greatness awaits

@verseandrhyme​

As it happened, one could not stay in the tent forever.

Even with the sturdy canvas, the top of the tent sagged with heavy snow fall, and when the chill permeated deeply enough into the inner sanctum of their make-shift quarters, there was only so much Ferdinand could so, trying to shovel himself under Mitama’s smaller mass to leech her warmth as he covered himself with her like a human blanket.

Needless to say, it was a futile effort, but he needed to raise anyway, and Ferdinand had no one else to blame but himself for the growing reluctance to move in his limbs... The feeling of her coaxed him back to her side and with every breath, Ferdinand had to steel himself to part from her and brave the chill... and it took a dozen attempts, he thought, before he managed to emerge from the covers, shivering as the cold raised gooseflesh across his skin and he hurried to throw warmer layers on.

Boots tightly laced and his cloak wrapped tightly around his neck, Ferdinand stepped out into the morning sun... Only a few had woken up then to greet the sun, their shadows long and narrow like branches across the freshly laid snow of training grounds. The lake glittered beyond them; with the snow blown off, what remained appeared like glass and—

verseandrhyme​:

Though it cannot be called poetry, not in the way she weaves words with careful weight to determine the best out of the least possible, he praises her eyes as though they are jewels to be cherished (and not, like she sometimes muses, unnatural oddities that even she cannot explain). Her cheeks flush without her knowledge and a fleeting, unsteady giggle slips out from her lips without her permission. Flattery, she might have joked if she had any of her offices about her. Instead, she says nothing, turning her head to press kisses to his palms while still they linger within reach.

(She would hear it from him again and again and she thinks he might change the wording each time to remain just sugary enough for her sweet tooth to never tire of them.)

She knows that even Ferdinand does not miss the subtle weight to her question. She sees it in the way he goes from leaning into her touch, soft and pliant, to a taut bowstring’s focus. The way all of his focus came to trail the path her hand made, following it down until she caught him and pulled the two closer together. His expression was openly awestruck, and the delight it sent shivering through her was only partially unexpected.

(He was just so cute.)

She laughed softly at his quip. Thankfully, he at least had the sense not to end on it. His hands on her hips (he had mentioned admiration of them once, she wondered if she would now how deeply that ran) and she only response with the quietest of noises as he near throws them both into their bedrolls. She bursts into more laughter at that, adjusting to fit more comfortably alongside him as the two of them slid into place.

“If you are so concerned regarding your early morning,” she shivers again as his hand slips beneath fabric. The telltale cold of him is even more stark against how warm her body runs right now. “Then we best make the most of our time before sleep takes you. You can start,” her hands shift lower. Sliding under his tunic is a far easier affair. “by complaining less and kissing me more.”

(She does not sleep much either, in the end.)

Even Ferdinand. Her words could be mistaken for nothing else; the air could be mistaken for nothing else. For all his inexperience with what she was asking of him and all his experience with denying himself of it, even Ferdinand could tell what they had been swiftly hurtling towards.

Soft kisses to the corners of her lips, first exploratory, then more confident, swallowed the sound of her laughter as if it alone could sustain him for days, and Ferdinand beamed over her, the curtain of his hair spilling over his shoulder. Reaching to one side, and curiously, away from her, Ferdinand dimmed the small lantern until it faded to nothing at all. The walls of the tent were thin, after all, and there was too much precious to her for him to even think about sharing.

He was still human at heart; there was selfishness there as well as love, but in that moment, perhaps both could be fed at once.

“I believe,” he murmured against her then, hands smoothing along warm skin. “That you would find me a quick study.”

And as bidden, he pressed kisses up her throat and followed the curl of her pulse back up to her jaw, then claimed her lips soundly as her own hands went down. The hitch in his breath was lost against her.

.  .  .  .  .

verseandrhyme​:

After all they have been through, his declaration should come as no surprise. Pondering backwards, Mitama can think of an endless number of occasions where the depth of affection between them had been stated before, either in words or actions. And yet, he blurts out his confession with a force that seems to shock even him, and Mitama’s heart skips a beat as it pounds a forceful drumming in her chest.

I want all of you.

There is…so much to that. So much of herself and the very nature of what she is that she had never dared anyone outside of the walls to fully understand. Things that even with her best intentions and Ferdinand’s promise, she does not think she might ever think of herself without the Chantry’s touch staining it in some way. 

And despite that, Ferdinand sits there and claims he wants all of it without an ounce of hesitation. What is she supposed to do besides melt at that?

“You have all of me.” She replies, and her voice comes out in an unsteady croak as he proses on and details exactly what it is he wants. Her smile stretches wide and trembles with the effort as she laughs softly in response. 

She thinks at first that a public demonstration in any form is something she might never be capable of comfortably, not outside of their little group (and there is no doubt there that they already knew, long before either of them had seemed to gather all the pieces of their puzzle together.) But then she thinks further, thinks of being able to show, without a question or doubt, that someone as radiant and beloved by the Maker was hers, to be able to proudly stand by as his and she thinks…perhaps, someday, this is something she might like to manage.

She has not the words to express that thought now. She settles instead for pressing further kisses against his knuckles for as long as she is able to. When his hands were pulled free from her, she allowed it with only a slight whine, watching with curious eyes as he shifted himself. Her eyes drank deep of every line of him that was revealed by his movement until he settled and oh how her breath hitched and shuttered as she felt the warmth of him against her. (He was always cold but this, this was undeniably warm. Her mouth felt dry.)

Her hands faltered about. Mitama found that in this new pace, she was unsure exactly what to do with them just yet. It was not her first toe into dalliances, but those had been under the Circle’s eyes and so very different. A drop in a bucket compared to the overwhelming sea that was Ferdinand, that threatened to overwhelm and drown her at any moment. She would dive in willingly, if only he would ask.

The decision was made for her. Ferdinand’s hands came to gently cup her face, and Mitama’s hands latched onto his wrists, sturdy and supporting and easy to cling to as she met his eyes and tried not to drown in them. She thinks he moved first, but she cannot truly be sure. Not with the way she leaned in to meet him as his lips landed against hers, as he kissed her, far differently than he had ever kissed her before.

Heart pounding away / beat lost in your symphony / gentle, conductor.

He kisses her as a dying man drinking water, with the same fervor as the holy before the Maker himself, and Mitama meets him with equal passion. Gentleman that he is, the kiss remains rather chaste for all the passion and emotion they put into it. This time when they break for air, Mitama is certain a soft noise of protest slips from her as she chases after his departing lips. She does not get far as he still cradles her face gently, but she is certain when she opens her eyes again to meet his gaze, that the want she had spoken of is reflected in them plainly.

