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I'm liking the “You need to keep your eyes open. Just a little longer.” from the hurt / comfort dialogue list. For whoever you're in the mood for writing.
hurt/comfort dialogue | @dadrunkwriting
Kind of a loose sequel to Blood of the Lion. Warnings for blood and serious injuries.
Blood of the Crow
Alistair is there when she wakes up. She must have been out a while, because he is dead asleep, bathed in the morning sunlight filtering through the material of the canvas overhead. She feels like she’s coming out of the worst migraine of her life. Her head is pounding, her vision is somewhat blurry, and her mouth tastes as if she might have been sick at some point, and then cleaned her teeth. Alistair will know what happened, she decides. She reaches out to prod him awake, and finds her hand bandaged and splinted.
She reached up instinctively, aiming to catch his wrist, but the blade plunged through her hand instead.
Eireann bolts upright, and instantly regrets it. The pain in her head stabs sharper. She tips over, onto her elbow, and suddenly Alistair is up and alert.
“It’s alright, Eireann,” he says, softly. “You’re going to be alright.”
Poison. Of course the blade was poisoned. She was going to die in the dirt, with only her murderer for company.
It’s coming back to her, but in bits and pieces, flashes she can’t put together. Someone attacked her, she knows that much, but she can’t remember how she survived. Her throat is so dry. “Can I have some water?” she manages to ask.
“Oh, yes. Yes, of course.” He moves an arm up her back to cradle her. Her face ends up pressed into his chest, which is beautifully warm even if it does make breathing a little difficult. She might even enjoy it, if she wasn’t so confused. He clumsily shifts her to hold her head, and pours water sip by sip into her mouth.
He was leaning over her. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but there was only blood splashing into her own mouth.
Alistair sets the waterskin down, and pulls her a little tighter to him. “Eireann, you’re safe.”
It’s a lovely, sweet gesture, but it isn’t what she’s worried about. No, there’s something else, but her addled mind can’t parse it. She turns her face back towards Alistair’s chest, throat tight and aching, tears soaking into his shirt. “He was hurt,” she cries. “I hurt someone…I don’t…”
He fell on the blade of her staff. He was wearing armour, but the silverite sliced through it as though it were butter. For an electric moment, Eireann stared into his honey-coloured eyes, old eyes that had seen too much. Brown skin, golden hair. Pointed ears, pierced like hers, and small for an elf – perhaps there was some human blood in him. The left side of his face was marked with sweeping black curves. They way he looked at her, it was like he was seeing her for the first time, and he almost smiled.
“Eireann, he tried to kill you,” Alistair says, firmly. “He - Zevran, his name is - he told us everything when we found you. You hurt him when you fought back.”
Yes, that makes sense. He must have tackled her to the ground, and then stabbed her through the hand. She will have thrown him off, and grabbed her staff, and then he ran into the blade. That’s why he was leaning over her. And then…
Cradling the wounded hand to her chest, Eireann forced herself to her knees beside him. Her vision swam, but she clung with a vice grip to consciousness. He was still watching her.
“Jus…jusa lil longer,” she slurred out. She remembers how angry she was that her mouth wouldn’t work. “Keep yur eyes opn…”
Her right hand began to glow, as she passed it over the split in his armour. The split in his flesh. She could only summon a fraction of her mana, but she poured everything she had into him. It wasn’t enough to seal it completely, but it might just make it survivable.
Eireann looks up, with a wan smile. “I remember. I saved him.”
Alistair smiles back. “You did.” But the smile slips from his face, and now he’s the one confused. “Why?”
She doesn’t know. Well, that’s not true. She knows the reason, but she hadn’t even thought at the time, and she has no idea how to convey it. After Ostagar, and Redcliffe, and the Circle, it was all too much. So much death and suffering and fear. The thought that her life would end with her causing yet more of it…
It takes her several minutes, but eventually she finds the words.
“I was dying,” she says. “I didn’t want the last thing I ever did to be killing someone.”
