Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.

- James A. Baldwin

What the fuck was he thinking?

Blackwall's heart seems to beat outside his chest, loud enough to almost drown out the uproar of all the people who have come to see his Judgment. He didn't want to give them a circus, yet that's exactly what he's done by kissing his lady in front of the entire hall. But as a guard takes off the manacles on his wrists, Blackwall can't find it in himself to regret a thing.

Her lips against his, and the words before - I lied about who I was, but I never lied about what I felt - are the truest things they've ever shared. Yes, the timing could have been better, Maker, he should have waited until they were alone, but when she stood and walked up to him…

For whatever reason, she's deemed him worthy of a second chance, at both life and with her, and Blackwall doesn't want to waste a moment. At least, that's what he tells himself as he stares at the ground, trying to ignore everyone gawking at him.

There's a tug on his elbow and he looks down to see his lady at his side. With a tilt of her head, she silently asks him to follow. Blackwall does without question, glad to leave the heavy gaze of all the onlookers. His first few steps as a free man feel strange; the deeds of his past still weigh him down, he suspects they always will. Then again, he's been living so long with a noose around his neck, waiting to be strung up for his crimes, that he doesn't quite know what to do with freedom.

Freedom is not absolution. Blackwall knows no matter how hard he tries, it will never make up for what he did. There's an odd sense of peace in that, in understanding that the rest of his days will be spent atoning for his crimes. He will never cross some imaginary line which will tell him: lay down your burden, you have finally done enough.

His lady brings him to Josephine's office, empty save the two of them. And once the door shuts behind them, it's mercifully quiet, the only sound the crackling of the fireplace. Blackwall runs his hand over his face, trying to figure out exactly what to say, find some words to make this right. Because frankly, right now, he doesn't have a fucking clue.

But he needs to say something, so he takes a breath and wets his lips. "I suppose thanks are in order, my lady."

She frowns at his words and he doesn't blame her. There's something halting about his tone, like an actor not quite remembering his lines. And just like that, he sees her shoulders hunch a bit more, thanks to the extra weight he's burdened her with.

"We're not in public," she says softly, looking into the fire as she wraps her arms around herself. "You don't need to be formal."

With a start, Blackwall realizes he called her my lady without thinking. He hasn't called her my lady in private since their first few nights together, when Blackwall worked up the nerve to ask if he could give her a pet name. And then he tries to figure out exactly when in the past six weeks she stopped being Bethroot in his head and instead went back to being his lady, a title for someone he has no right to call his.

"And besides," his lady - Bethroot - says, her eyes not leaving the fire, "you don't owe me anything." She looks up at him then, and the bags under her eyes are even more apparent. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but then closes it again. "I don't want to talk here, not when anyone could come in."

Blackwall grunts in agreement; their relationship's been in the public eye enough today.

"I have a lot of work I need to get done," Bethroot says with a slight sigh, and Blackwall's heart stutters at the apparent dismissal. But then she looks up at him and adds, "But I have time to walk you to your quarters."

The day after she returns to Skyhold is always the busiest for her, with reports to read and meetings to attend. Before he left, Blackwall was used to not seeing her for a day or two after they returned from their travels. He'd work on his own tasks, full of pride he had no right to, that the woman he loved did everything she could to save Thedas. And while he might miss her during that time, he wouldn't want her to change any of that just for the likes of him. The Inquisition is more important than just one man.

Especially when that man is Thom Rainier.

The freedom he's been given starts to feel a bit overwhelming. Where exactly can he go besides his quarters? It seems like the only safe place at the moment, especially when he considers the small amount of sleep he had last night, worrying over the Judgment ahead. He thinks of the thick straw mattress in his quarters. Having room to stretch out seems like a luxury after the places he's slept over the past six weeks. "I wouldn't mind the rest," Blackwall admits, hearing the weariness in his voice.

She takes him through the lower level of Skyhold, where they have the least chance of running into anyone other than servants. Blackwall hasn't been down here often, preferring to be outdoors whenever possible. It's peaceful down here, he realizes, and tucks away the thought, knowing he'll need a place to- well, hide is the first word which comes to mind, and he supposes it's appropriate. But he can't hide forever and he has a feeling that even if he wanted to, Bethroot wouldn't let him.

