Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.
Author's Note: So there is some kind of sorta bad news. I've been very proud of myself for keeping to my daily updating promise but I've suddenly hit a wall in the inspiration department. I'm trying to figure out how Krem and Harding navigate from here on in and I'm not producing anything I'm proud of right now. :( And I really don't want to just post some meaningless filler chapters simply for the sake of updating daily. I want to give you guys quality stuff. But it's apparently not coming to me in a timely manner. So I'm going to take a small breather to stockpile a few chapters so that I have a little bit of a buffer to start posting again. It won't be long at all, probably a week or so. But I figured this chapter would be a great place to get in that breather and start the next arc of their story. I do hope you enjoy it and I'll be back soon I promise! I love these guys way too much to keep away for long.
Interlocking
Chapter Fifteen: Abandon
"He does not greet the end with anything but fulfillment in his heart." - Krem and Harding find each other in a world torn apart. A story told in brief glimpses.
It takes Krem only a few days to get back to duty with the help of Stitches' healing touch. Harding is immediately assigned to the Storm Coast shortly after the two are found in the small ravine of the Exalted Plains. She has hardly time to say goodbye. Instead, her and her scouts survey the Venatori camps Iron Bull's Ben-Hassrath information network has informed them of, and they await the arrival of the Inquisitor and the Chargers to help secure the Qunari dreadnaught's passage. She does not get to greet Krem and the Chargers when they arrive at camp for the mission. Duty brings her further south along the coast, and she finds herself watching the sandy beach in wary trepidation. She has never doubted Krem's ability before. But with his recent wound and the involvement of the Qunari, Harding recognizes the familiar seed of dread blossoming in her stomach.
Krem is mid-swing when he realizes. When he recognizes this dance of blood and burning magic. This ache and throb of quaking muscles. This loud and vicious battle that echoes in his bones. That threatens to overtake him.
This is the edge. The precipice. The moment when one realizes their death and their life lay vulnerable in another's hands.
He may swing his sword and shout his orders and rally the other Chargers beneath his war banner. But when they are outnumbered as they are, their only hope is that Bull chooses to reinforce their position rather than the Qunari dreadnaught.
It is a strange thing. To know that your life, your breath, your chance at tomorrow, lies with the actions of another. Krem is experienced enough to recognize when his position is outmatched. Sensitive enough to his comrades to understand when they are wearing. And accepting enough to know what his commander must do. He does not expect to last the battle.
In some part of his mind, he is resentful. Thinking that his past with Bull and their commitment to their fellow Chargers is enough to sway the Qunari from his life-long duty. Enough to shake that blind and unquestioning loyalty to a people who do not even recognize him for him. Krem likes to think that they have spilled enough blood and shared enough truths to be called friends, brothers even. And he hates that it is not enough. He hates that he will always be lesser in Bull's eyes than the importance of the Qun. He cannot help that selfish part of him. That part that will forever cling tight to the image of Bull in that tavern long ago, holding a hand to his bleeding, unsalvageable eye, and whispering "What's your name, lad?" through painful laughter.
Krem carries this memory buried deep in a heart he shares with no one. This is his own selfish remembrance. No one has a right to it.
And that makes the larger part of Krem, the part that still fuels his angry and powerful swings with his blade, to welcome his impending death. To accept, without spiteful anger or tender regret, that he lays down his life for rightful reasons. For a man he can be proud to die for. This is what keeps him grounded. What keeps him steady. What keeps him raging and strong and unafraid. He does not fault Bull for this death he knows is coming. And he does not carry anything but respect and admiration and fond remembrance for the man. He does not greet the end with anything but fulfillment in his heart.
Except for one thing.
Except for the image of Harding's face that flashes before his mind when he is roaring in trembling rage against the Venatori.
The thought that he has not touched that face himself. That he has not felt the soft warmth of her breath against his lips. That he has not woken to the welcomed heat of her body curled into him. Not bared his honest self to her. Not taken her into his arms and held her tight against everything this world threatens them with.
He likes to think she would hold him just as tightly, just as desperately, just as achingly.
He likes to think he might have grown to love her.
Bull's sonorous bellow sounds to his left and Krem whips his head to the sound. His Qunari commander, flanked by the Inquisitor and the rest of their party, flood onto the field beside them. Krem's breath comes haltingly and disbelievingly, his smile brilliant and blood-streaked across his face. His whole body floods with the sweet breath of relief and something certain and unwavering anchors deep within him.
His war cry is blood-curdling. And defiant. And glorious.
Harding turns to the sound of approaching footfalls. The Inquisitor, Iron Bull and the Chargers are coming across the hill toward their camp. Some are limping. Some are stoic. All are battle-weary and blood-splattered.
Her eyes find Krem instinctually. She rushes toward them. Krem looks up to find her stopping hesitantly at the edge of camp, her face questioning, arms unsure at her sides. He moves instantly, without reservation, without hesitation. He ambles up the grassy hill toward her, his breath heavy in his chest, his hands reaching for her.
He drops to his knees before her, gathering her in his arms and his lips are urgent on hers. Needy and reckless and slick with a shameless heat. Harding is shocked into stillness, her hands resting dazedly and stiffly against his chest, her body unexplainably and instantly enflamed.
Krem breaks the kiss suddenly, pulls his head back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, to keep their breathes shared between them. He closes his eyes and tries to reign in that wild lash of emotion thudding inside his chest. Tries to memorize the feel of her against him. "I'm sorry," he breathes frantically. "I just-"
He does not get to finish. Harding has her hands framing his face, pulling him into her. She meets his mouth with her own, her kiss desperate and tender and heated all at once. Her lips moving with the thrilling realization that he feels it too.
This shattering, brutal tangle of emotion that quakes uncontrollably from within. This needful tremble of desire that lights along the skin. This welcomed, exhilarating clench of the heart.
They grasp at each other, unhindered, unrepentant, unafraid.
They kiss with willful abandon.