I am away for a big chunk of July but I managed to churn out a little drabble!!! My first bit of Threnody fic (kind of), aaaaa
676 words, teen
The thing in his dreams is not Hawke.
His Hawke - his Threnody - was a storm folded in on itself - a large, unruly body and heart doing its best to stay within the lines. It had taken him so long to see that, in the beginning - the constant effort, all the ways she hated herself for the overflow. He had only seen the spill - the swagger, the affected selfishness, the magic that burned so bright it hurt to look at - not how much it had cost her.
After Kirkwall, with the help of years and time and a life that the stories knew nothing about, Threnody had begun to learn how to flow. She had gone quiet, for a while, and slowly learned a different kind of loudness - a truer, less self-conscious kind. She had begun to laugh at their own jokes, so hard it made them snort and tears run down their eyes. She never would have done that before; it would have interrupted the performance.
The thing in his dreams never laughs.
He never thought, when Threnody taught him to read (one of the only times he had ever seen her unguarded - her finger poking hesitantly at the letters, glancing at him nervously, biting her lip and focusing for fear of teaching it wrong) that he would learn to hate the written word.
The thing in his dreams is a parody. The swagger is there, and a little of the affected selfishness, but the magic grows dimmer every night. The thing in his dreams is neither large nor unruly - in body nor in manner. Every joke is perfectly timed. Every movement fluid and smooth. She holds her head up high, even when she doesn’t know who’s watching. Worst of all, when the thing in his dreams speaks, the voice is Varric’s, not Threnody’s, not Hawke’s.
It is worst when she remembers.
One moment she’ll be sweeping him off his feet, having just saved the day, with a cheeky wink and a grin on her face - and something will curdle in her expression. Her face will fall. Her movements will slow. She will look at him - really look - and say “Fenris? Is that you?” He will say “yes, Threnody, I am here,” and his voice will be thick with tears. She will say “oh, Maker. Where am I? Where did I go?” He will say nothing, only reach to cup her face with his hand - but before his skin meets hers, she will be gone again, lost in the lie they told.
Merrill explained it to him, once, while he sat bedraggled at her fireside, trying not to hate himself for accepting a maleficar’s comfort. The Fade is a realm of belief - and Hawke has been trapped there a long time. Physically there, not just in her dreams - and nobody knows what that does. But the theory goes like this: anything that stays long enough in the Fade eventually becomes like the Fade. A product of belief. And, well, what most people believe about Hawke is…
“The Tale of the Champion,” he had finished for her.
Varric sends him a letter, every once in a while. They all go in the fire. The thing in his dreams would hate him for that. Maybe Threnody would too, just a little.
It has been a decade since Threnody taught him to read. When he puts pen to page, the letters come steady and even - although he cannot help but worry, sometimes, that a reader could tell how late he learned. It does not matter. He will be getting plenty of practice, soon.
A fresh roll of parchment. A full pot of ink. He has made a desk of his dining table, set everything else to one side. Threnody’s mabari snoozes by the fire. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, sets his feet flat against the floor. He steadies himself, and he begins.
The Champion of Kirkwall was a storm folded in on itself.
Belief is a thing that can change - and for a beginning, this will do.
Fenris tries to figure out how to help Hawke after her mother's death.
"I hear a voice calling, calling out for me. These shackles I've made in an attempt to be free." ~ My Silver Lining, First Aid Kit
***
In the face of immense tragedy, Fenris froze. Hawke was slumped over what was left of her mother’s body, sobbing, clinging on, and refusing to let go.
Varric and Isabela had run to fetch more of the guard while Fenris, Aveline, Merrill and Anders had stayed behind with Hawke.
In a display of tenderness that was unlike the Guard Captain, Aveline sat with her arm around her friend, allowing Hawke to sob into her shoulder.
As long as he’d known her, Hawke had hidden her sadness away from prying eyes behind a mask of cheer, rarely, if ever allowing anyone to see her vulnerable.
Years ago, she’d allowed him to see beyond the mask, when Carver joined the Templars. Hawke had showed up at his mansion, drunk and halfway to tears.
