Characters/Pairing: Fenris/Hawke, Sebastian, Anders
Rating: T
Word Count: 5500
Prompt: Hurt/comfort, Hawke gets caught in a bear trap. I put up a list of various plot bunnies I had, and this one was the most popular oneshot idea.

Notes: Mild canon-typical violence.

—

"Be careful," Sebastian murmurs. "There are many traps in this area."

"How astutely observed," Hawke replies, grinning at his back as he kneels next to yet another length of fine copper wire stretched across one of the cave's tunnels. "Flames, with all the tripwires and hidden piles of rocks and the way the floor back there opened into that really deep pit, I'd never have guessed."

"A little patience, if you please."

"I'm a paragon of patience."

"Hawke," Fenris says, more than a little warning in his tone, but that's the exact moment the wire gives a little snick under Sebastian's fingers and falls away to the leaf-strewn floor, harmless.

"There, see? No harm done." She extends a hand to help Sebastian to his feet again, staggering only a little as he draws up to his full height. "Right? A little impatient nagging never hurt anyone."

Sebastian gives a rueful smile as he accepts his bow again from Anders, a ritual performed so many times this afternoon she's already lost count. "I confess, Hawke, I was doing my best to ignore you."

"Cheeky."

He gives a little half-bow in answer, eyes twinkling, and turns again to the tunnel. "Shall we continue?"

"After you, my lord," Hawke says, ignoring Fenris's snort, and lets him lead them again through the caves.

They're very nice caves, actually. They've been through them before over the years, long, dry tunnels connecting a handful of enormous caverns where a river once ran in another age. The whole system runs near enough to Sundermount's surface that open air breaks through in regular intervals, filtering down in slanted, dusty shafts of sunlight from the caverns' vine-choked upper edges, illuminating the brown and grey tunnels in unfairly pleasant warmth for how dangerous these raiders have made them. Part of the reason there always seems to be some new group discovering them, Hawke supposes, though these latest are rather more ruthless than most.

Sebastian's hand comes up once more, and Hawke doesn't bother to stifle her sigh as he sets about disarming yet another trap. A footplate this time, hidden under a bit of brush and dirt, and a suspended pair of logs embedded with metal shards and nailheads a little further along the path. "Maker," she says, and drapes an obnoxiously heavy arm around Anders's shoulders. "Can you believe it? You'd think they actually don't want visitors at this rate."

Anders snorts. "You never know, Hawke. It might be personal."

"Personal! I'm personally offended, if that's the case."

"You'll have to tell them when we see them."

"More than that," Hawke mutters, and Sebastian pushes to his feet again. A few yards down the hall, the line leading to the logs swings free and loose, its cut edge dangling into open air. "Probably shouldn't pull on that, then, right?"

Anders shakes her off, a few feathers floating loose with the gesture, and strides to meet Sebastian where he waits ahead, his white armor still irritatingly pristine. "Just let us get past before you do."

"Not a single one of you has a proper appreciation for adventure," Hawke says, though Fenris graciously allows her to take his hand as she falls into step with him, and he doesn't even comment on the awkward interlocking of their gauntlets. "My favorite healer, my favorite priest, and my favorite Fenris, and not one of you willing to step out of your comfortable homes even once for a little wholesale slaughter."

Neither Anders nor Sebastian dignifies that with a response. Fenris at least deigns to give her a small chuckle and a roll of his eyes, which, frankly, Hawke counts as a win, but by the next turn in the tunnel he's taken his hand back for practical sword-wielding purposes, and by the next turn after that even she's fallen victim to the ominous silence of the trapped caves. Sebastian stops them twice more for tripwires, though neither of them takes long to disarm, and then―

The tunnel opens without warning to the largest cavern of the system. They're high on an upper ledge, the whole floor laid out thirty feet or so below; the stone-carved path continues around to their right before curving down the wall to the bottom level, fortified here and there by wooden support pillars and a haphazard attempt at a safety fence.

More important, however, is that every single one of the forty or so raiders they've been tracking is camped directly below them.

Hawke immediately goes to her knees, then to her stomach. Decades of brush and detritus cover the path here, blown by the steady cave winds and occasional rainfall through the patchwork roof, and she leaves a crooked trail through the dead leaves as she edges to the lip of the ledge, moving as carefully as she can without risking either fall or discovery. Fenris is close behind, a solid, comforting weight; Sebastian and Anders wait at the mouth of the tunnel, Anders too heavy-footed and Sebastian too eye-catching for the moment. Her eyes dart from group to group, small clusters of the raiders tending their weapons or roasting rats on small, turning spits; others turn towards a returning trio at the main mouth of the cavern, the stunted grass and sunlit shale of Sundermount visible just beyond the edge of open rock. Thirty―forty―forty-five―

"Too many," Fenris breathes in her ear. "We'll need to return with the guard."

