"Your Majesty? Can you hear me?"
The voice caused his eyes to open, and for a moment, he was overwhelmed by light and blurred colors and shapes.
"His breath is steady," the voice continued, and from some distant memory it seemed to him that there was something familiar about it, though perhaps that was his blackout on the battlefield talking.
"Ma serannas, lethallan. And can you get me more water and bandages?"
"Yes, Neria. Right away."
Neria... the name entered his brain like a cool breeze, clearing the bloody haze from his mind. He opened his eyes wider, and willed his vision to focus.
Had he not known her so well all the years before, he would not have recognized her. She was no longer dressed in the mage robes of the Circle, but instead wore Dalish armor, which glistened in the light like leaves in a sun-drenched wind. In place of the staff she had always worn on her back, she bore two elven blades, their metal shimmering with the light of magic. Even her face had changed: strange colorful tattoos now crowned her forehead, and snaked like ivy down her cheeks.
It's you. He tried to speak her name, but choked instead, feeling the bitter aftertaste of blood in his throat.
"Shh. Let my magic do its work," she said softly, and for a moment her voice took on the tone it had when he first met her – strong and self-assured, and with more than a little disdain for him – for being human and a templar, and for not being a mage.
"You tried to kill an ogre alpha on your own. You really haven't learned anything from the past, have you?" Her hands were busy with herbs and bandages, but she smiled at him in good-natured mockery.
No, it seems I haven't. He tried to raise his head, but even that caused his vision to blur, and sent aches through his muscles and bones.
"Easy," she said, gently propping him up so that he could get a better look at himself.
Maker's breath. It looked like he'd taken a dive into the Archdemon's maw. Bandages covered his chest, and his belly was purple with bruises. His left arm was still broken, and bleeding through the bandages. As for his legs...
"You were lucky to escape with your life. I don't think you'll be walking any time soon, but the damage will not be irreparable. I've given you herbs to stop the pain for now."
She lifted the bedclothes, and he could see that splints and bandages adorned both limbs. Thank the Maker I can't feel them yet – they'll burn like Andraste's pyre when the herbs wear off.
"Anyway," Neria continued, "there's very little of you that isn't broken, bloody or bruised in some fashion, and your army seems woefully short on mages, so it looks like we'll be spending some time together for awhile." Her voice had changed, and abruptly, she moved away from him, busying herself with something beyond his limited range of vision.
"I'll inform Oghren and the other commanders that you're awake. I'm sure they'll want to see you."
"Neria." His voice was hoarse, and his throat burned with pain. But she turned to face him, and for an instant he could see the tears in her eyes, and a grimace of pain on her face. Then she straightened, her face hardened, and she bowed stiffly.
"Your Majesty," she said, and was gone.