Notes: Alistair is reunited with the Inquisition.
And we have a new POV character! So that's fun!
A bird dashes from a nearby bush, unleashing a high-pitch squaw as it flies between the boughs of a towering oak and sweeps across the grey skies stretching overhead. Harding instinctively moves one hand toward the dagger at her waist then stops, her fingers hovering for a moment just above the hilt. She waits, watching until the bird disappears from view, hidden by the thick canopy of branches that tangle above.
Was it just the scouting party that startled the bird into flight? Or perhaps something more sinister, lurking amongst the undergrowth? She listens, her body held tense and alert, for a sign of impending attack. Instead she hears only the soft susurrus of the wind as it meanders lazily between the tree trunks, the gentle patter of the naked branches as they knock into each other. Content that no threat approaches, she lets the tension drain from her limbs, lets her hand fall away from her dagger, hooking her fingers casually into her belt instead.
False alarm. No danger.
"It's just a bird," says a voice from over her shoulder and Harding doesn't need to turn her head to know that it's Steve. Ugh – Steve.
Steve is a chatterer and over the last few weeks Harding has become intimately (far, far too intimately) acquainted with his voice.
"Yes, I can see," she replies flatly, not wanting to encourage conversation (not that he needs the encouragement) but not wanting to appear rude either.
"A bird won't attack you," he continues, "at least I don't think it will."
Harding only hums in acknowledgment.
"I saw a bird steal a sandwich once – it flew right from the air and snatched it from Joelle's hand. You know Joelle, right? She's one of the mages I arrived with – lots of curly hair. Well, I guess Joelle could have been hurt… if the bird had aimed poorly and hit her face rather than the sandwich. But I don't think-"
"Shut up, Steve," Moira snaps from over Harding's other shoulder, her deep voice rumbling with weariness, and though Harding does not voice it, she is grateful for the woman's assistance in putting a stop to Steve's endless prattling.
The silence comes as a welcome (if rare) relief.
Steve has talked non-stop since they'd left Skyhold almost a month before. And when he isn't babbling pointlessly, he's asking questions, endless questions. Questions about their mission; questions about their location; questions about the Inquisition.
Harding hadn't minded at first; in fact, it had been quite nice to show off her knowledge of the Frostbacks and the Hinterlands, share little scouting tips she'd learnt over the years. After all, his curiosity is understandable; Steve had until very recently been a Circle Mage, with severely limited experience of Thedas. In some ways it's admirable, this insatiable appetite for information, and Harding is happy to impart her wisdom.
Or, at least, she had been happy. She had long ago reached the end of her patience and Steve's constant questioning has now become immensely irritating. Scouting trips can be tiresome at the best of times, spending so long on the road, far from home, with bad food and little rest, spending every day with only a small group of companions – and Steve's prattling is not exactly making things any easier.
Harding supposes she shouldn't be so hard on poor Steve. He's young, almost painfully young. And he hadn't exactly wanted to come on this scouting trip either; he had seemed more than happy to stay in the mages quarters in Skyhold. But Harding's trip to the Frostbacks Basin had attracted a fair amount of interest around Skyhold and the mages had been keen for her to source some rare ingredients if at all possible. As a skilled herbalist, Steve had found himself unanimously volunteered for the trip. (Harding wonders now whether it had all been a ploy to get Steve out of the fortress to give the mages some peace and quiet – she'll have to make some enquiries upon her return.)
"Right, sorry," he says, "I'm doing it again, aren't I? You did tell me to stop and I did say I would try. But I fear I'm not really succeeding, You know… Grand Enchanter-"
"Steve," Moira rumbles warningly.
"Right, yes, sorry," he says, "I'm shutting up now. Right now."
Harding finds herself smiling in spite of herself. It's nice that he's trying, right? And while she does indeed find Steve immensely irritating, she can't help but find him somewhat endearing too. He means well, even if he does somehow manage to rub the entire scouting party the wrong way.
And the scouting party's sullen mood isn't entirely Steve's fault. They've been away from Skyhold for some time, away from hearty meals, soft beds and the Herald's Rest. Away from their friends, in some cases, away from their families, and everyone is really rather fed-up.
