When Ashe had agreed to stay at the Hevring manor for the upcoming festivities, he'd anticipated a lot. People coming and going with research papers needing read over. Office staff asking for signatures for funding. Hubert stopping by with "samples" needing "a look at". He even expected Caspar to come running in and out, dropping whatever was in his hands to scoop them both up in a strong bear hug before running back to whatever tasks her Majesty asked of him.
What he hadn't anticipated, however, was this.
"Um, Linhardt?" Ashe asked. "Are you sure you wouldn't be more comfortable elsewhere?"
Linhardt shrugged. “I’d rather be here.”
The 'here' that Linhardt referred to was his lap.
Ashe had managed to find a rare copy of a knight's tale he'd only heard of second hand. It was called "Graham and the Smith of Jasmine", and it was believed to be lost to time. He'd gotten so excited to sit down and read it over. And now that the printing press was starting to be used to restore and mass produce many other texts, he'd hoped to have this one recopied so as not to lose it in the future.
And of course, once he'd settled in with a warm pot of tea and a roaring fire in the hearth, Linhardt had decided to join him on the lounge seat with the latest edition of Hanneman's book on Crestology research. One arm wrapped around his shoulders, flipping through the pages absentmindedly as he sat on Ashe's lap. His feet lay on one of the cushions, preventing anyone else from joining them.
Well, anyone other than Caspar's cat, Patton. Who now lay belly up sparawled on Linhardt's legs.
"Um...would you like some tea?" Ashe offered.
"You know, if you want me to move, you could simply ask," Linhardt sighed. "But you would upset the cat."
Ashe chuckled. "I know. It's just...I'm sure it'd be more comfortable on the sofa proper, wouldn't it? And that way we can both read our books without issue."
Linhardt snapped his shut. "I was just looking over mine briefly. I already know what's in it. I helped with the research, after all." He glanced at the book in Ashe's hands. "What's yours about?"
"Oh, this?" Ashe smiled. "It's about a knight in Loog's service. Lesser known, but well respected in his time. In this story, he supposedly met a smith who had forged a legendary weapon blessed by the Goddess. But no one knows what it is, or where it would be, if it exists."
"I see. You believe this tale to be a work of historical fact rather than fiction?"
Ashe let out a hum. "I don't know. I hadn't really thought about it. Personally, I just want to read the story to find out what it's fully about. The book's supposed to have been lost for a good two hundred years."
At that, Linhardt lightly tossed his book onto the the nearby chair and swiped Ashe's from his hands. "In that case, I'll hold the book. You read aloud."
The archer's mouth gaped wide. "Wait, you...want me to read to you?!"
"Why not?" Linhardt asked, a cadence of curiosity hanging off each word. "Loog and the Maiden of Wind bore some level of fact within its fiction. Maybe we'll discover something here." He glanced at his face, eyes staring through him intently. "Unless you'd rather I move still."
Ashe sighed, but it wasn't frustration. Rather, playful defeat. He wasn't going to win this battle, it seemed. Instead, he nodded to the teapot.
"Make me a cup so I can have something to sip between pages, and you have a deal."
