#int. w/afshin.hrimthur

[witchertorsten]

@afshinxeldar location: Hrimthur's Outpost notes: the squad is getting ready to roll out.

"Harold is saddled and ready for you." It went unspoken that the drake would protect the prince with his own life; if it meant that Afshin's chances of surviving his journey through the Lostlands were increased, then Torsten would gladly walk beside the King into battle on foot.

Legionnaires had spoken of the swollen numbers of darkspawn, this was not like any single raiding party and would be far greater than the force that attacked them at Nornwatch. This mission could only be doomed, but even if he were not bound by Orhan's oath, Torsten's honor wouldn't allow him to stand idly by while the Princess was held by the broodmother. Tales of what she must be enduring turned his stomach, and he'd already promised Afshin to see her safely home.

Torsten lingered in front of the Prince, so much had been unspoken, but whatever secrets the witcher harbored regarding the other would die within his breast. There was only one that could not be contained; Torsten should have taken his leave then, bowed to the Prince, and wished him a safe journey to Lysara. Good fortune when he stood in front of the Elysian Throne and asked Queen Mordecai for aid in returning his Kingdom to the rightful hands.

Instead, he stayed.

The witcher's body moved of its own accord as he stepped in and brought his lips to Afshin's; the weight of the Kingsguard and his mithril plate pressed against the Prince as the gauntlets he wore cradled the line of the other's neck. Another wandered, slid across the Prince's thigh, and lifted his leg in a single, smooth motion. Lips parted, tongue seeking, he'd thought of little else for the last three years - standing in stalwart observation behind the King while Afshin dined and laughed. Torsten hardly spared the other a look, his duty had to come first, but his thoughts idly entertained what it'd be like to bask in the other's laughter while sitting as a guest. Arm draped across the Prince's shoulders, casually, as if Torsten could have belonged in that world.

He might have, once, had the Norns deigned to deem it so.