Oak and Linden

A tale and a
translation from Ovid’s Metamorphoses: the myth of Baucis and Philemon in the
persons of Hawke and Fenris, in their retirement.

Author’s Note: Tuesday, Jan. 26 is “In Any Universe” day for FenHawke Week 2, calling for crossovers and AUs. Discarding vague ideas of a Star Wars or Princess Bride crossover (not saying that I won’t come back to those ideas someday, though…) I decided to go with something from mythology. My favorite thing in Ovid’s Metamorphoses: Baucis and Philemon, one of the few (only?) with a happy ending. Fenris and Hawke need a happy ending, so I made it work for them! Also, it means Aged!Hawke and Aged!Fenris, surprisingly pleasing to write.

Also, I’ve been wanting to take a shot at podfic, since I used to record stories and, well, sort of discjockeying for (and edit/produce) a LOTRO podcast. I liked the sound of this as I read it out loud while proofreading, so I just went ahead and recorded it.

After the story itself, below the cut you’ll find my first draft (just replacing names from the original, really) and my rough translation of, as well as the Latin text of, the original story in the Metamorphoses, for the curious.

The years have
not been kind, but we have been kind to each other. Fame and infamy alike have
forgotten us in our old age, and we’re fine with that. It’s not much, this hut
of ours in the foothills of Sundermount, but I have Fenris and he has me and we
never really needed anything more than that.

But I know what
it is to be a refugee, and he knows what it is to be a fugitive, and so when
the strangers knock on our door, of course we welcome them in.

He’s an elf and
she appears human, an old woman and a bald man. Not so different from
ourselves, though Fenris has kept most of his hair while the years have faded
mine as white as his. I’m fairly sure those aren’t just walking sticks they
lean on; I know a mage’s staff when I see one, considering the number of mine
we’ve sold off over the years when the garden wasn’t all it could be. The sort
of magic this quiet life of ours needs rarely calls for a staff, after all.

“Void take a
night like this, hm?” I say with a nod to the downpour outside as I shake out
their sodden cloaks and hang them to dry at the hearth.

The bald elf
exchanges a glance with his companion. “Perhaps it shall.”

Keep reading

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