At that time, he’d been confused why she’d chosen to come to him, they’d grown closer over their time in the Deep Roads but not as close as she was to Varric, Aveline, or even Anders. But he’d allowed her in, ignoring the blooming pleasure he’d felt at being chosen.
Beside his fireplace she’d told him about Carver leaving to join the Templars, explaining how it was her fault for pushing him away and making him feel small.
Eventually, she’d told him good stories of her brother, and even some rare stories about Bethany; they'd both laughed over Hawke’s colorful narration as she told tales about her younger siblings' antics.
Even so early into their friendship he’d felt a great sense of privilege getting to see this side of Hawke. She’d fallen asleep on the floor in front of a dying fire that night, and woke up full of apologies and bad jokes, revealing that she’d not cried in front of someone else since her father’s death.
That night the tears were delicate tracks down her cheeks, that reflected the firelight, as she talked about her brother.
This was different, it was the sounds of a broken woman, and it scared him.
Leaving the others to comfort Hawke, he’d paced behind them, throwing worried glances at the object of his affections as they whispered words of comfort to her.
But there were no kind words that would help, what difference would it make if he crouched alongside the rest of them?
Would she even want him trying to comfort her?
It was a cowardly question, he knew she wanted him there. Possibly, wanted him there more than anyone else, but he couldn’t do it.
Finally, the guards arrived and they got Hawke to surrender her mother’s corpse and start the journey home.
By that point, Hawke had grown fully silent in a way that was almost as disturbing as the screams of grief.
Hawke was never quiet.
The rest of the party gently cajoled her, trying to convince her she should not be alone, but she hardly responded to them.
In the end, though, Hawke would not stay anywhere but her home and would not allow anyone to stay with her.
By the time they were in Hightown only Fenris, Varric, and Anders remained.
“Thank you,” Hawke said on her doorstep, pulling on her usual mask of genial reassurance, “I’ll be fine. I won’t be alone, Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana will be about if I need anything.”
“They’re your servants Hawke, you need your friends,” Anders reasoned, reaching out and taking hold of her hand.
The gesture sent a spike of furious jealousy through Fenris followed instantly by guilt.
She deserved better than his pettiness at a time like this, but the mage’s obvious affection towards Hawke had always irritated him.
Hawke squeezed Anders hand and let go.
“I’d rather be alone.”
Her eyes skittered to Fenris, where he stood to the side, trying to blend into the shadows. As quickly as they’d landed on him she looked away, but he’d seen it.
He felt hollowed out.
“Please, just send a messenger if you need anything, alright?” Anders said, squeezing her arm.
She gave him a hug and Fenris had to look away, fighting the instinctual possessiveness that sprung up.
“I’m sorry Hawke,” Varric said, “Just- take care of yourself ok? I’ll come back around tomorrow to check in.”
“Thank you,” she said, giving him a hug as well.
On his way past Fenris, Anders shot him a glare that was readily returned.
But Varric leaned in and whispered to him, “Don’t let her be alone.”
The dwarf continued past him as if he’d said nothing and Fenris looked after them, feeling a bit helpless.
When he turned around Hawke was leaning against the door frame, exhausted, eyes turned to the ground.
Unsure, he started to fiddle with the scarf on his wrist before quickly dropping it.
“I’m sorry we could not save her, she seemed to be a good woman.”
His words hung in the air around them, hollow, true, but not enough.
Hawke nodded, eyes still on the ground.
“She was,” she sighed, “she deserved better.”
Deserved a better daughter, her haggard tone and expression screamed.
“Goodnight, Fenris. Thank you for your help tonight,” she said, and quietly closed the door.
Before he knew it, he was alone, and unsure if he felt relief that she didn’t ask him to stay or fury at himself for failing her yet again.
Surly Hawke didn’t want whatever paltry comfort he could offer her, after what he’d done. He was lucky she even still glanced his way.
As he trudged home he thought about what it would be like to follow her inside and wrap her in his arms.
He didn’t know what to say in the face of such loss, but he could hold her, let her know she wasn’t alone.
But no, it was a bad idea all around. What if he did go to her, hold her in his arms, kiss her, tell her he loved her…
Fasta vass!
He needed to leave her be, he’d been the one to walk away, it would be wrong to continue to confuse their relationship.
