He takes every breath cautiously now, feels the lead pull down his eyelids, and for the first time in days thinks how wonderful it would be to just sleep. So you mustn't, he tells himself sluggishly, a reminder to keep his eyes open all the wider, the more he wishes for them to be shut. His draining focus rests entirely on the other man, when a sound comes from elsewhere in the room. Nathaniel, Cullen called him, and waited to see if he remembered it right. Nathaniel, the sound echoes, neither of their voices, and Cullen turns his head towards it--
And groans loudly in frustration. The sound of an opening door gave life to a small piece of hope, that one of the clinic's healers might have returned to their duties. The sight of Anders crushes that fledgling hope in cold blood.
The best Cullen can say for the scenario is that he had anticipated it, that he would endure until Anders has refused him and left, so the archer might acknowledge that other measures were required. Poultices. Thread. Hot iron, better hands to help- anything other than a mage that would much rather see him bleed out the last of his life than move a finger to preserve it. All he prays is that Nathaniel comes to grasp the futility of relying on the healer's help soon and quickly--
Unless he already knew from the start.
The gestures and words only come to him in fragments, quiet and dull and further away than they ought to be. Really shot him. What if both their nightly practices were no coincidence at all, if it was not carelessness on his, but careful deliberation on the part of another? Shot him because of Anders. If fetching a healer was no reassurance or token of innocence, only a gift to the healer, who'd wish to see the outcome on a silver platter.
This is irrational, a quiet voice tries to reassure him, but something inside him refuses to let the fleeting suspicion go. Feeds it instead, until it grows hooks to sink into his mind, the pain of his wound and humiliation of such a betrayal stirring a flare of disbelieving rage.
Before he knows it, Cullen is back on his feet. Back against the wall, snarling at the both of them, drawn sword in his hand impossibly heavy to hold. He mustn't hope for his victory. Only for enough strength to sour theirs.
no subject
And groans loudly in frustration. The sound of an opening door gave life to a small piece of hope, that one of the clinic's healers might have returned to their duties. The sight of Anders crushes that fledgling hope in cold blood.
The best Cullen can say for the scenario is that he had anticipated it, that he would endure until Anders has refused him and left, so the archer might acknowledge that other measures were required. Poultices. Thread. Hot iron, better hands to help- anything other than a mage that would much rather see him bleed out the last of his life than move a finger to preserve it. All he prays is that Nathaniel comes to grasp the futility of relying on the healer's help soon and quickly--
Unless he already knew from the start.
The gestures and words only come to him in fragments, quiet and dull and further away than they ought to be. Really shot him. What if both their nightly practices were no coincidence at all, if it was not carelessness on his, but careful deliberation on the part of another? Shot him because of Anders. If fetching a healer was no reassurance or token of innocence, only a gift to the healer, who'd wish to see the outcome on a silver platter.
This is irrational, a quiet voice tries to reassure him, but something inside him refuses to let the fleeting suspicion go. Feeds it instead, until it grows hooks to sink into his mind, the pain of his wound and humiliation of such a betrayal stirring a flare of disbelieving rage.
Before he knows it, Cullen is back on his feet. Back against the wall, snarling at the both of them, drawn sword in his hand impossibly heavy to hold. He mustn't hope for his victory. Only for enough strength to sour theirs.