AN: Kinkmeme, why you gotta hurt so good? Nathaniel? Sexy letters? Yes. This was another fill for the meme, re-posted. There are also plans for a sequel, sometime in the future.
To the most worthy and esteemed defender, Lady Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, Nathaniel Howe, Grey Warden, earnest in humble thanks, does send greetings and enduring good-will.
My Lady Hawke, I must beg your forgiveness if I have overstepped the bounds of courtesy by sending this missive. Though my previous thanks for your most capable assistance in the Deep Roads was heartfelt, after seeing my sister and nephew again, I feel I would be remiss if I did not reiterate how grateful I truly am.
It is entirely beyond my place to do so, but on the subject of family I would speak of your brother's progress within the ranks of the Grey. Due to the nature of our duty, Wardens are encouraged to distance ourselves from our former lives, and secrecy is of paramount importance. Please consider this if you imagine it is acrimony that keeps Warden Carver from writing you himself, though I make no claims to speak for him. I know my sentiment is far too familiar, and once again I must beg your forgiveness, but having served beside your brother for several years, I have become aware of the history of tensions between you. I would say simply that in these past years, Warden Carver has established himself as a fine solider, a staunch protector of all things good, and a noble brother-in-arms.
I have found nothing in this life more valuable or more precious than family. Know that Warden Carver does speak often of you, and with great affection and respect.
In closing, you have my deepest and most sincere gratitude, and I pray that my presumption has not caused offense. I did not expect to find a saviour anywhere within that darkness, and certainly not in the form of such a beautiful woman. I am eternally within your debt.
May the Maker watch over you now and in the times ahead.
Yours in vigilance,
Nathaniel Howe
Staring down at the foolish, ridiculous, entirely inappropriate letter drying on the desk before him, Nathaniel wanted to slap himself. He couldn't send this, for Andraste's sake. He'd met the woman once, while they were both hip-deep in darkspawn corpses in the blighted Deep Roads, and in his first (uninvited, unexpected) letter to her, the most appropriate thing he managed to write was to call her beautiful. He was a moron; the taint had finally seeped into his skull and rotted his brain—
Footsteps in the corridor made him choke on a curse, scrambling to hide the evidence of his insanity. Somehow, he managed to shake off the blotting sand and tuck the letter under a book without smearing the barely-dry ink. His cheeks were flaming, and he felt like a naughty boy.
There was a short, staccato rapping on his door, then Declan's head peeked into his room. "Nathaniel, you said you had post to send, yes? I'm just headed into the city."
Glancing at the piles of crumpled parchment scattered all over his desk and even on his bed, Nathaniel swallowed over the large lump in his throat. "Uh, yes. Yes, actually, I just have to seal it."
To a most skilful and courageous warrior, Nathaniel Howe, Grey Warden, Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, expresses sincere friendship and good wishes.
I received your letter with great pleasure, Warden Nathaniel, and no amount of offense. Your gratitude is most humbling, and the sentiment appreciated.
I have no words to express my joy at the knowledge my brother may have found some measure of contentment within your ranks. He is my only remaining family, and despite what you so rightly called a history of tensions, I love him dearly and fiercely with every fibre of myself. I am also hardly surprised you are aware of our rather thorny relationship; even if one were not accomplished at observation, Carver has never been one to hide his feelings.
Family is indeed the greatest treasure in this world, and should your sister or nephew ever find themselves once again in need of aid, please know that I will gladly render all that is in my power. Though my heart still aches at my brother's absence, I sleep better now knowing he counts someone of your remarkable ability among his comrades. I had heard many tales of the prowess of Grey Wardens, some even from our mutual friend, but I had not thought them entirely true until I found myself fighting at your side. If in the spirit of fairness I might beg your forgiveness for a lapse of propriety, I would dare to say that you are a very impressive gentleman, and I count myself quite fortunate to have made your acquaintance. Perhaps I am too terribly bold, but I would be very grateful to call you friend.
Yours in friendship,
Marian Hawke
"That's it?" Hawke jumped, heart hammering against her ribs as she shrieked like a frightening child. She'd been alone in her study, blast it all, and the sound of Isabela's voice just over her shoulder had scared the wits right out of her.
"Andraste's tits, that's so boring, kitten." The pirate was peering down at her with an annoyed little moue gracing her lips, and Hawke strongly considered zapping her nosy behind with lightning before tossing her out on it. "You didn't even mention that you dream about his long fingers and strong arms—"
"Stop," she snapped, holding up one quelling hand right in Isabela's face. The crackle of magic around her fingers probably gave the command a bit more weight. "Just… stop. How in the Maker's name did you get in here?"
It was a stupid question, but Isabela ignored it anyway, so that hardly mattered. "Diamondback at the Hanged Man— I came to see if you were interested in losing a bit more gold tonight." There was a wicked glint in her coppery eyes, and Hawke suppressed a groan. "You know, Varric said you were all but drooling on that Warden's boots, and now you're playing shy little princess. Where's the Champion gotten to, hm? Add a postscript, tell him you want him to explore your Deep Roads or ride you like a griffon. Wardens all get off on that stuff, trust me."
Hawke leaned back in her chair, rubbing at the bridge of her nose as a headache began to bloom. "You're impossible."
Isabela tilted her head, looking strangely sad for a very brief moment. "Listen, all I'm saying is that life is short and deadly, a Warden's life especially. Fun is what's precious, and all that propriety bullshit is for the birds. Grab joy while you can— I'm sure your Warden would agree."
To the most gracious and noble Lady Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, Nathaniel Howe, Grey Warden, sends the constancy of sincere good-will.
I must share with you my deep relief that I caused no insult with the freedom of my pen, my lady. I count myself tremendously fortunate to have met you as well, and I am honoured you hold the Wardens in such regard. Your own exploits are already the things of legend; a tremendous accomplishment for a woman of your youth and elegance, and yet having met you I must admit no surprise. You claim I my skills have impressed you, yet yours have left me utterly in awe. I have fought along side mages for years, but never have I seen magic wielded with such deadly grace.
Your concern for my sister and nephew is greatly appreciated, perhaps more than I can express. Thank you, my lady, for your greatly welcomed interest in their well-being. Delilah assures me she will keep your name in her prayers, and that she will never forget your kindness.
