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Natia had to admit, it took her by surprise. She'd just been sitting innocently, pretending to enjoy the best Fereldan ale money could buy - which still tasted like nug piss in comparison to the good stuff at home - when she'd heard the comment.
"Little squat, en't she?"
She turned her head, looking for the victim of the insult - a fat barmaid, perhaps, or some unfortunate, undeserving punter - and saw a couple of men leaning against the wall, looking at...
Her. Her.
She looked around once more, thinking there must have been some mistake. She was always in demand in Orzammar, and the elven assassin frequently made certain... lewd, but rather fun sounding suggestions...
But then, Zev tended to fancy anything with a pulse. It probably wasn't a comment on her.
She was attractive to anyone with eyes to see it, and had always been utterly unashamed of the fact; it could have been useful, as her mother constantly reminded her, if a noble came along, after all. She wasn't afraid to let a little extra sway find its way into her hips as she walked, or to give the odd second glance over her shoulder. She'd been letting that side of her show less, much less, since she'd been dragged kicking and scratching into the light - the surface, with its endless, terrifying sky and weirdly tallpeople - but it was there. It was one of the few things she'd absolutely refused to give up - not for the Wardens, and certainly not for the prim surface culture.
She'd never been a noble hunter, not really, not like her sister - she'd never hunted for anything except a little fun, maybe the odd bit o' flirtation.
"They all are, though," one of the men said, voice low. "Must be 'cos they grow up with ceilings. Stops 'em early, y'know?" He sniggered.
She was the only dwarf in the tavern. There could be no doubt about it.
Scorching, righteous anger fought with a sinking, hollow hurt in her chest. Hurt only caused by a couple of dumb drunks, yeah, but still. Hurt. And just a little humiliation - that she could have been fooling herself, putting on an oblivious, ugly show...
But then she remembered the propositions, the wandering eyes that had followed her throughout her life - that she had quickly quashed before the wandering eyes could turn to wandering hands, because they needed to learn a little respect - and the few genuine offers of courtship; all from dwarves. Were things... different, on the surface?
She didn't understand; she had taken a short while to get used to the humans - the lanky build, that ridiculous height, the way they looked so much less steadfast, like a strong breeze (and she's still getting used to those, too) could blow them over - but once she had...
Memories of her fellow Warden's blond scruff, ready smile and broad shoulders came back to her, and she took another swig of the ale, raising her eyebrows appreciatively.
No, humans weren't exactly hideous.
"Fort the women 'ad beards, too," she heard from behind her.
She wondered, briefly, if she'd be receiving such comments if she were decked out in her full armour, the prominent, sharp-as-sin daggers on her back. Instead, she was wearing a little woollen thing; Leliana, with the help of some fancy dyes of Zevran's, had made a few... adjustments to a human dress, presenting it to Natia with a beaming smile.
No one sold dwarven clothing up here, and she'd become sick of wearing breeches, her old clothing ragged beyond repair. She'd wanted to grab some kind of feminity, some proof she could still be... pretty, she guessed. It wasn't like she was bothered about making do with rags - she'd done that enough in Dust Town.
"Not much prettier without," said the other one, in reply to the beard comment, and by the Stone, that was it...
She reached for the hem of the dress, pulling out the dagger and casually clasping it behind her back. As she'd hoped, no-one stirred or even glanced her way. Getting off her stool, she sidled casually over to the two idiots, a smile on her face that was almost flirtatious, a conscious swing in her hips - because sod them, she thought furiously. "Hi, boys."
They looked at her in surprise, and she saw the revulsion flicker across the face of the one on the left - then her dagger was at his throat, her smile tight and steely. "Your tongue's a little quick for your brain. Could solve that, if I cut it out."
Alistair found himself whistling as he made his way through Denerim's market square with his new purchases, almostsauntering. It felt good to get off the road and just relax for a while, without something trying to eat them, or taint them, or...
He stopped mid-tune as he saw the Gnawed Noble. Natia had said something about "needing a drink" and left him to his own company while she ducked into the tavern; they'd arranged to meet here, and she'd cast him a wide, only slightly cheeky smile over her shoulder, green eyes warm.
He remembered when he'd seen the short, stout figure approach him, and he'd wondered why there were children in camp. Then he'd got a good look at her.
Not a child. A dwarf.
