Rose

Bran stored his quill away. The ink was still drying on the top sheet of a too-high pile. He pressed his fingers against his temples, refusing to call himself tired. He didn't run or fight bandits. All he did all day was sit on a chair behind a desk, looking at black lines on white.

Once upon a time, he had vowed never to take work into the sanctity of his home, no matter how late he had to stay in the office. But that was back when there was still a Viscount. When he remembered to drink his coffee before it turned cold. When he agreed more with the words on the pages.

Meredith was ruthless. He'd known that. But he had no influence over her. She was intellectual enough to know to start small and have evidence-based reasoning for her decrees. The measures were excessive, yes. But on parchment, they were sound.

The best he could do was play along and tweak what he could. If he denied her, who knew who would fill the void.

But he knew this current curfew wouldn't last. Aveline had almost refused to enforce it. Just a few days, they had decided, to show that it wouldn't make a difference. If he read between Meredith's words, he knew she would send templars on the streets if the guard wouldn't comply.

Sometimes you had to choose the lesser of two evils.

Bran sighed, rose to his feet a little unsteadily, and exited his library. He made his way downwards to his hall where he replaced his indoor shoes with comfortable boots and took a hooded coat.

The night air did him well. He still had that luxury, because Hightown didn't have a curfew. The nobles and high-class citizens would riot if it had. That the poor would riot just as much didn't matter to Meredith. They were poorer, so less of a threat.

His feet knew the path over the cobbled streets without him having to think about it. That was the point of this. That he could stop thinking, for however short it was, and just be.

This area of Hightown was always a little rowdier than others. The air wasn't chill enough yet to keep the merriments off the streets. The ladies and men here were a great advertisement of the promise that lay inside.

Bran looked up and saw it just below the edge of his hood.

A rose.

Not her. But the brothel.

The carved sign of the Blooming Rose swung in the breeze, petals shaped all too suggestively. He forced his mind away from the memories that the name conjured. Laughter, grins, her embrace and her head against his shoulder, sleeping.

He wasn't here for that.

He kept his hood up as he crossed the threshold. Rose oil and perfume threatened to overwhelm his senses. All part of the branding, but the dream it staged wasn't for him.

He wasn't here just for pleasure. It was about maintenance.

Just a necessary release in a controlled environment that was predictable and professional. It was better than the alternatives of drinking more than one glass a night. Here, the terms were clear. They knew what he liked. He didn't need performative small talk or the simpering pretence of love.

It was just a service.

"Mister Cavin?" one of the girls called, glancing up from the large ledger.

He inclined his head. The name was always a little odd to hear, but it served a purpose. At work, he was Seneschal. A definitive title, one he learned for and one he earned. To acquaintances and his family, he was Bran.

Here, Mister Cavin worked.

He wasn't ashamed of being here. He simply valued privacy. The workers he chose were professional, and that meant discreet, efficient, and trustworthy. His name didn't leave these walls, and that was all he needed. It wasn't like he feared anyone discovering his presence, but it was easier if people believed he had no needs at all. He didn't need the prejudice.

"Room eight has been readied for you, as always," the girl continued with a practised smile from rose-red lips. "End of the corridor. I trust you can find the way?"

"Yes," he replied, nodding once. "Thank you."

He adjusted the sleeves of his coat. A soothing motion, enough to calm the noise of this place. That was just necessary discomfort. Without another word, he turned to the left. His feet knew the path. Again, that was the point. For him not to have to think.

But a shape flashed in the corner of his eye, and he slowed. A flicker of black hair. Pale skin. A flash of bright blue.

His mind was playing tricks, surely. He had just walked past a large vase of roses, after all. And he was so tired.

But no.

Coming from the opposite end of the hallway, was she. She looked like she didn't belong here at all. Old, slightly worn clothes. A smudge on her face. A matching scowl. And yet he thought she fit the name more perfectly than anything carved on the sign.

Rose.

And she looked right at him.

