Strings Attached Ch. 06-10

He desired her – but he also desired something more from her, and that was...odd. The thought of a brief affair, after which she would go on her way and he'd never see her again, made him feel physically sick.

This unfamiliar feeling left him uncomfortable and out-of-sorts; he would spend the nights berating himself for inappropriate thoughts, his days waiting breathlessly for her to return, and his evenings hoping pitifully for her company by the fire.

The fact that she so often provided him with the company he craved honestly just made it worse. She was unfailingly kind to him, smiling sweetly and listening intently, singing the songs she knew he liked best when she performed, saving him a meal when he was delayed in meetings – and a space by the fire. What her intentions were was a complete mystery to him. She'd seen him at his worst, malnourished, injured, bitter, drunk, and had no reason to look past his family name or his pathetic past to see the man underneath – but she did, he was certain. She saw him.

What that meant, when she hadn't done so much as touch his arm since she'd kissed his cheek, he couldn't fathom – and he had no idea how to go about finding out, either.

Ten: Leliana

Leliana had almost managed to resign herself that her – increasingly ardent – fantasies were just that: fantasy, and pure fiction. Nathaniel had shown no sign of wanting more, and as she kept reminding herself, he was a Fereldan Arl – he was never going to choose her, even if he was interested. And he'd made no overt moves to show that he was interested in her; he'd been friendly, and he still watched her the way Alistair looked at cheese, but he'd done nothing else.

But it was only 'almost' resigned. Every time she tried to quash the last tiny bit of pathetic hope that remained – the part that fostered silly daydreams of being rescued like a princess by a knight in shining armor – she'd catch his eye across the camp, and realise he'd clearly been watching her, his gaze dark and intent and unreadable, and the little shred of hope just wouldn't die.

She was somewhat ashamed at her inability to read him; she had been part of the Grand Game since she'd been a teenager, could fit in equally seamlessly with Empresses and servants alike, could negotiate conversations with masked Duchesses in her sleep without missing a single cue, but when it came to Nathaniel Howe, she hadn't the slightest idea what he was thinking behind his polite smile.

Nor could she bring herself to do more than she was; she was certainly never going to be able to approach an Arl in the army's camp and ask him if he liked her, as though they were noble teens at a ball instead of nobleman and common-born messenger. There were plenty of camp followers who offered themselves freely to him and the other nobles, but that was...different. He never took any of them up on the offers, and she had no intention of being compared – even in passing, even in gossip – to one of those women. The man was handsome, but she couldn't deny she wanted more from him than a quick tumble.

So she was friendly, but never inappropriate, deferring to him as expected from a messenger working for a lord, trying to maintain a veneer of professionalism even as she watched him almost as avidly as he watched her. And she resolved, over and over, every time that hope crept up on her, that she was fine with things like this, that she had important things to do, and no time for handsome archers, no matter how attractive.

She was therefore entirely shocked the day that she saddled her horse, collected her bag full of deliveries, and climbed up wearily – after a night spent singing by the fire until far too late – to find Nathaniel, mounted on his own, beautiful roan stallion, seemingly...waiting for her?

She rode up with a smile, happy to see him but suddenly nervous about what it could mean – maybe he was leaving? Perhaps he'd been reassigned, or was reassigning her? Was he even waiting for her?

He was, it turned out, waiting, and he wheeled his horse around to come alongside her so she didn't have to stop. "My Lady." Formal as always, he nodded at her, and she had to admit a little thrill in the undeserved title – as though she was his lady, even though she wasn't nobility. "I have to go talk to the Knight Commander myself, and I thought we might ride together. With your permission, of course."

She nodded politely, while her mind reeled. "You are welcome, my Lord." He still winced when she called him that, and she smiled apologetically. "Nathaniel." The last was whispered, so no one but he could hear it – and she could deny it, if confronted – but he merely smiled at her approvingly. He followed her as she led the way along the track leaving the camp; it narrowed dramatically a hundred feet outside of the camp, but she knew it would widen enough that they could ride side-by-side for most of the trip. She thought frantically, wondering what they would talk about, and whether her pathetic crush would make everything totally awkward.

It turned out she needn't have worried. As he always was in the evenings at camp, he was polite and reserved, listening attentively and asking intelligent questions, effortlessly drawing her into telling stories about her past as a bard and her experiences with the Wardens. Part of her felt separate from herself, floating above them and watching, appalled, as she told him more about her past than she'd told anyone except, perhaps, Sierra. Even Dorothea hadn't heard all these stories.

Finally, she fell silent within a few minutes of the Chantry's encampment; they rode together wordlessly, and she risked peeking at him sideways, suddenly embarrassed by her run-on mouth. "I've spent this entire time talking about myself," she admitted with a sigh. "It's unforgivably rude. I apologise."

He smiled at her softly, catching her gaze and then looking away again quickly. "Not so unforgivable," he disagreed. "Your stories are far more interesting than any I could tell."

She grinned wryly. "You would say that, even if it were the furthest thing from the truth. Always the gentleman." She gulped, wondering if she'd made a mistake, flirting with him.

He pulled his horse to a stop, watching her carefully. "A gentleman?" He scoffed, and Leliana could see, when she turned back to see what kept him, that he looked uncomfortable, and she wondered if he was thinking about her, or something else. He cleared his throat to cover his discomfort. "I'm not sure that's an accurate description." His eyes were intense, and he held her gaze for a beat, and then two, until both of them blushed faintly and looked away. He kicked his horse back to a walk and fell in beside her again, leaning toward her slightly. "I'm trying to be, though. Is that a bad thing?"

Her heart beat frantically in her chest as she considered possible answers. The truth, as always, was complicated; being a gentleman had advantages, but also drawbacks. "Not always," she allowed with a small smirk. "But Sierra does have a rather charming saying: 'nice guys finish last'."

With that, she was done being brave; she spurred her horse to an easy canter and raced ahead of him as he cursed and chased her. She had timed it well, however; she disappeared around a bend, and when he followed her, she was already being swallowed up by the enormous, rigidly organised Chantry encampment. He had to slow down or risk bowling over templars and followers alike, while she had already left her horse with a convenient page and had hurried through on foot.

She spared him one last look over her shoulder as she rushed into the tent where she was to deliver her messages; he was still watching her, his expression something between astonishment and amusement, and he nodded at her ruefully as she ducked inside.