It doesn't help that Leliana's most recent raven brought with it mostly somber news.
Harding and her scouting party had left for the Frostbacks Basin about a month after the Inquisitor had departed Skyhold to march for Adamant Fortress. Far from Skyhold, constantly on the move, they'd received few updates on the Inquisition army's progress and had been forced to simply speculate on the outcome of the battle. They had no way of knowing how the soldiers would fare against the demon army, how viciously the Wardens would defend their Keep, whether their friends and loved ones would live long enough to return home.
Leliana's raven had brought with it the welcome news that the siege at Adamant had ended in victory for the Inquisition but also the upsetting information that the victory had come at a cost. The casualties had been remarkably few considering the sheer enormity of the demon army and yet there wasn't a single member of Harding's party that had not experienced some sort of loss.
For Harding, it is the fate of her friend Bron that particularly weighs on her mind.
Maker, to be trapped physically in the Fade! Harding can't think of anything more terrifying. The concept of dreaming, of the Fade, of spending every night having vivid hallucinations in a realm populated by hungry demons, had always unnerved Harding (she doesn't understand how non-dwarfs manage to put up with it every night; even enjoy it!). But the thought of walking physically in the Fade, and then becoming trapped there, was enough to maker her skin crawl. She would not wish that fate on even her worst enemy.
To lose a dear friend in such a way – it is utterly heartbreaking.
Harding and Bron had been assigned a number of scouting tasks in the early days of the Inquisition. Harding's familiarity with the Frostbacks, and Bron's impressive climbing and mountaineering ability, had made them natural partners for uncovering new routes around Haven (both easy routes for supplies and more difficult routes for Leliana's spies to travel unseen).
The two women had quickly built up an easy rapport which, in time, had developed into a genuine friendship. Bron was a private person, quiet almost to the point of rudeness, but Harding hadn't really minded that (in fact, this most recent trip has made it abundantly clear to Harding just how valuable silence can be on a scouting mission). In time Bron had opened up to her, talking a little of her childhood in Highever or her time in Orlais.
Harding had liked the stories of Orlais in particular. Having never travelled that far from home, there was something about the sheer foreignness of Orlais that held a strange fascination to Harding. There's something about the beauty and intrigue of Orlais, a strange romanticism that she'd always found appealing.
Bron's friendship had kind of snuck up on her. At first they were merely travelling companions. But then over time Harding's affection had slowly grown, largely unnoticed, until she'd been suddenly struck with the realisation that Bron was probably the closest friend she had in the Inquisition.
And now she is gone. Most likely dead.
Harding is trying very hard not to think about it.
She will mourn of course, in time, but when Harding is on a mission she likes to give it her full concentration. As such, she is determined to push all thoughts of her friend to the back of her mind until she has completed the task at hand. When she is back at Skyhold, then she will mourn; a few drinks in Bron's honour at the Herald's Rest, maybe light a candle for her at the Chantry. She knows that Bron was not particularly devout (which had surprised Harding considering Bron's years of loyal service to the Divine), but Bron had always liked Chantries. She liked the peaceful atmosphere, the steady metronome of the Sister's Chant, the sturdy pillars of stone that towered protectively overhead.
Yes – that's it; she'll light a candle. As soon as she's back in Skyhold.
And it's not long now until they head home. Just a few more days scouting around the Basin and then Harding will have enough information for her report and they can all return to Skyhold. That'll be a relief for her whole party. They all could do with a drink at the Herald's Rest, a toast for lost friends, a prayer for loved ones.
So consumed is she with her morbid musings that Harding startles a little when an armoured hand suddenly taps her on the shoulder. She turns to see Moira wearing a troubled expression, eyes pinched and lips pursed testily.
"I can feel something," she says, voice pitched low as if imparting a secret. "The Veil feels thin here."
Harding immediately stops, feeling deeply apprehensive at Moira's words. Moira is an experienced Templar. She'd come highly recommended by Commander Cullen and had demonstrated her considerable fighting abilities a number of times during their scouting mission. Harding trusts her entirely – which means that if Moira thinks something is afoot with the Veil, Harding certainly believes her, and feels suitable caution is due.
