A/N: This was inspired by the blizzard here in the Northeast last weekend. Also, it's Valentine's Day and I was in the mood for a romantic one-shot about my favorite couple from Kirkwall. Hopefully some of you are still interested in Finola and Bran's love story. Thanks to my friends Biff and Zute, the best cheerleaders a girl can have. Enjoy!

A Rare Snowstorm

"The snow is really starting to accumulate, Bran. We should go before it gets too deep." Finola drummed her fingers on the one spot where his desk was not covered in paperwork, then cleared her throat. "Did you hear me?

"These cold snaps don't last for long in Kirkwall," he said absently.

"What does that have to do with anything?" She rapped on the desk again, but he kept his head down. "Listen to me, Bran Wyndham, let's wrap it up for tonight before we get stuck here," she insisted. "Kirkwall won't fall apart if we leave an hour early."

He grimaced, irritated with her for knowing so little about the job she needed to do. He was also annoyed with himself for having acquiesced to Kirkwall's plea to have her as Viscountess. Above all, he admonished himself for being attracted to her in the first place, and for loving her now. But it was only a brief moment of reproach, the old Bran peeking out for his say until the new and improved Bran sent the little devil packing.

Bran lifted his head and peered out the window. "Pretty, isn't it?" Deciding to stretch his legs, he walked to the window, rolling his head from side to side and working the muscles bunched into balls of tension. He stared outside, to some distant place, not actually thinking of anything specific, not worried or upset, just lost in a much needed moment of serene beauty. "I can't remember the last time we had snows like this. Roofs covered in white and little icicles hanging from the eaves."

"Are you serious?" she scoffed at his reflective tone, pouring a glass of water sloppily, some water splashing across his desk. "Do you actually like this snow?"

A low growl got his point across. He watched as her expression softened, quickly losing her disapproving attitude. Her lips curved a bit, but not in the shrewd smile he'd come to love. This was a tender smile, so loving it took his breath away.

Slowly, she nodded. "Forgive my lack of enthusiasm." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "I'm just tired, Bran. I really want to go home. But you're right. The snow has certainly helped rid Kirkwall of its bleakness."

"It is something… different." He glanced at her over his shoulder. "Romantic in a way. We can sit by the hearth and drink hot toddies." Surprisingly, she moved closer to him then, leaning on him, her head resting on his shoulder. He loosened her bun and let her long strands cascade over her shoulders. "We can make love in front of a roaring fire tonight."

"Mmm, I like the sound of that. We should do that every night, by the way." She gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. "But it is getting dark, and I am tired and bored with all this paperwork."

"Finola, paperwork is every bit as important as 'killing the bad guys' as you say." Her heavy sigh was so despondent, he almost threw caution to the wind. He wanted to run his hands over her back and shoulders, to tempt her with a kiss that she'd never be able to refuse, to take her right there against the wall. He forced himself to remain still. "Just a few minutes more," he said with a tight squeeze, but she pulled away.

"I'm going home."

He stiffened like a man who had received an unexpected blow. "You plan to trudge through the snow alone, do you?"

"Yes. Do you have a problem with that?" Finola threw a cloak over her shoulders.

"No, no. Just..." Bran paused, thoughtfully planning his next statement. "Just keep to the main walkways. Do not take the shortcuts home."

She laughed. "Shortcuts. You mean you don't want me to walk through the lantern district should I find myself in need of warmth. Afraid you might miss some action?"

"As if you'd dare go near that hotbed of debauchery. Come now, Finola, you know I'm only thinking of your welfare."

"Are you really?" Her tone was indignant, almost haughty. The defensive posturing was there, the absurd offense taken at the mention of her lazy sensibilities, all brought on by his devotion to the job. A royal snit was in the making.

"My concern is genuine. What is so wrong with my telling you to be careful?"

"It sounded to me like you were dictating, Bran. And if you weren't dictating, then you were controlling."

"Would you prefer indifference? Surely you've had more than your share of apathy in recent months. Vael was nothing if not a selfish prig."

"All right, I get the point," she grumbled. "And your concern is touching albeit confusing, after your own callous disregard for my well-being in the past."

"Save your sarcasm for another day," he snapped, and she huffed at his hasty words. "Damn it, Fin, I mean it." He went to her quickly, taking her by the hands. "You are reckless too often. Not to mention impulsive, and to be honest, a bit too enamored of your own skills. One of these days, someone will back you into a corner and…" The thought of harm coming to her was a fear he had to live with everyday, a fear he detested and flushed over. But he forced himself to quell those self-absorbed notions. Maker, she had turned him into such a worry wart. Prior to her involvement in his life, his days were without personal worries, predictable, yet sadly, quite boring. "Just do as I say. I don't ask much of you."

