All rights go to Bioware. Comments/reviews are always appreciated! I have a few chapters planned for this one, and I hope you enjoy.

"I fold." Tyrn Lavellan releases a sigh and sets the remainder of his cards down with a decisive tap. Across from him, Varric coughs in surprise.

"What? Already?" He asks, peering at him from over the top of his current hand. The dwarf's fingers drum lightly against the wooden surface as his brow drops low. "We're barely getting started!"

Tyrn raises an eyebrow at him. "Yes, on our fourth game," he says with a chuckle. "I'm afraid I can't afford to lose to you again, my friend. You've nearly cleaned me out...the next thing I know, you'll be taking my wedding ring as payment."

"Ha!" Varric laughs at the thought, until he catches Cassandra's icy glare from Tyrn's side. "Right. Well, I'm sure we would both end up mysteriously dead if that were to happen," he adds.

Cassandra's mouth turns slightly upward in a smirk. "That you would," she confirms. Tyrn smiles and leans closer to her, furrowing his brow as he attempts to get a good look at her cards. "Hey!" She tugs them away from view. "No peeking."

"What? I'm not in the game anymore."

"So?"

"Well...I was thinking we could team up, you know. Wouldn't you like some help?" He gives her his best rendition of elven puppy dog eyes: something that, on occasion, is nearly impossible for her to deny.

Varric straightens from across the table. "What? No way. That would be completely unfair!" He protests. Cassandra looks to Tyrn, wholly unfazed by his pleading expression—much to his disappointment, but not to his surprise (his elven wiles only go so far, after all).

"As if it would be unfair when we're playing against you, Varric," she says as she turns back to the dwarf, her eyes sparkling with humor. "But still...I would like to finish this one on my own, I think. Besides," Cassandra looks back at Tyrn with a determined expression, "this is what we practiced for. Is it not?"

"Hold on." Varric leans forward and narrows his eyes at the couple. "Are you saying you guys have been...practicing Wicked Grace, just so you can beat me?" Tyrn clears his throat to suppress a laugh.

"You can hardly blame us. It gets quiet around here, anyway, and Wicked Grace is a good way to pass the time." He scoots back from the table and pauses behind his wife, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to her temple. "Maker smile upon you," he whispers. "You'll need it." Cassandra releases a snort of laughter as he straightens and she shoves him hard, causing him to stumble slightly as he ambles toward the kitchen, snickering.

"Well, I must say I'm flattered," Varric quips as Tyrn enters the kitchen and examines their supply of food. How did we run out of meat so quickly? He wonders, frowning at the empty rack. A course of vegetables won't do for Varric. I don't think he eats anything green. He hears the dwarf continue from around the corner, "But sadly, that practice hasn't seemed to help you two very much." Tyrn rolls his eyes, even though his dwarven friend can't see him, and reaches for a pinch of dried tea leaves and a mug. Cassandra mutters something that he doesn't catch.

When he returns to the den, the two are buried in their cards, faces scrunched in concentration. Tyrn leans nonchalantly against the wall and takes a sip of his tea. Varric plays a knight card, sliding it onto the table with two fingers before returning to his accustomed habit when deep in thought: drumming his fingers on a nearby surface. The patter serves as background noise as Cassandra sets out a card of her own. Varric grunts. The tapping increases.

"Stop that," Cassandra growls, her dark eyes snapping up to the dwarf. He grunts in mock surprise.

"Stop what?"

"That tapping. It's distracting."

Varric leans forward, his lips turned upward in a smirk. "Why, Lady Seeker, that's part of the game," he says.

"Tapping your fingers against the table is not part of the game."

The dwarf chuckles and leans back again in his chair, peering at her with a knowing expression. "This is a game of deception and tactics, right?" He asks, thumbing through his cards. "If my tapping is distracting you, then it's working. It's part of my tactics—my battle strategy." Cassandra releases a disgusted noise through her teeth and hunkers down in her chair, as if to escape the rhythmic tap-tap-thump coming from Varric's fingers. She looks up at Tyrn with her eyebrows raised; he returns her glance with one of his own—a mixture of amusement and pity. Cassandra draws a card from the top of the deck and frowns. Tyrn takes another sip of his tea, savoring the earthy taste, and sighs.