He jokes and she pouts, though it is hard to so when he swallows her up into another softer kiss. This time is much similar to what they had already shared, and so it is easier for her to let one hand free and reach up between his arms to tangle her fingers in his hair as he kisses her. “You are well aware I dislike wearing the masks.” She huffs in response. Her head shifts enough that she can press a soft kiss to the palm of his hand.

But the end is what she had wanted more deeply than she had been willing to admit herself. He promises his all to her and Mtiama smiles, even as heat grows behind her eyes and threatens to spill over. Hers, hers, all of hers… “Good.” She manages, laughing quietly. “Because I would have had an impossible time extracting my heart again from your hands were that the case.”

The sky has long since darkened outside of their tent. The hour grows late. They should rest. Should prepare themselves for whatever the future has to hold. Whatever the Nightingale has planned. Mitama finds that all she can think of, all she wishes to do, is for Ferdinand to kiss her again and again and again and

“Ferdinand…” Her hand abandons his hair, sliding lower instead. Past his jaw, down his neck, down until she reaches the collar of his tunic and hooks her fingers inside of it. Rather than pull him towards her, she moves closer to him, leaning up against that warmth of his between them as she licks her lips. “Join me for bed?” She asks. Her eyes flicker quickly from his to his lips, and there they remain.

All of her. Ferdinand’s heart grew full and heavy at the thought of it, feeling every bit like it was thumping against his ribcage with every heaving, glorious beat. The rare lazy mornings, the overly sweetened drinks, the warm hands on his skin when the lyrium stole his breath right out from under him... He adored them just as much as the crisp freshness that hung in the air after her magic passed through, or the gentle caress of her barriers as they settled around him. 

An embrace without an embrace. 

(And whatever burdens she felt she might bring the to the table, Ferdinand still quietly feared that his all might tip the scale—that one day, whatever ills inflicted upon him as he severed his own bonds would become too much to ask even her to bear... Because Ferdinand knew she would. Maker, she would try.)

Hands at his wrists steadied his resolve and coaxed the daring right out of him, and Ferdinand had to laugh, bright and victorious and grateful all in the same breath. “No, you never did... And now, I cannot bear to hide away your eyes either.” Even though he thought she might look stunning in a proper half mask, not the simple visors of formed and etched leather, but delicate things of gold filigree and inset stones and iridescent plumes.

The masks were one thing; Maker knew the courts were known for their... hedonistic excess and indulgence, and Ferdinand wondered what would become of her if she ever fell into such a lap of luxury.

He leaned into the gentle scratch of her fingers through his hair, more of him tangled among more of her, like vines that grew and crept to weave into every nook and crevice it would find. Utterly integrated with the space around it to form a greater whole... But it was with some amusement that Ferdinand noted the same questioning quality that threaded through her touches, exploratory and tentative in a way that suggested this was new to her as well, and he laughed again. Good. He was not so far behind as he had originally thought.

Time dragged on, and were it not for the growing crick in his neck, Ferdinand thought he might have sat there forever, all pressed against her and half draped against her, waiting for the moment when both their legs fell asleep before either of them did—

“Ferdinand...”

He looked down. His eyes followed her hand in his peripheral vision, sucking in a soft breath as it ghosted past his jaw, skin tingling in the wake of her touch, and along the fluttering pulse at his throat before hooking not-so-subtly at his collar. His mouth went dry immediately.

A fleeting moment of lucidity struck him. There were so many things left to do? There was a pie tin still in the corner of their tent, for one, and they had literally just consumed sweets, and his philter still sat unused for the day, and—and—

It all could wait. His eyes went to her and followed them back to his lips, and oh. That was not truly a question, was it? Slack-jawed, Ferdinand’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ in understanding.

“Just for bed?” He quipped in turn, taking his hands from her only to place them upon her hips and throw his weight over to one side, enough to fling them both the few inches it took to crash onto their piled blankets and bed rolls. Adventure struck him soon after gravity, and he found the edge of the back of her robes. “I am the only one of that has to wake early, you know. You on the other hand...”

verseandrhyme​:

Whatever he pleads with her to not be or do is lost to her. As he struggles and stutters and suffers his way through his own thoughts, Mitama’s frown only continues to worsen with worry. Whatever it was that possessed him, that caused such uncertainty in his words, she was unaware of…to think that she had left him fester and wonder…her heart aches at the thought as she continues to watch him.

He huffs in frustration and Mitama does not flinch away but she does still. Not afraid, never of him, not now. But cautious. Concerned. She does not know what it is he is stumbling on and she wishes only that she could do what was needed to aid him. She does not know, and so she sits quietly and waits, watching him as he finds the words he so desperately wants.

Want is, in the end, the very thing in question. Mitama’s breath stutters for a moment as his eyes find hers. The sweet, amber honey she adores is all but gone now, lost to dual pools of dark, unrestrained want that match the desperation in his voice. Mitama is certain that, we it not for her stars, she would be much the same as she feels the lick of a warmth to rival a rage demon run through her at the sight of him. She thanks the Maker that he keeps speaking. She does not think she might’ve mustered a response had he waited.

(She wants, lord has she wanted, but it has always been a question of had he wanted her? Mitama would have understood if the answer had been no. Magic was a danger, after all.)

Mitama licks her lips and clears her throat as she musters herself together enough to respond. “We…something we are taught in the Circle, beneath the templar’s watching eyes, is that if we are fortunate enough to find it, it is best to never give it a name, lest it be used against you.” Some might even argue that finding it was a misfortune, if you were in the wrong tower. But this is not the Towers, and though the thought had simply never occurred to her, she had been acting unintentionally cruel by deeming them much the same.

Mitama gently moves to take his hand. Her fingers are soft against his, sliding into place as she lifts it up. She slides her fingers beneath his, allowing them to fold over hers as the back of his fingers are pressed to rest against her chest. Against her heart, where she is certain it beats with enough want for him to feel it through flesh and bone. 

“I do not deny being…hesitant in part to give in to want as well. For a time I was certain…” She was a mage. The Maker’s forsaken. And he was every bit of radiance that He had ever blessed upon the mortal realm. “…I was certain of things that I cannot give thought to now without breaking the promise I made you. But you had given us so much already, I was content to make due with whatever lines you deemed fit, seeing how much more that already was than what I would have had.”

Her thumb grazes against him lightly. His hand is pulled from her chest only so that she can press a kiss to the back of his hand - knight and princess once more. She laughs quietly at the thought.

