A/N: I hate it when there are those plot bunnies that can't seem to make their way out of the rabbit holes in your brain. I have a test tomorrow on the biopsychologial aspects of psychology but this plot has just been bugging me so much that I had to get it out of my system! I'm not totally happy with it. I might scrap it or fix it sometime later but for now, I'm just glad it's all out of my system.

It's not too angsty but I rated it T because Amell and Alistair share a tent. HOHOHOHO I know it's quite early on in the game, especially if you do Redcliffe first but meh, leave me be. Otherwise, RR and enjoy!

There were two thoughts that plagued Alistair's mind. The first was the situation in Redcliffe. Arl Eamon still hasn't woken from his coma and his son Connor was a knocked out abomination. He couldn't just abandon them for Arl Eamon was the closest he had to family in his younger days. Thankfully, Solona agreed to help them by seeking out help from the Circle. He knew she wouldn't give into the temptation of the blood magic of that imbecile Jowan despite the fact she and him were quite close in the Circle. When they arrived at the Tower however, it was a mess. Abominations and maleficars were rampant, destroying everything that blocked their paths—until of course Solona led her companions to the root of the problem, skillfully defeating every obstacle and solving the puzzle of the Sloth Demon's lair. They freed the Circle and the First Enchanter agreed to accompany the party to Redcliffe to see Connor.

The two Wardens and their companions decided to get a head start back to Redcliffe in case Connor woke up. As night fell, they decided to make camp. After a long, hard day's work, Alistair and Solona decided to retreat to the tent they shared for a good night's rest.

The second thought that plagued Alistair happened a few hours after Solona dozed off.

"Solona," he whispered, gently shaking the mage to rouse her from her slumber. She gave a small grunt and tapped his chest. That was probably the most awake he could get her at that point.

"Do you ever think of him?" Alistair asked.

"Do I ever think of who?" Solona mumbled, burrowing her face into his chest.

"That mage in the Tower," he continued, turning on his side to face the mess of crimson red hair beside him. "The one you always mention in your Circle stories."

"Jowan?"

"Maker, no. The other one!"

Solona's brows furrowed as she tried to think. She wasn't really in the mood for conversation at that point. All she wanted to do was get lost in the moment of calm-after-battle serenity. Why in the world would Alistair be lost in thought at a time like this anyway?

She mentioned many names whenever she told her stories just as he did with his Grey Warden tales. Whenever he'd talk about some new character of his past, the story remained, the names did not. She never really thought about them. They were either dead or far, far away—an honest truth the Warden was ashamed to admit. Her focus at the moment was not on the past but more of the present: the impending Blight that plagued them all… and of course, Alistair's marvelously chiseled chest.

The mage felt silly for not being able to recall the name of the mage who she apparently spoke so fondly about. Why was Alistair so interested in the first place? She gazed up at him. His eyes filled with curiosity and weakness. She smiled inwardly. Was he jealous? Solona decided to play a little game with her ex-templar. She wondered what sort of reactions she could get out of him.

"Do you mean…" Solona started. Alistair caught his breath, impatiently waiting for the name that caught his tongue.

"Meyer?" she replied with an impish grin. The warrior sighed and shook his head. How could she not remember? Or maybe she was just trying to evade the question?

"Roland?"

"No."

"Alphonse?"

"No."

"Christopher?"

"Andraste's sake, Solona, you know perfectly well who I'm talking about!"

The sudden anger in Alistair's voice caught Solona off guard. Maybe she shouldn't have thought of the game.

Her fellow Warden turned away from her and gazed at the low ceiling of the small tent they shared. Alistair wasn't sure why he even cared so much for her misbehavior in the Circle. It was all in the past yet something tugged at the pit of his stomach. His throat was dry and unnecessary thoughts plagued his mind. In the corner of his mind's eye, he could see Solona with another mage in a closet back in the Circle, lips locked and their hands all over each other's sweat dripping, ecstasy in the air. He shivered at the thought. He could never be at par with those more experienced. A blush crept to his face. If only he took a little more time to read on some books on—Maker, he couldn't even bring himself to think of it. How was he ever going to muster up the courage to ask her?

"Alistair?" Solona purred. She always managed to get under his skin when she said his name like that. There was something sultry yet incredibly cute about her voice.