But the sounds of Hawke’s cries echoed in his ears all the way through Hightown, up the stairs to his room, as he took off his armor, and finally as he lay in his bed staring at the ceiling.
Crystal clear, a memory of Hawke from years past came to him.
Hungover, wearing a tentative smile she’d said, “Thanks for putting up with my blubbering,” she bit the inside of her cheek, a charming blush setting in, “I promise I’m usually more mysterious and alluring. I don’t think I’ve cried in front of someone else since my father died,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “keep it under wraps, can’t ruin my image.”
He didn’t know what he’d done that night to make her feel better, but it had worked. She’d left his home with a smile that was more genuine than he’d ever seen from her.
The memory of whatever he’d said to comfort her was lost to time and wine but he had helped her once, perhaps he could again.
Growling, he tossed off the blanket and began to pull on his armor.
Then, he took some time to pace around, pulling at his hair, swearing up a storm, before trudging out of the mansion.
If she turned him away then so be it, he would leave, but if he could ease some of her pain he had to try.
Despite his conviction, when he reached her door he just stood there staring at the ornate wood, suddenly forgetting how to knock.
He’d need to think of something to say to her, but what was there to say?
Hawke was blaming herself, but she would do so no matter what any of them said, it was her way. Her life would never be the same and there were no words to change that.
It would come to him. He hoped.
His knock was almost too soft to hear and when there was no response he groaned and knocked again, slightly harder.
Bodahn came to the door, eyes red and puffy, handkerchief in hand.
“Oh Messere Fenris,” the dwarf said, shuffling his feet a bit at his late and unexpected visitor, “my lady has said she will take no visitors, I’m sorry.”
The servant did seem sorry, and conflicted.
“Do you believe that is what is best for her?”
Bodahn looked back into the mansion, as if Hawke might be standing behind him, and sighed.
“It is what she asked of me, ser, I do not want to disobey her at a time like this,” the man looked defeated, heartbroken for his employer who he cared for so deeply.
“Bodahn, she will not blame you. I must see her.”
Fenris tried to sound gentle, but his voice came out rough and desperate.
“Alright,” he said finally, moving aside to let Fenris in, “but please ser, she cannot take more sadness.”
The dwarf’s words stung; he wasn’t surprised that Bodahn knew of his early morning escape from the Hawke mansion, but his ears grew warm at the kind reproof.
Nodding, he made his way to Hawke’s room, stopping in the foyer to remove his armor.
He’d been to the mansion since their night together, but they’d been in the study.
Walking to her room brought to mind the last time he’d lingered on those stairs.
Pressing Hawke against the railing, lips on her neck, hand on her breast as she whispered that they needed to keep moving to her room only to be silenced by more kisses.
Fenris hesitated, pain and arousal intermingling followed by a good amount of shame.
Here he was lusting after Hawke, while she mourned her mother a few stairs up, he needed to pull himself together.
The walk to her door felt too long and doubt began to take hold, but then he was at her door, and could not turn back.
At first he reached for the knob, but decided better of it and knocked.
“Thank you for your concern, but you can go to bed. And please sleep in tomorrow.”
Hawke’s reply drifted through the door, gentle and reassuring.
He sighed and walked in.
When he entered, she was staring at her hands, face blank, but her eyes and nose were pink from crying. He desperately wanted to hold her.
“I don’t know what to say,” he started and she turned eyes wide, “but I am here.”
“Fenris…” she whispered, eyes full of so much affection it nearly knocked him over, “you didn’t have to come.”
“I could not stay away,” he replied truthfully.
“Thank you.”
Choked up, Hawke didn’t seem capable of saying anything more for the moment, but she scooted over on the bed.
He stared at the vacated spot, not sure if he wanted to run to or from her.
But she didn’t pressure him or even seem to be waiting for him to sit, she just stared into the fire.
When he sat, the bed didn’t turn him into stone or break him into a million pieces, as he worried it might.
They stared at the flames in silence for a time, it wasn’t awkward as many of their silences had been lately, but it was suffocatingly heavy.
“My mother taught me how to play the lute,” Hawke said without preamble.
