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Middle of Nobody
"At night, the loss is harder. Crushed, crying, craving. How do you learn to stop loving?" – Blackwall and the Inquisitor learn to live in the aftermath.
Blackwall wonders how it all got so screwed up. So irreversibly, so utterly, so heart-shatteringly screwed up. Because it didn't seem like it could have gotten worse. Didn't seem like anything could be worse than hurting her.
He thinks the world would be better off with him dead. Has thought this for a while.
But he didn't think he'd be this scared.
She has brought him back to Skyhold for judgment. Her own judgment. Not the court's. Not the world's. Blackwall has to admit she has a right to it. But he's afraid she's not strong enough to make the right decision. To make the choice to end it herself. He knows it's what must be done. And when he catches the eye of several of their companions on his way to the throne, the metal shackles clanking along his wrists and ankles, he knows they believe it too.
When he is standing before her, the room falls silent.
Josephine moves to stand beside the Inquisitor as she softly recounts his crimes. There is something muted and pitying in the diplomat's gaze. He cannot tell if it is for him, or for their Lady Inquisitor. He hopes it is not for him. He doesn't think he can handle anything but hate in this moment.
Lavellan sits in her throne, straight-backed, hands resting along the arms without gripping them. Without the slight tremble he feels inside himself. Her mouth is set in a harsh line, her smooth, tanned skin the same as he remembers from their last night together. Her bright red hair swept over one shoulder, a small braid running the length of the other shaved side of her scalp. There is the minutest furrow to her dark brows, the only hint to emotion lining her face. Thin fragile lines of vallaslin blooming across her sharp cheekbones. Her deep, green eyes watch him steadily. They do not look anywhere else.
He cannot stand their gaze for long, finds his eyes on his scuffed boots. Stares hard at the mud caking the edges. He finds his voice in the silence following Josephine's prompt for his self-defense, should he have any. His voice is gravel as it scrapes his throat. "You should not have brought me here. I was prepared to die in the Orlesian gallows. I deserve no better."
"What you 'deserve' is not so easy." There is a harshness to the elf's tone he has never heard before. It makes him glance from the floor to catch her eyes.
Her gaze is guarded and unflinching. There is caution. There is the sharp twinge of a wounded animal. The retreating distance between them.
His greatest regret is that he has put that there. He swallows and finds his voice once more. "What then, my lady?"
Lavellan lifts her chin. "You will devote yourself to the Inquisition's cause. Lend your strength and your life to the pursuit of Corypheus. Earn your name. And your freedom."
Beside them, Blackwall can hear the soft curses and sighs and snorts of their companions and others of the Skyhold court. From the corner of his eye, he sees Cullen throw an exasperated hand into the air, and then clench his jaw tight, standing rigidly as he watches the informal trial unfold.
Blackwall grits his teeth. "I do not want freedom. I want an end to this shame."
Something flashes through Lavellan's eyes that he cannot discern. But it is gone instantly. "What we want is hardly ever what is needed. And an easy out is not what you deserve." Her tight frown shakes beneath the barely held quiver of her voice.
He wants to hate her for it. Wants to shake his head in anger, growl something harsh to her, shout the need for his death. It would do them all good. It would certainly do her good. Because if he stays, she will still have to see him. She will still have to trust his sword at her back. Still have to live with the memory of his hands on her skin. Still have to know his voice and his gaze and his heart. She will not be free of him. And he wishes that even more than his death.
His throat is tight with words he will not say to her, caught with feelings he doesn't think he deserves to share with her anymore. He pulls a heavy breath through his lungs, feels the air taut and harsh and aching in his chest. Knows that she was right when she said that what he deserved was not so easy. But with his sentence, she is also forced to bear the consequences.
He shakes his head, grinds his teeth in painful regret. Anyone but her.
He locks gazes with her once more, before she excuses herself tersely, walks to the door to her quarters and does not look back.
No. Anyone but her.
He spends several days cooped up in the stables, unable to join their nights in the tavern, unsure how to even approach his former comrades. He thinks it is best not to anyway. They will come to him should they feel the need. It is not his right to ask for companionship anymore.
Horsemaster Dennet is thankfully not one for talk. He welcomes Blackwall into the stables with an unassuming, if not quietly curious, gaze. He asks little of the false Warden, in both personal matters and help with the stables. Blackwall likes caring for the mounts nonetheless. And Dennet is not one to refuse a knowing and tender hand with horses.