You've no doubt found the small token I've enclosed within this letter; it is hardly my place, and I would not fault your reproach if this new profundity to my boldness has caused offense. Consider it a gesture of thanks, the very least I could offer. If you wish to return it, know that I have been recently assigned to the Grey Warden compound in Ostwick, and should be remaining there until at least next Bloomingtide. Warden Carver has been assigned to the compound as well, should you wish me to relay any messages on your behalf.
Yours in friendship,
Nathaniel Howe
Nathaniel tucked the long, deep blue ribbon into the parchment before he could think better of it. It was a foolish whim, and he deserved no less than her scorn for daring to send such a thing so very soon, but he'd not been able to stop himself when he'd passed that blighted market stall.
Lady Hawke had such beautiful hair, as glossy and dark as a raven's wing, and the simply leather thong she'd used to knot it up when they'd met had made his fingers itch to tug it free. Long hair was often a dangerous indulgence in combat, but he had not been thinking of the Champion, or battle, or anything but silky black locks spilling over his fingers when he was dolling out silvers on a length of velvet ribbon.
Quickly melting wax over the parchment's edges, sealing up the proof of his insanity, Nathaniel tried valiantly to ignore the fluttering in his chest. He had no idea what he was doing, but he could not banish the memory of her voice, her deep blue eyes, or perhaps most troubling, the tempting sway of her hips from his mind. She was haunting his dreams more frequently than darkspawn, which was a pleasant change, certainly. To wake every night however, sweating and aching for a woman whose touch he had only felt fleetingly, through gloves and leather armour…
Taking a deep breath, he pushed away from his new desk in his new quarters. A private room was a luxury he hadn't enjoyed in years, but Ostwick was an outpost with few Wardens and a small, unexpected darkspawn problem, so his seniority and experience had been rewarded. Hopefully, if his projections proved accurate, they'd mop up all traces of this mess in less than a year.
Standing, stretching, Nathaniel shook off his reticence and went to hunt down a messenger.
To Nathaniel Howe, Grey Warden, a generous and thoughtful friend, Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, sends the affection of warm feelings and unceasing good-wishes.
To say I was delightfully surprised to receive such a token does not fully express my appreciation for your kindness. It is a beautiful gift, and I will wear it as often as I dare, though I hate the thought of ruining it with blood or dirt.
It occurs to me that I have met few men who would not run quickly in the other direction, were I to tell them such a thing about a hair ribbon. It is an extraordinary man who can see me tearing through darkspawn with my magic, and still think to bestow upon me such a sweet, feminine gift. It pleases me to think you consider me a lady to whom one might give ribbons. Thank you, Nathaniel, truly.
I understand Ostwick is much like Kirkwall in climate, but I hope the relentless rain we have been suffering for the past fortnight does not spread to your area of the coast. I did not think to ask if you had been in the Free Marches for very long when we met; do you enjoy it here? Even now I am often struck by how different it is from Ferelden, strange when compared to the people and ways I knew as a child, but Kirkwall has become a fine home. I am not sure I would want to go back, though there are some things I miss very much.
I fear I may begin to ramble, if I have not already strayed that far. I would ask you to give Carver my love, but I cannot in good conscience inject myself into this life he has built, even in such a small way. He is a man, no longer the child I still remember rolling about in mud and pulling my braids, and I will respect his silence if he wishes it so.
Yours in friendship,
Marian
Hawke caught herself smiling like a dolt, her thumb brushing the plush nap of the ribbon trailing over her shoulder. Pen poised over the sheet of parchment, she very purposefully stopped before adding the formality of her family name, or worse still, some incredibly embarrassing postscript like Isabela had suggested weeks before.
She had so many… thoughtsabout the oddly handsome, quietly charming Grey Warden, but none she dared put to paper. Currently, she was rather distracted by memories of his voice, husky and richly dark, and imagining just what sort of tender words he might whisper to her in her sweetest fantasies. Later, when the house was quiet and she was wrapped up in her soft, warm quilts, Hawke might allow herself to indulge in less appropriate musings. That voice, rasping against her ear, against her skin, strained with lust and pitched impossibly low with filthy promise—
Shifting in her chair, Hawke stamped down on that avenue of thought before she was swept away in earnest. It was just past breakfast, and Orana was already tidying her bedroom. Even if she planned to postpone the errands of the day and give in to a craving so utterly debauched, the innocent finch of a servant flitting about made such a thing impossible. It was very likely for the best, anyway.
One final image flickering unbidden through her mind— full lips brushing the inside of her elbow, while her hands were bound together by a ribbon of dark blue velvet— put a faint blush on her face that lingered the rest of the day.
To the benevolent and lovely Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, Nathaniel Howe, Grey Warden, sends greetings and warm affections.
It brings me no end of joy to know I did not misstep, and that the ribbon pleased you. I must confess I smile at the thought of you wearing it, even covered in blood and dirt; such is the reality of both our lives, I expect. If, however, the ribbon does become ruined beyond saving, I will gladly send you another. You need only mention, and it will be done.
One fine thing I will say of Ferelden is its penchant for producing incomparable women. I spent many years in the Free Marches as a boy, and I am reminded of this truth now that I have returned. That a man would spurn a woman simply because she has strength and the skill to use it is a lack on his part, never hers. Perhaps it is my Fereldan blood, but I cannot think of a more attractive quality in a woman than to be so capable in her own right. One would be blessed beyond measure to earn the affections of such a lady, I have no doubt.
Ostwick is much as I had expected, and I still foresee remaining at this compound for some time to come. There is a good deal work to be done, and that is welcome, even if the work itself is so often incredibly foul. Of course, I speak now of paperwork and other banal formalities, rather than battling darkspawn; the former vexes me a hundred times more than the latter, but I remind myself that both are vital. At the very least, the worst trouble for which I might require your assistance in the near future will be paper cuts and tired eyes, rather than fishing me out of the Deep Roads.
Please, do not fear to ramble on my account. I appreciate any details of your life you might deign to share with me, and your letters have become a very bright spot in an otherwise uneasy time. I am not unaware of the growing tensions within Kirkwall, and indeed branching out throughout Thedas. Though you are exceptionally capable, Marian, I do worry for you. Please, as you once bade me, stay safe.
Yours in friendship,
Nathaniel
Tapping his foot in frustration, Nathaniel stared into the glowing coals of his hearth. He wanted to warn her, to ask her how much she truly knew of the haggard Grey Warden mage with the smart mouth and the militant agenda. Surely Anders could not have kept his condition hidden for long in the City of Chains, with templars lurking around every corner.
