radiant menace

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It lands at a tailor's shop, in the end.

The scrap in question is clipped away as another pattern takes shape. Soon enough, it is swept up in a pile of other scraps and tossed into a bin behind the shop.

A shadow creeps close. Pale hands reach into the pile, plucking this piece from the lot. The hands are cool, dry, and calluses catch on the fine weave of silk as it is tucked away in a length of belt and carried off again.

When the silk is spread out again, it is dark outside and firelight glints along the fine fabric.

"Perhaps this will please her," a very quiet voice whispers to the silk as the rough edges of the scrap are straightened and neatened by a hem. "I do not know how to please her. Nothing makes sense here."

A soft creak above. The seamstress pauses, flicking her eyes upward in fear. She only relaxes again when there is silence for several minutes.

"It is not that she has been unkind," she goes on at last, turning the hem over again so no rough edges show. "But I must wonder when the kindness will stop—as my last m—as…Hadriana's did in time. You see?"

There is a long silence then, as the thin scarf is examined and tested.

"This will help," Orana tells the scarf. "It will."

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The gift spends sweet weeks carefully tied at the end of a braid or wrapped around dark and loose curls.

The hair in question often smells of spices. Many nights, the brown hands of its owner trace the silk over and over, running soft fabric between work-roughened hands that catch every so often on the fineness of the weave.

From the narrow perspective of the ribbon, one might suppose that its owner is a fine lady of some sort, given perhaps to occasional gardening. In truth, the hair is often rinsed of blood and bone and viscera before it is tied away with the scarf again: one red replaced by another, perhaps.

"Whyever do you love red so, Hawke?" a woman asks, tracing narrow, pale fingers along the length of silk. It is woven through her hair today, twisted into a crown at her head. Black satin twines with red silk, the two disparate things joined briefly into one.

"Hmm—if you'll allow me not to make any sense whatsoever," Hawke says, reaching up to touch the scarf, too. "It's true. We're all red underneath, you see. I've often thought that we just seem to be, in our entirety, the manner by which bloods gets from here to there. Also, it suits me. I look finest in red. Merrill, look—ooh, I haven't tried one of those odd fruits yet. Shall we get some to take home?"

At that, the conversation flows into other channels and leaves the question of red silk behind.

|

The ribbon does not spend all its time in her hair. Often, she holds it in her lap instead, twisting it around her fingers and pulling it through again while she reads. On rainy days, she runs the tips of her thumbs over and over the grain while she stares out a window.

The seamstress comes often, though her voice becomes stronger, less tentative with time. When its wearer is away, sometimes she tidies the room of its scattered clothes and armor.

Often, she pauses to run her fingers along the cloth. Whenever she does this, she smiles.

|

One night, Hawke reties the cloth around the end of her braid with hot and shaky hands. When she is done, she smooths them over the silk one last time, as if urging it to stay. When she takes her hands away, the knot slips slightly. She does not notice.

"There," she says brightly, turning to her visitor. "Wouldn't to wake you with the lot of it in the night. It's dreadfully good at tickling one's face when one least expects."

"Is it?" the man says.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches for the shining black length of hair and touches it. When his hands reach the ribbon tied at the bottom, they linger for a moment. His hands are hot too, callused at the base of the palm and along the inside of the index finger. Something strange flares beneath the skin, ozone-sharp like lightning, and he takes his hand away again.

"We should probably sleep," she tells him. Her voice is choked with some thick emotion. He does not speak aloud, but nods and turns to lie down atop the coverlet. There is a soft noise and all fires except the one built in the heart blow out all at once.

"Goodnight, Fenris," she says.

A slow breath, a soft sigh.

"Goodnight," he says. There is a pause. The name comes slowly, almost too quietly to hear:

"Maria."

When she has fallen asleep, he shifts the braid away from his nose. He lingers at the end, running the silken fabric through his fingers for a moment before he, too, is asleep.

Even sleeping, he does not let go.

|

"I am a fool," Fenris says some weeks later, now alone in his own room.

It is cold, though the fire burns in the fireplace. He reaches out, red silk clutched in his fist like a stilled heart. For a moment, it dangles over the flames. The fire reaches hungry fingers upward, licking at the bottommost hem, yellow reaching for red. It heats, begins to singe, and in one swift movement he snatches it away again.

"I am a fool," he repeats, resigned.