"At least. And maybe a few dozen grenades, if Varric can spare the stores."

"Look." He nods towards the far wall where a handful of raiders sit in one of the many patches of sunlight filtering through the grass-lipped gaps and holes in the ceiling. The light catches on the staves across their knees, laid on the ground behind their backs; even as they watch one unwraps another from a heavy broadcloth, the knotted wood's polish glinting even from across the cavern. "Mages. And no small number of them."

"Definitely the guard."

Fenris inclines his head, then slides back a few inches before pushing to his feet. Hawke watches a moment more before following, and when she's sure she's well away from the visibility of the edge she stands herself, dusting off her thighs and knees where the leaves cling. "We're done here for now," she murmurs to the others. "We've got their hideout; we'll gather reinforcements and come back first thing in the morning. Any objections?"

"None at all," Anders tells her, fingering his own staff, and Hawke takes one step towards them.

She doesn't remember, later, exactly how it all happens. She knows Sebastian's face changes in an instant from relief to horror as her heel comes down; she knows Fenris gives some inarticulate sound of warning; she knows at the last instant she sees the teeth, thick and iron, jutting from the brush where the movement of her passing has uncovered them.

Then the trap snaps closed around her calf with a blunt, implacable thud, and there's only one thought in her head.

Don't scream. Don't scream. Don't scream.

―

She doesn't scream. Instead she goes instantly, terribly calm, every part of her conscious mind preparing for the agony that will follow through the shock. The thing is oval-shaped and enormous, designed for bears and large game instead of humans; the iron is more than a quarter inch thick, the long teeth rusted and blunt, meant not to sever but to cripple and grip until the hunters can claim their prey.

It's gripping her about three inches south of her right knee.

She knows the leg is broken. The serrated teeth are not sharp, but they've crushed down on either side of her leg like a thousand tons of cold malevolence. Her leather boot has split in three places she can see, the pressure of the teeth bearing impossibly, impossibly deep into flesh and muscle, and―

Ah, she thinks distantly. There's the pain.

Don't. Scream.

She fists a hand against her mouth instead. And then Fenris is there at her feet, and Sebastian, rolling their weight onto levers and springs that refuse to give, and some corner of her terrible calmness notes that at least the sound of iron through leather has not carried into the echoing cavern, the raiders still remain blessedly unaware of their intrusion. Better this way. Iron on iron would have been alarm itself, and the resultant fight would have―

The world fades into grey agony when Sebastian hefts her into his arms. It returns just enough for her to see Fenris at his side as they hurry back into the tunnel, the weight of the trap braced against his arm and the broken chain wrapped twice around his wrist to keep from jangling; but each step is a lightning strike to the place where she's trapped, and she loses the next minutes behind the shock of every jolting stride.

Voices. Another shift as she's laid roughly against sand and stone, another silent, open-mouthed gasp against the pain. Don't―

A hand cups her chin. She can't tell whose. "Be still. Don't move."

"Don't move, Hawke."

"Look. They've broken the release springs. We need―"

"No time."

"Move. Let me."

"Push now. Harder."

Even with the disjointed urgency, their voices don't rise above a whisper. They must―they must still be close, and Hawke puts a hand over her own mouth, just in case. Her leg has begun to throb, deep, pulsing beats with every hammer of her heart. Someone is―wrenching―

She barely swallows the groan in time. Her breath comes harder instead, unwilling voice on every inhale, faster and faster as the yanks do not stop. She can't―she's too―there's red agony rocketing from her leg through her spine to the back of her skull and she can't―

The pain gives way just for an instant, just long enough for her to gulp down air and for the grey-stone ceiling of the tunnel to come into focus again. Then Anders is there, wavering at the edges, saying something she can't make out through the roaring in her ears.

She blinks. Blinks again, and he leans even closer. "Listen to me. Hawke, look at me. They've broken the release springs on the trap. Sebastian can't get it open that way. We're going to try to pry it apart enough to pull you free, but we're still very close to the raiders. You must stay quiet. Do you understand?"