She didn't flinch. Her lips curled into a smile, somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"Maker's balls, Seneschal," she said wryly. "I thought I recognised your voice."

Bran's jaw locked. His cravat felt suddenly too tight. And he was all too aware of the noise around him.

The Blooming Rose reeked of perfume and sweat and sex, each more overpowering than the last. Hawke pulled her coat tighter around herself as she stepped back out of the room, resisting the urge to scrub her skin raw. She had just shoved a coin purse in her uncle's hands, and she had no plans to stick around for a second longer than she had to.

When her uncle wasn't home, she knew he would be here. There weren't many places in Kirkwall where he could be found wasting his life. Of course, the idiot had forgotten the curfew. He'd be stuck in Hightown until morning. Not that it was her problem.

The workers here probably did good business these nights.

But Gamlen, for all his flaws, had taken his sister and nieces in when they had nowhere to go. A ramshackle hovel with a leaking roof was still shelter when they had none. Almost two years of it. Sure, he might have lost the Amell fortune of his own volition, but life hadn't been kind to him. Hawke felt like she owed him something. If that ended up fuelling more debauchery, well… That was on him. Her conscience could sleep at night.

And now that she had given him the money, she just wanted to get out of here.

The hallway buzzed with soft laughter and low voices. A man stood at the ledger desk, hood pulled low to cover his face. She scoffed. No doubt another noble telling his wife he was drinking with friends while actually screwing away his marriage vows.

He spoke. Just a few words.

But the voice was unmistakable. Neutral, dry, impersonal, and despite the moral superiority and repressed irritation, it carried a certain pleasant melody.

Hawke stopped.

She should walk away, turn on her heels and pretend she hadn't heard it.

But she wasn't in the mood to be merciful. Not after another round of restrictive decrees from the Keep. Not after watching more people of lesser fortunes suffer for the peace of mind of those in power.

Her lips curled.

"Maker's balls, Seneschal," she said dryly. "I thought I recognised your voice. Don't tell me Meredith sent you to inspect corset regulations. Tragic, if someone's bosom offends the Chantry."

Bran froze mid-steps. For a moment, she saw his polished mask crack. A flicker of surprise shone through, before he managed to veil it away.

"No," he said evenly. "I'm off-duty."

"Well, shit," she said, sweet as poison. "And here I was thinking you were Seneschal for every second of the fucking day. You know, like the decrees affect the people in Lowtown."

He didn't take the bait. "I'm allowed personal time."

"Didn't realise you knew what that was."

He held her gaze, steady with an unreadable stare. Something sharp and awful twisted in her gut. He was here. At the Blooming Rose. For the same reason everyone came to a brothel.

To fuck.

Her mouth went dry. She couldn't precisely name the emotion that surged up, only that she hated it.

Her grin returned, and she could feel that it was mean. "Right. I'll stop holding you up, then. You don't want to think about civil obedience when you're getting–"

"Hawke–" Bran cut in like a warning.

"What?" she snapped. "You're here to unwind while Lowtown bleeds. That is what happens with these decrees. People get stabbed in alleys. I've seen it all. Done the stabbing. Took the stabbing. Witnessed the stabbing."

Heads were starting to turn to them. The hum of conversation around them dimmed.

Bran took a deep breath. "Do you ever think before you act?" he hissed quietly.

Hawke didn't care. "Do you ever act before the world's gone to shit?"

A door creaked open beside them, and both turned instinctively.

A man leaned in the frame, tall and slim, with his shirt open to his navel. His chest was smooth and oiled just enough to glisten in the dim lamplight. His eyes were a startling icy blue, and entirely too amused.

"Oh my," he purred, gaze skimming over Hawke. "I do love serving partners. You have been holding out on me, Mister Cavin."

Hawke blinked, utterly unprepared. "I'm… not a part of this."

The man leaned towards her. His scent was a lot better than the old sin that clung to the hallway. Rose, and something else layered beneath. Sandalwood. Smoke. Something rich and masculine, and expensive.

