#imagine seeing the fucking concentration camp as an improvement of your life conditions

[ohsalome]

- Anne Applebaum. The Red Famine: Stalin's War on Ukraine

[chelsfic]

Together Alone - Request: Horacio Carrillo x Brazilian Reader, Narcos fanfic

A/N: This fic is a response to a request by @poeedamerons​ who asked for a Horacio x Brazilian Reader story. I really hope you like this. I got a little swept away and…ugh if you don’t like it can you just pretend that you do? Thanks! I’m tender like a little shrimp or something…

This fic jumps back and forth in time, starts out in the present and then flashes to memories of the reader’s relationship with Horacio. It’s probably confusing lol.

Warnings: light smut (so mild, so soft, hardly there)

***

“…A clandestine life shared with a man who was never completely hers, and in which they often knew the sudden explosion of happiness, did not seem to her a condition to be despised.” (Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez)

Horacio comes to you in the late hours, when the darkness on the streets of Medellín is just starting to recede with the coming dawn. He’s still dressed in his uniform and you widen your eyes at him in furious admonition, hurrying him inside before anyone can see the silver gleaming on his chest, the damning badge that stands between you always.

You round on him in the front hallway of your tiny apartment, speaking in a whisper, “Meu deus! What are you thinking, Horacio? What if someone saw you?”

It takes you a minute to calm down, to steady your frenetic heartbeat enough that you notice the way he’s standing rigid, frozen in place–but his hands are shaking. 

“Meu coração,” your voice wavers. “What is it?”

It’s dark inside your apartment. Horacio’s face is in shadow. You watch the lines of his broad shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath.

“Pablo Escobar is dead.”

Your knees suddenly can’t support you and you fall back, leaning your weight against the wall, a hand to your chest. You feel for Horacio–you know what an enormous relief of his burden this must be. But you have to ask one thing first.

“And…my brother?”

Horacio closes his eyes, a muscle ticks in his jaw, he answers you in that gravelly-yet-soft voice you’ve grown to love, “Arrested, mi amor. He’s in custody. He’s safe.”

***

You meet Horacio Carrillo years earlier. Back when everything still feels simple, small, harmless. 

Your brother convinces you to come with him to Colombia, to Medellín: the heart of his new partner’s business. You’ve lived in Brazil your entire life, under the loving–if controlling–watch of your father. When Enzo tells you his plan: to get you into university, for both of you to live the lives you deserve far away from your overbearing father–well, you let yourself believe him even if you’ve never approved of what he gets up to out in the jungle. Enzo is your twin, though everyone who knows you always exclaims over your polar differences. You are the straight-laced bookworm. Enzo is the go-getter, the charmer, the hustler. As his twin you would think you’d be immune to his charm but–his enthusiasm is infectious.

And that’s what leads you here, to the moment you meet your future lover. Lined up with three others in a dark alleyway, watching the intimidating police colonel pace back and forth before you, deciding your fate.

“So…” his voice is gravelly but lighter than you would have imagined. Somehow it only adds to the calm, controlled violence that seems to lurk beneath the surface of his too-tight uniform shirt. “We know your vehicle was seen camped down the street from the roadblock. We know you tipped off Pablo’s sicarios and caused me and my men to waste our time. What we don’t know is…which one of you is smart enough to see you’re on the losing side?”

Your Spanish has improved exponentially during your months in this country but you still find yourself focusing with unusual intensity in order to parse the Colonel’s words. Sweat breaks out on the back of your neck and you shift nervously from foot to foot. You’re going to kill Enzo. He said he’d send someone to pick you up when your study group ran late–he didn’t tell you he was sending criminals.

The Colonel goes down the line, questioning each of you. By the time he reaches you he’s sent the others away in handcuffs. They refused to cooperate. Now it’s just you and he, alone except for the officer stationed at the entrance to the alley.

His eyes scan your outfit. You’re wearing blue jeans and a nice sweater your father gave you last Christmas. He narrows his eyes as he addresses you, “You’re different from the others…”

How much should you say? Caralho! Enzo is such an idiot. He’s never prepared you for something like this.

