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The creature howled, turning in place as it struggled to locate Felassan on its spiny back. He used the jutting quills to maneuver along it. He would stab it in the base of the skull -- in enough of Ghilan'nain's monstrosities, that was enough to kill the damn things. Whether it was one of hers didn't matter.
A claw just barely missed his leg. He climbed faster, sword in one hand. It began to toss its head like a wet dog. Felassan yelped and clung for life. When it was clear he would not be dislodged, the beast stood on its hind legs and tried to shake him off that way.
He climbed the remaining few spines quickly and stabbed his sword into what should've been the juncture between neck and skull. He was rewarded with a pained yowl.
When he pulled out the sword, dark blood began to leak out. He stabbed again, just to be sure, angling it up to try and strike what should have been its brain. Did it have one? Or was it held together by magic alone? It was hard to tell in the dimness of the cavern.
It stumbled and, with another screech, tumbled forward.
Felassan leapt off its back before he came down with it. It collapsed behind him in a rattle of spine and bone, driving dust into the air.
"Looks dead," he reported after a brief inspection and a kick to its bony face.
There was no response.
Felassan turned. "Niradahn?" Bumblebee?
Silence.
He looked around. The thing had backhanded her but she hadn't fallen too far. He had assumed she'd gotten back up, as she always did. But there had been a conspicuous lack of spells in the final moments of the battle.
He'd gotten turned around as the beast had spun so he had to walk around its corpse. There was a fallen heap not far from the creature's feet, a jumble of hair and patterned cloth.
"Niradahn," he called again, alarm rising. He ran towards her. "Tahmina!"
She let out a pained groan as he turned her onto her back, revealing one of the quills from the creature's forearm lodged into the side of her stomach. He swallowed a curse; he did not want to frighten her.
"Tahmina? Tahmina, wake up." He pulled her carefully onto his lap and pushed her hair from her face. "Tahmina."
She forced open one eye. "It hit me."
He nodded slowly. "It did. It... left one of its quills in you."
"Oh, no," she said without much alarm.
He patted her cheek, trying to rouse her. "I'm going to need a little more liveliness than that."
She forced the eye open a little farther. "Trying." She looked down at herself, at the enormous spine jutting from her gut and let out a disappointed sigh. "Ah, fuck."
"That's more like it." He put a hand around the jagged spine. "I'm going to take it out--"
"Don't!" she hissed.
He pulled his hand away quickly.
"Lot of blood."
"I will not pull it out."
Her breath was shallow, a touch panicked. She held her hand over her stomach, near the wound, and he felt a flutter of magic that couldn't quite gain traction. The spell fizzled out. He could've helped her maintain it… but only if she could get it going.
"I can't..." She shook her head slightly. "Can't do magic. Can't focus. Hurts. Can you heal?"
Felassan stared down at her. Her face was starting to bruise. It was possible she couldn't open the other eye. He shook his head. "I know enough for cuts and bruises. Not this."
She took another breath. "Stitches? Sewing?"
"I've... mended my trousers."
"Good enough."
She took a few seconds to gather her strength. He resisted the urge to shake her. It was not often that he was out of his depth, but this was an unfamiliar tide they were in. He'd never seen her go down before. He had started to think she was insurmountable – a foolish mistake he didn't think he would ever repeat.
"My pack," she instructed tersely.
They'd abandoned their bags at the entrance when they realized the creature was not an inert pile of bones but, in fact, something alive. He set her down carefully, ran to get them, and sprinted back.
"Front pocket," she said when she saw him lean over her again. "Flask. Help me."
She grimaced as he helped her sit up and lean against him. He unscrewed the top and she took a long drink, then inhaled sharply between her teeth.
"I'm awake." Then she thrust the flask into his chest. "Drink."
He took a confused but obedient sip, and nearly spat it out. The smell gave away that it was alcohol but he had assumed it would be an herbal curative of some kind. No; it must have been the purest liquor in all of Thedas. He was no stranger to grain liquors and astringent moonshines, but this one had a vicious, unnatural burn.
"Why?" was all he could ask between coughs.
"Nerves. You're going to close me up."
