Jaina cannot remember being this sick in her thirty-six years. Actually, she is realizing that she is so sick, that she just can't remember. She has no idea what part of the day it is, or when she was brought back to the cell, or how long she has been laying with her upper body across Sylvanas's lap. The only thing she can remember is that she probably shouldn't be, and if she could form a coherent thought and words, she'd apologize profusely and roll away. Because she sure as hell cannot stand right now. What the fuck happened? She groans and in an instant, Sylvanas has levered her up and over the bucket that used to be in the corner of their cell. Her head reels from the motion and her stomach heaves, but there's nothing left in her to purge. She grits her teeth, trying to will the gagging coughs to stop and her stomach to relax from the knot it has tied itself in.
Sylvanas gently rubs her back, murmuring in Thalassian, but her head is in too much of a jumble to make any of it out. Her hair sticks to her temples, the longer pieces that have fallen from her braid are catching in the corners of her mouth. She's covered in a light sheen of sweat, skin clammy while inside she feels like she's on fire. She brings her hands up to clutch at Sylvanas's arm that loops under her neck and across her chest, holding her up.
"Ah there you are." Sylvanas speaks softly, but it's a scream to her throbbing head. She flinches, and Sylvanas tightens her grip, lowering her slowly back to her lap. She's too afraid to open her eyes, both for the expression on Sylvanas's face and the spike of pain that would come with the light. Sylvanas tries again, this time barely whispering.
"Keep your hands there on my arm. Squeeze once for yes, twice for no. Alright?"
One squeeze.
The world isn't spinning quite as fast as it was a second ago. She tries to get the tense muscles of her back and abdomen to calm, but fear of throwing up again and all the vertigo that it entails prevents her.
"I'm sorry for before. Usually you would rouse a bit right before vomiting and I didn't want you to puke on my boots. If you're feeling nauseous again, squeeze a bunch. I'll try not to move you otherwise."
One squeeze.
"Apparently you don't handle their version of mana potions very well. Do you remember anything?"
Thinking hurts. Listening to Sylvanas hurts. Maybe if she can sleep, some of this will go away, and then she can talk. Jaina whimpers, squeezes twice, then rasps, "My head. Sleep."
Sylvanas doesn't respond, but Jaina feels her shift carefully so that now her head is tucked into the crook of the elf's elbow. Sylvanas's free hand lifts the corner of her cloak to wipe away the dampness on her neck and temples, then gently smoothes the flyaway hairs back from her face. The brief pressure of her hand brings a slight relief to the throbbing, so she raises a trembling hand to grab Sylvanas's and places it against her head, pressing as hard as she can muster. Sylvanas seems to understand; she threads her fingers into her braid, squeezes softly and presses down with her palm. The relief, instantaneous; the sigh Jaina utters, almost a moan.
She dozes on and off for what feels like hours, but turns out to be days. Once her headache was under control and she stopped throwing up after being moved, Sylvanas had wrapped her in both their cloaks and woke her only to drink the water and soupy gruel they brought to the cell. She has vague memories of this time: Sylvanas holding the bowl to her lips with one hand while cradling her head in the other, Sylvanas washing her face with piece of cloth tore from her own shirt, Sylvanas talking to her like an equal, no sneer, no disdain, just a running monologue in a melange of Common and Thalassian. When the pain was gone, the nightmares started. She dreamed of her father, of Derek, of Thros and its horrors, all of it still lurked in her subconscious. Every time she jerked awake, Sylvanas was there, humming softly or combing her fingers through Jaina's hair.
This time, when her eyes open, she doesn't wince away from the sunlight streaming in from the hole in the wall. Everything rushes back to her in a gasp: the portal, her broken body, Skyhold, the Inquisition's cruelty, the Harrowing. She sits up, faster than she should have since the floor she's sitting on immediately tips, and throws her arms out to steady herself. Sylvanas is by her side in an instant, but Jaina shakes her head.
"How long has it been?"
"Four days-five if you count the day they took you." Sylvanas is cautious, her voice soft and almost free of the dual tone. She keeps her distance, nothing like the fuzzy moments Jaina remembers being in her arms. "What do you remember?"
Her hand drifts up to finger her pendant as she tries to separate real from dream. The patches of black over the past five days are vast so she tries to remember from before that.
"The Commander came to get me. Rutherford is his name?" When she looks up, Sylvanas is smirking slightly, and her red gaze jumps from Jaina's hand to her face. Jaina drops her hand into her lap, fighting the urge to chew a nail instead. She waits for Sylvanas to insult her for her fidgets, to tease and sneer, however, nothing comes but a nod, confirming the man's name.
