Tali's nose does not stop bleeding as the small group of werewolves leads them through a shortcut back to the surface of the ruins. Even as it slows, it still trickles down her face, seeping into the bunched-up fabric of her patka, pulled off and held there in some small effort to stem the flow. Savreen's pulse runs like a roaring river in her ears, her own blood rushing loud and constant, full of anxiety. She knows worse than a bloody nose will come to Tali if they do not hurry. She knows that she faces the same. It is not a comforting thought.
"Return with Zathrian," Swiftrunner says to Savreen just before they reach the ruins' entryway. "If you do not, your fate will be what it will be." She nods, but her mind is not completely there. While Savreen hasn't felt the curse's burn in quite the same way since being brought before the Lady, she finds it hard to focus when the shadowy shapes she'd seen earlier seem to be growing less shadowy and more distinct. They appear nearly more real than the stone and earth around her, now. They almost seem to beckon to her. "There will be no second chance, human."
"There will be no need for a second chance." Ranjit's voice does a little to cut through the fog in Savreen's head, but not enough. She nods, still gazing at a huddled figure in a far corner as she speaks, half repeating Swiftrunner's words, half affirming them, mostly just feeling out the sounds as they leave her mouth.
"We will return with Zathrian." His suspicions still not entirely allayed, Swiftrunner growls softly, the sound a faint rumble in his chest. Then without another word he turns and vanishes back through the serpentine hallways, followed by his lieutenants.
"We must move now," Leliana says, looking with dismay at Tali, who is half standing, half hanging between Sten and Alistair's shoulders, Abarie just behind her. "She will not survive a long journey back to the Dalish encampment." That does more than anything else to shake Savreen back to the present, and she tears her eyes away from the spirits. Without speaking further, she heads for the last flight of stairs to the surface, taking them two at a time, Sher right on her heels.
The forest has somehow become unbearably bright after all that time spent in the ruins, underground in the strange light of the green torches. Though the canopy of leaves overhead filters out most of the sunlight, the few rays that manage to make their way through the gaps here and there send a sharp pang of pain through Savreen's head, like a poker in her eyes. She gasps, frantically blinking, trying to see but still trying to get rid of the pain—two tasks that appear to be mutually exclusive. Behind her she can hear Alistair speaking reassuringly to Tali, soothingly. Where is Ranjit? The thought comes to her before she is able to question why she needs him.
"She can't go any further, Savreen," he says, at her side already. "She needs to rest, or the curse will kill her even faster. We need more time. She must stay here." There it is, the rage again, for the first time since entering the Lady's presence. It precludes logic, forces reaction, and she has the strange urge to lash out and bite.
"You're suggesting that I leave her here?" Savreen practically snarls the words, flinging them at Ranjit. Everything feels red to her, hot and fiery. She doesn't understand why she wanted Ranjit, why she needed to hear his opinions. She stares at him now with disbelief, with anger. Surely she's misunderstood him, surely she's taken too much offense at something not meant to be taken as she has. She tries to calm herself. The curse will not take her, not yet. Swallowing, she tries again, speaking more softly, even if there is a hint of danger behind her tone. "Tell me that is not what you are suggesting, Ranjit." He frowns, eyes searching her face. His disapproval meets her own, and again, Savreen is struck by the fact that she no longer understands his thoughts as she once did.
"You asked that I be honest with you before, about your decision to enter the forest. I will be honest with you in this, as well." The hand he places on her shoulder makes Savreen wince, hissing in pain as the tender flesh around the werewolf scratch burns even more under the faint pressure. Sher growls with the indication of her pain, but Ranjit ignores it. "She cannot move further. She will only deteriorate. You will harm her even as you seek to save her. Do you understand?" Ranjit's eyes are hard. He looks to Savreen's shoulder—he still has not removed his hand. He knows. "How do your own wounds fare?" He knows or else he would not ask in such a tone.
"I'm fine." She ignores the pain and reaches up to bat Ranjit's hand away. Her hand connects with his wrist, and he says nothing. He says nothing. She tries not to notice. Leaving Tali behind as they venture back through the forest is unthinkable, it's—it—
When she looks over to Tali, slumped on the ground in front of Alistair and Morrigan, she knows Ranjit is right, as much as it pains her. Morrigan's face is knit with concentration, lined with worry. And Alistair…well. Distraught doesn't cover it. He stares at Tali as though his very soul has been ripped out and laid in front of him.