He'd looked over her head, the mage that had flounced off fading from view, the end of the argument hanging in the air, feeling awkward and more than a little stupid, then met her eye.
The short stranger had just regarded him with mild amusement, then shaken her head, muttering what sounded very much like, "Weird human." Oh, great. As if he wasn't mortified enough already. She held out a hand expectantly, and he was overtaken with nervousness as he wondered whether it would be rude to crouch, whether he should kneel...
Swallowing and indecisive, he'd just tried reaching down, consciously keeping his knees as straight as possible, and shaken her hand. There had never been many dwarves in the Wardens, and he mentioned it - from what he'd read, the culture was too different, the Blights regarded as a surface problem.
It was only as she turned to go that he remembered that there had never been many women either, and wondered if it would be at all relevant to her.
She was more than a little alien to him at first; she was confused and dizzied by the sky, talked of a Stone rather than a Maker. She had the heavier nose and the wider mouth common to her race, her features different from humans'. Only in small ways, but they seemed important, somehow.
It was only when she'd looked at him, gaze unwavering, as he'd tried haltingly to talk about Ostagar, that he'd realised that her eyes were the same as a human's - wide, green, curious. It had surprised him.
It was only in Haven, as he'd looked at her in concern - she was shivering - and she'd explained about the lava, the natural heat in Orzammar, her eyes far away and her happiness at the memories tainted by homesickness, that he'd realised abruptly that her lips were full and well-shaped, her smile wider and sweeter than a human woman's.
He'd wondered, suddenly, what it would be like to reach down and kiss her, if it would be easy. He'd looked away at the snowed path, face heating, and she'd asked him what was wrong; he'd made excuses about adjusting his shoulder plates, unable to look at her.
He shook his head at his own stupidity, pushing the tavern door open, and froze as he was greeted by the sight of Natia, breathing heavy and teeth gritted, with a dagger to a terrified man's throat.
"Nat!"
She heard Alistair before she saw him, and felt him come to a stop beside her. "What are you doing?" he asked her out of the side of his mouth. "He's unarmed."
She looked up into his wide, panicked eyes and, after a pause, hid her dagger once more. "Just giving him a scare."
He audibly breathed out as she did it, and then his eyes narrowed as he glared at the shivering men watching them. "I'm pretty sure she had a good reason for that, so if I were you, I'd get out of here. Now, maybe."
They stared at him fearfully, the room silent - even though he was only simply clothed, he had he had kept his sword sheathed at his hip, aware that, with Loghain's lies spreading, being a Grey Warden wasn't great for your health. Their eyes darted to it, and then they ran like they had darkspawn on their tail.
When the background chatter of the pub returned, he frowned at her. "What was that all about?"
She shook her head, making her way back to her stool and ignoring the fearful glances the barman occasionally sent her way. her fellow Warden took a stool beside her, his silence a curious one. "He... said something. Got on the wrong side of me, more than I thought it would. I was stupid."
"What was - ?"
She shook her head again, gulping down the last dregs of her disgusting ale, and said to him, "Let's just go, right?"
"Right," he returned, but his eyes were worried as they met hers. He crouched briefly to gather his pack as they strode to the door, and, when she stopped to wait, he said quietly, "I'm here, if you want to talk about it."
"Yeah," she said, as if that answered everything, and he hated himself only a little for the way his gaze strayed as she walked into the Denerim sun in front of him.
Andraste's sword, that dress...
It was rare to ever see her out of armour. So rare, in fact, that when he'd stepped from Eamon's study into the corridor, he'd halted in his tracks, trying not to stare.
"Alistair?" She had looked up at him, eyes friendly, oblivious to his plight, as he'd struggled to think of something to say. Usually, she was in armour or borrowed baggy tunics and breeches, for practicality's sake, but...
Short she was, but no-one could mistake her for a child, and he wondered how he ever had. She had curves that would have made his fellow initiates break out in a sweat... or would have reaffirmed their belief in a divine Maker. He swallowed.
That, along with the way she humoured his terrible jokes and had stayed by his side throughout all of this... that had been it.
She was lovely, by any culture's standards. And certainly by his.
She felt his worry next to her as they walked back to Eamon's estate; usually she would have been joking with him, eagerly looking through his pack for what he'd bought, but instead she was just... silent. Hollow.