Unsure what to say, Fenris simply looked at her, giving her the chance to continue.
“I was a terrible student, when I didn’t learn a chord as fast as I’d like, I’d quit. Of course I would come right back to it after a few minutes. But she’d never lose her patience with me.”
“It sounds much like how our reading lessons go,” Fenris said lightly.
Hawke’s laugh was watery, but real, and he felt relieved at the sound.
“Oh, you’re much meaner than I ever was,” she joked, nudging his shoulder with hers.
The brief pressure of her touch reassured him, he smiled at her.
“We used to play together in the evenings, some days I’d come home and be too tired to move but I’d never miss our little recitals,” her smile faded, “when father died she never touched her lute again. I didn’t understand how she could just give up something she loved so much.”
Her eyes strayed to her lute sitting next to the bed.
“I understand now though, all the love songs she’d written for father, the songs they’d sing. So many memories wrapped up in it. It’s too painful,” her face turned back to him, “I want to burn the damn thing.”
The recollection of Hawke’s clear high voice and quick strumming fingers danced through his mind and he shook his head.
“Do you think it made her happier to stop playing?”
Hawke seemed to truly consider the question.
“I’m not sure if my mother was ever truly happy after he died.”
“Perhaps that is because she gave up on living.”
Her eyes grew wet and she looked away.
“You are just full of pearls of wisdom tonight.”
Elbows on her knees, Hawke dropped her head into her hands, not crying but certainly stewing on an unpleasant thought.
“Am I to blame for not saving her?”
She said it so softly that Fenris almost didn’t hear the question, he wished he hadn’t.
It was the question he feared she’d ask. Silence lay thick between them as Fenris tried to find the words he needed.
Finally, he spoke, “I could say no, but would that help?”
Wet blue eyes met his, sad but attentive.
“You are looking for forgiveness, but I am not the one who can give it to you.”
Taking this in, Hawke's eyes drifted from his face.
“Will you stay?” she asked, in the same too soft tone.
“Yes,” he replied before his mind could catch up.
Hawke laid her head on his shoulder, just a small touch. He ached to pull her closer but resisted, instead he leaned his own head against hers.
After some time wordlessly watching the fire, Hawke felt heavier at this side, she’d fallen asleep.
Slowly, he moved her into a lying position, and took a moment to examine her face, brushing an ebony lock of hair from her forehead.
In her sleep her face was untroubled, free of her war paint and make up, she looked younger and so vulnerable.
It wasn’t a word he’d normally use to describe Hawke, his heart squeezed.
He’d told her he’d stay, but he didn’t know where his place was.
Her bed… Well, it was a little too tempting.
In the end he wasn’t able to resist his own instinct to lay beside her, though he tried to keep as far to the other side of the bed as possible.
“Thank you,” Hawke whispered, startling him.
She curled onto her side facing him, eyes still closed, half asleep.
The sight of her weary, tear stained face broke down his last wall of resistance and he scooted close to her, drawing her against his chest.
Wrapping her arm around his waist, Hawke didn’t resist his comfort and buried her face against his neck.
It felt so right, like he was always meant to spend his nights in her arms.
Tomorrow, though, he would have to leave.
It was too soon, he couldn’t be with Hawke until he was fully free of Danarius.
Until then, the darkness inside would always threaten the shining beacon that was Marian.
He pushed those thoughts away, focusing on the feeling of Hawke’s warm breath on his neck.
It didn’t take long to fall into a quick and peaceful sleep, filled with dreams of Hawke singing to him, wearing a smile that could not be wiped away.
"I swear, you've been spending too much time around Sebastian if you think that is scandalous."
Fenris runs a finger beneath the printed lines, pausing only to purse his lips and shake his head. "It's not the sex I find objectionable. Merely the quality."
—
Vissenta brings new reading material to Fenris. 717 words. Written for @fenhawke-week
Updated Chapter for @fenhawke-week Day 2: Reading Lessons | Grief
Excerpt:
It is the first time he has visited her bedroom since the night he came to her all aflame and left her alone and cold. Her ember eyes sad beneath her ever-present smile as he slunk away in cowardice.
