Chapter 11: Presence
"Your heart is full of fertile seeds, waiting to sprout."
- Morihei Ueshiba
Sten scavenged the shore below their camp restlessly. He hadn't come across anything really worthwhile as he examined the damaged dock: anything worth salvaging would have been carried off-either by marauders or by the sea- long ago. Still, it kept him from languishing in idleness. There was nothing left to do but wait. If the absent party didn't return, other plans would have to be undertaken and other courses of action deployed. If he kept pondering all the contingencies, he would find himself pacing about like a caged animal. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd found himself standing at the head of the trail outside their camp surveying the hillside, on the lookout. Gunther had launched into a barking fit early that morning and Sten had bolted from his bedroll to see if the mabari was welcoming their absent members. It hadn't been anything noteworthy: some small animal scurrying into the brush. The disappointment had made him almost angry.
She is not here yet, he thought sullenly, slipping back into his tent, the morning still dark. And somehow, she is ever present.
When Gunther began a new round of barks later that morning, Sten ignored them, concentrating instead on the wrecked remains of an old trunk firmly wedged beneath a collapsed segment of the dock. He tugged at one of the handles only to have it break off in his hand. The rusted box was all but encased in a prison of water damaged and rotted wood. He suspected there was nothing worth saving from it, but it kept him busy. The act of tugging and wrenching away brittle planks of wood, tossing them as far as he could, provided him with something of an outlet for his agitation. He was so absorbed in the task, grunting from the effort of yanking boards from crusted nails, that he was able to ignore Morrigan, who had taken her post at the top of the rocks overlooking the shore, watching him exert himself while gazing intently at his bare chest.
"Do you need some aid?" she offered.
"No," he huffed sharply.
"Suit yourself," she replied nonchalantly, never straying from her perch over the shore, her eyes trailing after him.
It was only when Gunther's barks grew more insistent and lively that he finally dropped the board he'd been using to leverage up the planks he was trying to tear out and headed cautiously over the rocks back to the camp. The others were expected back that morning and he had been trying to avoid thinking of how the day had begun to progress into an early afternoon.
First he heard the Antivan and his boisterous, cocky laughter— it was the first sign that the wait was over. Sten behaved as he usually did during such occasions: he remained at the fringes of the displays of camaraderie, observing the relief apparent in everyone's expressions. He stoically acknowledged the greetings the others cast his way. He searched quickly past Leliana and Alistair, their packs tossed on the ground, to finally find what he had been searching for. A tightness in his chest eased as he exhaled at the sight of the Grey Warden among them once again. Livia was crouching down, running her hand over Gunther's muzzle affectionately.
His eyes narrowed after a closer inspection: she was wounded. He noticed a telltale bandage tightly wrapped around her arm.
Wynne had begun examining it as he approached them.
"You are hurt," he informed her in his curt manner, standing over her as Wynne tugged at the wrapping.
"It is customary for people to greet one another after a period of absence," Livia explained with slight amusement. "Hello, Sten," she repproached him.
"I'd feel better if we could stitch this up." Wynne winced at the sight of the raw cut. "I can probably keep it from getting infected, but it needs to stay clean and covered."
Sten knelt down to look closer as well.
It was a laceration: superficial, as far as he could tell. And he had seen plenty of injuries and wounds in the field.
"Wait here, dear." Wynne pat her hand before she rushed off to her tent.
Sten's gaze was probing.
"It is not serious," he finally declared.
She glanced at him at last, a peculiar nervousness overcoming her. She had been eager to seeing him again, speak to him, and now that he was there, she was at a loss for words. She found herself unable to articulate anything even as her heart pounded faster as he leaned in closer to inspect her injury. Her eyes browsed over that face she had summoned often in her thoughts during her time away: the serious expression, the unyielding stare, those eyes that appeared more grey than violet that morning.
"We were attacked by mercenaries…A Qunari did this," she blurted out.
"It is not possible," he told her, after a moment of pause.
"Are you saying I am making it up?" she challenged him.
"I am saying it is not possible," he countered.
"There were two of them. Like you. The one who attacked me had no horns, either." Where am I going with this? she cringed.
"You are more concerned about horns than I am," he stated coolly.
"I am merely saying that—"
"They were not Qunari," Sten insisted.
