An Exhausted Rest

Leliana

I strode far ahead of the others, searching for a place to make camp. Every time I inquired, Wynne and Morrigan told me that the obfuscating magic still seeped from the borders of the forest. Over two candlemarks had passed since the ambush, and I worried that I would not be able to conceal my abject fear from the others. Hence, I walked before them, not wanting them to be able to read my features. I wanted no inquiry as to my emotions, for I myself did not know how I felt…or why I felt.

It has been naught but a month. I struggled to reason with myself. A month since the vision, since the Grey Wardens arrived in Lothering. We have become friends, yes, but…but my heart is hammering in my chest as though it is about to break. I cannot seem to gather my breath. My entire body aches as though it is screaming at me to run, to act, to do something to fix this, but I know so little of Salem. I know her name, that she is the youngest child of a noble house, and how she came to join the Grey Wardens. Beyond that, I know nothing…

…save that she has been kind to me.

I shivered, letting the jaws of wisdom instilled through torture demolish my last thought. I could not indulge such a ridiculous fantasy. I could take nothing at face value, for there was nothing pure left in the world. Every coin had two sides, and every person had at least two faces. The one shown to the world, and the monster inevitably behind every mask.

Never trust a kindness freely given, pretty thing. Marjolaine's old words of warning rang through my mind, driving away my traitorous thoughts. There is nothing free in this wide, wicked world. Let my love of you stand as proof, my darling.

I did not understand that last sentence on the day she spoke it, but the years that went by…and the way in which our bond was broken proved her words true in every devastating way. However, nothing I had witnessed ever disproved that warning. The few times I managed to believe in trust in Lothering…those were shattered when the true faces of those I spoke with, dealt with, and lived alongside, were shown to me.

I would be safe, so long as I did not allow myself to fall into the pit, the entrapment, that was trust. However, that did not mean that I could abandon Salem in her time of need. The Maker spoke to me, told me to join the cause of the Grey Wardens. Man betrayed, but gods did not. I knew all of the old legends, all of the tales. The gods were direct in their wishes, straight-forward in their requests. They did not play with the hearts and minds of mortals.

The Maker placed me here, to help the wardens. That is all that I must do. I will risk my life in this endeavor, but I must not allow my heart to beat for anyone save the Maker, who gave me this divine quest. He wishes the wardens to succeed, and I will do my utmost to make certain of it. We have to see to Salem's safety…her health must be my paramount concern, but I cannot let this affect me.

Ahead of me I saw the stone of the mountain that pinned us against the forest grow lower and connect with the earth. I ran ahead, whispering a prayer of thanks as I saw a clearing between where this mountain ended, and the next began. I ran back to the others.

"There's a clearing up ahead." I managed to speak between gasping breaths.

"'T'would seem to be providence." Morrigan spoke. "The clouding magic has been fading this last candlemark, and has dissipated."

Thank the Maker.

"I will go ahead and set up camp." The qunari spoke, leading the single donkey that carried our tents and supplies on this mad dash through Ferelden.

I turned to join him and we ran ahead, setting up Salem's tent, finding Wynne's supplies and satchels. I carried them in and set them on the ground, then hastily set about unrolling the cotton-stuffed pallets Salem had secured from the templar's quartermaster at the Circle. I took a rolled blanket and set it at the head to serve as a pillow, finishing just as Alistair entered the tent, Wynne two steps behind him.

The man was breathing heavy, his hair and shirt soaked with sweat from his exertions. He all but crumpled to his knees and set Salem's body down on the pallet. His shoulders slumped and he sagged, catching his breath. He wiped sweat from his brow.

"I can't…can't hear her breathing anymore." He muttered.

"Get yourself some water, Alistair." Wynne counseled him as she knelt down, her knees creaking. "After that, find some shade and rest for a while. Thank you for bearing her this far."

The young warden looked distraught. His dark eyes were wild, pained as they gazed down upon Salem. He reached out and brushed away the lank hair stretched over her pallid cheek.

"She has to be all right." He breathed, his words fierce as a prayer.

"I will do for her all that I can." Wynne promised. "But I need room to work. Take care of yourself, Alistair, so that we can all care for Salem."

Alistair almost raced from the tent in his attempt to give Wynne space. I looked down at Salem, terrified. Her skin held the waxy, white sheen of death. The stain of blood on her clothing had spread further…the wound had bled during the walk here. Her breathing was shallow and too fast; it did not cause her chest to rise.

"Where do I even begin?" Wynne's voice trembled. "It should be so easy. Healing magic, once learned…it can do so much, but I dare not use it…not if she reacts in the same way that she did."

"We have to do something." The panic in my voice terrified me. I forced my lips shut and screamed at my heart to cease its needless frenetic beat.

