An hour passed. Abelas seemed averse to the idea of relaxing while, after a moments exploration, Isala resigned herself to a spot on the bed. They were largely silent, each focusing on their thoughts, and finally she broke and yawned, covering her mouth as she did.

"You should rest," Abelas said from where he stood in front of the fireplace. "The longer you sleep, the sooner we will leave."

"I'm not tired," she argued, shaking her head even as she perched hesitantly on the edge of the bed. "And what about you?"

"I will rest later," he said.

"Well then what was the point of barricading the door?" she asked. "If anything tries to get in, we'll know."

"That is not a guarantee," he responded shortly. "We are not safe in this house. I will not be resting long."

Dissatisfied, she pursed her lips. She knew he made sense, but that didn't change the fact that he was still healing. Rest was important to that. She needed him to rest for his own sake, but he was too stubborn to do it. "You are very irritating, you realize that?" she snapped.

His brows raised as they stared at each other for an extended moment. When he said nothing more, she elaborated: "You're still injured. You may not want to admit it, but you need to rest, otherwise your side is just going to get worse. I may not be worth much offensively, but I can stay up and keep watch while you rest. If something happens, I'll wake you up. I promise."

"And you expect me to trust you so much?" he asked, eyes narrowed. She bristled irritably.

"You're asking the same of me," she said. "So yes. I do."

Finally, it seemed her words made some sort of impact. He slumped ever so slightly, raising his fingertips to his eyes and pressing carefully. She sucked her lip into her mouth, worrying she might have upset him, but finally he shook his head.

"I apologize," he finally said. "You are right. I should be more patient. Ir abelas."

Isala swallowed, watching him as he turned his attention to the door. The silence was almost claustrophobic, and she wanted to speak, but she didn't know what to say. Nothing seemed adequate enough. Despite the fact that her mind had no problems fantasizing about him, she didn't think she would ever act on them. Or that she would ever be in a position where she could feasibly act on them. How could she when she couldn't even speak to him?

"Why aren't you with your clan?"

Taken aback, Isala looked up to him. He hadn't moved, and he wasn't looking at her (so she couldn't see his expression) but he had definitely spoken. And it was definitely a question aimed at her.

"I could ask you the same thing," she said. "Though I assumed it was because we were both mages."

He turned to look at her, brows furrowed slightly. She swallowed. Did he not…understand where she was going with that? He was definitely a mage – despite his clear skills with physical battles (she remembered the fight with the giant quite vividly) he had manipulated nature with an ease she'd never encountered before. It was not normal magic, but it was magic. What was going on? She progressed hesitantly, explaining: "The Alerion clan already has enough mages. With the war, we're unable to meet up and trade, and with templars killing any mage in sight…it was safest for the clan if they let me go."

"Your clan abandoned you in the middle of a war?" he demanded, and she got the notion that her answer had been the wrong one. Even if it was the only one.

"It's not unusual," she said. "To encourage some mages to leave, that is. It's to keep the clan safe."

"And what of the ones they leave behind?" he asked. "Do they expect you to survive on your own?"

"Well I have, haven't I?" she said defensively. "I've avoided templars for months. I've obviously not died. It's not so bad."

No matter what she said, he didn't seem appeased. He was scowling, glaring at the door and refusing to look at her. Was he angry with her? Why? She'd just answered his questions. She swallowed, the urge to defend her clan too hard to ignore. "What about you? Did the same thing not happen?"

"My clan is dead," he said shortly. She waited, thinking he might elaborate, but he offered her nothing. As usual.

"Ir abelas," she said softly, twisting her fingers together. "You could find a new clan? You're very skilled. Many would welcome you."

"I want nothing to do with the Dalish," he said sharply. "They are not my people. My people are dead."

That made no sense. He made no sense, and Isala was scared of pressing to insistently. Though he was angry, she could only imagine that pain came from sadness. How could he not mourn his clan? They obviously had not abandoned him, and the bonds between clansmen were stronger than ironbark. They were everything. Even now, alone as she was, Isala would mourn for the rest of her life if she learned that something had happened. They were always her family, not matter how distant they were.

"How long?" she asked softly. He glanced sharply at her and the heat of his gaze nearly silenced her, but she continued stubbornly: "How long have you been alone?"