"You did not seem fine before." Savreen scowls as Ranjit speaks. What is happening to them?
"I can still do what needs to be done. Or do you want to leave me here, too?" It's a low blow—she isn't even really sure why she's said it. Is she angry with Ranjit? Is she really angry with him? The rage of the curse and the pain of the magical infection muddle her thoughts. Ranjit stares at her. He does not seem shocked, whatever that means. Instead, he is closed-off. He is silent for a long time, long enough for Sten to approach Savreen.
"We leave on your word," Sten says, and it does little to break the tension that simmers between Savreen and Ranjit, but it does remind Savreen of the urgency of their situation. Distracted for the moment, she turns her attention to Sten, pointedly directing her gaze away from Ranjit.
"We leave now. Zevran—"
Just as Savreen calls for Zevran, seeking his opinion on their path back to the Dalish encampment, a rustle comes from the trees. She whirls around toward its source, half expecting more Darkspawn or some other breed of monster, freed from the forest's recesses, even though she cannot sense them—but instead, it is a single Dalish elf, wearing robes in colors of flaxen yellow and light blue, his pale head bare. Savreen calls Sher to heel with a single snap of her fingers before she speaks, uncertain and unsure.
"Zathrian?" Bewildered does not come close to an expression of Savreen's surprise. "How did—what are—"
"Have you found Witherfang?" he asks, and Savreen finds herself at a loss for words.
"I would assume that we are not leaving, after all, yes?" Zevran's words are not entirely helpful, except in that they catch Zathrian's attention.
"Leaving? I take it then that you have found—"
"You could have ended the curse on your own," Savreen says at last. Were she more in control of herself, she would not shake so with rage. As it is, though, her blood feels like it is not her own. The anger she felt for Ranjit's suggestion has a new target, and it is a relief to let it run rampant. "They sought you out to end the curse. They begged you. And yet you ignored them. Why?"
Zathrian closes his eyes, squeezing them shut as though he could simply will away whatever it is he sees inside his own mind. His posture buckles. He looks old, ancient, and the sorrow in his voice rings with exhaustion.
"I…I apologize. It was a mistake, a mistake I have paid for a hundredfold. I knew the instant you left the camp."
"That you have paid for? You? My cousin—"
"His people, Savreen," Ranjit reminds her, and he is right, he is right and she forgets herself, but behind her, Tali is mumbling something indistinct to a panicked sounding Alistair, and it is hard for Savreen to see sense.
"Forgive me," she says, but she is not sure how much she means the apology. Zathrian, though, shakes his head, steps forward. His hand is held out, palm up, as though to offer something.
"Regardless of my intent or motivation, I deceived you. You have every right to feel anger. But I am here now to do what is right, to end the curse. That I swear to you, on all the works of Elgar'nan." It does not sit exactly right with Savreen, not yet. She shakes her head, trying to clear the buzzing within it, trying to focus, trying to think, to shove the anger back down.
"If you are here now to end it, why act as though you knew nothing of the curse? Why did you pretend?" She wants to know this at least; wants to know why they were lied to. Regarding her, Zathrian sighs, and then lowers his hand.
"Fear is a powerful thing." Savreen fails to comprehend his meaning.
"Is that why you pretended? For fear alone?" she asks with a frown.
"I would expect any leader to understand. Fear is that which we fight constantly." Something in his words humbles her, though she doesn't understand what or why. Zathrian turns his gaze toward the trees, the ground, the ruins poking out from the underbrush and the dirt. "Our people lost much in the Fall, among it, most of our accumulated knowledge of spirits and magic. So when I brought my family back to the Brecilian Forest after years of wandering, I knew not how to deal with the spirit within, the amalgamation of pain and anguish, rage and loss. I…I thought, perhaps, that I might cleanse the forest, might protect my family, the others of our clan. It had been a hard winter. We had lost so many." He hesitates. Perhaps he is crying, Savreen cannot quite tell. Slowly, he turns back to her, his eyes meeting hers with an unexpected mixture of regret and resolve.