Blackwall knows Lavellan will not ask him to join their party on missions anytime soon. He wonders how she will even ask him at all. This 'freedom' idea does not seem possible. It does not seem deserved. It feels instead, a haunting dream. A flicker of embers in a fire long since dead.
So he works the wood beneath his knife and carves griffons with exacting and yearning strokes. Tends to horses with Dennet and the other stable hands. And he waits.
Always waiting.
Lavellan is pulling the straps to her armor tight across her waist in the quiet of her room when she catches sight of it on her desk, hidden somewhat beneath papers and quills. The worn and slightly charred Warden Constable badge Blackwall had left her.
Her hands still at her waist and she watches it in painful silence for several long moments. It sits, untouched, atop the wood of her desk. She pulls a jagged breath in and finds her eyes dotting with a wetness she detests. She shakes her head, wiping a hand roughly across her eyes, cursing in half-elvish, half broken English. Her words jumbled and lost and angry so that she cannot tell herself what she is saying, who she is cursing. Only that she must hold a hand to her chest and clench tightly. Only that she shakes in heated longing for some semblance of certainty, some knowledge that she is not broken beyond repair. That she still knows what manner of man she has loved. That she is right not to forgive, not to forget, not to lay awake at night wanting.
She turns sharply from the sight of the badge, grasping her staff as it leans against the wall and walks to her door. She stills just before it, her hand locked tightly around the door handle. She pulls in a deep breath, closes her eyes tight.
It is harder than she imagines. To walk away. To release memories she still thinks are worth keeping. She drops her head back, barking a laugh that quakes with her hesitance. She stalks back to the desk, grabs the badge from beneath the mounds of parchment and stuffs it in the pocket of her enchanter armor, against her chest. Hot against where he heart beats wildly. She is at the door again, ripping it open, walking into the main hall.
Her steps are without falter.
Blackwall is on his way to the quartermaster when he first sees them. Lavellan and Cullen. Standing atop the rampart closest to the main gate. She is laughing. Even from down below where he stands, he can imagine the sound. Something clenches tight in his chest.
Cullen cocks his head toward her, wording something that makes her laugh harder, the commander's smile wide, his eyes trained on her.
Blackwall turns from the sight. He cannot deny the jealousy festering within him. His hands clench in fists at his side.
It is not that he imagines they have turned lovers in the short time since he has been with the Inquisitor himself. He knows her well enough to understand that her heart is no fickle thing. But it does not help that he has always suspected a tenderness the commander has harbored for the elven mage. Something affectionate in his words, his glances, his smiles toward her. Something longing in the way he watches her when he thinks no one is watching. Something Blackwall recognized early on because he felt it himself.
He walks stiffly to the quartermaster. He knows it is no longer his right to feel jealousy where she is concerned. He cannot claim any right to her, not even in memory. But it is the freeness of her laugh, the open unguarded smile he saw her share with Cullen that twinges at something within him. Makes him want to share it with her once more. Makes him want to be the sort of man she can forgive. One she may even love once more.
But he is not. And he doesn't suspect he ever will be. He is only a liar, and a murderer, and a walking ghost.
He knows he must let her go. He tells himself to be happy should she find love with someone else. He tells himself Cullen is a good man. An honest man. He tells himself she deserves laughter and honesty and trust.
But it still hurts. And he still cannot quiet this rage inside him. This rage of fear and hate and guilt. This rage of emotions he wishes he was too dead to feel.
He looks up from his work on the latest wood griffon he is carving to find her standing in the threshold of the open stable doors. She has always been so quiet, so stealthy, a flicker of shadow in the darkest of places. A whisper of movement that is beside you before you can recognize the green of her eyes. He should not have been surprised by her silent appearance. But he is nonetheless.
His hands still before him. "My lady," he greets, his voice hoarse and ending with the clearing of his throat.
She is eyeing the stables around them, standing with her arms to her sides, her back straight, her stance watchful and unafraid and calculating. Her eyes land on his after a cursory perusal of the stables. "You have been helping Master Dennet, I understand." Her words are steady and graceful in the warm air around them. She stands several feet from him and does not move to step any closer.
He swallows thickly, placing his wood-carving knife on the table. He turns fully to her. "Yes, my lady. Some."
Lavellan nods in acknowledgment her eyes roving the hay and the horses and the carts of feed. "It seems you carry talents outside your sword-wielding."
Blackwall opens his mouth to speak but finds there is nothing to say. Instead, he grasps his hands behind his back and waits for her to continue.
"I imagine it is a waste, however, of your use as a soldier," she muses. She stands still in the open stable doors.