Carefully, he ties the ribbon—Maria's ribbon—around his wrist again. When he reaches for the bottle, it presses against cool glass. Any danger of the silk dissolving into ash is gone, at least for the moment. Now, there is nothing left for him but to keep it and remember.

|

"I do not know what to say," Fenris tells her. He takes one step through her bedroom door, then another. It is easier past the threshold, though he hesitates before he sits beside her on the mattress.

They speak for a time. Her voice is a hollow thing, its echo against the stone almost more substantial than the words at her lips. Fenris curls his hands into fists until the muscle at his forearm strains against the straps of his armor, the band of red at his wrist. For a time, there is silence. Hawke's breath is ragged. Fenris's is almost silent.

He rests his arm on the bed. Hawke does not move for a time. Then, she lets her slip beside him. The backs of their wrists nearly touch, nearly, connected only by the red silk promise wrapped thick around his wrist.

Just like the last time he was in this room, Fenris leaves as the dawn comes. The cloth is warm against his skin. Fenris wraps one hand around it as if shielding a candle's flame from the wind. The walk to his house is not a brief one, but his hand remains there until he lifts it to reach for the door handle.

When he'd first tied this cloth over his gauntlet, he had made a promise: what had been broken between them in one night of foolish hope would be made right. He thought as much again now, thought too that there were some broken things that could never be mended. He had believed this of everything before Hawke, was reminded of this truth again now in the wake of her grief.

As he closes the door behind him, the echoes of its closing outline the emptiness of this place. He pauses for a moment, listening for anything out of the ordinary, but all is otherwise silent.

The ribbon has loosened slightly. He tightens it again, carefully tucks each ends beneath the main loop of it.

The things that matter take time.

Hawke had told him this once, though she had been in the process of drunkenly scaling her own garden wall at the time. Things that mattered would take time. Gaining her friendship had not taken time; losing it had taken even less. Both had mattered more than he had known until it was already too late.

Perhaps this is why he keeps the silk despite himself. It had been woven slow, nearly lost in an instant of pique. As long as he holds it, some piece of that closeness remains.

The things that matter take time, he thinks, and steps away from the door.

He has little choice but to wait in any case. Wait, and tie this promise at his wrist as a reminder.

|

It lands at a tailor's shop, in the end.

The scrap in question is clipped away as another pattern takes shape. Soon enough, it is swept up in a pile of other scraps and tossed into a bin behind the shop.

A shadow creeps close. Pale hands reach into the pile, plucking this piece from the lot. The hands are cool, dry, and calluses catch on the fine weave of silk as it is tucked away in a length of belt and carried off again.

When the silk is spread out again, it is dark outside and firelight glints along the fine fabric.

"Perhaps this will please her," a very quiet voice whispers to the silk as the rough edges of the scrap are straightened and neatened by a hem. "I do not know how to please her. Nothing makes sense here."

A soft creak above. The seamstress pauses, flicking her eyes upward in fear. She only relaxes again when there is silence for several minutes.

"It is not that she has been unkind," she goes on at last, turning the hem over again so no rough edges show. "But I must wonder when the kindness will stop—as my last m—as…Hadriana's did in time. You see?"

There is a long silence then, as the thin scarf is examined and tested.

"This will help," Orana tells the scarf. "It will."

|

The gift spends sweet weeks carefully tied at the end of a braid or wrapped around dark and loose curls.

The hair in question often smells of spices. Many nights, the brown hands of its owner trace the silk over and over, running soft fabric between work-roughened hands that catch every so often on the fineness of the weave.

From the narrow perspective of the ribbon, one might suppose that its owner is a fine lady of some sort, given perhaps to occasional gardening. In truth, the hair is often rinsed of blood and bone and viscera before it is tied away with the scarf again: one red replaced by another, perhaps.

"Whyever do you love red so, Hawke?" a woman asks, tracing narrow, pale fingers along the length of silk. It is woven through her hair today, twisted into a crown at her head. Black satin twines with red silk, the two disparate things joined briefly into one.

"Hmm—if you'll allow me not to make any sense whatsoever," Hawke says, reaching up to touch the scarf, too. "It's true. We're all red underneath, you see. I've often thought that we just seem to be, in our entirety, the manner by which bloods gets from here to there. Also, it suits me. I look finest in red. Merrill, look—ooh, I haven't tried one of those odd fruits yet. Shall we get some to take home?"

