Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Five: Waiting on Hope

I went back to the room -- apparently the captain's quarters, which he was quick to assure me he would have given us from the start had he known who we were; I would never have allowed that, though I was more than grateful for it now -- and sat back down at Alistair's bedside. He hadn't moved, his colour still wan, his skin clammy. The guard, who assured me nothing untoward had happened while I was gone, relocated to the hallway, leaving me alone with my unconscious husband.

Someone had moved our things while I was meeting with the others, so I requested a couple of empty buckets -- the captain looked confused, but provided them without comment -- and proceeded to fill them with warm water from the shower head I retrieved from my pack. At this point, I don't care in the slightest if someone asks about the water, frankly. With some cloths and a bar of soap hidden in the bottom of my bag, I started cleaning up my husband.

It took a long time until I was satisfied; he was covered in blood and sweat from head to toe, his trousers were a complete loss, and the man was seriously built -- which meant heavy as hell. I ended up needing help from his guard to gently roll him side to side so I could wash him down, rebandage his wounds, and redress him in clean clothes. Once I was done, I locked the door and repeated the process for myself -- even washing my hair in one of the buckets -- but the entire time, I didn't take my eyes off the motionless, pale form on the bed for more than a few seconds.

The fact that he didn't flinch, even when moving him -- which had to be agonising -- worried me more than I could say; I'd somehow been counting on the fact that his unconsciousness was just a reaction to the pain, maybe, and that he'd wake up shortly. I pressed kisses to his forehead, his eyelids, his unresponsive lips, tears flowing freely as I begged him to wake up.

Aedan and Zevran found me there a while later, sitting anxiously on the chair holding my husband's hand. They left me with multiple vials of healing potions and promises to be back as soon as possible. Zevran looked like hell, and wouldn't even make eye contact; I forced a hug, but he held himself stiffly, and I knew he was blaming himself. I had to hope that he'd feel better once he'd helped find us a healer. If not...well, we'd deal with that problem when we came to it. No point in borrowing trouble, Sierra.

I felt it the moment the ship docked in Wycome; we'd clearly made good time, because I didn't think it had even been the four hours the captain had promised. With one last hug and kiss from Aedan, they were off.

And I was alone.

Well, not entirely alone. There were guards, obviously, though we were down three from our initial ten, a fact which hadn't quite hit home for me yet. I wondered when I'd get yelled at by Avanna for not telling her our suspicions about Dera, but was grateful she seemed to have decided to wait. I didn't even want to think about the letters of condolence I would have to send when I got back to the Peak.

The captain was nothing if not helpful, bringing me food and bandages and anything else he could think of. I wondered how the crew was faring, having lost three of their own -- and apparently being betrayed by their bosun -- but it wasn't really my place to ask, even if I'd had the presence of mind to think about it all that hard. I suppose it isn't that surprising my attention is rather focused somewhere else at the moment.

And then there was Fergus. At first he would pop in just for a moment here or there, but he took to staying longer and longer each time. I had refused to leave Alistair again, eating at his bedside and catching a few minutes of sleep in the chair in between efforts to coax water into him and keep him clean. His fever came and went, and he would sweat profusely each time it showed up; I'd give him a little bit of healing potion and cool him with damp cloths until it went away. And Fergus just watched me silently; I was too tired to tell him to go away.

"You'll still have your status, even if he doesn't survive," he finally ventured, the first time he really spoke to me.

"What?" I was half asleep, clinging to Alistair's hand like I could transfer some of my life into him if I tried hard enough.

"I'm just saying, Cailan isn't going to disown you just because your husband died. You'd still be a Steward, still have Soldier's Peak."

I stared at him, completely stunned. I wasn't sure if he was trying to offend me, or if in his warped mind, this would somehow be reassuring. I thought of a million possible responses as I sat there: I could deny that I cared about titles and land holdings without Alistair by my side, or rage at him for being such an insensitive jerk, or try to explain that I actually loved my husband, didn't just see him as a meal ticket...but in the end, it wasn't even worth it.

He wasn't worth it.

"Get out." My voice was calm and quiet, probably barely loud enough to be heard.

Fergus looked at me strangely, like I'd just grown a second head. "What?"

