Chapter 21: Of One Mind

"There is nothing we should be quite so grateful for as the last line of the poem that goes, 'When your own heart asks'."

Hagakure, Yamamoto Tsunetomo

Sten took the tin plate laden with food. For the first time in a long while, he had a generous helping. Yet, he ate his share distractedly, trying to dismantle the foreboding that threatened his calm.

What is wrong?

Misunderstandings between Livia and him had become standard at that point.

I did nothing differently, he reassured himself. Hadn't he always engaged in discussions with her? He appreciated their conversations, even when they disagreed. Perhaps, especially when they disagreed. She provoked and confronted him, forcing him to think in unexpected ways that led him to seeing matters from angles he hadn't ever considered. He enjoyed her company and their exchanges. It was one of the few things he looked forward to in that cold, forsaken land.

He didn't like how she had snapped at him, unwilling to talk further, expressing disappointment over the fact he hadn't behaved like the lovelorn characters in those terrible books: weak, unreliable, and needy.

He stared at his empty plate.

"How was it?" Leliana grinned expectantly, contemplating his empty dish.

"I am no longer hungry."

"Mm…Don't take that as a compliment, Leli: I suppose that if he had loved it, he would have eaten the plate, as well," Zevran clarified as he stretched across from her, reaching for yet another hunk of flakey fish.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd leave enough for thirds." Alistair thwarted Zevran's fork with his. "You might have the appetite of a Grey Warden, but you aren't one."

"According to Morrigan, neither are you!" Zevran shrugged, tapping his fork out of the way. "Besides, I think this piece might be sitting in some backwash, Alistair." He puckered his lips at the Grey Warden.

"Stop bickering: there's more fish." Leliana snorted, gently steering Zevran out of her way.

Sten caught Morrigan staring at him with interest.

"Yet another tiff?" She spoke to him in that condescending tone of hers.

"A conversation where people disagree is not necessarily a 'tiff.'"

"Not even when one of those people stomps off fuming?"

He did not appreciate her scrutiny. At his peeved expression, she laughed.

"My, my. Such a face. Aren't we at a loss!"

She leaned back, seductively, her green eyes flickering in the firelight, her décolletage revealing.

"If all you seek is a pleasant evening…Then, there are better, less complicated choices."

"Hm. You are right. My tent is the most favorable choice right now."

Her grin faded.

"Poor Sten. How can you know that you don't know?"

"It is my duty to learn what is worthwhile."

She snorted lightly.

"For the glory of the Qun? Or for yourself?"

He stood up. "Qunari do not make such distinctions."

"So your glory is the Qun's glory and vice versa."

"Yes." He dropped his plate and utensils into a sudsy bucket near the fire pit.

"And right now? As a warrior without his sword…How much glory are you bringing the Qun?" She was fettering him. It was a comeuppance of sorts, he imagined.

He cast her a withering glare.

"T'is a pity, Sten. I had such grand plans for us." She stretched languidly, sensuously. "A legacy, even," she teased.

"It is best that I remain ignorant of your plans since they will not be happening. They do not seem to warrant knowing," he replied dryly.

"Suit yourself." She ran her hands down her legs. "In this case, ignorance definitely is not bliss."

He returned to his tent, Morrigan's words echoing in his head.

How can you know that you don't know?

What was he missing? What had he done? He had acted the same as he always had. Livia hadn't. Somehow, just when he thought he had understood, the rules changed again and he was at a loss.

What don't I know? he worried.

Outside, the others remained around the fire, slowly tidying up after the meal. They would be a while talking and finishing off the wine. He would have to wait until they retreated for the evening and the camp fell silent again. He took his boots off and rested over the bed tarp.

Perhaps this is why the Qun do not sanction such rapports. This is why we do not visit the same tamassran more than once.

He closed his eyes and listened to the voices outside, catching fragments of conversation, banter, and laughter. All those misunderstandings were draining. And painful. It was a pain he couldn't touch: it was something no healer could wrap a bandage over or prescribe a healing draught for. It was intangible, like magic, like the insidious spells cast by those wretched mages. One moment he was feeling quite done with Livia: she could sulk in her tent, condemn him, for all he cared. He would not become something he wasn't just to please her caprices. In another moment, though, he felt helpless, craved her company, and desperately wracked his brain to find a resolution.

All that teetering: it was draining and exhausting.

He finally grew still and fought the stinging hurt that lodged within him. He breathed deeply, measuredly.

In the mindfulness of stillness perhaps he could invite clarity.

