"That's me, the bleeding man you have in your camp!"
He bursted into nervous laugh, pinched an octave higher from the pain. His childhood was riddled with chantry mothers and sisters scolding him to be quiet, calm down, shut up and stay still. But his name from her lips, her voice carried from her heart, it does the trick better than any chantry enforcer can at settling his nerves.
His face softened from the grimace he held and he smiled, or tried to, to eject the concern from her and reassure her that he's alright. "I would say you're a lovely sight or something equally romantic and foolhardy but you always are! I figure you might be tired of listening to me prattle. But that elfroot is looking quite alright. You think you can spare your ridiculously obsessive collection for me, my dear?"
Alistair reached out and gestured at the mangled metal spiky trap that laid next to him. "Now, doesn't that sound a lot better than help, I got hurt while you were away."
Briar blinked, almost dumbfounded by his ceaseless declarations of mutual adoration. Then the gentle, loving Warden Cousland of course does the only gesture of implicit affection that springs to mind when the waves of worry roll back - she bends one knee to fluidly swing the side of her foot into the back of Alistair's knee. Hard enough to put him on the ground.
"You'll still have too much to say long after whatever blood is left in you has been lost."
Already she had a roll of bandages in hand, unfurled with one hand as the other reached for a small dagger strapped to her boot. On bended knee she started to cut at the thick leather plates in his armor to get at his wounds.
"I'll shove the elfroot in your mouth myself if you don't tell me where you either cracked your head or suffered the worst damage."
His hands came up and braced himself from the soft impact while his body shifted to keep the weight off his leg. He then rolled over and moaned his grievances about this unfair treatment, dramatically as always.
"Maker's breath, no need to be rough. I'm already injured."
He was thankfully smart enough to keep his hands and other limbs out of the way while she pulled him out of the neat patches of leather straps and plates. The leather had taken the blunt of the hits, and dull blades matched with unskilled hands had certainly helped kept his chest clean of fatal injuries. The fact that his ears were ringing was probably nothing but a residue of flat metal sword to flat metal helm.
"I'm fine. A few barbarians putting a Grey Warden down? That'll be the day. Are you doing alright?"
"I've a mind to believe the trap bit harder after your sassed it, too."
She kept her tone to a leveling chill that stood in stark contradiction to her movements that slowed with care for the task at hand. While not a healer it came with the territory to have the know-how for field medicine.
"Chasind are the least of my worries." She said in a quiet voice
For all the barbs hurled, she didn't believe Alistair was slow; she bristled at the accusation, really. Only talented at playing off his troubles with laughing too much. Holding a stem of elfroot between her teeth as she stripped it and rubbed the masticated extract into the bandages and started to wrap the wounds. She didn't tell him it would sting - he was probably already bracing himself.
He yelps out, masking a grimace ineffectively. It was useless. It's going to hurt. They both knew it. Yet he follows it up with a laugh like it was nothing, and quickly goes to brushing it off as well as he can. They've had worst. At least this time, they have a chance to treat the injury immediately. And with her, he could be in no better hands.
Well, except a healer's.
"Oh, you know those sneaky magical traps! One word and they snap! Very sensitive fellows." Alistair's exhaled shakily and sharp inhale passes as soon as the initial sting is over. The elfroot seeped into the wound and he sighed as relieve finally came. He leaned back to his elbows and his eyes fell on her face again.
"Don't you worry. The blood lost won't get me. Not when my love commands it so." He smiled fondly, perhaps too fondly, but his voice boomed as a show of vitality. A convincing act, if it weren't for the loopy smile on his face.
"This is completely unrelated to the amount of my blood that's on the ground, so please don't take this the wrong way especially with my very injured leg in your hands- You. You are a stunning woman. Have I told you that? I hope I have."
They needed Wynne. Or - anyone. Cooler heads prevailed when legs found themselves cracked open by enchanted traps, and Briar had a temper both indomitable and presently a hinderance. She needed her hands to stop shaking and for Alistair's brow to stop sweltering.
"If you didn't tell me then it was the fever."
With a sharp tug she set the bandages around his leg then pressed the flat of her palm against the space between Alistair's shoulder. Enough pressure that it wouldn't hurt but leave him little choice but to ease the weight off his shoulders and against her lap. She wasn't good at this - Alistair wore his heart on his sleeve while all she had given anyone lately is anger. The words didn't come as easily as she wanted.
And people called Alistair obtuse.
"I- Sorry."
Whether she apologized for her rough manner or slow approach to affection was unclear. With one hand she drew slow circles on Alistair's temple with chapped, cool skin of her knuckles while her other hand dipped a cloth into a basin of water, wringing it out to dab at his brow.