"How's the tea, Stumpy?" Varric asks, turning to look up at his friend. Tyrn releases a chuckle at the nickname—it still makes him laugh, even after three years of having only half of his left arm—and smirks.

"It's quite good. Would you like some?"

"Ah, no thanks."

"I thought not." The elf runs his thumb along the edge of the mug. "We do have some ale, if you would prefer."

Varric gives him a half smile at this. "As long as it's not that Qunari stuff, that would be perfect. Thank you." Tyrn gives him a slight nod and retreats back into the kitchen, glass clinking as he prepares the drink. He pulls a second mug down for Cassandra and uses the remainder of the hot water to make her some tea.

"So, Varric," Cassandra begins from the other room. "How is Bianca? The person, I mean. Not the crossbow."

The dwarf grunts noncommittally. "Oh, you know, we write letters and stuff. She's a little busy with...family issues at the moment. It's been a few weeks since she's written."

"I see."

"Yeah. But hey, her parents haven't tried to have me killed in the last month, so, you know, that's a plus."

"Uh-huh."

Tyrn adds a spoonful of honey and a sprinkle of cinnamon to Cassandra's tea—enough to be noticeable, but not overbearing—and carefully brings the two beverages back to the den. Varric raises his mug of ale in gratitude before taking a swig. Tyrn rests Cassandra's tea beside her and brushes her arm with his hand, a brief but affectionate gesture, then retrieves his own mug from the kitchen and sits down beside her.

"Thank you," she says upon his return. Her brown eyes are warm and soft. He loves seeing her like this—away from the burden of her duties as a Seeker. Oh, she still frets over things that need to be done (indeed, he has had to pry her away from their desk—piled high with various books and reports—on more than one late evening, and she him), but when they agree to close the thick volumes and shuffle away the papers, she comes up for air as a bird may spread its wings and take flight. Her smile comes more easily, her eyes more prone to glow, and Tyrn is suddenly and unbearably grateful for the simplicity of being close to her, both in and out of stressful times.

Such are his thoughts when he realizes he's been staring at her rather intensely; Cassandra gives him a worried frown, searching his face.

"What is it?" She asks.

"Hmm?" He clears his throat. "Oh, ah, nothing." Tyrn shifts awkwardly in his seat and sips his tea. Cassandra's cheeks turn slightly pink as she turns her attention back to the cards in her hand, content to let the moment pass in light of present company.

"You two are strange," Varric remarks, as he is, apparently, not content to let the moment pass. "I mean, not really a bad kind of strange. It's endearing." He slides a card onto the table and rubs his chin in thought. "Know what I mean?"

Cassandra narrows her eyes at the dwarf. "No."

"Not even a little?"

"No." Cassandra lays down a card and thumbs through her remaining hand, frowning, although the edge in her voice is softened by amusement. Tyrn leans closer to the table and tries to predict which card she will play next.

"Well," he says, "we are quite strange. Cassandra, especially."

His wife's attempt at a cold glare falls short as her eyes flick to his. "Oh? I think that, out of the two of us, you are far more strange than I."

"She may be right, Stumpy." Varric takes a card from the top of the deck and peers over at his friend. "You had the anchor, after all."

"Mmm." Tyrn grunts in half-amused agreement. "Granted." Cassandra gives him a playful bump with her shoulder and raises an eyebrow.

"Still though, let's not get too far down Cassandra's list of weird shit. At the very top will be her love for Swords and Shields, I think." The dwarf laughs, and Tyrn stifles a snicker of his own. Cassandra chuckles in spite of herself.

"Now, Varric," Tyrn starts, watching as his wife puts down another card, "since you're the author of Swords and Shields, doesn't that make you equally strange, if not more so?"

