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“Leliana, I will need your kerchief again,” Zevran said as the party walked on, wincing at the sight of yet another darkspawn stain on his armour. Just when he had thought he had cleaned it properly this time, too!
“After what you did with it last time? I’d rather not,” the bard replied.
“You seriously want the darkspawn stench to accompany us all the way to Orzammar?” the assassin asked, feigning shock.
“I’m sure we’ll survive it,” Morrigan said dryly with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Unlike the incessant complaining of a certain party member to my left.”
“That was another jab at me, I take it?” Alistair asked wearily. “I would have gladly retorted, but I’m too busy being in pain.”
“You still walk. You’ll be able to fight again by the time we have other encounters,” said Sten.
“Can’t wait,” Alistair replied in a wry tone.
“If it will make you feel better, Alistair, I can have a look at your wound once we set camp,” Wynne said reassuringly.
“Thanks, Wynne, I knew you loved me. Unlike those meanies,” Alistair said, sticking his tongue out at the rest of the company. “Oh, fellow Grey Wardens excluded, of course.”
Mahariel, however, didn’t answer. In fact, the Dalish elf was presently walking further ahead, giving the impression that he wasn’t paying attention to the banter. He didn’t even seem to pay attention to Beorn, who was walking next to him - the hound was whining softly, trying to curl his paw around his master’s leg. It looked like he was simply attempting to charm his way in earning more crunchies; even so, the company felt uneasy as they noticed that Mahariel’s motions weren’t as graceful or smooth as they should be. In fact, the archer looked as if he was about to…
In the next moment, Mahariel collapsed face down, making everyone snap into action. Alistair and Zevran were the first to reach him and they gently turned him over to check on him… only to wince at the sight. The young Warden’s eyes were closed, his face all white and his lips bloodless and trembling.
“Mahariel?” Alistair said, gently shaking the elf. “Come on, talk to me, buddy.”
The Dalish didn’t respond. Zevran pushed a couple of sweat-drenched strands off his fellow elf’s face and then, frowning, removed one of his gloves to feel Mahariel’s forehead.
“Brashka,” he muttered under his breath, and he looked up at Wynne and Morrigan. “He’s burning!”
The two women nodded and set to work. Morrigan opened her bag to see what herbs she had, even as Wynne placed a hand over Mahariel, murmuring a healing spell.
“I don’t understand. What might have caused this weakness? Darkspawn magic?” Sten asked with a frown.
“Lack of attendance, more like,” Morrigan said, peeling open the unconscious elf’s armour. A single ribbon of bandage was wrapped around Mahariel’s waist, drenched in a mix of dried and fresh blood. Then the witch removed the soaking bandages, and everyone saw the gaping and angry wound marring the elf’s skin.
“Maker’s breath!” Leliana exclaimed. She had placed the archer’s head on her lap, hoping to make him more comfortable. “When did that happen?”
Zevran bit the inside of his cheek as he knew exactly when it happened. Alistair, Mahariel, Beorn and he had scouted ahead and tracked down a band of darkspawn. The fight had turned out to be a lot more challenging than they had originally thought, however. Alistair had been the first to get knocked out, and if the younger Warden hadn’t weakened a couple of hurlocks before falling as well, then Zevran and Beorn wouldn’t have stood a chance. After Mahariel had come to, he had personally seen to everyone’s injuries. He had given Zevran and Beorn a couple of poultices to use and, while the two of them regained some of their strength, the archer knelt at Alistair’s side, taking out his injury kit to help the former templar.
Under the circumstances, Zevran had just assumed that his lover had simply gotten the wind knocked out of him. He had been wrong.
Alistair sighed softly, clearly recalling the same thing.
“You idiot,” he said quietly. “Why would you do that?”
As if on cue, Mahariel’s eyes fluttered open weakly. “You needed it more.”
“That doesn’t mean we couldn’t have taken care of your injuries afterwards!” the young man exclaimed.
“There are no more kits,” the archer replied softly.
Alistair blinked. “And when you say no more, you mean…?”
“I think he means he used the last one to fix you,” Morrigan said. “Although I don’t understand why he should have bothered; you’ve already cracked your skull one time too many in childhood.”
“Shut up!”
“That’s quite enough out of both of you,” Wynne declared. “If you want to fight, don’t do it over his head.”
“Or better yet, let’s all take a break and decide what to do next,” Leliana pointed out. “He can’t continue on like this.”
“I agree,” Sten said. “This is as good a place to rest as any nearby.”