Of course, sleep would not come. Livia tossed under her blankets, unable to surrender.

I wish I could simply cast this sadness aside. But what did I expect? At least Sten is honest. He never pretended to be something he wasn't. He never promised me anything except to serve in battle.

He had offered her solace in all that hopelessness. Perhaps she represented the same to him. They did share something she would define as friendship. Was it so terrible just to leave things at that? She inhaled deeply.

I should. But I can't. My life has already veered too far beyond my control. He is not a man who understands loyalty of that kind. He even admitted he never saw the same woman twice. This could be a mere diversion. He could very well, in the same decisive and uncompromising manner he applies to everything, withdraw his attention without any warning.

If sleep wouldn't come, she wouldn't chase after it, either. She lit her lamp and, propping up her pillow over her pack, reached for a book. As she flipped the cover open, she confronted the sinking feeling in her stomach: that she would have to speak to him sooner rather than later. She would have to explain why it was that she would not continue to engage in whatever it was that they'd initiated. She could even imagine his expression of inevitable confusion.

He would probably accuse her of being unreasonable.

Good, she sighed.

He would probably ask her why she was being so irrational— what was wrong.

And would she tell him? She supposed she should. Tell him rationally. She owed him at least that much. She would have to tell him even if it made her more vulnerable. She was certain no matter how many different ways she attempted to define it, he wouldn't be able to grasp what she was telling him.

Livia knew she would have to convey that despite the fact he had done nothing intentionally to hurt her, she would no longer welcome him into her bed, would no longer surrender to his touch.

I am sure Morrigan would be more than willing to assist him with that, she thought with a twinge of jealousy.

It would be difficult to tell him that over all those months, the admiration and respect she had for him had acquired a different hue.

He would press her to explain herself and she imagined the gruff expression of puzzlement he would cast her—that same expression she had grown to find so devastatingly endearing. Then she would have to admit to him that she had, despite knowing better, despite all the vast differences between them, fallen in love with him.

Despite Zevran's earlier bravado, the elf returned to the tent that night. Sten pretended to be asleep, as he was in no mood for maudlin confidences on botched attempts at wooing.

It is these people's destiny to bumble about aimlessly. And I am adapting perfectly, he thought sourly.

He didn't think Livia would have behaved in such a perplexing manner anymore…Not after the previous night. He thought they had reached an understanding.

The entire process of establishing a sexual rapport among those people was protracted and complex because it anchored so many facets of their lives.

In order to get what we, Qunari, are able to enjoy without great complications, these people must upend their existences.

Sex had more implications among the Bas than among the Qunari. For his people it was for relief and procreation. Among the Bas, it was far more complicated: it was the currency to forge alliances, it was the seal that pledged and invested entire fortunes; it was a commitment expected to last a lifetime.

He had been told over the years that those single, one-time encounters with the tamassrans were the most sensible way to go about fulfilling such urges. Those encounters were always fresh, surprising, and alluring.

We have it better than among the Bas, a Ben-Hassrath had once revealed after returning from a mission. The Bas typically return day after day to the same men and women until they are disenchanted and bitter with each other. Not only is there no guidance to help them understand their purpose in life: the course of those peoples' destinies are dictated by such partnerships— imagine that? To pledge your life to bed the same person again and again… And more: they must see to each other's needs, for their leaders do very little to support them. As if it were fair to make one person shoulder all the weight of what an entire society is meant to do!

He had never questioned the soundness of that argument, but he had to be honest with himself: if anything, from the beginning, far from growing bored, each exchange with Livia only made him want to seek her out more. Each interaction revealed something deeper, a new dimension to explore and a more complete picture.

Perhaps the question should be: what do I want from her?

What he did know was that he wanted to spend another night with her. That had not been something he'd sought from the tamassarans back among the Qun. Back then the next tamassran would have done just as well. There had been no need for anything deeper. No interest. He thought of his arguments with Livia, their conversations and her questions. How she struggled to piece together the glimpses he offered her of his world. How his world must have sounded as foreign to her as her world seemed as foreign to him. And yet, even in their discussions and disagreements, they had found common ground.

She valued honor and duty. She demonstrated strength and character.

She was a warrior. A capable warrior—even by his demanding standards.

It was only natural that he would admire her. How could he not?

But it was more than that. While he lay on his bedroll earlier, he'd had a realization:

He could not abandon her side in that fight.

Not just because of a sense of obligation and indebtedness.

Not because of an altruistic purpose.

