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For more reasons than one, Alistair felt very awake.
The air was cold, for one thing – the brisk breeze blowing off the creek raised goosebumps up his bare arms. Secondly, he was in pain; Neria had slathered some kind of stinging salve (although it did smell pleasantly of elfroot blossoms) over the open wound on his forearm. He wasn’t sure if it should have numbed the pain immediately or if this was one of those balms that healed in the long run but was more immediately painful. He thought Neria might have explained this to him already, and so did not want to ask her again.
He found he had difficulty sometimes in listening when she talked. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to hear what she had to say; it was almost as though he wanted to hear it too much. He wanted to hear the lovely timbre of her voice, wanted to watch her soft lips moving while she spoke.
Given the pain he was in, the incessant chirping of crickets felt less than pleasant, each song joining together in a cacophony. Neria spoke softly, and he narrowed his senses past the crickets to hear her.
“I’m going to wrap this in clean cloth, and we’ll need to re-dress it nightly after applying the balm again,” she said. She was concentrating hard, her head bowed down, both of her tiny hands grasping his wrist. A crescent of white moonlight reflected on Neria’s dark, shiny hair. Alistair felt self-conscious of the dirt under his fingernails, and clenched his hand into a fist to hide them.
“Every night?” he asked. “Is it going to hurt this badly every night?”
“Don’t be a baby,” she said as she began to wrap it tightly with a strip of white cloth. She looked at him, then, as though she regretted the remark. Her eyes were dark, almost black, and striking. They shone intensely in the moonlight. “But no, it won’t. It should start to feel better tonight, even.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Alistair searched his mind for a joke, something to lighten the mood, but found himself at a loss. Things felt, at the moment, profoundly unfunny. They’d been traveling together for some time, along with Morrigan, a woman who made him feel deeply uncomfortable. He was glad for Neria’s presence, how she helped navigate the other woman’s prickliness.
Watching Neria fight was something else, too. He’d been taught to swing a sword and shield, to view mages as dangerous, as ticking time bombs – but watching Neria awoke in him something he had not felt before. He had never seen lightning crackle from someone’s fingertips, had never felt the tingle of a heal spell as it circled his body with its blue-white light. He loved the look of concentration as she cast, frowning and severe, her features lit by otherworldly blue light.
He watched Neria wind the cloth tightly around his arm. It was easy, somehow, to sit in silence with her. He felt at ease in her presence. Though practically half his size, she radiated a soothing confidence. Or was that magic, too?
Did he want her because of what they had been through together? Their unspoken bond, inextricably and forever linked? Did he want her because she was all he had left?
“There,” she said, gently patting the bandage. She turned his wrist over slowly, inspecting and admiring her handiwork. “Looks absolutely perfect.”
“A talented healer, and modest too,” Alistair mused.
Neria scoffed, her lips on the verge of a smile. “You’re lucky I’m here, Alistair. You might be bleeding out on the battlefield if it weren’t for me.” She glanced over her shoulder at Morrigan’s distant tent. “I’m not certain Morrigan would have saved you.”
“Oh, definitely not. I think she’d have made the final blow herself. With a smile on her face, even.”
Neria dropped Alistair’s wrist and leaned back on her elbows to look up at the sky. She wore a thin linen shirt with olive green elven stitching around the neckline. Her expression was thoughtful, but Alistair could not begin to imagine what she might be thinking about. At her rustling of the tall grasses beneath them, the crickets briefly quieted. He could hear the trickle of water nearby, and the crackle of the fire. He tried to stop himself from staring. It was quiet for a time.
“Aren’t you cold?” he asked finally.
“A bit,” she answered. “Aren’t you? You’ve just got short sleeves on.”
“And this bandage, now,” he mused, patting it gently. “Nice and toasty.”
He did not expect Neria to move closer to him. To bring her body against his, leaning her shoulder against his uninjured arm. She felt warm, and small. She smelled like ink and paper, like flowers, like fire and smoke all at once. She began to rub his arm lightly, her small hand wrapped around his bicep, the way one does to warm their own shivering body. He felt frozen to his spot. He did not want her to leave.
“Are you really too cold? I wonder if you lost too much blood on the field.”
“No, no, I’m fine. Really. I’m just being dramatic.”
“You? Dramatic? I can’t conceive of it, Alistair.” She didn’t move, though. In fact, it felt as though she moved her body even closer to his. He had an urge to grab her, to scoop her up and kiss her. But that could not possibly be what she wanted. He stayed, frozen, like a statue. He waited for her.
“I think if I fell asleep right here, like this, I’d get a pretty good night’s sleep,” she observed. “Solid sleeping surface, warm. Safe.”
“You’re welcome to, Neria. I’ll just sit upright all night long, eyes open, no sleep for me. I’ll be the best bed you ever had.”
She laughed. “The best bed I’ve ever had? Don’t get ahead of yourself, Alistair.”
He wanted to kick himself. Before he could feel too stupid, though, she spoke again. “This is a miserable journey to be on, to be sure. I’m glad to be on it with a good man.”
His cheeks burned. “A good man?” was all he could get out.
“A good man,” she answered. “It’s as simple as that.”
Before he knew what was happening, she was kissing him. One delicate hand on his jaw, the other against his chest, she turned his head towards her and kissed him. Her lips were softer than he’d imagined, and he wasn’t sure that he was doing what he was supposed to, but it felt right, easy. His head was spinning, a dizzying giddiness coursing through him. And then it was over as quickly as it had started. She eased back against his shoulder, nuzzling in. He could scarcely feel the wound on his arm anymore, but he wasn’t sure if it was Neria’s salve, or something else.
Neria and Alistair were quiet. He suspected she really might be dozing off. He imagined himself truly sitting there all night, freezing in the cold, unwilling to move as she slept. The crickets started back up with their dissonant song. He placed his hand gently on her knee, and she didn’t move. Alistair settled back and closed his eyes. He would have to get up eventually, but not just yet.