Blackwall does not know if she means it as a statement or a question. "I will go where I am needed. Where I can be of use. To anyone." There is nothing self-pitying in his voice. Nothing that screams to her how he longs to fight with her once more.
She furrows her brows, unsure how to feel about that. Should she want him to? Should she want him to ask to join their party once more? Should she hope for it? Grant it?
Blackwall stands in wait before her.
She licks her lips, pulls a tight breath through her nose. "Gather your gear. We leave within the hour for the Hissing Wastes." She is turned from him then, without waiting for an answer, leaving the warmth of the stables.
Blackwall can only open his mouth in question. Close it tight with need. Feel his hands grasp stiffly behind his back while he lingers in a dull ache at her absence.
It is oddly familiar. The way their small group moves and fights and weaves amongst each other. It is not foreign or shifted or awkward. Iron Bull swings his battleaxe with the same ruthless power, charges a line with the same expectance that Blackwall will act as the bulwark to the Inquistor. It is unspoken, and acted on without discussion or question.
When the Venatori party is spotted, Bull rushes with a threatening bellow, Cole blinking into shadows around them to flank and sabotage the enemy mages. Lavellan plants herself several feet away, opening a small rift that pulls the Tevinters into a central focal point, and then sending a shock of lightning to course through their forms, rending screams from their tumbling bodies. Blackwall positions himself before her, cutting down the warriors that escaped the pull of the rift, his body a fortress that protects her while Cole and Iron Bull slash away at the remainder of the forces. It is a battle done in seconds.
They stand in silence around the fallen Tevinter bodies, breathing heavily, looking to Lavellan for guidance. She is gazing across the expansive plains, the graying light and damp fog unending before them. "Collect their valuables. Continue east."
They are moving shortly after, mostly in silence. Blackwall does not intend to open up conversation with any of them, especially since Iron Bull's watchful glance when they left the camp. He expects the Qunari to understand duty better than any of them, and to understand the depths he has fallen by abandoning his. Bull has voiced his acceptance of Blackwall, has acknowledged the change he knows the fallen warrior is making. But even still, he keeps just a hint closer to their Inquisitor, keeps his eyes keenly on their enemies as well as on the ruined Warden in their party. It is oddly comforting, to know that the hulking warrior is hesitant in his approval. He does not expect to earn Bull's respect in this lifetime. And it helps to know that such a man is at Lavellan's side, to know that she is protected, even from him. To know that she is held dearly by others. To know that she will have no shortage of love from those she surrounds herself with. He hardly expected otherwise.
"Sharp cutting breathes that quake in the night."
Cole's words interrupt everyone's thoughts as they move through the heavy sands of the Hissing Wastes. No one has the voice to stop him.
The rogue continues. "The remnants of a night lived in aching passion, whispers of memories, soft skin yielding beneath rough palms. Gone. The morning come, and with it, revelation. A hangman's noose. Not yet. Not for thee. Aching, throbbing need. Truth, drenched in tears too many to count. Wanting, waiting, watching. For answers. For certainty that will always be questionable, always be dipped in doubt, flailing regret. At night, the loss is harder. Crushed, crying, craving. How do you learn to stop loving?" The spirit-boy dips his head low, grips his daggers in his hands, exhales a shaky breath.
Blackwall is clenching his jaw tight, his eyes boring deep into Cole's back. His brows are furrowed, his heart bleeding in the dirt before them for all to see. He opens his mouth to bite out something harsh, something shamefully reproachful and pleading all at once when Lavellan's voice breaks through his haze.
"Cole," her voice floats softly around them as they stop in the sand. Her back is before all of them, and there is only the slight quake to her shoulders to alert them to any break in her. She turns her head slightly to the rogue, her gaze still low and to the sand. The graceful lilt of her voice is quaking beneath something Blackwall cannot name. "Please, stop."
Blackwall blinks. Because he was so certain Cole was reading him, throwing the dredges of his own soul out into the open for them all to pick at. So certain that the 'regret' and 'craving' could be no one else's but his.
Lavellan's eyes flick to his.
"I'm sorry," Cole starts, swallowing down the heavy and raw burning in the air around them. "There's just so much screaming here."
Blackwall cannot take his eyes from Lavellan's. It is a foolish mess of guilt and hope and longing that churns within him.
The mage sniffs loudly, turns her gaze from her former lover and moves to continue on their path. "We're almost there." Her words speak nothing of the turmoil Cole had just voiced. They are hard, and set, and without hesitance.