Well, the truth then. You’re a terrible liar…

“I don’t really…know them, sir,” you try to sound respectful but your eyes are locked onto the holstered gun at his side. “Are you going to arrest me?”

“Maybe,” he answers breezily. “Or maybe you can help me. You don’t know these people? How did you end up in a car with them?”

Meu Deus. 

“My…friend sent them to pick me up from school. I’m a student, sir. I don’t know anything about a roadblock or–”

“I believe you,” he interrupts, putting his hands in his pockets and observing you with a look of cautious interest. “Tell me about you friend.”

***

“He’s really safe?”

You’ve dreamed of this for so long. The end of lying, of secrecy, of fear. Enzo will think it a betrayal, but at least he’ll be alive to hate you. Pablo was a madman by the end. And your brother had no more friends left. There was no other way.

Horacio comes to you, stepping into your arms and letting his forehead drop to lean against yours, “Really, Y/N. It’s finally over.”

You turn your head toward his, just a fraction of an inch, an invitation. Horacio slides into the kiss like he’s coming home. His soft lips caress against yours, his tongue flicking out to trace the line of your mouth, delving inside and brushing against your own. Once his kisses felt forbidden, dangerous. Now kissing Horacio feels like the most natural thing in the world.

***

The first time he kisses you is the first time he asks you to wear a wire. 

You’ve given Carrillo enough solid tips for him to trust you as an informant. As an informant, mind you. Colonel Carrillo doesn’t fully trust anyone. The deal is you’ll help him. But you can’t give up your brother. Deep down you know that one day you’ll have to make a choice. A choice to save your brother by betraying him. But it’s not that day yet.

“I brought something for you,” Carrillo says, warming his hands on the mug of coffee you’ve provided. He’s sitting at the little kitchen table in your apartment. Street clothes. No gun. It’s still risky but better than meeting in public. 

You sit down across from him with your own cup of coffee and you regard him with a surprised smile, “Really?”

Carrillo’s lips quirk into a sardonic grin as he pulls out the wire and transmitter, placing them on the table between you. 

“Next time I’ll bring flowers,” he jokes. 

You swallow against your suddenly dry throat, “I thought we already discussed this.”

Carrillo reaches across the table and takes your hand in his. His calloused fingers rub soothing circles into your skin and he looks into your eyes with that intensity with which you’ve grown so familiar. This man is dedicated to his mission, some might even say obsessed. You wonder what would happen if you ever came between him and his goals. The thought sends a tiny shiver down your spine. 

“Look. I know you’re nervous. But nothing is going to happen to you, okay? I’ll show you how to put it on so no one will notice. This party you told me about? You said you think Escobar might even be there? This is a chance we can’t pass up. I need you, Y/N.”

You inhale sharply. Those words–I need you–his hand holding yours. You look into his molten gaze and try to read this mercurial man. Does he know how you think of him? Over the months of working for him, slowly earning his grudging trust, living together in the loneliness of your secret–you’re falling in love with him. And if he’s using that to get you to do this…

“Alright,” you answer, your voice cracking. “What do I do?”

You show him the summer dress you’re planning to wear to the barbecue. It’s floral, sleeveless, with a diaphanous bell skirt and a modest knee-length hemline. He regards it critically.

“Do you have a sweater you can wear over it?” he murmurs, fingering the thin fabric.

You shake your head and reply with nervous irritation, “No! That will be suspicious, Horacio! It’s the middle of the Summer. It will be hot out…”

It’s the first time you’ve used his given name, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His brow is knit with concentration. 

“It will work, you’ll just need to hide the transmitter some place…” he coughs and actually looks away with the hint of a blush on his cheeks. 

If Carrillo’s uncomfortable it’s nothing to your mortification. You grab the wire from his hands and march furiously into your bathroom. 

“Foda-se,” you grumble under your breath. Fuck it. This can’t get any more awkward right?

You emerge from the bathroom a few moments later, transmitter nestled securely in your biggest, granniest panties. The wire is taped across your torso, as Carrillo instructed, with the tiny microphone hidden worryingly close to the neckline of the dress.

You look up at Carrillo, anxiety rolling off of you in waves, “Are you sure no one will notice?”