"I did what I believed I had to do, and for a time it kept the spirit contained and relatively harmless. Then the spirit's rage twisted itself into something worse, something more dangerous." His words match up with the story told by the Lady, and Savreen listens, as quiet and focused as possible. "We did not understand what happened to our hunters at first when they began to vanish. We did not know what fate befell them. Not for long. When it became clear that the wolf was at the heart of the curse, I thought we could run from it. I thought that would be enough. I had bound myself to the spirit, but I had a family. Children. To undo the spell, to free the spirit, would not only set its rage back upon the forest, but it would be my own undoing."
The forest air is heavy and still around them, except for Tali's continued mutterings and the occasional sound of birdsongs. Zathrian gazes about, eyes flitting from branch to branch and tree to tree, taking note of all he sees with a studious intensity. Finally, he speaks again, breaking the silence.
"I was wrong, in more ways than one." Savreen shakes her head again, in confusion and disbelief.
"This still does nothing to explain why you've suddenly changed your opinion. Why you lied."
"I spoke of fear before. It is hard to imagine that your clan's ways will carry on when you are gone. It is easy, responsible even, to fear for the future. Our history, our memories—they are precious. By my death, I was convinced that I would rob my clan of something, that I would destroy that which I had worked so hard to foster." Now Savreen understands, looking at the man in front of her. She understands perfectly. She thinks of her mother, her father. Their deaths have robbed her of much.
"Something changed your mind." It is not a question, though Savreen doesn't know what could possibly do such a thing, what could convince a man who loved his family that they would be fine without him. She can feel no more rage, even though the curse tries its best to foster it within her. Zathrian, though, smiles, and it is an expression of the purest bittersweetness.
"My people, my clan, my family—I realized that I have taught them everything I know. I have passed on all that I can. My first is wise, though she does not always see it within herself. I have outlived my children, my grandchildren, my great grandchildren. I have given what I could, and there is nothing left. I am…no longer afraid. I underestimated them all, and now they suffer under the curse's grip. What leader would I be if I did not know when to pass my position on to another? It is time. I am old, older than I ever should have been, and I will have done all that I could to ensure that my clan is safe. They are ready to be without me. It was I who was not ready to be without them."
Is this too easy, Savreen wonders, is this too convenient, too fast? Zathrian sounds truthful. He sounds contrite, and he sounds sad—both of those would be difficult to manufacture to such a degree. And besides, what would he have to gain by lying? Perhaps he wouldn't have to die, there is of course that, but…Waheguru preserve her, she is sure he is telling the truth. She wants him to be telling the truth, anyway.
"You will come to speak with the Lady, then?" she asks him, hesitant. But Zathrian nods, and he takes another step toward her.
"It is time for the misery to end."
Tali can hardly think. Her brain feels as though it is swollen, her skull coming apart at the seams the instant they leave the Lady's great hall. It's rather pathetic, is it not? She giggles to no one in particular, and through her smile, she can taste blood. Someone is fiddling with her patka, untying it. Her head feels slightly cooler, and then the fabric is bunched up and pressed against her nose. For a moment, she forgets how to breathe, inhaling only the fibers as her body is wracked with a wave of burning agony. Alistair says something—he's holding her up, his arm around her waist. Tali giggles again, the only sound she can make in the face of the pain that forces her whole body into a pinprick of awareness.
Someone else shifts their shoulder under her, and then she's all but lifted from the ground, her toes skimming the floor. Every little brush, every jolt makes her feel as though her bones are a shattered, spiny mess, piercing her from the inside. She loses herself in the sensation, time muddling together until all of a sudden the light changes. More pain lances through her, digging in through her eye sockets, and she groans. Her hands won't lift to her face, won't obey her as she tries to will them to scrape out the offending sockets. What would her eyes feel like under her nails?
Dizzy. She's dizzy. The people holding her set her down gently, but it isn't gentle. Everything spins. Her stomach rebels. It's as though she's swallowed fire. She lets out a low moan, and then there is a hand on her face. Smooth, cool. Small fingers. A sharp voice.
"Get her some fucking water, oaf, or get out of my way." Morrigan.
"I don't think she'll be able to drink it," Alistair replies. There's not even a hint of anger in his voice. He doesn't fight Morrigan.