She opens her mouth, swallows air through her fingers as she scrabbles for the shreds of her preternatural calmness. Her answer is more breath than word. "Yes."

"Do you want something to bite?"

"Yes."

In a moment he has part of the cuff of his boot unstrapped. She remembers the fight that'd damaged that boot―she'd meant to help him mend it―and then a thick piece of black leather slides between her teeth, tasting of sweat and dirt and blood. "Bite down. Don't move. Do you hear me, Hawke? Do not move."

So many people telling her not to move. She flutters a hand, realizes―moving―and digs her fingers as hard into the dirt as she can. Ten fingers. Count to ten. One, two, three, four―

A white flood of pain roars over her at five, buffeting her senses enough she misses most of what happens next. All she sees is one image of Fenris and Sebastian standing on either side of her leg, one foot each braced against the iron teeth just beside her calf, their mailed hands curled around the upper teeth and straining, straining. They stay like this long enough she has time to think I will lose my leg after this―and then all at once Fenris's tattoos burst into silent, brilliant light from chin to ankle, and she feels the pressure give way around her leg.

It's a hideous feeling. It's more hideous to watch the teeth rise and the deep divots in her leg remain, the leather of her boot contouring to the heavy dent where her shinbone used to be. She can't feel her foot.

Another image: Anders's hands around her knee, pulling. It should hurt; distantly it does through the stillness in her head, and then for an instant her vision goes abruptly black. It returns in time to see her booted toes come free of the teeth, every vein and ridge in Sebastian's and Fenris's throats pulled sharp. Fenris says something to Sebastian―ferocious control, even now―and Sebastian closes his eyes before slowly―slowly―slowly loosening his grip and sliding his armored foot out of the trap's teeth.

Fenris does not hold it a moment longer alone. The instant Sebastian is free Fenris's hands and feet lose their grip on reality, slipping into the otherworldly blue Hawke has seen most often with the dislodging of hearts. But here it is for iron instead, and with its last resistance gone the trap snaps shut through Fenris's ghostly wrists on―nothing at all.

The clang is not quite loud enough to echo. It's still louder than anything they've done yet, and a vague sense of concern blooms in the back of Hawke's mind. Don't scream. Be quiet. Don't scream.

Don't move.

Someone has her arms, a hand behind her head. The agony soars to the top of her brain again as she's lifted, and somewhere she's lost the leather strip and her palm's not enough to quiet the harsh gasps through her teeth. White armor, smooth jaw; an archer's calluses in the hard grip on her arm. Sebastian.

She hopes someone has remembered her father's staff. Then Fenris hisses a word and Sebastian breaks into a run, and the pain swallows her down into the dark.

―

Awareness returns as she's shifted again from Sebastian's arms to the ground. Cold, slightly damp earth and the smell of grass―and the sun above her through a pair of pine trees, just as cheerful as when they set out and throbbing now behind her eyes. There's movement on both sides of her, heads twisting in and out of her peripheral vision. She doesn't try to follow them, but she has enough of her senses to realize they are not whispering any longer. The strange calm has completely vanished, leaving nothing but fear and rolling pain.

Are they away from the cave's entrance? She can't tell. "Where…" she tries, just as someone brushes against her ankle, and every thought is lost to the strangle of a swallowed scream.

"Hawke." Anders again, more blurred than before. "Don't move."

Again.

She doesn't move. She's dizzy with agony and adrenaline and someone's fingers on her forehead and the biting strain of every heaved breath, and she couldn't even if she wanted―

"Here. Is this it?"

"Show me. Do you have enough? Good. Mash it together with your fingers and put it under her tongue. The faster it's in the blood, the better."

Someone's forcing her mouth open. She jerks her head away, stifles the cry at her jolted leg, and jerks again at the second touch. Then the hands gentle on her cheeks, and she blinks again, trying to see through the grey fog―

Fenris. She recognizes him now, his head bent very close, his mouth taut with worry. "Hawke. Be still. I am not trying to hurt you."

Of course not. This time when he opens her mouth she allows it, does not fight the placement of the bitter, spine-leafed herbs beneath her tongue. He closes her mouth again, still just as gentle, and strokes one finger up and down her neck until she swallows. By then her spit has begun to soak through the herbs and her tongue has begun to tingle; she swallows again through the sensation, and Fenris gives her a tense smile. "Good."