Ridiculous, was his first thought. He wasn't for sealing, he was for cutting and for being cut. He put on a brave face. "I will."
She snorted. Apparently not brave enough. "Think of it as... a large porcupine quill. You'll be fine."
"Have you done something like this before?" he asked.
She nodded tightly. "Stitches make spells easier. Like... anchors." She winced at the last word.
She leaned onto her good arm, lowered herself back to the ground, and began to issue quick, breathless instructions through gritted teeth.
He followed her orders: light a magical flame under their little pot to boil the water, cast a bright light above them to see better, then dig out her sewing kit that held white silk thread, and don't forget the bandages. At her urging, he carefully removed her belt, cut away her shirt with his dagger, and pulled her trousers enough to expose the whole of her soft abdomen. She shook, her muscles trembling from the tension of pain and anticipation.
All the while, she slowly bled from where the creature's quill had dug into her. It hadn't punctured all the way through to her back, but it was deep, and worse, it was barbed. It must have hurt tremendously.
She was starting to falter. He had her take another drink of the moonshine.
"Rinse your hands with it," she ordered. After a thought, she added, "Leave a sip, though." She tried to smile. Between her half-shut eye and her evident pain, it did not look good. He smiled back, encouraging.
As he cleaned his fingers and palms with splashes from the flask, she continued her instructions. She might not be conscious, she explained, or coherent once she began losing more blood. He would have to proceed on his own if she lost consciousness.
It was all familiar, vaguely; he'd seen field medics do these things to keep people intact until someone – usually Solas – could arrive and heal properly. For someone who hated it, he knew the mysteries of their desperately made flesh quite well.
Felassan had thought often that he should learn something helpful, but his attention was always on tactics, on command, on tearing apart. He regretted it now. Ten thousand years to learn something new and he'd remained a simple arrow. He'd always been a bit delayed.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
He wasn't.
"Are you?" he returned.
Tahmina smiled again, her good eye crinkling. Then she stretched her head up towards him and brushed her bruised lips to his cheek. "No. Do it."
As she laid her head down on her pack, he gripped the quill and, with magical force, sheared the bulk of it off clean. It would take pressure off the barbs and force them to relax, making removal easier. She hissed but did not flinch. That done, he gripped the broken end, and twisted and pulled at the same time, trying to give it one good yank so it did not cause her pain for long.
This time she screamed and rose half up onto her elbow.
"It's alright," he soothed, "it's out. It's out. No more of that."
She ground her teeth but it didn't stop the whimper of pain. Her eyes welled up. She resolutely blinked the tears away.
Blood was starting to rush out, hot and spirited, no longer just a dribble. He pulled away the remains of cloth from her shirt and overcoat and poured the purified water over the wound. Bits of the barbs came out. Some remained in the wound.
He'd thought about sinking his fingers into her skin. This was not what he had in mind.
The wound looked both endless and much smaller now that he was staring down into it with the quill gone. How could it possibly close? How could his hands possibly fit? She'd said he could move things around, take them out for better visibility and handling. Conceptually, it made sense. In practice...
But he was all practice, wasn't he? Contemplation was for fools. He swallowed and steeled himself.
Carefully, he plucked the remaining pieces of the quill he could see. There would be smaller ones he wouldn't find or couldn't remove without tweezers. She said not to think about that. How she would solve that, he did not know.
Using a little more of the water to clear the fresh blood, he looked inside. The spine had punctured through the abdominal muscle. The intestines were right there, torn but not all the way apart, bulbous and shiny and inflamed. He touched it gently and she shivered.
Tahmina was saying something. He'd lost track of her for a moment in his deep focus. Her words had a little melody, simple, child-like.
"Iras ma ghilas, da'len, ara ma'nedan ashir," she whisper-sang. Where will you go, little one, lost to me in sleep?
He shuddered and plunged his hand into her more deeply. She gasped, her melody stuttering. It was wet, slick, and his hand was coated immediately.
Solas had this stupid saying that Felassan had thought was him being pretentious about his magic and purpose: the healer has the bloodiest hands.
Curse the old wolf – he was being literal, for once.
