Contact
Wynne
She hears her name being called, and looks up from her book to be greeted with the sight of Amell, Leliana and Zevran carrying an unconscious, severely bloodied Alistair into camp. She doesn't miss the sight of the other mage's hands shaking, steadily glowing, can feel the pull on the Veil from the woman's distress; she must be calmed, and quickly.
She stands, and her expression of shock must be obvious, for Amell gasps roughly by way of explanation, "Stabbed in the back."
The Senior Enchanter in her takes over, and she says, shortly, "Lay him down, then."
The three of them carry him to a nearby tent, leave him there, and step out, letting her stride past them and duck into the tent. She strips him of the armour without batting an eyelid, even though it's heavier than it looks and this tent is so very small - having to heal templars was nothing unusual at the Circle - and starts work on his shirt. She hears the sounds of armour and low cursing outside, but pays them no mind.
That is, until the other Warden climbs into the tent in only a tunic and trousers, as bloodied as he is, and looks at her, eyes lyrium blue and desperate. The words are low, harsh. "Let me. Please. I need to know how..."
This is not like their lessons of spirit healing, nor the childish wound-stitching the girl practised with Anders. She wonders whether she should risk it, then remembers the mage's seemingly natural aptitude for creation.
A pause, and she thinks it's the look in the other mage's eyes that makes her give in. She keeps her voice as firm as possible. "Be careful."
The Warden moves to kneel next to him, helping her. She winces as the blood and the wound catch fabric, and they have to rip it off quickly.
An artery? she wonders, pity twisting her heart as she sees the state of the lad.
Her eyes meet Amell's, and she nods, almost imperceptibly.
The woman swallows, bending to run a hand over the wound, and shuts her eyes. There's a small, shocked breath, and she tenses as the sympathetic pain comes to her, then she opens her eyes, looks at him again, her face stricken.
The younger mage picks up the gathered water and fabric from Wynne's supplies, then cleans the wound gently and carefully, almost as if he'll break under her hands. There is little chance of that, but now doesn't seem like the time to remind her.
Then there is the glow of magic again, this time carefully controlled, and Morgana's hands are running over his back, her brows low.
Wynne nearly doesn't hear the murmured speech; she has heard the girl say things to him when healing him, but this is... different. She thinks it's the Chant, at first, but she knows how Amell feels about the Chantry. The tone is the same, however - hushed, hoarse, clearly clinging onto the words.
She finally manages to pick out a phrase. "... Gentle pressure..."
She looks at the other mage, surprised. The basic principles of spirit healing; she's going through the motions in her mind, straight from Practical Healing.
The hands do as the mouth commands, still impossibly feather-light, and then stop as she reaches the end of the guidelines. Breathing ragged, Amell closes her eyes, applies the required pressure, and pulls on the Veil. They both feel it stretch, the power moving up a layer, and Amell is spirit healing, not the simple faster-than-sewing spells she's been performing. As the wound closes, Amell breathes out, then looks up at her, exhausted. The younger woman doesn't seem to realize that her hand is tracing a path down his shoulder blade almost of its own accord, even as the magic cools, begins to ebb. As if simply for the comfort of it. The contact.
Wynne finally knows what she has seen in those eyes that has bothered her so, because it's still there, even though the life-threatening wound has been closed. It's desperate, and it's burning, and yet it's as gentle as that frightened touch. Perhaps it's the reason the touch was gentle.
She forgets, sometimes, how very young Morgana is (she can't help remembering the frightened little girl that arrived at the Circle, battered and burned), how young he is, despite all they have seen. She forgets how vulnerable they are, how very easy it is to fall in love.
What is in those eyes frightens her as much as it makes her hope.