They walk side by side, but something's missing between them now, something simply feels off. Before, when walking through Skyhold, they'd hold hands or he'd have his arm around her shoulder. Even though he almost aches to feel her small hand in his, the last thing he wants to do is assume. Best to let her make that decision, when she's ready. Bethroot makes no move to step closer to him as they walk, putting her hands deep into her trouser pockets instead. Even without the closeness, the walk is a comfortable one, the silence between them feels natural.

Just before they head outside, she turns and looks up at him. "We're leaving for the Fallow Mire in eight days," she says. "Do you think you will be ready by then?"

She still trusts him, Blackwall realizes, somewhat in amazement. After all he's done, she still trusts him with her life, to keep her safe in the field. He blows air through his lips and he thinks about all the wasted time in a cell these past six weeks. Even with his own attempts at calisthenics while in prison, he's woefully out of shape, having lost almost half a stone. He can do a lot in eight days, and he feels a bit lighter knowing he'll have a goal to work towards. "I'll be ready, my lady," he says.

Hurt flashes across her face, so he starts to say something, anything, but Bethroot holds up her hand. "It's okay." But Blackwall can tell by the lingering pain in her eyes that it's not. "I'm just glad you'll be ready. I… I missed you out there."

His stomach clenches at the sadness in her voice. Maker, Blackwall told her he didn't know how to be with her as Thom Rainier. And this is worse, not having the first fucking clue how to fix a relationship as Thom Rainier.

He can think of only one way to respond: with the truth. "I missed you, too."

She smiles up at him, but there's a bitterness to her smile, something he's never seen before, as she turns and opens the door. The smile confuses him, until he realizes: what right did he have to miss her, when he's the one who left?

#

It's like Thom told her in the tavern the night before he left: everything seemed clear then. Less than an hour ago, when Bethroot looked up at him after he told everyone in the main hall how he loved her, everything did seem clear.

Now, as they walk outside on the way to his quarters, her stomach is muddled and in knots and she doesn't have the slightest idea what to say. Silent prayers to the Ancestors run through her head as she searches for the right words.

The spoken word is her lifeblood; she has never been left wordless. Bethroot dined with royalty in Orzammar and danced with a Grand Duchess in the Winter Palace. Yet here she is, walking into Thom's quarters without a word to say to the man she loves. So she leans against the door, hands splayed against the wood, and watches Thom. He sits down in a chair, forearms on his knees, not even glancing her way.

He looks broken.

The thought terrifies her, a dank sort of terror that spreads throughout her veins. In her heart, Bethroot understands Blackwall is gone and will never return. But she thought the man who took his place, Thom Rainier, a man willing to stand in front of a hundred people and declare his love for her, would at least be able to look her in the eye.

She takes a step toward this new man and her heart flutters, as if it can't decide the rhythm in which to beat, so tries all of them at once. Instead of looking up at her, Thom places his head in his hands and Bethroot doesn't think she's ever seen him so defeated.

The silence between them is stifling now and Bethroot knows it's up to her to find the words. She always finds the words. But none show. And then her throat constricts, and she finds herself getting angry. Why should she be the one who needs to fix things? Thom's the one who left her.

The curve of his shoulders tell her he's expecting her anger, might even welcome it, and Ancestors, it would be so easy to give in. To yell and scream and stomp her feet. But what good would that do her in the end? Nothing except a hoarse throat.

So, she pushes his hands away, climbing up onto his lap, and simple words she's said a dozen times slip out of her mouth. "You're much more comfortable than a wooden chair." But instead of his usual response, a smile, Thom pulls her to him, holding her tight, almost too tight, but she doesn't say anything and he doesn't let go.

This is not the time for serious discussion, Bethroot decides as she tucks her head under Thom's chin. The binding between them is too raw, too fragile, too close to shattering if stretched the wrong direction.

