For an instant, when he first sees her standing there amidst the burning rubble of Kirkwall with hardly a scratch on her, all he feels is anger. He'd abandoned his duty, his brothers in arms to get to her, thinking that it would all be too late and she would be dead or worse by the time he found her.
And yet here she stands, dead templars and pieces of abomination littering the ground at her feet like gruesome confetti, unharmed and surprised to see him. As if he wouldn't come. As if he didn't care.
He opens his mouth to snap some sarcastic reply, something about how he should have known that she'd be right in the middle of all this chaos, when he sees it. The tiniest tremor in her arms. The way she holds her staff in a white-knuckled grip so hard it's a wonder she hasn't snapped it in half. The tired hollowness in her eyes that shouldn't ever be there. Not Marian, who always had an inappropriate laugh or smile for every occasion as long as he's known her.
She stares at him, silent and expectant, shoulders stiff like she's expecting a rebuke. He reaches for her instead and presses their foreheads together, smiling so that at least one of them is. Even if it's the wrong one.
"Sorry."
He mutters the apology into her hair and it's so pitifully inadequate for the situation. But he must be doing something right because she shudders, relaxes her shoulders and smiles for him, just a little.
"It's all right, little brother. I won't tell anyone you were late."
He hadn't really understood until he saw Denarius mince down the Hanged Man's worn steps like it was a palatial staircase, the stink of slave blood and mage fire on his hands, and a superior smirk half-hidden in a greying beard.
Ah, my little Fenris...
And he saw Fenris flinch in exactly the same way he'd do every time Hawke had forgotten himself and kissed him, or hooked his chin over a lyrium lined shoulder in a moment of quiet. Every other touch, Fenris seemed to revel in, seeking out his hands or pressing hip to hip, brushing arms as they walked or tangling legs together in the lazy pre-dawn hours. He had thought it just the intimacy of having Hawke's mouth on him that stirred that instinctive defense and of course Fenris couldn't correct him because they just didn't talk about those invisible barriers they still tip-toed around.
But he knew now, and after Fenris had run off instead of talking to him again, after he'd returned home to a concerned Orana, after he'd cleaned all the little spattered pieces of Tevinter blood mage from his skin, he stood in front of the mirror with a basin of magic-warmed water and hoped he'd still recognize himself when he was done.
Fenris was already prowling around his front entry when he came back down the stairs, but he stopped his pacing short when he caught sight of him. Hawke rubbed his clean-shaved jaw, thick fingers skimming over the little nicks and cuts, and gave the elf an uncertain smile and a shrug in response to his staring.
"I know. I should have let Orana do it. At this rate you're going to think I'm a blood mage," he joked, inappropriately and so very tactless but it was better than just standing there bare-faced and sheepish while Fenris gawked at him.
"Hawke. I-" He sighed and held very still as Fenris seemed to gather himself and step closer, a gauntleted hand still tipped with blood reaching out to trace his jawline with a hesitant touch.
"You look...fine," Fenris said, and it was as close to a compliment and a blessing that Hawke supposed he was going to get.
"To be honest, I feel a bit naked without it," he replied with a slanted grin.
Green eyes narrowed and suddenly Fenris looked more calculating than confused. Metal tapped thoughtfully against Hawke's lips and then Fenris pulled his hand away, stripping off his gauntlets and dropping them to the floor.
"Well then," he murmured, his voice a gorgeous, rumbling growl, "let us even the score a little."
He's managed to escape the smothering clutches of his nursemaid more than once on their trip through Gwaren, though this is the longest he's ever stayed out of them thus far. With his father and mother wrapped up in diplomatic talks and his older brothers being shown around the shipping ports, there was very little mind paid to the leftover Starkhaven lordling confined to the grounds of their temporary estate. Later, he is sure to be whipped for the excursion out to the mucky Fereldan streets and dingy market stalls, but it seems a small price to pay for the freedom to stretch his legs and roam around without the disapproving cluck of his tutors over his shoulder.
The sun is pleasing on his face, and the cloak he borrowed from where it hung in the stables covers up the tell-tale finery of his doublet and jacket that would get him caught out in a trice should anyone see it. He uses a clever flick of his fingers to steal an apple from one of the fruit carts and waits until he's a good distance away to start munching it cheerfully.
The motion goes unnoticed by the merchant, but not, he notes, by the inquisitive gaze of a girl lingering at a stall of fabrics and sewing notions. She watches him with wide brown eyes, cheeks pinking a little when she realizes he's caught her staring. He refuses to feel guilty himself, taking another large bite of his apple with a smirk and a wink that only intensifies her blushing. When he lifts a finger to his mouth in an exaggerated plea for secrecy, she giggles and bends her knee in a quick curtsy. Caught up in the pantomime, he pretends to wipe sweat from his brow in relief and only catches onto the clank and rustle of Templar armor after the knight has already approached the stall.
