Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.
Author's Note: I know we all love some kisses and they're getting there I promise! I'm a hopeless slowmancer. But I need them to come to certain realizations both themselves and between each other. Soon guys, soon. :) Please enjoy.
Interlocking
Chapter Eleven: Reason
"Something flashes in his eyes that Harding cannot recognize." - Krem and Harding find each other in a world torn apart. A story told in brief glimpses.
"You're pretty good with that thing."
Krem's voice catches Harding's attention, but not enough for her to waver in her aim. She releases the arrow in her hold and it lands where the heart would be on the straw dummy, grazing her previous arrow beside it. She allows herself a triumphant smile and turns to see Krem standing next to her, leaning his weight to one leg, arms crossed over his chest as he appraises her shots.
He glances down to her. "Not that I ever doubted you before, Harding."
Harding pulls another arrow from her quiver and lines up her sights. "I could teach you a thing or two," she offers teasingly as her fingers release the string and another mark is made on the target across the snowy field.
"I'm sure you could." His voice is rich and warm even in the cold of the mountains. Skyhold looms not far behind them. "Why don't you use the training field back at the keep?"
Harding fingers the tip of an arrow in her hand, looking up at him as she considers it. "I don't know. Like the quiet I guess."
"But quiet doesn't present a challenge."
"It's just practice."
Krem watches her with eyes that seem to be lost somewhere in a time she thinks she might never be privy to. "Even practice should have some element of a real fight. Distractions. Moving targets." He motions toward the straw dummy she had been shooting at across the field. "Motivation. One of those things should always be present."
She props one end of her bow into the snow and holds it to her side, her other hand, still holding the next arrow, plants itself along her hip. "I have motivation. It's to practice," she answers cheekily.
Krem shakes his head, even as the smile graces his lips. "No, I mean, why are you practicing?"
She blinks at him in question.
"Find something deep inside that motivates you to fight, to be better. Whether it's ambition, anger, protectiveness, fear, anything." Something flashes in his eyes that Harding cannot recognize. It speaks of pain and longing, of days spent in needful solitude, unknown and unseen by even those closest to him. "So long as it makes you feel something when you release that bow."
Harding pulls a heavy breath in and stares at him.
Krem inclines his head toward her and levels her with a tender smirk. "Practice for the sake of practice will never be what improves you. It's the reason behind it that will make you great."
Something tentative and anxious lights along her tongue and she wants to ask him what his reason is. But she halts herself, swallows back the words. The way he says it seems as though the reason for anybody is something to be held sacred and close to the heart. Something unspoken and unshared. Something to be cradled in the dark recesses of one's self, where it can burrow deep and take root.
Turning her gaze from his to the sight of the straw dummy resting unassumingly across the far stretch of snow, Harding pulls her bow from the ground and levels the arrow in her hand to take aim.
She closes her eyes and takes a steady breath in, releasing it slowly. Behind her lids flash images from across the years. Her sister, all knotted brown hair and settling laughter. Her home, engulfed in flames, only to bleed into the image of a burning Haven. Two of her scouts, her friends, Brennan and Saleyrna, sprawled dead in the red-streaked snow. Her fingers shake in their hold on her bow.
And then suddenly, Harding sees Krem's face before her lids. Both sharp and soft. Rich and muted. Alluring and steadfast and striking a thrilling tremor along her skin that scares her with its intensity. She opens her eyes. Listens to his slow and grounded breathing beside her. Finds herself wondering how his breath against her skin might feel.
She releases the bow.
It isn't until he is four pints deep that Krem begins to realize even ale cannot drown out the image of her face. The thick coil of anticipation when he is near her. The way his throat tightens at her closeness, the scent of her almost lost beneath the blood and snow and sweat. The way her freckles spread across her cheeks, dusting her light skin. Skin he finds himself aching to touch at nights.
Krem pulls a ragged breath in and closes his eyes.
The way he imagines his fingers threading through her hair when he has his lips pressed to hers.