"And they made you stay here." This, too, stands out like a spark in her mind. Sylvanas had argued vehemently, growling and posturing, against having to stay in the cell while they took Jaina. It was only after Solas had promised he would protect her as well as he could that she'd stood aside and let them lead her away.
"After that I don't remember much. They gave me something to drink- lyrium they called it." Her hand is back toying with the necklace. She looks pointedly at Sylvanas, refusing to be shamed for taking this small comfort. "I blacked out, and that's it."
It's a lie.
She remembers Sylvanas rubbing her back, feeding her, smoothing her hair but thinking about those things makes something bloom warm in her chest that simply cannot be permitted to grow. Jaina cannot again harbor fondness for another person bent on genocide and fueled by their own thirst for power. It's easier to pretend she has no memories of the mounting evidence of Sylvanas's empathy; it's easier to pretend that empathy is something ulterior.
Sylvanas tilts her head, doubt plain on her face. She waits a moment, but when Jaina says no more, there's obvious relief in her voice when she offers "I know only what they told me when they dragged you back here. The Harrowing was unsuccessful, but not because you failed, but because you almost died from the lyrium consumption. Solas said you convulsed almost immediately, and that you would have been killed on the spot except that the female mage told Commander Rutherford you never made it to the Fade, so you couldn't be possessed. Solas told me he pushed again that we're not from here, and he thinks your reaction to the lyrium might convince them."
"Lucky us." Jaina replies flatly, "I can't say that it was worth it."
Sylvanas snorts and covers her mouth with a hand, eyes rising to the ceiling to avoid Jaina's. There's that flash of heat again, but she refuses to smile and engage with the other woman so casually. Over the past week and a half, at least the parts that she's been conscious, she's noticed the shift in Sylvanas's behavior towards her. Initially, as antagonistic as she would expect, to more tolerant, to now what are more and more frequent moments of something beyond tolerance. To what gain? She's already made her plans to Jaina perfectly clear: keep her alive long enough to figure out how to teleport them home. Jaina will uphold her end of the bargain as long as Sylvanas does. Trouble is, Sylvanas isn't known for forthright words and actions.
Deep in thought, Jaina misses the silent entry of a hooded woman until she is already at the bars. To her credit, she startles Sylvanas as well, who'd gone back to whatever she was doing with the slivers of wood. Her lilac-colored hood is pulled up so far that it completely hides her face. She stands, arms by her sides, and simply peers into their cell. Jaina doesn't bother to get up from the floor, but Sylvanas stands and crosses her arms.
"I see you've recovered." The stranger's melodic voice lilts over the vowels as she speaks, accent different again from all the others that they've met.
Jaina inclines her head, but still doesn't get up from the pallet. Her head still feels as if it's not quite attached to the rest of her and even sitting, her balance is off. Sylvanas says nothing. The woman steps close enough to rest the fingers on one hand against the bars. The dying light from the hole in the wall and the torches plays in the shadow of her hood, giving Jaina a glimpse of high cheekbones and fire-red hair. Their eyes match, pale blue set above dark circles and freckles.
"You've caused quite a stir in the keep, Jaina Proudmoore. A confessed mage who cannot stomach lyrium, yet who can walk the Fade while Dreaming." Her fingers slide across the bars, a faintly musical chime. Jaina sees Sylvanas's ears twitch out of the corner of her eye. "A bound demon who looks like an elf and seems to possess a significant amount of autonomy. You claim to come from another world with a similar affliction, a tear in the Veil. Solas and the former Grand Enchantress Vivienne believe you despite Chantry scripture stating that the Maker has made this world and everything in it. Both have argued on your behalf, going so far as to endanger their places in the Inquisition. Very out of character for them. So I've decided to come see for myself."
"And you are?" Sylvanas's tone is decidedly dismissive. Jaina reaches out and taps the heel of her boot with a finger, a quiet rebuke and reminder not to push away people who could help them.
"Sister Leliana of the Chantry." She looks at Jaina as she speaks, eyes studying her face, following the streak of gold in her hair. This woman is no simple cleric, Jaina can see the razor sharp intelligence in her eyes as she appraises her. She almost smiles as the woman completely ignores Sylvanas, another sign that this woman is not just clergy-she knows how to play Sylvanas's game.
