"You want me to what?" Blackwall asks, sure that he heard the Herald incorrectly.
He watches the Herald's face as she stares down at the ground, her hands curled into fists. They stand in the training yard, far from the rest of the soldiers Cullen is running through drills. The Haven air is cool and crisp, but having worked on his endurance for the last hour, Blackwall is sweating. So he runs the back of his hand across his brow to wipe away the worst of it, trying to process what the Herald just asked.
She looks up, raising her chin as if to ward off any chance of rejection. "I want you to hit me," she repeats. "Spar with me and I'll lose on purpose."
Blackwall looks away, and lets out a breath. That's what he feared he heard the first time. "I can't… I mean, I don't want…" Crossing his arms over his chest, he asks, his voice gruff, "Maker why?"
Her mouth opens and closes with no sound. Blackwall cocks his head, trying to figure out exactly what might be wrong. Speechless is not something he would ever describe the Herald, but that's exactly her state.
Just when he thinks she's changed her mind, Cadash takes a breath and he sees the determination on her face. "Because humans scare me."
The words take the breath out of him and causes his gut to tangle up. Silly as the idea is, he thought they'd become friends a bit. Since he joined the Inquisition, he's fought by her side more often than not, and back here at Haven, several times she joined him at the tavern on her own accord, where they talked over tactics and the future. Never their pasts.
To realize all this time she was afraid of him hurts more than he cares to admit. But if she feels true fear, his pain doesn't matter. So he does his best to keep his voice level as he asks, "I frighten you?"
The Herald's eyes widened. "No. No." She reaches out and places her hand on his forearm, which is bare, thanks to the plain tunic he wore for his workout. She wears fingerless gloves and the brief contact startles him. He's not used to being touched, not anymore, unless it's a slap on the back or an armored hand helping someone up off the ground. To feel skin against skin…
"Blackwall, I trust you," she says, truth ringing in every word. The words warm him almost as much as the way her fingers slide against his forearm as she removes her hand does. He looks down and she meets his gaze. "I'm not afraid of you."
The tangle in his stomach is gone, replaced by an entirely different sort of ache, an impossible one. He forces himself to set it aside, to deal with it later and concentrate on the Herald. "Then what are you afraid of?" he asks, hating the tenderness he hears slip into his voice. She deserves so much more than a few soft words from the likes of him.
"Remember when you had to rest your knee at camp for a night in the Hinterlands and Cassandra took your place?"
Blackwall nods, thinking of that last night in the Hinterlands before they came back to Haven. His left knee acts up every so often thanks to a fight from his mercenary days, after Callier but before he met the Warden-Constable. He hated he needed to take a break, but after all these years, he understands and respects his body's limits. If he hadn't stopped for the night, he would have done serious damage and been no help to anyone.
"An outlaw slipped by Cassandra. The maul he had…" Cadash sighs, putting her hands behind her back as if bracing herself. "It was as big as me, Blackwall, and I froze. I couldn't make myself move, because all I could think of was how much it was going to hurt."
"What happened?" he asks, his voice quiet.
"Solas managed to kill him before he got too close, but it doesn't matter. I still froze," the Herald says, shaking her head. He hears the frustration in her voice. "And I don't think it was the first time. I never fought humans before I joined the Inquisition."
"Never?" Blackwall asks.
She shakes her head. "Never. I've fought plenty of other dwarves, but never humans. Dwarven weapons… Well, there's a pretty big difference getting stabbed with a dwarven dagger and hit with a human great sword."
He grunts in agreement, having dealt with both those wounds before.
"And I'm not looking to get stabbed, just... I guess I hoped if we sparred and you hit me, I'll feel the pain and know I can survive it. Then maybe I won't freeze next time."
It's a sound strategy and one he understands. Orleasian soldiers go through much the same thing with magic. After he enlisted, he and other soldiers were hit with magic: fire, ice and lightning, so they could process each sensation and understand how they will react in battle. Fire causes him to panic slightly. Ice makes him nauseous and lightning just pisses him off.
He picks up a nearby practice shield and slips his arm through the enarmes. He's watched the Herald spar a few times and honestly, he's not been impressed. Cadash might be good with a bow and quick enough to escape trouble, but if it came down to her life in a fight without weapons? She didn't stand a chance. He'd just have to make sure she never found herself in that position.
Her face lights up once she realizes he's acquiesced and Blackwall gives himself just a moment to reflect on how lovely her smile is. But then he steps back and evaluates her like he would any sparring partner. Her leathers are well worn. They'd protect her from magic and arrows a bit, but a shield?
The noise in the training yard has softened. The soldiers and recruits are behind him, but Blackwall doesn't have to turn around to know most of their attention is on the Herald. She comes to the yard every day to practice with her bow, and spars so little it's almost seen as an event when she does. He hopes the lads won't be too disappointed when he takes her down.
He readies himself, shield in front - holding not hiding - and rests his weight on the balls of his feet. He'll make this quick. One Shield Bash will be enough to knock her flat on her arse, hopefully providing the Herald with the tools she needs.
The Herald's eyes look past him and he furrows his brow, asking an unspoken question. "We have an audience," she says in a low voice.
