{These Calloused Hands}
A small piece for Blackwall and Lavellan as there isn't as much as there should be.
He sat with her in the sunlight as it warmed their skin and his furs they laid upon. The scents wafting in through the open window of the barn reminded him of days spent out in the wilderness. Of the farmers out in their fields, doing the hard work which must be done to feed the people.
He had always wondered if - had his choices been different - what his life would have been like. Whether he could have made a decent income. Perhaps even owned his own land on which he could have farmed and built a modest house with his own two hands.
With her in his arms, he wanted that more than ever. To be the man she deserved, to support her in every way he could. To build them a home, for them - and perhaps children, in the future when the wars were over and peace lasted at least for a short while.
Blackwall ran his fingers through her hair; short inky black locks that were as smooth as the finest Orlesian silk. He bent his head a little to brush it with his nose. Had his beard brushed her cheek, it would have tickled her. He had thought about shaving it, now that he no longer had to hide but she liked it, and he would keep it if it brought her even a tiny piece of happiness.
The hand that he did not have running through her hair was rested on her stomach. She shifted from her place with her back against him and touched his left hand. He watched as she traced his larger fingers and his knuckles.
The attentiveness of the action warmed him deep. It seeped into his very being and gave him hope. When he moved to reciprocate the action, to take her smaller hand to his she seemed to tense.
"What is it, my lady?" The hand which had been in her hair lowered to touch her cheek till she looked at him.
Her lips were thinned, and she pulled her hands in on themselves upon her lap. "Phim, what's wrong?"
"My hands...the callouses...," she trailed off.
Blackwall never wanted her to feel embarrassed around him. He thought the world of her, and no amount of hard skin would change that. He understood that a lady in their world might feel lesser for going against the grain, to become a warrior who holds a sword as well as any man and a shield which protected the innocent.
Truth be told, from the moment he'd first seen approach in the Hinterlands as he trained those young lads, Blackwall had thought her something wonderful. Dressed in the dark chain main of the inquisition, a long sword at her side and a knights shield upon her back. She was small, but with muscles that lined her lithe limbs. He'd been curious about her, that was for sure. Wouldn't have pledged his blade otherwise.
He kissed her temple lightly, and placed his hands on hers: "May I, my Lady?"
Orophim allowed him to take up her hands in his. He rubbed his thumb over the harder skin, then entwined his fingers with hers and brought each tip to his lips. "You do not need to hide from me, my Lady. These are the hands of hard work, of sacrifice and of a strong heart," she cleared his throat a little, never having been very good at expressing his feelings.
"These are the hands of the woman I love, of the warrior who stole my heart and of the Champion I wish to be my wife someday."
His cheeks headed in a rush as he realised what he'd let slip. He often thought of their future and had wondered whether she did too. On those long days travelling, or those times laid awake in the inquisitions tents.
Orophim moved, and Blackwall remained still. She was not a fragile bird, but right then he did not want to frighten her away - they had only just been re-united and he did not want to be torn from her again. He dare say his old heart could not take it.
She sat on her knees between his legs, a small smile on her lips. His grey eyes roamed over her scarred skin, soft lips and the swirled dark pattern which marked her as Dalish over her left eye.
Beautiful, breathtaking.
She pressed a hand to his bare chest, he felt the calluses there. It did not matter, her skin was still far smoother than his own. As her fingers trailed through the corse and thickly curled hair upon his chest, he felt his heart skip a beat. The way she was gentle when touching him always made his breath catch. He was a grizzled bear in comparison to her and yet she was never rough, never used her strength on him. Not even when passion overtook them. Somehow her light touches undid him more than any hair pulling and bruised kisses could.
His hands reached for her hips on their own accord. He settled them lightly, and watched as her hand lifted to his face and she ran her fingers through his beard. From there she kissed him, tender and brief.
When she pulled back, her deep brown eyes met his. "I would like that," she told him, heat spread over her cheekbones and neck.
It took him a moment to link her words with what he'd just spoken. She would like to be his; to be his wife someday.
Hope, and Maker - pure excitement pumped through his veins. Warm spread through his limbs as he took a deep breath.
A future, he had a future. One with the love of his life and that, that was something he that never thought possible. Not for so long. He could barely recall the feeling of having options, of making plans for a family - now that he had it, he felt almost dizzy with happiness.
He cupped her face in his hands and brought her lips to his once more. He pulled back only partly to utter: "You've made me the happiest, most lucky man alive, Lass."
Orophim chuckled at the endearment. She was his lass and lady. When he drew her in closer once more with a hand at her back and one through her hair, they fell into one another with the sun on their naked skin and hope for the future burning it their souls.
...
My first piece with Blackwall in. I hope I have done him justice. He is a complicated character to write but one of my favourites in all of the games, and book series.
- Orophim is a champion; the skill class. Not to be confused with the type of Champion Hawke is.