"Oh yes," Steve pipes up, "the Veil is very weird here. All squirly."
Moira's nose crinkles at Steve's choice of words but she nods in agreement nonetheless. Harding only frowns; she's heard enough to know that she does not want to continue further down their present course.
"It's probably a Rift," Harding says with a sigh, feeling suddenly very tired. She's encountered her fair share of Rifts during her time scouting for the Inquisition and has quickly learnt to stay as far away from them as possible. It's not that Harding isn't capable of holding her own in a fight, her skills with both a bow and a dagger are certainly decent, but until a Rift is closed, the demons come forth unendingly and Harding doesn't want to become embroiled in an endless battle.
"Let's not continue this way," she says, turning to address all of her companions, "we'll make a note of this location so that the Inquisitor can return later. We'll turn South to avoid the Rift then try and find somewhere to make ca-"
"Look!" cries Steve, interrupting Harding as he points to the distance with the gnarled end of his wooden staff. "Is that a demon?"
Harding whips around and peers into the deep foliage where Steve's staff is pointing, eyes probing for any sign of danger. She can't see anything, just the rotting branches of fallen trees and a thick blanket of pronged ferns. She's about to question Steve's eyesight when finally she spots something, a dark form shuffling through the greenery.
"It could be a Minor Terror," Moira says knowledgeably. "Not too much of a problem on its own but if it spots us, it will alert other demons to our presence and we might find ourselves overcome."
Harding sighs, rubs her temple with a gloved fist as she feels the first lance of a headache developing. She'd really hoped to avoid any demon entanglement on this trip.
"All right," she says, lifting her hand to draw all attention to her, "Moira and I will go and deal with the demon. The rest of you – you remain here. Keep your distance; we don't want to attract any attention. Keep your eyes open, though, watch our backs."
The scouting party nods in understanding, pulling bows from backs and swords from sheathes in preparation for a fight they would all rather avoid.
Harding gives Moira a terse nod as she walks passed and Moira falls into step behind her as the two women make their way toward the demon. Moira's armoured feet seem painfully loud as they tramp through the undergrowth and Harding almost wishes she'd left the Templar behind and picked another of her party to accompany her. But then Moira is uniquely skilled at dealing with demons and it would seem foolhardy to overlook those skills at a time like this (especially since Harding really doesn't like demons – she'd rather face a horde of giant spiders than down a demon. Demons are tricksy, they play with your mind; at least with a spider you know where you stand).
As they near the shadowed, hulking form of the demon, Harding signals at Moira to stop and take cover. Harding takes a few more cautious steps forward, pulling her bow to the ready, before sinking to her knees behind a log. She'll get off this first arrow, catching the demon by surprise before Moira can surge forward with her longsword and finish the creature off.
The demon is getting closer now, it's large, bulbous body emerging through the dense foliage of the forest, and Harding is suddenly struck with the feeling that something about this demon is a little… off. Its gait is peculiar, slow and erratic. And it appears to be hunched over. Perhaps the demon has already been injured?
But then the demon trips over a felled tree branch and Harding is surprised to hear a string of expletives in a distinctly Ferelden accent. Ah – not a demon then.
She lowers her bow, though keeps the arrow drawn in readiness – it could be an Avvar, famed for their savagery, and Harding does not want to let her guard down prematurely. But as the figure gets closer, she realises that it's not an Avvar; it's someone she knows.
It's that Warden! The one that came to Skyhold several months ago; the old friend of Leliana's. Allan or Anthony or – Alistair! That's it! She doesn't know him well, had probably only spoken to him a few times, but he'd seemed nice, and people seemed to like him – particularly Bron…
Oh shit! Bron – that's Bron! Her friend's body is slumped in Alistair's arms, her limbs hanging limply and her head lolling back insensibly.
Harding immediately returns her bow to her back, all thought of fighting forgotten as she's suddenly faced with the urgent imperative to check on her friend.
Is she…? Please, don't let her be!
Harding jumps from her hiding place and dashes through the undergrowth until she's reached Alistair's side. He looks startled at first, clearly not expecting to see a friendly face here in the forest, but then his expression immediately softens into one of real gratitude. His eyes are dark and hazy with exhaustion but they light up with relief when recognition snaps him to attention.
