I was feeling like shit last night after I got back from the fireworks last night, so I didn’t quite finish this on time. Not that I think anyone cares. Let’s say I took a holiday, and then neglected to make up for it later, because this isn’t great.
I’ll try to do today’s drabble proper before I run off to go camping, and see about writing or at least drafting the others while I’m gone, I s’pose.
Winter was Hawke’s favorite season. There were multiple reasons—nostalgia for the time spent playing in the snow as a child and the magic his father used to use to manipulate it, a simple preference for cold weather over hot, the holidays and the excuses to gather with friends and sit in front of the fire all day. The greatest reason, however, was that there was something so utterly romantic about the season, and he loved it and having someone with whom to spend it.
Winter wasn’t magical. It was cold and wet and miserable, particularly to a man who refused to wear shoes and whose lyrium tattoos reacted slightly to the chill.