Solona wondered what was wrong. She wasn't totally in the mood for his tantrums but then again, she wasn't in the mood for an argument. She hated fights outside battles; never really good at confrontation.

Slowly, Alistair's arm began to coil around Amell's waist bringing her closer to him. She could feel his breathing slowing down. Every breath he took sent soothing waves throughout her body. Solona felt safe in his arms and he in turn, felt needed—wanted. To her, he wasn't the troublesome, nuisance, bastard child of a King or the valiant, strong, dutiful Grey Warden. He was just Alistair, the bumbling idiot who never really knew when it was the right time to say anything. He pulled the thin blanket up higher so that it could cover her shoulders and gave her a small kiss on the forehead. Solona lay there, snuggled up against his chest in confusion.

"You were whispering his name while you slept," he suddenly said. Right then, Solona could see the jealously in his distant, hazel eyes. Guilt surged through her like lightning trying to strike her down. She was greatly embarrassed, calling out to another man while the man she very much cared about (and hopefully cared for her the same way) lay down beside her.

"Alistair, I'm sorry! I—"

"I just want an explanation, Solona," he cut her off. "That's all. Then we can go back to sleep." His voice was icy. Solona felt like talons were clawing at her throat.

She was dreaming of her life in the Tower, years before she left. She knew who Alistair was talking about. The images from her dreams were so vivid that at one point she couldn't even tell she was in the Fade anymore—that her reality because her dream world. It hurt her to think of her past life—of what she lost by turning into who she was now. But she had to come clean. Alistair was expecting an answer and she didn't want to hurt his feelings further by brushing the topic away.

She sighed deeply and said: "He was my best friend, only second to Jowan. At one point we were more than that but I was young and confused and didn't exactly understand." Her body shook in regret and shame for having to let him find out about her past this way.

"The last time I saw him, he was being taken away by the Templars for trying to escape the Tower," she continued, her thoughts drifting to a time when things were a bit simpler. "Jowan and I were used to it. It was the sixth time he was caught. His cell in the basement was like his resting house, as so he put it," Solona managed to chuckle at the thought.

"I managed to visit him once. I practically had to plead to Irving to endorse me to Gregoir. The cell was windowless, cold and the ground was made of stone. There was nowhere to do your bodily things properly so he had to go on the same floor he slept on. There was also a draining energy in the air that I couldn't explain. I felt like it wasn't just draining the mana from my body but also my spirit. He looked so thin and so weak, his eyes sunken deep into his face and he practically looked like a living skeleton. As much as I hated to leave him, I couldn't bear seeing him like that. I never wanted to go back again."

Solona paused. Alistair had not said a word since she started speaking. She looked up at him and noticed that he was looking at her with pity in his eyes. He couldn't believe that her friend could even survive in living conditions like those. Did mages really deserve that for desiring freedom? They were dangerous, of course but surely there was another way?

"That was the fourth time he tried to escape," Solona looked away, not being able to tell the story straight to Alistair's face. "When I left the Tower to join Duncan, he'd been in solitary confinement for two months. I tried looking for him when we visited the Tower today but he was gone from his cell."

She was sure he escaped. She hoped he escaped.

Alistair suddenly felt a little guilty for opening up a scar. How was he supposed to know that the man she saw in her dreams was a good friend locked away in a prison? He pulled her tighter to console her but it was her turn to look distant. Jealousy took the best of him. Alistair felt like punching himself in the face.

He wasn't sure how he felt knowing Solona was friendly with an apostate (or at least someone who aspired to be one) and close friends with a blood mage. The Templar in his head told him that pity for her close friends wasn't an option yet the humane side of his self thought it wasn't fair to lock the mages up in a tower or restricted to only a certain way of life.

Everything was silent again. Alistair could feel the slow heaving of Solona's chest beside him. She had fallen asleep. It was a long day and she out of all people had the right to a good night's rest—or at least what rest she could afford to have in these conditions. He'd drop the subject for now but hoped to get something more out of her sooner or later. He allowed his eyelids to slowly shut tight and for his subconscious to take over.

Suddenly, there was a noise from outside. Alistair's eyes flew open, listening intently to the noise. It sounded like footsteps with branches and leaves crunching beneath the person's (or was it a person?) feet. The senior Grey Warden carefully slipped his arm from under the mage, trying his best not to wake her again then silently and stealthily crawled out of his tent to survey the surroundings. He couldn't feel any darkpawn around him but he knew there was something. It seemed like no one else heard the noise. Alistair reached for his sword from inside his tent, stood up and unsheathed it. His sword glinted in the moonlight. No matter what it was, there was nothing he could handle.

