Author's Note: Characters property of Bioware.
Only thing I own is my creepy little ideals.
"Late again, Hawke..." the prim and proper Seneschal Bran stood with arms behind his back as Hawke entered the viscount office. The woman jolted like a frightened halla, hand gripping the door knob as if to flee. But that would've just made the man angrier. So instead, she released the door with one of her charming grins.
"Well, you know what they say, 'Better late than not at all', right?" She strolled over to the desk, forcing the smile in place as she brushed passed the frowning man. Unaffected by the ol' Hawke Charm, Bran sighed and lowered his head. Uh Oh. She knew that sigh. It was the same one her mother used when she was a child. A lecture was eminent.
Smile faltering, Hawke lowered herself to the hard wooden chair behind the desk, littered with papers and important, ignored, documents.
"As the new Viscountess of Kirkwall, you should know you will be expected to have...a certain level of professionalism and dedication to your new status." Bran's firm tone felt berating. Hawke had to fight not to wince. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but nowadays she wondered if she made a mistake in offering to fill the empty Viscount chair. She was never known for being very prudent, on time, motivated or dedicated, but both she and her good friend Aveline had agreed; Kirkwall needed a new leader. And after all that happened, who better to fill that role than the woman responsible for righting all of Kirkwall's wrongs. And sometimes adding to them...
"Ah... Forgive me, Bran. I must've overslept...jitters and all that..." Hawke tried offering another grin to ease his stiff posture. But a sharp glint flicked into those cold, unaffected eyes and Hawke immediately sobered.
"It has been an entire week since the people elected you as the new Viscountess, and they are getting restless." The Seneschal did nothing to hide his dislike for the woman. And even though she swore loyalty to the Viscount, it was clear he was not pleased to be serving under this Ferelden native. His blatant disapproval was more a motivation than a hindrance. Look down on me, eh? I'll show you, Bran... Hawke steeled her expression, eyes lowering to the obsidian spiked crown that lay on her desk. It wasn't long ago that she saw that blasted crown adorning the balding head of Viscount Dumarr. Though his views were horribly biased and outdated, his death had saddened Hawke more than she thought possible. Not just because she'd placed a misguided trust in the Arishok, but because the members of the Dumarr family were two people a part of the 'We Trusted Hawke' party. And yet she'd failed them both. Damnit. Dumarr had accepted losing his son, but he looked to Hawke to fix the problem before it had gotten worse. He had trusted her to fix the growing problems in their city, any way she sought fit. And what had she done? Betrayed his trust, tossed Kirkwall into turmoil, and gotten him killed. Even if no one else admitted it, it was all her fault that Dumarr was gone. Perhaps her becoming Viscountess was a repentance. A means to pick up the shattered pieces and rebuild Kirkwall to a higher level best suited for her home. T'ch, and here she was, slacking off already.
Bran seemed to notice Hawke's change, as his firm scowl eased at the woman's suddenly depressed expression. They sat in silence for a moment or two, both eying that lonely crown atop her desk. Reaching out, Hawke plucked the old metallic crown between two fingers and brought it closer. She heaved a sigh and rested a hand over the top, feeling its coolness, making her shiver.
"What am I supposed to do...?" She whispered soften, not knowing if she was talking to the Seneschal or to Dumarr himself. The silence that followed was dead. It was almost too much to bear. Hawke's hand clenched around the spiked metal, fingers trembling. The one time I ask for help and you give me nothing, you...bastard. She needed to vent. Needed to get angry and hurt something. But the warm touch above her trembling had had stilled her. Eyes lifting in surprise, she stared at the Seneschal's wide-palmed hand, now placed over her own at the crown. She stared at this connection for a moment, then rose her vibrant green eyes to meet Bran's the man stared down at her with such sympathy in his gaze that Hawke felt her own burn with unshed tears.
"One step at a time, Lady. We will achieve our goals together. For Kirkwall. And for Dumarr." The man's soft tone eased into Hawke's eased and hummed contentedly in her brain. If she were the suspicious type, she would've accused Bran of bespelling her. Even her hand tingled underneath his. She must have gasped at the sensation, because Bran's hand soon swiped itself back, and the normally cold man turned from her. The tingle of warmth vanished. But Hawke was still entranced. She'd almost forgotten. It wasn't just her suffering, not knowing what to do. She wasn't the only one at a loss. This man here had served the Viscount or Maker knows how long. Surely after all that time he had grown comfortable with Dumarr and the state of Kirkwall before Hawke had shown up. And looking at him now, Hawke felt as if she were looking at a misplaced child or jilted lover, too stubborn to accept how alone he really was. Even now he reused to face Hawke, back stiff and the tops of his ears dusted a flustered red.
Wait...what?
After a moment to shape her thoughts, Hawke looked at him again. The Seneschal stood facing the door. Broad shoulders rigid, muscles pulled tight with tension. The longer she looked at the Seneschal, the more Hawke realized how attractive he was. The man was her senior, but you couldn't guess his age by looking at him. His body still held the firm build of a young buck, full of life and play. How a man like that could support having a nice body and a loyal career indoors was beyond her. Hawke's roving gaze lifted higher. His hair wasn't the bloody red color like her own, or the vibrant ginger seen on Aveline. No, the Seneschal's was a ruddy orange-brown, and she wondered vaguely if it was as soft as it looked, cut close to his head, yet curling slightly about his ears. Ears that were still faintly tinted red. Hawke could now very blatantly interpret this guarded stance as embarrassment, if not downright fluster. It was almost...endearing. Had he felt the tingle in their hands as well? Or was he simply embarrassed by the fact that he'd shown a glimmer or humanity, downright vulnerability, to Hawke?
Still stunned by this, Hawke cleared her throat, making the Seneschal stiffen all the more. She watched, amused, as he hurried for the door, motions stiff and practiced.
"I shall be waiting in my office, Serah Hawke, should you want me. I mean, need me. My assistance, that is. Good day, Hawke." the flustered Seneschal stammered, jerking the door open and disappearing outside. She could hear him grumbling to himself as he fled. Something about the Maker and a colorful stream of curses aimed at himself, she guessed. The door clicked shut, cutting off the sound and leaving Hawke alone. Blinking a few times, a faint smile spread over her lips, bringing her gaze back down to the Viscount crown under her hand. The metal was warm now, and she picked it up to feel it's comfortable weight in her hand.
"It seems I won't be shoulder this burden all by my lonesome, will I, Dumarr?" Hawke smirked, letting the crown dangle on her fingertip. Not when she had the attractive Ser Seneschal Bran to help shoulder it. On a pair of nicely toned, broad, yummy-looking shoulders. Maker, help her. Just what had Hawke signed herself up for now?
