Shield
Alistair
The darkspawn are still around them; there are fewer as they begin to make their way up the mountain, but not every attack is avoidable, even with the combined senses of two Wardens.
The screams and the gargles of the things fill his ears, and he almost misses her shout. "Alistair!"
He barely knows what he's doing as he sprints through the creatures, only stopping to cut away the occasional clutching, claw-handed arm. He ducks a blow from a hurlock, slits its throat as quickly as he can, and ignores the blood. He keeps running.
She's outnumbered without him, and panic catches his heart at the sight; then he's beside her, and it's both of them against the waves of monsters. She grabs him, heals the broken wrist on his shield arm, and he finally brings the board up, trying to hold off a genlock. She takes refuge behind it, panting and managing to gasp her thanks, and the sound reaches him even through the clash of steel and his focus on the darkspawn; she heals her own injuries, then steps away, back into the fight. Every time a blade finds its way through his guard, she glances at him with concerned eyes, waiting until she can take away the pain. Every time she is distracted, every time one of them gets near her, it's him in the way first, gritting his teeth and shouting taunts at the things.
Somewhere along the way, he stops registering his injuries, and the world narrows to her, beside and behind him, the warm flashes of healing every time she can stop and breathe; brief, frightened touches, a shout from her as she throws another spell.
He looks to his side, and there are dark, haunted circles under her eyes, the glow of unconscious magic that usually seems to surround her gone. She raises her blade to a genlock, settling into a perfect ochs, and blocks its hasty, unrefined dagger slashes, but her breath is coming heavily and her hands are shaking on the sword. She steps back from it, and he almost misses her desperate, gasped oath, a half-groan.
She's out of mana, he realises abruptly, and knows it's partly through healing him; he desperately wishes he could thank her, even in the chaos around him. He pulls her away from the darkspawn, ignoring yet another wound as its dagger catches his cheek, and finishes it off brutally and quickly, his sword through its chest.
He looks to her and she nods her thanks, moving away again.
This is how it's always been: her magic, him shielding her when it's needed, between her and everything trying to take her from him. Except... she can look after herself, can almost beat him in a fight. Yet he's still there, trying to protect her.
He wonders when it stopped being practicality and started mattering.
He wonders why.