Abelas stared at her, and she wasn't sure he would answer. When he did, his voice was bland, factual, as if they were talking about the weather, and were it not for what she knew of him – for what she saw whenever she looked at him – she would have thought him heartless. "Three weeks."

"Creators," she breathed. Whatever answer she had expected…that wasn't it. That was hardly a month. She had been alone longer than he had, and she still felt the ache of their absence with every breath she took. How was he standing? How was he so strong? "Ir abelas."

"Tel'abelas," he said shortly. "They died with honor. They fulfilled their duties. That is enough."

Silence followed as Isala tried and failed to come up with a response. What could she say to that? She was left again, feeling stupid for being unable to understand, but how could she have? He gave her nothing. He told her nothing. She knew nothing. It was impossible for her to understand him no matter how hard she tried, and any logical person would give up, but she couldn't bring herself to do that. Not when she wanted so desperately to understand.

To her great surprise it was Abelas who broke this silence, his shoulders slumping and his face turning towards her. He still didn't look at her, but it was as close to physical acknowledgement as she ever thought he would give her: "Ir abelas. I should not speak so harshly to you. It is not you I am mad at."

"It's fine," she said, and she meant it. "I'm not upset."

Though he looked as if he had tried to relax, his shoulders were still stiff and his neck tense. She frowned, fingers twisting in the hem of her tunic, before venturing: "Are you alright?" she asked.

He glanced to her, golden eyes softer than they had been all day. "I am fine. It's just a headache."

Worrying her lip for a moment she sighed before moving back further onto the bed, tucking her legs under her. "Come here," she said. "I can help with that."

At first she thought he would refuse, but he relented after a moments hesitation. He moved to the bed, sitting uncomfortably on the edge, and she rolled her eyes. "Come on," she said. "Put your head in my lap. I promise I wont bite."

Though she wouldn't mind if he did.

Her cheeks flushed once more as he obliged, her own thoughts betraying her. Creators. Why had she thought that? Why had she ever considered that? Now the thought wasn't leaving her head. She forced her heart to steady as he hesitantly lay on the bed, his head coming to rest on the swell of her thighs. She carefully pushed the loose strands of his hair behind his ears before pressing the pads of her fingers against his temples. He was surprisingly warm. When she was healing his side she hadn't paid it much mind, concentrated as she was, but now she recognizing the heat radiating off of him. For some reason she thought he would be cool to the touch; maybe that was just because of his personality.

Even that wasn't right though. He wasn't cold. That was her being childish; no, Isala had decided that despite his harshness, if he had to be either fire or ice, then he would be fire. There was a constant heat to his words, even those he said with perfect stoicism. He had a temper, one that showed clearly whenever she said something that caught his ire (which was not as often as she felt, though it had happened several times). He was not cold or detached or unfeeling. He was the opposite. He was just better at controlling it than she was.

The gentle blue of healing energy surrounded her fingers and she let out a small, peaceful sigh as the energy left her and slid into him. He was still tense against her, but as her fingers lingered that tension slowly sank out of his body until he was completely relaxed against her, his eyes closed and his breathing steady. A small sliver of pride settled across her face in a smile as she watched him.

Absentmindedly, she began slowly tracing her fingers along his face, gently trailing the curve of his cheeks, high and shallow, as her thumbs caressed his temples soothingly. He really was handsome.

The longer he reclined in her lap, the warmer her body got, and though she was reacting quite eagerly to his presence she kept her thoughts under a tight lid. This was about healing – not about sex. No matter how much she could admit to herself that she wanted him (and Creators, but she did), there were lines that, as a healer, she was uncomfortable crossing.

Finally she let her magic slowly fade away, even as her touch lingered, and she watched him with a soft expression as her thumbs gently traced over the sharp angles of his face. His eyes opened, dark molten gold, and met hers. She smiled kindly. "Better?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered. "Ma serannas."

"You're the fighter here," she said wryly, letting her hands fall to rest on her thighs. "My survival counts on your health, doesn't it?"

His lips quirked slightly into a smile that was only barely there, but the sight of it had her stomach squirming. "It does," he agreed. "But you have my thanks nonetheless."