He had not heard of any horrific massacres in Kirkwall in recent months, at least none not attributed to Lady Hawke herself, so perhaps Anders had managed to rein in his demon, even somewhat. Nathaniel had some measure of trust left for his old friend, enough to keep any mention of him out of correspondences that might be intercepted, as well as too many responsibilities to go off chasing ghosts. He tried to ignore his gnawing concern.
It was harder than it should have been to ignore his yearning to abandon his posting and make all haste to Kirkwall, duty be damned. If he was entirely honest with himself, that need was only partially caused by anxiety. More than anything, he ached to lay eyes upon the woman whose perfume wafted faintly from the box of letters he kept near his bed, the pages gone soft and nearly tattered about the edges from repeated reading. He was a man drawn tight on his tether, teetering upon the edge of something significant, and he could feel his self-control slipping away.
He needed some sign, some clear indication that this fancy was not merely a product of lonely years and his fool's hope. Whatever her response to this letter, to the suggestions of his interest and his affection that were as bold as he dared, it would give him an answer.
To Nathaniel,
I hope you will forgive the truncated salutation, but such ceremony was beginning to feel silly. You are my friend, truly the dearest of my correspondences, and I doubt you need my awkward formality to remind you of such. If so, however, permit me to say that I am writing with sincere affection and good wishes, as always.
As much as I understand the desire for more excitement than paperwork might provide, I find myself rather taken by the image of you buried in dull forms rather than being gnawed on by a hurlock. If the worst injury you have suffered before we next meet is an aching neck and tired eyes, I promise to massage the stiffness from your muscles myself. I will even brew you tea, if you like, though I have been told my tea is usually strong enough for a man to stand on. If, however, I am once again called upon to fish you from the Deep Roads so soon, I would have to devise a suitable reprimand. The choice is entirely yours.
I will make no attempt to soothe your worry with falsehoods; the tensions in the city are growing worse each day. It is not so very dire as the rumours might suggest, however; so far as I know, the Knight-Commander has not yet begun boiling and eating mage children, and maleficarum are not yet amassing in the streets, drinking blood from templar helms. I apologise that this situation puts me in such an ill humour, but I have never felt more uncomfortable as an apostate than I do at this moment, living openly among those who call me Champion.
This letter has taken a morbid turn, when I had meant to be playful. Tell me, is Ostwick in need of a Champion? I am told I come highly recommended, and a change in scenery may do me some good. In the meantime, trust me when I say I will stay as safe as I am able, and I pray you will do the same.
Yours with affection,
Marian
She stopped herself just before calling up a handful of flames, set to reduce this painfully morose, whiny letter to a pile of ashes. Despite the giddy thrill that had overcome her when reading Nathaniel's previous missive, she knew she might not have the stomach to recopy the blatantly flirtatious paragraph she'd managed before the entire thing turned so gloomy. If she hadn't misread his intent with all that talk of incomparable Fereldan women, then she needed to give him some manner of response that was just as bold, if not bolder.
It was so difficult with their only communication happening across miles of coastline and sheets of parchment. She could not see his face, judge his reactions, or encourage his interest in any way that did not sound either aloof or ridiculously whorish. It was driving her mad, but she dared not leave Kirkwall. All it would take was a single misspoken rumour that the Champion had abandoned her city, and the entire tinderbox could spark.
Pressing her lips against the worn velvet ribbon wrapped around her fist, Hawke took a long, deep breath through her nose, imagining strong, corded arms drawing her close, and a gravelly whisper telling her it would all be all right.
To my dear Marian,
I sorely wish I could tell you of Ostwick's dire need of a Champion's skills, but besides a few stubborn pockets of darkspawn, it is a rather quiet place. Not a qunari in sight, though I may be the only one in this city disappointed by that fact. In all seriousness, however, if you are ever in need of time away from Kirkwall and its troubles, my door is forever open to you. I would welcome your company very much.
You have certainly given me quite a lot to consider; between the promise of your graceful hands working the tension from my muscles, and the threat of some undefined reprimand, I find myself wondering if either would truly be a punishment. I would give up a great deal to feel your touch, Marian.
Enclosed, you should find a pair of ribbons; you have not mentioned any tragedy befalling your first gift, but I find myself imagining such a tie holding back the beautiful lengths of your hair, and somehow I feel better knowing you are well-stocked, should the need arise. I wonder if the soft velvet ever trails across the length of your throat, following a path my fingers yearn to follow. I hope that when you wear these, you will think of me, and know that I am almost certainly thinking of you.
Yours with affection,
Nathaniel
It was utterly obscene, but even by writing the words, Nathaniel had managed to push his perpetual fantasy from a mild, buzzing arousal to a full-blown frenzy. Tossing his pen aside, he could no longer fight the shaking in his hands, and instead focused all his concentration on the urgent tightness between his legs.
He considered the creamy column of Marian's neck, bared for his pleasure and attentions, the breathy sounds she might make were he to trail his mouth along her smooth skin, one hand tangled in her hair while she clung to his chest, panting, mewling—
He'd been in the training yard for hours after supper, as too much time behind a desk was already making him feel soft and fat. He still stunk of sweat and dust, and he'd had every intention of having a bath before retiring for the evening, but then he'd found Marian's letter waiting. His own impatience was ridiculous, and it was the reason he was now fumbling madly with the ties of his leather leggings, grateful he'd at least shucked his cuirass and gloves before settling down to read his mail.
With just enough presence of mind to avoid smearing his forearm into wet ink, Nathaniel braced one hand on the desk as he took himself in hand, his cock already hard and weeping. This was very wrong, incredibly boorish of him, but he made no attempt to stop the visions of Marian from playing out in the depths of his mind as he jerked himself almost brutally fast.
When he finally came, gasping her name as his blunt nails scraped across the wooden tabletop, Nathaniel could not bring himself to regret, despite his embarrassing lack of self-control. Slumping back into his chair, he could not help but wish Marian thought of him with even a fraction of the passion he was being slowly drowned in.
To my Nathaniel,
If I did not think it would end in war, I would deliver this letter to Ostwick myself. If anyone could tempt me to risk upsetting Kirkwall's delicate balance, rest assured it would certainly be you. I would beg you not to entice me so, but I fear it is far too late for that.
