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Of Bandits

"I dunno what they are, but they're not bandits," Blackwall said.

"Hero's right," Varric agreed. "They're showing themselves too early - trying to frighten off travelers, not draw them in to rob them."

"We don't have time for this," Dorian grumbled. He and Solas were travelling with us because mages moving through the forward camp might look suspicious, and a staff wasn't the easiest piece of equipment to hide - especially if one intended to have it close at hand in case it was needed. Leliana had additionally insisted Dorian disguise himself, and it seemed to be taxing his patience. Apparently it involved getting his hair messy. I honestly hadn't seen him close enough since the change to notice a lot of difference.

I closed my eyes and took a breath, reaching out for the supposed-bandits' auras. I wasn't any better at pinpointing non-mage targets within their auras than I had been days ago, but Dorian had expressed shock at how far away I could sense other people when I concentrated. When confronted, Solas had admitted that, yes, my awareness had expanded somewhat more than he had expected - or at least more quickly than he had expected - but he added that raj'panathen had been able to pick out individual auras across large swaths of a battlefield, and I hadn't yet attained that standard. Dorian had looked at him as though he was insane. I just hid my eyeroll, and then felt guilty for having indulged in the reaction at all.

Two thoughts seemed to war within me: first, gratitude that Solas was even willing to train me - he was clearly much more skilled than I was, and I imagined my limitations frustrated him. Second, the growing impression that he - sometimes - held people to a much higher standard than was strictly reasonable.

I stretched as far as I could, and then counted up individuals. "Around that lumpy blur that I assume is the blockade you mentioned, I can find - "

"Faux -blockade," Varric corrected me.

I opened my eyes to glare in his general direction. "Are you somehow under the impression that their cart and crates are painted wooden cut-outs, because I think Blackwall would have - "

"How many?" Blackwall reminded me.

"Six," I answered. "But I can't know how closely their camps are spaced. More may hear the fighting and come running. No mages, though. At least not nearby."

"Six non-mages when we have three mages plus someone in heavy armor to guard us?" Dorian scoffed. "This won't even be fair."

"We usually like it that way, Sparkler," Varric told him. "And did you hear the part about more showing up?"

He moved - perhaps made some gesture - and his tone was dismissive: "If there are no mages hiding anywhere, we could take a small army."

"Or templars," Solas said flatly from his other side. "No mages or templars."

"Why would there be templars among bandits?" Dorian demanded.

"Faux -bandits," Solas corrected him. "Why would a demon be walking about the market in Val Royeaux wearing the Lord Seeker's face?"

"Uh - " Dorian began. He had no idea what Solas was talking about, of course.

"Don't worry about it," I told him, dismounting from the horse I had been allotted from Dennet's stock. It was large and sure-footed, but I suspected that I looked like a child perched atop it. "Let's deal with some not-bandits."

Dorian was right: the fight wasn't difficult, especially at first. Even when more not-bandits began advancing from other areas within the maze of narrow canyons, drawn by the cries of their dying comrades, I was able to give everyone ample warning. A few of them wore enchanted items that I made use of, and I moved Dorian and Solas about as was needed - which initially surprised Dorian, but he quickly became accustomed to it.

My near-fatal mistake didn't happen until after the last group found its way to our killing-ground. I became complacent - sloppy. I didn't sense the straggler creeping up on me from behind until it was nearly too late. When I realized, all I had time to do was wrap him in the Fade and send him somewhere else . I used his aura, and I could see his movement, too - but either my poor grasp of auras or my treacherous sight lied, because I missed him entirely.

And suddenly I was staring down a large human man rushing at me with a short sword and dagger, with no other tricks in my hand.

Dorian and Solas weren't looking at me. Blackwall was far away, meeting the last few of the not-bandits who were still alive from the last wave. The only one who might possibly -

Then a bolt appeared in the man's throat. He was so close that the spray of blood fell across my outstretched arm and pattered to the ground beyond it. So close that his forward momentum carried his sword blade into my shoulder, scraping against my clavicle, stopping when it met my shoulder blade.

Had he been alive to actually direct the blow, I imagine it would have been aimed at my heart. I was also likely lucky in that his weight carried me inexorably to the ground, perhaps saving me one or more broken bones.

For a moment, it didn't even hurt.