Blackwall swallows and continues after her. But there is something hot and unnamable blooming within him.
Blackwall decides to visit the tavern tonight. He does not expect anyone to join him. He only hopes for a quiet drink.
He has joined the Inquisitor's party on missions a handful of times, still gauging their place in each other's lives, still figuring out the dynamics to be played with the other companions. Most treat him with a wary distrust, a quiet acceptance because Lavellan has declared he be part of their group. But there is no mistaking their eyes. No mistaking their fervent desire to protect Lavellan from him, their loyalty in preserving their commander and friend's heart. He would have it no other way. But there are a couple who still venture more.
Dorian is oddly jovial with him. Their conversations are few and far between, the barely-there promise of the Tevinter's wrath should he cross their Inquisitor again briefly touched on. But there is still something soft in the mage's eyes when they talk. Something that speaks of regret and hidden identity and living a life that is not yours. Something that knows how lies can change and hurt. How none are untouched, how even the liar may suffer. Blackwall hates that he is comforted by Dorian's knowing gaze.
Varric still speaks with him every now and then but he can tell it is largely forced. He will not suffer anyone's pity.
Cassandra does not speak to him at all. She does not hide her dark glances toward him, keeps her hand ready at her blade. She trails their Inquisitor with a fierce protectiveness. Makes it known to Blackwall that she will not abide anything else that hurts her.
Cole is surprisingly the one he appreciates conversing with the most. Perhaps it is because he has always known the truth of Blackwall's identity, always known the real man behind the lie. It is hard to hide anything from the perceptive spirit. Blackwall finds he doesn't actually want to. There is no judgment in Cole's voice when he speaks to the warrior, though Blackwall feels he deserves it. There is only the urge to accept oneself, to understand the past and why they have failed in it, to promise to be better men than they are now. Blackwall does not know how Cole can stand to be around him, but he is grateful nonetheless.
Sipping his ale now, he is not surprised to see Sera plop herself down on the bench next to him. She, of all of them, has been the most unchanged in her interactions with him. It is refreshing, but also troubling. He doesn't believe he can share the same kind of friendship with her since the revelation of his identity. He doesn't believe he should.
Beside him, Sera takes a large swig from her full mug of ale. It leaves a frothy ring around her lips that she swipes at with her tongue, and then her sleeve. "Heya, not-Warden!" she greets. Her smile is brilliant.
Blackwall groans. "Sera. I had wished for a quiet drink tonight."
"Pft," she snorts, moving to straddle the bench next to him and lean an elbow along the bar top. "Shouldn'ta come here then."
Blackwall flicks his gaze behind them where he sees Iron Bull, Krem and Varric across the tavern floor, laughter bubbling up from them, mugs of ale traded between them. "Not worried they'll say something? You coming over to sit with the murderer?" He nods to their companions.
Sera catches sight of them and blows air through her lips, taking another drink. "Since when have I cared what those pissants think?"
Blackwall cannot help his smile at that. "True," he concedes.
The elf leans her head down onto her arm that's on the table and looks at him sideways. "You're so serious. Have a laugh, right?"
He fingers the handle of his mug in contemplation. "Not much to laugh about these days."
"What, cause o' Inky?"
"Among other things," he offers, an eyebrow cocked her way.
"Like what?" She lifts her head from the cradle of her arm to sip at her ale and tap her free fingers on the bench between them.
Blackwall looks to her when she says it, as though she truly doesn't understand why he can't be laughing right now. She watches him in expectation and burps after her last drink of ale.
Blackwall sighs. "I don't particularly wish to talk about it, Sera."
She snorts. "Well, you're certainly not talking to anybody else about it."
He narrows his eyes at her.
"Or rather," she muses, "nobody's talking to you about it."
"Point taken," he grumbles. He downs the last of his ale and motions for the barkeep to fill another one. The dwarf does so silently, gruffly. Blackwall nods his thanks. "Okay then," he begins, suddenly unsure exactly where to start. "I've lived a lie for so long that I truly started to believe it. That I could be someone good, someone honorable. That I could escape the horror of the man I used to be." It is odd to find the words so easy in Sera's presence. "But when it came down to it, if I truly wanted to be the man I pretended to be for so long, I would have to stand up and face my crimes. And even now, I am denied that. I had not expected to live long enough to have to figure out which I truly am, Blackwall or Rainier. I don't know if I'll like the answer."
Sera snorts and it is enough to elicit a gruff disapproval from the warrior. She laughs into her mug. "You're so daft, Beardy. The way I hear it, that noble had it coming anyway. Don't see how you should feel guilty about that."