The very idea that you are thinking of my touch, Nathaniel, when I am beside myself with thoughts of your hands upon me, it is almost more than I can bear. Imagining your hand stroking my neck, perhaps your mouth following, your lips on mine
I am flaming with mortification at having put those words to paper, but I am overcome and the mere thought of you has made me shamefully wanton. I am no chantry sister, but I have never before ached for a man as I ache for you. The memory of your voice is enough to send me quivering, and I almost fear to see you in the flesh again. You have me undone, my Warden, my heart laid open before you.
So entirely yours,
Marian
She was dripping wet, thighs sliding together as she shivered and fidgeted in equal measures of shame and burning arousal. She'd had too much to drink, and if her wobbly pen strokes weren't proof enough, the sordid contents of this letter were the final, damning spark to light her funeral pyre. Damn Varric and his Antivan brandy, and Isabela and her stupid drinking games. Damn Nathaniel for being so far away when she wanted him— neededhim to touch and taste and take every ounce of passion that burned in her—
She should not have touched a pen after stumbling home, pliant and maudlin. She certainly should not have taken up the letter she'd started that afternoon, turning a perfectly acceptable message into some trash not fit for one of Isabela's tales. Blinking back a hot rush of tears, and cursing loud and broken oaths into a quiet house, Hawke pushed the parchment aside roughly. Standing with great effort, she fled towards her bedroom, just managing to slam her fingers in the door before throwing herself into bed to sob pitifully into her pillow.
Lost to drunken tragedy, Hawke never saw Isabela melt out of the shadows between bookcases. Unseen by all but a curious yet unconcerned mabari, the pirate carefully gathered the mistreated parchment, making sure the front door was securely bolted behind her when she slipped out into the cool night air.
Nathaniel dropped the letter, fingers gone utterly numb, and the pounding of blood in his ears was the loudest sound he'd ever known. This was— she hadn't—
Breathing was important, but suddenly so incredibly difficult. He was fortunate he was already sitting, because he could feel his knees turn to jelly even as his cock twitched sharply. Of course this would be the perfect time for Carver to appear in his open doorway, still open because he certainly hadn't been expecting a letter like this to be waiting on his desk, and Nathaniel was wholly unable to move.
"Do you have a minute?" Carver was oblivious to the absolute debacle he'd stumbled upon, as well as to his fellow Warden's distress. He also seemed to have forgotten the sheer size of the greatsword strapped across his back, and with only a few strides into the room, he somehow managed to knock the box of letters from its precarious perch near the desk's corner.
Nathaniel had been a fool to move the box from its secure, private spot in his footlocker with his door hanging open like a barn. Such a damned fool.
Whatever he had done to earn this kind of spiteful wrath from the Maker, he did not wish to ponder.
"Oh balls, sorry Nathaniel." Carver, in an innocent desire to help, reached down to gather up the scattered parchment, and Nathaniel felt something painful lodge in his throat. What could he do, besides pray the other man did not glance and catch sight of his sister's name? Pray to a Maker who had not only abandoned His children, but obviously abandoned Nathaniel specifically at that precise moment—
"What in the—" It was not snooping, but pure happenstance. Of course Carver would notice; the oldest of the letters all said Marian Hawke quite clearly in her crisp, looping script. "Are these— These are from my sister? Why… why do you…"
A Blight would be preferable at this point. Nathaniel dropped his head into his hands, unwilling to watch as Caver's expression grew darker, his furious eyes scanning page upon damning page. Of course he had no business reading them, and it would only serve to make things worse, but Nathaniel knew what it was to have a sister. He could not fault Carver the same overbearing protectiveness that would have overtaken him, were their situations reversed.
It was a similar feeling to sitting in that cell in the Amaranthine dungeons so many years before, fully convinced he was simply waiting to be hanged. He was much less angry at the world this time around, but furious at himself for being such a moron.
There was no yelling, which was surprising. Nathaniel was braced for a blade to cleave him in half, but hopefully Carver's sense of brotherhood would at least compel him to issue a warning beforehand. Eventually, there was a very strained throat clearing, and Nathaniel forced himself to look his brother in the eye.
Carver was blushing violently, and Nathaniel realised with burgeoning horror that he'd left the last letter on the desk where he'd dropped it— it was now twisted around, facing the other man. If not a Blight, then perhaps his Calling. He was suddenly very ready to storm the Deep Roads alone, never to return.
"So," Carver said gruffly, large fists clenching until his gauntlets creaked. "You and my sister."
Nathaniel nodded slightly. To say as little as possible seemed appropriate.
Carver stared at him for a long, nerve-racking silence, and Nathaniel barely blinked. He knew better than to squirm under such scrutiny. Finally, the younger man crossed his massive arms and narrowed his eyes dangerously.
"All right. Do we need to have the talk, then?"
Air gusted out of him like a bellows— a great sigh of relief— before he could stop it. Carver's lips twitched fractionally upwards, and Nathaniel managed to find his tongue.
"Forgive me, brother," he said, motioning to the letters before laying his hand over his hammering heart. "But I… I sincerely hope so."
Hawke browsed the table full of amulets and other baubles, silently reaching out with a hint of magic to help identify how much of the advertised information was indeed correct. Some merchants were less than honest about enchantments, betting on ignorant buyers, but the lies were usually something simple, like the strength of the runes. Sometimes, however, the deception could be much worse. If she was going to find something for Nathaniel, she certainly didn't want to buy a dud charm.
It had been weeks since she'd gotten absolutely soused and cried herself to sleep like a moony tart, and still no sign of the letter she vaguely remembered scribbling out. She couldn't recall precisely what she'd written, but she knew it was just awful, desperate and bawdy— Maker, with her luck she'd probably used the word loins— and perhaps most importantly, it was missing. She'd torn the estate apart looking for the blighted thing, and managed to accidentally make Orana cry by implying she might have moved it or thrown it out, which was such a terrible drama. Bodahn claimed ignorance as well, and both Sandal and Hafter had simply cocked their heads at her.
She was fairly convinced Sandal had absently tucked it away somewhere during his usual wandering, very likely in a spot where it would only make its presence known at the most humiliating possible time. After four days of frustrated searching, she'd finally given up and resigned herself to the eventual embarrassment.