He found Oghren sound asleep and snoring loudly at his post by the coals of fire in the middle of camp.

"Trust him with the night watch," Alistair grumbled making his way towards the bushes and trees behind his tent.

SNAP!

"Maker…"

There was someone up there! Alistair braced himself for whatever was to come. He had to defend the camp as much as possible. He swung his sword to cut off some branches of tree and low and behold, sitting on a branch nearest the trunk of the tree was a strange man wearing long robes, sporting a high half-ponytail. The rest of his details were hard to make out in the dark.

"Oh, I see you've caught me," he said sheepishly.

"Who are you?" Alistair called out sternly, soft enough though to not wake his fellow companions.

The man started his descent down the tree, avoiding the question. As he came into better view, Alistair noticed that this was no ordinary man. He was a mage—outside the Tower! His face looked drained, cheeks sunken into his skull. Malnourished would be the proper way to describe the man. Not to mention the fact that the hair that wasn't tied up lay sweaty and stringy to the sides of his head and the foul smell that emanated from the man's body.

"Do me a favor and don't alert the Templars," he said with surprising ease. It didn't go well with the way he looked. If only he knew that he spoke to an ex-Templar. Alistair didn't lower his sword. He was standing face to face with an apostate. He could be out to hurt one of his companions. He could even be a maleficar.

"What are you doing here?" Alistair asked. It seemed like a more important question to him than knowing the mage's identity. The apostate (or so Alistair thought) chuckled and rested his body against the tree.

"I came from the Circle, if you hadn't picked that up yet," the mage said, brushing off his robes of dirt with one hand. Not like it would take the smell away, Alistair scrunched his face in disgust.

"I ran away when the abominations took over. As I was on my way back—"

Alistair could smell the lies all over that last statement.

"—I overheard that a certain Solona Amell saved it. I was thinking that maybe this was her camp."

Alistair strengthened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Barely anyone survived the happenings at the Circle and anyone who knew that Amell was responsible for its redemption was either still there or very, very dead. The Warden said nothing and kept his eyes on the mage. He was concerned and suspicious. What could this mage want with Solona that he had to make a quick stop in his escape from the Circle for?

A grin crept on the mage's face. He said: "I take your silence as confirmation that she's here."

Alistair twitched. There was no way he was letting him near her. He would have to fight his way through to get to her. All of a sudden, those long, grueling hours at Templar training didn't seem so bad after all.

"Can I see her?"

"Over my dead body," Alistair replied, almost growling the words out. With the night's earlier argument and the long day of demon slaying, he was in no mood to deal with this mad man.

The mage flinched at his reply.

Good, Alistair thought. He didn't trust the mage at all.

The ex-Templar watched as worry washed over the mage's face. It was a mix of different emotions: hurt, fury, confusion and embarrassment. Alistair didn't give a damn at all. He wished the mage would just take his filth and leave.

"Well, can you just leave her a message then?" the mage pleaded. Alistair was very hesitant but his good nature took the best of him.

"Fine," he managed to say in the nicest way he could, though it still sounded spiteful.

"Could you tell her that," the mage paused midsentence, "that Anders says 'Hello'."

The man gave a small smile and said his goodbyes to Alistair, whose mouth now hung open in sheer shock.

Anders.

The mage that stood before him was Anders.

Alistair wasn't sure how he should feel. A mix of jealously and concern overwhelmed him. This was the man Solona spoke of. That was the name she whispered in her sleep with such desperation and longing. Anders was free! He was safe! Alistair on the other hand felt like he was going to throw up. Images of Solona and Anders reuniting in a tight embrace managed to send him off the edge— but he couldn't show that in front of the apostate. He had to be in control of himself. He had to be the better man— civil, proper, the gentleman the Chantry taught him to be. He still felt like his stomach was being squeezed of all its contents though. The hilt of his sword began to slip from his hands but before it could drop, he mustered up enough courage to speak.

"But how did you esc—"

It was too late. Before he knew it, Anders had run off, disappearing deep into the darkness of the forest. That was the mark of his seventh escape from the Circle of Magi. For the millionth time that night, Alistair felt like a total idiot.