Good, she tries to echo, and then someone―Anders―pulls on the leather of her crushed boot and her back arches violently enough to bend her from the grass. Fenris's hands slip twice as he tries to steady her; he snarls something over his shoulder and the pull―stops, though lingering echoes still thrum up and down the right side of her body. She can't catch her breath.

Ridiculous. She's been hurt before, hasn't she? Hazy memories of the Arishok's blade and an odd, lifting weight behind her ribs, taking her with it―but this is immediate and overwhelming as a hurricane, beating over and over without relief, and she can't separate her mind from the wild screaming panic at the pain.

Stop it. She's stronger than this. "It hurts."

Fenris leans over her again, the fingers of one hand sliding around the back of her neck. His skin is blessedly cool. "I know. Anders must remove the boot, Hawke. It will hurt again."

"Knock me out."

"The only way to do that now would be to hit you."

Somehow she manages a breathless laugh. "Hit away."

"Look at me," he says instead, and when she does he cups her head with his other hand as well. She hadn't even noticed him removing his gauntlets. "Breathe in. Hold it. And―out―"

She feels the edge of the knife slide under the boot on the exhale, and as she breathes out with Fenris the first edge of the boot gives way. It hurts, but―it helps, having Fenris there, holding her face, fixing her attention on his eyes and nothing else. "Again," he says quietly, and she lets out another long, slow breath.

The rest of her mouth has begun to tingle, along with the tips of her fingers and toes. She lets herself focus on that instead of the ebbing edge of panic, on the slow lethargy seeping through her limbs, the waves of heat rising and receding in her leg with every breath and every pull of Anders's knife. She doesn't know how long it lasts. Long enough for the shadows in Fenris's eyes to change, anyway. Long enough that the ground beneath her warms with magic and cools again, damp seeping through her coat.

Anders's voice sounds very far away. "I've got most of it cut off, Hawke. You'll feel me pull, and then I'm going to touch your leg. Are you ready?"

She thinks she nods. Fenris nods for her in any case, his thumbs tracing her jawline on both sides, and she relaxes back into the tide of hurt as it swells. Then she feels the boot slide over her heel and the insistent hum of Anders's magic sliding up the sides of her calf, the dent in her shinbone, her knee. For the first time it eases, just for a few seconds, and her eyes flutter shut before Fenris calls her name again.

Anders's face has joined Fenris's in her view. His mouth moves faster than she can track, but after a few repetitions she's given to understand that both the bones in her leg have been crushed just below her knee. Most of the pieces are held in place by muscle and sinew, but one larger shard has been displaced by the sheer force of the trap and must be returned to its position before she can be healed. Field surgery will be necessary; if they wait until they return to the city she will not walk again without a heavy limp and a cane.

She laughs at that, a tight, breathless sound. "I know many fine people with limps."

"Do they go traipsing up and down the Coast on a weekly basis?"

"They might." She laughs again, dizzy. "I'm afraid."

Anders grips her shoulder. Bits of his hair have fallen loose from the half-tail, framing his face in a rather softer look than his usual. "I'll go as quick as I can."

Her eyes flutter shut. Then Sebastian speaks, and for a moment she can't find him before realizing he's standing above her head, his bow out where he stands guard over their tiny clearing. "Allow Fenris to do it."

"To do what?"

"Put the bone back in place. Can't you?"

He can, he thinks, though Anders dislikes the idea from the beginning and takes some convincing to even consider it. His voice rises and falls again, untempered by Sebastian's more even tone; Fenris comes in and out like a low string, humming words she can't make out through the rest. Eventually he bends close again, his voice rumbling pleasantly through her ears, and it takes some time to realize he's asking her a question.

"What do you want, Hawke?"

She blinks, then gives a little roll of one shoulder. "Whatever…whatever Anders thinks is best."

"Hawke."

"I'm not," she tries, her tongue entirely numb now from Anders's herbs, her mind floating between rare points of land in an endless fog. "I'm in no…place to choose. Sorry."

Another low conversation between Fenris and Anders, the latter increasingly exasperated, and then they come to some sort of agreement and Fenris slides away from Hawke's head with only a brief touch to her cheek. Sebastian takes his place, his fingers around her shoulder not nearly as tender but just as comfortingly solid as she wraps both hands around his wrists.

Blue eyes. How very, very lovely they are under russet brows, even drawn down like this. "Sebastian."

"Hawke." He smiles, only a trifle tense, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. "How are you feeling?"

She grins. "Sebastian. You have beautiful eyes."

"You're very kind."

"Who could feel anything with that gaze trained on them? Like a weapon of its own."