She just smiled and gently ran her fingertips through the hair that had slipped from his twist. His eyes closed again under the touch, body relaxed into the mattress, and she took that as permission. Careful fingers undid the knot on his head, letting damp silvery strands spill over her thighs, and she hummed softly as she carefully ran her fingers through his hair. She didn't know how long they sat there, slowly petting him, but eventually she noticed that he had drifted off. She wasn't certain he was asleep, but she felt that was a safe assumption. Even still she continued playing with his hair, braiding it with some difficulty (given the angle) and draping it over one shoulder, as she often wore hers.

Done with his hair she turned her attention to his chest – specifically, to the still sickly looking bruise that lingered there. She frowned, reaching out to carefully run her fingertips over the marks. He tensed under her and she immediately softened her touch, letting her magic spread over the mark once more. His hand moved, catching her wrist tightly in his, and her body froze.

"You're wasting your energy," he murmured, voice thick with sleep. "Don't."

"It looks painful," she protested, sitting up to meet his gaze. "I thought I could heal it more."

"It doesn't hurt," he assured her as he released her wrist, his hand dropping to rest against his chest. "Don't worry."

"You're under my care," she said with a smile, wry and teasing. "It's my job to worry."

"And it is my job to protect," he countered. It was the most about himself he had revealed, apart from his name. "Let me worry about that."

She softened, watching him as his eyes closed again, and this time when she touched him it was to gently trace her fingers along the vallaslin branching across his forehead. She recognized the shapes as the mark of Mythal, though she didn't have them herself. Her mother had, however, so the fracturing branches were familiar.

"Are you always so tactile?" he asked, brow quirking under her fingertips, and her face heated as she pulled her hand away.

"Sorry," she apologized.

He looked up at her, eyes scanning over her face. "Your vallaslin suits you," he said, though there was an undertone to his voice that told her it was a compliment he was not comfortable giving. "You have many similarities with Sylaise."

She raised a brow. He spoke as if he knew the goddess personally. "We are healers," she agreed. "But I do not see much beyond that."

They were silent again and he was observing her intently before finally looking away, letting his attention focus on the room around them. It was still – almost too still – but there was no sign of malignant energy yet. Distracted as Isala was, she was also sensitive to magic. When things started happening – if things started happening – she would know. She assumed he would as well. His magic was unlike any she had ever seen, and that alone brought up a lot of questions, but she was unsure whether or not she had the right to ask him any of them.

She continued watching him, though she kept her hands to herself this time. Even now he looked sad. Sorrowful. There was a permanent downturn to his lips, a pout that (were it not so sad) could easily draw the focus of any interested party. Her heart ached slightly – how much sorrow did one have to see for it to reflect so permanently on their face? Her hand lifted, gently pressing to his cheek as her thumb traced over his skin. "Ir abelas."

He looked up at her in confusion. "Why?"

Anxiety had her pursing her lips, and she murmured: "I'm sorry that you are sad. Were I able, I would try to help."

He looked at her then, his eyes as sharp as a hawk's, but what happened next she could not have predicted.

Fingers wound into the strands of her hair as he reached for her, tugging her face down and pressing her lips to his. Her breath stuttered in her chest at the heat of him, her eyelids fluttering as he leisurely opened his mouth against hers. It felt – she didn't know if she could find a word. It was soft and warm and so much kinder than she would have imagined his lips to be. A small sound flitted between her lips as she responded, her hands curling around his face as she gently sucked his lower lip into her mouth. The position was strange, and kissing him upside down almost felt silly, but the way his fingers held her in place paired with the slowly building desperation of his lips had heat spreading through her in a familiar way. This was not how she had meant for this night to happen – this hadn't been her goal when she asked him to lay on the bed, but Creators, could she really complain?

Slowly, Abelas sat up, their lips parting only so he could kiss her properly, his nose tucked next to hers instead of pressing to her chin. Her hands slid into his hair, twisting there and holding him to her as his hands dropped to her waist. He tugged her down, a small grunt leaving her as her back hit the mattress, and he laid out beside her. This was more comfortable, she could acknowledge that easily, and so she didn't complain. His hands were chaste, resting over her tunic though it would take little effort to slip them down against her bare thighs, to run them under and up to her chest or down to her core. The very idea had her blushing, pink coating her cheeks and chest, and he just kept kissing her. His lips were soft and warm and full, and she yielded to them.