"I'll humor you this time, Bran. But how long are you planning to stay at the Keep? There will be no one left to escort you home if you stay much longer." Ah, there was that hint of disquiet in her tone, albeit cleverly masked behind a loud slurp of water. "Then you'll be stuck spending the night here with those creepy templars, and I'll be left trying to keep warm in my giant bed all alone. You know how cranky that will make me tomorrow."

"Maker forbid I have to endure your crankiness first thing in the morning," he said, attempting a tease.

"That's it? That's your smart-ass come back? Maker's breath, Bran, you must be exhausted. Just come home with me now. Please?"

True exhaustion had settled into his bones, and he stifled a yawn with much effort. But he'd be damned if he let on about his fatigue to her. "I'm as perky as a robin in springtime, my dear, so allow me to rephrase," he said with enthusiasm as took her hand and pressed it to his chest. "I cannot envision being the cause of any ill manner on your part for fear that you may cleave my head in two in the morning. Therefore, I suggest you get yourself to your residency post-haste and avail yourself of every opportunity to primp and prime for my return. I swear your rewards will be more than worth the effort."

Her laugh echoed off the walls in the quiet room. "Oh, Bran, you're one in a million. But you can't fool me. I know you're exhausted. Please come with me."

"I'll be along shortly, within the hour. I promise," he affirmed with a snug embrace. "And I expect a hot meal and a stiff drink when I get home, too."

Her brows rose, likely because he had never referred to her residence as anything but the Hawke Estate. Surely his own house was sufficient enough most days, but the food there was bland and dry, the fire no doubt waning, the bed, painfully frigid and devoid of… her. He moved closer and gently kissed her, and she let herself dissolve into the kiss as he knew she would. It was like this every time, starting out gentle, and then a fire would burn within her, as it did within him. As he pulled away, she let out a hiss of desire, exposing a vulnerability he rarely witnessed outside the bedroom. "I will see you at home, my dear. Very soon."

"Do you really feel like it's your home, Bran?" With eyes softer than he'd ever seen them, she spoke with much regret. "Maybe I haven't made it obvious, but I really want you to feel at home there."

"Finola, wherever you are is my home. Do you never believe a word I say to you?"

"It's not that I don't believe you. I'm… I've just never had-"

"Quiet now." His lips descended on hers, demanding and warm, silencing a rant about the pathetic state of her former love life, if one could call it a love life. "When I return home, you have only to suggest how you would like our evening to progress. I shall make sure it is up to your expectations."

She put her hands on his face, cupping each side of his strong, elegant jaw line. "I wasted so much time, so many days waiting for what could never be. I was such a fool."

"No more so than I." He placed a delicate kiss on her forehead and loosened his embrace. "Now go, Fin. And do not dawdle along the way."

She smiled and blew him a kiss, accompanied by a saucy wink. "Will do, Ser Seneschal," she said, then sashayed out the door.

Bran sighed, wondering why the Maker had seen fit to give him a second chance at happiness with Finola, a woman who was devoted to him despite his considerable flaws. Now he would have companionship and intimacy in his later years instead of bitter loneliness. Yes, he would do everything in his power to protect and nurture the love they shared, and the child now growing insider her, no matter the occasional bruising to his ego.

"A few more pages to review and sign, and then I'll go home." At his desk, he smiled wistfully, then took a few parchments off the damnable pile and set to work, his quill already dipping into the inkpot for the next signature.

Finola's glass was almost empty, the last sips of brandy left to finish when Bran returned from the Keep. Why wasn't he home yet? "Damn responsibilities. This blasted city is aging me beyond my years," she muttered to herself. "Bodahn! Any sign of Bran yet? He said he'd be home within the hour and it's been almost two hours."

"No sign yet," Bodahn said. He was waiting by the window, as ordered, to keep an eye out for the Seneschal. "But you know he gets caught up in the maneuverings of running this city. I'm sure he'll be along shortly, messere."

"Yes. I'm sure." But she wasn't sure. It was not like Bran to be so late, and with the snow amassing in drifts past the doorknobs on the other side of the street, her inner pessimist sprang to life. Maker damn it all! She cursed the weather and pulled on a pair of boots, and then her leathers went over warm leggings swiftly. Shouting for Bodahn to bring her a cloak as she sheathed her daggers, a voice in her head screamed all was not well. The cold air licked at her cheeks when she opened the door, and snowflakes flew into the entranceway, swirling around her. She turned towards Bodahn, all seriousness, with a glint of malice in her eyes.

"I'm going to get him. If he shows up while I'm gone, tell him…." Tell him I'm going to make him wish he was never born. "Tell him to prepare for a tongue lashing."