Honesty, she thinks. She'll start with honesty. "I'm not sure what to say," Bethroot says quietly, enjoying just how solid he feels next to her and the way his beard tickles her skin. It's been six weeks, six long weeks, since she's been held like this, and she wills away a sudden surge of desire. She's missed this more than she cares to admit. They need a bit time, she thinks, before she'll welcome him into her bed again. But not too long, Bethroot decides, as she tries to ignore the dull ache between her legs.

"I don't either," Thom says, and Bethroot hopes that's a start. At least they're both admitting they've no idea what to say. His hand rests on her hip and, just as she thinks how warm his palm is, his brow furrows. There's real concern in his voice when he adds, "When was the last time you ate?"

Bethroot breathes sharply through her nose. She's not been eating as much as she should and doesn't need to be reminded. "I've been eating, honest. I just-"

"You need to take care of yourself. I'm not worth-"

"Stop," Bethroot says, her voice firm. How many times has he finished that sentence in the past year and how many times did she let him, with only a shake of her head to counter the thought? It's been exhausting, sometimes, being in a relationship with someone who doesn't think they belong in one. But no more. She won't accept this any longer. "Just stop."

She turns so she's straddling him on the chair. It's awkward and uncomfortable, but she needs to look him right in the eye for this. He truly meets her gaze then, for the first time since Judgment this morning, and she swallows, having forgotten how blue his eyes are.

"You say that like you have no idea just how sodding important you are to me. And if you don't know, that's my fault."

Thom sighs, a rumble deep in his chest, and Bethroot feels his fingers dig into the flesh at her waist. There's a sense of mourning and of endings in his voice when he answers. "I know you loved Blackwall. I never doubted that."

The past tense feels like a vice clamped down around her heart. "I love you," she whispers. The words are almost a balm; it had been so long, too long, since she said them out loud. "I don't care what your name is, if it's Blackwall or Thom Rainier or anything else. I love the man in front of me."

He lowers his head, so that his chin almost touches his chest. His eyes look so pained, she wonders how she could have not realized how much he hurt before this. Bethroot won't make that mistake again.

"I meant what I said the night before you left," she says, resting her head on his shoulder. "I'm here for you, no matter what comes. Of course, I didn't expect you to put those words to the test so quickly."

She watches as his eyes widen, like he can't believe what she just said. Then, with a shake of the head, Thom lets out a chuckle and relief washes over her. A chuckle is a million times better than the defeated man Bethroot saw when they walked inside his room.

"I love you, too," he says, soft enough she can barely make out the words. But she does, and her heart thrills to hear them like it always has, since the first time he said them after Adamant.

Sitting in his lap with his arms around her, makes Bethroot realize just how weary she is. Exhaustion weighs her down, and this is a conversation they need to have when she doesn't have a long day before her. So she sits up straight, resting her hand on Thom's shoulders. "I know we have a lot to talk about," she says, her voice quiet.

"Of course-"

"Because even though I love you, I'm absolutely furious with you," Bethroot says, hearing a hint of steel in her voice. Which is the absolute truth. She has a dozen of questions she wants answered, but not on his first day of freedom, and not when she can barely keep her eyes open.

Thom swallows loudly, before sitting up straight and sliding his hands up from her ass to her waist. "You have every right to be," he says with a nod.

"Thank you," she whispers, pleased he accepts her anger.

Her eyes close briefly as she rests against him, needing to find the energy to move on with her day. "I have a lot to do today," she says, thinking of the meeting she had with Josephine before Thom's Judgment. "And then I need a good night's sleep. So do you, from the looks of it." She cups his cheek with her hand, the softness of his beard feeling so damn right under her palms. "Why don't we talk tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" he asks, and she hears relief and fear all mixed up together in his voice. "Whatever you like."

She slips off his lap while reaching out to grab his gloved hand. Before she can stop herself, she presses her lips against the heel of his palm, wishing he removed his gloves, so she could feel the hair on the back of his hands and the calluses on his fingers. "Tomorrow," she says, knowing and not caring that he can hear the longing in the word.

Before she can say anything more, Bethroot turns and walks out the door, trying to find the strength to somehow get through the day.