"Thank the Maker!" he exclaims weakly through cracked, parched lips, "You're with the Inquisition!"
Harding largely ignores him, reaching out to press her hand against Bron's temple in search of a pulse. "Is she?"
"She's alive," he answers, "barely. She needs help – please, tell me you have someone who can help her."
"This way," Harding says curtly, nodding behind her to indicate the path back to the scouting party.
"I'll take her," Moira offers as she reaches out to Bron, and Harding hadn't even notice her approach, too fixated on the pale, drawn face of her friend.
"No – I've got her," Alistair says, leaning away from Moira as if threatened by her outstretched hands.
"You're weak and slow," Moira says with a pointed arch of her brow, "give her to me." With a sigh, Alistair finally acquiesces, carefully passing Bron's lifeless body to Moira's arms with clear reluctance.
Moira's right though, Alistair is in a sorry state. Harding had been too focused on Bron before but now that she looks at him properly, she can see what a mess he's in. His hair is matted with dried blood and Maker knows what else, and there's even more blood smeared liberally across his shirt (can one man lose that much and still keep fighting?). His back is crooked and bent, his shoulders hunched, and his legs are shaking fitfully with the effort of simply keeping him upright. Bron's need for a healer might be more urgent but Alistair is also in desperate need of healing.
Without a word, Harding takes off through the forest to where she told the scouting party to wait, Moira quickly behind her and then Alistair's exhausted body stumbling at a slower pace behind. Somehow, the distance seems further than before – the forest seeming to stretch and grow in response to her newfound sense of urgency.
But when she finally catches sight of Steve, Harding is amazed at how glad she is to see him.
"Please tell me you know healing magic," she says instead of a greeting.
He looks a little unnerved by her statement, his eyes narrowing warily. "Ugh… sort of? It's not exactly my forte but I know a few spells. What exactly is the probl-"
His mouth snaps shut when he spots the limp Bron in Moira's arms. His face grimaces dramatically, clearly alarmed by her sorry state, and Harding can't really blame him; Bron is not a pretty sight. Her face is grey, skin almost translucent, and her clothes are utterly drenched in bright crimson. There's a gaping wound in her stomach, an enormous puncture that cuts cleanly through flesh as if Bron were made of merely paper.
"Put her down over here," he commands with unexpected force, gesturing toward a flat outcropping of rock nestled among the ferns. "I'll stabilise her as best I can now and then we should move her to somewhere more safe where I can heal her more fully. We're still near a Rift and it's not safe."
Harding is impressed by the sudden professionalism in his voice, the grim determination that has taken over his usually boyish face. Moira immediately obeys, striding quickly across the ground and gently placing Bron atop the rock.
"Jones, Foggy, Wicks," Harding snaps, beckoning her scouts toward her, "remember that clearing we passed a short while back?" They nod in understanding. "That should be far enough from the Rift. Take the cart. Set up camp. We'll be there shortly."
The scouts nod at their orders before scurrying off; leaving an anxious Harding to watch powerlessly over her friend while a painfully young mage tries to save her life. She wishes a mage with more healing experience were there. She wishes they were closer to Skyhold. But this is all they have and it'll have to do.
When Alistair finally catches up to them, he buckles forward, leaning heavily on his knees while trying to catch his breath.
"You look awful," Moira says as she eyes him up and down, probably trying to ascertain the full extent of his injuries. "The Mage should look at you once he's done with your friend."
"Is she going to be all right?" Alistair asks with a hoarse, desperate voice, ignoring Moira's comments and looking only to Bron.
Steve doesn't answer, too intently focused on the task in front of him, and the question is left to hang uncomfortably in the air.
Maker, I hope so, Harding thinks, I hope so.
Alistair's not sure how long the Mage spends bent over Bron's lifeless body, curtains of blue magic falling from his fingertips, but when he finally steps back, the grey sky has become tinged with an inky blue and a distinct chill has settled over the forest.
"That's all I can do for now," the Mage says, gesturing weakly at a still very pale Bron. "We should get her back to camp."