"I don't see why a Sister would be so interested." Jaina hates speaking from the floor, but wobbling or needing Sylvanas to remain upright would be worse. Sylvanas, still silent, just watches Leliana as she talks.
"Curiosity-though let's also say that I have a vested interest in the goings-on in this world." She gestures with one arm, causing her hood to pull back slightly, the flickering shadows of torchlight obscuring none of her beauty. Jaina fleetingly wonders if all of the women of Thedas are beautiful, the invasive thought brings a wry smile to her face and Leliana matches it. The woman's wording tickles the back of her mind, and suddenly it comes to her.
"So you're a spy?"
The other woman's smile sharpens and she cants her head in affirmation that Jaina only catches because she's looking for it. "I was a bard who sought refuge in the Chantry and now I am a laysister who serves Andraste and the Maker. Andraste's will, I advise the Inquisitor alongside Commander Rutherford, Seeker Pentaghast, and Ambassador Montilyet, providing information and insight on various affairs. Cullen was at your Harrowing, but his opinions on both of your futures change with his lyrium intake. I'm sure Cassandra and Josie would take my opinion as their own if it spares them time."
While Jaina sorts through her comments, attempting to pin names together, Leliana pauses to study their cell. She gets the feeling that little escapes this woman and is proven right when she glances at Sylvanas and she steps closer, her voice low enough that the guards can't possibly hear. "I do so love your boots." Jaina watches Sylvanas stiffen, her ears pin back at the tone implying there's more to love than the boots. She looks quickly at Leliana's and barely glimpses the hidden hilts of her own daggers.
Leliana's eyes spark with mischief, and with a knowing look in Jaina's direction she turns from their cell. As she walks to the door she hesitates a moment, and turns, this time her eyes go to Sylvanas's.
"You know, demon," Leliana smothers the word in sarcasm but her tone is thoughtful, "you remind me of someone I once knew. All scowls and dry wit. Unfortunate really, it's remarkable what can be caught with just a touch of honey." Then she is gone as quietly as she came in.
Jaina cannot see Sylvanas's face, but she hears the huff as her ears drop and she turns around. "Great, we've attracted the focused attention of a spy."
Jaina shakes her head. "Not just a spy. If she's the Inquisitor's advisor, then she's more than just that. And, she seems to be on our side...or at least halfway. She let you keep your daggers."
Sylvanas furrows her brow. "Yes, she did, but to what end?"
It is strange seeing her like this, quiet and contemplative without being contemptuous. Jaina is so used to Sylvanas commanding a room and then subtly insulting everyone in it, that she's always on her guard, waiting for the Banshee to snap and sneer. The elf has gone back to the corner where she usually sits, fiddling with her scraps of wood once again, so Jaina takes the moment to draw in a slow, deep breath. She still feels disconnected and a bit floaty, but the thread of anxiety running through her body makes her want to jump up and run, or rattle the bars of the cell while she screams at the top of her lungs. It is an uncomfortable dichotomy that sends one hand to her necklace and the other to her mouth to nibble at a nail. Her body and mind are desperate to feel the sharp white of arcane and the comfort that it brings. Does Sylvanas still want for magic? Does she dare ask?
Pushing up from the pallet draws Sylvanas's eyes to her, but when she doesn't immediately collapse they flick back to whatever she's doing with the wood. Jaina stretches, holding on to the bars of the door with one hand to keep balance. Her shoulder is still very stiff, and her being sick and delirious for days have set back any progress she'd made with her range of motion. Anxious, bored, and physically uncomfortable, quite the combination. What she wouldn't give for a book.
"What are you doing?"
One of Sylvanas's ears shifts toward her and reminded of the housecats that lived on all Kul Tiran ships, she almost laughs, biting it back at the last minute. How did she ever find this woman threatening?
"Nothing, why?"
"Well you've spent hours over there in the corner playing with sticks." She grimaces as she flexes her wrist, carefully pushing with her good hand to force it farther than she can move it alone. The conversation helps take her mind off the ache. "We don't have any troops to strategize for if you're making toy soldiers."
"Proudmoore, we are not friends. There is no need for idle conversation."
The words are cutting, but her tone doesn't bite with fangs. Jaina notices the change in her wording, from them being enemies to now, just not being friends. She smiles a little to herself; it feels like an achievement. She moves back to sit against the opposite wall, far enough away so it's not obvious that she's looking, but close enough that she can make out what Sylvanas has been doing the entire time they've been held here. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the chips strewn around the elf, each carved into a perfectly delicate feather.