Immature, she knew, to be bothered by something so simple as being pretty when there was a Blight looming, but she was still seething, embarrassed.
She dared to risk a glance at him, wondering if that was how he thought, too. Shrunken, ugly dwarf parading around like she had a right to be seen in public, fooling herself...
When he caught her eye, she looked away.
Zevran got it out of her eventually, with the aid of more than a little fine Antivan brandy. When she asked hesitantly if surfacers really found dwarves ugly, he leaned back in his chair, rolling his glass in his hand and giving her a wolfish smile. "Only ones with exceptionally bad taste, my dear." Not a proper answer, but a Zev answer, and it made her feel a little better.
He walked her back to her room, and, when they stopped outside her door, he bent down and laid a hand on her cheek. "You are sublime." The touch was brief, then it was gone. He wagged his finger exaggeratedly at her as he continued down the corridor, calling, "Do not let anyone tell you otherwise!"
She smiled, and stepped into her room with a little of the hurt lifted from her shoulders.
Once she'd slept off most of the Antivan hangover, she blearily managed to trudge out of her room - she didn't miss the disapproving look Eamon shot her, or the laugh Alistair was trying not to let out behind him, as she passed them in the corridor. Things felt better with a little sleep and alcohol, and she could actually look at her friend this morning, which was a start.
When they eventually managed to free themselves from the Arl's gaze and made their way down to the kitchens, dodging Eamon's protests, to grab themselves some breakfast - the others had all taken it in their rooms, or gone into Denerim - Alistair finally let out a snort, shaking his head, his eyes wistful. "His face."
Remembering the seemingly stricken expression of the Arl set her off; it wasn't that funny, but it was something, after how yesterday had been, and the two of them were soon doubled up. She realised that in the midst of it all, he had taken her hand, and when the laughter faded, he looked down at her earnestly and asked, "Better?"
She suddenly hoped - really hoped - that he didn't think the same as the men in the tavern, and her breath caught at the thought. But she nodded, smiling a little, and he released her, the two of them excusing themselves as they weaved through the staring servants to get to the food.
Damn Grey Warden appetite.
When they'd found a couple of pies and thanked the as many of the servants as appreciatively as possible - both of them, after all, could sympathise - and gone through a few gates (getting lost twice), they found themselves sitting on one of the walls outside the estate, watching Denerim go by.
"You know," Alistair remarked pleasantly, waving one of the Arl's expensive forks at the marketplace - if he'd been showing off cutlery like that around Dust Town, she'd have had it off him in a flash; she suddenly felt like somebody else, different to the Duster she had been, someone she didn't know... "I remember some of this." He frowned at the bustle ahead of them, his eyes far away and quite sad. "Some of the estate..." He dug around in the pie, not meeting her eye. "I was... young, when he brought me here. It was before I got shipped off to the Chantry." He offered her another of his bright, brittle smiles, and her heart ached a little for him. "Mind telling me what yesterday was about?"
He didn't give up, did he? She exhaled, eventually deciding to tell him - whether to distract him from his own melancholy or because she had to know, she wasn't sure, but both seemed true. The question stuck in her throat, and she had to try once before she could ask, her voice low, "He said surfacers..." She coughed, studying the wall, afraid of the answer; he was a truly terrible liar. "Am I... ugly to you, Alistair?"
There was a silence beside her, and when she looked at him, his eyes caught hers. She saw him swallow, and then he replied, his voice rougher than she had expected, "No. Maker, no." Fighting her surprise, she watched him, something falling into place...
Then he cleared his throat, tried to brush it off with a smile as he picked up the fork again, but there was something in his eyes she recognised from Orzammar, from the suitors after more than a quick fumble with the pretty Duster. "He must have been blind." He waved the fork, cocking his head as he added, "Well, he was drunk. There, see, explains everything."
"Well, call me a nug," she muttered under her breath, and then smiled at him, and it was as flirtatious and promising as the old days. She saw the hint of a blush start on his cheeks, and it made the smile wider as she replied, looking him over, "You know, you ain't so bad yourself."
His eyes widened slightly at that, and he hastily went back to his pie, very possibly so he wouldn't have to look at her; she saw the smile he was trying to hide, though.
Alistair swore, as they made their way back to the kitchens to replace what they'd taken, that there was an extra sway to those mesmerising hips, but it might just have been his imagination.