Eleven: Nathaniel
Knight-Commander Greagoir was a fine templar, Nate had to keep reminding himself as he listened to the man drone on and on about the mages that were supposedly at risk, assigned willy-nilly to various battalions, some – the Dalish, Nate amended in his mind – without templar guards. Greagoir was probably a talented individual with many fine qualities, the nobleman assured himself – but brevity was not one of them.
And the ridiculous conversation he was having – for at least the fifth time since he'd arrived in the Chantry's camp – was not getting any less infuriating the longer it drew out.
"Have you been with any of the battalions when they've encountered darkspawn?" Nate demanded, interrupting the persistent bastard before he could wind up for another long-winded complaint. "We simply cannot afford to alienate the Dalish by trying to arrest their mages; we need them, as messengers and archers if nothing else, if we want to win this fight. Have you forgotten Ostagar already? Not to mention, if you did try to detain them all, the dwarves and elves would join forces to stop you. I'll take my chances with mages becoming possessed over the Archdemon, Knight-Commander."
The odious old hag – er, Revered Mother – that stood beside him opened her mouth; even Greagoir frowned, his face wrinkling subtly in distaste, but Nathaniel, seeing the movement he'd been waiting for, cut her off before she could start. "That's the final word, on behalf of King Cailan, your Reverence. And I must go – His Majesty will be waiting for my report."
He turned and deliberately did not run away, instead walking quickly but calmly toward the Commie's tent. He'd stationed himself there after taking lunch with the Knight-Commander, and had been waiting ever since, knowing that if he wasn't quick, he'd miss her.
She was conversing quietly with the Commie – he couldn't hear the words, but the redhead leaned in and chuckled, a rich sound that carried across the tent, though her face was shrouded in shadow from the deep hood she'd kept pulled forward to shield her from the interminable rain. In the dim light, she looked much more dark and mysterious than normal, but to his eyes, instead of being intimidating or worrisome, she looked even more beautiful. He couldn't stop staring, so it was no surprise that she caught him, and he knew – even though he couldn't see – that her cheeks would have flushed like a shy maiden's, and her lips pulled back in an embarrassed smile. It made the corners of his own lips twitch, which he knew she'd notice, and he coughed and finally looked away.
He stepped back outside before the Commie could spot him – there was another who could talk the ear off a druffalo; it seemed to be something of a pattern for this particular camp – and stood by her horse, tightening the saddle's straps on his own while he waited. She wasn't long, and he looked up as she stepped outside the tent and froze for the briefest moment when she saw him ready to go.
"I don't know what to say, that I have the pleasure of your company twice in a day." She raised one artful eyebrow in the perfect expression of confusion – entirely fake, he was certain – and it was all he could do not to laugh. "I suppose I should feel quite special, or...something."
"Or something," he agreed, and she chuckled again. "Safety in numbers, and all that – not that I wasn't abandoned alone on the way here despite arranging myself companionship." He smirked, and her chuckle turned into a bright peal of laughter.
She approached, closer than she might have chosen since he stood next to her horse, and he held his hands out low, fingers woven together. "I'm sure you're tired, after all that riding; care for a hand up?"
She didn't quite roll her eyes, but her cheeks flushed again and he bit his lip aggressively to avoid laughing. She placed one booted foot in his makeshift stirrup, and he boosted her into her saddle. She waited for him to mount his own steed before turning and clucking to her mare softly. Nate spurred his own horse into a walk, and they left the camp together, not talking as they wove through tents and templars, sisters and camp followers.
The first half of their journey was quiet; both seemed uncertain where to start, and so neither did. The silence stretched out until it should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn't. Nate wasn't the type to talk endlessly about nothing, but he was still surprised by how content he was just walking alongside the beautiful bard.
It would have been perfect, in fact, if it hadn't been raining; it had drizzled on and off all day, though he'd managed to avoid the worst of it hiding in the command tent of the Chantry's encampment, but he'd rather hoped it would stop for the duration of their shared journey. He didn't have that much luck, though, he mused as he pulled the hood of his own cloak up higher and shivered as a rivulet of water snuck inside the damp cloth and trickled down his neck. It was hard to consider having a conversation with both of them hunched against the rain, both of their faces obscured by cloaks, but Nate was determined not to waste the little time alone he'd ever managed to eke out with the woman he hadn't stopped thinking about in months.
He opened his mouth to say something – anything – when he was unexpectedly flying through the air, head over heels as he was thrown from his horse. He saw a flash of grey as he flew, and heard growling, then heard the bard call out; he hit the trunk of a large sturdy tree on the side of the path, and the world went black.
Twelve: Leliana
If he hadn't been turning to look at her, Leliana knew, he would not have missed the pack of Blight wolves that suddenly appeared in their path – and he'd never have fallen off his horse. He'd shown himself to be a good horseman, and she was experienced enough to know from his stance that he was probably better than she'd seen so far. But he'd had his mouth open, his eyes wide, and he hadn't known the wolves were there until he'd been airborne. She thought she'd probably always feel a little bit guilty about that.
At the moment, however, she had no time for guilt; she pulled out her bow and nocked an arrow without a moment's hesitation, and loosed, skewering the first wolf to the ground, too far from her or Nathaniel to worry about for a little while. The second wolf took two arrows to fell, one in its chest and one lucky shot in the eye. Nate's horse did for the third – the poor beast was going to have to be put out of its misery after being bitten, but its hooves had caved in the skull of the Blighted creature just the same.