"Of course, messere. I will tell him." Bodahn grinned. He was hardly surprised by Finola's decree. He'd seen the best and the worst of Finola and Bran, heard their heated arguments as well as their more passionate words. Truth be told, living in her house was far more exciting than any gossip monger in Kirkwall could imagine. If she was grumpy and demanding at times, she more than made up for it in other ways. Bodahn and his son lived well, they were safe and protected. They had freedom to come and go as they pleased most of the time, and more coin to spend than he ever imagined they would have. Finola took care of her own, few that there were, and he was grateful to be counted among them. He handed her a fur-lined pair of gloves and a thick, woolen scarf. "Be careful out there, messere. I'll wait here by the window until you return."

"Thanks. And have someone heat up water for a bath. I'll need it when I return."

Finola rushed out the door, mixed emotions making her heart and mind race. She was seething because Bran hadn't left when he'd promised, but frightened because he always did as he said he would. Clearly something vital was holding him up at the Keep. Maker, I hope it's something stupid and not- No, don't think that way.

She picked up the pace, taking the path Bran always walked to and from the Keep, her eyes darting to every corner and cobblestone. With the snow blanketing the ground, she paid particular attention to anything out of the ordinary, knowing Kirkwall well enough to pick out anomalies along the way. More than halfway to the Keep there was no sign of Bran. The snow pricked at her cheeks like tiny razor blades, the icy, damp air sweeping over her and stealing her breath.

As the snowstorm whipped around her she plodded on, the depth of the snow keeping her from an all out sprint, though she managed a brisk enough walk. No one was out this night, not even bandits. The thought both relieved and terrified her. "Damn this Maker forsaken weather!" She continued on, frozen and miserable, trying to ignore both sensations.

When she reached the Keep's courtyard and saw no sign of him, she bounded up the stairs. There, toward to top, she saw a crumpled and motionless body with more than a dusting of snow covering it. She called out his name, panicked, but to no avail. Her heartbeat raced and her mind was now fully alert, though her nerves felt about to fail her. When she was almost near him, she thought a shadow crossed his face, but as she drew closer, the shadow turned red. He was bleeding. She checked his pulse and examined the source of the blood. To her relief, it was just a gash on his head, but he was unconscious.

"Bran! Bran, can you hear me?" A faint moan came from him, a slight movement of his eyelids, but not much else. "Hold on, Bran, I'm getting help."

At the top of the stairs, a templar stood guard, but from his vantage point he could not see down the stairs. Finola sprang toward him. "You there, templar!" she shouted, then squinted and was finally able to put a name to the face. "Johnson, right? I need your help. Seneschal Bran is injured. You must carry him to my house in Hightown. I'd do it myself, but I'm-" She almost mentioned her pregnancy, and that would surely send the Order, not to mention the rest of Kirkwall, into a gossip frenzy. "I have a back injury."

The templar stared at her as if she spoke in a foreign language. "I cannot leave my post, Viscountess Hawke. Knight-Commander Cullen's order."

She pinned him with a ferocious glare of outrage. "Listen to me, Johnson. If you don't do as I say this instant, Cullen will hear of your insubordination. And then I promise you, you'll be guarding latrines in a Kocari outpost for the rest of your miserable life." His eyes widened, no doubt aware of her ability to make good on threats such as this one. "And do not mention Bran's fall to anyone. Understand?" The young man nodded at once and scrambled down the steps. He lifted Bran's limp body and moved to sling him over his shoulders.

"Cradle him in your arms! He has a head injury for fuck's sake." Johnson's expression was questioning, but he did as ordered. "Do not let his head dangle," she added, and motioned for the templar to follow her.

The walk back was interminable, every step an excruciating effort as the snow was now past her knees. Bran was more alert with every step, and he groused and wriggled in the templars arms, but Finola shushed him and threatened him, distracted him with inane thoughts, until he realized there was no other option. As they neared her house, Finola made a final push to the door, flinging it open and shouting for help.

"Clara!"

Bodahn, who astutely assessed the situation, ushered the templar in and up the stairs to the master bedroom and was already running down the stairs when the mage came in from the kitchen. "Upstairs, Clara. The Seneschal has a nasty gash on his head."

"He fell on some stairs," Finola said, breathing heavily. "He has started to come to, but he's not speaking much. Do what you can and I'll be there in a minute."

Finola took a deep lungful of air and waited for Johnson to descend. The templar looked no worse for wear. In fact, he seemed quite refreshed. "You look like you enjoyed that little stroll, Johnson."

"To be honest, it was rather bracing, in a good way, and I rarely leave the Keep these days."

"Well, let me know if Cullen gives you any trouble. I'll take full responsibility," she said, her words running together. "Thank you for your help." She eyed Bodahn and nodded her head toward the door, then took the stairs two at a time.

