Leandra laughs against his neck, shaking her head a little. “Malcolm, it's so cold though” she complained, staring up at him with the brightest look in her eyes. Oh, she, of course, was being difficult on purpose, but she adored how frustrated he looked as she wound her arms around him tightly, cold fingers finding the soft warmth of his neck even as he tried to get away from them.
(she fit so well against his chest, nose pressed to his sternum)
She pulled her encroaching fingers away finally with a heaving sigh against him before she stood on her toes, guiding him down to kiss his soundly on the lips. “When will you come back next?” she questioned, breaking with a hopeful look.
Leandra was not one for swooning even if the collection of pressed wildflowers in her room would suggest otherwise.
(she just found them sweet gifts)
She’d just given her thanks to Ser Carver and was now busy climbing down the trellis outside her room with some trouble. She would probably get caught sneaking out one night, but for now, she’d indulge her own bookish fantasies. “Shit--” she swore lightly and briefly found herself worrying if her mother had heard her.
“Ow, Ow. Malcolm, help me, my hair is stuck again--” she laughed in a rough whisper, feet meeting soft earth where the winding flowers were planted.
“It’s not ready--” Leandra raps a wooden spoon gently against Malcolm’s hands as he reaches for the steam basket, “This is one of the few things I know how to cook well, so trust me” she admonishes, turning her gaze fully to her husband now.
(she’s worked well into the afternoon on the steamed custard buns, and she isn’t actually sure she’s done it right.)
She lifts the cast iron pot from the fire with a soft grunt, pouring them both water for tea. “This will have to hold us for now, I hope that is alright, my dear.” she muses, putting the warm mug into his hands now.
Her laugh sings in the air as she watches him more fall than climb through her window. The summer air is all humidity and thick heat even with the sun sleeping just below the horizon, the sky is filled with splendid hues of red, pink, and purples.
"Those circle robes are far too thick for the weather” she admonishes quietly, fingers tenderly working the top clasp of it open. Rising, Leandra is quick to get him a cup of water from the pitcher in her room, returning to the cool stone floor at his side. She touches his face, finding his skin far too warm, and worries over him. “Let’s get these off of you--” she whispers, quick fingers working over clasps, clips even as Malcolm protests.
Once he’s down to his underwear, he’s cooled off considerably. He’s still far too warm for her liking, but he’s drunk every cup of water she’s brought him, and she supposes that he doesn’t look terrible anymore.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Leandra intoned lowly as she pushed back some of his sweat matted hair back from her lover’s face. When she received a nod, her shoulders finally fell and she looked satisfied with his answer, at least for now.
A low sigh leaves her and she draws him in slow for a kiss with a grip on his chin, nose brushing against his as she pulls away. Leandra comes to rest their heads together, all sigh and and furrowed brows. “I love you, Malcolm Hawke,” she tells him, dropping her hand from her grip on his chin to his chest, fingertips seeking his heartbeat.
Leandra often would ask Malcolm questions about Magic/Magic theory. Going so far as to take notes.
She knows having and casting magic will never be a bond she can share with him or her children, but if she can know even a fraction, even if it is just the academic/theoretical side, that can help them? She's willing to try and understand even a little bit.
Leandra may have opened the door to the estate, but she let the beast of a Mabari through, and her children breeze past her in victorious cheers, already arguing about rooms. Leandra was busy gripping the deed tight in the pocket of her dress, afraid to let go as it might slip through her fingers again. Her head cocked at the foyer from where she stood right outside of the threshold.
(maker why was she afraid of coming home?)
A hand at her lower back startles her, and her free hand rises to her chest with a soft gasp, turning her gaze from the entryway, she gazes to her side, leaning back into Malcolm’s side as she curls an arm around him. “Go... I’ll be in a moment” she insisted quietly, pulling from his hold with a tender gaze, raising a hand to cup his cheek before patting it twice as she left his side.
Leandra walked the outer edge of her home, planning things to plant... flowers for the sake of flowers and not to feed themselves. She rounded the corner, old trellis in view with jasmine plant long since abandoned and dead. The wood had seen better days. To her amusement, she found herself looking up at Malcolm instead of the other way around. “Well I won’t be climbing up to see you” she informed him sternly.
“Well why not, Lady Amell?” and Leandra had to roll her eyes at that, toeing the trellis with an unimpressed look, watching it creak, sway, and rattle.
“I will not have my first day back in my ancestral home ending with me falling and cracking my skull open on the paving stones, I will walk inside like a civilized adult.” She admonished her husband with a winding smile of nostalgia. She gave him a curtsy, watching him bow dramatically through the window as she continued her walk around the edge of her home before she finally found the strength to enter.
She left the doors open, letting the dust air out as much as it could. The entirety of the home was nowhere near livable yet, but the day was young. “Alright--” she clapped her hands, “Brooms, mops, and buckets--” she tapped her children on the shoulders to send them off, “We can’t sleep in a dirty house!” Leandra stated with an amused look at their put out faces. With them filing off to the kitchen, Leandra made her way to the second floor, taking her time to get to her old room. Once there, she gave Malcolm a smile before making her way to where an old bookcase still stood.
With all her might, she managed to scoot the thing just enough for her hand to fit into a crevice behind it, where she shook spiderwebs from her hand in order to retrieve a small bundled of folded parchment tied together with twine. It was their love letters, and she always regretted not bringing them with her, but given how much they lost in Lothering? She thanked Andraste for the small favor. “Something of yours,” she told Malcolm with a soft look in her eyes. She leaned back primly beside him, curling her arms around him before her lips found the soft of his jaw, trailing upwards just a few times.
She knew this was not home. This was not Ferelden, but they could make a life here again.
She grinned, feeling young all over again as he turned to deepen the kiss, which she pressed a few fingers over his lips with a grin. “None of that until we have a clean house--” it was a promise, but she relented into the kiss, butterflies bursting in her chest as they always did when they kissed.