"Heh." The dwarf takes a swig of his ale. "It probably does, Stumpy. It probably does." He pauses for a moment, tips his head to the side as he examines his hand, then seems to come to a decision as he lays a card on the table. He is in the middle of another drink when Cassandra slaps a final card down. Varric coughs and leans forward, sputtering, as he surveys the playing field. His eyes dart up to Cassandra's after a moment; a smile slowly spreads across his face. "I don't believe it," he says. "It looks like all that practice came to fruition, after all. Well played, Seeker."

"Ha!" Cassandra takes a long sip of her tea and smiles widely. "I can't believe I actually won!" Unable to contain her sudden excitement, she scoots away from the table and stands. The dwarf sighs and pushes his stack of silvers her way, but she shakes her head. "Thank you, but I think the bragging rights are payment enough for me." Tyrn raises his eyebrows at Varric, who rubs his chin in thought.

"Bragging rights?" The dwarf asks. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, now. You do realize this is one out of, what, at least twenty or thirty games over the last few years?"

"The first of many," Cassandra remarks. She reaches down to scoop up the cards, sorting and stacking them in neat piles as Varric opens his case and puts them away.

"I'll never hear the end of this, will I?" he asks, looking up at Tyrn as the elf stands.

"Nope." Tyrn chuckles to himself and takes their empty mugs to the kitchen. Seeing the dwindled supply of meat once again, he deposits his burden on the counter and grunts. "Cass?"

"Yes?" His wife's reply drifts from around the corner.

"I'm afraid we're out of meat again. I'll need to go hunting." Tyrn scrubs the dishes until they are clean, then carefully dries them and sets them in their rightful places. He and Cassandra are both particular when it comes to having a clean, orderly kitchen; Tyrn suspects it is because they have never had one of their own before (he, coming from a Dalish clan, and she, coming from a large enough family that kitchens were generally managed by servants). To have one of their own has been a strange, foreign thing—a place of art and effort and experimentation that they have both come to love.

Cassandra steps into the kitchen as he is finishing and frowns at the empty meat rack. "Hmm. Did we really finish the rest of that bird yesterday?"

"Apparently." Tyrn shrugs. "Looks like we underestimated Varric's appetite."

Cassandra raises an eyebrow at him. "Varric's? Or yours?"

"Perhaps a bit of both." Tyrn smiles, and they regard each other quietly for a moment. Cassandra's eyes meet his: deep brown against winter blue. Then he steps closer and reaches up to smooth an unruly section of her short, jet-black hair; he never fails to wonder at how soft it is.

"Did someone mention hunting?" Varric comes around the corner and stops short, looking suddenly more than a little uncomfortable. Cassandra clears her throat and turns to face him. "Uh, sorry," the dwarf stammers. "Do you guys need a minute to, ah, make out or something?"

Tyrn releases a chortle of laughter as his wife rolls her eyes heavily. "Sorry, Varric," he says. "And yes—I need to go for a hunt. I haven't been able to find much in the way of larger game around here lately, though. Cassandra and I have actually been meaning to take a longer trip—maybe travel further up through the hills, find some better options. Ram or bear, perhaps."

"Huh." Varric angles his head back, considering. "You know," he drawls, "I think Kirkwall is in good hands for the next week or so…."

"Hunting trip?" Tyrn's lips turn upward in a smile.

"It'll be just like old times. What do you say, Seeker? The three of us, the great outdoors, the limitless possibilities for making fun of your hunting skills…." Varric tips his head in question.

"Oh, please. I've done plenty of hunting in my time," Cassandra growls.

"Sure," he quips, "If by 'hunting' you mean clanking around in that armor of yours and flushing out the game while Tyrn and I do the hard part."

"Very funny, dwarf."

"I thought so."

"Anyway," Tyrn presses in, his eyes bright with amusement, "I think it's a good idea. Let's take a few days and enjoy the trip. Cass?"

His wife looks to him, her mouth turned upward in a lopsided smirk. "Yes, let's. I'll wear lighter armor," she gives Varric a pointed look at this, "but I'm still bringing my shield. You never know."