“If you are asking if I want you, the answer has long since been yes. Longer than I can admit without growing bashful at how…excessive we may have been in our mutual caution.” And certainly, she does, but there is a far more pressing, far more pressing confession in pair that she has been ignoring. It is silly, how it still feels like a heavy thing to rip out of her and lay before him. She wants to, even after even as every Chantry instilled instinct protests and wails at thought. She gives his hand a squeeze.

“If you are asking, however, if I love you in addition to that…” Nerves bubble like an ever steaming cauldron. Mitama hopes none of it taints her soft smile, hopefully as she watches his golden, honey eyes for a sign. “Undoubtedly. Unquestionably. Most ardently.”

He had seen it before, the fleeting brush of hands as mages shuffle past one another in the winding halls of the Circle towers, or the glances stolen with one another across the library hall, how one would smile just a little and look away before the scant moments they dared carve out for themselves were discovered and dubbed heretical. Dangerous. Ferdinand kept his lips tightly sealed, though he was not immune to his questions.

Why was it that mages could not have families in the Circle? Not mimicry of one formed by necessity between Enchanters and some of their younger wards and charges, but an actual family as any would expect outside of the walls... And his Captain at the time had just laughed. Something about magic running through bloodlines. Something about the complicated logistics of managing generations of mages. Ferdinand had argued that there would be no safer place than Circles for a mage to have a family; after all, the Order’s watch and protection was stronger there than anywhere else.

And the man’s gaze had hardened, and Ferdinand was too green at the time to know to drop his own and yield. Another knight, one who had taken the helm of another caravan that fateful night, had been more forthcoming: control. Besides, they hardly trusted mages with not falling prey to demons when the ‘garden variety’ emotions—Ferdinand snorted gracelessly then—let alone the more vivid sort that came with infatuation... Desire. Ecstasy, fulfilment, love.

“I want all of you,” he blurted out then, his whole face doing a shade darker as the end of the declaration cut off with a soft inhale as if Ferdinand just only realized how forceful such a statement was and just... what it sounded like over all. They were no longer in the Circles. They left it behind them, and every day, continued to leave it behind them until they were truly free from its clutches. She plucked his hand into hers, and Ferdinand’s breath hitched, the words becoming foggy again as she pressed his hand over her heart and Ferdinand very pointedly kept his hand exactly where it was... 

“I am not ashamed... Nor do I see a need for you to hide here any further. I do not want you to think that it needs to be a secretive thing.” But maybe... Maybe demonstrations of such could remain less than public... His hand twitched against the front of her robes. Ferdinand felt like he would burst into actual flames if it got any warmer under his skin, and then Rachelle would never let him live it down. 

Imagine that, from a fire mage. 

And then her lips brushed across his skin and the words just fizzled away.

(In their place, an image, unexpected, sudden and short-lived, came to mind of pink lips around his fingers, and Ferdinand had no idea where it had come from, only that the intensity with which he knew he wanted it startled him.)

Promise. The nights on the road, the nightmares, the litany of failures and misguided sense of self-worth of lack-thereof... and Ferdinand understood it more. There was a part of him that had been hollowed that he filled with her instead and drank of her warmth; if she needed him to bolster her, he would see to it that she overfilled with such warm regards.

But love. And want. Maker, dear Maker, he... He had never... He could have had her all along, fool that he was. His tongue ran over his lips once, as if he were about to say something, but the words never came, only the jittery flutter of nerves singing to life. He had never. And yet. It was nothing like mounting a horse, but the movements were similar, just not smooth. Her hand was shaken free from his as he moved in short, jerky motions that saw his knees plants on either side of her lap, half kicking the mostly-emptied pie tin aside with a rattle.

He looked down at her, pupils still blown to dark pools despite revelation after revelation after revelation that should have been obvious, Maker, they were being ridiculous and his breath came in shallow gasps. There was a soft tremble in his hands, whether from nerves or... or... They came to either side of her face, one hand smoothing fingers through the pink strands that framed it as he craned down, kissing her firmly in reply. He could have lost himself in her forever. Given himself over to the heat, untouched by what little chill remained in their tent, and only the need for air pulls him from her, just barely. 

“‘Most ardently,’” he murmured to her then, a soft chuckle on his lips before claiming hers once more, softer, sweeter, not as hungry or imploring. Through the ribbing, there was a distinct fond rumble to his voice. “I almost expect to be in the middle of the Orlesian Court.”

Ferdinand doubles back. Despite her blow, he’s poised to strike again, and Caeda readies herself to meet him. His first strike misses, but his second glances off her forearm as she raises her hand to shield her face.

-0.5 HP. CAEDA HAS 1.5 HP REMAINING. HEALED WITH: BLESSED LANCE 2/6 HP HEALED TO 3/6 HP

She has her bearing now, familiar with how he’d steer his pegasus and when he’d spur his steed to attack. Caeda swings her lance at him, knowing it’ll connect.

ATTACK WITH: BLESSED LANCE. ROLL 1D20 - 2 = 16-2 (14)! HIT! ATTACK WITH: BLESSED LANCE. ROLL 1D20 - 2 = 19-2 (17)! HIT! TOTAL 3 DAMAGE DEALT. FERDINAND — 0/5 HP.

The lance missed more often than it connected, and even then, gouging lines down armour more often than flesh, and... and was this not supposed to be a game? One in seriousness, but when had he started... 

> Ferdinand (Blessed Lance; Darting Blow): 2 > miss! 

In the quiet lapse of his thoughts, he missed his target entirely, and the collective weight of them went barrelling forth. Too far. There was no way he could have defended against what was to come next, and when her retaliation hit, and Ferdinand felt his lance drop from one hand and the other slackening from the reins. His mount moved out from under him, disconnected.

(‘A rider and their mount must move as one.’ They no longer did.)

And gravity overtook him then as he slipped off the saddle to one side, further and further as Lady Hawke started to flap her wings again, and before he could really understand what was happen, Ferdinand watched the world spin around him until he looked.

Up. At the sky, his back to the grasses.

And Lady Hawke’s shadow circling above him.

.  .  .  .  .

Caeda is pleased to see her blow connect. One more hit, she thinks, shall do it.

It cannot miss, as Ferdinand’s does as he hurtles past her. Caeda grips her lance a bit tighter and musters all the strength she can, rushing forward and leaping to reach him —

ATTACK WITH: BLESSED LANCE. ROLL 1D20 - 2 = 4-2 (2)! 

ACTIVATE COMBAT ART: TEMPEST LANCE

HIT! TOTAL 1.5 DAMAGE DEALT.

— and the strike is not strong, she certainly could have done better, but it is enough.