"And we shall." Wynne stated, reaching for a canteen and pouring water into a bowl. "There are curved needles and a roll of silk in my pack. Fetch it and thread it, please."

I obeyed, reaching for her satchel and digging through it, finding what she required. The mage's hand touched the water in the bowl and the water within it began to boil, purifying it so that it might be used to cleanse the wound. My hands trembled as I threaded the needle and I cursed at myself. There were many times I had stitched my injuries with my own hands, and they had never been unsteady. I did not understand my reaction, but knew that it had something to do with a low, rasping voice, blue eyes that were wells of emotion unexpressed, and twin blades that protected me in battle.

I set the threaded needle aside and drew a blade from my wrist sheathe, using it to slice through Salem's shirt. I pulled the cloth to the side, laying bare the wound, gasping as I saw it. With most of the bleeding stopped, the gash looked more horrid, a gross wrong that should not be. The gaping edges of her skin seared my eyes and I bit my lip as Wynne held a candle over the wound.

"There is cloth in the wound." Wynne muttered. "Carried there by the sword, no doubt. It must be removed." She hung her head and held out the canteen. "I need your assistance, Leliana."

I poured the water out on my hands, cleaning them as Wynne had done. They trembled still, and I could not force them to cease. I needed to put them to some use, to work with them, so that they would remain beneath my control and not fissure beneath the barrage of emotions I had no right or need to feel.

"When I tell you, take the edges of the wound, and spread the skin." Wynne told me. She unrolled a leather pouch and withdrew a pair of thin, metal pincers, much like the tool the ladies of Orlais used to shape their eyebrows. "I will use these to remove the cloth, then we must make haste to cleanse the wound and stitch it, and pray…oh, we must pray. It is too soon for this child to leave the earth."

My eyes flared to Wynne's. "Is she…will she…"

"I have seen lesser injuries bring swifter death." Wynne whispered and the cold breath of fear whispered at the nape of my neck. "We must be swift. Now."

I reached out and pressed my fingers at the edges of the wound, wincing as I felt the chill of Salem's skin. She was cold…much too cold. I strengthened my resolve and pulled the skin apart, feeling anxiety roar at me as thick, dark blood began oozing from the wound. Wynne cursed as she eased the pincers into the gash. Her fingers twitched on the metal, compressing it. She exhaled, slow and measured, and removed the pincers. I released the breath I did not know I held when I saw a ragged, blood-drenched piece of cloth come free. Salem twitched beneath my hands and I pulled them away, startled.

"She is reacting to painful stimulus." Wynne observed. "This is a good sign."

The senior enchanter reached for the bowl of steaming water and, without preamble, poured it into the wound. Salem shuddered and a pitiful groan crossed her lips. My heart ached. This wound could have been avoided…if she had called warning to Morrigan instead of standing between the witch and the hurlock's blade.

Why did she place herself in danger when a simple cry would suffice? It does not make tactical sense. It is not a standard action…utter disregard for the safety of self to ensure that another is protected. Does Salem owe Morrigan some sort of debt…that could not be the case. No debt is so grave that it would require a life when that life is required to stop the Blight that threatens the world.

Wynne took a clean piece of bandaging and wiped away the blood and water before taking up her needle. She paused, looking at me. "You are competent in the stitching of wounds, yes?" She asked. I nodded. "Haste is necessary. If we turn her to her side, you can stitch the entry wound and I shall do the same for the exit."

"Yes, of course." I acquiesced.

Working together, Wynne and I managed to roll Salem onto her uninjured right side. I steadied her between two rolled blankets and took the threaded needle that Wynne extended to me. I ran the needle through the candle flame, then began the process of closing the wretched tear in her body. Her blood stained my hands and I could feel her muscles quivering beneath her skin. I focused on keeping my stitches clean, neat, and precise.

Though I remained focused on the wound, the wicked scars from the arrows she took at the tower of Ishal glared in my peripheral vision. Years ago, when I indulged desire, Salem was not the sort that my eyes took delight in, but she was a…a striking woman. Much had been taken from her. She did not deserve to have her beauty taken as well. It was too late for me, but I could help her in this way. I could minimize the scar.

A few moments more, and it was done. Wynne wiped sweat from her brow and reached for the rolls of linen in her satchel. With great care, I lifted Salem, holding her up as Wynne bandaged the wound. She was still so cold, but her skin was clammy with sweat. The whisper of her breath against my neck was light and arrhythmic…it concerned me.

"Leliana," Wynne pulled my attention away from Salem's pained features, "here." She extended her own canteen to me. "She lost a dangerous amount of blood and desperately needs water. Can you watch over her? The Brecilian Forest is known to have many blood-restorative herbs, and Salem needs every advantage we can grant her."

"Of course." I agreed as Wynne rose to her feet.