When he pulled the intestine closer to the surface, he could see it better.
Just like a cut. Hold it together and close it.
With the fingers of his other hand, he pinched the flesh. It tried to squirm out of his grasp but he was firm with it. Then he pulled on magic. This part, he knew a little. Like gaps in earth, he could seal it. He commanded it.
It resisted. Flesh had a tendency to be independent this way, like earth.
He tried not to squeeze too tight in his frustration.
Her hand wrapped around his wrist and she provided nudges, nails digging in. Spurts of magic flared. Little ones. Pulses. Start here, she seemed to say. Little by little.
She was still singing quietly, tremulous and high, the melody stripped from it: "Tel'enfenim, da'len, irassal ma ghilas." Never fear, little one, wherever you shall go.
It was closing. It was working. Her nudges were enough to put his spell in place, cooling and sealing as it all went. He could feel blood flowing and providing the elements needed for the injury to heal. He was used to the body feeling like earth; right now it felt like water.
Then her hand fell from him and she fell abruptly silent. He glanced at her. She'd fallen unconscious, the effort of even that little magic too much. There were streaks of tears from her eyes.
With the gap shut, he carefully placed the intestine back in, a squelching endeavor he never wished to hear or feel again. His hand was covered in her blood. He'd been covered in blood before, elven and dwarven and titan, even in his own (often in his own). Hers shook him the most.
Now the muscle. For this, he could stitch. The wound was starting to look smaller and more manageable. He snapped his fingers and a flame burst against his skin. He held the needle in it, purifying. Then he threaded it, white silk flooding with red at every touch.
There had been a woman who'd stitched him once. She did individual loops, tied each one off on its own, and let him continue fighting afterwards. She'd said if one of those stitches gave, the rest would hold, but if she'd done them all in one trail, it would be too easy for his wound to unravel all the way and his guts to come spilling out.
He didn't have the time or skill for that. He made a suture like he was mending a shirt. Muscle was tough, did not move the way skin and organs did, but also responded better to a firm handling. Tight but not too tight were her breathless instructions.
Tahmina shuddered awake with a small cry. Then she started her song over.
He thought about how few scars he had because Solas had always been there.
He thought about how many Tahmina had on her stomach alone. How many were on her arms? Her legs?
He wanted to touch each one and ask her. Would she remember where they came from? Or did they all blur together? So much of his life had blurred and tangled, one long wound after another, there and then gone with a touch. But the scars Solas had not gotten to, he remembered quite well.
Now there was one large one on his back, outshining any others, impossible to forget.
He glanced at her face. She had turned partway into her bag, murmuring still, chest visibly rising and falling. "Irassal ma garas," she whispered. Wherever you shall come.
The muscle closed.
Next: skin. Her soft, warm skin, sticky now.
He cleared what he could with water, threaded the needle fresh. When he pressed the first stitch through, she cried out and seized the collar of his shirt blindly, catching some of his long hair.
"Do you—?" he began.
"Don't stop," she whimpered.
He slowly resumed.
"Faster."
Skin was thicker than one first thought, layers of it beyond what a simple pinch suggested. It needed more force with a needle than it did a blade. In, out, in, out, as predictable as he could make it without sacrificing speed.
Her grip remained tight, her breath desperate for relief.
He came to the last knot and then it was closed. He dropped the needle and pressed his hands around her face gently, smearing blood on her cheeks.
"It is done, niradahn," he told her, leaning over her.
She slowly let go of the collar of his shirt and touched his jaw, releasing a sigh of relief. There was no more singing.
"It's done?" she murmured. "It hurts."
"I'm sorry. I wish I could stop it." He pushed his forehead against hers briefly in reassurance. Her breath was hot against his lips. Her eyes were closed. Worn out. Her nose brushed his and then her good eye flickered open.
"You did it," she said. She raised her arm and shook it in celebration. "Hurrah."
He chuckled. If he were just a little closer. If she were to lift her head just two fingers.
But there was a man back at the Dalish camp that was waiting for her. That would surely be furious at Felassan's lapse in guardianship. He had locked onto the creature and lost track of her, he...