"But if I have such sway then maybe I can command you to rest."
He laid back on her touch. Alistair is malleable and yet firm; her words, her touch has changed him and he holds them on an alter none can touch. She is his own personal chantry. No, he doesn't actually think that. He's not very good at words and crafting them is as much of a challenge as trying to barter with an Orlesian. But he feels it.
The words sits heavy on his tongue, and weighs him down lest his lofty ideals and too naive heart carries him off. They come out too simple. He blurts them out and sheepishly wish he could have done better than a simple, blunt compliment. It is the best he can do, being brought up in a barn and all. She's here still, he must be doing something right.
He smiled at her apology and closed his eyes, briefly, at her cool hand.
"Ah, you're apologizing. It must be a fevered dream," he chuckled and moved to catch her fingers with his, drawing their palms together on his chest.
"Normally, I would say your wish is my command but if these are - oh, I don't know - my last hours before I stupidly die from a trap after fighting an archdemon! ...Then I would really really prefer to spend them awake, with you. Or I suppose I can come back as a spirit and ...do that."
"Andraste's quim will scorch to the flames before I allow you to speak like that."
Briar bit back, her voice harsh and the grip she held around Alistair's shoulders tightening to a vice-like hold as she gathered him to allow for the bulk of his weight to fall on his lap. They had come this far, and damned if should would allow the lucky blow of a barbarian's trap to take from this hard won love that preserved and grounded whatever humanity she cleaved to.
"Come," She took his good arm and guided it over her shoulders, "I'll carry you on horseback or on my feet to the nearest village if it'll cure you of these dramatics."
He has the nerve in him still to chuckle at her harshness. He'll later attribute it to her pushing him past his insecurities, most of them anyway. A bastard can never have too much of that, but it's better with her. He's braver and bolder with her, even with the little things.
"Oh in that case, hop to it, Hero of Ferelden. It's already spreading. You wouldn't want to have a dramatic one legged, one armed man as a husband. You might as well be married to an Orlesian!" He paused then stifled the sudden tension in his shoulders with an awkward laugh. They haven't really talked about marriage. Love, yes. Marriage, no. Not really. Something left for later, if they survived.
It would make sense to ask rather than assume. He could feel Wynne's mix of amusement and disapproval from where ever she was. Maker, he would never hear the end of this if she knew.
"If... " He drags it on with an inhale through his teeth, stalling for time until his thought rushes out. "If that's what you want. Not the crippled Orlesian part. But you know."
The sound of his laughter washes over her like a balm; flattening raised hackles and taking the tension away from her tightly squared up shoulders. Briar so badly wanted to please him, to understand the more subtle art of bringing comfort to the wounded and dispirited. Noblesse oblige really was a double-edged blade that fashioned her into this bold creature, but rendered her rather deaf to a capacity to empathize with others. Even the people she loved the most.
"I'd sooner marry the dog."
Her voice pushed reedy through her tightening throat as she pressed her forehead against his until her head fell heavily against his shoulder. Dammit, if only he knew the grace in which he expressed his love was one she envied.
"It's everything I want." The cold, damp soil soaked through her knees where they sat, awkwardly to one another and yet she never felt warmer a day in her life then now.
As much as he wanted it to be, it was never going to be perfect. He is hurt, poisoned, metal teeth leaving yet another batch of scars. She is weary and worried, blunt and carrying a weight that found its way to her shoulders. They are cold and the taint in their blood, the faint song that comes at night reminds them they are cursed. There might never be a garden to harvest flowers in or little feet pitter-pattering along wooden floors. But they have this, and it's as good as any. He couldn't wish for more, has no reason to.
"Well, I have been called a dog at times. So, I suppose I'll need to ...thank Morrigan for calling me that more times than necessary? Maker, you make me want to do the strangest things."
Alistair's smile is bright and warm, even as cold sweat drips down his neck. His clammy hand cups her face, brings them cheek to cheek, and he breathlessly says, "My love, my everything is yours to have."
The Wardens live such short lives, it seems fitting that they bind themselves to each other on the field, on the run and doing their gifted duty. Where else would they find the time?
"You will not leave me alone in this world." She pressed the words tight through clenched teeth.
Boots sinking into the wet, muddy earth as she shouldered the bulk of his weight. Half-dragging him towards the nag of well-ridden courser tied to a fat oak on the borders of their camp. The chance it would fall dead before either of them was evident in the low bend to its back and how it hung its head, but damned if Briar wouldn't will it to make at least half the journey necessary to keep Alistair breathing.