It was because of that emotion that tugged at his innards with a yearning and longing that surfaced only in her presence, in thoughts of her, even in her absence. It gradually overcame him, became a part of him, alive—just like the air he breathed. He had nothing to compare it to, except that it challenged him to make peace with a paradox: how could something that upended his senses, stirred so much restlessness, also bring him so much peace, so much…aqun.

He made up his mind: misunderstandings were like infections—prone to worsen and spread their poison if not treated swiftly.

Sten moved silently in the tent's darkness, careful not to disturb the elf as he stepped over his sleeping huddled shape as he made his way to the outside.

When Livia heard rustling by the tent flaps, she instinctively reached for her sword. Just as the grooved metal of the pommel slipped into her hand, she heard the low, gruff voice outside.

"Livia. We must speak."

She released her grip and pressed her lips together tightly. Hadn't the previous night begun much the same way? She doubted it would conclude as pleasantly.

"Now is not the time," she stated before she had even thought it through. She cringed inwardly at her petty words as soon as they escaped her lips.

"As you wish. Let us speak in the morning," he replied after a brief pause.

She felt a twinge of guilt: she leaned across the way and lifted the tent flap. He was crouching by the entrance, his expression calm and composed.

"Just come in," she invited him.

He crawled inside and settled at the end of the bedroll. He seemed absorbed in thought, his violet eyes downcast, his serious face still. So handsome, Livia remarked, with a squeeze to her heart. She worried that if he reached for her right then, she would not have the fortitude to steer him away.

It would be simpler to give in. To simply enjoy what he has to offer, wouldn't it? To appreciate what we have—she stopped herself. There is no 'we'. That is the whole point, Livia. He is merely seeking some relief and I am someone he has grown to trust. I cannot accept this uncertainty; there is too much in my life that is already left to chance. At least in this—my heart—I need steadfastness.

She contemplated him quietly.

"You are angry with me. Why?" He peered at her in his characteristically intense manner, more curious than demanding.

She had foreseen that scenario, hadn't she?

"I am not angry at you, exactly," she began. "I am mostly…" What? "What I am feeling is disappointment… toward myself."

"Explain."

She sat across from him, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders.

"You told me today that you had never seen the same tamassran more than once."

"That is correct."

"And then you asked me if you could visit me again. Tonight. Why?"

"You said I could."

Of course. It was that simple to him. She couldn't help grinning.

"Yes. I did. But I think we are seeking each other out for different reasons."

"What reasons?" His brow furrowed.

She rubbed her forehead. She had to be blunt.

"You are here for sex?"

"Yes."

She nodded.

"Last night was pleasant?"

His expression softened and he tilted his head slightly.

"Yes."

She lowered her eyes, fighting the flood of emotions.

"It was pleasant for me as well," she admitted quietly.

He began to move towards her, but she quickly raised her hand.

"I cannot do this, Sten."

He remained frozen in place.

"What is wrong?"

"What happened last night between us has vastly different meanings for both of us. But it comes down to this: at the end of it all, we are too different."

He sat back down.

"I do not begrudge you or blame you. You have no equivalent in your culture. But I need to tell you something important, so please try to understand: to me, this is not something to be taken lightly. I understand the tamassrans offer you comfort and some solace. I am not saying these encounters among your people aren't meaningful…but from what you have told me, it appears they are self contained and once they have served their purpose, you are expected to return to your duties and move on."

"That is correct."

She felt heavy-hearted.

"Perhaps there is wisdom and separating physical urges from feelings. But I, for one, simply cannot."

"Livia, do you wish to have sex with me?" he asked in his disconcertingly direct manner.

"Yes. I would," she relented somewhat beneath that probing gaze. "But I can't!" she quickly amended. "As much as last night was…I cannot."

"Then your logic is contradictory. You are complicating things for the sake of complicating them."

"I am not a tamassran, Sten. I cannot spend the night with you and then see you walk away as if nothing had passed between us. Perhaps among your people, revealing such a personal aspect of yourself is something less.. intimate. For me…I cannot do it. Many humans can, too, I suppose. But I never could. Maybe it's because of the way I was raised: I was always cautioned not to bestow my affections lightly because of my rank and all the implications any rapport could unleash. I think, though, that it has more to do with my temperament." She shook her head. "I could not risk revealing that part of myself unless …" She heard her voice trail off as she admired him. He peered at her in that exasperating way she had grown to cherish: focused on her ever word, taking everything she said seriously, eager to glean understanding even as he passed his dry judgment over it. "I wanted to be with you last night because…It felt like a natural progression, Sten. Do you understand?"