Why was he kissing her, though? What had she done? Had she missed some sort of clue? She had never been extremely gifted in terms of advances, romantic or otherwise, but she was certain that there had been none.

Hesitation settled in her and she slipped her hand down to press lightly to his chest, gently nudging him away. Their lips parted and she looked up at him through her lashes, trying to steady her heart. "As much as I'm enjoying this," she said, "Where did this come from?"

He pulled away and she started to regret even saying anything. Those had been nice kisses. She didn't want to sit in awkward silence – and she was certain that was what would happen.

"Ir abelas," he murmured. He sat beside her silently, offering no explanation, and awkwardness settled in her throat. She looked to her fingers, picking at her nails as time crept by like a snail for agonizing moments, until finally her patience snapped. She moved, straddling his lap in a slightly clumsy movement and pressing her lips back to his, fingers curling anxiously against his chest. His hands met her waist and hauled her against him as he kissed her, dragging his teeth across her lips and rending a small moan from her throat.

There was heat behind this kiss that had been missing before, simmering under the surface and tightening a coil low in her womb. Creators, but he was a good kisser. His hand drifted up, pressing between her shoulder blades as the other cupped her thigh, skin to skin. Hands slipped down his chest, pressing to his abdomen and curiously tracing the smooth lines that defined him.

Passion quickly blurred her senses as his tongue pressed beseechingly to her lips, her mouth parting automatically. Tongues vied for control, sliding against each other, and she only presented a token fight. She was more than willing to yield to his touch – more than eager for it. His fingers pressed hard against her back, slowly dragging down her spine to her backside. He met with the end of her tunic and slipped his hand under, flesh to flesh and so close but so far from where she ached the most.

Mewling and desperate, she rocked her hips encouragingly, trying to coax his hand between her thighs and gasping when the motion provided a blessed friction. He gripped her harder, fingers moments away from leaving purple bruises on her pale skin, and the moan he pulled from her was almost embarrassing. Her hips rocked again, her nails dragging across his shoulders and leaving thin raised welts in their wake. This time he reciprocated, bucking his hips up against her, and she nearly cried at the sharp relief the touch brought. It faded almost as soon as it had come though, leaving an even stronger ache behind, and by then her body had taken the control.

Hips rocking against his, she bit down on his lip, dragging it between sharp teeth and savoring the small growl he offered her. His grip on her backside tightened, demanding and rewarding all at once. His hand moved up her tunic, over the curve of her stomach to cup her breast in hand, his thumb wasting no time in circling and teasing her nipple in time with the rocking of her hips.

Creators, if he kept touching her like this, she would make a fool of herself right in his lap. Was this really all it took? Abelas seemed completely in control, even behind the roughness of his kiss and the bruising nature of his touch. Everything was calculated and planned and here she sat, running almost purely on instinct. "Abelas," she breathed as their lips parted, his mouth dropping to her neck with clear purpose.

Teeth bit down on her pulse, tearing a moan from her as her hands leapt to twist in his hair. She pulled, arching into him as her hips moved more insistently, and in response he bit harder, laving his tongue over the marks before sucking there. There was no question that he would leave a mark – several marks.

Isala whimpered desperately as his thumb dragged over her nipple, his hand moving from her bottom to the small of her back and pressing encouragingly, forcing her hips as close to his as they could be. As if he wasn't already overwhelming her with sensation, he rocked his hips up against her. The length of him pressed against her, restrained only by the thin material of his leggings, and she almost sobbed. "Abelas, please."

His hands didn't move from their places on her body, and he offered her no more than what he had been, and it wasn't enough. It was torturous. Desire ran rampant through her blood, driving her to roll her hips more demandingly, to whimper and moan and plead, and she wondered what kind of sadistic man he had to be to enjoy torturing her like this.

In the back of her mind, Isala acknowledged that this was a kind of sadistic that she could enjoy.

