Healer
Alistair
Consciousness comes to him slowly, his eyes half-opening, and it takes a moment to realise that there's someone else in his tent.
Someone else.
The memories hit him like a shock of cold water, and he looks to his side.
Morgana's sat next to his bedroll on a couple of blankets, dressed only in a rumpled shirt and breeches, watching him; seeing that he's awake, worried blue eyes quickly resume pretending to read a book, but he sees her swallow.
He sits up, wincing and hissing in a breath at how much it hurts to do it, and raises a hand to the book, gently pushing it to one side. Her gaze flickers to his still-bandaged hand, then back to him as he gives her a thin, bleary-eyed smile and asks, "Anything interesting happen while I was out?"
There's steel in her eyes for a moment, and she seems almost angry, then she sighs resignedly, placing the book beside her. "Oh, the usual," she says, her tones false-dismissive. "Nearly-torn Veil. Blood everywhere. Mages panicking over you."
He raises an eyebrow at the plural. "And which mages would those be?" She looks away, and he adds, knowing how extensive the damage must have been, "Though, actually, I should probably thank Wynne." He looks down, hand instinctively moving to his back to touch the worst wound, and is surprised when he finds nothing but a slightly raised scar.
"Probably," she says quietly, still not meeting his eye. "She did an excellent job on the blood."
There are dark circles under her eyes, he notices, and it makes him ask, "How long have you been here?"
"It doesn't matter," she answers evasively; thin blue light shines through the canvas, the beginnings of the morning, and she looks up at it. "A few hours, perhaps."
She's a terrible liar; the slump of her body says all night - he's seen too many fatigued soldiers not to recognise it - and he's astonished that she'd stay with him. A sudden rush of affection for her hits him, and he looks at her, almost willing his expression to give away all that he can't say. He remembers his last thoughts to himself and amends, can't say yet. "You didn't have to do that," he says, his voice coming out softer than expected in the silence between them.
He rolls his shoulders experimentally, then, satisfied that everything seems to be in working order, returns his gaze to her, abruptly pausing. She's looking at him in silence, eyes moving to take him in, and she says quietly, "I think you'll find that I did. I... We nearly lost you."
Her voice is a little strained on the last few words, and, surprised as it dawns on him, he thinks he suddenly understands her earlier anger; he moves, about to reach out to her, try and reassure her, but she climbs to her feet, ducking out of the tent with a short, muttered "Breakfast".
He slaps a hand to his forehead, certain he's screwed things up yet again, and is about to make an awkward, painful attempt to climb out of the tent when she re-enters it, proffering a couple of slices of bread. "It's early. The others aren't up yet."
He takes it with a mumbled thank you, supposing it'll do for an hour or so - damn Warden appetite; he looks up as his templar senses begin to kick back in. He hears her ask him what's wrong, but barely registers it, his eyes widening slightly as he recognises that warm, reassuring magic that's still hanging in the air; he stares at her, breathes softly, "It was you. You... you can spirit heal?"
She gives him a smile he can only describe as bashful, and replies, "Apparently."
Maker, no wonder she can't take a joke on the subject. She was there. A sharp pang of pity washes over him as he berates himself for putting her in such a position. "Was it...?" he begins hesitantly, unable to finish.
She cuts him off. "You were a bit of a mess. Nothing I haven't seen before." She can't look at him while she says it.
"You saved my life." His voice is still slightly disbelieving, and he sits there, trying to process it; she had said creation magic was her strength, but this is advanced. It hits him. "And you weren't even going to tell me?"
She mumbles at the ground, "It didn't seem worth it. And Wynne did do a lot of the work... she cleaned you up..."
He checks under the blankets to see that his clothes are clean, not the ruined gear he was wearing. Wait...
He brings a hand to his forehead, rubs at it in his embarrassment as he feels his ears beginning to turn red. He has to grind the words out. "Exactly how much did you... see... when you healed me?"
"Sorry?" she asks, then halts her eating abruptly, her own cheeks colouring. "Oh. Oh no, I just, ah, healed the sword wound. I went to clean myself up while Wynne did the rest."
He nods, letting out a relieved breath - surely the Chantry has rules about that sort of thing, anyway - and they finish off the bread in silence.
He finally says quietly, "Thank you. For the magic. For staying. All of it." He lays a hand on her arm as he says it, feeling the hum of the magic still flowing through her veins. She meets his eye, opening her mouth as if to say something, then seems to decide against it, instead giving him a small smile. He nearly tells her what he feels then, the words just waiting to burst free, but says instead, "I have no idea what I'd do without you." She has saved him, protected him, in so many ways, and he has no idea how to thank her.
Her reply is hard to hear, but he catches it. "I can say the same." She's still smiling, and, his throat dry, he remembers what might have been his last thoughts, thinks of the carefully-carried flower in his pack.
Hers, now.