Harding nods in acknowledgement then gives the man a sturdy pat on the back. He flinches, the dwarf's gesture perhaps a little too forceful for him in his weakened state, but smiles gratefully in response. The Mage is standing unnaturally straight, perhaps trying (and failing) to hide the small shake in his limbs which betrays his exhaustion.
Alistair takes an unsteady step forward, eager to rush to Bron's side, to touch her face, to hold her, to feel her heartbeat. But the Templar woman beats him to it, striding swiftly in front of Alistair and lifting Bron easily in her massive arms.
Part of him wants to object – it's his Bron, she should give her back! – but the far more sensible part of him understands that he's probably too weak to carry her much further. The battle at Adamant, the Nightmare, the demons in the Fade, carrying Bron through the Rift and then through the rugged terrain of the forest – it's too much, too much energy expended over too long a time, and Alistair knows he is spent.
And as Moira starts loping through the undergrowth with Bron's body curled safely against her chestplate, Alistair has to admit to himself that he doesn't actually know where the Inquisition camp is. In fact, not only does he not know where the camp is – he doesn't know where he is; he doesn't seem to recognise this part of Ferelden at all (and it's even an assumption that they're in Ferelden – the Inquisition's reach is far and they could just as easily be in Orlais or even the Free Marches). It is with great discomfort that he finds himself utterly useless.
"This way," Harding says as she tugs him by the sleeve. Alistair obediently follows her.
It's almost a relief, following behind Harding, not really thinking about anything but just concentrating on her back as it bobs up and down with each hurried step. After days (or has it been weeks?) walking aimlessly around the Fade, it's nice to be following someone who knows where they're going. In fact, it's just nice to be around other people again, even if these people are relative strangers to him. It's nice to see greenery too, to see things that are living, growing. It's nice to feel a breeze. It's nice to see the sky – even grey and overcast as it is (at least there are no floating islands or shimmering lights up there).
Most of all it's nice to have found people who can help Bron. He'd been so afraid that he would lose her, so afraid that she would take her final, shuddering breath while still trapped in the Fade. Lost, alone, surrounded by the corpses of demons – so far from home and all the people that she loves. It would not have been a good death.
When they reach the camp, there's a brief discussion which Alistair barely registers before Bron is bundled away into one of the tents. He immediately makes to follow her but Harding stops him, standing in front of him with her hands resting authoritatively on her hips. She suddenly seems a lot taller.
"You need healing," she says, and it's clear from her tone that this is a command, not a suggestion. Alistair makes no attempt to object. Even if he wanted to, he doubts he has the strength. "Sit here," she adds, gesturing toward the supply cart, her expression firm but with a softness in her eyes which suggests a sympathy for his miserable state.
For the first time in an unfathomably long time, Alistair sits down.
The supply cart he's perched upon is hardly the most resplendent seat he's ever encountered but there's a blissful tingle in his feet at the lightening of their load and every muscle in his body seems to slacken blissfully as he sinks onto the wooden surface.
When the Mage returns, there's a little more colour to his cheeks and Alistair can smell the distinctive tang of lyrium on his breath. Now that he's closer, Alistair can see how terrifyingly young the man is – surely a few years short of 20! – and he can't help but wish that there was someone more experienced to carry out the healing. Bron's stab wound is severe (not to mention the other, smaller injuries she'd received at Adamant) and Alistair would give anything to have some other mage there. He immediately thinks of Wynne, one of his travelling companions during the Blight, whose healing powers had been second to none within the Ferelden Circle. Or even Hawke's surly friend from Kirkwall (Adar, was it? No – Anders?) would be better than this mere wisp of a man standing before him!
Without a word, the Mage lifts his hands and places them on either side of Alistair's face. Then he closes his eyes, scrunches his nose in concentration, and lets waves of magic fall from his fingers and into Alistair's body. It's a weird sensation, an oddly invasive feeling that Alistair doesn't think he will ever get used to, no matter how often he's healed. But he can't feel the sharp rawness at his throat anymore, nor the persistent twinge in his knee - even the throbbing in his back has lessened to merely a dull murmur. He's not back to full health but Alistair can't deny that he does feel better.
