Chapter Six

Alistair sat with Sophie's head in his lap. Gatsby refused to move any farther away from the woman than he had to, pacing impatiently as Hawke, Alistair, and Fenris lifted her into the tent. The others quickly busied themselves with preparing the rest of their camp, knowing that they could be there for an undisclosed amount of time. Once the tent was set up, Hawke went inside with Alistair and Gatsby to see the extent of Sophie's damage.

Hawke told Alistair to sit with her, keeping his hand near her nose and mouth to make certain she was still breathing. Gatsby pressed himself against Sophie's left side, laying his head down beside her own. The Ferelden king attempted to shoo him away, but the Mabari stood his ground, growling when the man reached for him.

"He'll be all right," Hawke said as he went to sit on Sophie's right side. "So long as he doesn't attack me while I'm trying to help her."

"I'll make sure," Alistair nodded. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"No offense, King, but I'm not sure you can do much else at this time. This is your wife we're talking about. Just stay here for her, talk to her if that makes you more comfortable. If you need to leave …"

"I'll be fine."

Hawke sighed, but relented. In truth, he hadn't performed extensive healing spells before. He had learned of them through Anders in their days together, but the possessed mage was a natural. Aside from basic healing, he was worried he didn't know enough to truly help the unconscious Grey Warden before him. Seeing Alistair's pained expression, however, told him he had to at least try.

Thankfully, it seemed like her bleeding had stopped for the time being. Half of an arrow still jutted from her right side. Feeling gently around the wound, he realized that the head struck under her clavicle bone, inward from her shoulder socket. Hawke worried that the head managed to puncture her lung, because of her shallow breathing, but he couldn't be certain until the arrow was removed. After a moment of thinking, he looked over to the tent opening.

"Fenris!" Hawke called out.

Wordlessly, the elf appeared. Hawke suspected he had been waiting outside of the tent. As an unspoken bond, the two tended to stay close at hand in case anything were to happen to the other. Gatsby's ears perked up when he came in. The Mabari huffed in his direction, a warning sign. Fenris nodded to him for reassurance before focusing his attention on Hawke.

"With your phasing, do you have the ability to pull something out … of somebody?" Hawke asked.

The elf raised an eyebrow questioningly. "What exactly are you asking?"

"Well, I'm not sure how deep the arrow has gone into her chest. If it punctured a lung, pulling it straight out will cause more damage than already has been done. So, if you could phase the arrow out of her instead of us having to pull it, I may be able to heal her more easily."

Fenris answered after a moment, "I'm able to reach in, but I suppose I never … brought anything out."

"Would you be willing to try?"

"I could attempt."

Hawke looked to Alistair. "Is that all right?"

The man shook his head and shrugged. "If it helps her …" He looked up to Fenris. "Do you think you could do it?"

"I could either remove the arrow, or I could crush her lung in the process."

Blood rushed out of Alistair's face. Hawke glared at Fenris for a moment before focusing his attention on the man.

"We leave it to you," Hawke offered. "Fenris can either phase out the arrow, or we can just pull it out."

Alistair was quiet, weighing the options. He finally nodded, swallowing hard. "Try to phase it."

Fenris walked over to join Hawke on Sophie's right side, kneeling down. He took a moment to inspect the wound, and Hawke could see the slight signs of uncertainty in his eyes. The elf had kept his distance from the woman since they found all of them huddled together in the snow. Over his life, Fenris felt he caused more damage than help in the cases of assisting people. It wasn't in his nature. His companion was trying to convince him otherwise, but the elf knew it for the best that he avoided being near injured people.

He looked over to Hawke in that moment, who forced a small smile and nodded reassuringly. Alistair held his breath as the elf's lyrium veins began to glow, his hand hovering over the arrow. He exhaled slowly, beginning to press his hand past the arrow and into Sophie's chest. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he pressed further inside of the woman, his hand disappearing to his wrist.

If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, the king would have scarcely believed the ability possible, even with all he had seen over the years. The moments seemed to pass agonizingly slowly. Gatsby lifted his head, focusing intently on the elf as he worked. Another slow exhale, and he began to lift his hand up. The arrow moved a fraction of an inch, making Fenris stop moving for a moment. Hawke leaned forward, nodding to encourage him. After what felt like an eternity, his hand reappeared with the bloodied arrow between his spiked gauntlet fingers.

A new trail of blood began to ooze from the open wound in Sophie's chest, so Fenris moved away quickly. Hawke returned his hands over the wound, his hands glowing with pale light as he began a healing spell.

"Ah, thank you, love," he grinned. "Well done."

Fenris nodded with his own smile. He placed the arrow on the floor of the tent before looking to Alistair.

"She seems strong …" he offered somewhat awkwardly. "If anyone can survive this, it would be your wife."

"Thank you," Alistair answered wearily.