"We never let ourselves sacrifice so much that I should let it end here." Her voice was hoarse, desperate as she all but muscled Alistair foot-first into the well worn iron stirrup with her legs bowing under his weight. All of even her impressive strength going into the slim chance of his salvation.
"And leave you alone in this world? Perish the thought," he says before she manhandles him up to his feet.
Alistair is unhelpful; his body is numb and his mind is muddled, elfroot is holding off the bleeding but it's not making his body any less heavy - for him, her and the horse. He does make feeble attempts but his limbs swings about, out of range to the intended target. He causes more problems than not, nearly tripping over her feet, nearly tripping Briar herself, startling the horse to back away and nearly missing his steps. It's with incredible effort that he manages to hoist himself up on the horse.
"I will come back as a spirit and haunt your steps," his already quiet voice trails off as he makes a grab at the reins and misses, tragically.
"Ooh, yes. I know," his voice pitches before it falls back into a murmur, "I'll throw flowers at you when you forget how to smile. You'll never know what hit you. Haha."
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He bursted into nervous laugh, pinched an octave higher from the pain. His childhood was riddled with chantry mothers and sisters scolding him to be quiet, calm down, shut up and stay still. But his name from her lips, her voice carried from her heart, it does the trick better than any chantry enforcer can at settling his nerves.
His face softened from the grimace he held and he smiled, or tried to, to eject the concern from her and reassure her that he's alright. "I would say you're a lovely sight or something equally romantic and foolhardy but you always are! I figure you might be tired of listening to me prattle. But that elfroot is looking quite alright. You think you can spare your ridiculously obsessive collection for me, my dear?"
Alistair reached out and gestured at the mangled metal spiky trap that laid next to him. "Now, doesn't that sound a lot better than help, I got hurt while you were away."
no subject
"You'll still have too much to say long after whatever blood is left in you has been lost."
Already she had a roll of bandages in hand, unfurled with one hand as the other reached for a small dagger strapped to her boot. On bended knee she started to cut at the thick leather plates in his armor to get at his wounds.
"I'll shove the elfroot in your mouth myself if you don't tell me where you either cracked your head or suffered the worst damage."
no subject
"Maker's breath, no need to be rough. I'm already injured."
He was thankfully smart enough to keep his hands and other limbs out of the way while she pulled him out of the neat patches of leather straps and plates. The leather had taken the blunt of the hits, and dull blades matched with unskilled hands had certainly helped kept his chest clean of fatal injuries. The fact that his ears were ringing was probably nothing but a residue of flat metal sword to flat metal helm.
"I'm fine. A few barbarians putting a Grey Warden down? That'll be the day. Are you doing alright?"
no subject
She kept her tone to a leveling chill that stood in stark contradiction to her movements that slowed with care for the task at hand. While not a healer it came with the territory to have the know-how for field medicine.
"Chasind are the least of my worries." She said in a quiet voice
For all the barbs hurled, she didn't believe Alistair was slow; she bristled at the accusation, really. Only talented at playing off his troubles with laughing too much. Holding a stem of elfroot between her teeth as she stripped it and rubbed the masticated extract into the bandages and started to wrap the wounds. She didn't tell him it would sting - he was probably already bracing himself.
"Don't pass out."
no subject
He yelps out, masking a grimace ineffectively. It was useless. It's going to hurt. They both knew it. Yet he follows it up with a laugh like it was nothing, and quickly goes to brushing it off as well as he can. They've had worst. At least this time, they have a chance to treat the injury immediately. And with her, he could be in no better hands.
Well, except a healer's.
"Oh, you know those sneaky magical traps! One word and they snap! Very sensitive fellows." Alistair's exhaled shakily and sharp inhale passes as soon as the initial sting is over. The elfroot seeped into the wound and he sighed as relieve finally came. He leaned back to his elbows and his eyes fell on her face again.
"Don't you worry. The blood lost won't get me. Not when my love commands it so." He smiled fondly, perhaps too fondly, but his voice boomed as a show of vitality. A convincing act, if it weren't for the loopy smile on his face.
"This is completely unrelated to the amount of my blood that's on the ground, so please don't take this the wrong way especially with my very injured leg in your hands- You. You are a stunning woman. Have I told you that? I hope I have."
no subject
"If you didn't tell me then it was the fever."
With a sharp tug she set the bandages around his leg then pressed the flat of her palm against the space between Alistair's shoulder. Enough pressure that it wouldn't hurt but leave him little choice but to ease the weight off his shoulders and against her lap. She wasn't good at this - Alistair wore his heart on his sleeve while all she had given anyone lately is anger. The words didn't come as easily as she wanted.