"Right," Varric agrees with a raise of one eyebrow. "Bears." Cassandra sighs and disappears down the hall to gather a few supplies.

Tyrn looks down at Varric with a thoughtful expression. "That was generous of you," he says, nodding toward the case of Wicked Grace cards in his hand.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the dwarf grumbles.

"Uh-huh."

"Ah hell, Stumpy," Varric's eyes flash mischievously, "I did it more for me than for her. She might have beheaded me if I won again."

"Ha," the elf grunts in amusement. "And she may very well behead you if she finds out you let her win, as well."

Varric rubs the stubble on his chin in thought. "That's...a fair point," he concedes. "Let's keep this under wraps, shall we?"

"Agreed."

"Did you pack the rest of those tea leaves?"

"Mm-hmm."

"What about an extra blanket? It's cold this time of year."

"Of course."

"And the straps for your dagger? Did you finish curing the new ones?"

"Yes, dear." Tyrn adjusts the final clasps on his crafted arm and turns it over a few times before sliding on his hunting jacket. The blade appendage fits snugly over the end of his residual left arm, at once a crude replacement and a grim reminder of his missing limb. While the dagger-length blade does not allow him to practice the art of "true" dual wielding—after all, he cannot adjust the blade during a fight as he might have shifted his grip or twirled his weapon before—it serves its purpose well enough. Tyrn crafted the device (with Varric's help, as he found that one-handed smithing was not very efficient) shortly after the Exalted Council meeting; the obsidian blade, elegantly curved and deadly sharp, glints as he tugs down his left sleeve and sheathes his second dagger on his back. Beside him, Cassandra fiddles with the straps of her leather tunic, attempting to tighten it across the shoulders. "Here." Tyrn steps behind her and uses his right hand to adjust them.

"Thank you," she says. When she finishes strapping on her belt, she pulls a traveling cloak with a high collar over her shoulders and looks up at him.

"Don't forget to bring a book," Tyrn says. "I know you'll want to read in the evenings before you turn in."

A small smile plays on her lips. "I've packed that new poetry volume you gave me."

"You'll probably want to bring an extra blanket, as well," he adds with a smirk. "Otherwise you'll end up stealing mine."

"Mmm." Cassandra tugs at his collar with an amused expression, fixing a crease in the leather. "Now you're just poking fun," she says, raising an eyebrow at him.

"What, I don't get to remind you to pack your things? Do I detect a double standard?"

"Ha! Never." She chuckles and leans into his chest, breathing in the scent of pine and autumn air and tanned leather as he hugs her tightly, humming. "I'm sorry," she murmurs. Tyrn reaches up to stroke her hair.

"Don't be. Are you worried?"

"About the trip? No. I think it will be a nice change of pace, actually." She sighs thoughtfully. "Still...after all this time, I sometimes need to remind myself that we are going on a simple hunting trip, not heading out to face a horde of demons or Qunari or Maker knows what else."

"I know." They pull away for a moment; his hand lingers on her cheek, tracing the scar that runs above her left jawline. "I do, too." Then his eyes brighten. "But don't worry...I'll protect you from the big bad bears." At this, Cassandra snorts and shoves him playfully as he chuckles.

"I think it will likely be the other way around...Stumpy."

Tyrn laughs and tosses Cassandra her pack; she swings it over her shoulders before grabbing her shield and sliding her sword into its scabbard. Before they leave the room, she picks up a hunting spear for good measure. Tyrn raises an eyebrow at her. "Ready?" He asks.

She returns his question with a smile. "Yes, my love. Let's go."

"So, Seeker…."

"Don't say it."

"What?"

"You were going to make some terrible joke about how many weapons I'm carrying." Cassandra hoists herself over a fallen tree and lands steadily on the other side, then continues on through the grass. The Hinterlands are especially cold in autumn; a slight breeze cuts through the pines and ruffles her short hair. Beside her, Varric tugs on his shoulder strap and grunts.

"Nonsense. All of my jokes are funny."

"Ugh."

