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“He’s still breathing, and his pulse is regular.”
Zevran’s voice filtered down through Theron’s consciousness. When had he fallen asleep? They’d barely had camp broken for an hour, were walking along the road. How could he have fallen asleep? His eyelids felt so heavy, though. Heavier than his bow, in fact. What…?
“What about his leg?” Someone asked. Leliana?
Speaking of his legs made him focus on them, and the left one in particular. It felt cold, and as if it was a long way away. Sticky, too. Had he cut himself?
“I’m not sure if it can take his weight.”
What?
Theron struggled to open his eyes, and gave up with a frustrated huff. His head hurt. Had he passed out?
“Ah, our brave leader survives.” That dry tone was Morrigan. The Dalish elf could practically see her sneer as she stood over him, perhaps leaning against her staff casually as she waited for him to get up. There was a snuffling sound in his ear, and then Dudain licked his cheek.
“Oh, that can’t be… Dudain, get away from him.” Alistair sighed, and Theron heard the sound of his heavy armour clanking as he moved closer, and the thick smell of mabari disappeared.
What was that about his leg, anyway? What had just happened?
Now he was regaining consciousness he could feel the cool ground at his back, his quiver digging into his shoulderblades awkwardly. If he’d fallen on it, he could only hope he hadn’t snapped any of the arrows. His grip on his bow was weak, his arms stretched out. Yes, he must have fallen.
“Sten, my friend,” Zevran purred again, his voice a little further away than it had been. He must have been crouched over just before, and had straightened up. “Do you think you could carry a certain injured elf?”
No. If his leg was hurt, he could just walk it off. No-one needed to carry him.
“Yes, but if we encounter another bandit trap I will have to drop him.”
“We could just go back to the old campsite.” Alistair sounded deep in thought, uncertain.
“You know the rule; if Theron cannot lead us for whatever reason, that means you are in charge, Warden. There is no ‘could’.” Morrigan pointed out coolly.
“No, ‘m fine.” The ranger mumbled, forcing his eyes open at last. As he’d thought, Morrigan was leaning on her staff a short distance away, the others ranged around him. Leliana looked the most concerned.
“You took a sword to the back of your leg, you are not fine.” Zevran pointed out, smirking casually down at the black-haired man. Theron knew the smirk wasn’t genuine from the worried look in the Antivan’s eyes.
“I’ve walked off worse.” Theron shot back, pushing himself up into a sitting position and ignoring how it made his head throb within the confines of his helmet. His armour was streaked with blood, an unusual occurrence given how he tended to keep well away from the melee with Morrigan. His left boot was sticky against his foot, and when he looked down his leg was bloodstained, a ragged bandage wrapped around his calf.
“I would like to see you try.” The witch commented smoothly, and Theron could have sworn she had a smug grin on her face.
“Why say that? You know he’s going to take that as a challenge…” Alistair murmured to himself as he saw the two exchange a glare, and then Theron was trying to get to his feet. Zevran raised an eyebrow, but made no move to stop the other elf.
“See, I’m fine.” Theron announced shakily once he was on his feet, but knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. He could barely rest any weight on his left leg, and the cut that was hidden beneath the bandages was starting to burn. Leliana seemed to be mouthing something to herself, and stopped when the ranger’s legs buckled and he was sent to the ground again.
“He lasted ten seconds.” She announced, and Theron scowled up at the sky when Zevran chuckled.
“Sten, carry him? He shouldn’t weigh much. And someone grab his bow? We’ll go back to the old campsite, the embers might not even have died out yet.”
Theron did his best to glare at Alistair as the ex-Templar took charge, before looking away and ignoring the Qunari warrior looming over him and then picking him up. He hoped that his cheeks weren’t turning red; he was being carried like a babe, it was embarrassing. So, they’d walked into a bandit ambush? Theron turned to look behind Sten, at the carnage that littered the road. He counted at least three headless bodies, and noticed how Asala strapped to Sten’s back was covered in half-dried blood. Hm.
“I heard such an injury can be life-threatening.” The Qunari ventured as he began walking.
“Halla, Sten. You’re thinking of halla.” Theron sighed tiredly, reaching a shaky hand up to rest it over his closed eyes. He must have hit his head badly; this couldn’t be actually happening.
“Now I know why you are so tense every night.” Zevran commented, and Theron realised he actually had to look down in order to see the other elf. Were they both really that short? Then again, he was being carried by Sten. Everyone was small in comparison to him. The ranger sighed when he saw that the former Crow was carrying his bow - rather awkwardly, not quite in the correct position - and actually plucking at the bowstring curiously as if it was an instrument.
“It’s a bow, they’re meant to be that tight.” The black-haired elf replied, squirming to get into a comfortable position to see Zevran until Sten’s grip on his ribs and uninjured leg tightened silently, but emphatically.
“Are you certain?” Zevran asked, narrowing his eyes at the string thoughtfully.
“Try to adjust the string, and injured or no I’ll find a way to kick you out of my tent for the next week.” Theron replied darkly.
“You love this bow more than me.” The blond muttered sulkily, turning the weapon awkwardly to study the wood and the details that Theron had painstakingly attempted to carve into it. Theron noticed Leliana walking a few paces ahead, eyes narrowed and her mouth hidden in one hand as her shoulders twitched in silent laughter. At least someone was enjoying the bickering.
The Dalish elf sighed, and resigned himself to at least two days of enforced rest. Alistair would be too stubborn to listen, and the others would no doubt follow his lead. As soon as he could put his weight on his leg, they’d be on their way again.
The next few days were some of the most infuriating Theron had even experienced. He’d expected Leliana to fuss over him the most, so he took that in his stride, but he hadn’t expected the others to, in their own ways.
