Rainfall (Cullen of Cloudreach)
When the storms rage, the masks weaken and the truth burns beneath the tide. Cullen x F!Hawke
This fan fiction might contain spoilers, canon and also non-canon endeavours and history. In response to a prompt and a lovely image, the Knight-Captain and a female-mage Champion take a chance during one rainy night.
Author: Illusionary Ennui
Disclaimer: If it's not in the Dragon Age games, codex entries, or the wiki, it's mine. All else, hail to Bioware.
Chapter Word Count: 5,328 (so far)
Chapter Rating: M/E
Chapter Warnings: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Sexual Intercourse - NSFW.
Beta: N/A
Edited: 12.09.2011
Rainfall
On an eve of spring
Tears of heaven, bare the earth
A night of pleasure
"... I'm sorry about your brother," Orison offered, a soft smile on his thin lips. The teacup in his hands never rattled as he set it down. An expression of concern flitted across his aged features. "Might I ask another favour of you, Champion?"
"Of course, First Enchanter."
Hawke slipped out into the courtyard, each step slow and measured. The air felt thick and heavy, the telltale scent of rain on the horizon. Muffled crashes of thunder rumbled in the distance as her footsteps carried deeper into the Gallows. All around her in the misty Cloudreach evening milled the wide-eyed night guard, early in their shift. She understood full well the protection her title proffered, but who knew when the Knight-Commander may choose to identify her as a threat just she did so many others, jumping at unseen shadows. Only the Knight-Captain, her second, stood to stem the flood. Only Ser Cullen could ensure Meredith Stannard's sanity, hold her power in check should she fall beyond the realm of decency.
At the First Enchanter's request, the Champion of Kirkwall found herself seeking the Knight-Captain in the night. Her elder solicited her to gauge the man's demeanour, to assure his neutrality and his aid to maintain peace between his Order and her kind. Orsino was adamant in his plea - the last thing they needed was for Cullen to share Meredith's extreme views that dwarfed the man's own.
"The Knight-Captain will listen to you," Orsino promised, the manic gleam of something mischievous hidden with care in his olive-peridot eyes. Hawke knew manipulation when she heard it, but for once she ignored it. "He respects you."
Although Hawke doubted the First Enchanter's words, she wondered just how deep Cullen's wounds pierced. Their every encounter reminded her that even templars might not be as free as one might have expected. Each day, he remained vigilant to dissuade the same horrors he once faced in Kinloch Hold. She had heard the half-hushed whispers within the Orders ranks, but she dared not believe them. In her eyes, Cullen held onto the ideal of a templar: a role meant to protect, not oppress, as Anders so fervently assumed.
Magic is meant to serve man, not to rule over him.
The words of the Chant of Light echoed in her mind, hollow and lonely. To admit that she envied the sanctity that mages should have within the Circle created more contempt. Had the templars operated as she believed Andraste intended, perhaps the Circle would have been a beacon of hope, of sanctuary for those chased by demons in their slumber, their magic kept in check and used to heal, to aid. After so many decades, centuries, whatever ideals the Prophetess upheld found themselves shattered and reshaped by the corrupted will and disdain of those after Her.
Nevertheless, some part of the Champion imagined a life free of fear, one far from that of an apostate. Would she have met the Knight-Captain then, sequestered away in the tower, isolated away from the shores of Lake Calenhad? Could she have stopped the bloodshed and erased the prospect of the memories he now suffered? Her thoughts spiralled further and she began to question her buried infatuation with one who she should hold in trepidation.
As she passed the tower's little chantry, a flash of heat crept up her neck which cooled in the mist that hung throughout the Gallows and around its stronghold. Her breath hitched in turn when she caught sight of the very man that plagued her wayward thoughts.
The Knight-Captain wore no armour save for his fauld, tasset and templar skirts. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his bare torso and shoulders in the half-light, the slight chill of evening leaving gooseflesh beneath the dull shine. Sword and shield in hand, a heavy cloak over one arm, Hawke surmised that the Knight-Captain spent his scant free hours on the training grounds where he honed his skills for the sake of duty and little else.
Her mouth gone dry, the Champion dove around the corner of the chantry's walls and prayed that she went unnoticed - she could not face the Knight-Captain as she was, smitten and depraved. Yet, she paid for her intrigue as she peered around the time-worn stone to hear the imagined, taunting words of her brother ring in her ears: "You, a mage, pining over a templar? What is the world coming to?"