"Out. Get out of our room. I may not be able to kick you off the boat, or completely out of our lives, but I can certainly kick you out of our room, your Grace." Aedan had nothing on me for sarcastic use of a title. "Leave now before I have my guards remove you. And don't come back -- we're done. I was willing to forgive you for a lot of things, to empathise and be understanding and patient -- but even I've had enough.

"Get. Out."

I must have looked truly frightful, because Fergus examined me for one, brief moment, and then left without another word. I thought I'd want to cry, or at least feel a little guilty, but I didn't. I wasn't even angry. All I felt was numb. I put him out of my mind and turned my attention back to where it belonged -- Alistair.

After a few minutes of silence, Avanna poked her head through the door, clearing her throat to get my attention. I met her gaze, embarrassed by her obvious sympathy. I wonder how much of that she heard.

"Everything all right?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Need anything?"

I shook my head.

"You know where to find me." She smiled at me and popped back outside, leaving me alone with my unconscious husband. Again.

Watching my husband lie there, unresponsive, slowly worsening, was, without a doubt, the worst thing I'd ever experienced. His fever started coming on stronger, taking more of the healing potion to keep at bay, with shorter periods of relief in between. He alternated sweating through his clothes with shivering uncontrollably, his complexion going first just sallow, and eventually distinctly yellow, until he looked like someone had coloured all over him with a neon yellow highliter. And all I could do was sit there holding his hand, hoping for Aedan to come back quickly.

I'd never prayed so much in my short life.

I talked to him, while I sat; back on Earth I'd read an article that claimed coma patients could hear, even if they couldn't respond, and I figured it couldn't hurt. I didn't want to talk about what had happened -- it hurt too much to relive, honestly, and I could only assume it would be even worse for him -- and I didn't want to worry him talking about Zevran's withdrawal, or Fergus' revolting assertions, or Aedan being out there somewhere in the Free Marches looking for a healer. So instead I told him stories from my childhood, or speculated about our future, the fairy tale happy ending that I foresaw for us if he would just wake up.

By the end of the second day, the only way to keep the shivers at bay was for me to climb into the bed with him, using my body heat underneath the covers to try to warm him; when he sweated, all I could do was wipe him down with cool cloths and wait for it to stop. The healing potions were almost gone, so I was rationing them out, trying to wait longer and longer between each dose. I knew he was losing more fluid in sweat than I was getting into him drop by painstaking drop, and I wondered how long it would be until dehydration was almost as big a concern as whatever was clearly affecting his liver.

Aedan hadn't contacted me on the sending stone; I'd tried to call him, but he hadn't responded. I couldn't decide if that was a good sign -- perhaps he was too busy tracking down a mage and dragging them back to the ship -- or a bad one -- he could have been halfway to Ansburg, for all I knew, with no hope in sight for days.

It didn't help that I could tell the captain was getting antsy; we had planned to change ships in Wycome anyway, and the boat we were on was scheduled to continue further north along the coast. The captain was careful never to show his impatience, but I knew he had to be eager to have us disembark so he could get on his way to Bastion and eventually Antiva City. Unfortunately, there was no way we could move Alistair, as sick as he was -- and I wasn't going to do anything to make it harder for Aedan to find us when he returned.

Fortunately, for all that Fergus had complied with my request and had left us alone, he had spoken to the captain and ensured that the ship wasn't going anywhere until Aedan returned. I didn't know if he paid him, or threatened him...and as long as the ship stayed put, I didn't care.

On the third day, I sent Avanna into the city to try to find more healing potions, or at least ingredients; she returned a few hours later with several small healing potions like the ones I knew how to make -- and a bushel of elfroot, so at least I could make more. They didn't work as well as the larger, more concentrated potions Aedan had given me, but they were better than nothing. The fever was nearly constant, now, despite my best efforts.

Alistair's condition continued to deteriorate; his legs became swollen, his abdomen bloated, and his breathing erratic and shallow. The shivers became more violent, and there were times I had to use my entire body weight to pin his hands so he didn't hurt himself, or me, with the strength of his reaction. I tried again to contact Aedan, but again there was no response. I'd barely slept, sitting at Alistair's bedside, refusing to be separated from him for any reason. If he's going to die -- I winced even thinking the word, and refused to say it out loud -- he won't be alone. I'm with him until the end, whenever that will be.