Then the world erupted into both pain and shouts of dismay. I don't know if I cried out - perhaps I already had. The next thing I understood, the not-bandit's body was being lifted off of me. I did scream when they removed the sword from my flesh, but it was stifled as someone else immediately thrust a feladara potion between my lips. I choked on it, and coughing hurt, but the pain was overwhelmed by the unbearable itching in my shoulder. I tried to grab for the place, but hands held mine down, shushing me and stroking my wrists over my gauntlets, trying to soothe me. In a moment the itching receded, though the pain only got louder as the mist of shock and threat of unconsciousness went with it.

I was finally able to take in the concerned faces around me - faces close enough that I could see their concern. Dorian held the flask, Varric's gloves were streaked with blood from the sword and the body, and Solas's hands held mine. Another head came into view against the sky, then - Blackwall, I supposed, though he was standing and therefore too blurred for me to recognize.

"I'm so sorry," I groaned.

"She almost died, and she's sorry." Dorian threw up his hands in apparent exasperation.

"My own - " I began, only for Solas to hush me before gathering me in his arms. I cried out again as he jostled my shoulder.

"Should you be moving her?" Blackwall asked. "Even with a potion, the wound could break open again…"

Solas began walking, and I had to close my eyes before the world spun away from me.

"I can hardly treat her on an open hillside!" Solas snapped in reply to the Warden. "She will need sutures, which means we will need a fire, boiled water - a tent, for afterward, where she can lie down."

"I hate to bring this up now," Varric said, "but we do have an appointment in the morning. Will she be in any shape to walk into that viper's den?"

"She will be or she won't," Solas replied, his voice testy. "I'll do my best, but I am not a healer."

"I'm even less of one, surely," Dorian said, "but I have a spell or two at my disposal, and I will be happy to put them at yours."

"Save your strength," Solas told him in a calmer tone. "The wound doesn't appear life-threatening, and there's a good chance you will have your hands full with traps tomorrow."

They all fell silent, then, and the only sound was the wind through the rocks and the occasional soft whimper of pain that I failed to stifle. We were walking for what seemed an age, and then there were voices, talking quietly to each other in words I didn't pay attention to. More walking. Footsteps approaching. "It's clear," Blackwall's voice said, relief evident. "They even left a fire for us." I hadn't heard him leave.

"How considerate," Dorian replied, the good humor in his tone threadbare as it strained to cover his concern. "How is she?" he asked in a lower voice.

"Conscious," Solas answered. "Bleeding more heavily. She may need another potion before I begin."

Darkness was beginning to flutter on the edges of my thoughts again when we finally reached the camp Blackwall had scouted. "I'll put up one of our tents," he said as Solas set me carefully by the fire.

"I'll go retrieve our mounts," Varric told us.

"Do you need my help?" Dorian asked Solas.

"Not at the moment," he replied absently. I could hear him rummaging through a pack somewhere near my head as I stared up at the sky, glad not to be moving any longer, but reflecting absently on how strange it was that the sky kept moving even though I was now still. And why was it so narrow, as though shadows were consuming it? "Someone should keep watch at the entrance to the ravine, in any case."

"Right," Dorian agreed, his footsteps retreating.

Solas didn't bother trying to remove my robe or the layers beneath, he simply cut them away from my injury with a knife. "Try to stay awake," he told me, his voice gentle.

"I am," I mumbled, though whether it was comprehensible or not was entirely beyond my ability to discern.

Time seemed to flicker by, and suddenly there was another flask in my mouth, and more feladara pouring down my throat.

"Do I really need to be awake for this?" I asked as the pain came roaring back into my newly-sharpened awareness.

"Your consciousness is the best indication I have for when you need immediate care," Solas replied. "Now, I must probe the wound, and this will hurt, but after I will numb it with cold before I begin the sutures."

"Can't numb it now?" I groaned.

"No," he told me evenly, "because cold might change my perception of your wound, and I might miss something important."

And as he finished speaking, he touched me, bare hand on bared shoulder.

Sensation. I was doubled - more than doubled. I was as vast as an ocean, and -

And I was drowning in the blackest self-loathing, aware that everything - everything - was my own doing. The respect - still so new and unexpected - that had been wrested from me by these people I worked beside was interwoven with utter despair, and that one shining thread of attraction - ha! That was almost the worst of all. I hated myself all the more for the way it refused to be tarnished by my shame -

Solas pulled his hand away with a gasp - practically leapt away from me. "Who are you?" he snarled.

His words didn't even touch me. I reached up with my good hand and pressed my fingers against my wounded shoulder, relieved by the purely physical pain pouring through me - for the barest moment. Then his fingers caught my wrist and he forced my hand back down, pinning it roughly against the ground. For two breaths his face hung over mine, hard and suspicious, and then it blurred as my eyes filled with tears. They fell almost immediately, pouring down my temples to soak my bound hair as I fought not to sob.

