Bold and graceful,
Beautiful and true,
My heart will go no more a'wandering,
Now that it knows you.

For now it has its truth,
And my soul has its mate,
And should you leave a thousand years,
Then I've no choice but to wait.

The birds could sing a hundred ages,
And all the poets write,
But none will capture the beauty
Of you on a moonlit night.

Powerful and delicate,
Brimming full of grace,
No woman can compare,
To the lovely, lovely Lace.

Oh, Maker preserve him. He had been slightly inebriated the night he'd scribbled that (thanks to some generous scouts), and he still had fire in his veins from Hakkon's defeat (and the thought of her presence during it all), and he could see her through the window above his desk (Maker she was so beautiful). But he thought he'd safely hidden this away. Why was she now at his door, holding it out to him with a smirk?

In truth, it was folded within a note, which he managed to steer his horror-struck mind to read: 'You really ought to be more careful where you leave your lovesick poems. This was in a stack of notes on ancient Antivan buckles. You're lucky she doesn't snoop.' It was signed Colette. Maker have mercy on his soul, he would never hear the end of this now. As though she didn't already give him enough grief for asking her what sort of flowers were traditionally given to topside dwarven women. He thought he'd been so subtle, too.

As was her modus operandi, Colette had naturally seen fit to send Lace with the letter. Bram truly had the most nefarious research assistant in all of Thedas.

"You alright there? Somebody debunk your unified buckle theory or something?" Lace teased crossing her arms across her bos- oh Maker no, don't even go there .

"Did you read this?" he inquired, perhaps a little too tensely (she would later describe it as a barely-audible squeak, but he felt that was a bit much). Habit, accursed habit, caused him to brandish the offending ode at her. Lace obligingly took it and politely began to read. Her eyebrows were already at maximum height when Bram's mind fully processed the stupidity he had just committed. With a noise that even he had to admit was a terrified yelp, he snatched it back from her in a most ungentlemanly fashion.

"Somebody writing you love letters?" she asked with a toothy grin. Before his paralyzed mouth could form a coherent word, Lace's brows dropped into a furrow. "Wait… that was your handwriting, wasn't it?" Much later, when he had regained sufficient mental capacity to analyze what had occurred, he determined that her voice had become tighter and had lost its playfulness. "Why Professor, I didn't realize you were such a romantic. Some pretty thing waiting for you at home?"

"What? No no no, nothing of the sort!"

Lovely, lovely Lace studied his face for a few moments. Bram wanted very dearly to just ooze between the cracks in the floorboards and never be seen again. Oh, if she found out she would never speak to him again. Or she would laugh him back to the University. Why hadn't he burned this damned parchment?

"Don't tell me you're falling for the Inquisitor? You'll have to get in line," she chuckled, seeming unconvinced by her own laughter, "Anyway she's with Commander Cullen, and I don't think you can take him."

"No! No, heavens no, not at all. I haven't even seen her Worship in the moonlight!"

"Moonlight?" Lace repeated, perplexed. Bram hadn't thought his stomach could fall further .

"You-... H-how far did you read?" he stammered, clutching the traitorous lines to his chest.

"Maker, what exactly did you write?" Lace demanded, taking far too much pleasure in his suffering.

"Nothing at all! I assure you, I would never impugn your honor-" So this is what it felt like to die. Or at least to wish for your own removal from the mortal realm.

Lady Harding stared wide-eyed at him. He wanted to turn away, to look anywhere else, but his body seemed frozen. There was no recourse but to regard her wondrous face. It was just as well, for this would surely be his final opportunity to admire it.

Her short little fingers tugged staccato at the glove of her other hand. While his gaze remained locked in place, her eyes darted away, first to the table behind him and then to his shoulder.

"What… are you saying?" she asked quietly. A faint flicker of hope burst into life in the otherwise dark abyss of his chest.

Never before or since had Professor Bram Kenric been so utterly at a loss for words. What he wished to say was perfectly clear; what he felt wise to admit, however, was a matter most contentious. His thoughts flew piecemeal in a whirling storm, fed by fear and tempered by the weak warmth of courage.

"It is difficult to find suitable words that rhyme with Lace," his disloyal tongue blurted.

"You… that's about me?" she inquired, barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

Her confusion elicited the same in him; whom else could his poorly-written words describe?

"Of course," he replied matter-of-factly.

A half-hearted laugh slipped between her entrancing lips. "Were you drunk or something?"

