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They had gotten separated somehow. Usually they operated as one, focusing on Alistair's target and moving onto another, somehow they ended up at all corners of the field each taking on their own darkspawn.
It didn't bother Amell one bit. A lifetime in the tower and then suddenly a Grey Warden, she had gotten good at this. Wanting to test her own mettle in a solo encounter, she felt very confident and rather enthusiastic. See, I'm good with this fighting magic stuff, I don't need Alistair, or plate armor or-
“Shit.” she gasped, falling to her knees having shared a killing blow with her very own genlock. She looked down at the blade sticking out of her gut and touched it, felt her own wet blood between her fingers. She pulled at it a little and groaned at the pain, it hurt.
“Nope! Nope. Not good.” She spoke aloud. It hurt like nothing she had felt before and she began to tremble, feeling terrified, lonely. She looked around for Wynne, Alistair, Zevran... all engaged in battle, killing the last of the few darkspawn.
Alistair, upon noticing the complete lack of her jeering or darkspawn on fire, looked around wondering when she was going to step in and help... she always did that; always found him in battle after a (usually) very brief separation. He saw her peripherally, low to the ground, her back to him. This isn't the time for looting! We talked about this! He felt frustrated with her and lobbed off a darkspawn head and charged at the next one.
“A little help, here?”
Smiling at the gruff demand, she was tapped out, no lyrium and no range of motion to grab any of the many potions she carried. She felt cold, afraid, and the blade in her was immobilizing and painful, she didn't even want to move. If I moved, would it shred my guts? She shuddered at the thought.
“I'm sorry.” she squeaked, there was no way he heard her. The simple act of trying to use her voice tore through her with abandon and she stifled her groans, fought the deep breaths she wanted to take, every tiny movement was like... well, a giant piece of metal grinding into her guts.
When she didn't move to help him he felt confused and a little afraid. Running the darkspawn through, he looked at Zevran who seemed to be faring quite well with the very last one standing.
“Hey, are you alright?” he approached her, catching his breath. Her back still toward him she trembled, her breath coming in quick, shallow pants.
“Amell?” He spoke gently, throwing his weapons down.
She felt relief that someone finally took notice of her just as she began to taste the copper on her lips.
“Alistair?” she breathed. “Help me?”
His heart leaped at her request and he knelt in front of her, finally noticing the hilt protruding from her. It felt like someone knocked the wind from him. No, no. I need her, she can't leave me to be the last Grey Warden... I don't want to be left alone, I don't want to be... without her. And with that he realized how his care for her had come to be love.
“Wynne?” he spoke loudly, moving to help Amell lay flat on her back.
“No no no no... ah, ow, ow...” she panicked, shouting out her pain as he guided her to laying. She had a few knocks before, never anything like this. This was new, terrifying.
“It's okay... it's okay, I got you. It's going to be okay.” he soothed her and himself, his heart skipping beats at seeing her grimace, feeling her tremble under his touch.
“Maker, it hurts.” she coughed and groaned, tears touching the corners of her eyes, hands reaching to his. He fought her hands away and rested her arms at her sides.
“Yes... of course it hurts. Be still. Love, be still.” As the word slipped from his tongue he realized the full truth of it. Maker, I do not want to lose her, please.
“Wynne!” he shouted louder, looking around in the encroaching darkness. Is she hurt too?
He moved to stand and she grasped at him,
“No, no don't leave me...” she sobbed a little, aching for his warm touch on her cold body. Just for him to touch her anywhere.
He choked back a sob and removed his gloves. He wasn't sure what to do; removing the blade seemed logical but she could bleed to death if Wynne didn't come.
“Wynne! We need you!” he shouted again.
They didn't even notice the silent Zevran approach them until he gasped. Alistair looked up at him, eyes pleading and tears welling. The rogue ran and shouted for her, his voice sounding distant, Wynne? Wynne where are you?
“He'll find her. She'll come and we'll fix you. It's going to be okay.” he stroked her cheeks, cupped her face in his hands, stroked her hair. It seemed to soothe her and she closed her eyes.
“NO. No... stay awake. Look at me.” he tapped her cheeks gently to rouse her, keep her eyes on his.
“It hurts so much... I never imagined...” she shuddered and gasped, her sobs too painful to follow through with, she breathed them back.
“Worse than the arrows?” he spoke to distract, to keep her awake, keep her looking at him with those dark eyes. Perfect, almond shaped eyes... so dark you can't distinguish the brown from the black unless in the sunlight where they shone the most intense bronze color, like her hair.
“I don't remember that happening. We lit the signal fire and the last thing I remember is... your eyes.” she smiled, shuddered again. “I'm so cold. Your hands feel so good on my face. Alistair?”
“Yes. I'm not going anywhere.” he let his hands move again, tucking her hair behind her ears, brushed her hair with his fingers, stroked her cheeks with his knuckles, trying to memorize the shape of her lips, the curve of her jaw, allowing himself to express the tenderness he feels for her.