Fenris creeps up the stairs like an intruder. He is uninvited this time after all. He intrudes regardless. His pulse quick, a sharp pain in his chest. No less than he deserves.
The door is ajar and Dragon lays across the entrance, guarding what he loves. His ears twitch and his eyes roll in Fenris’ direction. His stumpy tail begins a sad thump-thump against the floor.
“Good boy,” Fenris tells him and the Mabari’s tail thumps louder.
Her bedroom is so quiet. It is strange being here without the warm peal of her laughter. The way she lights up every room until all anyone can see, think, feel is Hawke.
There’s the dull echo of people shouting and birds singing their warning calls coming from the Hightown courtyard below. The stench of sewers, and baked goods from the market streaming through the open window. Outside, Kirkwall is as mad and bustling and craven as ever, but inside these walls everything is muffled beneath the veil of Hawke’s grief.
He scans the room for her, expecting to find Hawke nestled in her bed like a creature hibernating for winter. The bed is messy and unmade, but there’s no sign of Hawke.
“Hello? Hawke...” He coughs to clear his throat, suddenly wishing his hands were not empty, and he had at least thought to bring some nice pastries, flowers, a book, a blade, something that might offer her comfort.
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Happy posting and happy Fenhawke Week - let's go!!!
Got way too carried away on day one of FenHawke Week with the "longing" theme and rushed half of the panels BUT 'TIS POSTED BEFORE MIDNIGHT \( . .)/
One night of many at the Hanged Man during which these two yearn for each other across the table while trying to convince themselves everything is fine.
Based on my latest chapter of White Wolf, Crimson Favor - Ch.4 In Her Favor !
@fenhawke-week
It was past dawn and a hazy dew lingered in the air over the Vinmark Mountains. Corrine awoke to the high-pitch ringing of a whetstone against steel and the glint of the dying fire against metal. She sat up abruptly only to see Fenris looking over his blade. The dim sunlight dappled over his bare arms and highlighted the lyrium marks wrapping around them as he turned the blade over. His eyes scanned the length of it and over every detail before his ears pricked to the sound of her movement. Pausing, he gave her a sideglance.
“So much for keeping watch,” he said dryly. Their squire, Valentin, was passed out facing the rising sun with his mandolin still clutched in his arms. Meanwhile, other members of the camp were already stirring and Athenril was already on the far end of the camp directing the elves with the limited patience that they had paid for.
“I couldn’t have been out that long…” Corrine muttered to herself as she wiped the sleep from her eyes. She had stayed alert for at least a couple hours with her mind racing with thoughts of the tournament, of risk, and of the complexities that were already unfolding with this mission. At some point, all the thoughts had run together and everything had gone black.
“It was enough, I hope.” Another dry response. Was it sarcasm, concern, or a bit of both? He didn’t follow up to confirm it was either. They had shared a bottle of wine the night before and then a dance to celebrate with the freed elves; now a new day lay ahead to tackle the joust and the simmering emotions between them.
Before she could respond, his attention was back on his blade. Taking some wood ash, he appraised its grit between his fingers before mixing it with some oil from his pack and applying it to the blade with a soft cloth. He ran it along the blade in long strokes. He seemed lost in thought; it was part of a long-practiced ritual, a sort of meditation.
“It was. Thanks.” She started. “Good that you let me rest; they say the Fade calls to sleep-deprived mages and leads them astray.” The head turn was abrupt and immediate. He had a noticeable grip on the blade as he stared at her.
“Really?” He asked wryly.
“No,” she stifled a laugh. “Not really.”
“Another bad joke…” He exhaled through his teeth before turning the blade in his grip and turning back towards the dying fire.
Grinning, she cupped her face in her hands, still sitting up from her bedroll. “No need to worry. I’m just a normal girl, after all.”
“But you’re not.” Fenris countered.
Her heart sank as he sighed and looked to his blade to pick up where he left off but paused before speaking. His tone was conflicted but thoughtful, as if saying more would betray him. “You’re…something more.”
Her expression softened. Something more. Her magic indeed made him wary but there was something else that pulled at him. At both of them.
“You as well,” she responded.
Caught off-guard, he gave another side-glance. He looked downwards while in thought for a moment before returning to his work, though she caught the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.