Alistair kept ignoring his suggestions that they break camp and move on, either dismissing the claims or outright ignoring the ranger’s protests in favour of humming a tune or going off to ensure his armour and clothing were all taken care of, clean and mended.
Sten tended to be a little closer than normal to the fire whenever Theron ventured over, even though they never really talked - now or to begin with. What conversations they did have were a little awkward, but pleasant. Theron knew that Sten didn’t look upon weakness approvingly, but it was obvious to tell that the Dalish elf was hating the coddling and prolonged stay as much as the Qunari was, so the far taller man didn’t seem to be as annoyed by it as he rightfully should have been.
Morrigan was no healer, but she had applied what she knew to supplement Theron’s self-care, ensuring that the wound - a long, relatively shallow gash that curved up around the inside of his leg - stayed clean. Aside from that, the ranger was convinced she was trying to poison him whenever she brought him food she’d cooked herself, but that was normal. Maybe he was just feeling more vulnerable, more paranoid than usual due to the fact he could only really hobble about a few paces while leaning against someone?
As for Zevran, the best word Theron could find to describe his behaviour that wasn’t some form of insult or swear word was ‘impish’. Naturally, he was the one helping him around camp the most, but every night so far he’d put his other, notable non-assassin skills to good, frustrating use teasing the Dalish elf repeatedly, going almost too gentle even for the other elf’s tastes until he was on the verge of begging. Theron tried not to dwell on the fact he was growing more comfortable with the idea of pleading like that.
Really, this was the third night after his injury, and he was starting to feel patronised, like the rest of the group were actually enjoying his unexpected setback and irritation at their coddling. Or maybe he was just being paranoid? Theron let out a deep sigh as he stared into the slowly dwindling campfire. He was on watch with Dudain, but he knew from the sounds of movement from the nearest tent that Leliana was staying up as well, in case she was needed.
“What am I going to do, fall off the log and into the fire?” The ranger muttered to himself, picking up a stray twig that had escaped the flames and beginning to peel the bark off it with one blunt thumbnail, tossing the strips in the direction of the campfire. He looked down at the mabari, who was lying patiently beside the log, massive head resting on his paws. “I haven’t lost both my legs. It’s just hard to stand on one.” He added. “I only need a crutch, and then I’ll be fine. I might not be able to fight properly, but I can walk.” He frowned as he thought aloud, beginning to snap the twig up into tiny fragments. “Maybe Morrigan will let me lean on her staff, worst comes to worst. Not like I could use it.” The elf leaned back on his seat, tilting his head back to look up at the stars. Most of them he knew from the Brecilian Forest, but they had gradually changed position the further they roamed from his home. Not by much to the casual observer, but he could notice it.
Theron lowered his head as he listened to the wood crackle and spark, throwing the twig in.
“At least you don’t treat me differently, Dudain.” He sighed, looking down at the dog, who lifted his head up in response to his name. The mabari huffed, and then got to his feet. Theron watched as he disappeared off into the darkness. About five minutes later, just when the ranger was wondering if he’d gone off to hunt, he returned with a sturdy-looking stick, just long enough to perhaps be used as a crutch by his master.
The ranger chuckled, picking it up and testing it in both hands while Dudain let out a happy bark.
“Good boy.” He said, glad that someone was working with him without being patronising for once.
Finally, after he’d spent the last three days hobbling round camp on his makeshift crutch, Alistair was convinced that Theron could face a full day of travel.
However, the elf still found himself lagging even behind Bohdan’s cart, his half-healed leg protesting quietly. He’d managed to tune it out, mostly, along with his other aches and pains. Interestingly, Sten was walking slower than normal as well, just a few paces ahead and beside him; Theron noticed the occasional glance the Qunari gave him as they walked.
“Warden, is you leg still in need of healing?” The giant asked, casting the crutch a doubtful look. Theron blinked, about to nod until he remembered Sten had been the one to carry him when the wound had been fresh. What if he offered to carry him again now? Or told him to go and sit in the back of the cart? He was Dalish; a leg wound shouldn’t hamper him this much.
“I’m fine. I can walk it off.” The ranger answered, looking ahead to where Zevran, Morrigan and Leliana were wandering along. As if he knew he was being watched, the former Crow glanced back over his shoulder curiously, sharp golden eyes darting from Theron to Sten and back.
“You seem to be walking oddly, kadan.”
“It’s called a limp, Sten. Elves aren’t above them.”
“No, that is not it. You act as though you sat on a sharp stone and are in pain.”
It took Theron a moment to realise what Sten was (hopefully cluelessly) referring to, and then he felt even his ears burn. He self-consciously tried to adjust his walking posture, ignoring the sound of Zevran struggling not to and failing at bursting out into loud laughter just ahead. It was the assassin’s fault.
“I’m fine, Sten. I don't need healing.” Theron mumbled awkwardly, dearly hoping his blush wasn’t visible. “Can someone hit Zevran for me?” He called up. “I can’t really reach from here.”
“Gladly.”
The Antivan’s laughter was abruptly cut off with an indignant noise of pain.
“Ow, Morrigan!” He added, rubbing the back of his head and glaring at the witch as she adjusted her hold on her staff.
“I have longed to do that for quite some time. Now, two for flinching, or will you cease cackling so loudly that all the darkspawn will know where we are?” She shot back calmly, raising one eyebrow at the blond in challenge.
“What happened?” Alistair called from the front, having quickened his pace to try and scout ahead a little, but at the commotion he’d paused and turned to look back at the group in faint worry.
“It was not cackling.” Zevran replied, frowning at Morrigan. Theron was amused to see Leliana trying to stop her own laughter before Zevran saw.
“Twas.”
“Trivial matters.” Sten called up over the sound of the brewing argument, shaking his head to himself.