"'Tis not for her to drink. Her skin is on fire." The fabric of her patka is gone, and she can breathe, can smell the forest and the tang of her own blood. "Give it to me."
A heartbeat later, something cool and damp is pressed to Tali's forehead. It is a blessed relief, and she groans again.
"Who is watching Abarie?" she tries to say, but the words are garbled and jumbled. No one responds.
"Hold it there." The pressure changes, a new set of hands taking over.
"What are you going to do?"
"Something for the pain. 'Twill not stop the process, but it should…help." A purple crackling feeling, the flavor of copper. Tali's teeth are far too sharp, she realizes, as she runs her tongue over them. But the shapes of the trees around her come into view, and Morrigan, and Alistair, crouched in front of her, and the others arrayed around them. She isn't entirely sure when she can see them, when she can focus on them and really understand that it's the two of them in her vision, but one moment the pain is her whole world and the next she is sat against a broken pillar in the midst of the Brecilian forest. There's a snuffling, whining sound, and Abarie is next to her, too, and Tali feels almost as though she can read the dog's mind, as though she can feel her terror and concern.
"What's—"
"It's alright, Tali," Alistair says, the sound of tears pressed up against the back of his voice. "Zathrian is here. He's agreed to end the curse." Blinking, Tali tries to understand. Zathrian? Here?
"How?" With a humorless laugh, Alistair shrugs and answers.
"I don't know. Maybe he followed my ruddy big footprints."
"Maybe he followed mine." It's no time for a joke, really, but Tali can't help it. It doesn't make either Alistair or Morrigan smile. To add insult to injury, Abarie whines and cocks her head. Tali winces—perhaps a joke wasn't the right thing—and turns to the witch in front of her, trying to ignore the uncharacteristic emotion in her amber eyes.
"Morrigan—"
"I do not know how long." The witch's voice comes out in a snap, but Tali knows better than to recoil. It isn't for her.
"Then tell—" Another wave of pain hits Tali, breaking through the clarity in her mind and pulling her back into the thorny thicket of her aching body. She struggles, trying to pull herself free. When she manages it, though, she finds herself lying down, looking up. It's quiet. There's something fuzzy next to her, curled up tight.
"Alistair?" her voice croaks from her throat, dragging her panic along with it. "Morrigan? Sav—" The ground beneath her head shifts. It's someone's lap. Alistair's face, sideways, appears in her vision as he bends down over her, bringing a hand to cradle her face.
"Hey," he whispers, though Tali can't figure why. He clears his throat and speaks again, louder, this time. "They went with Zathrian, back to the Lady. You, uh…you were gone for a while there." Gone. The way he says it feels so final, so heavy. Panic sets in again in Tali's chest and she realizes that there really might not be much time left at all.
The pain in her limbs is sharp, but the memory of sitting across the fire from Alistair is stronger. I can't lose you, she had said. She had wanted to wait, until everything was done, until there was nothing to fear.
"I—I'm so stupid," she says, staring up at him, into his eyes. The first time she saw him, she recalls, she thought they looked like lacquered wood in the sunshine. Above her, Alistair blinks.
"What?"
"I'm so stupid." Her nose feels hot again, and something trickles down the back of her throat. Her eyes burn. She tastes blood. Her heart begins to gallop, too fast. Abarie moves, the comforting weight of the dog vanishing from Tali's side.
"You are certainly not stupid," Alistair murmurs. His thumb strokes her cheek.
"No, I am—I—" Agony grips her, strangling her, and she lets out a small wheezing sound. I will keep my eyes open, I will not close them, I will not close them, I will keep my eyes open.
"Tali? Talvinder. Tali!" Alistair shifts his position, trying to pull Tali up so that she doesn't choke, trying to cradle her face, trying to hold her to him. He manages to wrangle her into a slouched sitting position, and the blood that trickles down the back of her throat is no longer obscuring her windpipe. "Don't do this to me again," Alistair whimpers. The fingers of pain release her, and Tali can breathe again, even if it comes in stuttering sounds. Her bones feel almost like they are trying to break themselves, to reshape themselves, to make some new form, twisted and terrible.
"I shouldn't have—waiting was a stupid idea."
"What?" Alistair freezes, hanging onto Tali for dear life. It feels nice, she thinks. Warm. She wishes he were holding her in a different time, a different place.
