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Interlocking

Chapter Eight: Pocket of Memory

"Krem sighs and a crooked grin breaks over his features. 'Maker, you're a vision, Harding.'" – Krem and Harding find each other in a world torn apart. A story told in brief glimpses.

Krem sighs as he stands in the middle of the Skyhold courtyard, his hands planted on his hips as he looks around the dilapidated keep. Inquisition troops are filtering through the main gate, trailing carts and wagons of whatever they could salvage from Haven behind them. Up in the rafters of the highest tower, Leliana is already sending out ravens to her agents. It is only a matter of days before workers start pouring in from all over Thedas.

"Well," Harding begins as she steps up beside him, "It's certainly a fixer-upper."

Krem throws a thumb in the direction of the building nearest them. "Ten sovereigns says the tavern's the first thing getting repaired."

Harding eyes him momentarily, smirking, and then leans closer to him and sniffs, pulling away with her nose scrunched up in distaste. "Nope. Baths and outhouses," she bets.

Krem laughs for the first time since fleeing Haven.

It is a slow and arduous first few days. Most of the troops are committed to repair of the Skyhold keep. There is little need to spare the men for other operations. The Inquisitor had not yet committed to the trek to Crestwood in search of Hawke's Warden contact, and the ball at the Winter Palace was not for a few weeks. Cullen decides to delegate his men to construction work instead, and the Chargers, those who were the least wounded, offer to help in such.

Harding and what was left of her regiment are tasked with surveying the outlying lands and cliffs of Skyhold to ascertain what defenses nature provided and what weaknesses needed addressing. They are also tasked with finding a natural food source in the mountains and come back most nights with ram and druffalo herd locations, pelts and however many of the creatures they can carry back to camp for the kitchens that night.

Dusk has filtered through the crumbling walls of Skyhold to fill the courtyard in a hazy orange when Harding returns from her most recent trek outside the keep. She finds several men hoisting up a wall on the west side of the stables with wooden beams, one crouching atop the nearest rampart calling out directions to them, two horses strapped to the other side of the wall to pull it erect while the men push from the other side.

"Heave!"

Harding stops when she sees Krem's form holding up one of the beams. His usual armor is gone, and he is dressed in simple leather pants, strapped into his mud covered boots, a loose, sleeveless tunic the color of wine draping over his torso. Harding is close enough to see the sweat drenching his body, to see the strain of his muscles as he pushes against the support beam with another man beside him.

"Hold the horses!" the man atop the rampart calls, and a stable hand holds their reins quickly. "Set the stakes and shore up the sides! One last push men."

Krem grits his teeth and adjusts the beam over his shoulder, gripping the heavy wood tightly and straining forward, a boot dug into the ground to anchor himself. There is a triumphant roar amongst the men as they shove with one last group effort and get the heavy wall erect, others rushing in to set the supports and steady the partition.

Krem pulls from the wall with a relieved sag of his shoulders, twisting his neck around to lessen the strain of muscles. A couple of the men thump their hands against his shoulders in gratitude as they all spread thanks around. Krem nods, a weary smile gracing his features and he shakes hands with one of the workers before dropping down to sit on a nearby pile of wooden beams. He leans his arms over his knees and pants heavily, wiping a hand across his brow to keep the sweat from his vision, and then rubbing the hand over the back of his neck, trying to work some of the stiffness out of his muscles. A pair of boots enters his vision and he blinks in mild recognition before looking up.

Harding is standing before him, a soft silhouette of orange light framing her, her bow slung over her shoulder and one hand holding out her water skin.

Krem sighs and a crooked grin breaks over his features. "Maker, you're a vision, Harding," he breathes raggedly, reaching for the skin and bringing it to his lips without hesitation.

Harding watches in mild fascination as several drops escape his mouth and run down the smooth tanned skin of his neck, already drenched in sweat. She catches the minute flex of muscles in his throat as he drinks and her mouth is suddenly dry.

He pulls the water skin from his lips and hands it back to her, wiping his mouth with his other arm. "Thanks," he pants, still tired from the recent construction work.

Harding nods, her throat tight, and glances behind him at the half-finished stables. The missing roof floods the space in warm, hazy light and she doesn't know why it looks so beautiful. Slants of shadowy orange shift through the piles of hay and nestle around the horses in a light embrace. Their tails flick through the air and the soft, melodic rumble of their whining drowns out the harsh barking orders of the men around them.

She thinks of Redcliffe suddenly. This small pocket of warm memory in the dusk of a frozen Skyhold. It brings a small and shaky smile to her face.

"Harding?"

She breaks from her thoughts to find Krem watching her, his gaze curious but still intent, still focused.

She shakes her head slightly and locks gazes with him. "Nothing. Just…thanks."

Krem cocks his head in question, his brow furrowed.

Harding's smile is soft and speaks of a time Krem wishes he'd known her. "It's a bit of home," she answers, nodding toward the work in progress that was the stables. "So…thanks for fixing 'em up."

Krem's eyes rove her face and for the first time thinks he sees wetness dotting her eyes. Her cheeks are a light pink beneath the smattering of freckles along her skin. In the fading light of dusk, her face is warm and inviting and everything Krem feels himself reaching for.

He has to swallow tightly and resist the sudden urge to spread his fingers over the smooth skin of her neck. "Of course," is all he manages, and he hopes she takes the ragged words as only a result of his weariness, and not the breathless trepidation humming beneath his skin.

Harding clears her throat and motions to the four snow hares hanging from her belt. "Got to get these to the kitchen. I'll catch you later, Krem." She walks off to the stairs leading into the kitchen where her scouts had already made their way with their own hunting prizes.

Krem watches her form far longer than he thinks might be appropriate.