“Then it’s decided,” Wynne said. “Morrigan, do whatever you can to help his condition. Sten, you will stand guard once the night falls. The rest of us should start setting camp.”
Everyone nodded their understanding and saw to their tasks. Beorn, on the other hand, the hound lay down next to his master, placing his head on the broad chest.
“No,” Morrigan said immediately in a firm tone. “You’re not sleeping here of all places!”
Beorn looked up at her and whined.
“Let me make it simple for you,” the witch said with a huff. “You’re as tall as our elven friend here, and you weigh twice as much as he does. The last thing he needs in addition to his wound is several broken bones because of a stubborn, thick-boned flea-carrier!”
Beorn whined again and licked his master’s face.
“I know you won’t hurt me, boy,” Mahariel said with a weak smile, his fingers running through the short, brown fur.
“Don’t mind me then. I’ll just tend to your wound and then point at you and laugh when your mutt crushes you lovingly under his weight,” Morrigan said, rolling her eyes. “Or should I really point out that his stomach has been touching the ground too much lately and he barely manages to run a few feet before his tongue rolls out and…”
Beorn interrupted her, barking indignantly.
“Always in denial,” the witch said with a long suffering sigh, and she continued working.
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Alistair stood by the fire, as he always did, yet he was hardly concerned about getting warm. He simply kept an eye on Mahariel’s tent, waiting for the moment that Morrigan would finally step out and take up her own comfortable place as far away from the others as possible. The royal-blooded man was in no mood to deal with her, aware that they would only just end up fighting again. He had enough of her bitchiness for today, thank you very much.
So, as soon as he saw her leave, he moved on tip-toe and pushed one of the flaps aside to step in. Mahariel was there, of course (where else would he be in his condition?), and Beorn was next to him, offering his master some extra warmth. The Mabari pricked up his ears and gazed at Alistair, a questioning look in his intelligent eyes.
“Easy, puppy,” Alistair said, raising his hand in an appeasing manner. “I just want to check on him.”
“And probably ask me what I was thinking,” the Dalish said wryly, opening his eyes.
“That would be an extra bonus, yes,” Alistair admitted and sat cross-legged on the ground. “So… is getting ourselves killed before the darkspawn or Loghain do away with us our new strategy?”
“You have to admit that would certainly foil their plans about us.”
“The archdemon, especially. You know how eager he is about his one-on-one battle,” Alistair said. In the next moment, however, he sobered and he looked at his fellow Grey Warden sadly. “You realize that, from the two of us, I’m the most expendable, right?”
“You’re the king’s son and a candidate to the throne.”
“I’m the king’s bastard son, who just happened not to die along with his half-brother,” Alistair pointed out. “And it’s not me uniting us against the Blight.”
“You can be the one who will keep them united.”
“I don’t know if you’ve missed the memo, but I’m not exactly leader material. You’re the one who brought us together, and you’re the one guiding us onwards, preparing us for the final onslaught and even helping those in need along the way.”
“Are you saying you wouldn’t have done the same thing?”
“Yes! I mean, no, of course I would, but…!” Alistair sighed, realizing that he was probably not making much sense. “I would try. But you’re much better at it, reaching to every decision easily, without so much as a second thought. First the Circle, then Redcliffe, then the Forest… I would probably hide in a corner and cry every time I’d have to make a choice.”
“Then why don’t you agree with my choice to use my last injury kit on you?”
“What do you mean why? Because you’re a friend and we’re the last of the Grey Wardens. If you died, I…” Alistair stopped at once. He’d probably sound like a complete idiot.
“It takes more than a few darkspawn to kill me,” the archer replied. “We’ll be fine.”
Alistair blinked. Duncan had told him about the Dalish elf who was going to join the Order, as well as said elf’s remarkable willpower and strength to withstand the Taint. But only now did Alistair see the fire of determination burning the fullest in the elf’s eyes, and the former Templar couldn’t help but feel hope burning in his own heart.
“And ready to save the world. I’m sure Duncan would be proud to see us now,” Alistair said, grinning and getting back on his feet. “I’ll leave you to it for now. I don’t want to be near when you start screaming bloody murder and going, ‘This is all Alistair’s fault! Next time we get injured, I’ll kill him and keep all the kits for myself!’”
“I could just sleep, you know,” Mahariel pointed out, grinning.
“Or that. Yes, you could do that,” Alistair said. “Well, sleep tight and don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
“I’m not sleeping in a bed.”