His back was open. Ferdinand knew that, could remember the exact second when the thought occurred to him just seconds before the lance struck him through the shoulder just inside of the pauldrons—it was not deep, he thought, but it was little consolation.

The sudden flash and shock of the pain of it threatened wretched the reins from his hands, Ferdinand felt the control slip, giving way to flashes of instinct and baser survival drive. The sky was open to him, and yet, the distinct sensation of a corner at his back spurred him forward.

> Ferdinand: 1/5 >> Blessed Lance +1 (Ferdinand 2/5) > Ferdinand (Blessed Lance, Desperation): (8, 11) -0.5, -1.5hp (Caeda: 2/5)

It was a sloppy, frantic thing, all steel flashing and risks taken where Ferdinand new he would never on a better day. Lady Hawke heaved under him as he redoubled. Ferdinand hardly looked to aim before throwing his weight behind it.

verseandrhyme​:

He seemed out of it, as if the very action she had done had uprooted him from every part of the moment. His silent avoidance turned to silent staring as she gently guided his gaze to meet hers once more. (He looked so cute when he was dazed.) He seemed to be incapable of talk, but made no move to look away from her again, nor stop her as she tossed the cutlery off behind her to land in the pie tin.

(Mitama was long since accustomed to the chill she felt as her  skin made contact with his - she wonders now if it is his or hers that sets a fire off within her, melted lava drifting and ebbing as she breathes, as she settles, as she moves closer and closer to him with every breath.)

He stutters on his start and Mitama laughs quietly to herself at that. Sweet as ever, her heart sings for him as he tries to fumble his way through his words and find the proper order to place them in. She had not realized how much she had missed this. Missed him. She had been there physically, behind the glass walls she had placed herself in, but the song between them never rang out as sweetly then, never filled her with the same reverence as a chantry psalm.

She hears the song of his heart perfectly now, stuttering and nervous but genuine and warm and her own rises in a swelling crescendo to meet it.

It is only when he finds his words that the song seems to stutter out of synchronization. A misstep in a dance, a note just a fraction too late. Mitama frowns curiously in response to his question, tilting her head slightly as she studies him. He grins widely, but it does not catch the weight of a joke or falsehood in any way. No, his smile seems genuine, as though he has just been granted something he has waited a time for and Mitama…is not quite sure what revelation she has gifted him.

“Of course.” She replies immediately. Her hand now free of the task of liberating his mouth, she raises it to gently brush his hair back from his face. “Have we not been an us for quite some time now?”

They had been sharing a bed and tent so long now that certainly, jokes and jeers among the others regarding their romantic endeavors had long since been a thing. It was only a question of when it had shifted from being a joke to reality, to when they had become so intertwined that Mitama could no longer imagine even attempting to untangle herself from him.

“I thought we had made enough grand statements of support and togetherness to make us a given…or at least, the fact I allowed you to kiss me…” But they had never spoken about it, never given it a name. And slowly, Mitama realizes, that may be the distinction of it.

(That where she has been raised to keep such feelings an unspoken secret should ever they occur, Ferdinand likely had not and oh…perhaps what she had assumed what not such a given.)

“Ferdinand…” She frowns deeper now, concerned even more. “Have you not considered us a couple this entire time?”

“Have we not been an us for quite some time now?”

She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, a self evident fact of the natural order of things, just as the Maker had intended for it. 

And it was not that Ferdinand was blind to any of the things she said, or feel the very affection that radiates from her finger tips whenever she brushed the stray strands from his cheek—oh, how she had come to do it more often then him now; it seemed so long ago that she still wore her hair long and woke from Fade-dreams with it stuck down her neck—Ferdinand was aware... But perception was not belief was not understanding, and Ferdinand, more than anything else, dared not presume when it came to such important matters as... her. 

‘You need to slow down and think about whether what you are doing is something you would be proud of… Or the Knight Commander.’

It wasn’t new; they had simply given words to the amorphous thing that curled just under his heart, waiting for the right moment to burst forth and consume him whole like the ambush predator it was—Ferdinand would have never wanted to be anything the Knight Commander would be proud of, not even in his days before the Order. It was ignoble. It was injust. He would bide and wait for the word, some indication that it was not... Merely him, painting them in hues of his own imagining. It was not. Surely. Ferdinand hoped.

(That was permitted. He hoped. He hoped even when they were apart.)

But the word from her never came, and just like the hungry, dark thing that lurked under the surface, it never came forth either, unnamed and unable to make itself known when it had no shape that Ferdinand’s tongue could form.

(A name made it known. A name made it solid, real... And some part of his argued, an echo of the past, the if it were real, it could become unreal so easily by his own hands. The apprehension would not fade for some time, but perhaps Ferdinand dared now to want. She had. He could meet her half way there.)

“We have been...” Was that pity in her voice now? Somewhere under the warmth and ache, the crawling sensation of tension starting to settle in his shoulders—where would he even run to if he thought to run?—he couldn’t take it back. He couldn’t unsay any of those things, Maker, this was exactly what he was afraid of. “No, please, pray, you need not...”

The exhale that came from him was laced with a note of frustration. How was he still so bad at this? And just what else did he have to be afraid of now? They had come so far—Ferdinand could not think of anything left to lose by now. If his fears were to manifest, that what did it matter if he cracked himself open before her or not? She could take what she wanted and leave the rest behind.

“... I wanted it,” he admitted then, looking at her with such desperation, please, just understand, if only he could make her understand and know the overwhelming fullness that threatened to spill. His pupils were dark, almost swallowing out the gold as the light outside began to dim and fade. His breaths were shallow. Quick. Despite—or perhaps because of—the hastening hum of his heart, Ferdinand could feel the burning sensation in his neck sharpen to points and growing in intensity. “I wanted it, but I did not know... Just what that should have entailed—I have never before— What I mean is...”

He swallowed. 

Ferdinand dives to attack again. First, his spearpoint goes wide. Then, he lands a solid blow. Caeda staggers, but manages to stay on her feet.

-0.5 HP. 4.5 HP REMAINS -1.4 HP. 3 HP REMAINS

There is a warm glow as the holy magic imbued in her lance heals the nicks and scratches upon her skin, but just as quickly as they close, more are opened.

HEALED WITH: BLESSED LANCE 3/6 HP HEALED TO 4/6 HP.

Caeda grits her teeth and digs her heels into the dirt. She is Talys’s pride, hailed as one of Archanea’s best pegasus knights. She must live up to this title.

ATTACK WITH: BLESSED LANCE. ROLL 1D20 - 2 = 15-2 (13)! HIT! TOTAL 1.5 DAMAGE DEALT

She centers herself, and thrusts her lance forward swiftly, ensuring it shall hit.