When the waves of blue stop, the Mage slumps forward and Alistair shoots out an arm to catch the young man. He's clearly exhausted, having pushed himself to the limits of his power to help Bron and now Alistair. His eyes are heavy, skin pale and damp with a thin sheen of perspiration. Alistair is suddenly very ashamed at having thought so little of a man to whom he owes so much.
"Thank you," Alistair says, pleasantly surprised to find that his throat is no longer ripped raw every time he speaks.
"You're welcome," the Mage replies with a weak smile, "It's not perfect, I'm afraid. I'm not the best Healer, you see. But we do have the ingredients for some rather splendid potions – and I'm going to whip something up for you… and your friend, of course. If you just… rest… I'll start-"
"Thank you," Alistair repeats, interrupting the young man before he can start on some lengthy monologue. Alistair's grateful to the young man, of course, and he doesn't want to appear rude – but he does rather desperately want to see Bron.
Alistair loiters long enough to make sure that the Mage can stand steadily on his own then starts crossing the camp to duck into the tent where Bron has been laid to rest. Before he can reach the tent though, Harding once more steps in his way.
"No, not yet," she says, raising a hand to stop him.
"I need to see Bron," he states simply, trying to sound cordial but failing to suppress a twang of irritation at having been prevented from seeing Bron once again.
"Not in that state," she responds, pointedly looking him over with a disdainful expression. Alistair looks down at himself and – yes – he supposes Harding has a point; his clothes are filthy, smeared with blood (both his and Bron's) and all manner of demon viscera he'd really rather not think about.
"There's a stream just north of the camp," she says. "You can clean up there. Wicks can lend you some of his clothes; you two seem roughly the same size. I'll let you see her once you're clean – it's more hygienic that way."
He wants to argue, though he knows there's very little point in trying. Harding does not seem the type to be easily swayed; her face is gentle and her smiles are kind but there's a fierceness in her eyes that suggests a steeliness with which Alistair is too weak to contend.
With an obedient nod, Alistair slinks across the camp to get himself cleaned up.
It's fully dark by the time Alistair returns from the stream, and while a roaring campfire keeps the camp bathed in vivid yellows and reds, an impenetrable blackness hides the forest from view. The small scouting party stays close to the fire, carrying out their mundane tasks while stealing whatever precious warmth they can.
He tugs awkwardly at the sleeve of his borrowed shirt as he steps into the halo of light. The sleeves are a few inches too short, exposing a long swathe of skin along his forearm, and the front of the shirt gapes where the buttons are pulled too tightly across his chest. Wicks may be a similar height to Alistair but his frame is far narrower and nothing really fits quite right. Alistair does not consider himself a vain man but the crisp air makes him wish that the shirt did not strain so awkwardly, leaving little gaps for the wind to pry and nip.
Harding is talking to one of the scouts as he approaches but she stops the conversation long enough to cast her eyes over him. She gives one short nod and he takes that as an indication that she approves of his newly cleaned state. It's all the permission he needs and he hastily bounds toward Bron's tent.
There's a strange tumult of emotions as he enters the tent. At first he feels excitement - excitement to see Bron, to hold her, to feel her warmth, to feel reassured that, despite all his fears, she is indeed alive. But he also feels the undeniable thrum of terror. He's terrified that her condition may be worse than he hopes, that her wounds may have been too excessive for the Mage's meager healing abilities.
He's surprised to find the Templar sitting by Bron's side, looking remarkably serene for someone wearing full Templar armour. She looks like a statue, a mighty obelisk keeping guard over its domain, warding away intruders. The sight of her is actually rather comforting; he's glad that no one left Bron alone.
Either she doesn't notice him enter or she chooses not to respond but she maintains her motionless vigil even as Alistair stoops clumsily under the canvas flap. It's not until he kneels down next to Bron that she raises her head, nodding in acknowledgement and shifting aside slightly to make room for him.
"I'm Moira," the Templar says, extending a hand which he gladly takes. "I've heard about you – both of you."
She pauses, and there's an uncertainty in her expression that Alistair suspects is rarely present; Moira seems like the kind of woman who is always unfailingly sure of herself. After a short pause, her curiosity seems to get the better of her and she asks, "did you really walk in the Fade – physically? What's… what's it like?"