"Shame," he continued with practised nonchalance. "I do love a bickering couple. So much passion."

Hawke glanced aside, her mouth still parted with disbelief. Bran looked like he wished the world would swallow him, and yet he managed to maintain a veil of dignity.

"We need a moment," Bran said curtly. "Please wait outside."

The man raised an eyebrow but shrugged. "You've paid already. Just don't have too much fun without me." He winked at Hawke and brushed between them.

Bran opened the door wider. "Get in," he commanded Hawke.

She forced a new smile. "Romantic," she sneered, stepping past him. "Just so you know, my safeword is potato."

Bran did not dignify that with a response as he closed the door behind her. Immediately, the noise of the hallway faded away. The room was all candlelight and velvet and a very large bed Hawke pretended not to look at. She could almost see the allure of a space like this, the illusion of intimacy amidst the noisy chaos of the brothel.

"Hawke," Bran began, standing stiffly at the door. "You were far too loud out there."

"Oh, I am ever so sorry," she said in sweet mockery. "Didn't realise I was disturbing the sacred peace of a whorehouse."

He lowered his hood. It was warm here, in the room. "This isn't a joke. Appearances should be maintained."

"In a brothel?" she snorted.

"Your voice carries," he continued. "People talk. My presence here is… delicate."

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh yes, wouldn't want anyone thinking the Seneschal is a person with personly needs. You're not committing marital sin."

Bran's jaw clenched. "I have responsibilities, Hawke. The city is a delicate state, and I don't need–"

"You don't need?" Hawke repeated incredulously. "The city doesn't need–"

"Hawke." He stepped forward, and shadows hid his face. "I don't have the luxury of acting on impulse just because I'm angry."

She took a step closer, pointing a finger at his chest. "No, you just sign a new decree."

But she was surprised to see the layers beneath his anger. He looked a little more gaunt than normal. Dark circles under his eyes, as if he had known too many sleepless nights.

"You don't understand," he said, his voice low. "You think it's easy. Right and wrong, clean and dirty. But it's never that simple. I have a sword at my back and a dagger at my throat. I am just a glorified clerk. Just the hand that seals things. And if not my hand, then someone else's."

Hawke frowned, her grin slipping a little. He kept going.

"I know Lowtown suffers, Hawke. I know. Do you think I like signing those orders? Ask your friend Aveline how often we try to rewrite them to keep Meredith from writing something worse. Do you think she doesn't bend over backwards to help? Do you think I don't?"

The silence between them stretched. In the soft golden glow of the room, it was only more evident that Bran was fraying at the edges. His shoulders held a tension they probably hadn't released in days.

Hawke didn't know what to say. Perhaps it was true, what he said. Perhaps she had been judging him just because he was an easy target for her to judge. But that was a painful truth, so her first instinct was to deflect.

"This is probably the wrong time for me to make fun of your taste in prostitutes," she said half-heartedly.

Bran pinched his nose. "Really?"

She forced a grin. She hadn't necessarily expected a man, but she didn't care. She did care that the man was everything she wasn't. Composed, poised, easy to forget.

"He is far too polished for my taste. Not enough grit. He's like a decorative pillow. I bet he makes little sounds when you touch his hair."

Bran looked unimpressed as he sat himself down at the edge of the bed. His fatigue was only more evident as he ran a hand through his hair. "Go on," he muttered. "Get it out of your system. It is the last grain of normalcy I can count on."

Hawke opened her mouth for another quip, but she hesitated.

She tried anyway. She remembered needing normalcy, and something easy. Perhaps that was what all it was to Bran.

"What?" she said. "I'm not judging. I can appreciate his aesthetic, but he's just not my type."

Bran exhaled wearily. "No. You go for illegal ones with hidden weapons."

She laughed. It was sharp, quick, and faded mercifully fast. "Well, you know. Keeps things exciting."

Silence returned, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable.