Carrillo doesn’t respond right away. His eyes are glued to the pleasing swell of your curves beneath the thin fabric of the dress. It’s the first time he’s shown any kind of weakness to your femininity and you preen a little at the thought–even if you’re still quaking with worry over wearing a wire in the presence of violent criminals. That sobering thought is enough to flood you with fear once more and you actually tremble.

“H-Horacio? They won’t be able to notice?” you repeat.

Carrillo takes a step forward. He adjusts the neckline of your dress, letting his fingers just skim along the path of the wire, between your breasts, over the soft curve of your belly. Your lips part and you release a silent gasp at his touch. He’s watching you with those intense eyes again.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he says, his voice a soft, rasping whisper in the silence of your apartment.

“But you can’t promise–”

Your words are cut short when he takes you by the shoulders and plants a kiss on your lips. He’s warm and soft and firm against you. His kiss is surprising. He’s tender and tentative, pressing a few soft pecks to your full lips before allowing himself to deepen the kiss and dart out his tongue. You melt into him, hanging limp in his hands. If this is manipulation–if he’s doing this to claim your loyalty so he can complete his mission–well…you don’t care.

***

You fall into bed. Articles of clothing discarded like wilted flower petals on your path to the bedroom. Horacio still wears the cooled sweat of the chase on his skin, his muscles ache and he’s more exhausted than he’s ever felt. But he needs this. He needs to anchor himself in your body, your gentle love, to remind himself why. Why he’s fought and schemed and betrayed his morals for years. For his country, yes. For the people, yes. The victims, of course. But also–also for this moment of quiet, soft surrender, when he can finally take you as his own for all the world to know. 

“Querido,” you sigh into his lips. You lay your hands on his shaking shoulders, “Be with me now, amor. Shhhh.”

“I need you now,” he responds in a husky voice that’s barely controlled. “Right now.”

“You have me, Horacio.”

And he does.

***

Carrillo never tells you if he gleans anything useful from the recording that you risked your life to obtain at your brother’s party. He kisses you, sends you out to risk your life, and then you don’t hear from him for weeks. Living this double life is lonely and Carrillo–your handler as he calls himself–is the only person in whom you can confide. But he’s too busy enacting whatever insane mission your intel has enabled. You just pray it doesn’t get him killed. Or Enzo. Or you.

Tonight you’re going to forget about all that. You’re out with friends, dancing, drinking, and acting as if you don’t have the weight of the world on your shoulders for once. It feels good, although you can’t help but think about what it would feel like to be this carefree and open with Horacio. Horacio, your brother’s enemy…your boss…the man with whom you can’t be seen in public without fearing for your secret–your life. What would it be like to dance with him?

As if you’ve manifested him with your thoughts, Carrillo appears at the bar, his eyes trained on you with scorching intensity. You’re caught in his gaze, your hips gyrating to the music, your dance partner’s hands skimming over your waist even as you broadcast your yearning, your desire, to the man across the room.

You’re unsurprised to find Carrillo lurking in the shadows outside your apartment door when you return home later that night. You’d spent hours dancing and watching him, feeling emboldened by the distance between you and the crowded room. Now it’s just the two of you, hurrying into the sanctuary of your apartment, together and alone once again. He looms over you in the dark entryway. The fact of his large, powerful body is impossible to ignore. You feel yourself drawn to him like the sea to the shore, aching and rocking to meet with him in a crash like the waves breaking on the sand. 

“When I saw you with that guy tonight…” Horacio grumbles, backing you up against the wall and setting his hands on your hips–claiming you in the places your dance partner had touched.

“I know,” you whisper, letting your own hands trace up the solid muscles of his belly, his chest. “I wanted to be dancing with you.”

He looks into your eyes, he doesn’t need to say the words–you can’t dance together. You can’t go to dinner or get drinks or even take a walk together. If anyone saw you, the sister of one of Pablo Escobar’s most trusted associates, consorting with Colonel Horacio Carrillo of the Colombian National Police…well.

But here in the quiet darkness of your apartment you can have him for your own. 