I'm not like you, Carver, she mused, her heart sinking. Contrary to your opinions, I have feelings.
She knew it was hard for her dear brother to think of her as anything other than a replacement for the father taken from them, their mother. To see her in any light other than some pillar of strength, to be human, was a mystery him, inconceivable. As she closed her eyes, she heard his illusory laughter in her ears, a tone of disbelief in each outburst. Carver's snickering turned darker and less mirthful when the notion that she admired his superior stuck home.
Luck or maybe misfortune spared Hawke from her brother's mocking. Her eyes widened as she watched Cullen paused before the chantry steps, his warrior-hewn muscles rippling as he set his well-maintained gear against the well's loose stone walls. Awestruck, she hid out of his direct sight and her heart raced with each breath. Her fingers flexed and tightened, her imagination run rampant as her gaze locked on him, water dripping from his tousled red-gold tresses.
By the Golden City, may the Maker grant her mercy as she stepped out of the shadows.
Tension strained every fibre of the Knight-Captain's muscles, his shoulders ached and his head pounded. Not even the routine of training relieved the weight in his chest, his heart. Some piece of his soul begged for respite: some balm to assuage the wounds that beset his soul, a calm for the tempest of his mind in the wake of chaos in Kirkwall's tribulations. Anything, he pleaded, anything to give him freedom, if only for a moment - such a thing he would hail with welcome arms and tender words.
Was it wrong to tire of duty? To wish to be human and not machine? To lay down one burdens for a moment of rest, to tarry and be comforted?
Whatever the answer he sought eluded him. Each query only reminded him of the lack thereof of anything beyond responsibility, unchanging purpose rather than distraction. No matter the desperation, he would wait and persevere, survive through discipline wrought by many years. The templar only had himself and no other, no one to share the pain, no one to tarnish with undue scars.
Perhaps it was better that way, he mused with a heavy sigh.
Calloused hands hauled up the well bucket to draw up the frigid water, its weight an unnoticed burden. He paused a moment to crack his neck but to no avail - nothing seemed to alleviate the unwelcome stress. Hope rested in the coolness as he sat on the steps. Without ceremony, Cullen dumped the welcome ice-cold water over his head and relished in the stinging rivulets that ran down his back and over his shoulders. The templar sucked in more of the cooling night air, the smell of a thunderstorm cloying in his nose. In silent contemplation, he expected all of Kirkwall to bathe in the coming showers by moonrise.
A quick shake of his head cast the water droplets from his hair as he rolled his shoulders, his eyes closed and head tossed back to bask in the brief moment of respite. Cullen opened his eyes to find the Champion standing before him, an odd expression on her soft, round countenance. With a brief glance, he noticed clad in a loose tunic, cinched at her waist with wide scarf of crimson wrapped around and around her middle, and leather breeches instead of her usual mantle. It amazed him that he recalled her just that morning, splattered with blood and full of wrath, her brother taken, though now rescued.
"Serah Hawke," he blurted and he stood only to knock her off her feet in his haste. A look of horror shot split his features as he watched her fall to the dirty cobbles. In shame, he stared.
From the ground, Hawke mumbled his name in recognition, the hurt evident in her dulcet tone. "Not the reaction I expected."
"My apologies, Champion," he said with a reverent bow and snapped to attention.
Being a gentleman, he offered a hand and he nearly flew out of his skin. Her touch ignited his nerves, the barest whisper of magic hummed at the contact – there was a reason a templar wore armour at all times when guarding mages. Skin to skin, he shivered and cursed his state of undress alongside the blush that streaked across his cheeks. Bewilderment marred his sculpted features, caught by the gentle scrutiny of her gaze. Her fingers stiffened in his grasp and he tried not to notice how her chest heaved with each breath, a bit of skin taunting him beneath the laced linen. The space between them filled with rising heat as they held their ground in the quiet, the evening's mists grown thicker as the storm moved closer.
Taken by boldness, Cullen brought her hand to his parched lips and kissed her white knuckles. Magic flickered and sparked from their touch, templar-made and mage-born power collided. Though he attempted to ignore it, he failed to shake off the dubious sentiments invoked by such a simple gesture.