Finally his mouth moved, laving open-mouth kisses across her collar and down the vee of her shirt, before darting to replace his hand at her breast. Even over her tunic the heat of his mouth was bliss, the slide of his tongue over her nipple making her cry out with another desperate jerk of her hips. His hands gripped her backside, firm and controlling as he slowly adjusted them until he was kneeling on the bed. His hands slid down to her thighs, coaxing her legs to hook around his hips, and then he finally began to move. His hips rocked steadily against hers, consistent friction to replace the erratic brushes she had managed before. His lips suctioned around her nipple and her head fell back with a loud moan as her nails dragged over his shoulders.

Heart thundering in her chest, drumming in her ears in a relentless beat, body quivering under his touch; he played her with skill that took her off guard. She was panting in his lap, pressing her breast against his lips as her hips rolled with his. The coil in her womb was tightening painfully, warming her body through, and she was so close she felt tears bite at the corner of her eyes. Creators, he wasn't even inside of her. How would that feel? How could she possibly survive that once she found out?

"Abelas," she pleaded desperately, "Abelas, please. Ar nuvenin ma."

"Hamin," he murmured – the first sound to come from him since they started. His mouth pulled from her breast to kiss her neck. "Ar nuvenin tu garas ma."

His voice was a drug – she was certain that she could never hear him speak without having her knees turn to jelly. "Ir!" she cried brokenly, searching for words and unable to find them as her mind lost itself. "Isala ir sahlin!"

"Ma nuvenin."

His hand slipped to press low on her stomach, adding pressure as he rocked his hips more quickly, each movement leaving dragging pressure on her clit. Her breath was choppy, desperate, and she felt impossibly needy.

Then his hand slipped lower, his thumb circling her clit teasingly, and that was all it took. She cried out, his name spilling from her like a prayer as bliss blasted through her, stealing her mind and leaving her only with her pleasure. Her mind drifted for a long moment, her eyes heavy, and when she finally became more aware of herself she realized she was curled against him, arms twisted around his shoulders and holding him tightly to her. "Abelas," she breathed, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. His hands were at her hips, over her tunic and chaste, and though she was still pressed against him his hips had stilled. She could feel his need against her, and despite that he made no move to relieve it. She swallowed.

"Serannas, lethallin," she breathed. This time, he did not berate her for the name. "Let me help you."

She slid back from him, glancing down at his trousers and flushing as she realized they would have to be washed. His hands settled on her thighs, his eyes staring into hers as she worried her swollen lip between her teeth. She quickly undid the laces of his leggings, tugging them down and taking his length in hand. His breath hitched as she slowly pumped her hand, her eyes glued to his face as she touched him.

It was disconcerting, how attentively he was watching her. Had he watched her like that before? She couldn't remember. The thought had her blushing.

Abelas kept remarkably still as she touched him, the only sign of his pleasure found in the small gasps that left barely parted lips. She leaned in, gently taking his lips with hers as she slid her thumb over the tip of him. His eyes drifted shut as he leisurely kissed her, and his hips finally pressed up into her hand. She tightened her grip slightly, carefully, her speed increasing as she worked to bring him to the edge. She let her lips slip along his jaw, nipping a path from there to his ear. When her lips traced the edge of the sensitive cartilage he moaned, low and long, and his hips gave a needy thrust. She didn't relent, focusing divided attention on the tip of his ear and his length, and as she gave a careful squeeze around him he came…all over her tunic.

"Shit," she breathed, pulling back and holding her tunic away from her. She swallowed, glancing up at him. "We didn't think this through."

Abelas raised a brow, and though he was disheveled and breathing quickly he still looked remarkably calm. How did he do that? "Weren't there clothes in the dresser?" he asked, nodding.

"Leggings," she agreed. "That will help you. Not me."

Creators, she was blushing like a child. This wasn't her first time, but nothing was more awkward to her than the after. Especially when for all she enjoyed this – enjoyed him – she knew the likelihood of this ever turning into more was slim. What was she supposed to say?

Abelas pulled away from the bed as she sat with her own anxiety, moving towards the dresser and going throw the drawers on his own. She probably should have looked away when he began removing his trousers – simply out of politeness – but her mind went completely silent as he changed. He was very…firm. Creators, she was going to be caught staring. She averted her eyes quickly down to her tunic as he turned.