“I want you, Horacio. I know we can’t be together but…”

Your words unleash him. He smashes his lips into yours, capturing you in a fierce, bruising kiss. Horacio wants you too. He wants you for his own. Wants to take you out dancing and show you off to his friends. But he can’t. Not until this is all over. For now, all he has is this. So he’ll claim you, mark you with his body, his hands, his lips. And one day–one day…

You make love in your bed, in the soft light of the street lights filtering in through the window blinds. Horacio is somehow gentle and rough, fast and slow. He loves you thoroughly with a reverence and a dedication to your pleasure that makes you want to weep. But he is also intent on leaving every mark he can on your skin. You have bruises on your hips and the red blemishes of kisses and bites on your shoulders and breasts. When it’s over you lay in his arms, shaking and clinging to him, afraid to let him go because you know when he leaves this place he walks out into danger. 

“I wish I could keep you, meu coração,” you whisper, the words dancing over his naked chest. 

He heaves a sigh and tightens his arms around you, “Me too, mi corazón.”

***

When Horacio enters you it’s like it was the first time. Gentle and rough, urgent and languid, every contradiction that lives in the heart of your messed up relationship, all at once. You feel a bubble of happiness expand inside you and you’re terrified. Because you’ve spent the last two years quelling your hopes, quieting your foolish wants. You’ve spent your whole time with this wonderful, brave, beautiful man knowing in your heart that he can’t truly be yours. Not while his enemy lives.

And now? On the night that he comes to you with the news that it’s all over, that you can finally rest, you can be together–for real? You’re scared. Scared that maybe none of this is real. Maybe he only loved you because of what you were to him: a secret key to unlock his enemy’s weaknesses. What are you now? What can you offer this man?

Horacio moves over you, rocking his hips against yours, sighing your name as he drops kisses to your forehead. 

“Mi amor,” he cries, his release quivering inside you as he drops his head into the crook of your neck. “I love you.”

You turn your head to watch him. His eyes have already drifted shut and his breathing is evening out. He’s utterly unguarded and comfortable in this place you’ve created together. As you watch him fall asleep you let your hand drift down to press against your lower stomach and the secret inside that you’ve kept for ten weeks. You imagine you can feel the little one shifting inside you, although it’s far too soon for that.

Your lips curl into a hopeful smile as you think about the world your child will inherit thanks to the bravery of its father…and mother.

Tag List:

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[reveriesramblings-blog]

Path Of The Arrow

                               A Lavellan And Harding Love Story

    A fanfiction depicting a personal headcanon of my Lavellan playthrough in the Dragon Age:Inqusition franchise. The Inquisitor struggles to integrate into a new life, but finds a familiar comfort in new friends and a possible new love. As he becomes the new shining face of Thedas, he learns that there is more to life than running away...

  This will be a series I’ll be updating every Saturday or so. Of course, I do not own the rights to the Dragon Age or the characters! This is purely for entertainment purposes. Some quotes/ dialogue were taken from the game.

                                                  Credits

A quick thanks to Dragon Age Wiki for a guide on elven cipher! FenxShiral for  reference.                                                WARNINGS    Please note that this series is 18+ for adult language and themes! Further warnings include PTSD, depression, violence, blood, possible gore, some sexual content, death, etc. Please message me privately if you have any other concerns.

Just a final note: I’m new to tumblr, so please have mercy while I learn the proper tag/edit system! I edit to the best of my ability and I’m here to share my imagination as well as improve my creative writing abilities.

                                                   Enjoy!

Elven translations: 

Lethallen (pl) - one who is familiar; usually a friendly title given from one elf to another. Similar to kin.

Shemlen/shems - quicklings; unfavorable name for humans

Mala suledin nadas - You shall endure

Falon'Din enasal enaste - An elven prayer for the dead

Vhenan -Heart; term of endearment

Ma vhenan - my heart; my love

Ir abelas - I'm sorry

Ma melava halani - you helped me

Ir tel'him - I'm me again

Ma serannas - thank you

                                                                                Chapter 1: Severed Roots

    A herd of Halla; pounding hooves against the lush earth of the Planasene Forest floor, in which he was never allowed to be in. The echo of these sacred beasts swirled around Larkin’s head as a memory, tucking the past back into a far corner in his mind. Once he was a respected hunter among his clan, providing food to ensure the survival of his Lethallen; his kin. Now, he was about to embark on a new path with a new name: The Herald of Andraste, they called him. The one who fell out of The Fade and was sent by Andraste herself to close The Breach that wounded the sky. 