She'd written up another letter shortly thereafter, sober this time, and had tried to send it with her usual messenger, but he was apparently already off on an urgent delivery. After a bit of digging, she found a merchant caravan travelling the coast, and one of them had agreed to take her post for a nominal fee. That had been some time ago, and caravans travelled slower than couriers, but if the roads were clear she guessed they would be arriving in Ostwick very shortly.
Spreading a web of magic over an intriguing amulet fashioned out of ivory or bone and carved with small, dark runes, Hawke shivered as the ends of her hair ribbon caught in the breeze that blew in from the docks. The velvet was too heavy to flutter madly, but it did swing against her neck like a slow caress. The touch made her stomach quiver, and Hawke even allowed the secret desire to curl deep and low between her legs, just wicked enough to make her smirk ever so slightly.
"My Lady Hawke?" Oh by Andraste's flaming sword and pyre, that voice. Hawke had never swooned before, but if she were ever going to, this would have been the time. Light-headed with surprise, she turned very slowly, away from the merchant's wares.
His hair was a little lighter than she remembered, but perhaps that was because she'd never seen it in sunlight before. More deep chestnut brown than black, it framed his strong features and sharp, pale eyes, and Hawke felt her mouth go dry. She hadn't— why was he—
"My lady," he said again, ignoring the crowd that milled around the bazaar in favour of holding her gaze with an intensity that sent a bolt of want sizzling down her spine. Stepping closer, closer to her, Nathaniel courteously offered his hand, as countless numbers of respectable men had done in the past. Somehow this was different.
He wasn't wearing gloves, she noticed, and his long fingers were dark with calluses. Her own gloves, thank the Maker, were tucked into her belt.
His skin was rough and impossibly warm, though she'd always had cold hands since she first learned to cast ice. When he bent, pressing his mouth very gently to her knuckles, she may have made a small, unintentional sound. One of his fingers stretched out, brushing against the inside of her wrist, she made the sound again.
"You are just as lovely as I remember," Nathaniel rumbled quietly, keeping hold of her hand as he straightened. She was gaping like a fish, she could feel it, but what else was she meant to do with this man standing so near, being tall and solid and real?
She watched as his free hand lifted slowly towards her, then the slightest pressure of fingers sliding down the length of ribbon that trailed from her hair, lighting a fiery path across her neck without even touching skin. There was a flush crawling up from the collar of Nathaniel's dark leathers, and Hawke could feel an answering heat colouring her own cheeks.
"Even more so, if possible," he continued, and Hawke scrambled to recall what he'd said a moment before. Lovely? She was more lovely— "Wearing such a favour."
"You're here," she blurted, so very stupidly, and Nathaniel's amused smile simply made her floundering all the worse. "I mean, that is— Oh, Maker… I…" Forcing herself to take a deep breath, Hawke glanced down at the dusty street and licked her bottom lip. "Hello, Nathaniel, fancy meeting you here."
She didn't imagine his low, barely audible growl— heat washed over her like the blaze of a fireball, and her eyes darted up just in time to see him staring intently at her mouth. She was the sodding Champion of Kirkwall, and she couldn't very well drag this man into a Lowtown alley and demand he fuck her vigorously against a wall. She couldn't, but holy Andraste, she wanted to.
As a test, a foolish one perhaps, Hawke darted her tongue out again. The barely-there touch lingering on her neck became a large hand pressed against her racing pulse, all warm palm and calluses scraping, and Hawke nearly unravelled. For a brief, blissful moment it seemed as though he would kiss her, and then Hawke would be forced to climb his lean, powerful form, her limbs frantic and tangled, and never let go.
Perhaps it was a very good thing that the bazaar was busy that day, with small throngs of people jostling around certain stalls. The crowd was shifting as they stood like statues, and a rude elbow to the spine sent Hawke jerking forward, breaking the dangerous spell of the kiss-that-wasn't, and making her bump square into Nathaniel's chest.
The hand on her neck slid around, coming to rest between her shoulder blades, and her cheek pressed against the leather of his cuirass. Even with their clasped hands squished awkwardly between them, she and Nathaniel were now embracing in the middle of the bazaar. Before she could think better of it, Hawke began to shake with laughter.
"You! Watch where you're going—" Nathaniel's words were menacing, but she didn't for an instant fear he was speaking to her. "Lay hands on the lady again and you'll lose them, finger by finger."
There was a scramble of footsteps behind her, and Hawke tried vainly to stifle her daft giggles with her free hand. Maker, she was a complete loon, and the smell of leather, salt and man was making her worse.
Stubble rasped against her forehead as Nathaniel ducked down to murmur over the market's din. "Shall I assume from your amusement that you are unharmed, my lady? I could still scare that oaf to death, if you'd like."
"No, it's fine." Stepping back to a relatively respectable distance, Hawke was pleased at the way his arm loosened but did not retreat entirely, reluctant to let her go. "Thank you, kind serah."
"My lady—"
"Marian," she corrected, gathering her wits again even through the haze of arousal that still blanketed her mind. "Please call me Marian. We're not strangers, Nathaniel."
His mouth twitched into a half-smirk; it was a sly expression, and she could easily imagine herself becoming incredibly fond of it. "Soon."
That single word held so much suggestion, so much promise, that she felt herself grow wet. Any control she had thought she'd managed over the fierce need Nathaniel stirred in her was quickly engulfed with thoughts of how precisely he might say her name, and how hoarse and loud she might make him shout it.
Other than the curious stares drawn by a Grey Warden and a Champion— him still grimy from days of travel and armed to the teeth, and her layered in ornate mage robes— Nathaniel liked to imagine they made a lovely couple walking together through Kirkwall. Despite anything else, he had been raised to act as a noble gentleman, and her hand tucked into his elbow was a captivating feeling.
"It's just here." They were deep into Hightown when she pointed to a well-kept estate, and Nathaniel ignored the anticipation sparking down his spine. Marian certainly deserved better than some filthy, travel-worn beast leaping upon her the moment they slipped from the public eye, even if the knowledge that she ached for him was loud and insistent in his thoughts.
The house was much cooler than the humidity of the day, and Nathaniel felt strangely at ease even stepping past the threshold. That may have had something to do with the eager mabari clamouring towards them, but also with the way Marian's posture relaxed as the door closed behind them. The strained atmosphere in the city was significantly worse than he'd hoped.
The dog— a handsome, brawny hound— grumbled and wriggled its massive body before Marian, but was otherwise calm. Nathaniel waited while Marian released her hold on his arm, bending to scratch the dog affectionately behind the ears.
