Fauna's gut feels like a thousand shrieks are clawing their way out.
She's curled up in her bedroll, trying desperately to slow her breath and keep from groaning in pain.
She's 20 damnyears old, she's been having periods for years. She can't understand why this time it's just so -what's that human word Zevran taught her?-fucking painful.
Despite pleading with Wynne all day for some willow bark and elfroot, the elderly healer refused to spare what little they had left for what she described as "temporary and in no way life threatening, now go take a deep breath and count your lucky stars it's not actually a dagger in your gut, dearest".
Fauna knows she hasn't been eating well, and she's been fighting various viruses and maladies since leaving Ostagar, but she can't lay a finger on why it is that this month is so particularly tortuous. Worst of all, she's running out of clean rags to line her breeches with, and the thought of Alistair, or Gods forbid Zevran, catching sight of blood blossoming from between her thighs is nearly sickening.
Another wave of pain and nausea rips from her core, and this time she does groan, doubling in over herself and clutching violently at the fleece she's tossed over her legs. She tries to breathe through it, but instead that human word –fuck, it has such a nice bite to it- spills out between clenched teeth.
Moments later there's a gentle slap, slap, slap against her tent flap, and, startled, Fauna sits up. Her head spins, but she manages a fragile "yes?"
Alistair's golden locks slip through the crack, and then his eyes are peeking up at her in the dark. "Fauna, are you hurt? You were making the most… well… awful noises, and I…"
She's been caught, and the humiliation of it stings in the hollows of her cheeks. Panicking, she pulls her fleece up to her neck, "I'm fine Alistair, just a little ill. Nothing to worry over,"
He doesn't look convinced though, and she realizes there's a high pitched tint to her voice that must be giving her away. Suddenly he's leaning in, and then kneeling in her tent. One of his big, calloused hands reaches out to touch her exposed calf. "Are you sure?" he asks, and his voice is simply too tender for Fauna to force him out.
She meets his eyes –his molten, caramel colored eyes- and she can't help but want to fold herself into him and not resurface. He, after all, has emerged as her best friend in her dark adventures, and melting in his arms has become a bit of a pastime as of late. But still, what's between them –"what exactly?" she wonders- is still so new, so seemingly fragile. She's afraid that this silver safety net they've woven could burn and break with a mere touch of her hand.
But then again, perhaps she owes it to him to let the silk façade fall away. Maybe it's time.
"What did the Templars teach you of women, Alistair?" She asks him, finding that sitting up has eased her cramps somewhat. She lets the fleece fall to her lap, knowing he's seen her in her shift before.
The Warden blinks, and then swings his legging-clad legs around to sit cross-legged before her.
"Well, I've already told you that we were encouraged to stay chaste," he says seriously. Then he lifts a hand to the back of his head and his usual humor presses through, "but I guess beyond that they just filled us with lies about witches and temptresses and desire demons."
Fauna gives him a light smile, never totally immune to his jokes even though half of the time they're not funny at all. "But what of our… biology?"
Alistair blanches. There's a moment of horror –fleeting, but painfully obvious- that convinces Fauna that this is it, that she's truly disgusted him and the chaste little Templar will turn from her tent and never return. But then she sees something melt inside him, some sort of warmth blossoming and unfurling through the piety that his personality rests on.
She guesses that he knows, perhaps not from the Templars, but from elsewhere, what it is she's going through. Because slowly, and for the first time, he pulls himself up beside her and lays down on her bedroll. She studies him for a moment, apprehensive of the move especially because of all the many times she's invited him to her tent and he's bumbled through a polite refusal, but then settles.
Fauna lays herself down beside him, turned away from him and curling slightly in on herself as another wave starts to take her. When she moves a hand to her stomach, Alistair presses closer, just lightly enough that she can feel his breath on her neck but not the rest of his body. As the peak of the spasm hits her, she lets out a tiny whimper and Alistair's hand snakes around her and catches her fingers against her core.
"Is this alright?" he murmurs when the moment seems to pass. Fauna nods weakly and Alistair's fingers lace through her own. Gently she leans back into him, and he responds to her by curling in around her and threading his other arm beneath her. His smell –the smell of pine and sweat and leather polish- envelopes her and suddenly she feels quite warm.
"I'm sorry, Fauna," he whispers, and she squeezes his hand in response. "Is there anything I can do?"
She thinks about sending him off to Wynne, to plead for elfroot on her behalf, but she realizes that the pain has seemed to fade. Instead, she turns her head to look up at him in the gloom. His lips are inches above hers, and she's close enough to see whiskers starting to bloom on his chin. "Just stay with me," she murmurs back. Alistair smiles, and, so gently she can barely feel it, he reaches down to kiss her forehead.
"I'd be a damn cruel ass not to,"