The emotions I had taken from him - I assumed they were from him - were the worst thing I had ever felt. I would have chosen another go at channeling the raw energies of the Fade through my body over having to feel the depths of his self-loathing again.

"I...apologize," he said quietly.

"What - ?" I managed to squeak through the convulsions in my throat and chest. "Ahn de - ?"

"Shivas'lath," he said - and then his fingers were wiping away my tears. I flinched at his touch, but the emotions I received from him this time were more focused, more contained - concern, guilt, and something complicated that might add up to relief. I realized that last was his reaction to my emotions. Even with my physical pain coloring everything, he enjoyed the distraction of feeling what I felt, instead of having to feel what he felt.

"Love-oath?" I whispered, translating the word he had said, but finding no context for it.

"A...sort of marriage vow, used long ago," he said slowly, his fingers stilling on my cheeks. "Included within it, a spell binding two people together. Most often, it was declared by those who had spent many...many years together already - those who felt they hadn't been born nas'falonen, but had rather grown into such a relationship."

"That raises so many more questions than it answers," I said, still whispering, though my tears had at least stopped. "Including how you know of it."

"Questions I would be happy to answer," he said, "if you weren't badly wounded and in need of care."

He released my pinned wrist, and moved so that he was on my left side, where he could better attend my shoulder. "This will likely hurt," he reminded me, and then his fingers touched the wound. Lightly. Gently.

I still bit down on a cry of pain.

His exploration seemed to last an age and ended with him carefully washing away the worst of the blood with a rag that had been boiling in a pot over the nearby fire for some amount of time - he must have put that together while my awareness had dimmed. He kept one hand on the back of my neck, making certain I didn't move, while he levitated the rag from the pot and cooled it enough to use. The washing hurt, too. Afterward, though, he finally turned his attention to soothing my pain. His fingers chilled, and the chill worked its way into my flesh, radiating out and slowly bringing numbed bliss. I felt his pleasure in my emotions deepen as my physical pain ebbed. "Well, that is admittedly useful," he murmured - perhaps to himself, as he didn't elaborate.

Maybe he knew I would understand what he meant, though, and I did: because he could sense the cessation of my pain, he knew exactly how much chill was sufficient for his purpose.

He released me entirely, then, no doubt ready for the needle - but the sudden lack of his presence felt like a gaping void inside me. "Creators," I gasped, just as he growled, "Anbanal ver ra!"

"Well, we are certainly compatible," he ground out through clenched teeth. "That will...complicate matters somewhat."

"Compatible?" I repeated.

He grunted. "Later."

He passed the needle through the fire and then threaded it, pausing before he began to ensure that I remained sufficiently numbed. The stitching certainly wasn't pleasant , but it was bearable, perhaps more so since he was touching me again. Even though nearly all his emotions seemed to be painful to some degree, his palpable presence was still somehow reassuring. It also felt good - fulfilling - to know my feelings soothed and comforted him.

When he was finished, he placed a healing spell on me. It was a pleasant warmth against my skin, and tasted of honey and gaildahlas on the back of my tongue. His hands were still on my arm and the back of my neck, and I felt him taking pleasure in my assessment of his spell. "Almost worth an injury," I told him.

He snorted a laugh, and bent to gather me in his arms again, wrenching a soft sound of protest from me as his hands left my skin. "It's...it is better this way," he told me, but when my head fell against his shoulder, he turned his towards me, his nose finding and tracing the edge of my ear. "Tel'emaronasha." His breath tickled my skin and I sighed, and then sighed for an entirely different reason a moment later when he turned to face forward again. "If Blackwall has a tent prepared," he told me in a brisk tone, "I will bandage you there, where you can undress in more privacy."

I made a sound that might have been an assent, though I was thinking that he seemed to share ridiculous human ideas of privacy and propriety. If no one was about to see me, how was the outdoors any less private than a tent? But I felt heavy with the warmth of his spell on me, and I realized that all I needed to do to touch him was lean my head forward a little - my nose brushed his neck, and I felt him shiver as I fully relaxed, now perfectly content.

He didn't even make it to the tent before I had fallen asleep.

Nas'falonen: Soul-mates, which doesn't imply a romantic connection, but is a relationship that can exist in addition to a romantic one.

Anbanal ver ra: Void take it

Tel'emaronasha: Not fair