The corners of his mouth crook up, but before he can respond something―tightens around her leg just below her knee, hard and growing harder with every second. Belatedly she remembers Anders warning her of restraint, or something like it, somewhere in the miasma of her memory, but that doesn't help when it hurts―

Sebastian, to his credit, does not wince once at the violent clutch of her hands around his wrists. Nor does he balk when she arches under him, pinned by her thigh by people only trying to help her; or when the peculiar bite of Fenris's power finds something deep in her leg, something wrong, and there's nothing she can do but throw her head back against the agony, a humiliating scream tearing out of the back of her throat.

The pain does not stop. She's perversely relieved by that―at least they are not so weak as to be swayed by her frailty―and then Sebastian squeezes her hands, pulls her attention back to his face. "Hawke," he says gently. "Would you like me to pray?"

"Yes," she gasps, and he does, low at first, and steady, his brogue a comforting roll of sound and faith when she's run dry.

She lets the Chant wash over her, and this time when the grey fog unrolls around the edges of her mind, she does not fight.

―

The next time she wakes, she's warm.

They're not at home, not yet―she can still feel the earth under her bedroll and smell the oddly thick air of Sundermount's higher slopes. More, there's a fire somewhere nearby, close enough she can feel the flickering heat of it, but when she tries to roll towards the warmth she is informed by a sharp warning pain up her right thigh to keep that idea tabled for the moment. She opens her eyes instead.

It's night. A few stars gleam here and there through the heavy cloud-cover, but the moon is hidden and the only real light comes from the low-burning firepit. Anders is a huddled shape on a bedroll on the pit's other side; Sebastian sits just beside him, cross-legged, his back to the fire and his eyes to the silent shale-choked mountain slopes before them. And Fenris…

"Hawke," he says, quietly.

Fenris sits at her shoulder, his eyes very green in the firelight. His armor has been cleaned and set aside in a neat pile by his knee, her father's staff laid just beyond it, and his thigh presses against her upper arm to keep it from the cool night air. His skin is very warm, even through the leather. She appreciates that more than usual at the moment.

"Fenris."

He doesn't ask her how she's feeling. Instead he moves two fingers to the pulse in her throat―also deliciously warm―and then slides his fingers to cup her cheek. "What do you remember?"

"Enough."

"You seemed…confused. For some time."

"How diplomatic. I assure you, serah, I am entirely lucid at the moment." And she is, to her own surprise, even if there's a drug-laced lethargy through the rest of her that she suspects is the only thing keeping the pain at bay. It's certainly too heavy to shift easily, and anyway, she's too pleased to have Fenris's hand on her to complain about anything in the world just now. "Where are we?"

"Far enough from the caves for safety. You were not fit to travel further."

"Well. I do apologize for the inconvenience, though you certainly don't need to sound so aggrieved about it."

He smiles―her favorite smile, as it happens, the one that always seems to sneak up and surprise him―and when she turns her face into his hand he bends down, his eyes very gentle, and kisses her directly on the mouth. It's brief enough to keep from hurting, and when he straightens the smile is still there. She hums in appreciation, which is in itself enough to win her another short kiss, and does her level best to match his smile. "Maker, it's so good to see you."

His smile grows broader, not quite a laugh. "And you, also."

"Mm." She tries and fails to lift a hand to his cheek, and realizes somewhat belatedly that whatever concoction Anders has put together to kill the pain has also put her very near drunk. "Your face is very far away. Did you know?"

There's a soft snort of a laugh across the fire, and Hawke manages to roll her head far enough to see Sebastian glancing over his shoulder with a smile. His eyes are also very nice, bright with humor. "Welcome back, Hawke," he says quietly, then pushes to his feet. "I think I'll check the path once more. Call if you have need of me."

"I'll always need you," she objects, half-serious, and then Fenris curls his very warm hand around her cheek again and her protests fly immediately from her head. "Well. Whatever you like, I suppose."

Sebastian laughs again with a trace of a bow, and then he's gone, his white armor disappearing into the shadow of the path.

Hawke blinks for a moment, struggling to reorient herself; when she finds Fenris's face once more, watching her with a sort of pleased bemusement, and she can't help but give a ridiculous little sigh she'll utterly deny once she has better control over her expressions. "Your face, Fenris."

"What of it?"

"I can't reach it."

He does laugh now, just for a moment, and leans towards her until she can kiss the corner of his mouth. "Are you in pain?"