"Here," he said, and she looked up as he offered her a shirt. It was massive – clearly made for a human – and she took it with a small smile.

"Ma serannas," she said. She waited until he looked away, going back to his investigation, before quickly tossing her soiled tunic aside and pulling the thicker one on. It was maybe silly, considering he had just had his hand between her legs, but she'd been dressed. He didn't see much of anything. Isala had the build of a dwarven women, and while she thought they were gorgeous she was an elf. She wasn't supposed to have that sort of figure. The standard was thin and willowy. Abelas lived up to every elven standard of beauty, even if he was a bit taller than usual, and she felt completely inadequate next to that. Who wouldn't?

She felt safer in this tunic, which fell to her knees, and she didn't hesitate to curl up on the bed with her head on the pillow. A ridiculously soft pillow. Who needed a pillow this soft?

…Maybe she would take one when she left. Just one.

Abelas moved around for a moment longer before finally returning to the bed, perching beside her. "You should sleep, lethallan," he said. The endearment, though basic, eased her nerves slightly. "I will keep watch."

"Alright," she agreed softly, twisting her fingers in the blankets and refusing to slip under them. It was too warm as it was. "Dareth enera."

"Dareth enera," he echoed.

She closed her eyes, pressing her face into the pillow, and was asleep within moments.

…

Her arms were bound.

It was the first thing she became aware of, the scenery dark and drifting, inconsistent and maddening, but that was constant. She moved – or she thought she moved – and her arms refused to cooperate. She must be bound, then, if she couldn't move her arms.

Really, she was only aware of her torso. Her legs, clearly laid out in front of her, felt as solid as air. She could move those though, even if she couldn't comprehend the brush of ground against her skin as she did.

From the darkness came a pale hand, familiar now as it slowly traced up her ankle. She immediately relaxed as she recognized the elf who appeared: Abelas. He seemed completely focused on her, his hands tracing her calves as he pressed soft kisses along the side of her legs, up to her thighs. Her body warmed slightly.

"Abelas?" she asked.

He responded – she saw his lips move, heard his voice – but she didn't understand. It didn't bother her as much as it perhaps should, and he continued trailing featherlight kisses up her thighs. Eventually his hands pushed her tunic over her hips and his lips pressed to the core of her, dragging his tongue over her and rending a cry from her lips.

She couldn't quite follow his actions – all she knew was the sensations they wrought, the pleasure burning in her womb as she rolled and ached under him, desperate for more that never seemed to come.

Then the scene changed. She was in a forest, dressed in armor that wasn't hers, and though the memory of his mouth still burned at her flesh she knew that it had been long ago. This was different. Was this even her? That strange disconnect between mind and body followed and she wasn't sure what to think. She moved soundlessly through the forest, only to realize that the rocks she thought were natural were carved walls, and she was walking on dirt-covered stone. Was this a temple, overgrown and dilapidated from the passing of time?

The stone quaked under her, upsetting her feet and sending her tumbling to the floor. As she did the ground tore in on itself, sinking and splitting and leaving her clawing at an edge, clawed gauntlets desperate for purchase and finding none.

Pale fingers found her wrist, lifted her, and everything was dark.

Darkness lingered after that, heavy and suffocating, and she couldn't breathe. Why couldn't she breathe? Black smoke like claws dragged over her skin, leaving tears in its wake and she cried out as her body slowly tore apart, blood seeping from foreign wounds and leaving her empty. It was pain – pain that she couldn't feel but could recognize – and her heart kept pounding faster and faster as if it were eager to rid her of this life. She screamed, twisting as her fingers dug into the sheets under her, her lungs fighting for air she couldn't find, desperation rending a sob from her body. Why wasn't someone helping her? Why why why why why-

The pain stopped, everything stilling, and she was aware of the bed beneath her. She could hear Abelas breathing at her side, slow and even, and the rustle of sheets as he moved. Otherwise the villa was quiet. She made to press her hand to her face, to rub the sleep away, but to her great shock her arm didn't respond. She tried again, but her body didn't so much as quiver. Her heart began to speed slightly as panic settled, and as it did she felt a weight gather on her chest, holding her down. Something was holding her down! Her breath quickened, heart thundering as she tried to open her eyes, but even that seemed beyond her reach.