"Hello there, old boy," she said, and he very purposefully kept his eyes away from the way her robes stretched over her hips. "Hafter, this is Nathaniel Howe. He's a dear friend."
When she finally straightened, he thought it reasonably safe to look at her again. She was, of course, blushing sweetly. "Bethany, my sister, thought herself terribly clever with that one. You never see a mabari called Hafter."
It was tempting to lay his palm upon that blush, to feel the warmth of it, but he restrained himself. Instead, he slowly extended his hand for the hound to sniff. "My father once owned a mabari many years ago, and he called it Dog. It's certainly cleverer than that." A wet nose butted against his fingers, and Nathaniel took the invitation to scratch the hound's fleshy muzzle. "You have a fine, strong name, Ser Hafter."
The dog huffed contentedly, the stub of his tail beating against the rug. Marian was smiling at them both rather indulgently, arms crossed beneath her bosom, and it was a beautiful sight. "I thought you two might get on. Please, come in and rest yourself."
"I would be glad to." Giving Hafter a final rub, Nathaniel motioned for Marian to precede him. The estate seemed comfortable and well-appointed, and he found himself imagining Marian being very much at home here. There was a writing desk near the large hearth, and a tiny elven girl standing nervously beside it— the thought of her composing her letters to him there, brazen and yearning, made his pulse skip madly.
"Orana," Marian said, walking over to touch the young woman gently on her narrow shoulder. "This is a dear friend of mine, Nathaniel Howe. Nathaniel, Orana is the miracle-worker who helps me keep house."
Stammering out some almost inaudible greeting, Orana curtsied deeply to him, then skittered away the moment she was allowed. Once the elf had gone, Nathaniel noticed a flicker of intense sadness wash over his lady's expression.
"She was a Tevinter slave." Her voice was soft as she answered his unspoken question. "I helped free her, and I pay her to work for me here so she'll be safe, but in her mind she's still a slave, and nothing I've done seems to change that. It's been years, and she still calls me mistress."
Nathaniel did not point out the sheer number of noblewomen he'd met who demanded their servants refer to them thusly. Marian had said the word with complete distain, and it was certainly no flaw in her character that she discouraged such garish affirmations of power. Instead, he glanced over in the direction Orana had disappeared.
"She is free and safe, and she seemed happy, beyond looking at me as though I'm an archdemon. I understand her nervousness." He felt Marian's eyes on him, then swallowed thickly when she stepped closer.
"I didn't think to ask if anything was wrong," she said suddenly, startling him. "With Carver or—"
Without thought, he turned and reached for her, taking gentle hold of her upper arms and shaking his head. "Nothing is wrong. I simply… I've simply come to see you."
"Truly?" Her smile was beaming, and Nathaniel felt some measure of his resolve give way, like sand through grasping fingers. Before he could reconsider, he reached out and tilted her chin upward, cradling her jaw. Blessedly, she did not resist his daring, taking a surprised breath before following as he led.
"Yes, truly," he murmured, transfixed by the wide, deeply blue eyes peering so intently into his heart. Her arms came around him, drawing him even nearer, and he longed to be free of his blighted leathers, if only to feel the yielding press of her body against his.
The kiss began gently, chastely, and he had every good intention of ending it the same way, at least for the moment. He was not expected back in Ostwick for nearly a month— he would take the time to do this properly.
But then Marian's lips parted beneath his, tempting him to taste and explore, and at the first touch of his tongue she moaned deep and low…
He couldn't quite recall how they'd moved to the nearby wall, but suddenly Marian was panting in his ear as he bit and suckled at the sweet line of her throat, even more irresistible than he'd dreamed. Her fingers curled and clutched vainly at empty air as he held her wrists against the wall, but pinning her in place was doing absolutely nothing to rein in his lust, even without her touch enflaming him—
There was a gasp, this one from neither of them, then an almighty crash, and Nathaniel's instinctual reaction was to step between his lady and the unexpected noise. Marian's first response was to shove him aside with every ounce of physical force she could muster, making him stumble, calling up a great crackling ball of spellpower.
Orana shrieked, falling to her knees in the ruins of what appeared to be a tea service, and the magic flickered out. Marian was at the girl's side in an instant, shushing and apologising over Orana's frighteningly subdued sobbing. It looked as though the elf was trying to become as small and silent as possible, flinching away from every move of Marian's hands, but she was also nearly hysterical with panic.
Righting himself, Nathaniel approached the women very carefully; as soon as he was close enough, he began pushing the broken bits of ceramic away before someone was cut.
It was hours later when Orana was finally calm enough to be left to sleep, curled up in her small bed with Hafter's bulk warming her back and the curtains drawn against the glow of the setting sun. Nathaniel felt every day of his journey from Ostwick catching up with him, making his eyes gritty and his head ache, and Marian was no better, shuffling about looking so utterly shattered.
"I'm so sorry," she said quietly once they had returned to the estate's main hall, rubbing at her temples. "That… that was horrible. I don't…"
Nathaniel was very aware that he smelled a bit ripe, but there was no helping that now. Watching his lady struggle so, losing herself in heartache for a situation she could not change, was more than he would bear.
"Marian—" He'd called her by name a few times while they tended to Orana, but the weight of it on his tongue was still wonderfully novel. Standing near the low-burning hearth, he held out one arm. "Come here."
He was still in his leathers, but he had shucked his bow and quiver sometime before. When she pressed against him, resting her brow in the crook of his neck, there were at least fewer buckles and straps to dig in to her.
Pressing a kiss against her hair, Nathaniel breathed in the warm scent of Marian: lilacs and some kind of soap, tinged with a faint bite of lyrium and clean sweat. He held her until she began to sag in earnest, reminding him precisely how worn they both were.
Tightening his embrace for just a moment, he dipped his head enough to speak against her ear in barely a whisper, unwilling to break the peaceful spell they'd managed. "I should go and leave you to your rest. Will you be all right, or would you rather I wait for your dwarves to return?"
Her answer began with a confused noise and a sleepy frown. "I— You're leaving?"
Hawke hadn't meant to sound so childish, but she hadn't expected this. In truth, she hadn't been given the chance to think terribly far ahead, with the entire day having been a series of considerable surprises.