Leliana had managed to pull her horse around before it had caught a glimpse of the foes they faced, but the smell was still strong, musky and just wrong somehow, and it wasn't going to be long before she was fighting her mount as well as the wolves. She slid from the saddle and slapped the mare on the rump; panicked, it ran off into the woods. One wolf took off after it with a howl, but Leli knew her horse was one of the fastest in the army's stables – she'd probably be fine.
That left her with – she thought about it for a moment; had there been six wolves total, or seven? – three wolves, probably, though she could only see two from where she stood, not counting the immobilized one. Nocking another arrow, she fired at the nearest one even as it leaped at her, and it fell, whimpering, at her feet, black blood pumping out from a wound in its chest. The last wolf that she could see was on her before she could do anything else, its mouth closing around her left forearm, crushing it; she couldn't feel teeth – the leathers she wore were holding, for now – but she wasn't sure how long that could last. And the pain was nearly overwhelming.
With a cry, she pulled a dagger out of the sheath at her hip, grateful that she'd thought to carry it; she jammed the blade up under the chin of the tainted wolf, having to saw it back and forth a little to get through the thick, corrupted hide of the creature, but with a howl of pain, it released her arm and she managed to slash its throat before it could try anything else.
Panting, both from pain and fear, she crouched and spun, looking for the last wolf, only to hear a grunt and a twang; she turned back to see Nathaniel, blood dripping down the side of his face, expression vague and unfocused, lowering his bow. A wolf fell behind her, his arrow through its neck, and she paled as she realised that if Nathaniel had not woken at just that moment, she'd have been at best bitten – and at worst mauled by the wolf she hadn't seen in time. She'd have been tainted, or dead.
She turned back to Nathaniel in time to see his eyes roll back as he collapsed, bow still in hand.
Dealing with the obvious threats first, she shot the last wolf, the one with a paw pinned to the ground; her aim was off, with the one forearm screaming in agony every time she moved it, and it took three arrows to kill it. The other wolves, she cut their throats – even the apparently dead ones – just for good measure. And then she had to do the same for Nate's stallion; the poor creature was shivering, obviously in pain, but no longer thrashing, and she was able to soothe it enough to get close and put it out of its misery. She stopped to listen, once it was done, but could hear only the wind and the sound of her own, rapid breathing.
Apparently safe, she turned to Nathaniel. The nobleman had a cut overlying a large goose egg on his temple, but otherwise looked unharmed; however, he was unconscious, and no amount of careful prodding seemed to wake him up. He was breathing, though, his pulse strong, and if his short-lived period of consciousness was anything to go by, he'd probably be fine. He looked younger asleep, she noticed, the lines of worry that she hadn't even noticed smoothing out,
Her arm was another matter; she confirmed again that the skin was intact – peeling off her ruined bracer was one of the most painful things she'd ever done – but she was quite certain the forearm was broken. The pain radiated up to her elbow, and her fingers were going numb; she worried she'd lose the hand if something wasn't done quickly.
She considered her options. They were basically in the middle between the two army encampments, too far from either to go on foot; she couldn't leave an unconscious man alone in the woods anyway, and he was too large for her to carry. It was still raining, and she was starting to shiver – and if she was cold, she could only imagine that Nathaniel was freezing, lying on the ground as he was. She dug through the packs on Nate's unfortunate horse and found one small healing poultice; it wouldn't be enough for a head wound – those always healed better with a potion, or better yet, magical healing – but it might be enough to mend her arm. And then she could...
She stopped, trying to suppress her shivers, and think. What could she do then? She'd lost her horse, she had an unconscious nobleman to care for, and Maker only knew if there were more wolves around. They were both risking hypothermia, if they didn't get out of the rain. No one was expecting them, and no one was likely to be using the road until the morning, so they weren't going to be found.
She was going to have to get creative.
Thirteen: Nathaniel
Nathaniel woke with a terrible but familiar taste in his mouth: elfroot. His head ached worse than the worst hangover he'd ever had, and he tried to think back to what he might have been drinking that would have affected him like this. He gradually became aware of the rest of his body, as he thought; his leg was sore, the ribs on one side felt bruised, and he was almost unbearably cold – and slightly damp.
It was this last that convinced him to do something despite the pounding in his head; he reached up to cover his eyes before trying, at first unsuccessfully, to open them. After a couple more attempts, he had adjusted to the flickering light, and he turned his head to the side with a groan, suppressing the urge to vomit.
The ceiling above his head was stone, and the walls around him were as well. He was in a small circular...cave? And the entire thing was lit by the flickering light of a large bonfire just outside the entrance. He appeared to be alone, and he slowly, carefully sat up, holding his head until the dizziness waned. The cave was small – tiny, actually – barely allowing enough headroom for him to sit. As he looked around again, he spied his saddle bags up against the wall beside a stack of firewood, and realised he was sitting on a contraption made of wood and his cloak – a sledge, of sorts. It triggered his memory, and he gasped. The wolves, being thrown from his horse...where was Leliana?
As if thinking her name was some sort of magic, she appeared in the entrance to the cave, her sodden red hair shadowed by the fire behind her. "You're awake!" The relief in her voice was obvious. "Thank the Maker. That elfroot must have done its job." It was still raining outside, and he could see little streams of water pouring off her cloak.
He cleared his throat roughly. "What happened?"
She remained outside, but twisted her body to sit facing in. "We were attacked by Blighted wolves, do you remember? You were thrown from your horse. I managed to kill most of the wolves – except for the one you killed – but they bit your horse and mine ran off. I was lucky to find this cave – but we're stuck here for the night, I think."
He gestured to the wooden structure underneath him. "You pulled me here?" She nodded. "Thank you."
