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Alistair looked so much less intimidating in the evenings, when he’d discarded his armour, and was going through his chores by the fire. The scars on his hands glinted in the flickering light, even at this distance. He threw a log into the fire, shoulders held tighter than usual. Keerla sighed.
“What’s troubling you?” Wynne asked next to her, and Keerla jumped.
“Nothing,” she answered in a breath, tearing her eyes away from Alistair to focus on the rabbit she was skinning.
It’s Alistair who’d taught her. He’d sat beside her, thigh hot against hers, hands wrapped around her own, and shown her in patient movements how to do it. He’d been focused the whole way through, and it was only when she’d turned to him to say something and their breaths had crashed against each other, that he’d seemed to realise how close he was sitting. He’d jumped back, face red and voice stuttering, and Keerla hadn’t found anything to say.
She’d never been good at improvising.
“We’ve been here before, Keerla,” Wynne said patiently. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”
“I…” Keerla risked a glance at Alistair. He was now sitting on the ground where he was standing a second ago, the end of a bandage stuck in his teeth, the other one wrapped tightly around his wrist. He was arranging it with his other hand, eyebrows knit together in concentration.
Alistair had been the first person to help Keerla with her own wounds since her mum had died. She’d gotten scratched pretty badly while exploring the Korcari Wilds, before she was even a Warden, and she was intending on tending to it herself, like she’d been doing for years. But Alistair had shown up, an elfroot salve in one hand and a somewhat clean piece of fabric in the other. He’d sat beside her in the dirt. When he first tried to grab her arm she’d jerked back, so he’d just handed his findings and watched her tug her sleeve back. She’d applied the salve with trembling fingers, which turned into her arm shaking so badly that she couldn’t hold the makeshift bandage still. He’d offered his help again, without a word, and had wrapped the wound tightly, with quick, careful fingers.
Wynne made an encouraging sound. Keerla looked up at her. She was smiling kindly, like she always was. Like her mum used to. As though she’d never get angry, never disappointed. She breathed out.
“It’s Alistair.”
“I thought as much,” Wynne said, going back to the tunic she was repairing. “What happened?”
Keerla frowned at herself. By the fire, Alistair finished bandaging his wrist and headed towards his tent, back carefully turned to them. “I think he’s angry at me,” Keerla confessed.
“Hm. And why would it be so?”
“He… He told me... He told me he liked me.” Keerla shook her head, overwhelmed by how childish this all felt. She’d never chased this kind of things. Flings, romance, the kissing and everything else… It was a luxury for other people.
“And what did you say?” There was a twinkle of amusement in Wynne’s voice, though carefully covered by genuine care.
Keerla grimaced at her half-skinned rabbit. “I said I didn’t know, and then I left.”
“I see.” Wynne sighed, letting go of her needle to stretch her hands. “If he told you the same thing right now, what would you say?”
Keerla felt her skin crawling with the need to hide. Hiding was so easy. Running away into the shadows. Most problems disappeared if you hid for long enough. “I’d say that I do too,” she murmured.
For a moment, she feared Wynne would ask her to repeat, but she instead made an approving sound. “Here you go. He’s not angry, he’s scared. You know this, you know this to be true.”
“Maybe,” she mumbled.
“You’re a brave girl, Keerla.”
Her head snapped up towards Wynne. Her heart felt heavy. Few people apart from her mum had ever called her brave. Hot-blooded, foolish, angry, yes, but never brave.
“You need to talk to him,” Wynne continued. “And I know you can, because you’re such a brave girl.”
Keerla looked back up towards the fire. Alistair was sitting by it again, scraping blood off the chestplate laying across his knees. The scars on his hands were glinting more brightly than ever, like cobwebs spreading over his knuckles.
“Thank you, Wynne.” You’re like a mother to me, she thought, but she didn’t say it. She hoped Wynne understood anyway.