"He is efficient," Bran said, breaking the quiet. "Professional. Good technique."

Hawke chuckled, more gently this time. "Really?" she said. "Should have known you'd treat this like statistics and assessments. Do you keep spreadsheets?"

Bran exhaled. "I'm paying for a service. It's not complicated. You are here too, Hawke. You know how this works."

Her breath caught, just one beat. The smile stayed on her face, but it stopped being real.

"I'm not here for that," she said.

Bran's lips parted. Surprise, maybe, but he didn't say anything.

"I am here to give coin to my idiot uncle," she added. "I told you, Bran. I don't like strangers touching me."

"Well…" he replied hesitantly. "And I told you they don't stay strangers if you visit enough times."

Something twisted in her chest and she tore her gaze away. It landed on a vase of roses on a side table. The petals began to wilt.

Her heart beat faster. Anger, shame? Emotions that came from him were always the hardest to name.

"I can't live my life the way you do," she said. "Logic my way through everything."

She turned around in time to catch his frown. He looked so exhausted. She should've stopped talking, but her mouth kept going. "So go on. Do you have a line in your spreadsheet for me too? One-night disaster? Emotional liability?"

His lips drew tight. "I do not keep spreadsheets for this."

"Not literal ones," she snapped. "But you're always evaluating, sorting people into neat little columns so they make sense."

Her heart was racing. She hadn't meant to get this angry.

He didn't answer. That only increased her ire.

"I just want the truth, Bran. About what you felt."

His mouth opened. No words came.

And easy as it came, her fury faltered.

It was something in the way he looked at her. A slow shift in his posture. Not just exhaustion, but broken. And she was a part of that.

Her throat closed.

She thought she wanted answers, but she wasn't so sure anymore. She hadn't wanted to hurt him. She just… needed something real. A foothold in the uncertainty. Something definitive.

Bran exhaled, and answered regardless. "I can't categorise you, Hawke," he said. "You know you weren't a service I purchased. You don't… fit. You defy my logic."

She didn't look away. Her faded anger had left behind a hollow sort of ache. And if he's just given her a truth, then maybe she owed him one too. If only she knew what it was. Painful, probably. Rough. Messy. She was made of truths like that.

But there was one truth she knew.

"You're the only one I slept with in all these years," she said quietly.

Bran's eyebrows rose, his voice soft. "Hawke… I'm not here for desire. I came here because I need it. Just… relief. I need to drain the tension, and sharpen my focus."

She huffed, turning away. "That's an infuriatingly detached take. You make sex sound like a clinical assignment," she scolded, glancing back at him. He didn't quite meet her eyes. "Fine," she said after a beat. "You're not the only one who needs relief. Some days, I just… fight injustice until I remember how to breathe again."

"And you criticise my way," he commented, looking up. "Yours could get you killed."

She shrugged. "Eh. I once solved a string of murders and possessions tracing back to the Rose. So coming here isn't as risk-free as you might think."

Bran's mouth tugged at the corner. "Well. You solved it, didn't you?"

She meant to smile back, but her expression faltered. The candlelight caught the dark circles under his eyes and accentuated the drawn lines of his face. His quiet smile didn't conceal the exhaustion. She saw the way his carefully raised walls crumbled.

Perhaps it was true, what he said. That he tried to make the best out of the Meredith situation.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "For treating you like you don't feel things just because you're better at hiding them."

"It's just survival," Bran reasoned.

Hawke's heart twisted, and she crossed the room. "I know. It's okay to feel, though. You should know that. In other ways than just visiting this place."

"I have seen people succumb to alcohol. I don't want to be among them."

Hawke scoffed. "Maker's balls, Bran. You don't need a vice. When's the last time someone has given you a good and honest hug?"

He just looked up, staring at her like she suggested tying himself naked to a Chantry statue. When he didn't answer, Hawke sat down on the bed beside them, turning to him with her arms raised and open.