"Why are you arguing with me? There were Qunari among them. I even brought back one of the men's journals. It was written in Qunari."
"Qunlat," Sten corrected her. "And they are not Qunari. They are Tal'Vashoth. They abandoned the Qun."
"Well, I don't know how else to put it. One of them looked like you—he attacked me... and I was confused for a bit; I thought he was you for a moment," she struggled awkwardly to explain. To her relief, Wynne emerged from her tent, her healer's kit in hand.
"I would not attack you," Sten told her sternly.
"I know that," she quickly added, "but that's why I was confused…It happened so quickly. I knew it wasn't you, but…it was as if…" She peered at him, at a loss for words. I would not attack you, either, she thought. It's why I stilled my blade and ended up hurt instead. "It was fast and I was confused just long enough for him to strike me."
"It was not a good course of action," he reprimanded her.
She stared at him, her gaze hardening.
"No. It wasn't. You are right. It was foolish."
He thought the words out of her mouth indicated she was being reasonable, but her angry expression and the briskness of her tone indicated otherwise. He did not understand what was happening just then.
"Then we agree."
"Oh, we certainly do! If I ever see a Qunari charging at me again, I will attack no matter who it is!" she stated crossly.
"Good," he agreed.
She furrowed her brow.
"Even if it's YOU!" She turned her head away.
"I said I would never attack you," he told her.
Wynne sat down beside Livia.
"Right now no one will be attacking anyone. Please wait until I am done," she cautioned warily.
Livia turned to face Sten again.
"I don't know if you don't get it because we are so different or because you just don't…" Care! she shouted in her head.
"You are being unreasonable," he argued calmly as Wynne dabbed at the wound with a clean wad of gauze drenched in one of her malodorous solutions.
"Why? I just told you that I was attacked by a Qunari warrior and I was momentarily confused because I thought he looked like you. If I hesitated it is because I, too, would never attack you!"
"I do not understand what you expect," Sten reasoned. "And your attacker was not Qunari."
Livia growled with frustration.
"This will numb the skin a bit," Wynne continued, oblivious to the quarreling duo. "But it may still feel uncomfortable," she apologized, threading the needle she had doused in the medicine.
"Forget it," Livia complained.
Sten blinked at her, peeved.
"You were attacked, were you not?"
"Yes," she grumbled as Wynne gently turned her arm for a better angle.
"And you were confused because the attacker resembled me," he continued.
She nodded, eyeing Wynne as she knotted the thread.
"And you did not understand why I would be attacking you. So, you hesitated."
"Yes," she confirmed.
"It was not a wise course of action."
She threw her head back and groaned. "Here we go again."
"I would not attack you," he repeated. How could he convey that he would not raise his sword against her? Did she not trust him? Did she not know that yet? Why would she even think such a thing? She should have struck her blade against the Tal'Vashoth without a second thought. It wasn't he; she should have realized it immediately. He could sense himself tensing, frustration seizing him. "I would not attack you," he reaffirmed more vehemently.
She fell silent and they contemplated each other.
"All right," she finally replied, in a more conciliatory tone.
Aqun, he thought. Balance. He was, he concluded, irrationally upset.
"Ready? This might hurt a little," Wynne apologized.
It was because of her. He let her unsettle him like that. Why? What was it about that stubborn, difficult bas woman that was causing him to veer off his normally steady course?
Just then, Livia let out a pained cry. Her hand shot out and grasped his wrist tightly, her fingers digging into his skin as she endured the first stab of pain.
"There, there," Wynne repeated soothingly. "It'll be over very soon."
He'd stiffened, but remained by her side, allowing her grip his wrist.
She drew a deep breath between her clenched teeth.
"Never liked getting stitches," she managed to say.
When the needle dipped again, her eyes squeezed shut as the thread tugged against her flesh.
He had seen the unspeakable in the battlefield: how many times had he held his own men down as the healer performed his duties with nothing to dull the pain? He was no stranger to suffering and expected his men to behave accordingly: with strength. He contemplated her hand, so slender compared to his as it gripped him so tightly. He was astounded for a moment that he had allowed her to do such a thing: to seek strength and solace from him.
It isn't done, came the stern warning within.
It isn't done...But the words faded and grew silent as he gently slipped his hand over hers, squeezing it reassuringly.