Please, Maker, if you're listening...not yet. I'm not ready yet.

The long days with little sleep, spending hours trying to warm or cool or hydrate Alistair, took their toll; by the fourth day, I was dropping off to sleep mid-meal, even mid-conversation, with my head flopped down on the side of the bed and my hand still clamped around Alistair's. You'd think by now I'd have had enough experience with sleep deprivation to withstand it better. I stubbornly resisted any attempts to move me to a different room, or to convince me to sleep. And other than lifting him as needed, I refused any help caring for him. I couldn't have said why, really, except that letting someone else do something as intimate as washing Alistair just felt...wrong.

And that's where Aedan found me on the fifth day when he came back, his cloak torn, his armour filthy, his face bloodied. I didn't even get a chance to ask the obvious questions -- where he'd been, why he hadn't answered, why there was ash in his hair -- before I was distracted by a second man who was followed into the room by a sour-looking, equally dishevelled Zevran. The stranger had dark hair, olive skin, and a goatee; he wore robes, and I would have sobbed with relief if I hadn't been so tired I couldn't even stand.

"This is Larus," Aedan informed me.

Without further explanation, the mage stepped forward, hands out, and I felt an aura similar to Wynne's as he began one of those diagnostic scans all healers seemed to know how to do; after a few minutes, he grunted, his expression unreadable. He exchanged a look with Aedan, nodded to himself briefly, took a deep breath, and settled onto the side of the bed to start healing.

At first I watched Larus, his skin tone looking odd in the turquoise light emanating from his hands, but he didn't seem to even notice. So I switched to watching Alistair instead, hoping wildly for him to open his eyes, squeeze my hands...something. Anything.

It took hours; no matter how tired I was, I stayed awake, waiting, hoping. When the healer gestured, someone provided Lyrium potions; when he muttered instructions, I scrambled to administer some of the more concentrated healing potions that Aedan had procured from somewhere. At his urging, I kept dribbling water into Alistair's mouth as fast as I could manage, trying to keep him hydrated for long enough for the mage to do what was necessary.

At some point, completely drained and unable to go on -- and unwilling to give any sort of prognosis, to my utter frustration -- Larus stumbled off to sleep for a few hours, and Aedan sat with me, sitting silent vigil to my still comatose husband.

I tried to be stoic, but it didn't take long before I found myself sobbing into my brother's shoulder, the days of uncertainty and fear taking their toll. It wasn't as if Aedan could do anything else to help, but I felt better for having him there, offering his support and comfort freely. For the millionth time, I gave thanks to whatever -- or whoever -- had given me such a wonderful bother.

When he asked, I choked out the story of how I'd banished Fergus from our rooms; Aedan was furious -- again -- and I thought the only thing that stopped him from going and pounding him was that it would require leaving me alone. I decided distraction was key.

"How's Zev coping?" I asked. "I figured he'd take this sort of thing...poorly."

Aedan nodded, his hands fisting in his damp hair. "Poorly about covers it, yeah. I've...well, I asked the captain to prevent anyone from going ashore without talking to me first."

"You think he'd run?" I was horrified by the mere thought of it. Aedan without Zevran would be like the sky without stars. I couldn't even imagine it.

"For our safety, if he thought it would work...if he thought he could draw attention away from us? Yeah, he would. After he helped us find a healer, of course."

"Speaking of healers..." I changed the subject again, knowing there was nothing I could say to make either Aedan or Zevran feel better. "Going to tell me where you found him?" I finally asked.

Aedan had taken the time to clean up, now clad only in loose-fitting trousers and tunic, his hair damp and clean. He snorted. "A Chantry in a tiny town between Wycome and Ansburg."

"A Chantry?"

"Yeah. They were so proud of themselves for capturing an 'evil apostate' that the templars had told everyone they had him. He had claimed to be from Tevinter, told them he was a healer, but they took him anyway."

"So did you use the Right of Conscription?"

He shook his head, a wry smile on his face. "Didn't even try. It was pretty clear from the way they paraded the poor man around after they captured him that they'd never let him go, especially since we're not local."

"So...?"

He smirked. "There may have been a fire."