“Oh, right. You’re safe then. Good.” With that, the royal-blooded man walked out, deciding to have some rest as well. Tomorrow it was a new day and by then, hopefully, Mahariel would be strong enough to get back on his feet.
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Leliana was the next one to walk inside, smiling as she held a bowl of hot stew in her hands. The smell was enough to make Beorn shift and whine softly, dragging Mahariel out of his light slumber.
“You looked so peaceful the way you slept,” she said, kneeling next to the elf. “I was almost tempted not to wake you up. You need your rest.”
“I’ve been through worse,” Mahariel said reassuringly.
“I suppose you have. Let’s not make a habit out of it yet, though, shall we?” the bard said kindly. “I brought you some stew. It’s not much, but at least it’s hot.”
“All right. Thanks, Leliana.” The Dalish winced when he tried to sit up, however; his body obviously didn’t appreciate the strain.
“Let me help you with that,” she said tenderly, letting Mahariel lean on her for support. “Shall I tell you one of the stories I’ve heard while we were at Lake Calenhad?”
“Go on,” Mahariel said, taking the bowl in his hand.
“Well, legend has it that the lake is the nest of mythical creatures, hiding at the bottom, away from prying eyes…”
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“How long did you intend to keep the wound unattended?”
Mahariel turned around, surprised to see that Sten was standing at the entrance. The giant qunari didn’t make a motion to step further inside, though. He simply fixed his piercing gaze on the elf and waited for his answer.
“Till we reached our next stop.”
“Which would be?”
“Orzammar.”
Sten pursed his lips, contemplating on the answer. “It was foolish of you to attempt such a thing.”
“I had to try, at least,” Mahariel replied honestly.
“It was still foolish. The archdemon will not wait for you to recover before challenging you.”
“I won’t give him that kind of chance.”
“We’ll see if you’ll be good on your word, then.” With that, Sten exited quietly, leaving Mahariel to his thoughts once more. If the elf didn’t know better, though, he’d say that he had detected a slight smile on the qunari’s lips.
Creators above, it really was impossible to tell what was on Sten’s mind. Mahariel just hoped that that was the qunari’s way of saying, ‘Get well soon.’
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When Wynne pushed the flaps aside, she saw that Mahariel was wide awake, petting a sleeping Beorn on the head in a thoughtful manner. She smiled knowingly and she walked inside.
“You have trouble sleeping?”
Mahariel looked at her, snapping out of his musings, and nodded.
“Perhaps I can do something about it,” she said, kneeling at his side. “Close your eyes and forget everything.”
Mahariel nodded his understanding and closed his eyes, complying. Still smiling, Wynne placed a hand over the closed eyelids and then whispered softly, casting her spell. In a matter of moments, the elf was relaxed, his lips slightly parted as he snored lightly.
“Consider it a thank you for all those times you came to check on this old woman,” she said affectionately and, after ruffling his hair gently in a mother fashion, she exited as quietly as she had entered.
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Zevran always prided himself as an elf who knew what he wanted in his life, and this time it wasn’t going to be an exception. After several failed attempts to sleep in his own tent, he realized that the best remedy to cure his restlessness was a particular Grey Warden not too far away from him. It was true that his Grey Warden always invited him first – a kind of tradition that they kept since their first night together – but Zevran knew that Mahariel was in no condition to invite him over. But, truth be told… he did miss his handsome warrior.
With that thought, Zevran pushed his blanket off and headed out. Nobody was around at this time of night. Apparently, they had fallen asleep, giving the assassin the chance to slip by them unnoticed. A few moments later, he was inside his Grey Warden’s tent and then settled next to him with a small sigh of content. Propping himself on his elbow, he watched the attractive face relaxed in sleep, the strong chest rising up and down in a peaceful rhythm. But for the bloodless lips and face, Zevran would have completely forgotten that his lover was wounded.
“My wonderful, foolish Warden,” Zevran murmured gently, caressing Mahariel’s face with the back of his fingers. "If you die, then where am I to go, hm?”
Mahariel leant to the touch in his sleep, something that made the assassin smile fondly.
“Apology accepted,” he said, nuzzling him in a tender manner. “Just don’t do it again; I have an oath to keep and this will only make me look bad.”
With that, Zevran closed his eyes, happy to be warm once more. It didn’t take him long to fall asleep after that, so he never felt the light fingers caressing his hair or the soft breath that carried four simple words out of Mahariel’s lips.
“I love you, too.”
The End.