Alistair

"Don't ya love her madly?"
-The Doors

Alistair held her in his arms -- they shook with exhaustion, but he'd sooner have them ripped from his body than let her go. It was like losing Duncan all over again: worse, even. At least he hadn't been able to do anything to stop that. He'd simply woken up and it had been all over already. Sure, he'd hated it, sworn that it'd been better if he'd been there to at least die alongside his mentor's guide, but now...

This was a entirely fresh agony, bright and piercing. He could have done something. If he'd swung harder, moved faster, been smarter-

"Allli-" A bubble of blood popped over her mouth, and Alistair felt her shudder, her eyes rolling in delirium.

He bit back the cry in his throat. "I'm here, I'm right here, Akana, dear, love-" Her head dropped back against his arm.

"No! Don't! NO!" The wail of pain and anger that he'd managed to swallow down before was unstoppable now, and he knew he was sobbing. "Please, please, I love you, I love you, this isn't fair-"

There was a deal!,he tried to scream, but all that came out was an awful howling, choking sound. Maker, what had he done? The last night that they would ever have together, and he'd spent it with that harpy, that lying apostate bitch, and for what? The hatred in his heart burned black, matched only by the ache of sorrow. He could not think of Morrigan now. There would be time to hunt that witch to the ends of the earth: now, now there could only be grief-

It took him a moment to realize that someone was pulling at his shoulders. Another set of hands worked to unlock his fingers.

"Alistair, you damned oaf," the lilt of an Orlesian accent made it through his wracking, heaving sobs, "Let go! You must let go!"

Instinctively, furiously, Alistair clung tighter to the limp body of his beloved. How dare she? Would even Leliana not leave him to-

"I will say this only once, young man." Wynne's voice wasn't simply firm in that mock-Grandmother tone she sometimes took on: it was hard, forceful, and part of it got through to him. "If you wish to gaze upon the pretty blue eyes of your fellow Grey Warden once more, you will release her. Right. Now."

"But-" He warbled. "She's-"

"Her spirit remains. Likely hanging about because she's just as stubborn as you are, and just as unready to part ways. Now please," Wynne's voice softened. "Lay her against the stone."

Dumb, limbs moving of their own accord (and with plenty of help from Leliana), Alistair complied. The elf woman looked so fragile, mangled in a mess of blood from dozens of different bodies. Once, in the Chantry, Alistair had seen a couple of boys catch a bird with a broken wing. He'd gone to get one of the adults to come and save it, but in the end he'd returned to find that the other boys had dropped a large stone on it. The thing was quite dead, the small bones in its body crushed to bits and its feathers matted with-

He shook his head violently. "She's alive?" It wasn't a question so much as a snarl, a demand.

"Not quite alive, but not quite gone, either." Wynne closed her eyes, her hands running over the air just above Akana's crumpled form, as if feeling for something in the empty space. Alistair bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood: Akana had told him about the healer's "condition." They'd laughed about it even -- she'd suggested that Wynne was an abomination, since she was a host to a spirit from the Fade. He'd laughed and played along, of course, but he didn't let on just how delicate Wynne's situation might be. Sure a good spirit was better than a demon, but after seeing what happened to the Circle, Alistair wasn't ready to say he felt exactly comfortable with the idea of any mage being possessed by anything. But he'd thought it best to chalk it up to his training and move on.

Golden light radiated from Wynne's hands, falling softly down onto Akana like dust from the sun. In the twilight which was made only darker by the smoke blotting the sky, the glow grew brighter and brighter. Alistair could hear Leliana reciting a part of the Chant behind him, and, despite all his personal history with that, he found himself chanting along with her. Anything.

Anything to bring her back.

"Something is... wrong," Wynne said softly, her brow knitted in confusion. A gust of wind blew over them, bringing on it a triumphant roar -- they could hear the cheering of the collected armies below, but it did not hearten him.

"What? What's wrong? What's happening?" Alistair felt like a child, needy and ineffective. Wynne continued whatever it was she was doing. The healer opened her mouth as if to say something, the look of bewilderment and frustration still clear on her face, when Alistair felt a sudden jerk in by his side.