“What a large burden to carry, and it’s only gonna get heavier.” Varric pitied him in private when they had a moment to breathe. Privacy was a luxury now that everyone and everything demanded his attention: “Your Worship, please look over these marching orders?” this, “Herald, I need your response to the Chantry by the end of the daylight,” that. He knew nothing of politics and pleasantries and suddenly he was the face of a controversial organization as well as an entire religion that he did not want. Few perks there were so far, but one of them included the few moments he could spend in playful banter with the Dwarf  gave him some sense of relief. A new world and a new life among the shemlens -- not one he would have chosen for himself. The elf was perfectly content running from them in The Free Marches as it were; nothing could have prepared him for so many concentrated in one area. They smelled weird, the food was strange, but there was no denying the honest hospitality. Larkin couldn’t help but wonder though: would it be different if he weren’t their so - called martyr? Would he be exploited and shunned as all other Dalish were in human company?

“Mala suledin nadas…” he uttered under his breath as his eyes searched the aching mark on his hand, possibly for more answers. He lifted the glowing scar to the sky, replicating the moment he first closed a rift as if it would give him some profound knowledge on how to close The Breach; but alas, there were no voices in his mind. 

Another chimed into his ears instead, “Master Lavellan” a familiar voice requested his attention. What else was new? The Herald had half a mind to turn toward the speaker in annoyance, but took a moment to collect himself. Of course it was Cassandra who came and interrupted his much needed quiet time. “Ahem,” she cleared her throat but made no hesitation in addressing the task at hand; he hadn’t known her for long but he could tell that this was going to become a regular occurrence -- he should’ve just accepted it then and there. “My apologies on the sudden...intrusion…” She wasn’t really sorry, “Your presence is needed in the council, my Lord. Leliana and Cullen have a few suggestions on how to get things moving. We need to head into the Hinterlands as soon as possible to seek out Mother Giselle and ask for her aid. I have come to escort you.” 

With a deep sigh, the Herald stood up from the stone fencing and turned to her with a reluctant nod “I suppose I can’t just sit this one out?” 

Cassandra gave him a judgmental squint but held her tongue from expressing her true thoughts on his sarcasm. “Need I remind you of what’s at stake here?” She paused and her mood seemed to shift, "I understand that you didn’t ask for any of this, but now that you’re here...you’re our only option for the time being. I can’t promise that it will be easy, but I can promise that you won’t be alone in this…” her voice trailed at the end into a softer note as if she was trying her best to express compassion or something of the sort. “I understand, Cassandra, and I appreciate your willingness to uphold your duty.” Silence fell between them. It wasn’t meant to sound curt, nevertheless, the words cut and he could see that it slightly bothered her. He pursed his lips together in regret “I didn’t mean for that to--” “Let’s just...get this over with.” The Seeker turned to leave and head toward the Chantry but stopped for a moment to turn and look at him with a small smirk, waiting for him to follow.  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The briefing appeared to be simple enough: ask for The Revered Mother’s assistance and look for opportunities to establish the Inquisition’s presence. Unbeknownst to any of them, the Hinterlands was ass-deep in chaos and it would be far from easy. The mages and templars were practically at war, putting all the refugees nearby in danger. People were starving, cold, dying and nature was being destroyed by seemingly random fires. Lowly bandits took advantage of the conditions and began to claim passages, making it harder for Inquisition soldiers to do their job. To top it all off, demons were crawling about from opened rifts; just more reasons to need a savior. Larkin surveyed the crossroads from the hilltop with dread in the pit of his stomach. The air carried a slight chill through his chestnut hair and smelled of pine, which reminded him of home. Bittersweet memories cut short by the sight of humans cutting each other down...like always. How the fuck was all of this happening so fast? He gripped his stomach and swallowed hard, stepping down from a tall rock that overlooked the plains. Varric caught a glimpse of the elf’s anxiety, offering an awkward grimace; he knew he and the Inquisitor were feeling the same sense of fuck this. If it were that easy to walk away, Varric wouldn’t be far behind him. The Herald stepped into camp among all the hustle and bustle of recruits trying to multitask between gathering supplies and an array of other important things. All he could hear was the babbling of side conversations and metal clanking from swords and arms being forged and repaired. Larkin’s attention was pulled left and right again the minute he arrived, until Cassandra rescued him by taking his arm and pulling him aside. Varric and Solas accompanied them as well to take a breather. “There’s something that needs your attention --” she began and was readily cut off by Varric. 

