He brought her presents every day. Little thoughtful things, like clutches of wildflowers tied with a ribbon. A book, which he would sit and read aloud to her. On special occasions, he'd bring a small box of chocolate for her. She'd always loved chocolates. Once or twice a year they'd share a bottle of wine.
Most of the visits, he didn't say much. He would sit close to her and give her company. Sometimes, he would speak quietly to her, his thoughts meandering from topic to topic until he grew silent. On the evenings he brought her wine, he'd lay beside her and sleep there.
She loved him more with every passing day. She'd loved him for so long, she couldn't remember how it felt to not love him. And so she lingered, enjoying the gifts he brought, the little moments he shared with her.
-
It was raining. Fenris hated the rain.
He knew that he looked resentful as he stared out the window at the rain. He didn't care. He had a visit to make. He did it every day, he wouldn't stop today because of a little bit of rain.
"Fenris, you aren't really going out in that, are you?" Aveline sounded cross. "Hawke will understand if you can't come visit for one day. She wouldn't want you to make yourself sick to visit her."
"Easy to say how she feels for you, is it?"
Aveline frowned at him, her displeasure clear on her face.
He winced and averted his gaze. "I apologize, Aveline...I am just a bit irritated at the moment."
She sighed. "Go on, then. We'll have a blanket and change of clothes waiting for you when you get back."
He nodded and picked up the bottle of wine he was going to bring this time. The walk through Kirkwall was wet and muddy. He was soaked within moments, but still he trudged on. When he reached his destination, he stopped, swallowing hard.
"Hello again, Hawke," he said, his voice quiet. The rain thundered on the stone around him and he lifted one hand, setting it against the stone memorial, his throat closing. Every day without fail, he came to remember her, to give her all the time he had in his life. Had she remained at his side longer, they would have perhaps married. That would have merely been a formality, however.
He'd loved her, and he'd lost her. The disease came quick; death from it came far more swift. For a time, he'd prayed for death. To join her beyond the cares of mortals. But his years seemed to outstrip her own.
He pried out the cork and sat down before the memorial. Today was a special day. The anniversary of his escape, as well as the anniversary of the first bottle they'd shared. Every year on this night, he brought a bottle to share with her.
He took a long drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I saw Isabela not too long ago. She invited me to leave with her. She said she understood when I said I couldn't leave, but she does not. Aveline and Donnic keep telling me I should go out. I can barely stand to leave their house unless it's to come here. Walking the streets here...without you." He closed his eyes. "I cannot."
He drank more of the wine, then poured some of the contents on the ground in front of the memorial, trying to pretend that he wasn't shedding tears that were only hidden by the falling rain.
"I miss you, Hawke," he said, his voice inaudible over the sound of the rain.
He slumped to the ground, burying a hand in his hair and gave up the pretense, crying, the wine spilling to the ground, making a dark red stain in the rain-water soaked ground.
-
He brought her presents every day. Little thoughtful things like clutches of wildflowers. Books he would sit and read aloud to her. And once or twice a year, he would share a bottle of wine with her. And Hawke loved him more with every passing day.