Work Text:
Only when the last of the darkspawn falls does Emylina stumble. She’s on the ground seconds later when the sudden shock of pain through her foot has her pitching forward onto the damp grass.
Alistair cries her name out from across the field; her shuddering breath catches in her chest, and she splutters crimson red. The arrow lodged in her side is the most worrisome, since the wound is bleeding steadily, but the one in her foot is the most painful; it takes all of the little strength she has to prevent herself from reaching down to dig it out.
“Oh Maker.” Alistair’s eyes are wide as he kneels beside her.
“It’s looks worse than it is,” she tells him. “I’ll be alright.”
Despite himself, Alistair laughs, but it does nothing to quell the rising tension in his muscles. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he manages to say as he fumbles to apply pressure to the most serious of the wounds, “but you know you’ve got five arrows sticking out of you, right?”
“Is that what it is?” Emylina cracks a grin that turns into a grimace of pain almost immediately. “Just my luck.”
“Here,” Wynne says, kneeling beside the pair of them with a potion in her hand. “Drink. Zevran, how many of those bandages do we have?”
“Seven,” the elf replies. “Let me see.”
“None of them hit anything major,” Emylina tells him as he inspects each of the arrows. The less time everyone spends worrying about her chances, the faster they’ll get those arrows out of her. The pain is intense even with the potion taking the barest edge off the worst of it. Thankfully, only two of her injuries are bleeding out, and Wynne’s healing magic is helping to stem the tide so the two men beside her can make sure each wound is sufficiently cleaned.
Alistair helps shift her into a comfortable position, mindful of the arrows in her left shoulder and upper leg, so he can hold her against him as one of Zevran’s daggers slices into her right side to carve out the arrow embedded there. Emylina bites her lip, and Alistair takes her hand when she doesn’t quite manage to suppress a whimper.
She tries to speak, but she cannot get enough air into her lungs; every slight movement of her body sets off spiking pain near at least one of her many injuries, and the one Zevran is working on is beyond excruciating, so much so that tears leak from her eyes as she struggles to remain still beneath his hand.
“Need the stick.” She finally manages to form words between gasps for air. Unless she wants to attract even more darkspawn with her wailing, she needs something to bite down on. After much frantic shuffling she hears Alistair murmur an apology before he claps his hand over her mouth as a substitute.
The arrowhead hadn’t lodged into bone —none of them had— so it is easy enough for Zevran, with his skill with a blade, to enlarge the injury just enough for him to start twisting the arrow out in its entirety. Alistair murmurs tenderly to her while his eyes water from her now painful grip on his hand as she screeches into his palm, but he grips her hand right back, hoping to anchor her.
“That’s one,” Zevran says, dropping the shaft to the ground. He moves immediately on to her next most pressing injury, leaving Wynne to finish dressing the first. Since the others hadn't pierced near any internal organs the rest of the process runs much more swiftly; it passes in a blur for Emylina, with the pain overriding anything else, even Alistair’s soothing words, until it finally overwhelms her.
The next thing she knows, she’s staring at the top of her tent. She still aches from her many wounds, especially when she tries to sit up and is rewarded with a sharp spasm of pain. Wincing, she lays back down, and only then does she realize her hand is in Alistair’s.
He’s sitting beside her, his somber expression melting into one of intense relief as he leans down to kiss her forehead. “You did quite a number on yourself this time,” he says. “You just couldn’t have stopped at two or three arrows?”
“Mmm,” Emylina says, squeezing his hand. “But my plan to get you to hold my hand in front of our friends was a roaring success, wasn’t it?”
Alistair laughs. “There are simpler ways of achieving that, believe me. Like, I don’t know, asking for instance?”
“What can I say? I like a challenge.” She shifts, wincing even from the slight movement. “Anyway, what have I missed?”
“We had to bring you back here, to camp. Our lyrium supply was running low, and there was no way you’d be in any condition to continue on to Orzammar when you woke up anyway. Wynne was able to keep you under until we got back; she and Leliana went off to trade for herbs that should help get you back on your feet sooner.”
“Great,” Emylina scowls. “Just what we needed. Another delay.”
“It’s not your fault,” Alistair says, lifting her hand to his lips.
“I know it isn’t, it was that damn genlock,” she says grumpily.
“The others can take care of some of the matters on that list of yours. You deserve a break.”
Emylina cracks a smirk. “What about you? Surely you’re due for some time off as well. We Wardens have been working tirelessly for months on end, don’t you agree?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Alistair agrees in a mock-serious tone, giving her hand another kiss. “It only stands to reason that we should take some time for ourselves. I suggest a feast!”
She nearly giggles. “That’s always your suggestion.”
“Because it’s always a good one.” Alistair gives her hand a final kiss, then rises. “I’ll prepare it, then, shall I?”
Preparing it, as it turns out, involves Alistair badgering their companions for their best rations and then for assistance cooking the meal. He spends twenty minutes alone trying to convince Morrigan to donate her stash of cooking herbs for the pottage. She certainly puts him through his paces, and it’s clear to Emylina that she’s doing it just for the pleasure of watching Alistair struggle to remain civil with her as she peppers him with insult after insult. Thankfully, Morrigan eventually relents (as she had always intended to, Emylina suspects) and Alistair recruits Zevran to help him cook the stew over the fire.
When he finally reenters her tent, his arms are laden not only with bowls of pottage but also with an assortment of cheeses and sugar cakes, along with some ale. He looks quite proud of his efforts as he arranges the meal before her and pours her a drink, but his smile fades slightly when he catches sight of the look on Emylina’s face.
“What?”
“You went through quite a bit to prepare this feast of ours,” she replies. “You do know that Morrigan was just playing with you, right? She probably always intended to give you what you needed in the end.”
Alistair chuckles nervously. “You heard that, did you?”
“I’m sure the effort was worth it. But I think I’ll need a taste of that stew, just to be sure.”
“Of course, my lady,” he says, leaning forward to help her into a sitting position. The scent of the stew he’s prepared is more intoxicating than Emylina could have dreamed, and when the pottage touches her lips she actually moans aloud.
“So do I have to get seriously injured again to convince you to make this more often?”
That gets a chuckle out of him. “I’ll just settle for a kiss in the future.”