"Not in the slightest." Not at the moment, anyway, though she can feel it lurking dangerously around the edges of her knee. "What about you?"

"None at all. You were the only casualty."

"Casualty of love," she offers, and snickers at the glancing expression over Fenris's face. "Do you know, I think I could die happy here right now?"

"Please don't," he says, his voice very dry, though his hand tenses just for a moment on her cheek. "Not from something like this trap."

Right. The trap. The whole reason she's laid out as she is, the whole reason her leg keeps threatening to revolt against the rest of her. How odd, that she could have almost forgotten. "Fenris. How's my leg?"

Now his eyes go tight, the green flicking down and back again. "It was serious. It still is."

"You are always such a twinkling ray of sunshine." She makes a game effort to wiggle her toes, gasps at the little flare of agony rocketing upwards, and rolls her eyes at Fenris's motion of concern. "Don't fret over something my own fault. Just tell me what the damage is."

His mouth thins, but he inclines his head and tells her. Both bones in her leg are broken. Fenris had managed to reset the bone with Anders's guidance, and Anders had spent the next two hours expending every magical store he had to put the leg right again. Even now it is barely half-healed, swathed in bandages and splinted past immobility, and Sebastian will go the following day for a cart to bear her back to Kirkwall.

"A cart," Hawke echoes, an irrepressible giggle bubbling out of her. "How undignified."

"Of course. You are known for your dignity."

"You horrible elf," she says, delighted. "It must be all right if you're being sarcastic."

He smiles again, real even through the tension, and for a moment she just lets herself―look at him. Such a handsome face, really, strong-jawed and proud-nosed and with such marvelous black eyebrows, his green eyes soft even above the cruelty of the lyrium. She's so very fond of this face.

"Hawke," says Fenris, his voice very quiet, and his fingers slide fully into her hair. "I did not enjoy seeing you in such…discomfort."

"Well, thank the Maker for that. I'd have been concerned if you did."

"Hawke."

"Oh, Fenris," she sighs, and manages on the third attempt to cover his hand with her own. "Just admit you had a scare and want to cuddle. It's all right. I won't hold it against you, I promise."

She can't even find words for the noise he makes. Something between a choked laugh and a cough and a sort of terrible desperation; after a moment it happens again, his turned face and closed fist over his mouth doing little to stifle the sound. The third time Anders gives a rough breath on the other side of the firepit and rolls to his other side, away from them both.

She could tease him for that. Instead―she only watches, her heart painfully full, as he runs a hand through his hair and then, without quite meeting her eyes, shifts to lie alongside her on the bedroll. He's more than careful of her leg, pressing against her only from the waist up, and he props his head on one palm when she leans as best she can against his chest. His other hand comes gently across her stomach and up over her ribs before curling around her side.

It's about the most affectionate he's been in mixed company since the week of their reunion. She'd be giddy if Anders's mix hadn't already done it for her.

As it is, she's more than willing to bask in his undivided attention, which she makes clear by gazing as adoringly at him as possible. "Why does everyone I know have such pretty eyes?"

Fenris rolls said eyes with a great deal of exaggeration, though he's kind enough to return them to her afterwards with a marked gentleness. "Can you not be still even now?"

"I might be persuaded, with the right…motivation."

Fenris shakes his head, then bends close enough his lips brush over her cheek, close enough she can feel the heat of him across her shoulder. "Rest, Hawke," he murmurs. "Because I ask."

"Well." Well, if he puts it like that, she supposes she is more tired than she realized. And he is exceedingly comfortable and terribly warm, and apparently inclined to indulge her most prurient desires for cuddling despite her inability to move. It might be worse. "I suppose that's rather good motive, when you put it like that."

He sighs even as his hand tightens on her side, and for a moment she feels his eyelashes flutter against her cheek. "Go to sleep. I will be here when you wake."

She presses her lips to his jaw, the only part of him she can reach. "Promise?"

"I promise," he murmurs, and that's enough for her to lean against his chest and let out a long, deep breath.

She doesn't know how long it takes. Only a few minutes, she thinks, lulled by Fenris's heartbeat and the distant whistle of wind over the mountain, by the comforting sight of Sebastian returning quietly from the far path with bow in hand and peace in his face. Even Anders's soft snoring has become a cosy reminder of everything that waits for them in Kirkwall. For her, trap and broken leg and potion-induced giddiness and all.

Well. As soon as she gets a cart anyway, she thinks, and goes to sleep.