He lets out a chuckle. "Want to give them a good show?"
She raises her arms high above her head and he tries to ignore the curve of her hips. "Pride is on the line now, Blackwall," she says with a grin. "You understand."
"Of course, Herald," he says with a dip of his head.
She settles into a fighting stance and just by how she holds herself he knows that the moment he lunges, she'll do that fancy back flip of hers. But while he's not as quick as he used to be, he could still catch her off guard on the way down.
So he decides not to lunge and slaps the front of his shield with an open palm. The move causes his hand to sting, but is enough to startle the Herald and instead of a back flip, she dodges to the right.
She's up on her feet almost at once and they start circling. As he waits for his chance, Cadash rolls her left shoulder. "You really need to get that shoulder looked at, my lady," he says.
The words are enough to surprise her. "How did you-"
Blackwall takes the chance to lunge. The Herald reacts, doing her flip and landing easily. The soldiers behind them let out a cheer. "You have some admirers," Blackwall says. He's always enjoyed the give and take of a good spar and this is no exception.
Her breathing is slightly labored now as she sprints behind him. "Probably more of a curiosity to them," she says. "The dwarf who closes rifts. I could be part of a traveling circus."
There's something in her voice that rings true to him and Blackwall wonders if that's how she sees herself. The thought saddens him. He knows she doesn't believe she's the Herald, but he's starting to and she deserves more than self-doubt.
He feints to the right, taking advantage of her shoulder and she scurries out of the way. "I think that could be true for most of us," he says, thinking of her inner circle, a more eclectic group he'd ever met.
She says nothing in response and Blackwall notices how her eyes keep darting to his shield. There's a real fear now in her eyes, a wild type of fear, one he's far too familiar with. No point dragging this out any further; he's in her head. And there he will stay until he ends this.
One simple step back and she provides him with his opportunity. Launching from his legs, he lowers his shield and aims for her stomach. With a quick thrust of his arm, he hits the Herald right in the midsection. It's not as hard of a hit as he'd use with Cassandra, but more forceful than he'd use with a new recruit.
She lets out a gasp of surprise as she topples over. Letting go of the shield at once, Blackwall drops to his knees, next to the Herald, who isn't moving. "My lady," he says quietly, ignoring the cheers of the soldiers behind him. "My lady, are you alright?"
The Herald rolls onto her back, clutching her stomach. "That fucking hurt," she says, a hint of a pout on her lips as she stares up at the sky.
Resting a forearm on his bended knee, he looks her over, making sure she's no worse for wear. "But survivable?" he asks, holding out his hand.
A grimace crosses her face as she puts her hand in his. Her fingers are warm against his palm. Maker, her hands are small. Yet he's seen how capable they are, whether closing rifts or fletching arrows.
"Survivable," she says decisively with a nod of the head as he helps her up.
Their hands linger together for just a moment too long before she places both hands on her stomach. He can still feel the warmth from her fingertips ghosting over his skin as he looks up at her from his knees.
"Let's just not make it a habit," she says, laughing as she rubs her belly. "I see you get hit like that all the time. How do you handle it?"
He hoists himself up and lets out a laugh. "Heavy plate helps a great deal, Herald."
"Point."
There's a whistle from the soldiers and Cadash turns and waves to them all. A cheer rings out and she bows from the waist before looking back at him. "Told you you had admirers," Blackwall says, crossing his arms over his chest.
Her cheeks redden slightly before she waves the praise away. "Well, who wouldn't want to see the so-called Herald get her ass kicked?"
"You did ask for it, if I recall," Blackwall says, arching a brow.
"You just had to remind me," she says, shaking her head. She starts to walk over to her bow, but stops and turns. "Thank you. I mean it."
He dips his head, accepting her thanks. Every passing day affirms his decision to forgo his life as a recruiter and join the Inquisition. He couldn't imagine not being a part of this, making things right, helping good people, with her.
"When we're in a real fight, I'll do whatever I can to keep you safe," he says suddenly.
Bending down, she picks up her quiver and hoists it on her back. She tilts her head and a sad smile crosses her lips as she looks up at him. "Even you can't be everywhere at once, Blackwall," she says.
"I can damn well try," he says, the words soft, an oath. To himself or to her he cannot say. "I can damn well try."
Cadash looks like she's about to speak when a messenger runs up to them. "Herald, forgive me. Lady Montilyet requests your presence. Something about signatures."
The Herald's shoulders slump. "I forgot about those," she says, sounding sheepish. "I best get back to the Chantry." He watches as she picks up her bow and straps it to her back. She hesitates for just a moment before meeting his gaze again. "Will you be at the tavern tonight?"
He hadn't planned on it. Earlier that day, Sister Leliana gave him a batch of reports to look through. He asked for them on the pretense of finding the Grey Wardens when in truth he wants to make sure there is nothing that might give him away. But those can wait for another night.
Instead of answering, he simply nods and his chest constricts when she grins in response. He watches as she jogs off with the messenger and wonders how much trouble he's going to be in if he keeps walking this path.
But as she turns back towards him and gives one last wave, he realizes it doesn't matter. His path, his resolve, is set.
She leads and he will follow.