faderift | i want to lie down somewhere and suffer for love until it nearly kills me

WHO: Hercules Hansen, Benevenuta Thevenet, + dogs.
WHAT: A touchingly romantic reunion, probably.
WHEN: Cloudreach 14th, let's say.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: I lied.

It doesn't take long for news of Warden Hansen's escape to filter up to the hold proper. She is made aware of it with a promptness that almost offends her; the girl who bears the news is a kind thing who means well, who looks for something that she won't find in Benevenuta's straight back and taut mouth and accepts her dismissal with poorly hidden disappointment thoroughly ignored by the lady in question. Seen, remembered, but not acknowledged. It's - good. That he is here. It's what she wanted, and in satisfaction she finds her own wanting immediately abhorrent - a weakness unforeseen and nothing he invited from her.

He lives and he returns. Good. He does it himself, under his own power; better, but the fierce pride is something to be tamped down, not hers to grasp. He made her no promises and voiced no expectation, and why should he? She entertains him of an evening now and again. She might entertain any number of men so and what business would it be of his? None. And he is a man grown who knows as much, and they are not -

They are not something that dashes down to the Wardens' camp and flings itself about the place like something out of cheap melodrama. She is informed of his escape and she says something she doesn't recall in so many words later about the will of the Maker and his great mercy and does not rise from the desk at which she works. The plans for the housing expansion are coming together nicely, and she attends closely the discussion begun by that girl Katniss, and keeps her records, and

she still leaves the door open a little, so that when Max comes to her as is his recent habit, he only has to nudge it a little to join Husband at her feet and settle angled toward the warmth of the hearth.

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A long silence follows it. All of it. All of that.

Honestly, for a while there Herc isn't entirely sure he's following, because what she's saying sounds awfully romantic (for her, or them, really) and a lot more complicated than he's sure either of them really thought was ever going to happen. Part of him, the part that's a man who has loved and lost a great deal, who isn't necessarily all that good at loving but who cares more than he can really give words because he isn't any kind of politician or wordsmith, not here, not in the damned Void.

Herc has the distinct feeling he's in trouble, because there's a weight plummeting in his gut.

"So," he starts, like it'll buy him time (laughable, time is the last thing he's ever had, but he keeps on trying to barter for it.) "You're saying..."

What, exactly? He knows, really, he does. All the talk about presuming and wasting time and Dorian being romantic and her having a strong reaction, but he's watching her steadily. This isn't romantic. Grey Wardens are not, cannot be, romantic. They're people walking with a death sentence, and she's talking about wasted time. Herc sighs, and he wants to be happy about this, which is the worst part. There's a part of him, a piece of him from long ago, who'd have smiled and chuckled and kissed her because words are evidently overrated, at this point.

But he can't even bring himself to joke his way out of this one. His expression gives away more than his words, though - lips slightly parted, more affection and conflict and concern in his gaze than has any business being there. Herc's face has always given him away, when push comes to shove. "Can you stop talking all properly about it, for a minute? You just said something important and I feel like I need to contact a diplomat to draft a proper reply." Quiet, teasing, bewildered by his own lack of adequate articulation rather than critical of her own. "I just got out of a dungeon," he tries to explain, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand. "And I thought about you more than I had any right to, in that place, when I wasn't half delirious. And all of what you said-- it sounds well and good. It sounds great, actually, but I can barely stand. My head feels scrambled, and-- there's not a thing to suggest that'd ever change."

He hates that his tone gives away how sad that makes. Not because he hates being a Warden, mind. Being a Warden is a barrier, though.

"You ought to be resting," she says, suddenly, rising - it's almost the beginning of that earful that she said he wasn't going to get, with a new topic, but she manages to rein in the desire to swear at her own foolishness for subjecting him to any of that when he's obviously...when it was such a near thing. He doesn't need this, any of it, he should have a healer. Eight healers. What is she to him? She isn't even a useful sort of mage, she's a Necromancer -

At least her sudden shift in mood apparently gives Max permission, because he moves when she does; returns to Herc's side, as Benevenuta conspicuously fails to do the same.

"I should have sent him to you," she says, decisively. "You shouldn't have come all this way from...that camp is terrible," a small aside. Which she'd been powerfully indifferent to when he hadn't been in it, it must be said, preferring that the majority of Wardens experience some discomfort and trusting that Teren is perfectly capable of avoiding any discomfort that she wishes to. Probably aches and pains are just intimidated out of her body. And -

And that's that, she's said all of those stupid things and he has a headache, and that's that conversation over with. Now is a terrible time for it, he's right. They can just never have it at all, that's - fine. Even preferable. What conversation is there to have? He was in a dungeon and he

thought of her

and everything is terrible and she's being selfish. He should have his dog back, probably.

There's been a shift, here. He's not dense enough to miss that, even if Hercules Hansen knows that he's got plenty of limits, and those certainly don't exclude dealing with people. Duty? That was fine. There were clear rules, most of the time, and when there weren't he could muddle through, try to stick by the guiding principle of what'd protect the many versus the few. It wasn't always easy, but if it were then just about anybody could do the job. Maybe the same should be said of interactions like this. Easy interactions didn't just fall out of the sky (except, maybe these days if there was a particularly friendly rifter, that might be a pretty literal way around the rule.)

Max lumbers back to his side, and now he's got Benuta sounding like she's made up her mind about something (not sure to what end, but it has him mildly concerned) and Max leaning his head against him, drool already trailing down from his mouth as he makes content grumbly sounds at the return of his master.

"We've had worse," he finally replies, and there's a bit of a smile with that. "That place is practically a luxury inn, compared to the Deep Roads." Which isn't to say it isn't still rough and the cold feels like its sinking right into his bones and he can't get warm, sometimes, but he's not eager to go ripping holes in their morale just yet, to set 'em up to get undermined.

Seems like that is that, then, and there's a knot of disappointment tangling unhappily in his gut. "Besides, Max probably liked being up here. I'd bet he gets more spoiled, with you."

"He is, of course, always welcome." The studied neutrality of it is - a bit more familiar ground than the way she'd forced that curiously formal expression of uncomfortable truths like she was a bleeding stone, but less, now. The sly edge of her that's run as a playful undercurrent to more recent interactions is blunted and she holds herself poised and apart; hard enough to say any of it at all, to accept it might be necessary or worthwhile, harder still to consider pressing the issue.

Easier - much easier - to focus on the I can barely stand part and not the it sounds great, actually part and withdraw, tell herself it's for just for now and never mean to press it again, anyway.

She shouldn't let her judgment be muddled by a man. Not even one with so little sand left in the hourglass. What would her mother say? What didn't she already say, probing, about Benevenuta's conduct at the soiree.

"You should rest," she repeats, with a small, odd smile. "I hardly meant to trap you in conversation."

"Thank you."

He means it, he does, and that he's genuine and grateful shines through better than almost anything else. Gratitude fits in with the job. Gratitude and surviving battles and getting jobs done could all be woven together and fit into being a decent soldier and good enough to work with that others'll keep on putting up with you better than if you're an uncooperative little shit.

He's not sure he did such a great job of teaching Chuck gratitude, though. He's a better soldier than he was a father, a better soldier than whatever he'd be trying to be for Benuta. Nothing long term, though, nothing last. She's a high born lady, and he's a man with time running through his grasp faster than sand.

"It's never a trap, with you." Course it can be, but his own smile is a little crooked. "Not one I mind so much, anyway."

But she wanted him to go, evidently, and he offers a stiff bow.

i want to lie down somewhere and suffer for love until it nearly kills me

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that icon is such gold tho

her scrunchyfais c:

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