And people called Alistair obtuse.
"I- Sorry."
Whether she apologized for her rough manner or slow approach to affection was unclear. With one hand she drew slow circles on Alistair's temple with chapped, cool skin of her knuckles while her other hand dipped a cloth into a basin of water, wringing it out to dab at his brow.
"But if I have such sway then maybe I can command you to rest."
no subject
The words sits heavy on his tongue, and weighs him down lest his lofty ideals and too naive heart carries him off. They come out too simple. He blurts them out and sheepishly wish he could have done better than a simple, blunt compliment. It is the best he can do, being brought up in a barn and all. She's here still, he must be doing something right.
He smiled at her apology and closed his eyes, briefly, at her cool hand.
"Ah, you're apologizing. It must be a fevered dream," he chuckled and moved to catch her fingers with his, drawing their palms together on his chest.
"Normally, I would say your wish is my command but if these are - oh, I don't know - my last hours before I stupidly die from a trap after fighting an archdemon! ...Then I would really really prefer to spend them awake, with you. Or I suppose I can come back as a spirit and ...do that."
no subject
Briar bit back, her voice harsh and the grip she held around Alistair's shoulders tightening to a vice-like hold as she gathered him to allow for the bulk of his weight to fall on his lap. They had come this far, and damned if should would allow the lucky blow of a barbarian's trap to take from this hard won love that preserved and grounded whatever humanity she cleaved to.
"Come," She took his good arm and guided it over her shoulders, "I'll carry you on horseback or on my feet to the nearest village if it'll cure you of these dramatics."
no subject
"Oh in that case, hop to it, Hero of Ferelden. It's already spreading. You wouldn't want to have a dramatic one legged, one armed man as a husband. You might as well be married to an Orlesian!" He paused then stifled the sudden tension in his shoulders with an awkward laugh. They haven't really talked about marriage. Love, yes. Marriage, no. Not really. Something left for later, if they survived.
It would make sense to ask rather than assume. He could feel Wynne's mix of amusement and disapproval from where ever she was. Maker, he would never hear the end of this if she knew.
"If... " He drags it on with an inhale through his teeth, stalling for time until his thought rushes out. "If that's what you want. Not the crippled Orlesian part. But you know."
no subject
"I'd sooner marry the dog."
Her voice pushed reedy through her tightening throat as she pressed her forehead against his until her head fell heavily against his shoulder. Dammit, if only he knew the grace in which he expressed his love was one she envied.
"It's everything I want." The cold, damp soil soaked through her knees where they sat, awkwardly to one another and yet she never felt warmer a day in her life then now.
no subject
"Well, I have been called a dog at times. So, I suppose I'll need to ...thank Morrigan for calling me that more times than necessary? Maker, you make me want to do the strangest things."
Alistair's smile is bright and warm, even as cold sweat drips down his neck. His clammy hand cups her face, brings them cheek to cheek, and he breathlessly says, "My love, my everything is yours to have."
The Wardens live such short lives, it seems fitting that they bind themselves to each other on the field, on the run and doing their gifted duty. Where else would they find the time?
no subject
Boots sinking into the wet, muddy earth as she shouldered the bulk of his weight. Half-dragging him towards the nag of well-ridden courser tied to a fat oak on the borders of their camp. The chance it would fall dead before either of them was evident in the low bend to its back and how it hung its head, but damned if Briar wouldn't will it to make at least half the journey necessary to keep Alistair breathing.
"We never let ourselves sacrifice so much that I should let it end here." Her voice was hoarse, desperate as she all but muscled Alistair foot-first into the well worn iron stirrup with her legs bowing under his weight. All of even her impressive strength going into the slim chance of his salvation.
"Not like this."
no subject
Alistair is unhelpful; his body is numb and his mind is muddled, elfroot is holding off the bleeding but it's not making his body any less heavy - for him, her and the horse. He does make feeble attempts but his limbs swings about, out of range to the intended target. He causes more problems than not, nearly tripping over her feet, nearly tripping Briar herself, startling the horse to back away and nearly missing his steps. It's with incredible effort that he manages to hoist himself up on the horse.
"I will come back as a spirit and haunt your steps," his already quiet voice trails off as he makes a grab at the reins and misses, tragically.
"Ooh, yes. I know," his voice pitches before it falls back into a murmur, "I'll throw flowers at you when you forget how to smile. You'll never know what hit you. Haha."