She walked to the entrance of the tent and looked back at me, her brow creased in thought. "She needs to be kept warm as well. We cannot have a fire in the tent, and I will not let her be moved again for at least a day, more if I can manage it. I do so hate to ask this of you but…would you consider staying with her tonight? Sharing your warmth?"

"I…" The very idea terrified me…the thought of being close to someone in the dark, through the night, of a body close to my own, the vulnerability brought out beneath the moon that no soul could rise above. "I…"

But that night…the thunderstorm. Salem was badly bruised, in pain, and she remained beside me. She shared her warmth and her protection…she brought a light into the darkness. I can do this for her. I can repay her. That way I have no debt and she…she will have nothing to hold over me.

"I will stay with her." I promised.

"Thank you, my dear." Wynne offered me a soft smile. "I will ask Alistair to find and fetch more water, and there is some dried venison and fruit in my pack. Please, avail yourself."

"Thank you, Wynne."

The mage departed and I lifted the canteen to Salem's slack lips, pouring water into her mouth, heartened when the muscles of her throat moved and she swallowed. I eased her down the slightest bit and continued helping her drink, desperate to help restore the fluids she lost. Salem shivered and I moved as quickly as I could, unrolling two thick, woolen blankets and pulling them as tight as I could around her, to seal in what little body heat she possessed.

Maker knows what was on that blade, I thought, feeling something akin to despair. We had nothing stronger than boiling water to cleanse her wound. Infection is a very real possibility and she is so weak.

"Maker above," I parted my lips in a whispering prayer, "you sent me to aid these wardens in their struggle. I cannot believe that you intend to take one of them to your side when this quest is scarcely begun. I beg you now to watch over her…to watch over us all."

Salem shuddered and I pulled her tighter against me, lending her my warmth and support. I looked down at her face. Her brow creased, her lips turned down at the corners, and her eyelids fluttered open the slightest bit. The blue of them appeared washed out, leaving them the dull grey of a morning fog. It terrified me that it was the sole color she possessed. Even her lips were pale.

"Leli?" Her voice rasped out, squeaking over the syllables.

"Hush." I urged her. "Do not speak, Salem. Conserve your strength."

"You…" her words slurred, "…ev'yone…all right?"

She cannot be serious!? My mind protested what my ears heard with stark clarity. She hovers at death's door and asks after the rest of us!? How is that even possible? How is she even awake?

"We are well." I reassured her. "Do not worry over us. You must focus on healing, Salem. Please, rest."

She shivered again and her head listed further onto my shoulder. Her breath shuddered out and I saw her eyes squeeze shut. A piteous moan ripped from her chest and my heart ached at my inability to ease her pain.

"Sleep, Salem." I wanted to make it an order, but it emerged as a plea. "We are safe, now. You needn't suffer."

"Thir…sty." She mumbled, her words quavering as her shivering intensified. My worry grew as I saw sweat break out on her forehead.

"Here." I lifted Wynne's canteen to her lips, hoping that Alistair would be successful in his search for water. Our stores were low, and Salem would surely perish without it. "Small sips."

She obeyed, and I did not know if she whimpered in pain or relief as the cool water made its way down her throat. I took heart as she drank a quarter of the canteen, but fear soon retook me as her shivering worsened until her entire body shook against mine, punctuated by her gasps of pain and the clenching of her jaw.

I took the blanket I'd rolled up for her pillow and awkwardly unfolded it with one hand, draping that one over us as well. The heat was stifling, but I would bear it. If the shivering grew more violent, she risked tearing the stitches, and she could not bleed again. That would spell her death. I stretched out as much as I could, resting my back against the support pole of the tent, connecting as much of myself with Salem's body as I could, offering her my warmth. After a moment, she still trembled, but much less than before.

"Sorry…for this." Her words whispered over my collarbone, sending a shiver down my spine. "Thank you...for…caring…for me." The words consumed all of her strength, and struck me like a blow to the face.

So gentle. So very…noble. The true definition of the word struck me, a woman who had seen that definition bastardized and adulterated on levels obscene and sacrosanct. But I knew the word for its meaning, and it was this moment. A moment where a woman lay in agony and still…still possessed the grace to express gratitude. Moments like this did not exist outside of books and legends, fictional stories that often showed the best that the race of men could be…but the race of men never achieved that greatness. It was an ideal, a figurative, not something that…that truly happened in the world.

Until now. Until this moment. Who are you, Salem Cousland?

Any response I could think of to her thanks sounded trite and contrived in my hearing. I did not know what to say, how to respond. She would probably have no memory of this moment if she woke from her next slumber. I, however, would remember it for the rest of my days.

"Rest, Salem." I begged her again, fighting tears whose origin I did not want to examine as the tension in her body eased, and her eyes slipped closed.