"Come on, don't be stubborn," she said.

Reluctantly, Bran leaned closer, until Hawke could wrap her arms around him. It was stiff, at first. But the rise and fall of his breath eased. Deeper, longer inhales. A few more beats passed before his arms found her place around her waist. A few more after that before he rested his head against her shoulder.

He didn't tremble or clutch, just held her steadily.

It didn't feel as strange as she thought it might.

For the first time in days, Hawke stopped thinking about her own mess. Their argument, this place, and her own worries all melted into the background. All that remained was Bran and the desperate hope that she would never have to see him this drained again.

She wondered when someone had last held him like this. Not during sex or as a formality, but just to say you matter and I care.

She had Varric. Isabela. Anders. Balls, even Fenris, when things were really bad and only he was there.

Bran had no one.

Time passed by, but she couldn't say how much. Eventually, he pulled back, slowly. Her hands slipped away, but not far. His eyes were clear again and focused on her.

"That was… surprisingly effective," he said, his voice steadier.

Hawke snorted quietly. "Told you. Hugs are criminally underrated."

He tilted his head, a faint smile on his lips. "What comes natural to you, doesn't come natural to others. This…" He gestured vaguely between them. "Emotions."

The second snort was louder. "Emotions aren't the enemy."

His smile turned wry. "Easy for you to say. You seem to thrive in chaos."

He leaned in, not touching, but close enough that his presence still pressed against her. She told herself to get a grip.

"Half the time, I'm just doing what feels right in the moment," she said. "It just looks effortless because I don't pause long enough to panic."

That wasn't true, not really. She second-guessed herself constantly. Her bravado was just a performance, but this didn't feel like the moment to bring up her insecurities.

"Rose," Bran said softly. "You are everything I cannot afford to be."

The bud blooming in her chest was anything but a grip.

"Emotions complicate structure," he added. "I need structure."

Hawke gave a crooked smile. "And now that structure is a prison cell. You need to air your feelings once every while, or they'll combust."

Her hand drifted towards his. She wasn't certain if it was instinct or intent. Maybe the bud in her chest had sprouted vines and pushed her closer. All she knew was that her fingers brushed his knuckles. His hand twitched. His little finger grazed hers. And neither of them pulled away.

She just went with it.

"You know," she murmured, her gaze flickering over his face. Amber eyes. Stubble on his cheek. Curve of his lips. "You are everything I am supposed to hate."

One corner of his mouth pulled upwards into a grin. Dry, and a little smug.

"I get that a lot," he said. "But I don't need to be liked."

An immediate spark of annoyance lit up in her chest. It was so typically

him to get back to his stoic façade. She leaned in anyway, resting her palm on his knee.

"That's a lie, Bran. Everyone needs someone to care about them."

His smile widened. Hawke thought he was maddeningly calm. Before she could pull her hand back, he caught her wrist. She gave it a half-hearted tug, but he didn't let go. She didn't try again. Let him have this small victory, she told herself, because he was so tired.

Truth was, she liked his hand there.

"I said nothing about care, Rose."

A third snort. "So you want to be loathed fondly, is that it?"

Bran's mouth twitched. "That seems like a reasonable compromise."

She shook her head slowly, grinning despite herself. "You really are insufferable."

"It takes one to know one," he said, his smile just smug enough to spark a reaction in her chest.

She tilted her head. His hand didn't so much as hold her wrist but rather brushed his thumb over her knuckles. Deliberate? Accidental? She wasn't sure.

"It is so nice and refreshing to find we have common ground," she teased.

He didn't make a reply. The smugness in his smile softened as his eyes searched her face.

"What are you thinking?" she asked sceptically.

He replied slowly. "That your eyes are so blue."

For a heartbeat, Hawke opened her mouth for a quick retort, but closed it and stifled a laugh. "Fuck, Bran," she muttered, shaking her head. "That's not you. Say something else."

He looked at her eyes just a little longer before his gaze dropped. The smugness returned. "There's a smudge on your face."

