Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age. Just Rosaia.
A/N: My first real foray into the Dragon Age fanfiction world... It's a scary place. But this was fun to write! I'll definitely be writing more!
The darkspawn keep coming. It's not a nightmare, though she wishes it was – they've waylaid her once again on her way to camp, and all she's aware of are the blades in her hands, practically extensions of her arms as they slice and jab and kill, and the flashes she catches of her companions as they use their talents to do the same. Alistair is the only one she doesn't worry about as he rams into a monster with his shield; he's as immune to the taint as she is, after all.
Morrigan keeps to the back, firing off spells that glow in the corners of her eyes. One darkspawn freezes solid before Alistair whacks it, another finds itself entangled in vines from head to toe, making it simple for her to dart around its flailing arm and slide her dagger between its shoulder blades. For all her sarcasm and prickly wit, she's as good a friend as Rosaia's ever had, and an excellent mage to boot. Flemeth may have had to give her a boot out of the nest, but she's glad to have Morrigan around, even if worry gnaws at her cheeks when the darkspawn get too close.
It's the others that really worry her. Leliana and Sten, though they aren't here right now, are just as susceptible to the taint as anyone else. And though Leliana's marksmanship skills are tied only with her ability to lift a purse, she's more than capable of shouldering her bow and fighting with knives if the case demands it. Sten, of course, fights shieldless – and currently with a sword that is not his own, though she's promised to find it for him. And she will.
It's Zevran, slipping between the monsters in silence before he catches their attention with a well-aimed backstab and a flurry of knives. It's Wynne, a healer to the bone, and just as good at keeping to the sidelines as Morrigan. Unfortunately, mistakes happen. The creatures get past her sometimes and head right for those that shouldn't be touched.
It's a blessing in disguise that she asked Shale to come with her today instead of the others. At least the golem can't be tainted.
The ground rumbles as Shale slams its fists into it, cracking the earth and causing the last of the darkspawn to lose their balance. She's not entirely steady on her feet either, but she regains her balance quickly and turns into a whirlwind of blades, spinning and slicing and hacking, stopping only when the last one falls.
"Well," Alistair sighs from somewhere to her left. "I'm going to smell of darkspawn for a week."
"You mean you didn't to begin with?" Morrigan asks innocently as Rosaia relieves a corpse of the health poultices at its waist. "And here I was willing to attribute your stink to the darkspawn."
"Funny." Despite the exhaustion, he manages to infuse his voice with dry humor. It's a talent Rosaia envies. She knows how sharp her tongue is liable to be, especially after a battle, her body shaking. "Save the jokes for camp, will you? Besides, you're not exactly a posy yourself."
Rosaia sheathes her blades and to hell with the blood. She'll clean them off later, at camp, before she's cleaned herself. Let the others have first call on the lake; her weapons are more important, and far more difficult to clean than the few runs of a cloth that Alistair's sword requires. The sound of metal against sheathe prompts Morrigan to reply. "Oh, very well," she agrees, and Rosaia turns to look at the tired mage who leans against her staff as if it's the only thing keeping her upright. "I'll insult you tomorrow. Fair?"
"Fair." With a sigh, Alistair stretches his arms out in front of him. "You look about ready to collapse," he adds softly, hand touching her shoulder. "At least we're not too far from camp."
"I'm fine." It's all she lets herself say before shrugging his hand off her shoulder. The words come out sharper than she means them too, and though there's no hurt in Alistair's silence, guilt touches her chest. "Don't worry," she adds, a touch softer. "I won't collapse until we get there. Promise."
"You sure? Shale could carry you."
Shale grinds out a huff. "I would not carry it if the rod did work," it says definitively. "Its legs work well enough, for a soft pink thing."
Ordinarily, the only half-joking offer would have elicited a glare from her, but all she does is shake her head tiredly as they made their way back to camp. One of her legs isn't working quite right, but she manages well enough. If anyone notices the limp, they keep quiet about it, though she was sure that Alistair had noticed even before the trek. The lack of banter lulls her into a dazed place where all she is aware of is walking, of placing one foot in front of the other and trying not to let her injured leg give out on her. She hardly notices the slow shift in terrain from plains to trees, and when the light of the campfire looms on the horizon, it is only Morrigan's murmured, "At last," that jolts her back into awareness.
"I'm for a bath," Alistair announces. "Unless one of you wants to take it first?"
"Take the lake." Morrigan waves off the offer. "We wouldn't want to subject the others to your stench."
"I thought you'd insult me tomorrow."
"How could I resist when you hand me openings on silver platters?"
Ignoring the gentle quarrel, Rosaia stumbles to the campfire and sinks down onto one of the stones purposefully set around it. Warmth licks at her face and fingers, relaxing muscles she hadn't even known were still tense. For a moment, she closes her eyes and lets herself bask before reluctantly drawing her blades to clean them. Light glints off of the metal underneath the coat of blood, unearthed steel promising safety with each flake of blood removed.
Though the task is normally relaxing, tonight it is simply wearying, another thing she has to accomplish on top of everything else. Despite being able to sit down for the first time since dawn, Rosaia finds no relief in it. She allows her mind to drift off, eyes focused on steel and blood as she cleans, only peripherally aware of the fire in front of her.