The elf nodded before turning and leaving quietly. Hawke was muttering to himself softly, closing his eyes. Alistair looked on, feeling more useless as it went on. He asked the Maker to help Hawke, hoping that what he was doing was enough to see Sophie through. It was the best he could do right now. He absently ran his hand through his wife's blonde hair, trying to project calming thoughts to her. A few minutes passed before Hawke opened his eyes. Alistair felt a wave of relief as a smile came to his face.

"It seems to be closing up nicely," he explained happily. "The healing spell helped with the internal injuries, all things considered."

"So she should wake up?" Alistair asked.

He nodded. "Her—what is it called again? The red eyes and scary strength?"

The man chuckled. "Her berserker? A skill she learned from Oghren, the red-headed dwarf out there."

"Yes, it seems to take a lot of energy. Combine that with getting struck with bolts from Bianca and the loss of blood, falling unconscious makes sense. Her body will need a bit of time to recover, but she'll come out no worse for the wear. Fenris was right; she's a strong one."

Alistair grinned. "Always has been. So, Fenris … he's a bit … curt, isn't he?"

"'Insensitive' is the word you're probably looking for," Hawke laughed as he returned his hands to Sophie's wound. "Of course, he wouldn't be Fenris otherwise."

"I suppose you have to appreciate the honesty, though."

"True; Fenris has always been my voice of reason over the years. Sometimes it seems like he's the only one with a head on his shoulders."

"I remember seeing the two of you in Kirkwall. You've been together a long time, then?"

"We've traveled together for broad-side of seven years now. In terms of actually being 'together' …Maker knows, really. Truth be told, I don't think we've ever decided to claim it out loud. No extravagant Ferelden weddings or anything in the like."

Alistair huffed a laugh and shook his head. "Believe me, I could have done without it."

Hawke shrugged. "Royal weddings tend to get everyone excited."

The man looked down at the unconscious woman in his lap, stroking her hair again. "We joked that one of us would find the other huddled in a corner the day of our wedding. Neither of us has been big on being the center of attention; maybe that was why we were such good Grey Wardens. But seeing her that day, in that white dress, her hair done up, those eyes staring at no one else but me ..." He laughed. "You couldn't have wiped the smile from my face if the Maker himself tried. All of that sounds terribly sappy."

"Of course it does," Hawke agreed. "It seems to fit you two quite well. Besides, so much royalty marries for the sake of politics. By the way you speak of her, you actually married her because you love her. That speaks volumes about you, your Majesty."

"You don't have to be so formal with me, Hawke. Considering the fact that you're saving my wife's life, and we're in the middle of a country that I'm not in charge of, I think Alistair's fine. Between you and me, I've never been too keen on the 'your Majesty' or 'your Highness' stuff. Just sounds … strange to me."

"You don't enjoy the masses kissing your feet in exhalation of their great ruler?"

Alistair rolled his eyes. "When a good portion of those masses believe that you lied to get on the throne, you worry about more assassination attempts than kissed boots."

Hawke scoffed. "They honestly didn't believe a king could have a bastard son? He's the king. Eventually, that power will make you feel as if you have immunity from anything in your country lines. You could do whatever you wanted, and nothing would stop you."

"I try not to let it get to my head, I guess."

"That, and I highly doubt your wife would not be one to quietly let you run rampant."

The king laughed. "The most running I would do would be to get away from her. If there's anything I've learned about my wife, it's that you never want to cross her. She's a force to be reckoned with."

A quiet groan came from Sophie's lips. Her eyebrows furrowed momentarily before softening again. Alistair knew she was conscious then, as her eyes were moving rapidly under their lids and her breath was quiet. She was trying assess her surroundings before she allowed her eyes to open. If you pretend to be at your weakest, no one will see you as a threat until it's too late. Zevran had taught her that long ago.

"It's all right, my dear," Alistair offered, running his fingers along her cheek. "It's Alistair."

Before he had a chance to react, the woman's left hand gripped the hand that touched her and the arrowhead that was once inside of her chest was now at his throat, held shakily by her right hand. Alistair tried his best not to move, staring into her hard eyes.

"What are their names?" she demanded softly.

Alistair chanced a look at Hawke, who had his dagger out, ready to strike. The man shook his head slightly before looking back to his wife. The tip of the arrow bit into the skin of his neck. In their short reunion, Alistair was already beginning to lose count of the times his wife drew his blood.

"What are their names?" she ordered again, her voice becoming louder.

"Duncan Oren and Bryce Cailan," he answered finally.

His wife's expression immediately faltered as she dropped the arrow. He gave her a moment to straighten up before his arms were around her, pulling her close. Sophie's arms clung around his neck, and muffled sobs came from as she buried her face in his neck. Alistair put a hand to the back of her head, pressing her warmth gently into himself. Taking a deep breath, he mentally pressed down his own emotions.

"It's me, love," he offered with a wavering voice. "I'm right here, Sophie."