Another "please don't hate me for this" chapter. Turned out a little darker than expected, but trying to write a slomance/character study fic while listening to Massive Attack ("Saturday Come Slow", if you're interested) pretty much guaranteed dark.
Little violent, I'm afraid, but it's important violence.
Slow
Alistair
He looks over his shoulder at the uncomfortable prickle, running down the back of his neck and through his spine, the half-song suddenly lodged in his head, and growls, "Darkspawn."
A sword being unsheathed. Morgana next to him, eyes grim. A nod. The sounds of the others arming themselves.
He weighs his sword in his hand, and waits.
The beasts break through the treeline snarling and grunting, harsh, maniacal cackles ringing in the air.
Leliana stands next to Morgana, and he catches Zevran darting a glance at the bard, but it's forgotten in the fight.
He barely bats an eyelid at the horrible squelching of steel on and in flesh, wading further into the fight, but all the time he's looking for her, for the flash of magic...
There it is, warm around him, and he can feel her power humming in the air. He remembers all the teachings, wonders how he could ever have been scared of this, wanted to dispel it- he loves it, he realizes, the feeling of a hand waiting to catch him when he falls, the reminder other than the taint that she's here.
It's different from other mages', her magic, he suddenly notices, ducking a hurlock's clumsy sword swing; it kicks him, hard, on the shin, and he prays not to hear the telltale snap. He thanks the Maker when it doesn't come, backs away, looking at the thing before him.
It grins at him, as expected, launches itself at him...
Darkspawn are a lot of things. Smart is definitely not one of them.
He catches it while it's in midair with his sword, the kill brutal, and gets a faceful of genlock, spitting out that awful, inhuman blood and pushing the midget corpse off him.
A clank of armour behind him, and he feels the blade slide between plates, into his back, another slicing across the backs of his kneecaps - rushed, in the wrong place, but enough.
Maybe this is the one to end it, the one that finally got past him. He's been trained not to let his guard down, but he was distracted, and stupid...
He hears an exclamation from close to him, Morgana's voice hoarse. "Not him, you bastard!"
He hears the stonefist before he sees it, backing away quickly, and the mage-made boulder slams into the hurlock's chest, knocking it what must be three feet off the ground. All he can do is watch in disbelief as it gasps its last, pain burning across his skin... and the muscle inside it, he knows.
He glances across at her in shocked silence (Not him, she said, like it particularly mattered that it was him, and why?) and she meets his eye, her breath still heavy, her eyes still wide, her sword on the ground, and runs for him.
The thought is unbidden. Funny, he'd never thought mages were that fast.
He watches her, as if from far away, his breathing heavier in his ears than usual as he fights to ignore the pain, to not let it overwhelm him.
Morgana. His friend; his healer; his fellow Warden, but she could be so much more.
Does she want to be?
The last darkspawn falls behind him - Leliana, probably - but he doesn't turn. Would be a little hard, anyway, he reflects, as his legs seem to have decided to give up the fight, crumpling a little beneath him. Okay, a little more.
Morgana kneeling beside him, because he's finally on the ground, her face scared; she forces off her gloves, bringing glowing hands to him desperately.
He reaches up, a memory of wanting to touch her like this coming back to him (the Brecilian Forest, he remembers, and why didn't he, Maker, he's stupid sometimes) and gently wipes some of the blood off her face with a murmur of, "Much better."
She swallows, leans closer. "Lie still. Please."
He manages an awkward nod, things seeming to slip further away; the only thing that makes sense, is anywhere near him, is the feel of her gentle hands, turning him on his side - he hears the Antivan, so, with help? - and questing to find wounds, her little hissed breaths as she does.
He hears the gasped, "Don't do this to me, please don't do this to me," and remembers a dripping mage in his arms and his own hissed words, asking of her the same.
He'd reach out and comfort her, if he could. Even in the blood-soaked haze, surprise comes through as he finally understands his own panic at the river side. That long? He still hadn't realized what it was then, but he'd certainly felt it...
The thought comes to him, sudden and painful.
He has to know if this is returned, wanted. He needs her in a way he's never needed anyone before, and a little part of him is still surprised that he's found someone like her; he still expects her to slip away when he's not looking, thinks he's making more of a fool of himself with every word. Rare, wonderful, unexpected. Beautiful, and it's taken him far too long to notice.
He remembers his words to Leliana; he's been waiting for the "right time", but maybe there isn't a right time. Or maybe this is it. He doesn't know, but maybe it's not important.
He has to know.
The darkness welcomes him with comforting arms, and he slides into its embrace with a small sigh; he thinks he hears his name, but it doesn't matter.
Does anything?