"No! Well," he allowed awkwardly, nervously rolling and unrolling the thrice-damned parchment, "I had partaken of perhaps a little too much intoxicant. I was also still rather… enthused about your triumph over the Hakkonites. It may be said I was not entirely in the right state of mind."

Lace looked mildly displeased, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes slowly migrated back to his, and though she twisted her mouth into a smile, her eyes held no sparkle.

"I figured," she said with fragile lightness.

Bram was momentarily relieved that she hadn't slapped him. However, a fresh horror dawned as he realized he had still conveyed the wrong message.

"Well, I best be off…" wondrous Lace Harding mumbled, shifting away from him, out the door.

"No! Wait! I-..."

Time (and his heart) seemed to freeze. Lace stood before him, one foot already planted firmly outside, firmly away . Her eyes were dull, unhappy; her lips held straight with only a miniscule droop at the edges to indicate her displeasure. Gloved hands twisted together, a writhing mass he wished so desperately to hold. Hair frizzing out of its elegant braids in the afternoon sun. Maker preserve him - she was gorgeous.

His staring must have conveyed his feelings better than his worthless tongue, because Lace's eyebrows slowly rotated from a downward cant to a horizontal elevation. In a movement that must have taken several ages, at least, her foot lifted and returned to the cabin interior.

"Yes, Bram?" she prompted quietly.

His soul panicked, even as his heart melted. What should he say? How could he manage to convey the depth of his affection? Since when had he possessed that great an infatuation? What was he thinking, dreaming of someone like her being in any serious way interested in someone like him ?

"I… I…" He had experienced less difficulty presenting his roundly ridiculed buckle theory to the school. Lace blinked up at him, her enrapturing deep eyes pinning him in place.

Bram's mind melted. So he turned for advice to the person to whom he turned with increasing frequency when he needed assistance.

"I… don't know what to say," he admitted, hoping Lace would have a suggestion for him.

A smirk angled up her lips. "Well, you could start by telling me how you feel about me."

"I adore you," he replied automatically. Lace's eyes grew wide, and her hands tightened their grip on her arms.

Bram was long past thinking. He was so lost in the beauty of her that he hardly realized what he'd said.

"You- you are aware I'm not nobility, right?" she inquired.

"Yes, quite aware," he replied calmly.

"So you understand that I'm a commoner dwarf?"

"Naturally."

"And you wrote that little ditty for me?"

"About you, yes," he corrected, examining the freckles on her cheekbones.

"Well that's-... I'm… I'm really happy to hear that, Bram."

His thoughts had coagulated enough that he fully processed what she'd said. He felt as though he were emerging from a fog into paradise.

"You… you are?"

Her freckles were overcome by an entrancing rosy blush. Bram's cheeks quickly reddened too, as Lace reached behind her and pulled the door shut.

"Of course. You're a very nice man, Bram," she murmured, and Bram very nearly lost coherence again. Never before had he been in such a situation, amplifying his already painful awkwardness. Thus he fell back upon his gentlemanly education, beaten into him at a young age. He suddenly stepped towards her and scooped her hand up in his. His lips lingered too long on her gloved knuckles, but for once he felt no guilt at breaking the Rules.

Quite pleased with his suaveness, Bram moved to stand upright but found his hand retained in a powerful grip. Lace jerked his hand down, keeping his face near hers.

"Professor Kenric," she whispered in a jokingly chiding tone, "Do you think you can announce all that and get off with a kiss to my glove?"

There went his mental capacity again.

"Uh…" said the professor with a book and several treatises to his name.

Lace looked concerned again. Why did she look concerned?

"Bram, if this is making you uncomfortable…"

"Yes. I-I mean no. I mean…" He sighed and bowed his head. "I'm afraid I don't have any experience with… this."

She had the most charming laugh. "You don't say."

"I do not want to make a mess of this." Bram considered his words for a moment. "...more than I already have, at any rate," he amended.

Leather palms cradled either side of his face. "It's alright, you're really cute when you're all flustered."

His insides were melting into a pleasantly warm goo. At a complete loss for how to proceed, Bram decided to fall to his knees - to bring himself more easily to her level - and let her lead the way.

"Ah, you learn quick," Lace said, her voice lilting and her eyes sparkling.

Maker, her hands were on his face and her voice was intoxicating and oh, he was sure he could feel her hot breath on his chin.

"Lace," he whispered, "May I kiss you?"

Lace Harding responded by resolutely pressing her lips to his.

Bram Kenric was in paradise.