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It was after they entered her room that the pain in her side had finally become too much. The ground beneath Meredith swayed and she would have hit the floor had the apostate not held her.
“Maker, what-” the mage said. Meredith hissed as her hand went to her side, blood spilling through her fingers.
Her vision swimmed and suddenly, she was sitting on a chair.
“I’ll go grab someon-”
“No.” Meredith turned her head towards a shelf. “There are potions…”
“You can’t possibly be serious.” The mage began to protest before being silenced by a scowl. With a sigh, she made for the shelf, and once handed the bottle, Meredith downed it at once.
The relief on her throbbing side was instant, though the feeling of her insides being pulled back together by magic was always unnerving. She placed the empty glass on a nearby table, and began the process of unbuckling her armor.
Gloved hands covered hers and with practiced precision, she was soon sitting half naked on the chair, her chest exposed. She looked to the mage, who herself looked at the wound. Meredith watched as she grimaced, walking around and grabbing water and a towel and quietly kneeling besides her.
Meredith saw her hesitate for a moment. She looked down at her gloves, then up to the wound, before sighing and removing them. She wetted the towel and pressed it gently, slowly cleaning away the blood.
“The potion stopped the bleeding, but the wound’s still open.” The mage said as she discarded the bloody towel and sat back on her heels.
With more effort than she would have liked, Meredith leaned forwards, towards the desk in front of her, opening a drawer and pulling out a small box, tossing it without much thought to the woman beneath her.
“A sewing kit?” Her eyes shifted from between the contents of the box and the wound. “I could call in someone else to do th-
“No..”
I do not want anybody else here
“Meredith-”
“You worked as a mercenary, and are friends with that apostate.” She said with a raised brow. “Do you mean to tell me you do not know how to close a wound?”
She sighed. “I can but…my stitch work is terrible.”
“I do not care for that.”
“I know you have healers here, I could-”
“When I give a command, mage,” she said sharply, looking her in the eyes, “I expect it to be obeyed.”
“Oh?” She stood up, slowly, not breaking eye contact as she leaned over Meredith “But I have yet to hear a command.”
Instinctively, Meredith grabbed the mage’s left wrist. “Do not forget your place,” She tightened her grip as she said “apostate.”
The girl stared at her, gulping and she could feel her rapid pulse thrumming beneath her fingers.
After a moment, she shoved her back. “Get to it.”
A sigh, as she straightened her back. The mage opened her palm, summoning a small fire on her fingertips. Meredith tensed, hand finding the pommel of her sword, as she watched the mage grab a needle with her other hand and heat it up, before pathetically struggling to pull the thread through. At the sight, Meredith eased.
The mage pulled out another chair and sat close to her. Meredith took a sharp inhale and looked at the door, her jaw locking as she bit down on the agony of her skin being pierced again and again.
It was not the first time she had gone through this. Others, more capable than the mage, had patched her up time and again. Elsa’s hands were much steadier, confident and agile, and she would have been done much quicker, and a faded scar would be all that was left.
Her hands were marred with scars. Meredith fixated her gaze on the left hand, the one which had been burnt during the battle with the Qunari leader. The skin was dry, tight and it gave a weird feeling whenever her fingertips brushed against Meredith’s skin.
She hated that feeling. She could not stand those uncovered hands on her, nor the images they provoked on her head.
She couldn’t take her eyes off of it. It was only when the mage looked up that she turned her head away.
She let out a breath. Meredith suspected by the time the apostate was done, the sun would be rising. Goosebumps rolled all around her over where the mage touched her. It was repulsive that an apostate should touch a Knight-Commander that way, it was vile, disgusting and suddenly, Meredith wished she was donning her armour. Shielded, protected, safe from her ministrations. Sweat dripped from her forehead as she tried to focus.
“How did it happen?” Her voice was both a balm and a fire.
“Abomination.” Something compelled her to continue. “A Harrowing that should have never taken place.” She should have stopped there, to protect the secrets of the Circle. But talking distracted her from her thoughts. “Orsino insisted, however. He does not understand the dangers of weak mages, and with the Grand Cle-”
A sharp pain stopped her, as the point of the needle stabbed into her wound.
“You are supposed to close the wound, not add to it.” She almost barked as she turned around. She looked down, seeing the terrible patch work done on her. “Maker, look at this disaster. You’d think it was on purpose.” She muttered. By the look of it, she would have to have the whole thing re-stitched in the morning. “Do you have nothing to say?”
The mage stared at her, giving her an unknowing look. Shivers ran down her spine.
“If I displease you, “ she gave her a sarcastic grin, “you are welcome to finish this yourself. Surely the knight-commander knows how to close her own wounds?”
She pressed her lips into a thin line, huffing, hands curling into fists. She should have had the mage thrown out of her room, scaring her away back to Hightown. Anyone else would have done a better job than her, anyone else would not torment Meredith as much.
And yet.
Slowly, she turned her head again, fixating her gaze on the door once more. A moment of agony passed before she felt burned fingertips working their way through her flesh again, and she sighed in relief.
“You should see a healer once morning comes.” The mage spoke. “You’re feverish.”
“I will be better once you are done.”
Suddenly, Meredith was reminded of their rendezvous a week prior.
You talk too much. One day, I ought to muzzle you
She wondered if perhaps she should follow the thought, especially as the mage began telling a story.
“My father was the one who taught me to stitch someone up.” Meredith closed her eyes as she listened.
“He made me put it into practice a week later, when my brother came home with a wound. I think I was fifteen then. When I was done, I looked at my father and all he said was "it looks like shit, Eliza.” A sigh. “Good times.”
Meredith looked at her, but she had her head down, focused on the task at hand. An image popped in her head. She saw herself leaning towards her, placing a finger under her chin and making her look at her.
They would stare at each other, her other hand going underneath the mage’s shirt, finding her breast, they would lean into each other and -
“All done.”
The reverie was over. Suddenly there was a coldness on her side, as the mage had quickly stood up, pacing away from her.
It took Meredith a moment for her to gather herself. She stood up carefully, pain jolting through her with each step - punishment for her sinfulness, she thought. Hastily, she rid herself of the rest of her clothes, throwing them on the ground for the time being and put on a night shirt and settled on her bed.
Interestingly, she noticed the mage had stayed, who now only stared at her from afar.
“Why did you not tell anyone else about this?”
“A Templar does not show weakness,” she replied, her throat suddenly feeling dry “especially not in front of her subordinates.”
“Well, I’m sure Cullen would have loved the promotion once they found you bled out in the morning.”
Meredith managed out a huff, tiredness beginning to take her. Her eyelashes felt heavy, and she fought the urge to close them. She almost gave in, until the feeling of the mage’s hand on hers shot her awake.
She had not realized how close the mage was to her now.
“You need to be more careful.” The mage leaned in close, strands of brown hair framing her face as they fell forwards “Maker knows what would happen should the mighty knight-commander of Kirkwall fall.”
Meredith only stared, as she felt her blood rush. She began to doubt those stitches would hold.
When the mage tried to move away, she held on to her hand. She would have told her to stay.
Stay.
Instead she muttered “Eliza.” She brought her other hand upwards from beneath the sheets. “Your gloves.”
She had picked them up from the floor, clutching them in her hands until that moment. Quickly, they were taken from her, and Meredith finally caved in, allowing herself to close her eyes.
The other side of her bed would remain cold for the rest of the night, but before sleep took her over, she felt gentle lips pressing themselves against her temple, soon followed by the sound of her door opening and closing.
She thought of her mother, kissing her scrapped knees to ‘make it better’ and drifted into peaceful dreams.