"Losing you. Being afraid."
"That's what this is about?" She could almost count his eyelashes, if only she could focus. She can see them all, short little spiky things. They would be soft against her cheeks.
"It'd be so much worse," she says, and she lifts her hand to his cheek, despite the pain, despite the monumental effort of lifting a limb made of stone "not to ever—losing you would be easier than never—" Her voice feels heavy. It's hard to form her tongue around the letters, the words. Trying to regain some control, she moves her jaw, clacking her teeth against each other. It doesn't really work. Her fingers just graze the stubbled side of Alistair's jaw before she can't hold them up anymore and her hand falls back down with a thunk against her char-aina.
"Tali." Alistair looks like he wants to speak. His lips are open—I've never even kissed him, Tali thinks, not for real.
"Y're…trembl'ng," she mutters. She can't keep her eyes open. She has to try. Has to try. But it's so nice and dark, so cool inside herself.
Savreen falls to her knees when they make it back to the Lady's hall. It hurts, but far less than the curse does, ripping through her—her innards seem to tear themselves apart. She coughs, and blood comes out onto her palm. Ranjit throws himself in front of her, trying to bring her back to her feet. He says something, but it is indistinct. Sher nuzzles her side as though hoping to urge her to stand. She doesn't move. Instead, Savreen watches as Zathrian continues ahead, through the assembled werewolves. He approaches the Lady with a sad smile on his face.
They embrace like old friends.
The relief is sudden, white hot and then ice cold and then, blissfully, nothing. Tali can sit, can feel, can see, can hear. She takes in a deep, ragged breath, feeling the air whistle through her lungs. She tastes no more blood. Her arm feels whole. Abarie barks and Alistair speaks and Tali can hear everything and see everything around her and she is no longer trapped in the dark and tranquil space of a dying mind.
"Talvinder?" Scrambling upright, Tali finds herself on her knees, staring at Alistair. His arms are stretched out towards her, eyes wide. "Tali." It hits her then, like a bolt. She finds herself reaching back towards him, practically throwing herself at him. Their armor clinks, the sound deadened by their bodies. Alistair is surging toward her, too, and the kiss, when it happens, is full of teeth and desperation. The fingers of his right hand entwine with hers, his left moving to hold her face, to keep her there against him. Tali finds herself gripping his belt, then his back, and then finally his neck. The kiss continues. I almost lost you, it says. I almost lost you forever.
Tali can barely breathe, not with her mouth so full of his air. His tongue is cool in her mouth, a strange sensation against the heat of his tears on her cheeks, the heat of her own tears. Salt flavors everything, sweat and blood and those dripping tears, and Tali cannot get enough of it, not now that she's begun. Alistair releases her hand, grabs her waist, crushes her against his chest, and finally, his body shaking, he breaks the kiss.
"I thought I'd lost you," he says, his eyes still closed. The tip of his nose ghosts against Tali's cheek, the sensation light and fluttering. His hands tremble against her sides, and when he opens his eyes to see her panting in front of him, Tali can see the film of tears that still stain the whites of his eyes with their red pain. "I thought I'd—I thought—" He kisses her again before he can finish his thought, and Tali rises to the tops of her knees as he settles back on his heels, holding her over him. Her hands are in his hair, tracing the shape of his ears, feeling the notched scar there, gripping him as though she can keep them from ever being separated again.
She wants to say something, but she can't think of a single thing that would make more sense than her lips on his. There is nothing else she can come up with, nothing else she can imagine adding anything to this moment, no other language for the bubble that swells inside of her. He is there, next to her, beneath her, his arms above her, holding her, all around her. He is there and she is there and there is nothing else in her world for that brief moment as she can feel her nose crushed against the bones of his face, his jaw against hers.
Air becomes a necessity in short order, but only when it is indeed a necessity do they break apart again. Tali rests her forehead against Alistair's and pants softly as he reaches up, stroking the side of her face. Eventually, he laughs, laughs despite the tears still trickling down his cheeks.
"Maker, you are so beautiful," he whispers, and then he dissolves into tears again, tears of utter relief.
When the others return, without Zathrian but accompanied by more than a dozen elves and humans squinting with new eyes at the world around them, they still sit there, crying, holding each other, Abarie barking and leaping around them.