In that moment, Ferdinand braced himself as he always did, his stance tightly coiled to support the impact of an incoming blow—and it shot through him like a bolt, spreading up his side in time with the seeping dark red.

Her lance did not falter. She pulled through, as she must have known she would because neither her swings nor thrusts had ever been done with anything less than the utmost intent. (It was a thing of trust, Ferdinand would ponder upon later, and of confidence. He had strayed from that.)

> Ferdinand: 2.5/5

The gash down his side swelled with a rush of warmth as he moved to attack again, and the tears sprang reflexively—unbidden—to his eyes at its burn. If anything, he would see it through. Ferdinand grit his teeth, tightening his hand around his lance, trying to keep it steady enough as Lady Hawke went hurtling past again, and—

> Ferdinand, Blessed Lance (3) miss (Caeda: 3/6)

A satisfied smile plays across Caeda’s lips as her lance pierces Ferdinand. He swoops around her, lance poised to strike again.

-0.5 HP. 4 HP REMAINS

She is prepared for the strike, and makes to sidestep it. It grazes her, not deep enough to wound, but close enough to sting. Caeda watches the knight soar through the air, marking even the most subtle of his movements. Then, she strikes, lance whistling through the air.

ATTACK WITH: BLESSED LANCE. ROLL 1D20 - 2 = 9-2 (7)! HIT! TOTAL 0.5 DAMAGE DEALT

But she is a touch too slow. Her lance makes contact, but it is not the decisive blow she had hoped for.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” she calls, readying herself for Ferdinand’s next strike, “I am usually the one atop a pegasus. It is odd to engage from the opposite perspective — but perhaps this shall be a learning experience.”

His heart was hammering in his chest, almost loud enough to drown out the raucous games that play out beyond them and the clash of steel against steel as they hurl sharpened points at one another. Ferdinand fought to keep it from reaching the surface, to keep his hand still and his lance true.

> Ferdinand: 3/5 > Ferdinand, Blessed Lance (7) -0.5hp (Caeda: 4.5/6)

He didn’t. Couldn’t? The lance diverts the last minute, and Ferdinand felt the blade still off the Lion’s armour instead striking as intended. The lack of solid weight behind the attack sent him hurtling forward, his weight sliding forward in the saddle as the pegasus made a harsh turn back towards her.

Again. Just try it again.

> (Blessed Lance +1HP) Ferdinand: 4/5 > Ferdinand, Blessed Lance (15) -1.5hp (Caeda: 3/6)

@exemplaris​ sent: Thunderous shouts and rallying cries sound from below as Ferdinand took to the skies, pushing down the trepidation through his back, through the reinforced heels of his boots, hoping to leave it behind on the earth as the time-honoured tradition broke out across the Gronder Field. It was hardly successful; ghosts of his previous flight still lingered in bones long-since healed and bruises faded.

His lance in hand, Ferdinand coasted high above the unfurling battleground before diving sharply, a lone target picked out of the swarming crowds. Lady Hawke’s wings pressed back against her flank as their swooping descent cut through the air, and Ferdinand braced for the impact.

> Ferdinand (Blessed Lance): 12 > -1.5HP (Caeda: 4.5/6 & Ferdinand: 5/5)

As she tromps across Gronder, Caeda finds herself dearly missing Deimos. It has been quite a long time since she has fought as lance infantry.

-1.5 HP. CAEDA HAS 4.5 HP REMAINING.

She hears her opponent before she sees him — the familiar swish of wings alerts her to a presence above, and she looks up just in time to see a pegasus and its knight diving, heading straight for her, lance outstretched.

Caeda staggers back as the blow connects, readying her own lance and thrusting upwards. An experienced flier herself, she knows exactly just where a pegasus knight’s weak points would be.

ATTACK WITH: BLESSED LANCE. ROLL 1D20 - 2 = 14-2 (12)! HIT! TOTAL 1.5 DAMAGE DEALT

Despite the momentum, the girl struck back with a precision that bespoke on someone with experience... Someone who knew just where the pegasus’ wings couldn’t defend her rider, not the rider their mount, and Ferdinand was just a second too slow to see the gleam of a lance thrusting his way—

> Ferdinand: 3.5/5 HP > Ferdinand (Blessed Lance; Darting Blow): 10 > -0.5HP (Caeda: 4/6)

[Spare a Hug for Your Noble]

The training grounds were silent, echoing with only the recent memory of practice blades and lances and gauntlets. He was the first to arrive, and now, the last to go. Ferdinand’s earnestness didn’t change the fact that it was just the sort of day in which his body was too slow to match the frantic commands of his mind, or perhaps his mind moved too quickly to make sense of the overwhelmed senses and capabilities of his body. Moving in perfect asynchrony. 

‘It is all very simple. All you have to do is commit to it.’

Being logical about it hadn’t helped. 

‘Try it again, fast this time. No, not like that. You have done this before with flying colours. Show them the capabilities of house Aegir.’

Being optimistic about it hadn’t helped either, and Ferdinand felt the means to continue patching holes torn into his pride with every bruise that bloomed across his chest, across his shoulders, however he fell after he had been struck down time after time by attacks that he swore he had never had such difficulty deflecting... slip from his fingers.

‘Why was it so hard today? Why could you not just do the most basic of—’

Frustration bubbled up, his breath feeling hot and paradoxically suffocating as it rose through his chest with a shaking exhale, his fists clenched at his sides as Ferdinand rode out the sharp twist of disappointment that he is sure will pass... And it was, he reasoned after, also the reason that he did not hear her approaching, and definitely not because Hubert has rubbed off on her in yet another insufferable way such that she too strode without a sound.

‘Dare to meet her gaze.’

He did not. There was an ache in his chest that was not from the darkening bruises, and Ferdinand could not find it in himself to lift his head to greet her, nor did she ask. It was without words entirely that her arms came around him with a note of mute understanding—and of course; she had been responsible for knocking him to the sand a number of times herself—and Ferdinand...

Did not push her away.

(It was unbecoming of him. He strove to surpass her in all things, and yet he had the audacity to accept her comfort in the face of his missteps?)

verseandrhyme​:

Whatever thoughts she had, whatever arguments or claims or even concessions and agreeing she had considered in response to him up until that moment vanished as dust on the wind the second her hand came to close gently around her wrist. It is not the action itself that causes her brain to stutter and fall silence in wake of him. He has had hands upon her prior to this in a myriad of forms. Without his gauntlets, the action of him holding on to her no longer causes her to stop and wonder at it.