The girl notices about a second after he does, but her reaction is worse. She jumps, face paling to an almost ghostly white beneath her dark curls, and he sees the bursting ripple in the air before the pebble at her feet lifts by itself and pings off the Templar's shiny breastplate before ricocheting back into the stall and fracturing one of the spindles on display.
Oh, he thinks.
But the girl's expression is so frightened, and Ser Suspicious is turning to look at her, and he feels his feet moving and his mouth opening before he can even think about what he's going to say.
"I threw the stone." The Templar lifts an eyebrow while the stall owner investigates the broken spindle. He darts a glance at the girl that he hopes is consoling and then shrugs lazily, letting the folds of his cloak billow open as he takes a few steps further towards the stall. "My apologies, I was attempting to hit a crow and it slipped away from me, Ser Knight. I do hope your armor hasn't taken any damage."
The stall owner scowls and leans forward, spindle in hand. "My merchandise is what's taken damage. You'll need to pay for this, you brat!"
"Of course, my good woman. My apologies to you too. It was an honest accident, I assure you."
Smoothly, he pulls a modest purse of silver from his sleeve and gifts a hefty amount, much more than the poorly constructed bit of wood is worth in his opinion. The Templar leans over him, having noticed the silk and lace of his doublet and the pearl buttons, the depth of his purse, and the rolling brogue in his speech and put two and two together.
"Sebastian Vael, I presume. Your father has set the city guard out to find you and your description was passed on to the Knight-Captain this morning. I hope you will permit me to escort you back to the estate without a fuss."
"I suppose there isn't a chance we could stop in at the pub on the way?" Sebastian wheedles, as wide-eyed and charming as he can make himself, though it doesn't seem to be doing anything but amusing the Templar. He's gently, but firmly held by the arm and led away from the stall.
When he looks back, a dark-haired boy is already dashing across the street to take hold of the stricken girl's hand and hiss something urgent into her ear. The boy looks protective and furious and sick with worry and Sebastian feels something stab uncomfortably in his gut at the realization that no one in his family ever wore that expression when looking at him.
The boy asks the girl something and she answers him, lips bloodless and trembling as if she might cry. Sebastian winks at her again but she doesn't smile, only watches him soberly until her--brother? It must be--pulls her away.
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chiming
Carver/f!Hawke - Late
Date: 2014-06-23 12:00 am (UTC)From:--
For an instant, when he first sees her standing there amidst the burning rubble of Kirkwall with hardly a scratch on her, all he feels is anger. He'd abandoned his duty, his brothers in arms to get to her, thinking that it would all be too late and she would be dead or worse by the time he found her.
And yet here she stands, dead templars and pieces of abomination littering the ground at her feet like gruesome confetti, unharmed and surprised to see him. As if he wouldn't come. As if he didn't care.
He opens his mouth to snap some sarcastic reply, something about how he should have known that she'd be right in the middle of all this chaos, when he sees it. The tiniest tremor in her arms. The way she holds her staff in a white-knuckled grip so hard it's a wonder she hasn't snapped it in half. The tired hollowness in her eyes that shouldn't ever be there. Not Marian, who always had an inappropriate laugh or smile for every occasion as long as he's known her.
She stares at him, silent and expectant, shoulders stiff like she's expecting a rebuke. He reaches for her instead and presses their foreheads together, smiling so that at least one of them is. Even if it's the wrong one.
"Sorry."
He mutters the apology into her hair and it's so pitifully inadequate for the situation. But he must be doing something right because she shudders, relaxes her shoulders and smiles for him, just a little.
"It's all right, little brother. I won't tell anyone you were late."
Fenris/m!Hawke - Bare
Date: 2014-06-23 02:08 am (UTC)From:--
He hadn't really understood until he saw Denarius mince down the Hanged Man's worn steps like it was a palatial staircase, the stink of slave blood and mage fire on his hands, and a superior smirk half-hidden in a greying beard.
Ah, my little Fenris...
And he saw Fenris flinch in exactly the same way he'd do every time Hawke had forgotten himself and kissed him, or hooked his chin over a lyrium lined shoulder in a moment of quiet. Every other touch, Fenris seemed to revel in, seeking out his hands or pressing hip to hip, brushing arms as they walked or tangling legs together in the lazy pre-dawn hours. He had thought it just the intimacy of having Hawke's mouth on him that stirred that instinctive defense and of course Fenris couldn't correct him because they just didn't talk about those invisible barriers they still tip-toed around.