The Knight-Captain sucked in a calming breath and then queried her presence at the late hour. He received only silence in answer. Her eyes heavy-lidded, she too must have sensed it. Unspoken, he felt the stir of something more primal, her magic a low hum as it swirled around them. Thrilling, tantalizing, and tempting, it felt like a breath of life through a valley amidst the throes of spring. He knew it well despite the many years, the need and desire that she endeavoured to mask mirrored in his hunger. All the while, the lyrium in his blood sang to her magic, called to it – this was the reason they wore their armour at every hour for it was their only protection. Templars were not immune to the tempest of magic a mage in heat emitted during their brewing passions where it resembled a prelude to a coming storm, the scent of sex liken to that before rainfall. From within, he sensed her wanton need as his own. In its wake, he cursed again, untouched for so long, taunted by the passions of those in his charge and denied as their magic left him unsatisfied.
Around them, the sky opened up and started pouring rain, the rumble of thunder a low accompaniment to the steady fall. The gentle shower grew heavier and the evening mists hugged to the ground. The occasional flash of subdued lightening lit their faces, the muffled cracks unnoticed, unable to carry away the spark that flitted between them.
The Champion and Knight-Captain stood frozen in the sheeting rain, indecisive and lost in thought until everything changed. All attention vanished when their lips pressed in a humble kiss, neither certain who moved first. It was a daring move as her magic washed over him, soothing to his weary form over the chill of the rain.
To his dismay, its absence drew him from that comfort. Darkened eyes snapped open once more. A fleeting thought crossed the forefront of his mind and Cullen snatched her retreating wrist to pull her back. One arm snaked around the mage's waist to draw her flush to him, her eyes wide in shock when he then slanted his lips over her with bruising force, the latch on his buried desires broken. Hawke responded in kind, hungry in the same manner. Like him, she desired a remedy to the loneliness, the sorrow and the need, and he more than readily meant to oblige.
"We shouldn't..."
Shouldn't - the negative burned.
Her voice trailed off as the intense gaze, flecks of gold in its depths, of the Knight-Captain silenced her. Be damned, unwanted phrase, Cullen thought with a bitter taste of disdain. He fought against the questionable teachings, the comforting lies. Boxing them away, disbelief cleared. The rain-washed night was his, a blessed prospect not meant to be wasted. Renewed by acceptance, he took her mouth yet again.
No words proved necessary, action and sensation dictated their accord.
A delicate sound of protest hissed from her lips, his mouth jerked away. The Knight-Captain offered a smile of apology before he collected his heavy woollen cloak, his sword and shield abandoned for a more vital engagement. Smirking, Cullen released his hold and allowed his whims to direct him. His longing led him as he swept Hawke off her feet and carried through the unrelenting shower. Her arms wrapped around his waist and he laughed at her unwarranted apprehension, but neither of them would deny themselves the other's company. Over the storm, his boots echoed against the rain-slick walls.
The Knight-Captain carried the Champion beyond the chantry and across the training grounds in his search for privacy. It took little time to settle on his target as the rain lashed over the Gallows, the storm quickened into a deluge. Shelter found, he snuck into the storeroom. Inside, weapons gleamed on the walls in the torchlight and wooden crates and barrels cast their shadows onto the floor among the timber pillars. Hazel eyes darted about in survey. He set Hawke down to further his search, but her adamant kiss to his neck distracted him and caught him off-guard.
The Maker guide him, she needed him as much as he needed her, her touch like cleansing fire.
Between the desperate, drowning seconds, each clawed at one another in an attempt to hide, to wash away all other thought like the rain that battered the tiled roof overhead.
"Are you certain?" Hawke panted as her lips vibrated against his, her breath hot across the sensitive skin.
"Yes."
A simple, guttural word tainted by roused passions. To speak any more brought doubt. He understood without reservation - neither would choose to be the other's greatest regret; at the same time, however, neither could deny the tides that swept over them. All the pieces fallen into place at last, he saw their paths cross in brilliant clarity within the frantic urgency to escape, if only for a moment. Separate in misery save for an invention of fate and courage, to refute such a gift would be an even greater lament. No, there was no chance nor desire for return, their courses set. The realization struck the Knight-Captain and the credence of years spent in torment lifted, the dark cloud broken apart and dispersed into the fathomless Void. Although his little experience marked him diffident, instinct led him.