"What? It's just—" the dwarf kicks a pine cone over to Tyrn, and the two begin a back and forth game, "—I mean, are you expecting...resistance, or?"

Cassandra sighs.

Varric continues: "Well, I suppose I understand your concern. Bears and rabid bunnies are pretty formidable. I hope you haven't forgotten how to hold that shield of yours." He sidesteps to catch Tyrn's next pass, then boots the pinecone back to him.

"It never hurts to be prepared," Cassandra says. "Besides...since my usual armor would be—what was the term you used? Clanky?—I feel a little bit exposed. How you two have managed all these years with little more than leather and a small amount of chainmail is beyond me."

Tyrn flicks the pinecone up onto the toe of his boot and then kicks it into the air; it hits the sleeve of Varric's jacket and rolls to a stop a few feet away. He looks to his wife. "Subtlety," he says. "That, and well-sharpened daggers."

"And Bianca, of course." Varric reaches back to pat his trusty crossbow. "Mostly Bianca."

Cassandra releases another sigh. "Subtlety has never been my strong suit."

"You can say that again," the dwarf chuckles. Cassandra rolls her eyes heavily as they continue on through the brush, ducking below pine branches and vaulting over the occasional outcropping of rock. Before long, the home behind them disappears from view.

"Varric," Tyrn ventures after a stretch of amicable silence, "I've noticed that you haven't given Cassandra a nickname yet."

The dwarf scuffs his boot and coughs. "Sure I have, Stumpy. It's Seeker."

"That's not a nickname," Cassandra says, turning her head to glance over at him. "That's my title."

"Well, think of it this way: if I gave you a nickname back when I barely knew you, I probably wouldn't be alive today. Am I right?"

Cassandra stifles a laugh. "I see your opinion of me is still excessively low."

Varric brushes a fallen pine needle from his shoulder, then looks to her with an amused expression. "Aw, so you do care what I think!"

"Ugh."

"So, if you were to give her a nickname now, what would it be?" Tyrn asks, stepping over a large stone and readjusting one of the straps of his hunting pack. The dwarf hums in thought.

"Hmm. You know, before I would have said something like, 'Scowls', or maybe 'Hard Ass'. But now, Seeker, you don't scowl quite as much, and you seem a little nicer." He glances at Tyrn with an amused expression. "Apparently, Stumpy's amiable personality has rubbed off on you."

At this, Cassandra gives her husband a warm smile. He smirks.

"That said...I don't know, maybe something like, 'Swoony' instead," Varric says.

"I do not swoon!" She cuts him a defensive glare.

Varric laughs as her cheeks turn pink. "Right. I must have missed the look you just gave Tyrn, then. Right, Stumpy?"

"I have to say I'm with Varric on this one, dear," the elf agrees. "Not that I can blame you for falling for my roguish charms, of course."

Cassandra sighs for what must be the millionth time today. "You two are insufferable."

They hike further into the hills, at times filling the cold air with conversation and laughter; at others, allowing a comfortable silence to stretch between them, broken only by the rustle of the pines or the occasional bird call. The sun is setting by the time the three finally stop at a grassy clearing.

"Ah," Varric grunts as his stomach rumbles loudly, "we should make camp before it gets dark."

"And before your stomach attracts unwanted attention," Tyrn says.

"Agreed," Cassandra chimes in. "You'll lure all of the rabid bunnies right to our camp, and then we'll really be in trouble." She slides her pack off of her shoulders and tips her head back in a stretch.

"I guess it's a good thing you came prepared, after all," the dwarf quips. He pats his belly. "Please tell me we brought something other than vegetables to eat."

Tyrn removes his own pack and rummages through some of their supplies. "Tomorrow we can do some hunting," he says, "but for tonight...ah, here we are." The elf pulls a loaf of bread from the pack and tosses it to Varric. His friend looks down at it with a somewhat disappointed expression, as though he were hoping for roast duck.

"Well...at least it isn't green," he sighs.

Tyrn raises an eyebrow as he and Cassandra begin unrolling their tents. "Not until you bite into it, that is. You never know. Cassandra baked it, after all."

