leliana

[leliana]

I know what it is but I'm hoping that all is well
no harvest of green but it's still my heart to sell

He hadn’t come for her.

Each day passed and that fact didn’t change. He did not come for her. She haunted the places where they had first met, his breath on her cheek waking him up; she wandered the borders of Tephra, the water lapping at her ankles, as she looked out toward where she knew the island lay waiting, the knowledge that he was there, just out of sight, causing an ache to grow within her bones.

Eventually, she had accepted that he wasn’t going to follow her; that all he had wanted was one night. It hurt—more than she had ever expected. She tried to think around it, to throw herself into the work of healing, but no matter how exhausted she was at the end of the day, he was there. She could not sleep, not without dreaming him, and so she took to wandering, searching for something she knew was impossible.

Tonight, as she walked, her wings were that familiar onyx of his hide, the appendages of them visible with ivory; it hurt to carry a piece of him with her, such as tangible reminder, but it felt suiting tonight. She wrapped the leather of them around her barrel, the weight similar to when he had done the same.

But it was different. It wasn’t him.

The copper hit her first, and she swung her head up, nostrils flaring. The scream came second. She did not hesitate; instead, she flung herself forward, the branches lightly scraping her sides as she hunted for the source of the sound, the source of that smell. It was too much blood. Too much. She could taste how thick it was on the air and she knew, in the twisting of her gut, that it was death. This wasn’t just an injury.

Her nerves skittered, but she didn't stop.

She had never tried to heal someone this close to death, but she could try. She had to.

When she burst through a break in the trees and saw him, it felt like the air rushed out of her. He was on the floor, bleeding more than she had ever seen him bleed. The rib sticking out from his barrel was different than the rest of the bones that covered him; it was abnormal, painful, piercing flesh that even his body knew to keep knit together. She cried out and then pushed her gift forward, pressing it on urgently.

His name was on her lips, but she couldn’t waste the effort to say it.

Everything within her focused on this one task, this one monumentally important moment. She gulped in the air, winded, the strands of healing moving quickly through him. It did not take a short amount of time. An hour had passed before she knew it, and she felt her neck slick with sweat, the red tendrils of her hair sticking to it, but, still, there was more to do. She had fixed the worst of it, brought his bone back to its rightful place, sewed up the flesh, but she could feel infection brewing, internal organs crying out.

She hit her knees in exhaustion and groaned against her teeth, but continued moving her way through him; every inch of her ached to touch him, but she knew if she did, she’d lose her concentration, she would lose her focus, and she couldn’t risk that. She needed every inch of whatever gift had been bestowed upon her. (If only, she thought wildly. If only Exist was here too. She needed her sister.)

Finally—finally—it was done.

The bruises vanished, the blood staunched, the skin pressed back together.

Her eyes fluttered open, vision blurry, as she looked at him, and her gift recoiled, settling into her chest. Good. He was good. She could see his chest rising and falling. She reached out, muzzle brushing the part of him she could reach, touching the tip of his nose, before she felt her consciousness slipping.

She slumped to the earth, body falling to the blood-soaked forest floor, and let the darkness claim her.

I put everything I had into something that didn't grow
like going on a wild hunt, shooting arrows without a bow