In reluctance, he tore away and beckoned her to follow. Cullen turned to spread his cloak, joined a few stolen blankets from one of the storage crates, over a haphazard heap of winter hay piled in the corner. Its musty smell harked back memories of Fereldan, their former home, as he felt Hawke's hands ghost over his back. Her soft palms alighted on his broad shoulders to give the strained muscles beneath the taut flesh a gentle squeeze. With her touch, tension alleviated with the barest hint of creation magic as she massaged away the stubborn discomfort he fought against over years. Studious fingertips dragged over corded muscles and the criss-cross of scars which marked his back before she slipped around him. There she splayed her hands on his chest, her lips pressed again to his ravenous mouth. Magic and heat danced between them and he shoved her against one of the support column in an effort to feel more of her, chancing the threads of control. A fine shower of dust fell into their hair and her grunt of surprise disappeared beneath the flurry of frenzied caresses and hard, wanton kisses. His fingers fisted her hair, pulled its ties until it floated around her face and fell across his shoulders. Yet, she did not cease her attentiveness, averse to break the contact that fuelled her. Every inch of him melted in her hands and Cullen refused to stop her while he revelled in the scorch of her palms against his heat skin. A melancholy grimace tainted his enjoyment as she traced another myriad of scars, prizes of folly and hard-fought battles.
Her concern overwhelmed him and Cullen worked to return her kind gestures. He grabbed the trailing edge of her sash and she let him unwrap her from its hold, spinning slowly to earn his approving smile. It fell to the floor into a heap, wet and forgotten. Soon after, a breathy gasp then rang out in the night when Cullen hoisted Hawke onto a crate to seat her on its edge. The Knight-Captain smiled before he set himself between the mage's dangling legs. Small hands grasped onto his shoulders, the need to anchor against the tide great, as Cullen suckled at her throat to draw another pleased sound from her voice. His wide spans seized her waist to feel her thighs tighten on his hips with the desire for greater friction and contact overwhelming. He groaned in pleasure and his stomach fluttered, the tang of arousal irrefutable. Anxious fingers peeled away the soaked tunic from her quaking from, her need for warmth mixed with heady desire. The Knight-Captain's thumbs swept up her ribs and around her back to loosen the obstinate breast bindings, the lacy material stuck to her damp skin. Freed, pale bosoms flashed in the red-orange glow, sprinkled droplets of water shining atop the generous swells. Rough palms glided upwards to grasp each in turn and test the waters of her acceptance. His forefinger and thumb pinched and rolled a rosy tip to illicit a sharp intake of breath. Hawke's concession resided in the form of her mouth as it latched onto his slack lips, the pain shifting in pleasure. Assent given, Cullen hooked his fingers on the waistband of her trousers. She lifted her hips at his silent command and the breeches and smallclothes disappeared to join the rest of her rain-drenched attire.
Naked before him, Cullen paused to admire the shapely, beautifully plain woman as he ran a thumb along the slight curve of her jaw. Gripping her chin, he melded their mouths in another searing motion. Lips parted and his tongue slithered to meet hers. There, she matched him stroke for stroke, twining. Coupled with the sweet taste of her and the incessant pull of his own yearning, he withdrew to allow Hawke a glimpse of his lustful beam before he captured her mouth again. With its charm and without words, he encouraged her to submit to him, to the intense heat fanned into a brilliant blaze within them. The Champion's bare heels locked around his middle, tugged him to closer, and trapped him within her reach. She felt so desperate for his touch, to feel all of him, the man and not the templar. Each breath grew jagged, a struggle through the mire. Unyielding, Hawke rewarded him with the teasing roll of her hips into the hardened evidence of unrequited need. Every singular sensation coalesced into an amalgam of sharp, transported exhilaration. The tips of her breasts, tightened the cool night air, squashed against his chest before she leaned away from him to seize the dazed expression on his handsome features. Nails dragged down his torso towards the edge of his armour, their trails red upon his skin. Cullen forgot how to breathe the moment her hands slipped beneath the templar skirts and into the thin leather trewes he wore beneath them. An unseemly groan escaped his throat, her fingers wrapped around his length straining within his smallclothes. Her wicked thumb circled the swollen head once or twice to demolish the templar's once finely hewn-control and her ministrations hunted his undoing before they even began.
"Maker, Hawke," he hissed and swallowed hard, all but tripping over the bit of rope coiled by his feet. The Knight-Captain wrenched her hands away from his shaken form, her disappointed whimper a lance in his heart. Too long had he reigned in anonymity, yearning from afar. Decorum otherwise abandoned, he would not see the night end without complete, indisputable satisfaction, their pleasures reached together.