She hoped he would infer her meaning.

"Did I not meet your expectations?"

No. He does not understand.

"Quite the opposite." She couldn't help the rising exasperation that rose inside her. "Can't you imagine or grasp what I am trying to tell you?" she pleaded.

He blinked at her, none the wiser.

"You contradict yourself. If you would like us to lie together, why create an impediment?"

She mustered her courage. Make it swift and it'll be over soon. The good thing about this is that he won't let it drag out. Perhaps we'll be back to normal soon enough.

But she didn't want that either, she realized, heartsick.

"You are distressed. I am the cause. Do you wish me to leave?" he asked with concern.

She couldn't bring herself to say it. At her silence, though, he pushed up from her covers and moved towards the tent entrance.

"Wait."

He halted and held still, his back turned to her.

"You are right: I am complicating things between us. I honestly didn't mean to." She dropped her gaze to the worn tent ground. "See: I cannot afford to get too involved emotionally right now. It's the way I am; I need some reassurance. I understand that what I expect, what I need, is different from what you expect and want. And the truth is, neither one of us should have to deal with all these complications. Not right now."

He turned his head halfway.

"You presume to know what my expectations and wants are."

It was true, she realized. But she was quite certain she was right.

"What reassurance do you seek?" he continued, intrigued.

Tell him. Now.

"I don't simply let any man…" She stopped, struggling to convey her thoughts. "Look: I would have never let you spend the night with me if I didn't…If I didn't feel the way I feel about you."

She noticed the perplexed expression on his face.

"It's more than respect, admiration, and friendship." She looked at his broad shoulders. "Or mere attraction. Although all those are all present as well."

She took a deep breath.

"What I am saying, Sten, is that during the time we have been traveling together, I…have developed feelings for you. Deep feelings...What I am trying to tell you is that I…" She fell silent, bracing herself for the effect of those betraying words. "I love you, Sten. And the realization that you are not able to reciprocate that…Hurts me. I realize this is a terribly inconvenient thing I am telling you. Perhaps, if we stop now… I sincerely hope we can remain friends."

She extended her hand to him—a stiff gesture as definitive as placing a barrier between them: a point of no return.

It was a colossal confusion—she was right about that.

She had concluded that because he did not act as she expected, it was impossible that his feelings for her could be deeper than simply enjoying sex.

It was presumptuous and insulting.

For a moment he was so tired of her constant need for explicit reassurance, despite the fact he was so consistent and steadfast, that he almost gave in to the impulse to retreat from her tent and consider himself successfully cured of any curiosity regarding intimate matters with the Bas.

But even as her faulty logic stung him, something else had given him pause even as his heartbeat quickened.

I love you.

If he had learned anything, it was that love made perfectly rational people act defensively to mask or defend their vulnerabilities. It was also love that made them trusting and willing to expose that fragility in the first place. He had always thought of her as so strong, so disciplined, so rational.

But how curious that she was in as much turmoil as he…and for the same wildly irrational, exasperating reason.

More than respect, admiration, and friendship. More than mere attraction.

All of those were different forms of love, he understood. But he had awakened something even greater in her.

And he would be lying if he said he did not want it. He wanted that revelation, those emotions laid open and raw to him with a peculiar greed that was akin to hunger in its visceral need.

He realized she didn't trust him enough. Yet. She was too afraid to see past her own prejudices.

He contemplated her outstretched hand and made no movement to take it. There would be no simple translation, no middle ground in this matter.

If he wanted her, he would have to make the leap: go to her completely this time, reach her somehow.

Speak her language. Make her understand.

At his lack of response to her conciliatory gesture, she lowered her eyes.

"All right," she uttered, her hand still extended between them. "Maybe after some time you will—"

"I am willing to engage in some of the conventions," he explained. "But I will not write or declaim poetry. Do not expect flowers. Will this be acceptable to you?"

What? What was he going on about now?

"I don't follow what you are proposing…" she quickly replied.

"You have made many assumptions about me. I do not agree: they are incorrect. Yet, I understand you may not be in an ideal state to see past them to understand the truth."

She could feel the blood rise to her cheeks. Was it mortification or a slow buildup of anger? She had been drained from mustering the courage to tell him she loved him. And what did he do? He challenged her: "I do not agree." Was he seeking to argue with her when he should respect her honesty? Had nothing she'd said struck him enough to offer her a more considerate reaction?

"You are the one making the assumptions now."