(She wanted to insist that a great number of things on her mind as of late revolved back to him. That even if she were to pen a novel containing all of her words, precious as they were, she can only imagine that a great number of them would lose their splendor and magnitude if they were not in direct relation to him. That she would accept and treasure any gift he might bestow upon her, though she doubts anything will ever uproot how deeply the simple notebook, pen, and ink sit in her heart now.)

No, it is the tongue that flicks out against the skin of her wrist and catches the pastry’s soft cream that steals her words. The lips that press to her skin as he works upon the rest that steals her breath next and render her incapable of anything beyond sitting there and watching him. His eye that catches her for a brief moment and shoot sparks of electricity stronger than any lightning spell she has ever managed to conjure before darting away teasingly and.

Oh. Oh. Oh.

She likes that much more than she thought she would.

Mitama allows Ferdinand to snatch the fork away as silence envelops the tent. The air around them feels different now, even discounting the frost that still thaws around them. She…she does not know what to say as he turns away from her and eats the treat. A subtle scarlet started to spread across his cheeks from the action, and she at least has enough sense rattling around in her frazzled head to know better than to push too far now.

If she thinks on it, the reaction truly is not surprising. In the cabin, time had felt as though it might stretch on forever. So despite the realigning and the new status quo they had settled into, there had been no rush. No desperate urgings or sudden passions. They had all the time to enjoy each other, and so they had been in no rush, happy to spend evenings with nothing more than chaste kisses shared between them.

Since leaving the cabin, she had been so…off that she had likely not noticed any signs if anything had shifted. If the want had been there. She wonders just how much she had been depriving him of while she had been so muffled and quiet.

Mitama gently lifts the pie tin off her knee and places it off to the side again behind her. She shifts to her knees beside him. “Ferdinand.” One hand is placed on his shoulder, but quickly slides its way upwards. Her palm slides gently along his neck until she can cradle his head gently and turn him to face her again. She smiles. Softly. Nervously. Her other hand comes up to take the fork from his mouth.

“I…” It would be easier to just kiss him. “…I have not left you too badly wanting, have I?” It was not as though Ferdinand was the type whose attention would stray. “We never made…attempts at that further level of intimacy so I did not consider it upon our departure from the cabin, admittedly.”

He felt it against his skin still, the steady drumming of her heart beat coming through the soft underside of her wrist against his lips, against his tongue, and even if he had wanted to (should he have wanted to?), Ferdinand could not dispel the sensation from his mind. It persisted so clearly that Ferdinand would wager that if he ran his fingers over her pulse point again, the phantom beating that lingered would have matched hers completely.

(Thought: No one ever said that kissing the inside of the writst was supposed to do something like this. Why didn’t more people talk about it? The young knight recruits and even the mages were scurrying around in secret, giggling and stealing kisses on the lips away from the prying eyes of their superiors, and for what? No one had even so much as given it consideration!)

The mellow sweetness of the morsel burst across his tongue, colouring his senses as heat began to crawl up his neck in a way that Ferdinand couldn’t attribute to anything, much less remembering having experience before.

(Another thought: That wasn’t entirely true, was it? The last time it happened... Ferdinand remembered the smell of crackling leaves and yellowing grasses on the autumn wind. The rippling of the river in the Ferelden country side. Then, he could not dislodge a repeating memory from his mind either, the pressure of her weight bearing down against me as she pinned him to the ground after the sparring duel, looking victorious and proud and—)

The thought was not helping in the slightest... not that the first had either.

But what was it even supposed to help with?

“Ferdinand.”

Oh, Maker. He swallowed thickly, tongue still sticky with sweet cream and ghost of a memory of her heart beat as if he had his lips to her throat, oh, was he allowed to do that would she notice just how much every part of him wanted to be closer, closer, ever closer to her and— He was staring, wasn’t he? Her hands were on him. If it had felt hot before, it was downright scalding now, his body burning in a way that was so seldom with the lyrium muting anything and everything that made him his own.

(Thought: He didn’t need to be his own when he could be hers. Theirs. What was his but not some extension of her sometimes.)

The metal of the fork slide uncomfortably, though softly, against his teeth with how hard he had been clenching them, but it was all but unnoticed as Ferdinand sighed with the gentle push of her palm against his cheek, and the honeyed gaze came to rest upon her... There was something uneven and apprehensive even in her own smile, and something about it was a relief against his own mounting nerves.

“W—” We? Wanting? She didn’t know the half of it. Ferdinand chuckled, hoping it didn’t sound half as thin and anxious as he felt in that moment. His own pulse must have doubled since she called for him. Did she have to put it that way? ‘Level of intimacy’? Maker, it sounded like something that the Chantry mothers would have said in one of those late afternoon seminars that no one wants to sit through.

(Another thought: There had been no vows of chastity. The Maker himself took a wife, and what a magnificent creation and gift is the living form... But chastity had never been the issue—it was. It was... The terrifying openness that came with that intimacy. The free-fall and the trust that another could catch him at the end of it. For all his faith, Ferdinand had never found it in himself to place it in another of the mortal world, not until...)

“I—” What are we? The question echoed, louder and louder in his head. They never put it into words before their lives were upturned by the hemorrhaging gash in the sky. Ferdinand rose one shaking hand, trembling with a nervous energy and not the hungry ache of lyrium, and pressed it over her hand. “Is what what we are now? ‘Us’?”

verseandrhyme​:

She feels her quiet laughter spread like an infection. It seeps out of her, unfettered and unrestrained for the first time in some time. As the echoes of it fill the air around them, aiding in its slowly warming climate, so too does the sound and feel of it leave her to travel through them where they connect and prompt an infection of their own in Ferdinand. He shakes with the force of it as well, laughing and smiling and radiant as ever.

(Sunshine ever in human form, she wonders what feat she might have done in a past life to have earned such a reward in this once. For certainly, surely, there is no possible deed she can think of in this time that would have prompted the Maker to allow such fortune as Ferdinand to have entered her life. Perhaps it was not an act of the Maker at all, but simple human fortune to put themselves upon each others’ paths.)

She looks up at him and smiles and the sun beaming down on them through the canvas of their tent bathes him in life and light, a halo to mark him as beloved and precious as he is. She keeps the thought to herself to bury deep in her heart. She is not so struck as to drift off and dabble in sappy prose just yet.

“Of course they were perfectly good words. They were my words.” She huffs. His head has been pulled off hers and she finds that she misses it, even if it does allow her the opportunity to admire him proper. “The very implication that any of my declarations are less than eloquent is an insult to the highest degree.”