He touched her bruised eye and let a bit of magic in, massaging away the ache and minuscule tears in the skin. It used to be challenging. So easy now, knowing how blood flowed, how heat could be soothed. She opened both eyes and blinked rapidly, enjoying the sensation of both sides of her face intact.
"Thank you," she said.
Felassan let himself enjoy the feeling of her in his hands for a second longer. Then: "Bandages."
He pulled out of her grasp. Her hand lingered in the air, then slowly settled across her chest.
After sewing her back together, wrapping bandages seemed easy. He hardly thought about it.
Then it was just a matter of comfort. They shimmied her carefully onto her bedroll, wrapped her as warm as they could. He put himself right beside her to contribute his own warmth. The remains of the giant bone-creature loomed over them, but it was still and lifeless and they were not.
She pointed to her belt. He held it up for her. From its pouches, she pulled a few small tinctures and held them up to her eye to inspect the tiny wax seals.
"If it was venomous, I'd be dead by now, so put this back." She put a dark-colored vial in his hands. "I can't thin my blood too much, even though it hurts, so put this back." She handed him a light green vial. "So sleep it is."
Felassan frowned. "That's all you can do? You sound good. Alert. Awake."
"Pain's not as bad but it still hurts and I wouldn't be able to focus. Sleep will help. I'll be able to do some magic after." Even more alert, she still seemed raw. Somehow he had thought if he did it right, she would bounce back. He felt a bit foolish now.
He settled beside her and pulled her to rest her head on his arm. For her comfort, of course. She gazed at the dark green vial, then looked at him.
"You did wonderful," she said with a smile. Her full smile, no bruising.
He shook his head. "You are an excellent instructor. How bad does it feel? Did I miss a spot?"
"You did good, really."
Then Felassan had a flash of memory, a thread disentangled from the rest. When Solas tried to teach, he got frustrated, and it became impossible to learn. Felassan had tried but when it came to healing practicum, lives were on the line. It was hard, and it was better to leave such delicate, complex work in the hands of those who knew what they were doing. Even one life was too great a loss for a rebellion like theirs. Better the expert healer do it, he told himself. All he would do was get someone killed.
But Tahmina was clear and crisp. Even in her pain. If this, then that. Now he had done something new and found himself… capable. This world was full of wonders, and one of them was shaped like an elven woman.
Her eyes were still on him. Heavy, the weight of her head on his arm. He feared to look at her so he tapped the tincture lightly.
"You should rest," he said.
"You'll be here?" she asked. She blinked at him. It was surely a normal blink but her big eyes and lashes made it seem like an ordeal, a journey from open to closed to open again that would burn the soles off of the finest boots.
He assured her, "If I am not here when you wake up, you can disembowel me."
She scoffed and hit him lightly in the chest.
Then she drank her little tincture and settled against him. His arm would go numb at this rate. He didn't care. He would amputate if needed – hardly the scariest medical procedure he'd have performed today.
As he twirled one of her curls around his finger he asked, "How did this compare to having your arm torn off?"
She raised her thick brows at him. "Seriously?"
"Curious minds inquire."
She laughed, then groaned, hand briefly touching the bandage. "This is worse in the immediate sense. But I should retain all my remaining body parts."
"Hopefully."
She buried her smile in his shoulder and his heart thumped.
They continued to chat quietly as her eyelids grew heavier. She fought hard against them, trying to remain present with him. What was that creature? He'd never seen its like. Nor had she. But everything could be killed with a sword or blast to the back, you see…
Her head drooped.
Gently, Felassan touched her cheek. His hands were crusted with dry blood. Her cheeks too. Her comfort had seemed so much more important that he hadn't thought to wipe them. There was still some water left, and there had been a stream not far where he could replenish. He moved to rise but she clung, pressing her cold nose to his neck, burrowing towards him with a sigh.
He swallowed and remained in place. He delighted in their friendship. It was not like what he'd had with Solas, though their surface similarities were not lost on him. Being Solas' tether to the world had worn on him in ways he had not recognized. Now he was being tethered.
He stroked her cheek, her hair, her shoulder. Let her use him as a place of comfort just this once. This would have to be enough.