"Seriously," she said with a groan. "I can't tell if you're just making fun of–"

Before she knew it, Bran leaned it, his hand reaching for her face. In one smooth motion, he brushed his thumb over her nose. He held it up, showing a brown smear like it was some sort of victory.

"Balls," Hawke said, blinking at him.

He parted his lips, likely to gloat some more or say something clever, but she was quicker. Three fingers pressed against his mouth before he could speak.

"No," she chastised. "You've reached your daily quota for smugness."

She could feel his smile curve beneath her fingertips. He caught her wrist again, but she didn't let him pull her away.

Slowly, she let her fingers slide from his lips down to his chin. She traced the curve of his jaw, following the grain of his stubble. It was rough beneath her fingertips, but somewhat pleasant.

Bran released a small sigh. It filled the whole room with something warm and comfortable. Anticipation curled in her stomach. She wanted more of him. Her thumb brushed his cheekbone.

"I thought you said I was everything you're supposed to hate," Bran whispered.

Her fingers tensed against his jaw.

"Yeah," she said, just as quietly. "There's also a supposed in there. Don't you work with words all day?"

A smile played on his lips. "It is my duty never to assume."

Hawke leaned closer, her hand cupping his jaw. "Maker, are you still clinging to duty?" she breathed. "Well... If this is too much for your delicate emotions… tell me to stop."

He didn't say it. Instead, his hand came up, brushed her cheek, and –

A loud knock on the door startled them both.

"Time's up, sweethearts!" came the chipper, muffled voice of the prostitute through the door.

For one more heartbeat, they didn't move. They just stared at each other, stunned and breathless. The touch was broken, and so was the moment.

Hawke recoiled. "Maker's flaming balls!"

Shit. She was in a brothel. With Bran. And they nearly –

Nope.

Too much. Too close. Too real.

Her instinct screamed run.

She leapt up, stumbling a little as she made for the door. "I have to go. I left my… something. Somewhere," she mumbled, eyes fixed on everything but Bran.

She passed the prostitute without hearing a word of what he said. The noise was too much. The smells. The press of people. Her skin felt hot. Her chest too tight.

Outside. She needed outside.

The doorstep passed beneath her feet before she could second-guess herself. The fresh inhale of cool night-time air was like the breath of life.

Things could have gone a lot differently, if only she'd listened to her second instinct.

Breath on her lips. A hand around her wrist. An argument – or had it been flirtation?

Maker, she didn't know.

Bran rose to his feet only after she had left. The air remained charged in her absence. The echo of her touch still lingered on his cheek.

If only it hadn't been for the knock.

A throat cleared in the doorway. Bran looked up.

"Well," the prostitute said, taking in the room. "Bed's still made."

It was true. The only signs of their presence were a few wrinkles and divots in the covers, like their ghosts still sat there.

"You want to rebook for tomorrow?" the man said with a smile. "We can put it on your loyalty tab."

Bran didn't answer immediately. He hadn't lied when he said her embrace had been effective. Different than any sexual act could have accomplished, but a similar result. He felt calmer, like it was easier to breathe. His shoulders didn't hurt as much.

He turned back, unwilling to linger any longer than he already had.

That would be ineffective.

"No," he said at last. "I believe I've gotten what I came for."

The man grinned, leaning alluringly against the doorway. His shirt fell open to highlight his athletic torso. "In that case… see you next time, Mister Cavin."

Bran cast one brief look back. Not at the man, he was already filed away in a neat mental box that didn't need access anytime soon. But the bed, and the ghost of her imprint, refused to be tucked away so cleanly.

"Good night," he said, more out of procedure than intention, adjusting his sleeves. Composure came easy to him after years of wearing it.

Caged emotions.

But as he stepped outside the brothel, the only Rose that lingered in his mind was her.

Note: Week later because I had to recover from some minor medical procedure. But we should be back on track! Next chapter is called "Legacy".