Even if she had not been speaking a great amount as of late…she shoves the twinge of regret she feels away at the thought. What had happened was, and there was no undoing that. There was only to move forward.

“It would never be about you, if you had your way.” She points out in turn of his protest. Mitama is not fool enough to deny after what had happened since leaving the cabin that she is much the same in that. Equally stubborn, equally willing to tear themselves down if only for the other to find themselves rising higher and higher. It is one of her least favorite traits to see reflected in him, and she wonders if that makes her selfish or concerned, to wish to see him freed from that suffering.

(He kisses her and her eyes close and she hopes the way her smile grows, foolishly and a touch out of her control, does not make the kiss unpleasant as she returns it. It strikes her all at once, how much she has missed it. She follows when he pulls away.)

“We will all be there for you when you do.” Her voice is soft as Mitama reopens her eyes. She smiles fondly at him and leans in again, resting comfortably against his side. The room is finally warming enough for them to shift back to the usual; his cold against her warm. She presses a kiss to his shoulder since she cannot reach his lips. “And I have no doubt you will find another way to so brightly shine.”

The treat is pulled back to her attention and he loses hers as she reaches to take it from him. She balances the tray on her knee before plucking up the fork and returning to the treat. “You should not tempt me with things that I know you will never allow me to do.” Mitama pouts as she cuts herself a piece of and takes the bite.

(Delicious as ever. Sweet, with hints of fruit and soft cream. The pastry flakes and crumbles as she takes a bite, with the nutty hints peaking through. It is nothing like the memories she has of the pie at the crossroads, encased in wonder and fondness as the memory had become, but it is a delightful treat all the same.)

“You would never allow me such delight as to spend the rest of our forever tucked away from sight. You would get far too antsy with the lack of things to do.” She can already imagine the way he would bounce about their tent before inevitably emerging. “And then I would lose you again as you got swept away in the business of doing things.”

She sighs, one of great lament, as she spears another piece of the pastry and holds it up for him. “You would not let me linger so much either. Which is a trait of yours that I suppose I do hold fondly in my heart as well.” Cream from the pastry threatens to drip. She releases his hand to cup hers under the pastry and catch any that might fall. “Much like the rest of you that I hold fondly.”

It took a certain type of boldness to declare something divinely ordained, and Ferdinand was neither so brazen nor fanciful—but grateful? He was grateful. It is a point of discussion on multiple occasions, often with his stalwart devotion pitted against her cautious skepticism, but Ferdinand still dared to believe that the unfolding of their paths together, entwined in the messy, chaotic bloom of the past months, had been a gift from the Maker. 

(In a world of legendary heroes and great feats that shake the very foundation of Thedas, how could he have ever done enough to deserve something like this? For all the infinite possibilities and theoretical likelihoods, how could he, as any other mortal walking the land, have been so lucky as to have blindly stumbled upon her? That she would want to walk it with him? To have so carefully plucked the single strand in a woven tapestry that was spun of gold and starlight?)

The Maker was generous with his Blessings, and surely, this was simply more proof. Ferdinand was not so blind as to forget the challenge and strife, but beyond it all, her beacon still shone bright as it had all along. He just never understood it for what it was until recently. Perhaps he still didn’t—but he was learning now, and Ferdinand thought he could be content with that.

“You should dedicate them to you book then—no, endeavour to pen a great biography in which you might enshrine them all!” He laughed, pulling her close to her side (so close, and still, closer; were it not for bothersome things like... Flesh and physical space, he might have wanted to occupy whatever space and time she had to be even closer yet) with the tightening of his arm.

(He half thought to hold the tin just out of arm’s reach... It would be cruel. Down right mean, even, but after so many days of seeing her light smothered, the contortion of her face in any emotion tickled him. He didn’t think she would appreciate knowing that, at time, her peevish expression could rightfully be described as ‘cute’. So Ferdinand didn’t.)

“And it too can be not about me,” he continued then with a roll of his eyes. They were too similar in that regard. Ferdinand didn’t want them merely to be safe. He wanted them to thrive. To flourish and grow brilliant in defiance of all that had lashed them to the dust and ash. He just... Couldn’t see himself blooming the same way, sometimes, the scars tightening and pulling against the swelling boundaries of self until whatever it might have become had twisted and deformed into a mockery of what it could have been... Ferdinand thought of ropes lashed around a fisherman’s catch in the harbours of Cumberland... Javier’s hands squeezing around a squeeze cloth, carefully draining curd for a meal. The soft curve and pinch where Mitama’s stockings had cinched around her skin and the way that light and shadow played across the pale expanse—

Ferdinand stopped thinking about it.

“I need not be mentioned at all, but to enable your hard work, I suppose I shall have to supply you with more ink and parchment,” he joked.

He wasn’t joking. 

She didn’t have to know that.

He made a poor patient, Ferdinand had been about to quip. He hadn’t the right temperament for bed-rest, nor extended idleness (which she knew), nor... What was that? About. About fondness.

“How else would I hold you if not fondly?”

(Of course he was fond. If he weren’t fond, would he even be here now? Certainly, Ferdinand was fond of them all in their own way, but when it came to Mitama... Maybe that was a different sort of fond entirely. Maybe just. More.)

The cream did plop onto her skin, clinging in a semi-formed clump that threatened to fall off entirely rather than slowly ooze down her wrist, and Ferdinand reached out as his own hand was released. There was no thought involved when he grabbed her just below where the cream sat, nor when he brought it to his lips, his tongue running against the gentle crest of bone under skin and lapping it clean and. Ferdinand looked up at her without raising his head, eyes widening behind his lashes...

[Heavy Armour +1] — .... the better part of the place is submerged. And yet, at a closer glance, it appears that this is perhaps no coincidence. Having stumbled across a set of strange metallic armours covered in algae and connected to the surface by long tubes, it’s been determined these could be used to delve into the under….

@lumenjorun

“How is the fit?”

Algae clung to the old metal like a slick mat of damp fur; the junctions where the tubing attached their ‘suits’ to each other—‘So that you would be able to hear one another,’ the scout had informed them before wishing them both luck and definitely not offering to take up a suit themselves—were crushed with a brownish film of organic material. Ferdinand clenched his hand in the metallic mitt and grimaced as the joints groaned with rust.

Fit was one thing—could they even hold water?

Sadly, there was only one way to find out, and he couldn’t tell if the girl (‘Altena’, his mind supplied helpfully, from the quick orientation they were given of the site) was any more excited about the prospect than he was. A trial by fire, so to speak... Or perhaps the opposite of fire.