“Give him a minute, Seeker...He just got here.” He threw his hands up in frustration with her too urgent attitude. “Wouldn’t it be wise to let the one person that can actually fix all this shit take a small break? You know -- Just so we don’t break him before it starts getting tough?” Solas butted in with his two cents. “Ideal, not wise, Varric.” 

“Thanks, Chuckles.” The dwarf shook his head “The Herald of Andraste succumbing to a nap every once in a while? Perish the thought…” Larkin attempted to joke. At least Varric was amused. "What? Just trying to ease the tension a little. I’ll be fine…we’ll be fine.”

“Your Worship?” a soft feminine voice called to the group, singling them out from the rest of the camp. A Dwarven female approached them with a friendly and professional air about her. Her soft-looking red hair was tied up and out of her face; pale skin, but her cheeks were no stranger to the sun. Freckles decorated her face, giving her a rather youthful appearance despite the scar running down the left side of her cheek. 

“Scout Harding, at your service.” She paused for a moment to give Larkin a good look-over. He was tall, but that was mostly because she was a dwarf of course. Here he was: Andraste’s chosen in the flesh; he looked even more noble than the stories portrayed him to be. The view wasn’t so bad either. If her eyes could’ve opened any wider they would. 

“Pleased to meet you” he simply said, unsure of how he should address her just yet.

“Wow” she awed, he breath taken from her, “I can’t believe it’s really you. I’ve heard the stories; you should know how grateful everyone is for what you’re doing.” A small, toothy smirk appeared on Larkin’s face “I’m starting to worry about all these stories everyone’s been hearing.” This comment brought a chime of laughter from the scout, causing her to clear her throat once she realized that it might come across as inappropriate. “ Well, they only say you’re the last great hope of Thedas.” She grimaced. Maybe she shouldn’t have said that… “Oh, great.” he pursed his lips.

“Aaaanyway, you already have your briefing, I should let you get to work.” She handed Larkin a scroll tied with twine “A map.” she smiled softly but with an awkward note. “Maker guide you.” 

Harding wandered off to attend to other matters; a recruit already scrambling after her with questions. She left a small smile on Larkin’s face, his eyes refused to separate from her as he held the map limply in his hand. It wasn't until he felt eyes on him that he looked to his companions and then turned to make his way out of the camp. "Right," he cleared his throat "to work then." All four of them marched away from the camp, following the sounds of distant fighting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Falon’Din enasal enaste…” Larkin whispered slightly out of breath over the corpse of an elven mage. He was careful to keep his first language out of earshot as a subconscious reflex. However it didn’t escape Solas’s impeccable hearing; the elven prayer for the dead caused him to eye the Herald curiously and smirk snarkily. Larkin tried to ignore the eyes on him and examined the blood on his gloves and felt slightly dizzy. He must’ve lost his footing at some point because the next thing he knew, he was on the ground, facing the sky above him. He felt hands gripping him tightly; everything was spinning and then what was a clear day turned into inky darkness.  A gentle hand pressed against Larkin’s cheek and his eyes slowly opened to see a blurry but familiar figure above him. The sound of trees swaying in the breeze; birds chirping in the early morning sun. “Vhenan...” the words were clear, but the voice was obscured and almost unrecognizable, but he didn’t need to know. He could feel who the voice belonged to by the nature of his touch. Larkin’s eyes squinted as the sun’s light bore into the spectre and he placed his own hand on top of the one cupping his cheek. “Ma Vhenan” Larkin repeated, his voice barely audible. “Ir abelas..” “Ma melava halani...Ir tel’him...ma serannas…” The voice began to fade. 

