When he awoke the next morning with an inky shoulder and Loghain's arm slung around him, Alistair was the first to see the stones snapped together, magnetized with magic. As soon as he pried them apart, to see the mirror image runes inside, gilt-free, he felt the pull of the stones toward each other and as soon as he let go, they snapped together again, like the stubborn sides of a newbound tome. The golden hue emanating from them was a low-scale protective charm, that the healers like Solona or Wynne were so fond of. Huh, Alistair thought, the runestones haven't ever done that before. Must be the weather, or the Keep's new wards gone astray, or all the rubbing I've put them through over the years. Whatever it is, wow, I've carried all this magic all along in my pocket and didn't even know.

It was odd to see the magical trinkets given to him by a mage long-gone but still, well, showing their magic after all this time. Gift-giving was a mad habit of Solona's: half of the time he thought she traveled and fought just to gifthunt for her friends. But nonetheless, her gifts always struck a chord. Alistair was always fond of the two keepsakes from her. Black stone, white stone, fitting together perfectly in his palm. Familiar, yet now seen in a different light. Through it all, Loghain and he were like these two stones, circling each other like duelists, rubbing each other like lovers, striking sparks off each other like flint and steel, and smoothing out each other's rough edges the hard way. Only Loghain and he were not so different as black and white. Both of them were Grey. A pair of Grey Wardens, saving the world after the Blight.

Inseparable. Just as it should be.