Blackwall is angry suddenly at her easy dismissal. "It wasn't just the noble and his men. There were children, innocents. And I am responsible for their deaths."
"You didn't know there were tots in there."
"Don't try to justify it Sera. It does you no credit."
Sera scrunches her nose in mild frustration. "People take gold for killin' all the time. Example, Chargers. Sometimes, it gets messy. People there that aren't supposed to be. Blood that doesn't seem quite right when you're washin' up afterwards. Mistakes. Happens. Move on."
Blackwall swallows down a large gulp of ale as Sera does the same. He feels it warm his chest and settle in his gut, where he feels knots and tangles about Sera's words. They shouldn't be comforting, he thinks. "There's no escaping the fact that I have done damage beyond repair. That I can in no way be an honorable man after what I've done. Not in this life."
"What, because people died?" Sera offers her empty mug to the bar keep and smiles giddily at the froth that tops her newest refill. She keeps talking as she takes the beverage and cradles it in her hands. "People drop all the time, and usually for no reason enough to make sense in this pisspot. If you look too hard at it, this death business, it gets hazy, right? Not real. It's all just some play and sport in a shite world that looks right to us because we're stuck in it. Because we can't see anything else. Blind fuckers, all of us. And some evil, yeah. Of course. But 'evil' don't sit around scared that it's evil. It don't wallow about 'Oh, those poor tits I stuffed. Dead, all of them'. Wah, wah, teary and shit, right? So clearly, you're not evil, Beardy. Wouldn't be sitting here crying otherwise."
Blackwall frowns, watching his mug. "Maybe not 'evil'. But certainly not 'good'."
"Inky loves you. So ya got to be good, right?"
Blackwall blinks at her. Something harsh and regretful tightens in his chest. "She loved a stranger." The words are heavy on his tongue and he must swallow back that thick slice of shame to continue. "Not this. Not me. Not…whoever I am now." His eyes are heavy on his ale.
Sera cocks her head to watch him, drawing a finger around the wet edge of her mug. "I mean, it's crummy, innit? First you're this person, and then you're not, and then you are again. But not really. It's someone new, ya know? This third person. Half place between Blackwall and Rainier. Middle of nobody business."
Blackwall exhales a short laugh. "Sounds about right."
"So start living like this third person." The ring of froth is around her mouth once more.
Blackwall cannot help the smile hidden somewhat by his beard. "That easy, huh?"
"Never said it'd be easy," she warns. She swipes her sleeve along her mouth and sniffs loudly. In the warm tavern light, her cheeks blaze red beneath the ale. "S'not supposed to be easy. But worth it. Always worth it if you have to try for it. And you do. Better than most sods I know."
"Worth it, huh?" he muses. He thinks of red hair and deep, green eyes. The sharp quirk of Lavellan's lips, the graceful flow of her steps, the hardness in battle, the compassion and the strength and the unflinching loyalty. The way the world slips away when he is near her.
Sera hums lightly beside him, swaying with a tune that only she can hear.
Blackwall swallows thickly and brings himself back. He clears his throat and takes his mug to his lips. "Maybe. Maybe there'll be a day when I can accept the man I am. The man I am becoming." His eyes are soft and low on the wood of the bar before them. "And maybe I can learn to live with this shame."
Sera smiles nonchalantly as she peers at him. "Maybe you can learn you're just like the rest o' us." She raises her mug in a mock toast.
Blackwall furrows his brows at her in question.
She sighs. "I mean, most people know exactly who they're not. Not so much who they are. So no, not 'shameful'. 'Normal'. Blah, blah, identity, blah. Not so much piss as you think. Everyone fibs. And you're stupid if you say they don't. Well, you're stupid anyway, Beardy. All this mopey rot. All this guilt for tits who wouldn't even look at you twice. Pointless. Throw it away. Be done. Be me! Drink more." She picks herself up from the bench and wobbles, giggling and mug sloshing, toward their companions across the room.
Blackwall is left to watch her go. Left to finish his mug in silence. Nothing in what Sera has said makes him believe he will ever win back Lavellan. But he had already laid that to rest the night he left her. And he finds that, perhaps more importantly than Lavellan's forgiveness (because he doesn't think she should forgive him), Sera's words offer the possibility that he can grow into someone new. Someone he can craft openly and honestly, someone he can learn to take pride in, someone who lives and acts and will someday die by principles he has too long only pretended were his. Someone who can look into a mirror and accept the face looking back at him. Someone he wants to be.
