#amos.

where: The Ministry of Magic

Edgar barely visited the ministry unless it was for business reasons. Working for Gringotts meant that he barely got to enter the ministry and the last time he was within these walls, one of his closer friends had died. He found himself staring at the central fountain where Marlene and Harrison had stood. A cold chill spider-crept up his spine and he suddenly felt overwhelmed with the amount of people in the room. He turned to find the office he had been sent to but bumped straight into someone. “Dragon Balls! Sorry Amos.” He said as he realised just who he had walked into. “This place still makes me feel a bit uneasy and I wasn’t watching where I was going.” He fixed his own coat. “Not to mention this place is like a maze.” 

The Herald.

Amos had spent more than half his life running from titles. From Ostwick. From being promoted to mate of any kind on the ships. From loves and opportunities. Now, this. Herald. He couldn’t run from this one, not if he wanted a world to run around in.

Amos had stripped to the waist, the collar of his shirt interfering with the healer’s work as they stopped to camp in the Hinterlands. The elf- green tattoo trailing beneath his shirt, keen eyes and clever little mouth- had already saved Amos’ rear twice on the way to the horsemaster’s farm. (It was different, fighting in these conditions. Amos was best as a scout, as being high up and calling for approach, not fighting in the thick of mages and Templars and bears.) His ire was well earned, Amos admitted.

The rogue sat still, barely, as the mage cleaned the wound, wincing appropriately but attempting to behave for a moment. Amos was a quiet sort, preferring to keep his mouth shut than prove himself a fool (which he was, a damned fool, and the worst choice for the so called Herald.)

“Haven’t you heard?” Amos’ voice was dry and teasing. “I’m the Maker’s Chosen.” His face was titled away to give Mahanon a better angle to get to the wound. He was so used to cleaning his own mistakes. He was very aware of the way slender fingers titled his head and traced over skin.

Then, something else. A trace of something soft against his chest. The Herald glanced down. A strand of long blond hair had escaped. The mage was too focused on cleaning the wound, Amos found it impossible to sit still, his next course of action made perfect sense, at the time.

He took the strand between his fingers, doing his best to keep his head and neck still. The feel of it made him pause. Thick and silken, no wonder he felt it so much as it trailed over his skin. Still holding the hair, toying with it, he continued. “If that’s true, then the Maker put you in my path. Heaven sent.” The Herald was a quiet man, so much so that even his smiles were muted, but Mahanon caught the glimmer of teeth.