Alistair chuckles, but not derisively. Almost as if he’s chiding himself for not knowing already. “You really are a rare person, Eireann.”
Eireann can’t quite manage a laugh, but she hopes the smile and sharp exhale get the same message across. “Is he still here?”
Alistair nods.
“I need to talk to him.”
“Not now,” Alistair insists, with an authority she hasn’t seen before. “You need to rest.”
“Will you stay with me?” she asks.
“I have so far,” he replies. “Yes, of course I will.”
Ever so gently, he lowers her back to the bedroll, brushing her hair away from her face. With her uninjured hand, she tugs on his shirt. She couldn’t pull him down on a good day, let alone in this state, but he takes the hint and stretches out beside her. His body is warm next to hers.
“Wait,” she mumbles, before she drifts off. “How did you find me?”
Alistair breathes another laugh. “Let’s just say, that dog of yours is starting to grow on me.”
Her right hand gripped Mabu’s harness, with the last of her strength. “Don’ let thm leave him.”
As last words go, they wouldn’t have been the worst.
You know that “Why would I care about her?” “Because I care about her!” bit that’s going around on TikTok? Everyone that’s like ‘Oh, that’s Alistair & Anora about the Warden,’ same, but it’s the opposite for me, because I spared Loghain during an Alistairmance.
This is the first half of my latest offering to the Maker. It’s too long to upload in its entirety so if you like this and want the full expierence, head over to youtube :)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Barely a week after the assassination attempt, Eireann is back on her feet, and running training drills with Wynne. Alistair had implored her to rest a while longer, but the Blight waits for no one, regardless of a recent poisoning, mana exhaustion, or a left hand that has been impaled and now barely works. She had agreed to frequent breaks, and for Alistair to watch her like a hawk for any sign she needs to stop for the day.
Thankfully, Zevran has made himself scarce, so Alistair doesn’t have to watch him like a hawk as well. He’s caused enough trouble.
Eireann comes to sit opposite him, in one of her many breaks. She tries to open her waterskin, but the fingers of her injured hand can’t grip the stopper properly.
“I’ll help you,” he offers.
“No, it’s fine,” she insists, more than a little sharply. “I need to figure out how to do it.”
She holds her hand out, examining the wound, and to Alistair’s utter horror, there are tears beginning to well in her eyes. His own hand seems to move without his input. He presses it to hers, palm to palm, stretching his fingers to match. Well, the trajectory matches. Her fingers come to an end a good half-inch before his own, but it’s the thought that counts.
“Your hands are very small,” he says, lamely, and immediately regrets it. Good way to cheer someone up, that, insulting a part of their body. She looks from their hands to his face and back again, and then she does something marvellous. She laughs.
“Me?” she says, voice squeaky with both the aftermath of tearing up and incredulity at his statement. “Your hands are huge! You’re huge!”
“No, no, Sten is huge,” argues Alistair. “I’m big for a human, maybe. You’re smaller than everyone else.”
“I’m taller than” – she looks around the camp, and finds herself wanting – “Mabu! I’m taller than Mabu.”
“Really?” he asks. “Even when she’s standing up?”
“All-fours is standing up, for a dog,” she retorts.
Alistair gives her a mischievous grin. “Oh, Mabu?”
“Alright! Alright, you win this one,” Eireann admits. “Mabu is taller than me standing up.”
Still, her face curls into her own mischievous little grin. She twists her hand to the side. Before he can speculate on what she’s doing, she weaves her fingers between his, and closes her hand.
Well, as much as she can close it. Her fingers are lax, her grip is distinctly loose. She can see it too. She stares again at her injured hand, and her bottom lip quivers as the gravity of her new limitations hits her all over again. She may never be able to hold her staff, or open her waterskin, or even hold a hand the same way again.
Alistair closes his own hand, squeezing softly, but insistently. “I want to help,” he says. “Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it.”
There are still tears in Eireann’s eyes, but she smiles as they spill over her cheeks. “This helps,” she says, squeezing his hand softly back.