But he knew now, and after Fenris had run off instead of talking to him again, after he'd returned home to a concerned Orana, after he'd cleaned all the little spattered pieces of Tevinter blood mage from his skin, he stood in front of the mirror with a basin of magic-warmed water and hoped he'd still recognize himself when he was done.
Fenris was already prowling around his front entry when he came back down the stairs, but he stopped his pacing short when he caught sight of him. Hawke rubbed his clean-shaved jaw, thick fingers skimming over the little nicks and cuts, and gave the elf an uncertain smile and a shrug in response to his staring.
"I know. I should have let Orana do it. At this rate you're going to think I'm a blood mage," he joked, inappropriately and so very tactless but it was better than just standing there bare-faced and sheepish while Fenris gawked at him.
"Hawke. I-" He sighed and held very still as Fenris seemed to gather himself and step closer, a gauntleted hand still tipped with blood reaching out to trace his jawline with a hesitant touch.
"You look...fine," Fenris said, and it was as close to a compliment and a blessing that Hawke supposed he was going to get.
"To be honest, I feel a bit naked without it," he replied with a slanted grin.
Green eyes narrowed and suddenly Fenris looked more calculating than confused. Metal tapped thoughtfully against Hawke's lips and then Fenris pulled his hand away, stripping off his gauntlets and dropping them to the floor.
"Well then," he murmured, his voice a gorgeous, rumbling growl, "let us even the score a little."
--
Sebastian/Bethany - Salt
Date: 2014-06-25 11:24 pm (UTC)From:The sun is pleasing on his face, and the cloak he borrowed from where it hung in the stables covers up the tell-tale finery of his doublet and jacket that would get him caught out in a trice should anyone see it. He uses a clever flick of his fingers to steal an apple from one of the fruit carts and waits until he's a good distance away to start munching it cheerfully.
The motion goes unnoticed by the merchant, but not, he notes, by the inquisitive gaze of a girl lingering at a stall of fabrics and sewing notions. She watches him with wide brown eyes, cheeks pinking a little when she realizes he's caught her staring. He refuses to feel guilty himself, taking another large bite of his apple with a smirk and a wink that only intensifies her blushing. When he lifts a finger to his mouth in an exaggerated plea for secrecy, she giggles and bends her knee in a quick curtsy. Caught up in the pantomime, he pretends to wipe sweat from his brow in relief and only catches onto the clank and rustle of Templar armor after the knight has already approached the stall.
The girl notices about a second after he does, but her reaction is worse. She jumps, face paling to an almost ghostly white beneath her dark curls, and he sees the bursting ripple in the air before the pebble at her feet lifts by itself and pings off the Templar's shiny breastplate before ricocheting back into the stall and fracturing one of the spindles on display.
Oh, he thinks.
But the girl's expression is so frightened, and Ser Suspicious is turning to look at her, and he feels his feet moving and his mouth opening before he can even think about what he's going to say.
"I threw the stone." The Templar lifts an eyebrow while the stall owner investigates the broken spindle. He darts a glance at the girl that he hopes is consoling and then shrugs lazily, letting the folds of his cloak billow open as he takes a few steps further towards the stall. "My apologies, I was attempting to hit a crow and it slipped away from me, Ser Knight. I do hope your armor hasn't taken any damage."
The stall owner scowls and leans forward, spindle in hand. "My merchandise is what's taken damage. You'll need to pay for this, you brat!"
"Of course, my good woman. My apologies to you too. It was an honest accident, I assure you."
Smoothly, he pulls a modest purse of silver from his sleeve and gifts a hefty amount, much more than the poorly constructed bit of wood is worth in his opinion. The Templar leans over him, having noticed the silk and lace of his doublet and the pearl buttons, the depth of his purse, and the rolling brogue in his speech and put two and two together.
"Sebastian Vael, I presume. Your father has set the city guard out to find you and your description was passed on to the Knight-Captain this morning. I hope you will permit me to escort you back to the estate without a fuss."
"I suppose there isn't a chance we could stop in at the pub on the way?" Sebastian wheedles, as wide-eyed and charming as he can make himself, though it doesn't seem to be doing anything but amusing the Templar. He's gently, but firmly held by the arm and led away from the stall.
When he looks back, a dark-haired boy is already dashing across the street to take hold of the stricken girl's hand and hiss something urgent into her ear. The boy looks protective and furious and sick with worry and Sebastian feels something stab uncomfortably in his gut at the realization that no one in his family ever wore that expression when looking at him.
The boy asks the girl something and she answers him, lips bloodless and trembling as if she might cry. Sebastian winks at her again but she doesn't smile, only watches him soberly until her--brother? It must be--pulls her away.
Two families depart from Gwaren the next day.