Nathaniel shrugged slightly, lowering his eyes. "I've taken a room in the Hanged Man. I… well, I had no wish to presume. If you…" He cleared his throat, stance shifting slowly from foot to foot. "That is, if you'd like me to stay—"
If she hadn't felt like she'd been chewed up and spit out by a high dragon, Hawke might have been silenced by her nerves. Now, she laced one hand into Nathaniel's hair, catching slightly on a braid, and pulled him down for a tender kiss.
"Please," she whispered into his mouth, nearly faint with nervous tension. The rough chafing of his stubble made her skin burn, and she nuzzled into the sensation. "Please stay."
"I— Yes—" She'd dreamed of that husky tone, always waking to soaking thighs and tight nipples. "Whatever you wish, my Marian."
That earned him another kiss, this one deep and desperate, with teeth clicking and lips bitten— keenly feeling the drag of both arousal and exhaustion, she pulled away with a breathless gasp.
"Come," she said, drawing him along as she began to walk towards the stairs. "Before we scandalize the staff again."
When they reached her bedroom door, Nathaniel seemed to stall, though he still followed her across the threshold without trouble. "Marian, please wait."
She was a sodding fool and a harlot— Maker's breath, they'd met once before, both covered in darkspawn guts at the time, and then a few months of letters exchanged, and now she thought she could simply—
Nathaniel obviously noticed her spiral into self-doubt, if the flood of hasty explanation was any sign. "Wait, no, it's not that. Please—" He sighed, closing his eyes and waving one hand to indicate himself. "I've not had the chance to clean up at all since I arrived in the city, as you've no doubt noticed. I smell like a mabari."
He thought— oh.
Giggling in powerful relief, and just a little amusement at Nathaniel's misgivings, Hawke pressed a quick kiss against his knuckles before padding over and dragging her privacy screen aside. The shiny copper tub wasn't huge, but it would comfortably seat a grown man, and Hawke grinned proudly while Nathaniel gaped in surprise.
"Here," she said, before he could wonder about servants, hot water, or any amount of bother. "Watch this."
Rolling up her sleeves and kneeling beside the bath, Hawke dipped her hands inside just as Nathaniel moved near. She called up a blast of cold, concentrating enough to tweak the fibres of the spell until a blizzard clumped thick and soft beneath her palms, quickly filling the tub. Nathaniel squatted beside her, reaching out to take up a pinch of his future bathwater.
"Slightly more solid than I usually take my baths." She poked his wrist with a frigid finger, making him chuckle and draw back, but he still stayed poised at her side.
Fire was more difficult— it had always been Bethany's gift more than hers— but enough heat to warm a tub was no great strain. Hawke called up a globe of searing flames and pressed it into the rapidly melting snow, swirling her hands around until fluffy white powder turned to cool water, then progressively warmer as she forced the flames to stay submerged. Before too long, Hawke felt steam begin to waft up into her face and extinguished the fire, flicking her damp fingers back at the pleasantly hot water.
"You are a marvel." Nathaniel leaned close, kissing her shoulder. "Thank you, sweet lady."
Hawke wasn't entirely sure what to do at this point— should she leave him to bathe, then join him after, or could she stay? If she stayed, would it be patiently on the other side of the screen or more… demonstrative?
A hand on her cheek, stroking gently along her jaw, managed to shake her from her musings. Nathaniel was smiling, a soft expression on a strong-featured face, and Hawke allowed him to draw her to her feet without resistance.
When his other hand began working at the buckles of his leathers with easy, practiced motions, Hawke began to breathe very deeply.
He tossed the cuirass aside a few moments later, followed by a padded jerkin— that left nothing but a sweat-stained tunic keeping his bare chest from her, and Hawke began worrying the ends of her hair ribbon with twitchy fingers.
Nathaniel's smile turned teasing, and he slowly stretched under her scrutiny, arching his back and rolling his broad shoulders. "You're rather flushed, Marian."
She was nearly melting, and she was certainly woman enough to admit it. Drawing out her movements just as he was doing, Hawke reached up and slowly unwound the ribbon, letting her hair fall loose and untamed. With a toss of her head, she slipped past a suddenly motionless, gawking man and snatched up her basket of soaps and oils.
"Your bath is getting cold," she all but purred, pressing the basket into his hands before he could reach for it, or her. With giddiness quickly overtaking her former weariness, and making her rather silly, Hawke darted over to perch on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs and undoing the clasp at the collar of her robes. The fabric parted easily, baring her chest all the way down to the swells of her breasts, and Nathaniel groaned, setting the basket down before yanking his tunic over his head.
"I yield," he said thickly, wasting no time before tugging at the laces of his leggings. "Maker have mercy, I yield. My body is entirely yours."
Hawke wished she could say she noticed the powerful cords of his arms first, with their tight muscles and sharp definition owed to the bow resting safely in her study. He was indeed a bundle of trim muscle, all traces of softness having long ago worn away, shadowed across his chest and down his belly with swathes of dark hair. It was his scars, however, that drew her eye— a patchwork of ragged tissue and gruesome lines mapping a life most would not have survived. She had many such permanent reminders of her own, lessons learned in blood and agony, and now she ached to become just as familiar with Nathaniel's.
When he pushed his leggings down his thighs, dragging smallclothes along as well, Hawke bit her thumb. His cock was already half-hard, thick and dark and springing up from a nest of curls, and the thought of it pounding inside her was… Oh Maker…
He stepped into the tub without further comment, sinking into the water with barely a sigh. Hawke watched, hopelessly ensnared, as he shook out the braids that held his hair back from his face and began scrubbing vigorously with a cake of soap.
But no, this could be so much better.
Clamouring to her feet with enough haste to nearly trip over her skirt, Hawke wriggled free of her painfully annoying robes and darted over to kneel beside the tub once more, clad only in her smalls. When she reached out and took the soap from his lax fingers, he lowered himself farther into the tub with a broken, gurgling sound.
"Oh, mercy— Marian— " She slid the soap across his chest, painting his collarbones with a streak of glistening bubbles. At the same time, she brushed her lips feather-light around the shell of his ear, watching the water splash as he shuddered from her attentions.
She scrubbed leisurely over his skin, even coaxing him to dunk his head so she could work lather through his hair, and every desperate noise drawn out by her touch curled through her like a torment. She explored the planes of his muscles, the strange knots and valleys of his scars, and took note of all the spots that made his breathing hitch. Nathaniel kept craning his neck around, trying to catch her in a kiss, but Hawke knew precisely how that would end, and she wasn't quite prepared to try and wedge herself into a cramped tub.
