‘Women play a fickle game, son. Always be wise to their ways.’
As an aging Gondorian crouched by the weathered banks of Nenuial in the light of the setting sun, an old, familiar voice seemed to emanate into his ears from the air around him. Pained paternal memories had never quite found their leave from the deepest recesses of his mind, nor had the flighted instincts he felt prickling their way along the hairs of his forearms at the sudden intrusion of his father’s voice. Despite a set of dusted bones laying beneath a decrepit grave, Dagramir had never quite found the stomach to return home to pay his final respects. His memories haunted by the beatings he had once endured as a child, stretching far through the years to the final fearful look in his eyes as he tumbled from that ghostly window. The rogue shuddered, an involuntary response to try and shake monsters from his memory. And yet, in spite of all the pain his father had caused him, there was an odd time where his words rang true. While the lord didn’t harbour his love, in some ways he would harbour a grudged respect.
As sweet as the flesh of an unknown other had tasted, the Gondorian had found an innate ability to attach himself to the shiniest prospects he could never hope to attain. Taming the housewife was easy, though he selfishly always found himself wanting more. Believing himself above the affairs of the locals, he had strived through the years to wander far and wide. Sampling the various fruits of the land until he could safely say he had found what he was looking for. For the Viper had held many a lovers’ embrace through the years, from the Lady and the Huntress to the Merchant and the Wanderer. All would ultimately pale in comparison to the warmth he would find waiting right at home. It was love that had taken him up north, after all, trailing behind the delectable Miss Rosethorn and her chosen companions, all with the intentions of spending just a little more time with her. Abandoning his post as caretaker of the maiden's affairs to chase after one final piece. One he, himself, felt he was owed. It had been a good many months since the man had last held a travelling company, and not since the days of the Dawn had he felt a content being in the midst of a group of fellows. Yet there he had spent his time, bantering this way and that with his newfound companions, taking iron to his chest and an orc’s teeth to his neck.
And he had thrived within every moment of it all.
So much so that, when their adventures had come to their natural end, he had held the briefest of sorrows gracing the lining of his heart. None he would dare to admit, of course, yet across his chest they still had dared to tread. He knew he would see them all again someday, which was why he had pulled the Raven back one eve to infer a request. Travelling north with them all had had its uses, and behind the helpful ruse of a contract lay an ulterior motive of the warmest kind. Utilising the best excuses he could muster, he bartered their way in the opposite direction of the main group, travelling a little further north to grace the banks of Lake Evendim. He understood that they could both use the time to themselves, after the injuries they had both endured at the hands of their aggressors. Time they could spend licking their wounds and sampling the finer things that life had to offer - sans the presence of fussing children. Peace. The spot they had eventually landed upon was a serene one, of course, following the multitude of others they had passed over that hadn’t quite suited to the Raven’s liking. He could feel in the air they shared between them that, at least deep down, she must have known what was coming. If his fumbling and absent-mindedness hadn’t been quite the tells themselves, the weight held around his neck by that simple silver chain certainly would.
‘…and don’t you dare think about sticking a ring on her finger, lad. You’ll do better than bring shame to my name while I’m still breathing.’
As old a soul as he could feel himself eroding into being, he could still recall his life as a married man as if it were yesterday. Wandering his way to the ends of earth just to drop to the knee for the sake of a local Bree-land girl. His father would have been rather pleased, a single thought he allowed a solitary smirk to. Time had a funny way of adjusting one’s perspective. Quite the reputation he had forged as a cad, the ring providing naut but a challenge for the local produce. The rockiest of relationships he had shared with his wife and daughter till they had perished, leaving him hardened, though he would yet crumble during the harder times that were to come. She was the same, of course. The Raven and the Viper had danced to the same tunes in their journeys apart. Flowing this way and that until they had landed at the grace of each other’s behest. Shuffling through the dusty pages of old tomes, discussing the finer points of parenthood, any excuse to flower within the connection they had both felt burning its way brighter between them. Dagramir could not quite recall the moment he knew for sure, but it had felt like fate had been drawing them ever closer together since he had first set foot in those domesticated lands. And who was he to pick a fight with destiny?
Again, anyway.
As had neatly threaded through a number of the Gondorian’s endeavours, the key to success lay within his impeccable timing. But when, would be the question. Not since the death of his wife had he even pondered the nature of what would come next. That was, until, he had spent his time in solitude. Away from the prying eyes and judgements that would come to each of his choices, his affection had consolidated. Against the lack of their physical attachment, his emotions had festered into devotion. From the moment his dusted grey boots had taken their first steps back into the fold, he had known exactly where his fate had lay. He would no longer play the fool, ignoring what had been staring him in the face all this time. He was ready. The next question was: was she? Moments of doubt had always come easy to his mind while embracing the peace that the breeze brought to his muscles. While his lover lay sleeping peacefully behind him, taking her leave quicker than he, as she regularly did, he had been left to contemplate whether the decision he was making was the right one. A series of thoughts that he had never quite followed to their proper conclusions as fatigue overtook him. Retiring to their tent, Dagramir mused that tomorrow would be the day, one way or another, where fate would decide for him. Little did he know, however, his estimations had come a day late. As he had slipped down to her side, the weight of the chain had meandered its way up and out of his loosely fastened shirt. Lying flat on his back, his dedication lay flush to his chest for all to see as he dozed his way back into the abyss.
Whether it had been the rays of light cascading across his features from the heat in the sky, or the shuffling of weight across his abdomen, a pair of pale eyelids had struggled their way open to reveal the deeply set shades of cerulean held within. As it so often did, it had taken Dagramir a few moments to adjust to the sight before him. Renders of Ashaia’s face hazed beautifully into view as she sat by his side, olive orbs gazing over him. No, wait, not quite at him. Her hands hovered over his chest and held, within the palm of one, a painfully familiar object. The ring. A slender piece of a silver making, encrusted along the edge with a variety of obsidian gemstones. The same one he had spied a short while ago on his travels and had haggled as fair a price as he could manage for. His eyes widened slightly, and there were a few fleeting flashes of panic, before his other took him by surprise. Rather simply, in fact, she had adjusted the ring to bear and slid it down the length of her fourth finger. In that moment, there needed to be no words. Accidentally, the rogue had provided them the perfect opportunity to quietly accept what had been coming. What had always been coming. A hand snaked to grace his palm against her neck, and a series of endearing smiles and embraces followed beneath the light of a new dawn. There were no more circling games to be played, no further needs to be sated. On that fated morning, the Raven and the Viper had settled their differences with fate.
‘You’re a bastard, Dagramir… but you’re my son. One day, if your mother gets her way, you’ll find what you’re looking for. And then you’ll finally be out of my hair for good!’
Betrothed, they had become.
