Makes a slight reference to chapter 48, "Harm".
Light
Alistair
It feels like icewater and steel running through his veins, the baited breath before a battle; pure, primal, glorious, almost painful in its intensity.
He has to step back, panting slightly, as he lets it go, feels the Veil solidify, a silk curtain suddenly turning to a stone wall.
Panic seizes him as he sees Morgana thrown against a tree, almost falling, the enchantments on their weapons flickering out; she shuts her eyes, catches herself just in time, and pulls herself up. He waits for the panic or the anger, the memories, but when she looks at him, she gives him a nod and the smallest half-smile he's ever seen. She takes advantage of the stunned quiet it leaves in its wake, the emissaries drained and still groggy, and is on them quicker than he's ever seen her, all bloodstreaked dragonbone and wild eyes.
He has to stop himself doubling up; there's nothing quite like the aching, drained feeling you get after a smite, the sudden crushing emptiness after being so full of... whatever it is. He doubts that it's "the Maker's holy light", somehow, no matter what he was told. He looks up to see a genlock running at him, daggers held in its stubby claws, grinning with serrated teeth, and things snap back into focus. He raises his shield and glares at it. "Come on, then."
It does, and he finishes it quickly and cleanly. He is back in battle, and his blood is singing the same way theirs is; he is always waiting for the inevitable sword, tooth, or claw to get through his guard, finally strike the blow that will end things, but it never comes. Somewhere in the blood and iron, a dagger catches him in the shoulder, between the plates, cutting deep; teeth gritted, he simply pulls it out, barely hearing his own cry of pain, and tosses it aside.
He feels the Fade beginning to seep through now, the flexibility of the Veil returning, and watches the enchanted flames lick at his blade, feels a sudden warm glow down his arm; he rolls his newly-healed arm, even knowing it will need treatment later, and looks to Morgana, mouthing his thanks - she grins, and returns her eyes to the last hurlock. Leliana and Morrigan are also watching it, both ready to strike.
A dance, half-whispers of magic, a grunt and a squeal. It's over, and he breathes again at last, sheathing his sword and wiping blood from his face.
When he looks round, Levi is standing by his cart, staring at them, wide-eyed; he doesn't miss the step back the merchant takes as they make to re-join him. He looks to Morgana, who raises her eyebrows, and they shrug at each other.
She asks if they need to rest for a couple of minutes, and almost all seize the opportunity. Levi is still watching them out of the corner of his eye.
She walks over to a fallen tree, perches on it, and he finds himself joining her. She has a hand to her head, elbow resting on her knee, and she's shaking. He looks at her in concern, heart sinking. The smite. "I'm sorry... I knew it was a bad idea, I should have thought..." He dares to put a hand on her shoulder, wondering if she'll slap it away, and feels her jump. The shaking slows, pretty much stops, and she looks up, giving him what she must think is a reassuring smile. "Don't worry. I'm just slightly drained still. I'm not angry with you. I told you, I trust you."
He looks up, eyes meeting hers, and the look is longer than it should be, searching for something. Her eyes slide from his, and she coughs. "I should probably take a look at that shoulder."
"You don't have to. I mean, you're still drained, and we aren't that far from camp... Really, you don't have to heal me. Probably shouldn't, actually."
She gives him a wide grin, and replies quietly, returning his words from weeks ago, "I know. But I like to." She shifts round to his other side. He winces, hissing in pain as he unbuckles the right plates, pulling them off and rolling up his shirtsleeve; blood, both red and black, sticks it to what he can feel is a deep gash, still not completely closed from her help earlier - sure enough, she sucks in a breath when she reaches it.
"I... Nothing I haven't seen in the Tower," she lies, her voice firm, and lays a hand on his arm; her hand is warm, fingers softly sliding over muscles and unlocking the tension in them, touch soft and careful. Almost... shy, he suddenly thinks. Eyes set straight ahead, he watches the trees in front of them, feeling goosebumps rise in the wake of her hand. He swallows, throat suddenly dry, as the magic does its work, listening to her breathing; it's uneven, shaky, and he feels a twinge of regret as he thinks that the smite must have affected her worse than he thought. Even gentler than before, her hand moves from the gash to trace a pattern over his shoulder blade, almost affectionately, and he fails to suppress the shiver that suddenly runs through him, eyes shutting briefly. She stops, fingers moving back up to close the gash, her hand staying on his arm a moment as she manipulates it to check him over.
"I was serious, you know," he says softly, the words out of his mouth before he can stop them.
"Hmmm?" She is distracted, her voice far away, still looking at his wound.
"When I said I'd never hurt you. I meant it. I'm sorry I did."
The hand on his arm stops, falls, and she looks at him. "I know," she replies quietly, "and you didn't. I'm drained, but I'm not hurt, and you're not a templar."
He thinks it's the first time he's ever heard her say it properly, simply, like that; like it doesn't matter, like it never has. He doesn't know why his hand falls to hers, fingers closing round her slender, pale ones, and he doesn't know why he hears her swallow. "You do not know how long I've waited to hear that," he says, his voice coming out rougher, lower than expected.
She opens her mouth as if to say something, but can't seem to grasp it; the look in her eyes changes suddenly, to something almost scared, and she looks away from him. "Everyone ready?" she calls, the hush of the moment broken, and he gently removes his hand, stepping away and beginning to buckle up his armour, his head oddly light and his mouth still dry.
He looks to his side, but she is further away, leaning against a tree, her eyes on the sky. As he walks past her, about to help Levi pack up his supplies, he reads her lips. She is mouthing silent curses, one after another.