His wife gives him a steely glare. "Oh, please. At least I didn't burn it to a crisp, husband."

"Touché."

Varric unwraps the bread and examines it for a moment before tearing a piece off and taking a bite. Seemingly satisfied, he swallows and takes another, then moves toward the couple. "I can help with the tents, Stumpy, if you want to grab some firewood." He wraps the bread again and sets it down for later. A strange, almost wistful expression passes over Tyrn's face, brief but prominent, before he nods and heads silently through the brush. Cassandra watches after him with a lingering worry in her eyes.

"You think he's alright?" Varric helps her find some decent-sized branches, and together they stretch the fabric of the first tent over the makeshift frame.

"It bothers him sometimes," she says, pulling the fabric tight. "The loss of his arm, I mean. He tries to hide it, but…."

"Mmm." Varric hums thoughtfully as he pulls the first anchor and stakes it to the ground. When he's finished, he looks up at Cassandra. "I've noticed. I can understand it, though, if you think of it from his point of view. He wasn't just anybody. He was the Inquisitor. Dragon-slaying, demon-crushing, all-around hero of Thedas, Inquisitor."

"He is still that hero," Cassandra says as she stakes the second anchor. They move on to the next tent; Varric finishes unrolling the fabric as she continues. "The loss of his arm doesn't change who he is; not really. And I will have you know that he wasn't interested in all of that fame. He just...did what he had to do."

"Right, he's said that before. He's really too humble for his own good." They pull until the fabric is taut, then stake the first end.

"Ah. You did heard him talk about his roguish charm earlier, right?"

Varric chuckles. "You know what I mean." They finish the second tent, and Cassandra lays some blankets down in both. "But my point is this: he went from doing all of those impossible things to having trouble carrying more than two mugs at once." He levels the Seeker with a steady gaze. "You do realize he worries about you, right? He's your husband, Cassandra. He wants to be able to protect you—rabid bunnies, bears, demons, nightmares, or whatever else."

"I know he does." Her gaze flickers downward, and something akin to sorrow passes over her dark eyes. "I just…." She releases a sigh through her teeth. "I'm not sure how to help him, exactly."

Varric retrieves the loaf of bread and hands her a chunk, smirking. "Hell, Seeker, some things never change."

"Pardon?"

"You're a fixer. Always have been." He takes a bite of bread and chews thoughtfully for a moment. "But this, I'm afraid, isn't something you can just fix. What he probably needs is time. Be patient, support him, let him...I don't know, work through it like a man."

"Hmm."

"And a good hunting trip should help boost his confidence, too," Varric adds.

Cassandra tips her head to the side as she regards the dwarf. "Thank you, Varric...and you know," she says, "I think he might have rubbed off on you, too."

He laughs heartily, a rumbling sound that emanates from his chest. "Yeah, he probably did." Then he sighs. "Ugh, look at me, giving relationship advice...I need some ale." With this, he rummages around in his pack until he finds a flask, then takes a long swig. "Ah," the dwarf sighs. "Better."

Tyrn arrives shortly with a bundle of wood balanced somewhat awkwardly in his arms and, as the last rays of sunlight ebb and the first stars begin to gleam, the three hunters rest comfortably around the fire. Varric regales the other two with stories from some of his recent endeavors in Kirkwall; mostly, they involve the nonsensical and more than a little extravagant ways in which he and Hawke managed to prank Bran Cavin.

"It's too bad Sera isn't here—she would have loved that one," Tyrn says, laughing, as Varric finishes.

The dwarf nods. "She gave me the idea for it in her last letter, actually." He stokes the fire, watching as the embers rise into the night sky. "Anyway, I suppose I should turn in. I don't know about you two, but I'm exhausted."

"Oh?" Cassandra raises an eyebrow at him from over the top of her poetry book. "Don't tell me you've gone soft on us, Varric. Has all of that viscount business gotten to you?"

Varric snorts. "And this is coming from the woman reading a book of poetry, of all things." He sends her a lopsided smirk.