Larkin began to squirm in his fur lined bedroll, feverishly chanting elven over and over until his eyes shot open and he woke in a cold sweat. The hand he gripped in his dream was not a past lover, but belonged to a healer instead. She stared down at him, frozen in place as she did not dare to try and pry her hand free, afraid he might lose it even more. Within just a moment more she caught a grip and placed her free hand on his other cheek, smiling gently. “Your Worship, please, rest easy. Everything’s going to be alright. You’re safe in your tent.” her Orlesian accent was thick. The Chantry sister placed a cold rag on the elf’s forehead, hushing him gently. “Sleep. I will inform your companions that you have the day off.” He didn’t pay much attention to when the sister left his tent, he was more focused in undressing as soon as possible --his clothes were drenched in sweat. As promised, no one entered his tent for the remainder of the day, but rest would not come easily to him. He gently rolled over to his side and out of bed, standing on his bare feet in one motion. Larkin opened the flap of the tent door, letting the cool air of the night hit his face as he paused to take a deep breath. Nice and cool. He kept his pants on and wore a loose tunic to spare the camp of an accidental nude elf sighting; they weren’t that friendly yet. The corner of his eye caught the toe of one of his boots, choosing to leave those behind. His feet deserved to be free again, and it was so worth it. The moment the pads of his toes felt the grass, he let out a relieved groan, closing his eyes as he flexed his feet to caress the ground. Before anyone could see him, he took off into the nearby trees, running as fast as he could to pick up the wind and feel it against his lithe frame, only stopping when he was finally out of breath. His short frolicking led him back to the overlook where he first stopped when they arrived in the Hinterlands. Just slightly tired, he sat down and let his feet dangle over the edge of the cliff and looked up at the face of the full moon that lit up the night. 

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Larkin practically whipped his head around feeling slightly defensive, his shoulders tensed, but dropped again when she stepped more into the light. 

“Scout Harding?” Larkin confirmed softly and released a small amount of breath.

“You sound surprised.” She smirked but then looked a little concerned as her voice wavered slightly. “What are you doing out here anyway, aren’t you supposed to be resting? Healer’s orders you know…” Harding took a seat beside him with respectable space in between them. Her concern brought a soft grin to his face “Aren’t you supposed to be resting yourself? Thanks for the concern but I feel fine.” He noticed she was dressed casually, too. “You got me.” she giggled awkwardly and shifted slightly in her seat. “I was hoping you’d be out here, actually. Oh Maker, that came out strange...I mean, I wasn’t stalking you or anything like that. I just...wanted to apologize for earlier.” She brought a finger up to scratch the side of her cheek.

“Oh?” The Herald’s interest was piqued. She held his attention now. “Apologize, Whatever for?” “Oh you know,” she began “You’re only the last great hope of Thedas…” she bit her lip in regret “The last thing I wanted to do was cause you more anxiety about the situation. I know you have a lot on your plate.” “Hm…” he hummed, looking up at the moon and stayed silent on purpose, just to tease her.

"Oh, pants!" She exclaimed in frustration "Please just accept the apology!"

"Pants?" He cocked a brow and couldn't help but laugh. "I've never heard that one before!" When calm, which wasn't for a good long moment, he sighed and ended the exhale with a small chuckle. "I accept. Though, I was never offended either. Just for the record." He smiled softly at her.

Perhaps Harding focused on his lips a little too hard. The dimples that pressed into his cheeks revealed an endearing innocence in him that was rarely found in a leader. Without a moment longer she stood up on her feet.

"I should head back. Wouldn't want to miss my beauty sleep and all."

"You don't need it." Larkin turned to look at her, the corner of his mouth curling softly.

They exchanged tender looks under the stars for what seemed like an eternity.

"Good night, your Worship." Harding left him with a smile and vanished into the trees.

"I'll see you in my dreams." he said to himself now that she was gone. His eyes looked back at the moon, wondering if it felt as lonely as he did at night.