All's fair in love and war
https://archiveofourown.org/works/64318312
Snow fell, heavy and slow, blanketing the village. In its center sat an inn, a haven against the biting chill, its chimney spilling a thin wisp of smoke into the sky. Fire crackled in the inn's hearth, yet even its warmth couldn’t thaw the innkeeper’s glare. He wiped his hands on a stained apron, his welcome little more than a muttered grumble. He squinted at Neria and her group. The man was as bitter as the weather outside and wary of strangers. Still, he wasn’t about to refuse the supplies they’d offered for a single night’s lodging. These were tough times after all.
They’d intended to leave days ago. Their group had packed their belongings, ready to head back onto the road—but the Maker had other plans. The snowfall continued, heavier and heavier, until the village was buried, stranding them in the inn. They could not afford to trade any more of their supplies to pay for more nights, but Ferelden superstition forbade breaking the rules of hospitality—no throwing out guests into certain freezing death, and no taking advantage of your host. So, they stayed, scattered throughout the inn, each trying to find small ways to appease the perpetually disgruntled innkeeper.
“Wood is low,” the man grumbled on the third morning.
“I’ll handle it,” Alistair said, “Snow’s finally slowing down—might as well make myself useful.”
As he passed Neria, he leaned in close and whispered, “Maker’s breath, wouldn’t want his lordship here to strain himself chopping a log or two.” He flashed her a crooked grin.
That grin stuck with Neria as she wandered to the window, her boots scuffing the worn floorboards. She gazed out, breath clouding the glass, watching snow swirl in the faint light of midday. She could see the white cast line of the woods beyond the edge of the village. Alistair was out there somewhere, swinging an axe, and likely grumbling about the cold.
The front door slammed open, scattering snow across the floor. A man stomped in, bundled tightly in rags, his breath clouding in the air. “Wheelbarrow’s out front,” he barked. “Stacked with firewood. That settles us, eh?”
“Took you long enough,” the innkeeper muttered, waving off the man with a scowl that mirrored the one he got.
Neria turned from the window, tugging on her gloves and pulling up her hood. “I’ll tell Alistair,” she said, ignoring whatever sour glance the innkeeper threw her way. Even with the fresh load of firewood, the man wouldn’t dream of letting Alistair off unless she pressed the issue first.
Outside, the cold bit at her cheeks, and the snow crunched underfoot as she made her way to the northern edge of the village. It didn’t take long to find him. The thwack of his axe rang clear even with the snow muffling the world.
He stood over a log stump, a piece of wood in his left hand and an axe in his right. His woolen cloak was now draped over a low-hanging branch. His breath fogged in the air, and even from a distance, she could see his cheeks were pink from cold and exertion. When he spotted her, he paused mid-swing with his axe above his head, and waved, before bringing the axe down to split a piece of wood in two.
“Decided to come lend a hand?” he called. He set the axe against the stump and stretched.
“Not quite,” Neria replied, pulling her cloak tighter as she waddled her way through some particularly deep snow. “The innkeeper doesn’t need the wood anymore. Some village man brought him a whole wheelbarrow full to pay off some debt.”
She nodded. “You’re free.”
He exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair. “So, what’s the plan? I mean, having a solid roof over our heads is lovely and all, but I’m not too keen on wearing out our welcome here. Before you dragged yourself out of bed, I had the joy of meeting the innkeeper’s wife. Trust me, if you think he’s a grouch, she’s a bloody ogre in skirts.”
“You’re right. The snow’s finally easing up. We should head out tomorrow morning before we push our luck any further. We’ve stayed here long enough.”
“Three nights, right? To be fair, I was almost getting used to the place, scowls and all. Felt… normal, didn’t it? For once.”
The group had settled into an unusual rhythm as they tended to the inn in exchange for shelter. Leliana had made herself indispensable in the kitchen, helping with everything from grinding flour to cooking stew. Morrigan was less helpful, eyeing the innkeeper with open disdain after his eyes lingered on her far too long, though she’d lend Leliana a grudging hand when pressed. Wynne sat with the innkeeper’s wife, needle flashing through torn cloth, stitching their family’s rags into something whole. Zevran had been caught winking at the innkeeper’s busty daughter and was swiftly put to work scrubbing the cellars. Sten had at once silenced the innkeeper’s unruly children with a single glare, earning a rare nod of approval from the man.
And Alistair... well, Alistair had found a new favorite pastime. He had taken to brushing his hand against hers or sneaking a quick kiss when no one was looking, daring her to call him out on it. It seemed he quite liked that, kissing her that is, since he first did it a fortnight past.
Come evening, they’d crowd around the hearth, cups of wine and ale in hand, voices mingling. Leliana would pluck her lute, spinning tales of valiant heroes and noble deeds, her voice drifting high through the smoky air. Alistair, always seated beside Neria, would lean in to murmur some witty remark or ridiculous observation that sent her into fits of laughter, earning them raised eyebrows from the others.
In truth, the weakest part of Neria didn’t want to leave. She knew the Blight would not pause for them. But for three fleeting days, she had tasted something close to peace, and the thought of letting it go stung more than she cared to admit.
A soft thud against her shoulder startled her out of her thoughts.
She blinked down at her cloak, where a clump of snow was slugging off. When she looked up, she found Alistair looking at her innocently—too innocently.
“Didn’t what?” Alistair asked, as if he’d never been accused of mischief in his life.
She scooped up a handful of snow, packed it quickly, and hurled it at him.
“Hey!” He dodged, barely, laughing as the snow exploded against a tree behind him. “That’s uncalled for.”
“Is it?” She grinned, bending for another handful.
The clearing rang with their shouts and laughter as they exchanged blows. He had the upper hand— he was taller, faster—but she was crafty, and when he teased her about her aim, she muttered a spell under her breath. Snow materialized in her hand and she packed it quickly. With a flick, she sent it slamming into his chest.
“Cheating!” he cried, pointing an accusing finger. “Magic is cheating!”
“All’s fair in warfare,” she said.
Neria materialized another snowball, hurling it to smack him square in the shoulder.
“You’re going to regret that.”
He lunged at her but the snow was too deep. His footing slipped, and down he went with a grunt. Neria rushed towards him, seeing the opportunity of attack, only for the same deep snow to catch her boot. A yelp escaped her as she stumbled forward, crashing on top of him.
Her face flamed as she scrambled to push herself up, but all she managed was to push her hands deeper in the snow.
Her heart hammered. “Alistair, I’m—”
He didn’t let her finish. Instead, he pulled her closer, his gloved hand brushing a strand of snow-damp hair from her face. And then he kissed her, there in the snow, his lips warm against hers, laughter still lingering on his lips.
When they broke apart, her cheeks were scorched. “That... wasn’t fair.”
“All’s fair,” he said, grinning.
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