She ran her fingers through her hair, untangling the knots she had gotten from tossing and turning before noticing the extra roll that had been placed top of her sometime in the night. She felt the thick, worn material with her fingers. It smelt of leather, petrichor and ash; it smelt like him.
Closing her eyes, she took it all in for a moment. His smell, his words, everything that had transpired before and what laid before them and what felt inevitable despite her denying what she had seen in her cards. She got up from her bedroll and folded his across her arms before approaching him.
“You didn’t need to do that for me. Did you even sleep?” She asked as she set the folded roll by him.
“The Dalish advise covering and hiding hapless travelers spending nights in the Vinmark Mountains, lest the Dreadwolf take them in their sleep.” Fenris stated flatly.
Corrine blinked in confusion, wondering if this was something new he had picked up on from his travels or from Merrill. “Wait, what? They say that?”
“Seeing as I’m not Dalish, I wouldn’t know…” he trailed off before a grin spread across his lips. “So no, not really. And I am accustomed to little sleep. It seemed you needed it more.”
“I’m not hapless…” she asserted. She shook her head at being fooled once again by the elf’s perfect poker face.
“You were trembling in your sleep,” he pointed out.
Her eyes fell to her hands as she sighed. It wasn’t from cold but from the same recurring nightmare she had had since Bethany’s death. What awaited them at the tournament was weighing on her and with it that ever growing fear once again.
Noticing her expression, he leaned in. “Hawke, I-“ he cut himself off. A force of habit. After the other day, she had a new name and one not even Varric called her. It still felt too foreign on his tongue and to call her “Lady Corrine” felt too painfully familiar.
She smiled solemnly. “When we get to the tournament, it’ll have to be My Lady or Lady Corrine. If I’m tied to the Hawke name, they could very well also tie my knight to it as well. Risky if Danarius is involved.”
She was met with silence as he looked away as his brow furrowed. Titles left a bitter taste in his mouth after his escape from the Castellum Tenebris but was a necessary charade.
“Is that all?” he asked with a dark chuckle. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy this little play you’ve put on.”
She cocked her head slightly at his remark before leaning in close. Her lips parted in a mischievous smile as she spoke. “I won’t deny that I enjoy how my name sounds when you say it.”
He was taken aback before she continued. ”Do it for the tournament and after, we can go back to routine and I can be ‘Hawke’ again, if that’s what you want.”
”It’s not that…,” he started before they both heard a loud yawn as Valentin roused from his sleep. He stretched out all four limbs before looking over at them lazily. Looking over yonder, the skies had lightened and it was high-time to head out.
Valentin, true to Athenril’s description, was a skilled squire and assisted Fenris with the armor Corrine had provided. He was soon unrecognizable under the sheets of steel and under the helmet. The white charger Athenril provided was tractable enough that he seated it with ease and soon the three bid farewell to Athenril and the elves and went in separate paths through the Vinmark Mountains.
-
Despite what he had heard from Donnic and Aveline, nothing could prepare Fenris for the sight of the tournament grounds that stretched from end to end. Corrine had asked him to let her do the talking with guardsmen at the front and, brandishing the invitation she had, the three were able to make it through with minimal fuss though talk of the Amell House entering the grounds with just a small crew instead of an entourage did raise eyebrows. Lady Amell and her knight Blaidd received a mix of tepid welcomes and curiosity from the other nobles. Talks of the “wild-card” Amell quickly began to make their rounds among the other lords and ladies during the opening ceremonies.
Arriving, Corrine and Valentin already noticed small signs of tampering. Perhaps a noble, upon seeing their entrance, had tossed some coin at attendant with loose enough morals to tamper with the straps on their horse’s saddle and weaken their lances. It was something she already expected and it only made her more sure of the plan she had been racking her mind over.
There was only a short break before the tournament started where Fenris was able to see Corrine before she was to head to the stands. In the midst of all the hustle and bustle of the crowds, they hadn’t spoken but he had kept his eyes on her. She was a vision in red; fully committed to her role as “Lady Amell.” No longer in mage robes, she had adorned herself in a dress befitting a noble lady. It was impressive how quickly she had camouflaged herself though, with how many eyes were on her and her team as a defiant new challenger, he wondered if it would be enough.