Akana let out a loud, rattling gasp that was wet with blood. Wynne jumped back in surprise, apparently as shocked as he was, and Alistair immediately leaned forward. When he tried to say her name, all that came out was a strangled, unmanly squeak. Akana rolled over roughly on one side, and he caught a glimpse of her arm -- or rather, the unnatural, jagged bulge under her armor that he assumed was bone jutting out. One cheek flush against the dirty stone, he watched her retch, vomiting up was seemed like quarts of blood.

"What's happening?" His voice trembled, and he tried to touch her, wanted to give some comfort, not knowing if she was alive or dead or if this was death or if it was a return to life. Alistair rubbed her arm, tried and failed at pushing her blood-caked hair away from her face as she continued to heave -- the locks of hair were impossible to grasp in his steel gauntlets.

"She was bleeding internally. I managed to heal those wounds, but the blood has to come out."

"You brought her back to life? You really brought her back?"

"No, I did not, something-"

Akana rolled onto her back again, her mouth looking rather like the maw of some of the werewolves they'd had as troops. "...don't," she croaked, eyes fluttering as her breathing evened out, "...don't talk about me like I'm not here."

Any doubts that Alistair had evaporated instantly: he wasted no time scooping her back up again. She grimaced with pain, but otherwise made no protest, and blood and bile or no, he kissed her face -- over and over.

"Maker's Breath! It's a miracle!" Leliana burst into tears. Alistair, who hadn't really stopped crying, felt his eyes watering with renewed vigor. Wynne did not comment, but she was eyeing Akana with suspicion more than she was rejoicing, that was for sure. Alistair felt a spike of anger at the old mage, but shrugged it aside. He was plenty happy enough for the both of them.

"It worked. I can't believe- I can't-" Alistair found himself unable to finish planting kisses over her face to get the words out. It tasted awful, but he didn't care.

"What worked, Alistair? What do you mean?" Wynne's gaze was hawkish on him, scrutinizing, but he ignored her.

"Who cares?" Leliana asked cheerfully, digging a handkerchief from a pouch at her side. It was remarkably clean, both lacey and silky. Leave it to her to have something that nice while they were busy fighting a Blight. "I know I don't care. Here, Alistair, let me-"

Leliana wiped some of the mess from Akana's face with the tender caring of a close friend. She paused, seeming to consider handing the bit of cloth to him to finish the job, took one look at his heavy gauntlets, and instead wiped his face for him. This wasn't nearly as gentle as she'd been with Akana, and Alistair blinked awkwardly until it was finished. "There, carry on," she instructed.

"Thanks," Akana said, voice strained but her tone genuine underneath.

Alistair brought her up further, kissing her full against her lips. There was still blood there, but by this point he almost forgotten what it was like not to be covered in the stuff. She kissed him back, if weakly, and he felt his heart flutter and his stomach knot like it was the first time all over again. He didn't close his eyes: maybe it wasn't romantic if you didn't close your eyes, but he was too scared that he'd open them and it wouldn't be real.

When he finally pulled away, Akana smiled up at him faintly. It was a grisly sight -- she was still in need of plenty of healing, and a bath wouldn't hurt any of them -- but he found it beautiful anyway. "It takes more than a few Darkspawn to kill me," she said dryly. He remembered the line clearly: she'd said the same thing after Ostagar, and he'd thought she'd been dead then, too. Alistair laughed, a short barking sound that was still choked with tears.

"Oh, yes, never should've doubted you m'lady, what was I thinking, it was just one measly Archdemon after all, nothing to get worked up over," he babbled readily. When he leaned in for another kiss, however, she pulled away slightly.

"I am... I am in a great deal of pain though," she murmured, rustling a little in his arms.

"Oh! Oh, oh- Wynne?" He looked up sharply to the healer, who was still silent on the matter. "Help?"

After what seemed like forever, Wynne finally nodded. "Of course," she replied, and then repeated quietly, "Of course." Without another word, she set about healing all of their remaining injuries.