Ducking his tempting, seeking mouth one final time, Hawke crawled away, settling herself comfortably down beside a pair of hairy knees peeking out from murky water. His hand, formerly squeezing the edge of the tub with whitened knuckles, lifted to trace a damp path from her cheek to the corner of her mouth, and Hawke leaned into the touch with an utterly devious grin.
"Tell me," she said, reaching out to pinch one of those enticing knees. When her soapy hand slithered down his thigh, disappearing below the water, Nathaniel moaned weakly. Hawke couldn't quite believe she was about to say this, but a brush of hard flesh against her fingers and the lines of strained tendons in Nathaniel's neck helped her find the words. "Is there any truth to this Warden stamina I've heard about? Do you think I could—" Circling her hand around his cock, her voice cracked when she truly discovered his girth, and the scalding heat of him in the slowly cooling water. Nathaniel may not have noticed her reaction, too lost in his own thrashing limbs and hoarse shout.
There was a small puddle forming around the bottom of the tub, water splashing over the side, but Hawke couldn't bring herself to care. Nathaniel's hips were stuttering up into her grip, there was a muscle twitching violently in his jaw, and she could feel herself teetering on a dangerous precipice.
Grey eyes were glowing like coals as they raked over her, and Hawke shivered, her smallclothes growing damper than the spilled water could explain.
"Could I do this," she continued through the tightness in her throat, losing all hesitancy in the face of such lust turned towards her. "Watch you come undone in my hands, and still have you drag me to my bed, throw me down upon it, take me and claim me and fuck me—"
She squeezed him, speeding up the steady pumping she'd begun while she spoke, and if Nathaniel had shouted before, now he roared, swelling and growing impossibly harder against her palm. Twisting her wrist, keeping time with his own desperate movements, Hawke could not stop her free hand from sneaking down between her thighs, slipping past her smalls and into her slickness.
She whined, soft and desperate, at the first practiced touch of her own fingers, but the tail end of the sound was lost amongst the splashing that followed. Hawke felt her hand dragged away from Nathaniel's body, the firm hold on her wrist hauling her up, unresisting, as he stood.
Water poured from him, soaking the floor and her skin as he stepped out of the tub and pulled her tight to him. Hawke pressed against the hardness prodding her stomach, wrapping both arms around Nathaniel's neck as he tore at her mouth with frantic, gasping kisses and slid his own hand under her smalls.
Bucking into the sensation, rocking against long fingers dipping insistently inside her, Hawke felt herself lifted just off her feet by an arm looped under her bottom. Her own muscles straining, she forced her legs up to wind around his hips, clinging like a limpet as he stalked over towards the bed.
They were going to drench the quilts, she thought absently, but then she was being pressed into the mattress, her smallclothes torn roughly away, and Nathaniel's questing fingers were being replaced by something impossibly thicker— Hawke was lost.
This hadn't been his intention, but sinking into Marian's glorious, gripping heat while she thrashed and moaned and arched beneath him somehow managed to banish any trace of regrets he might suffer. Her nails were digging trenches in his shoulders, a sharp, grounding bite of pain, and he fumbled at the ties still holding her wet breast band in place. He heard fabric tear, but ignored the sound in favour of laving and sucking at the tight, pebbled nipples finally laid bare for him.
He was caught in a frenzy he had never before indulged, savouring this blessed wonder of a woman who seemed so very eager for his touch and crying out his name in frantic pleas. His hips snapped against hers, seeking more pressure and friction, but he reined in the rush of pleasure already coiling in the base of his spine. Warden stamina— such wicked words, such a bold touch— by the Maker, he would show her Warden stamina if it killed them both.
Balancing himself on one arm, Nathaniel sought out the swollen nub hidden just above where they joined together, rubbing it in quick, light circles. She twisted her neck, stifling the loudest of her screaming into the bedclothes as her womanhood clenched around him, and he snarled into the softness of her breasts. Her hips rolled, slamming against his down stroke, and he bit hard at her collarbone in response, working his mouth wetly up her neck as his fingers stroked faster.
He felt her peak as the hands grasping at his shoulders and hair suddenly went frigidly cold, and her entire body seemed to jerk and buck in pure abandon. She mewled faintly, a startlingly quiet sound compared to moments before, and Nathaniel could stand only a few more moments of pounding into that impossible bliss before tumbling over the edge as well.
Chest heaving, he managed to flop onto his side, unwilling to squash such an incredible woman under his boneless bulk. Marian was a sweaty tangle beside him, and Nathaniel felt a cold, icy lump of shame settle in his chest at the sight of her. More than a score of deep bite marks already darkening her bosoms and neck, creamy skin rubbed red and raw from his stubble, and no doubt more damage lurked between her thighs, hidden by her defensively curled posture. Blessed Andraste, this was why he kept himself on such a short leash, forever conscious of the monster his father had been—
"Marian—" He dared not touch her now, not after what he had inflicted. "My lady, I am so… I am…" He stalled, able to find no suitable apology, and Marian's eyes finally fluttered open.
She was smiling, sleepy and affectionate, and looking so completely content. Rather than shrieking and setting him on fire for his bestial behaviour, she shifted over to snuggle against his chest, one hand touching a particularly large mark on the side of her throat. He was frozen, completely bewildered, but Marian seemed to be suffering no such concerns.
"Maker's breath," she murmured, pressing a sloppy kiss against the underside of his chin. "That was… uh. Wake me when you can do that again."
Nathaniel was speechless, which was good, considering Marian began snuffling quietly in sleep very shortly thereafter. She was… she…
Wake me when you can do that again.
He sent a silent, heartfelt prayer to the Maker, thanking Him for blessing Marian with such… such daring. Had she not had the courage to bare herself so, to write that glorious letter, he might have blithered and wasted even more time on foolish reserve. Even now, he risked being overcome by doubts born of his own roughness, but Marian had taken that as well, and apparently quite gladly. He forced himself to shove such fears aside.
Every time he felt the burn of his tainted blood, or woke from insidious, whispering nightmares, Nathaniel was morbidly reminded that time was not something he had the luxury of wasting. Through some manner of providence, he had found this woman, unbelievably, and she was truly more than he had ever dreamed.
It was a miracle, and he would treat it with all due reverence.