Cassandra sighs and returns to her poems.

"Well," the dwarf grunts as he pulls himself to his feet and heads for a tent. "I'll see you guys in the morning, then. Try to get some shut-eye, yes?" He heads inside his canvas shelter, pulling the flap closed and releasing a definitive sigh as he presumably lays down.

It is quiet for a while; Tyrn leans close to Cassandra and wraps an arm around her waist. He drinks in the warmth of the fire, the wild air, the tilt of Cassandra's head as she breathes, engrossed in her book. She shifts as he lets out a contented sigh. Her eyes—close, alight with fire—meet his. He smiles.

"Any good ones?" Tyrn asks, his gaze flicking to the pages littered with stanzas, like so many mysteries, so many letters to open and pull apart and discover.

"A few." She raises an eyebrow at him. "Here…." Cassandra flips through the pages until she finds a certain poem, then hands the book to Tyrn. "You might like this one."

He studies the page for a moment, and she rests her head against his shoulder. Then he begins to read:

"Three times I knock on the Maker's door

Thrice I am denied

Cold hands rap on unyielding, gilded crests

How long must I wait? Does He know? Will He answer?

The first is heat in my veins

Salt water pours, flesh is fire

Soaked rags pressed to my forehead

All is burning, aching, flame,

Make it stop make it stop

And then, it does.

Three times I knock on the Maker's door

Thrice I am denied

Cold hands rap on unyielding, gilded crests

How long must I wait? Does He know? Will He answer?

The second is emptiness

Hands grasping for something to fill

Instead, they close on echoes

Sickness and battle have ravaged our land

Now we wail and kick the dust

Emptiness yawns; I reach for the sun as it closes

Three times I knock on the Maker's door

Thrice I am denied

Cold hands rap on unyielding, gilded crests

How long must I wait? Does He know? Will He answer?

The third is a sword

Angry steel rips through armor

Down to the bone and flesh and soul beneath

The ground is frozen beneath me, hard against my back

Surely now is the time, Maker. Surely, today.

Three times I knock on the Maker's door

Thrice I am denied

Cold hands rap on unyielding, gilded crests

How long must I wait? Does He know? Will He answer?

I return to the door on one last trip;

Another knock, another tap.

This time I do not ask for me, but for her.

As the door remains closed and instead her eyes open, I realize:

I was not denied, not ignored, not turned away

But rather, thrice granted, thrice saved

Perhaps for this one last stand, this one last day."

Tyrn carefully closes the book and presses a kiss to Cassandra's head. "Good choice," he says. She releases an affirmative hum. They are quiet for a moment; the elf gazes into the fire and listens to the steady hush of Cassandra's breathing. Then she looks up at him.

"I love it when you read to me," she says simply.

A soft chuckle rumbles in his chest. "I know you do. It's how I won your heart in the first place, after all. Well, that and—"

"Your roguish charm?" She pinches his ear as he snickers. They laugh for a moment, and then she sits up so that she can see his eyes properly: Winter blue, she thinks—falling snow against the backdrop of a frozen lake. And yet, despite the coolness of the image, they are always so very warm. "I do not think I will ever tire of it," Cassandra says.

"My reading to you? Or my charm?" He smirks.

"Either." She smiles as he hugs her tightly, and then they pull themselves to their feet. Cassandra reaches up to smooth his collar again; her hand sweeps over the leather, still warm from their close proximity to the fire. "We should probably get some sleep," she says.

"Probably." Tyrn brushes his fingers under her chin, tipping her head up just slightly. A breeze passes through the camp, causing the fire to flicker and bend, and the shadows on her face dance as though guided by some silent choreographer. Cassandra tugs gently on his collar and he leans forward until their foreheads touch. Tyrn closes his eyes. "I love you," he whispers. He can feel her smile as they close that last, fragile distance between them with a long kiss.

"And I, you," Cassandra breathes as they pull away. Then she takes his hand and they walk, still smiling, into their tent with the expectation of a short—but restful—sleep.