Fenris had removed his helmet in order to get some air before the first rounds. The pavilion they were in offered a welcome reprieve to be away from the wandering eyes and whispers. As Valentin fussed over the finer details of his equipment, Corrine noticed his eyes on her.
”How do I look? Convincing enough…?” She asked as she did a turn. Her tone was playful but there was that bit of hesitation in her voice as she looked up at him for approval.
”You look…different,” he said with some reluctance. In reality, he was struggling with his words. Seeing her in the dull light of the pavillion, adorned in gold and red and without the facial markings she normally had during missions, was different. She looked almost regal. The way her hair cupped her face and how the fine silk folded over her delicate form made his breath catch in his throat.
“What?” She choked out a laugh as she looked over herself, suddenly self-conscious. “Is it that bad?”
“It’s an improvement.” Another gruff response and another failed attempt at trying to get his words across. He caught his squire cringing at the entire exchange as he tended to his lances from the other side of the pavilion. Fenris sighed as his hand cupped his face in frustration.
She grimaced. “An improvement. What are you trying to say?”
He sighed and pushed through his embarrassment and continued, casting his eyes to the side “…that you’re beautiful.”
She was speechless for a moment before smiling and taking the sight of him in. The old armor they had found rotting in the basement of the Amell Estate so long ago was unrecognizable now on him. There he was, her knight donned head to toe in Amell armor, sharp-eyed and battle-ready. It filled her with pride and awe.
“Thank you. And you make for a stunning knight,” she said softly as she approached him. “I’m honored.”
Their moment was interrupted by the sound of a horn going off in the distance. “FIRST PASS TO START IN FIFTEEN MINUTES!” came the cry of the announcer across the field.
She looked pensive for a moment, internally deliberating on her choice. “You’ll need to finish up here. I have one last thing to give you, if you’ll indulge me.” She pulled from her side a ribbon in the same color as her dress.
“A ribbon?” He muttered skeptically.
“A favor,” she corrected. “It’s customary for a maiden to give her knight a favor. It’s for luck, though hopefully, you won’t need it.” They had less than fifteen minutes left. It was time for her to enact her plan - the card she had been saving.
He scoffed. Luck was something he felt had long evaded him, though his freedom and progress in Kirkwall had all been fortuitous after joining in with Hawke and her team. Her sapphire eyes looked at him eagerly until he relented. “Fine. Have at it, then.”
Smiling, she took out a small blade from her pack. He eyed her with suspicion as she cut a lock of her dark red hair before taking it her hand and stretching the fabric out in front of him.
“Give me your wrist,” she instructed.
He held out his right arm to her and watched her work as she worked the fabric around the hair lock and in circles. Each movement was deliberate and careful to tie the lock tightly in place.
She gently pulled his wrist to her lips and kissed it before looking up at him. “Done.”
He didn’t pull away but eyed her and exhaled a breath he had held from the moment she had began tying the favor. Even through the armor, it was almost as though he could still feel the warmth of her lips against his wrist. It felt out of place to have her looking up at him, an elven slave wrapped in armor, as if he was her liege. As if she was the one in his service instead.
“Are favors normally sealed with a kiss?” He asked with a grin, raising an eyebrow. “Is that part of your luck?”
“In a sense.” She smiled to herself as she let go of his gauntlet. He was skirting too close to the truth. “I’ll be with you on the field, in spirit.” She turned to leave but he caught her hand. There was a pause before he spoke.
“I’ll make every strike count and look for you in the stands,” he promised. His thumb caressed the inside of her palm as he held it gently.
“I’ll be cheering for you,” she responded with a grin while reluctantly pulling away. “I’m sure you’ll make me and House Amell proud.”
As she left to the stands, he found himself admiring the favor that she had wrapped around his gauntlet with such care. Her dark red hair was secured in the same red material as her dress. He brought it to his face, smelling the bergamot and vanilla he’d come to associate with her on so many nights back at the mansion.
Even if luck didn’t exist, the favor secured around his gauntlet made him emboldened to win, for the mansion and for his lady.