She was awake, she knew it – she had to be, this felt real, this didn't feel like a dream, so why couldn't she move? What was pinning her? Why wasn't Abelas reacting?

The bed shifted as Abelas moved, and she wanted to scream at him. Something had to be there, something had to be on her, why else was it so hard to move? So hard to breathe? She managed to draw in a shaky breath, her fingers tense at her side, and she tried her best to lift herself into a sitting position. If she could just move, she could figure this out, she would be fine. Oh, Creators, what if she never figured it out? Tears burned behind her eyes and another shuddering breath ripped through her.

"…Lethallan?" Abelas asked hesitantly. His hand pressed to her shoulder and like that, she could move again.

Eyes snapping open, Isala lurched up as reality slammed into her like a boulder. She pressed her hands to her face, digging the heel of her palm against her eyes as if she could push the images away. Her shoulders shook as she tried to calm herself, repeating to herself that it was just a dream. Or at least, part of it had. What had followed, she wasn't sure. That was terrifying.

Warm hands pressed to her shoulder, gently ushering her to relax back against the pillows, and when she finally pulled her hands from her face she looked up and saw Abelas watching her. There was a line of between his brows, his lips were turned in concern, and she thought she was going to be sick.

"Isala? Tu tereva?"

She shook her head, body shaking as she sucked in breathes, moving for the sake of moving. Creators, what had happened? "It felt like something was pinning me to the bed," she said, swallowing when her voice had the texture of sandpaper. "I was aware, but I couldn't move, and I –"

Again she shook her head, still trembling. "How long was I asleep?" she asked, clearing her throat.

"Perhaps two hours," he said. "Did you dream?"

She swallowed, running her hand down her face as if she could physically push the fear out of her. "Yes. At first it was nice, it was fine, but then – I don't know. It was strange. Dark, like claws were tearing me apart." She shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it."

Abelas lifted his hand, moving back into how (she assumed) he had sat before she had woke. Her mouth was dry and uncomfortable. She rubbed her eyes again, slowly pushing herself up. She didn't know if she wanted to try sleeping again – not after that.

One thing was certain, though: the letters hadn't lied. Whatever this thing in this house was, it caused night terrors. Isala had never had dreams that violent before – had never woken to find herself completely without control. There was no other explanation: it had to be the house.

"You should try and get back to sleep," Abelas said. "We still have much of the night left to go."

She shook her head, pushing her hair from her face with a shuddering sigh. "No. I can't. You sleep instead. I'll keep watch."

Asking him to sleep while she couldn't seemed selfish – as if she would rather he experience whatever the hell that had been instead of her – and was it wrong for her to think that? Just a little? She didn't want him to go through that, but she didn't want herself to deal with that again either.

She looked to him, licking her lips before asking: "Can I touch you?"

He blinked. "What?" Her cheeks flushed slightly. That had been poor phrasing.

"I – when I was pinned, I wasn't able to move until you touched me," she said. "If we keep touching, then maybe it wont happen to you, and you can rest."

For a moment she thought he was going to turn her down, but he nodded and she relaxed slightly. "Alright," she breathed. "I'll just…press into your side?"

Creators, this was awkward. But Abelas laid down on his back and she took that as permission. She moved, pressing herself to his side and resting her chin to his shoulder. She wasn't worried about falling asleep – she felt wide awake after that hellish experience.

His arm wrapped around her waist as he settled in, closing his eyes and steadying his breathing. She kept as still as she could, her palm resting on his stomach while his slowly steadying heartbeat pounded under her ear. Eventually she closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing as she calmed herself down. Meditating was as close to sleeping as she was going to get after that.

Time passed slowly as Abelas slept, Isala silently counting his heartbeats. Every time she lost count (which happened frequently) she would begin again. When that got boring she composed music inside of her head, music that she would never be able to recreate or even compose (as she had no skill for musical composition whatsoever), but music that soothed her nonetheless. When she found her mind drifting she refocused, instead imagining stories in her head. Anything to keep herself awake.

After enough time had passed, she had convinced herself that the night would end without event. She wished she had been right.

...

A/N: Dalish translation can be found here: post/107954759343/dalish-translations-for-ch-2-of-from-eden