"So the thorns won today, wild rose." Rosaia jerks, the blade in her lap only prevented from falling by the sudden clench of her hands. Zevran looks at her from across the fire, an expression on his face that she cannot decipher, nor does she wish to.
"I thought I told you not to sneak up on me," she finally says, managing to muster up a bit of a glare. His lips curl into a smile that puts mischief into his eyes, replacing the mysterious look from before.
"Ah, but I did not sneak, hm? Your attention was simply elsewhere." Easygoing smile still on his face, he rises from his spot and comes around to sit at a closer stone, close enough to reach out and touch her should he wish. She keeps her eyes on him, but he does not make a move to reach for her, and after a moment she returns her attention to her blade. "It has certainly been a long day," he muses.
She sighs. "You could say that," she agrees in a mutter, but without bite or venom.
"A day for the thorns, not the petals." Zevran's voice is light, airy. Soothing. "Would you care for some help?"
The offer startles her; Rosaia blinks over her work and looks over at him, confused. "Help –"
"The other blade," Zevran clarifies, eyes flicking over to the mess of a bloody sheath she has yet to work on. "You look to be for your tent soon."
There is no pity in his voice – if there were she would bite off the end of this conversation quicker than a flash – but there is a flash of sympathy. As with many things concerning Zevran, she isn't quite sure how to respond. Her hesitation prompts him to say, gently, "I will treat it as well as I would my own, Rosie."
Ordinarily, she wouldn't consider this. Ordinarily, she would stick to her blades and do what she should by them. They are, after all, weapons, things that keep her safe on the field, things that must be kept honed and respectfully handled. And they are hers. Like so many other things in her life lately, she has responsibility for them, and that responsibility includes cleaning them herself.
And yet…
Exhaustion speaks for her, and she nods slowly. She's seen the care that he puts into his own weapons and armor, and she's just so tired that she is, for once, willing to lean. She fumbles a bit as she hands over the sheathed dagger; his hands are steady as he takes it from her, fingers brushing lightly over the back of her hand in what she thinks might be comfort, or reassurance, or possibly both.
"Oh!" For the second time, Rosaia jumps, head snapping to look at Leliana. "I hope I am not interrupting – I can leave –"
Rosaia's gaze flickers over to the silver-backed hairbrush in Leliana's hands and her brows furrow in confusion. "It's as much your fire as it is mine," she says, cutting off Leliana's stuttered apologies.
Leliana's lips curve for a moment, but the smile fades quickly to worry and concern. "I thought perhaps you might like to bathe," she starts, "but Alistair has not yet finished, and Morrigan wishes to claim it when he does. So I thought, at least you can brush your hair and get the blood and knots from it before the lake sets them." She hesitated. "But you are busy."
Her eyes fall back to her task, shoulders slumping wearily. "I –"
"Of course," Leliana says thoughtfully, "if you are willing, I could do it."
The words feel fuzzy, and Rosaia tries to hold onto their meaning. They slip through her fingers, and she sighs. "Do what?"
"Your hair," Leliana clarifies. "I could brush it, if you would like."
It's coddling, that's what this is, she's sure of it. Somehow, the assassin she granted mercy and the bardic member of the Chantry have teamed together to force her to accept care in her exhausted state. She should care, should be furious.
She isn't. Wearily, she raises a hand and motions for Leliana to come over. The woman smiles, and sits behind her; Rosaia slides off the stone and onto the dirt by the flames, crossing her legs so that her dagger rests easily across her knees. "You've conspired to do this, haven't you?" she murmurs as Leliana sets the brush against her head and gently begins to pull it through her coarse, knotted hair.
"Conspired? To do what?" Leliana asks, bemused.
"To –" it sounds stupid in her head. It sounds worse when she gives in and says it aloud. "To care. For me." As if the clarification is necessary.
Zevran chuckles quietly. "You do amuse me sometimes," he says with more cheer than anyone has a right to have after her day. "Why would anyone need to conspire to care about you?"
"What he means is," Leliana interrupts gently, before Rosaia can turn over the change in word choice in her mind, "you're tired, you're bloody, and you still refuse to put yourself before anyone or anything else. So we are doing it for you, for once."
"Seeing as how you're tired enough to let us, yes?" Zevran adds, a smile playing on his lips that doesn't ring true until she reluctantly nods. "You do not carry all this alone, Rosaia."
She just shakes her head, unable to reply. Yes, the burden of the darkspawn is shared, but she is leader. Through no fault of her own, somehow she has fallen into this role, and she carries it. This moment in time is just a fluke, not something that will ever be repeated again. She can rely on them in battle, but to rely on them with herself? With all the soft, tender bits that the thorns so zealously guard? No. No, she does not think so. There is too much bitterness there to allow others to taste of it, too much anger that burns in her stomach and weighs down her shoulders. These are burdens meant for her and her alone. After all, her problems are nothing compared to the Blight.
But tonight – tonight Leliana tugs at her hair, disentangling it with little discomfort, a soft melody humming in her throat. Tonight Zevran's hands skillfully clean her blade and move to the sheath, showing the deceptively delicate carvings underneath darkspawn gore.
So she bends back over her work, and when a quiet, "Thank you," escapes her lips, she catches only a faint smile from Zevran out of the corner of her eye in return and the soft touch of Leliana's fingers on her shoulder before the bard returns to the brush.