In attempt to soothe her injured pride, he pressed a chaste kiss to her brow before he made short work of his remaining garments. Her appreciative sigh brought a smirk to his lips as the dry air of the storeroom cooled next to his heated skin turned to gooseflesh. The renewed blush burned his neck, exposed beyond reason. If she could have seen his face in the half-light, she would read the unbridled lust tangled with the vestige of apprehension - no matter the cost, he assured his restless mind, he would have this night, even if he knew it might very well be their last.
Her hands held at bay, Cullen gathered up the Champion and laid her down upon their makeshift nest with her weight on top him. Her legs straddled over his waist, his wandering hands roved pliant, damp flesh, up her thighs and her back to hold her closer. Meanwhile, her fingers combed through the sparse hair which covered his chest and trailed the thin line leading to his navel and lower.
Exploring and explored.
Their combined body heat drove away the lingering bit of cold and Cullen availed himself of the feast she offered and she reciprocated in kind. Voracious, their bodies intertwined and writhed together atop their improvised bed, wanton kisses taken and given as hands roamed and nails dug into tender flanks and flesh. Each breath rasped below the din of the rain that battered the walls, their desperate moans an unheard chorus. The taste of her seared itself into his mind and he savoured it, the salt of sweat mingled with the rain on her skin. He inhaled in the scent of magic and hay, relished in the sensation of her body cradled in his embrace.
Outside, wind howled and rain lashed, the storm reaching its peak.
With greater vigour, the templar rolled their entangled forms over and settled himself at the apex her legs, feverish and barely contained. He wanted to ask, to say something before he made the final leap, but he knew the moment he spoke, his confidence would shatter. Instead, his fingers delved between her silken folds to find her wet and ready. The Knight-Captain grinned for a moment, oddly pleased with himself to bring her so close to the edge by mere touch. He felt his whole body twitch at the prospect, his aching member pressed into the mage's thigh. Cullen found himself taken aback when she reared up from her place beneath him, their contact increased. Heart pounding, his hands gripped her tighter with the fear of reprisal. An unearthly befell him, a brief, consuming moment doubt, wondering if it all was but a dream.
Yet, her lips trembled against his, her mouth half-open as she panted and spoke to chase away the trepidation and to give him meaning.
"Please, Cullen. Let's escape, just this once. Let's be human."
It was truth sans the lies he told himself - they were no different than any man or woman. Her feather-light, but beautiful kiss relieved him of all his hesitation, the doubt lost to the Void. His throat swelled shut, unable to return the sentiment, but he rejected any notion to deny her wish - no force in Thedas would move him from that choice.
Without further provocation, she ground into his need to demonstrate her desire and his restraint dissolved into liberation. Thrown back down onto the wool-covered hay, Cullen wrapped her legs around his waist before he settled once more his knees, prepared and willing. Guided by her hands and the deliberate, slow gyration of her hips, he worked his way into her hot, tight sheath until their bodies joined. He failed to stop the moan which rumbled in his throat, the sensation of her as she engulfed him intoxicating - it had been far too long. Her magic filled him, wrapped around him to ease and strengthen him, and made him drunk on its power. The moment lasted scarcely a second before impatient wore thin and he succumbed to the passion which welled in his belly and heart. Matched thrust for thrust, their pace drove them towards the precipice, the crucial release awaiting them over its periphery. The delicious friction spurred them on, their sorrows and pain thrown into their drives and they clung to the instant of ardour, their paths merged.
Knowing he would reach his end before hers, a calloused hand snaked between them and he pressed a diligent finger to her aching bud in an effort to bring her into the spiral of culmination. His knees sunk into blanket beneath them, he brought her up to meet him and took their weight and their burdens, their bodies writhing as one as he lifted her hips from their bed. Steady but swift, he pushed her beyond the breaking point, deeper and deeper with every stroke.
Wanting and wanted.
The coil snapped taut and the woman beneath the templar arched up, undulating around him as her magic broke free to flow through them, rampant in ecstasy. When she cried out, his name a shuddering prayer, Cullen cast them over into the abyss with one final thrust, his seed hot within her as he grabbed her hair and brought his mouth to his. Everything left him as she swallowed his growling moan, his strength all but gone even while her magic continued to flood him, its tide a cool zephyr on a late spring day.
