five times kissed //i mean if u want
send five times kissed for a thing
his lips are sticky, sweet with the taste of plum wine. he’s not a drinker, he never has been, but it is wintersend, and he would not have the courage to speak to melwyn otherwise. ❝ happy wintersend, my lady herald, ❞ he says brightly, gifting her cheek with a sweet, chaste kiss.
he is a templar, virtue is in his blood. he is the picture of chivalry around her, because it doesn’t cross his mind to be anything else. he has been chaste all his life, he has never thought about anyone... like that. never any of his fellow templars, never anyone in denerim. and now, despite his burgeoning interest in her, he has not thought about melwyn in such a scandalous manner. until he sees her dressed up for the winter palace, fabric hugging her figure, and he swears his cheeks have been red all day. he’s still utterly volcanic when it comes time for her and her companions to depart for orlais, and he stops her only long enough to press a kiss to her knuckles and wish her luck.
three the lion & the serpent
he can still see the blood on his hands. still see the light leaving his dear brother’s eyes, still feel his blade slipping between lucien’s ribs. in the choas of the moment, he hadn’t even thought about it, all he could think about was stopping a dangerous apostate. but now, in the quiet of skyhold, he cannot stop thinking that he made the wrong choice. that he should have talked him down, tried to steer him down the path of redemption. he doesn’t realise he’s crying until melwyn’s there, hands either side of his face. he’s still crying when she kisses him in the dark of the barracks.
it’s finally here. they’ve done everything they can to stop corypheus, to ready themselves for the final battle. he should be with his fellow templars, but instead he finds himself outside melwyn’s bedroom door, trying to pick up the courage to knock. he doesn’t know what they are; whether they’re friends who hold hands and share kisses sometimes, whether they’re lovers, whether this is even going to last once corypheus lays slain and the breach closed for good. but he knows there’s a good chance they might die tomorrow, and he refuses to die without having at least asked for a night with her. just one night, and he could die happy. so he knocks on her door, armed with flowers from skyhold’s garden, and embraces her with the passion of a man who knows death waits for him on the sunrise.
it makes something in his chest ache watching melwyn run off to lead the charge against corypheus, and knowing he can’t go with her. his place is with his fellow knights, holding back the brunt of corypheus’ forces. every cut, every bruise, they’re all worth it, if it means melwyn succeeds. and when he sees the breach snap shut... maker, the relief that floods through him. he should still be feeling that relief when the choas has died down, but all he can think is that he can’t feel his legs. or his arms. or... anything, really. he hears the healers talking, saying he’s lost a lot of blood and that he likely won’t last the night, but the words are far off and hazy. but there’s melwyn, her blonde hair shining as bright as the sun in his last dying vision. he’s not sure if she’s even there, or if it’s just some hallucination meant to ease him into the afterlife, but he cracks a weak smile and utters the phrase he’s practising for weeks, waiting for just the right moment to speak it. ❝ ar lath, ma vhenan. ❞
