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A faint breeze came through the open window, ruffling the green scarf that lay draped over Finnel’s lap. The scarf was old now, its edges frayed, faded from its original vibrant hue and a faint patch of dirt stained one corner. Finnel sat in silence, his hands running over the fabric as if it could still hold the warmth of his father’s hands. To him, it was the most precious thing in the world, a remaining link to Valin. It had been a gift to him, knitted with clumsy care in the months before he’d left.
“You’ll grow into it,” Valin had grumbled, already fed up with knitting after a single project. “Don’t expect me to make another if you ruin this one.”
Finnel chuckled softly at the memory, his smile fleeting. The scarf had survived four winters, but not without its battle scars.
He was seventeen now, lean and strong from the endless chores of maintaining the cottage on his own. His once wild ginger hair now cut practically short. His beard had begun to grow in and although it was patchy, it still showed the man he was growing into. But for all his effort to hold the house and himself together, he was still a child.
Across the room, Oghren snored loudly, sprawled in a worn armchair with a half empty bottle of ale precariously balanced on his chest. His once vivid ginger hair had faded to gray at the temples, and his beard had gone even more unkempt. The stench of drink hung heavy in the air, as it had for years now. Finnel could barely remember the last time Oghren had gone a day without it.
This wasn’t the Oghren he’d grown up with, the brash but cheerful man who’d always found a way to make him laugh. The man who had once quit drinking for his and Valin’s sake. That man had died with Valin in the Fade, leaving behind a husk that only moved and breathed.
The memories kept coming, as they often did at night. Of Valin and Oghren’s arguments the week before he left, of Valin ruffling his hair promising to return once he’d finish helping the Inquisition. Finnel could recognise the finality in his voice looking back, though he hadn’t recognized it then. He’d been fourteen, too young to understand. Too young to imagine a world without his Dad there to guide him.
The sound of shuffling broke through his thoughts. Oghren groaned, blinking awake and nearly tipping the bottle. “Fire’s gonna go out if you don’t mind it.” He muttered
Finnel’s jaw tightened. “It’s fine,” he said flatly.
Oghren sniffed, sitting up and swigging from the bottle. “Don’t you give me that tone, lad. I’ve had enough from you. Thinkin’ you can talk to me like that.”
Finnel sighed, already knowing it was useless to argue with Oghren in this state. “I made soup. It’ll still be warm.” He replied, folding the scarf in his lap.
Oghren nodded, his anger draining from him. He shuffled toward the fireplace, his broad shoulders slumping under the weight of something far heavier than his drunkenness. Finnel watched him with a mix of anger and pity. He knew the drink was Oghren’s way of coping, but it didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
“Y’know,” Oghren started, slumping back into the chair and lifting the bowl of soup , “your Da…He’d be proud of you.”
Finnel was silent for a long moment, his gaze wandering to the horizon. From here, he could just make out the towers of Redcliffe Castle, silhouetted against the moonlight. Finally, he muttered out a response. “He’d be disappointed in you.”
Oghren’s frown only deepened, bringing a spoonful of the soup to his lips “Aye,” he muttered after a long pause. “I think you’re right.”