"That is not correct."

She furrowed her brow, her irritation growing.

If this isn't proof of everything I was worried about!

"What is this about poetry and flowers? I didn't ask you to do any of that, did I? I am simply telling you that you have no obligation toward me, except to fulfill your promise to help me fight this Blight!"

He crossed his arms and contemplated her calmly.

"I know of no other way of making myself clear, Livia."

"Try," she provoked. "Because I don't have a clue of what is happening right now." An alarmed expression crossed her face as a thought dawned on her. "Are you mocking me? Is what I just admitted to you considered a sign of weakness among the qunari?"

He did not waver.

"I am proposing to act in the way you would want a Bas male to act in this situation."

She held still.

"I have read and learned enough about your culture to understand that sex is complex among your people—it is more than for pleasure. Despite that, it was wrong of me to believe that for that reason, sex alone would succeed in conveying a deeper understanding between us."

She gripped the edge of her bedroll.

"What do you mean by a deeper understanding?"

"That I…feel," he continued, slowly, unsure of how one would express such things. "The same as you."

She felt lightheaded.

"Sten." She blinked nervously. "Can you be more specific?" Her heart was pounding—she could feel her entire body pulse from the tension. He did not divert his gaze from her.

"We share the same impressions: I admire and respect you. I think of you as a fellow warrior in this foreign land. And I am physically attracted to you—"

"But that's just it, Sten—"

"And more," he interrupted.

She fell silent.

"I do not know any equivalent to this in my culture," he insisted. "I do not know that there is a word in Qunlat that defines it as it does is in your language. And I do not use your words lightly. So, I will do my best to convey what I feel to you. Do you understand? Tonight I want to lie with you. I waited for your return and thought of it often. But if you will not lie with me, I will accept it. But I wish to be by your side. I want you to speak to me, tell me about Ferelden, disagree with me, or contradict me. Your presence will suffice. It is disturbing to see you distraught, especially because I am often the reason for your distress. I do not wish to be that to you. I only wish you well, Livia; your wellbeing is more important to me than my own."

She looked so dumbstruck he wanted to poke her in the shoulder to elicit some kind of reaction.

She spoke her next words slowly, her voice almost a whisper, "Are you saying that you love me, too?"

"I will not use that term for all the other implications associated with it."

She leaned towards him.

"What implications?"

"I do not know that I can engage in all the acts those who claim to feel love carry out among your people. There are things that are foolish, wasteful, and unnecessary. I will not misuse language, in rhyme no less, to create statements about what I feel. I also think the custom of picking flowers is idiotic. Why do dead flowers profess affection?"

"Are you telling me that if it weren't for these…conventions…these rituals…you think you could love me?" she had an incredulous look. As impatient as that conversation was making him, he realized she was seeking what he so often demanded from her: unequivocal clarity.

"No."

"Oh." Her expression clouded.

"I am saying that I will do my best to convey my emotions for you in a manner you expect, but that there will be limits and I do not wish those limits to count against me."

"So…you love me?"

"Yes," he retorted, growing crosser.

She parted her lips and drew a deep breath. Her eyes glistened softly in the lamp's glow.

"I would prefer to show you rather than tell you. Any fool can utter the words."

"You would not be a fool if you said those words to me," she continued gently.

"It is unnecessary."

"Not if you are expressing honesty. You would only be adding to clarity." She finally grinned. "And you like clarity, no?"

"Now you are mocking me."

She smiled broadly, and before he understood what was happening, had sprung up from the bedroll and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"I am not mocking you. I am…happy, Sten," she admitted.

He was flooded with relief and a sense of wholeness. He clutched her against him.

"So," she asked, slackening her hold and seeking his eyes. She caressed his face. "If I understood correctly…you have offered to…court me?" she wondered.

"That is correct."

"With a few limitations," she confirmed.

"The limitations merely pertain to the actions, not to any sentiments."

She chuckled, burying her face in his neck, inhaling his warm, spiced scent.

"A qunari suitor," she mused.

"Yes." He retorted. His inquistive gaze did not relent, though. "What did you and the men you bedded do together when you were not having sex?"

At the completely indiscreet and inappropriate question, she laughed, delighted.

Yes, their cultures were extremely different. A relationship would be a challenge. It was so easy to believe he was indifferent. Or rude. It was difficult not to infer and presume. And judge. With him, she would have to put aside common expectations and preconceived notions. He would challenge her. He would stretch and exhaust her imagination.

And she would probably do the same to him.

He was willing. And so was she.