@tothevoid-andback said: “We’re a lot more fragile than we’d like to believe.” Mahanon gave Amos a rather pointed look as he dabbed a poultice gently on the scorching red burn that stretched over the side of the man's neck. He had to clean it before he could use magic, and so for now, the Herald had to suffer, just a little. "A little more caution on your part wouldn't be remiss."
The Herald.
Amos had spent more than half his life running from titles. From Ostwick. From being promoted to mate of any kind on the ships. From loves and opportunities. Now, this. Herald. He couldn’t run from this one, not if he wanted a world to run around in.
Amos had stripped to the waist, the collar of his shirt interfering with the healer’s work as they stopped to camp in the Hinterlands. The elf- green tattoo trailing beneath his shirt, keen eyes and clever little mouth- had already saved Amos’ rear twice on the way to the horsemaster’s farm. (It was different, fighting in these conditions. Amos was best as a scout, as being high up and calling for approach, not fighting in the thick of mages and Templars and bears.) His ire was well earned, Amos admitted.
The rogue sat still, barely, as the mage cleaned the wound, wincing appropriately but attempting to behave for a moment. Amos was a quiet sort, preferring to keep his mouth shut than prove himself a fool (which he was, a damned fool, and the worst choice for the so called Herald.)
“Haven’t you heard?” Amos’ voice was dry and teasing. “I’m the Maker’s Chosen.” His face was titled away to give Mahanon a better angle to get to the wound. He was so used to cleaning his own mistakes. He was very aware of the way slender fingers titled his head and traced over skin.
Then, something else. A trace of something soft against his chest. The Herald glanced down. A strand of long blond hair had escaped. The mage was too focused on cleaning the wound, Amos found it impossible to sit still, his next course of action made perfect sense, at the time.
He took the strand between his fingers, doing his best to keep his head and neck still. The feel of it made him pause. Thick and silken, no wonder he felt it so much as it trailed over his skin. Still holding the hair, toying with it, he continued. “If that’s true, then the Maker put you in my path. Heaven sent.” The Herald was a quiet man, so much so that even his smiles were muted, but Mahanon caught the glimmer of teeth.
Amos tucked the stray hair back behind his ear, going back to being completely still. “It’d be a proper shame if you got bored, you know. What would you be doing now, if not patching me up?”