#hespith

The roads beyond Ortan Thaig were swarming with darkspawn. Her faith shook with each warrior downed by the beasts. Many of them she had known since infancy. Each loss was like a punch to the gut and an additional weight on her soul. Yet Branka barely seemed to notice. She certainly didn’t afford them the time to be properly interred in the Stone. This bothered the others even more and their discontent rippled through the group like a sickness in Dust Town. Even ever-loyal Laryn seemed disconcerted by the choice. She pulled Hespith aside and begged her to ask Branka to have them turn back, to go home while there were still enough of them to make it there. Hespith had nodded and promised, but she knew deep inside that there was no stopping. They had to keep marching. Eventually the others stopped asking. Some stopped talking entirely, mouths shaping words that never came. Their eyes darkened, shadows ringing them and their bodies moved without much thought behind each step. It frightened Hespith, but Branka still didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps she simply didn’t care. It was hard to tell with the way Branka pored her maps and her ancient texts. There was nary a moment where Branka wasn’t focused on something entirely separate from the group. It was as if she was in her own little world, far far away from all reaching hands. By the time the Deep Roads opened up into the massive cavern that preceded the Dead Trenches, a third of the survivors had fallen. Those that were left looked on in awe as the great bridge to the old Legion of the Dead fortress yawed into sight. No legionnaires manned the bridge. No lanterns welcomed the dwarven souls home. Nothing of comfort winked out of the darkness at them. Instead, masses of darkspawn clotted the bridge like an artery with filth. The sight made those with their senses curse. Hespith simply stared and wondered how they would ever make it to the Anvil. “Bownammar at last,” cried Branka, a strange frenzy in her eye. “Caridin of old built her and the Legion lost her. Yet here we are… We’ve found her again.” Branka stepped forward, eyes sweeping over the sight of the bridge. Cautiously, Hespith approached the Paragon and took position next to her. That strange fire kept burning in Branka’s eye. Yes, she supposed she was happy that they found the Dead Trenches. Yes, she knew the Anvil was supposed to be somewhere shortly beyond it. Yet trepidation filled her gut. “Is it not grand, Hespith?” Branka asked as she turned to face the other woman. Hespith opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. All she could do was stare. “Oh don’t get all tongue-tied on me now, girl,” Branka said, stepping closer to Hespith. One gloved hand shot out to caress Hespith’s cheek, thumb sliding softly over cold cheek. There was warmth in her touch like the nights they had shared in Orzammar. Then, without warning, Branka dipped forward and brought her lips to Hespith’s. Her lips were soft, tongue searching. Hespith’s hands instinctively found their way to Branka’s shoulders, pulling her even closer. “Are you not happy we found it?” Branka whispered, her breath hot on Hespith’s skin. “I am happy. Truly.” Another kiss, tongue against teeth. Thoughts of tongue elsewhere. The others are ignored for a time. Branka is sharp, all angles and those edges cut away at Hespith’s fear. Hespith felt herself falling back under Branka’s spell with all doubts washed away. How can she be afraid when this woman before her burns so brightly?

“Will you come with me?” Branka whispered, peppering more kisses along Hespith’s exposed throat. There is something predatory in the way she opened her mouth to press her teeth into the sensitive skin there.

“I will,” Hespith responds, as certain as ever.

She was a smith, not some sacred savior.

Now that the day was done though, she could finally be just a woman. Branka stopped at the edge of the bed and regarded the shape of it. Specifically the shape of Hespith beneath the blankets already, sleeping peacefully. Her pretty hair fell loose against the pillow. It would be a snarled mess come morning, but she would brush it out for her diligently. Branka loved to do it, and she suspected it was the only reason Hespith did not braid it when she slept here. Even with her back to her, Branka could picture Hespith’s face in slumber. Her lips parted softly as she snored, peaceful and perfect. Even if she did drool a bit. There was nothing about Hespith that was not lovely and lady-like and loveable. Despite her Warrior Caste, and her ability to wield many weapons with deadly efficiency, Hespith was soft and sweet in all the ways that she was coarse and calloused.

Branka lifted the blankets and slipped into the bed. She wanted to wake Hespith, to apologize for not being back when she said she would. Hespith would not blame her for being late. Hespith was the only one left who offered her understanding, who listened, who saw her struggling and accepted that she was not reforged perfect when she was named Paragon. Everyone had a list of demands as long as her arm, and when they were not met, a list of complaints as long as she was tall. Not Hespith. Hespith just loved her.

“Branka?” Hespith’s voice slipped gently through Branka’s thoughts, and the other dwarven woman turned even as Branka settled onto the stiff mattress next to her.

“I did not mean to wake you,” Branka answered honestly. But she did reach out and wrap an arm around Hespith, dragging her across the mattress until there was no more air between them. Hespith twisted a bit further, pushing her shoulder back into Branka’s chest so that they could peer at each other in the dim light of the room. It was the easy, lazy smile on Hespith’s lips that made Branka lean in and kiss her gently. “I am sorry I am late.”

“I am glad to be awake,” Hespith answered. “It did not go well, I assume?” Branka snorted derisively and shook her head in irritation.

“No, it did not. These deshyrs,” Branka broke off with a growl of frustration. “They hold themselves above us. Above everyone. They talk of the Ancestors and their pride, but they have no spine. Their stone has gone soft from sitting in their cushioned seats and deciding everything for others. Some of them were great men once, but now they are all lazy would-be tyrants.” She vented her frustration without reservation, or concern that her words would be taken wrong. Here, with Hespith, was the only place left where she could be herself except for at her forge. And the forge was a poor listener.

“I am sorry. So the expedition-”

“They say it is a fool’s errand. That the Anvil is lost, and that better have tried to recover it.” Branka shook her head and made a sound of disgust. “They say there are too few of us to risk lives on something that cannot succeed. They mean they do not wish to risk their gold, or their own precious sons. If I said to send the casteless, they would cheer.” Hespith reached up to touch her cheek and Branka turned her face into her soft touch. Without a word Hespith could soothe the forgefire of indignation that burned inside of her. Hespith always brought her back to peace.