The almost childlike wonderment in her voice causes Alistair to chuckle slightly. It's not the kind of question he'd have expected from such a stony woman. "Yes – I really did," he replies, wearily, "it was… pretty shit, to be honest."
She nods, then furrows her brow. For a moment Alistair is afraid that she's going to ask more of him; that his flippant answer has left her unsatisfied. And he really, really doesn't want to talk about the Fade – or what he endured while trapped there. He doesn't want to describe the sheer horror of the Nightmare's hulking, writhing form. He doesn't want to remember the feel of Bron's rapier cutting into his neck. He doesn't want to think about the taunting and the temptation from demons wearing the faces of his old friends. He's therefore relieved when she simply gives him a gentle (perhaps pitying?) smile and rises from the ground with impressive elegance considering the bulk of her armour.
"I'll leave you two," she says as she ducks out through the tent flap, then shouts back, "get some rest!" before disappearing into the camp.
He's glad when she's gone – not because he doesn't like her; Moira seems like a solid, dependable sort of person – but because he really just wants to be alone with Bron.
Casting his eyes over her, she looks even smaller than usual - a tiny shadow of a woman nestled among a bed of animal furs and buried beneath a thick, woolen blanket. Her skin is still pale, her body still stiff and unmoving, but he's pleased to discover that she doesn't look quite as ashen as she did before.
Someone's washed her. Her skin is no longer smeared with blood and grit and there's a soft smell of lilac soap in the air. Her hair has been cleaned and brushed and now fans out across her pillow like a dark halo. Bron won't like that, he thinks; she never sleeps with her hair loose, prefers it neatly braided instead.
Her hands have been placed gently on top of each other on her chest. It looks oddly formal, almost as if she's praying in her sleep. He picks up one of her hands, lifts it to his face to press the palm against his cheek. It's troublingly cold but pleasantly soft and he holds it steady against his skin.
"Hello, you," he says, "you're looking a bit better."
His words are met with silence.
"The Mage-boy did a good job. He barely looks old enough to shave, let alone cast a spell. But he's kept you alive so… he can't be all bad, I suppose."
More silence. His ears strain to listen for a response – a moan, a sigh, any tiny indication that she can hear him.
"Harding is here. I think you've mentioned her before; she's your friend, right? I like her. She has a kind face. And she knows what she's doing, which is comforting because I… I-I really don't know what I'm doing, Bron."
He can feel the first tear start to course down his cheek, a damp trail which smarts in the chill of the night air.
"What am I supposed to do, Bron? What am I…? I don't know how to make things better, Bron. I don't know how to help you. I…"
More tears fall, slowly at first, then faster, until his cheeks are slick and his eyes feel raw and dry. Droplets fall from his face onto the blanket tucked primly around Bron, leaving an erratic pattern of dark spots across the plaidweave. He holds her hand tighter, pressing it closer to his cheek until it too is slick with his tears.
"Don't you dare leave me, Bron. Not now, not after everything we've gone through. Don't you dare."
He can't lose Bron, can't lose another one. Not after Uncle Eamon, after Duncan and the Wardens, after Elissa – everyone he has ever loved, every place he has ever called home – he's lost them all. He can't lose Bron.
Gingerly, careful not to disturb her, he lies down beside her, head resting on the edge of her pillow, face mere inches from hers. He's still holding her hand, like a desperate man clinging to the wreckage of a shipwreck, his anchor against the tides.
"It's all right, Bron," he whispers, "Everything is going to be all right, Bron. You'll see. You just have to trust me. You're going to be all right. You're going to be all right. You have to be all right. You have to be – because I'm not sure what I'll do if you're not – I'm not sure what I'll do without you."
He's mumbling now, incoherent but steady – like a chant, a frantic incantation to the Maker, or the Creators, or whatever god will listen. When sleep finally claims him, the words are still running through his head – a prayer that he clings to with the fervour of a desperate man, as if words enough can stave off death and keep Bron by his side.
Everything is going to be all right. Everything is going to be all right.
End note: come on, guys! Did you really think I was going to kill Bron?! I love her too much for that!