“I want to tell you, just in case.”
“Don't... don't start it like that.” the looming tears finally fell and he rested his lips on her forehead for a tender kiss. “Please, just... no.”
“I wondered where things would go between you and I.” she cried a little. “I just... had never felt this way about anyone.”
“Don't talk as if you're leaving me.” he whimpered.
“Please just let me tell you, and if I say it wrong correct it in your head.” she let out a breathy chuckle and a cough that had her groan and sob at the pain. “Maker's breath this is literally the most horrible feeling.”
“I know. I know. I'm so sorry.” he kissed her forehead again to hide his face from her, to hide the tears about to fall only succeeding for them to splatter onto her forehead. Where the fuck are they?
“You're crying for me.” she smiled.
“For us both.” he choked back the sob threatening to tear through his shoulders.
“Never particularly wanted anyone in my life... until I met you. My body, my heart and my mind go crazy... ever since I met you. Just to be near you...”
“Maker's breath, you absolutely must survive this.” he felt overwhelmed at her confession; he was feeling the same, had been, but was no where near brave enough to even admit it to her.
“I don't need to know whether or not you feel the same, but I needed you to know how I feel. You have a... tendency to... imagine you have less value than you do.” she began to nod off a little.
“Hey! No... stay awake.” he cupped her cheeks firmly with trembling hands. “Look at me. Keep looking at me.”
“Gentle, sweet and funny. Big, calloused hands. A smile so beautiful...” she smiled, her wits beginning to fade away with her.
“Alistair, move.” Wynne stumbled to them, assisted by Zevran.
“Thank the maker.” Alistair backed away.
She whimpered at the loss of his hands on her.
Wynne and her calm demeanor made no indication of the severity of the situation, she just went straight to work.
“Zevran, hold her shoulders. Hold her absolutely still. Alistair, listen carefully. You are going to pull the blade from her.”
He nodded and she met his eyes sternly.
“You will pull the blade in the direction it went in. Not straight up. You see this angle? Pull it out of her in the trajectory it was pushed in, which was at an upward angle. Quickly, but not too quickly. Note that this sword has a subtle curve toward the end of the blade. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” he stood and wrapped both hands around the pommel.
He looked closer at the entry, noted the upward angle, the type of sword distinguishable by the small amount of silver peeking from the wound. Yes, a very subtle and wide curve...
Wynne placed her hands on Amell's hips, presumably to hold her still during extraction.
“Maker. This is going to hurt... Alistair, I'm so afraid... Maker's bre-” is all she got to say before Alistair pulled on the blade. Best to not prolong her suffering by keeping her waiting.
She grunted, groaned and cried out, her body wanted to thrash against the pain on it's own accord. Firm hands held her down as her fingers scrambled for purchase and heels dug into the dirt beneath her.
“Yes, a little faster. You're doing well, Alistair. She's going to be okay, be strong.” Wynne soothed and encouraged.
His hair stood on end hearing her guttural shouts and moans, he felt guilty; in a way, he was the cause of this pain. This felt like it was taking forever. He felt more confident seeing the glow of Wynne's healing magic as he pulled. He understood, then. He felt hope; she was healing as the blade was being extracted.
Amell screamed, cried and cringed feeling the metal pulling out of her. She felt her guts shifting, being more wounded and healing again as Alistair's strong arms pulled. Zevran's firm grip on her shoulders held her to the ground; she looked up at his soft eyes before her own rolled back. She felt gratitude at the contact and stabilizing force that quelled some of her sense of loneliness. Wynne's firm hold on her hips frustrated the thrashing she felt the need to carry out and she impulsively bucked against her hands to no avail. It seemed to her that this blade must be ten feet long.
Zevran spoke to her soothingly near her ear but the words weren't audible, only his tone. She heard Wynne speaking to Alistair and couldn't make out the words over her own shouting.
The sickening squishing sound of the sword finally exiting her body caused Alistair to recoil in disgust and horror, he threw the blade away from himself, perhaps a little too forcibly, it landed in the bushes some feet away.
“There. All better.” Wynne stood up wobbling. Zevan and Alistair each grabbed a shoulder and she stabilized.
Amell sobbed a little and panted, trying to slow her own breathing with blowing out deep breaths. Her heart pounded, she felt cold, weak and in shock. She reached shaky arms desperately toward Alistair. Kneeling beside her, his hands searched her midsection as evidence that she's okay now, that it's over.
“You're okay. You're okay.” he whispered over and over as his hands continually felt no wound where the sword once protruded from her. His hands were wet and sticky with her blood, the horror of what just happened hitting him and making him feel ill.
Her arms wrapped around his neck, seeking his touch, his warmth, the safety of being wrapped in his arms. He was more than willing to oblige her. He held her to himself tightly, her cheek resting against his neck. She cried silently.
“You're okay.” he whispered, kissing her head, trying to soothe her, soothe himself. “You're okay. You're okay.”