At that, the conversation flows into other channels and leaves the question of red silk behind.

|

The ribbon does not spend all its time in her hair. Often, she holds it in her lap instead, twisting it around her fingers and pulling it through again while she reads. On rainy days, she runs the tips of her thumbs over and over the grain while she stares out a window.

The seamstress comes often, though her voice becomes stronger, less tentative with time. When its wearer is away, sometimes she tidies the room of its scattered clothes and armor.

Often, she pauses to run her fingers along the cloth. Whenever she does this, she smiles.

|

One night, Hawke reties the cloth around the end of her braid with hot and shaky hands. When she is done, she smooths them over the silk one last time, as if urging it to stay. When she takes her hands away, the knot slips slightly. She does not notice.

"There," she says brightly, turning to her visitor. "Wouldn't to wake you with the lot of it in the night. It's dreadfully good at tickling one's face when one least expects."

"Is it?" the man says.

Slowly, carefully, he reaches for the shining black length of hair and touches it. When his hands reach the ribbon tied at the bottom, they linger for a moment. His hands are hot too, callused at the base of the palm and along the inside of the index finger. Something strange flares beneath the skin, ozone-sharp like lightning, and he takes his hand away again.

"We should probably sleep," she tells him. Her voice is choked with some thick emotion. He does not speak aloud, but nods and turns to lie down atop the coverlet. There is a soft noise and all fires except the one built in the heart blow out all at once.

"Goodnight, Fenris," she says.

A slow breath, a soft sigh.

"Goodnight," he says. There is a pause. The name comes slowly, almost too quietly to hear:

"Maria."

When she has fallen asleep, he shifts the braid away from his nose. He lingers at the end, running the silken fabric through his fingers for a moment before he, too, is asleep.

Even sleeping, he does not let go.

|

"I am a fool," Fenris says some weeks later, now alone in his own room.

It is cold, though the fire burns in the fireplace. He reaches out, red silk clutched in his fist like a stilled heart. For a moment, it dangles over the flames. The fire reaches hungry fingers upward, licking at the bottommost hem, yellow reaching for red. It heats, begins to singe, and in one swift movement he snatches it away again.

"I am a fool," he repeats, resigned.

Carefully, he ties the ribbon—Maria's ribbon—around his wrist again. When he reaches for the bottle, it presses against cool glass. Any danger of the silk dissolving into ash is gone, at least for the moment. Now, there is nothing left for him but to keep it and remember.

|

"I do not know what to say," Fenris tells her. He takes one step through her bedroom door, then another. It is easier past the threshold, though he hesitates before he sits beside her on the mattress.

They speak for a time. Her voice is a hollow thing, its echo against the stone almost more substantial than the words at her lips. Fenris curls his hands into fists until the muscle at his forearm strains against the straps of his armor, the band of red at his wrist. For a time, there is silence. Hawke's breath is ragged. Fenris's is almost silent.

He rests his arm on the bed. Hawke does not move for a time. Then, she lets her slip beside him. The backs of their wrists nearly touch, nearly, connected only by the red silk promise wrapped thick around his wrist.

Just like the last time he was in this room, Fenris leaves as the dawn comes. The cloth is warm against his skin. Fenris wraps one hand around it as if shielding a candle's flame from the wind. The walk to his house is not a brief one, but his hand remains there until he lifts it to reach for the door handle.

When he'd first tied this cloth over his gauntlet, he had made a promise: what had been broken between them in one night of foolish hope would be made right. He thought as much again now, thought too that there were some broken things that could never be mended. He had believed this of everything before Hawke, was reminded of this truth again now in the wake of her grief.

As he closes the door behind him, the echoes of its closing outline the emptiness of this place. He pauses for a moment, listening for anything out of the ordinary, but all is otherwise silent.

The ribbon has loosened slightly. He tightens it again, carefully tucks each ends beneath the main loop of it.

The things that matter take time.

Hawke had told him this once, though she had been in the process of drunkenly scaling her own garden wall at the time. Things that mattered would take time. Gaining her friendship had not taken time; losing it had taken even less. Both had mattered more than he had known until it was already too late.

Perhaps this is why he keeps the silk despite himself. It had been woven slow, nearly lost in an instant of pique. As long as he holds it, some piece of that closeness remains.

The things that matter take time, he thinks, and steps away from the door.

He has little choice but to wait in any case. Wait, and tie this promise at his wrist as a reminder.