“I imagine once they are submerged, it would be much easier to move in these...” Or so Ferdinand hoped. Lumbering on dry land in these cumbersome, creaking suits had been a work-out all in themselves. There was, however, no other way to get them down to the water’s edge. Painstakingly lifting one foot then the other, Ferdinand slowly picked his way along the slick rocks until the suit’s feet were well into the water... And no surge of wet chill came running up his boots. So far so good... With the lines and tubes and ropes bundled in his arms, Ferdinand cast one more look over his shoulder before moving to throw his helm over his head.

verseandrhyme​:

As his hand came to the back of her neck, Mitama could only wordlessly lean into it. A familiar comfort, one that aided her shoulders in dropping from where they had bunched up high in her frantic pleading. He was still solid, still real beneath her fingers. It feels like a long lost comfort in the way it lingers, heavy upon her. She melts into his touch immediately, leaning her weight further on his still.

The confession that he had considered returning to his full lyrium draughts was not surprising, as sad as the thought made her. She could see it easily in the lines of him, the way he always pushed himself to go above and beyond in service to them. Ferdinand was happy to run himself to the bone for them, to hear he would give up his life and memory as well was. Well. She would simply ensure that it never came to that. The Chantry and the Circles had already taken so much from her. She would not let them take him too, not when she finally had him.

She smiles slightly. It is unsteady. She hopes she cannot see how fragile it feels while she continues to look down at his palm in her lap. She was tired of feeling fractured and unsteady.

Her laugh splutters and falters as it falls from her. As though, with the lack of use from so many days, it has forgotten how it is supposed to sound. Still, it is genuine, and she sways enough to push her weight against him further. “You steal my own words from me.” Mitama remarks. Her second attempt at laughter is better. Stronger. More like her. “I know I am the far better wordsmith among us but Maker, did you truly remember the exact wording of everything I say?” It is flattering. She likes the way the thought sits within her. Her smile is less of a pathetic skeleton of itself.

He lists the others, but not himself. She does not miss that detail. When Mitama manages to raise her head to look at him, she manages to carry a stubborn certainty in her expression. “And none of us would ask you either.” She tells him. “I would not. You are far more precious to me than any of your hypothetical templar abilities may be.” 

His kiss is gentle atop her head, and still she closes her eyes as he does it. She can almost pretend that they are not here when she does. That if she opens her eyes, they will be back in the cabin in their shared room, sitting atop their bed with the others scattered safely among its rooms. That if they linger too long, Bonaparte will come looking for them, bringing Emil chasing after, and they will be forced to go down and endure whatever teasing is deemed necessary. If she keeps her eyes closed, she can almost imagine they are happy.

But she cannot keep her eyes closed. Not here, not with everything that has happened. She opens her eyes to a cold tent and an abandoned pastry and the soft sound of training soldiers far off in the distance and she knows, in this moment, that she is a far cry from happy.

But when she opens her eyes, the first thing she sees is warm honey looking down at cold starlight fondly as she knows for certain that she could be happy. With him, she could be a great number of things.

“Thank you.” Mitama’s hand releases his wrist to instead link her fingers with his. She lifts up their connected hands and presses light kisses against his skin, one for each knuckle as she trails her way down the line. The room has not fully defrosted yet, but she has at least the confidence to warm her hands with fire magic once more. “And I will shoulder your burden in equal measure should you find yourself needing it.”

It is no miracle cure. She is not instantly returned to her usual demeanor. Whatever she had suffered still lingers, faintly, at the back of her mind. But the world feels clearer, at least. Less muffled. As though waking up to another day is not the unbearable task that it had loomed as prior. She lets out a soft little sigh and laughs.

“I must have been terribly out of it.” She muses. With her free hand, she gestures to the pie tin and its treat which sits far closer to his reach than hers. “I cannot even think of the last time Perrault has tried to tease me about us…I almost want to stay in hiding to avoid it even longer.”

It took precious little for him to nestle beside her, closing the gaps so that warmth could be kindled where they touched. A bulwark of flesh and bone and fingers intertwined against the forces that pushed against them. They were so far from Montfort now, months of travel away, entire nations, entirely different people than who they had once been, and yet the shades of the Circle still loomed over them.

In the shadows, one’s eyes would adjust with enough time, and Ferdinand could hardly even call his time with the Order long by any stretch of the imagination. Mages could have spent their entire lives, closed behind those heavy doors... The dim light around them appeared normal. As days fade into weeks into months into years, one could languish in the dark and call it loving yet, a comfortable security for all the shackles latched around one’s wrist...

And to step out from it was a feat.

A work in progress.

“Steal?” His cheek rested against the top of her head until he was roused by the sound of her laughed, shaking up against him and through him, enveloping him until he too burst into fit of laughter. “I did nothing of the sort! They were perfectly good words, and I merely borrowed them for my own purpose.”

Of course he would remember them. Her promises were an anchor, keeping him in safe harbour while the storms raged on around them both. Dear as they were to him, was it any wonder that he could commit them in the same halls as the prayers and verses taught to him?

(It had been different, of course—scripture, one could look up again... Her words were fleeting, a passing memory shared between only the two of them. If not his recollection, then it would be so lonely for it to live on only through her. If not their memory, it would simply fade away forever.)

Ferdinand had thought he might have changed it enough for it to be less recognizable, but apparently it was only wishful thinking... Nevertheless, it brought a smile to her lips, and it was all that he could ask for. Even as his omission was dragged out to light in front of him.

“This is hardly about me,” he protested them with a half-hearted huff and a roll of his eyes. The facade crumbled after second, and he sagged against her side. He could kiss her again. (He did, soft and self-indulgent. The thought that he could do this whenever he pleased was still novel and fresh and exciting, doubly so now that she was there again to savour it with him. It was not as much fun to play that game alone.) He hummed. “But I know. I know... And I will find another way forward. There must be another way forward.”

“I have no doubt that I will sooner or later in the future.” There was no hidden snub against himself, only a calm, objective observation. He already borrowed from her strength so often before. They were more than the sum of the parts. Warmth sprung forth from her hands again as her lips brushed against one knuckle the the next, and though the air remained crisp around them, Ferdinand felt the growing heat pool in his chest. The sight of her was... Exhilarating.

(An odd thought. Not that he had ever though of her as anything other than absolutely radiant in the recent past, but this was... different. Unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. Her lips were as stunning as every part of her, but if he hadn’t quite lived down the whole incident with ‘her hips’ yet, so wisely, Ferdinand kept that one to himself.)

“Ah. In that case,” he laughed, snagging the lip of the tin closer against the joint of one finger, then deftly picked up the sugar-dusted container for her. “We may need to stay here forever after all...”