300 reviews! I'm still reeling. Thank you all who've contributed to make that number as big as it is, as well as newer readers - thank you again, karebear, who has stuck with this from the beginning and indulged me in rants about the plight of mages (God, I'm turning into Anders). Enjoy the rest of the story. :)
Breathe
Alistair
Scared? Of him?
He nods to Levi, the merchant giving him a nervous grin, and looks to Morgana; she's sitting on a tree stump, strumming a few notes on the lute she and Leliana seem to share. She and the bard haven't spoken for a while, something hanging in the air between them, Leliana looking rather sad and avoiding Morgana's eye. He knows that it's the conversation he heard earlier, the one that's still rattling around his head as well. Scared of him? Him? He'd always assumed it was some sort of irrational anger - in fact, he thinks he'd prefer irrational anger to fear. He reassures himself that she used past tense, and remembers her words. "I trust you." He finds himself smiling.
The music floats across the camp.
He thinks he recognises the tune, an old Fereldan folk song the other Wardens used to sing at camp, and absentmindedly finds himself humming along. She looks up, hearing him, and asks, "Training?"
He nods, and she sighs, putting aside the instrument; for a moment, he thinks he sees her hands shake, but knows it's just his imagination. She stands, not meeting his eye, and gestures to the edge of camp. "Shall we?"
She picks up her sword, still in its scabbard, and they head to a spot a short distance away from camp, sitting in the grass, their hands on their knees. He frowns as he sees her - she's looking distinctly pale. "You sure you're feeling up to this?"
She nods, eyes fluttering closed. He watches her face a moment, enjoying the serenity he finds there, and listens to her breaths settle. Then she frowns, biting her lip, and he knows she's not quite there yet. He places a hand gently on her arm, feels her jump, her eyes opening. He leans towards her, and says softly, "Don't try for it. Just breathe, and let the thoughts leave." For a moment, they look at each other, then she nods, eyes closing again. He watches the slow rise and fall of her breath, blushing and looking away at where his eyes have inevitably fallen, and waits for her.
When she opens her eyes, she is calm, a slight flush suffusing her cheeks but her breathing steady. She stands, then, drawing her sword, looks at him, a slow, calculating expression upon her face, and says simply, "Do your worst."
It takes him a shorter time to get into the state of mind, but he fixes his eyes on her, cutting off the part of his mind that screams at him every time he does this that this is Morgana, you idiot! and focusing on the magic he can feel humming in the air around them. He releases it, expecting her to fall, and she stumbles with a shout; then she stabs her sword into the ground at her side, putting her weight onto it and stopping herself. An incredibly dangerous movement, but it's worked. Still holding onto her sword, bent double and panting - and she's drained, every Chantry-trained bone in his body can feel it - she looks up and grins at him, pulling messy hair out of her face.
He returns it, trying to ignore the echoing emptiness that always seems to come after a smite these days; he supposes he's used to her magic, and the lack of its warm, cushioning presence flowing around him is disconcerting.
He offers a hand, and she takes it; the warmth of her smaller, thinner hand in his is comforting somehow, and when she's climbed to her feet, he has to fight his disappointment at its absence.
What is happening to him? he asks himself once again, for what must be the hundredth time.
It slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. "You were afraid of me?"
She's pulling her sword out of the ground, but stops at his words. "You heard that? I... I suppose I was."
"But... why? I mean, I know I was afraid of you..."
She turns to him, raising her eyebrows. "Really? That's surprising."
"Ohhh yes. Remembering the toad comment..." He looks to the sky wistfully, then grimaces. "Still makes me wince."
She laughs, a soft low sound, and he can't remember when he last heard it. Maybe he never has. "Not anymore, I hope. I thought... I thought you were something you weren't." She sighs. "Let's say... You trust my magic, and I'll trust your smites and your sword." She reaches out a hand.
He shrugs. "Makes sense, I suppose." He clasps her hand once again, shaking it gently, and jumps as a strange warmth fills it, spreading up his arm and leaving a trail of heat in its wake; he freezes, and their eyes meet, something he can't quite grasp swirling in hers that isn't magic - he feels that familiar breath of her power round him once again, here less than it was before the smite, but here.
"Rejuvenation spell," she says, smiling. "Nothing to be frightened of."
His thumb brushes one of her fingers, seemingly of its own accord, and then he hastily releases her hand, hoping she hasn't noticed, and returns her smile, nodding. "Nothing to be frightened of."