A/N: This takes place several years after the Crumbling Wall.
"Mockingbird, mockingbird, quiet and still, what do you see from the top of that hill?"
A sword thrust to the gut couldn't have caused more pain than the sweet child's voice singing prettily outside the stable. Bent over, trying to breathe, he sank beneath memories stark and bloody.
"Can you see up? Can you see down?"
Denial managed to help him find air at last, sucking in loud, gasping breaths. Desperation had him shaking his head, reminding himself that he was no longer that man.
"Can you see the dead things all about town?"
Shoving past the panic, past the numbing fear, he stomped around the corner and continued toward the small group of children playing. "Stop singing that song!" The words were a roar that held pain and fear and guilt.
Stunned faces looked up at him. The most confused had big round eyes that looked exactly like his own and her expression began to crumple.
"It's just a song, Daddy…"
"It isn't just a song and you aren't to sing it anymore, Taira!" He couldn't help the fury spilling from his voice even as those eyes turned sad and began to fill. "Just do as you're told!" Not sure what he would do next, certain he couldn't be trusted, Blackwall stomped off, his direction uncertain, just knowing he had to get away before he did something else. Something worse.
"Thom." Her voice was a soothing balm over a wound that still burned but he denied himself the comfort, brushing off the Inquisitor's hand that reached for him.
"Look after the little one. I need…" He shook his head and continued on, losing the words in the murky depths of his hated memories.
"Mommy, Daddy was mean!" A tear soaked voice cried driving the spike of guilt deeper into his soul, clashing with the memories of another, similar high pitched voice calling for her Daddy even as soldiers mad with blood shattered the door on the carriage she was in.
Sweet Andraste, he couldn't do this. Couldn't hear the innocence of his daughter's voice without having it distorted by the screams of a dying child. A child he had killed just as surely as if he had put the blade to her himself.
He needed out. He needed gone. Somewhere where the taint of his memories, of the blood that stained his hands, wouldn't continue to hurt the beautiful daughter he didn't deserve to have. That he was terrified would be taken from him because he was certain the Maker wasn't done punishing him and what sweeter revenge than to have his own daughter slaughtered for his crimes.
"I know, darling. Daddy isn't feeling well right now." Came the soothing response and Blackwall's first signs of hope.
She wouldn't allow anyone to harm their daughter. She would protect Taira no matter what and she had an entire army willing to back her up to do it.
She would never allow Taira's screams to become like those of…
Cursing under his breath, Blackwall found his destination and marched straight for the pub. It had been some time, but he remembered. Drinking would dull the memories, the pain. Drinking wouldn't keep him from hearing the screams, but it would numb him to them.
She entered the darkened pub with steps that were cautious in the dim visibility. She'd ordered the guards at the gate to let her know if he left Skyhold and their silence told her there were other, more likely places that he was hiding himself in.
His absence at dinner hadn't surprised her, but Taira had asked questions that she wasn't sure she knew how to answer. Like how a children's counting song could make her beloved Daddy so mad. She could honestly say she had never thought about what they would tell their children about Blackwall's past. It had been a non-issue for her. Something that had happened in the past and should be left there. But even she wasn't naïve enough to believe that Blackwall had ever put it behind him. No, there were too many nightmares after Taira's birth for her to have ever believed he'd finally found peace.
That he'd finally forgiven himself.
"Thought you'd be along sooner rather than later." The accented voice came from the shadows but she recognized him before seeing the faint light glare off his bald plate.
"Mornay." She gave a nod to him. "He's here then?"
Mornay pointed to a corner where a low burning candle showed two large casks of ale and a dark shadow sprawled out beneath them.
She made a huffing noise that could have meant anything and nothing. "Good thing he's a cheap drunk." She drawled but made no effort to move closer.
"The swill's cheap…the quantity is not." Mornay moved to her side. "He'll regret it, come waking."
"Will he?" She countered, her eyes closing briefly. "Or will he crawl back to the bottle that gives him comfort?"
Mornay looked up at her, surprised. "Isn't comfort he drinks, Lady Inquisitor. It's oblivion. It's forgetfulness. It's the only place you can run from yourself…even if it's just for a little while. When he wakes up, he'll remember."
"I thought…" The words trailed off under a weight of grief and uncertainty.
Mornay turned his attention back to the snoring lump under the casks. "That he'd gotten over it? That he'd forgotten it? That he'd put it behind him?" The skinny man shrugged. "There's a sweet kind of hell in forgiveness, Lady. In walking around basking in the respect and honor those who serve with you feel you've earned. The age old question comes…do I tell them or do I let them believe I'm an honorable man?"
She made a soft noise and looked away from the sight of both, as if ashamed.
"Some days it's about the job, about the work that needs doing, no matter who's doing it." Another one shoulder shrug. "Some days it's distant…like you can almost believe it happened to another person. Other days you hear children sing and you're back there again, reliving the whole thing only no matter how much you want to change the outcome, to do the right thing, the memories are of the past and nothing you can do will change what happened."
"What do I do?" She asked finally. "How do I help him? Help you?"
Eyes bright in the dim light focused on her. "Do, Lady? There is no 'do'." He made a grunting noise and turned for the door. "There's just living with it." He finally answered and walked out.
Closing her eyes against the silent, thick tears that still managed to escape, she raised a hand to her head. She could cry about the unfairness of it all…that she had done nothing wrong and yet she was made to suffer along with him during his dark times, but she had known from the beginning these times would come. She had known this was something he would always carry and that if she were to be part of his life, she had to carry it as well. It was delusion that always convinced her that the last bad time would be the last time.
Or maybe it was hope.
Sucking in a deep breath, she opened her eyes again and carefully made her way in the dim light to the unconscious man sprawled on the sticky floor. She spent several moments adjusting his body to a more gentle loll and finally sat herself, shifting his head onto her lap where careless fingers could stroke through graying hair as she contemplated the man she could not imagine her life without. Or the child he had given her.
Sometimes she wished she could go back in time and tell Thom Rainier not to take that bribe, not to play assassin. Things could be so much different if those deaths had not occurred. Then logic would rear its pragmatic head and point out that the very incident that she wished to change was the one that defined the man she loved. His lack of action then had led to his very determined action to never be that man again. To never stand aside as that man had. To be the hero that man had never believed he could be.
"You can't steal a past without stealing a future." She said to the sleeping features her fingers now traced the edges of.
He mumbled something and turned toward her, adjusting to a more comfortable position as love washed over her and threatened to drown her with tears.
"But can you heal a future?" She asked, the words hoarse with emotion as she pressed her lips to his forehead and simply let the emotion fall from her eyes.
No answer came.