"A fire?" I raised my eyebrow. "You set fire to the Chantry?"

"Well, I didn't." His smile widened.

"Nice, bro; make your boyfriend do your dirty work."

He laughed. "No, Zevran didn't set any fires either. There was a group of unhappy townspeople who had lost the healer who'd been helping them out -- let's just say it didn't take a lot of prodding to get them to march on the Chantry...with torches. And then one thing led to another..."

"And you stole the healer they were trying to get back."

"Well, to be fair, he wasn't keen on staying there either -- they'd been basically blackmailing him to stay."

I shook my head fondly. "Only you. So, what are you going to do with him now?"

"Well, in return for coming here and healing Alistair, we agreed to help him find his companion."

"Companion?"

Aedan's smile turned grim. "He had been traveling with an elf." At my curious look, he elaborated, "He left Tevinter because he was in love with an elf, and a magister wouldn't be permitted to have an actual relationship with a slave." He nodded when I gaped. "Right? So they left Tevinter together and came south. They separated when they went into town to buy supplies, and he made the mistake of healing a kid who fell off a horse. The townspeople who saw him helped him hide -- and then kept bringing him more people to heal. And when he tried to leave, they threatened to call the templars. He hasn't seen her since they separated, and we saw no sign of her in town."

My exhaustion might have been contributing to it, but the story made me go teary-eyed. "Oh, Maker, what happened to her? Aedan..."

"I know." He winced, his expression guilty. "I know. And we will help find her...but Alistair was dying, so we dragged him back here first."

"And then what?" I chewed my lip anxiously. "We can't just...stay here while he tries to find a random elf. And even if we could find her...what will happen to them? A mage on the run, and an escaped slave..."

Aedan sighed. "I don't know. We'll just...we'll figure something out, I guess." He took my hand and squeezed it. "I'm going to go get some food. I'll bring some back for you—" He gave me a dirty look when I tried to decline. "Don't even. I'm going to watch you eat every bite, too, sister. I'll also bring some for Larus, for when he wakes up." He stood up and kissed my forehead before heading down to the ship's galley.

By the time Larus woke, I had eaten more than I had in days, my stomach practically bulging from all the food Aedan had cajoled into me; the mage was also ravenous, but returned to healing as soon as he'd finished his meal. He was a little more positive than before he'd gone to sleep, pointing out that Alistair's fever had not returned in the hours that Larus slept, and his complexion was somewhat less garishly yellow as well. He still made no promises, refusing to discuss the details of the exact nature of Alistair's injuries or how he intended to fix them.

It would have been amusing if it hadn't been so serious; I got the impression that no one had ever questioned Magister Larus before, and he'd never had to explain or justify his actions. He seemed almost offended that we were asking for details, as though it indicated a lack of trust in his abilities. His overall attitude was rather superior, though I elected not to point that out; I wondered how he had managed to survive outside the Imperium without pissing off most of the people he met. It occurred to me to be concerned about his elven companion, and how much consent was really involved in that relationship. Perhaps the reason she's missing is that she took the opportunity to run? A problem for another day.

Healing internal injuries wasn't at all interesting to watch; at least external injuries changed in appearance as the healing progressed, but I had no way of knowing what the mage was accomplishing with Alistair's organs. That didn't stop me from watching regardless -- I wasn't going anywhere until my husband woke up, or...

I refused to consider that line of thinking any further.

The amount of extended concentration Larus was able to bring to the task was rather impressive, I had to admit. He didn't stop or falter, didn't so much as wipe the sweat from his brow for hours. The only pause in his healing was to ask for -- and drink -- Lyrium potions as necessary. And I was able to anticipate his requests from the feel of his aura, something which earned me a few speculative looks.

By the time he was finished, I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open; I was resting my head on Alistair's bed, unable to hold myself straight in the chair any longer, though my grip on his hand hadn't loosened any. I heard Aedan speaking to Larus and couldn't bring myself to make sense of their conversation. Even Fergus' voice couldn't rouse me from my stupor. I shrugged Aedan's grip off my shoulder when he tried to pull me away; I might have been barely conscious, but I was aware enough for that. Aedan and Larus spoke some more -- whether to me or to each other, I didn't even care to find out. Finally I felt an unfamiliar hand on my forehead.