The Knight-Captain fell next to his newfound lover, his spent manhood slipping from her warmth as he pulled a blanket of them. At his silent behest, both sweat-slicked and exhausted, she pillowed her head in the hollow of his shoulder and nestled her form into his side. In devoted kindness, Cullen brushed a damp lock of hair away her dark eyes before plucking a stray piece of hay from the tangled mess. His fingers slid down her cheek and tilted her chin to have her meet his gaze, the need to see her unmasked irresistible. The tired face that looked up at him seemed a little sad in the wake of their exertions but otherwise content in the acknowledgement of his tender smile in gratitude. Comforted by her presence, he found unbroken sleep soon after where the steady rise and fall of her breasts against his skin and the sensation of her forefinger tracing patterns on his chest followed him into his dreams.
Cullen startled awake, an icy droplet of rainwater dripped onto his brow through the leaky roof. The templar stared up through the wooden beams, a few cracked tiles wet after the storm. Remnants of magic coursed in his veins but its source left him alone beneath the heavy wool blankets. He sat up and searched the storehouse, fearful even though high on the Champion's magic - the man was certain he had not slept so restfully in years, alert and without ache.
He found Hawke wrapped in an extra blanket seated not far from him. Her feet were curled up to her chest and peeking from the blanket's edge as she stared off into the gloom, the torches naught but embers. She shifted at the rustling sounds from their bed, yet she did not look towards him though knew he watched her.
"I couldn't decide on whether or not to just leave, so I waited," she muttered aloud, her chin resting on her arms. A look of sorrow wrought itself on her round countenance while she struggled to voice her thoughts. "I'm not sure what this is or if you even might regret it. Considering our positions, this shouldn't have happened, whatever we might feel. If you want to run away and forget, I think I can accept that."
A shadow of melancholy congealed in the air around her, the mood dark as she continued. Despite it all, she told him that she would never forget. At her core, she knew she could never thank him for treating her like a human being, caring for her like a true lover if even for one night.
His blank expression offered her little until he replied, understanding her more than she realized.
"My lady, it is I that must submit to your goodwill," he assured her, his heart heavy within him. "Whatever you may think, you should not dismiss your kindness so readily. You have done more me than many years of prayer. Tonight, I felt wanted, alive - all because of you."
Silence's reign was long before she spoke again, her frown deepened.
"Meredith will never allow this, Cullen - we can never do this again," she whimpered, her throat raw with choked back despair. "I'll hold on the memories because that's all they'll be and leave this to the realm of daydreams. There I can pretend that our troubles couldn't keep us apart, pretend that I can be happy, if only for a little while."
Her words pierced him like a hundred swords, her affection stained by woe. His mouth curved into a frown that equalled the Champion's in desolation. In his heart, he knew that if he ever saw her again after all that they had done, certainty ensured that he would fail beneath their memory. The taste of relief and more ingrained on his heart and soul, what man would be able to cope when plagued by the awful sting of fate? Once more he would suffer, another taken from him and he cursed his allotment.
"Come here," the Knight-Captain demanded, his face set into an expression of forced acceptance, a falsehood to console both of them.
The templar watched her sway when she rose to savour the moment one last time, her movements tentative and slow. The blanket dropped from her form and she fell to his side, naked and without her mask, no longer hiding. She crawled beside him and captured his lips to remind them of everything they could never have as Cullen pulled another bit of straw from her knotted tresses.
No, Cullen would never forget. Mage. Templar. The rift between them meant nothing. For once in his life, he was truly content and would be damned to the Void lest he kept it from slipping away.
"I promise nothing."
First Enchanter Orsino smiled, the morning light warm on his cheeks as he stared out into the dewy courtyard below his private chambers. Olive eyes took notice of the last dregs of the night's storm dark on the retreating horizon, but he paid it no heed. The elf sipped from his cup of steaming tea while he tried to ignore the itch in his palm, the cut still sore and throbbing. Yet, his telltale grin broadened when he witnessed the Champion and the Knight-Captain round the corner, their lingering touch as they parted sweet in the shadows. Orsino caught a glimpse of red about the man's wrist, reminiscent of the sash the Champion had worn the night before, as the templar slipped towards the barracks in one direction while the Champion disappeared towards the gates,. He almost sighed at the fleeting looks cast over the Knight-Captain's shoulder, longing in the man's hazel eyes which was mirrored in the dark gaze of the Champion without his knowledge.
High above, Orsino shook his head in quiet compunction.
"You're not the only one to sacrifice pawns, Meredith."
Fin.
Author's Note: Dedicated to EmbersofAmber, for her lovely Cullen-works and all the sad things we must do to the poor Knight-Captain as writers, and to the others of the Knight-Captain's thread. *hugs them* Also, this couldn't have happened with Jakface - thank you for the bulge.