"He's more alert now," Clara said when Finola rushed to the bed. The mage had already stripped him of the wet clothes, cleaned the blood, and tucked him into bed. "He has a concussion, but I don't think it's serious. I closed up the wound already, and he didn't lose much blood."

"Fine... I'm fine," he muttered. His eyes were barely open, yet there was incredible resolve in them. She took his hand and he held her loosely, still dazed.

"Can't you rejuvenate him a bit?" Finola asked. "I hate seeing him like this." At hearing the desperation in Finola's voice, Clara cast a small spell and Bran roused some more.

"There. Best to do this only a little at first. Let him get his bearings. Look at me, Seneschal." Clara waved a glowing hand in front of his face. "His pupils are reacting to light equally. That's good. I don't see any sign of paralysis either. Do you know where you are, Seneschal?"

"In Finola's chambers," he said, his voice growing stronger.

"And what time is it?"

He answered immediately. "Nighttime, past our supper hour."

"And what happened to you earlier?"

"Oh, for the love of Andraste, Clara, I know full well I fell on the stairs. Aside from a terrible headache, I have all my wits about me. Please stop questioning me."

Clara smiled and looked at Finola. "I'd say he'll be just fine."

"I am fine. Stop fussing over me." His hand moved to the side of his head, his eyes scrunching closed. "Ahh… That is one very large lump."

"Leave it be, Seneschal. I'll help you with the pain." Clara put her fingers to his temples, a blue arc emanating from her fingertips. "Better?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"You may leave now." Finola waved her hand. "And thanks."

"Yes, messere. Keep him awake as long as you can and I'll check on him in a little while."

When Bran heard the door close, he shifted himself to sit up a little more.

"Bran? Are you really all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm feeling much better. But this was not the way I intended our night to go." With a dramatic sigh, he shook his head, but the fogginess didn't dissipate easily. "How utterly demeaning, to have a templar carry me home as if I were a wounded lamb. And why in the Maker's name did you think it wise to come after me yourself? That was a foolish thing to do, Finola, especially in your condition."

"Oh, please. I'm in fine shape. A long walk in the snow was just what I needed tonight. Ingrate," she snapped, but her eyes stung as she held back the tears, knowing he spoke out of concern for her safety.

"You have my sincerest gratitude, Fin, and you know it." He took a sip of water, and frowned. "I trust you paid the templar to keep silent about this mishap?"

"Well, not exactly. But he knows heads will roll if he speaks of it. I threatened him with latrine duty in the Korcari Wilds. He won't say anything." She stuffed another pillow behind him and then put her hand in front of his face with two fingers up. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

He squinted and said, "Four?" She gasped, but a small smile crept to his lips. "Two, Finola. Two."

"You son of a-" Her head dropped into her hands, a deep breath of relief filling her lungs. A surge of emotion shook her, closing her throat. "Don't you ever do this to me again, you hear?"

"Apologies, my dear. It was not my intention to crack my skull on the Keep's stairs. Although having you fuss over me this way is rather pleasant, so I won't make any promises."

"That's not the least bit funny." Her voice broke, and she turned away from him. Embarrassed by her tears, she stood up and walked over to the window.

"Oh, come now, Fin, I was only jesting. I know you were worried about me, but I'm fine. You shouldn't be embarrassed to show me how much you care."

She spun on her heels. "You're the one who should be embarrassed, tripping down the stairs as if you were a babe learning to walk. Or did you think to use your ass for a sled? That's what you get for not leaving when you said you would," she prattled. "I mean really, Bran, how could you be so careless? So thoughtless? Did you even consider me at all?"

An amused grin stole across his face. "Ah, there she is, the selfish and aloof woman I love." Transparent as ever.

She flew to the bed and laid her head on his chest, relishing his steady heartbeat. "Damn it, Bran, I was scared to death when I first saw you there, motionless and bleeding."

"Don't remind me. I may never live it down."

"And this isn't even a serious injury," she said. "You've made me soft."

"No, I haven't. You've always been a softie when it comes to those you love."

"Bah," she said out loud, not meaning to. But she curled up next to him, her arms wrapping around him and squeezing him tight. "You still don't know me very well, Bran."

He didn't respond to the absurd statement, knowing that arguing with her was foolish. He hadn't the energy for more verbal sparring anyway. He ran his fingers through her hair and dipped his head down to drop a kiss, blissfully comfortable despite the slight throbbing of his head. It was as if her presence had the power to heal him somehow. Not altogether surprising, given that from the moment he'd met her, he'd realized there was something about her that warmed the cold depths of his soul and eased the gloomy isolation that had always been so much a part of his daily life.

There, with her holding him, she was worth every change he'd made, every sacrifice, because in her arms he was complete. And it was more than apparent that she was complete in his arms too.

"I love you, Fin."

"You better."