The air crackles around them, the undulating green rift warping the Fade into tangled knots that bend and meld beneath Lavellan's fingers. She grinds her teeth and feels her elbow almost buckle beneath the weight of power shifting through the Anchor. Before her, the rift twists and bows and all around her is the howling of demons.
Cassandra slices cleanly through a shade, its form blinking out in shadow and tumbling like smoke to the earth. One of Varric's arrows finishes off the winding twisting form of another demon as it sprouts from the ground behind the Seeker. Blackwall is wearing down the pride demon howling at the edge of the rift. One slash of his sword cuts the creature at the knee, bending its form so that Blackwall slams his shield up and into its throat. He gives it only a second to gurgle in surprise and pain, momentarily stunned, before he slices his blade keenly through its neck, the creatures severed head rolling to the floor while it still roars and growls. Sharp black-tinged teeth caught in a snarl as the heavy body falls beside it and they both melt into the green tinged Fade rift. He turns just in time to see the rage demon bearing down on Lavellan.
Her arm is still spread toward the rift, the shifting tear stitching closed beneath her power, when she catches sight of the demon herself. Red and gleaming eyes trained on her as it ghosts across the ground toward her, the dirt charred and smoking in its wake. She thinks she can close the rift before it reaches her and grunts beneath the weight of the power shifting through her. Blackwall knows she will not make it, and moves instantly.
She realizes too late that she cannot close the rift, and the rage demon is already swinging a heavy scorching arm toward her when she reaches for her staff in frenzied panic. The arm is suddenly sliced clean as it comes down, molten flesh dripping into the dirt below and Blackwall's form is between them, his shield raised, prepared for the full weight of the demon as it slams against them. Lavellan stumbles back, the magic cutting from her Anchor instantly, her hands swinging her staff around to send a Winter's Grasp toward the creature. She is not fast enough. The burning mass of demon pounds into Blackwall's shield and jolts him back, flames and burning demon flesh crashing forcefully against the warrior's barrier. It splashes over the edge, branding his cheek and jaw beneath his helmet. His roar of pain jolts something sharp and fearful in Lavellan. Her spell is cast a breath later and the demon is frozen, crackling and hissing, its eyes bright and hateful. Blackwall has enough mind to swing his sword forward, shattering the statue with a hoarse bellow.
Lavellan has her hand spread toward the rift once more but her eyes are on the bent and panting form of Blackwall beside her. Several feet from them, Cassandra and Varric finish the last of the demons as the bright green of the rift flashes closed. There is silence around them but for the jagged breathing and sheathing of weapons.
Lavellan is reaching for Blackwall without realizing it, grasping at his helmet to remove the barrier and eye his wound. He hisses in pain at the motion but moves to help her in its removal. Then they are staring into each other's eyes. Something wild and fearful flashes through Lavellan's gaze as she eyes the burned flesh of his cheek, her hand reaching up swiftly to grasp at his chin and turn his face for her inspecting. Blackwall cannot do anything but breathe in deep, ragged pants and watch her.
Her eyes flick across the burn and she licks her lips before speaking. "Dirthara ma," she breathes tightly, her voice almost an accusation, her fingers trembling against his skin. She swallows slowly. "We should return to Skyhold. We can treat your burn there without leaving much scarring." She looks to his eyes once more and stops.
His brows are furrowed, his eyes set and unblinking against her. "You are unharmed?"
Lavellan pulls her hand from his face, surprised to find her words caught in her throat. She opens her mouth to speak and can only exhale shakily. "Yes," she breathes, her voice a whisper across his skin.
Blackwall's eyes flick to her lips for only a second, and then he is watching her again, swallowing tightly.
She leans toward him instinctually, her breath fanning his face before she stops herself, pulling her mouth into a tight frown and taking a step back. Blackwall misses the warmth of her immediately. He clears his throat and looks to the ground.
She turns to Cassandra and Varric behind her. "Back to Skyhold. We're done here." She is relieved to find her voice steady.
Blackwall looks back up to the retreating form of his former lover and knows he will not be able to stay. For both their sakes.
He finds himself outside the door to her quarters that night. His knock is sure and steady, everything he feels he is not. She answers shortly after, wrapped in a silk robe, her legs bare from mid-thigh down. Blackwall pulls in a tight breath and cannot help his short glance of the length of her form. He clears his throat and stands with his hands clasped behind his back. "My lady, might I have a word?"
Lavellan has a hand holding the loose collar of her robe to her chest, her other hand still resting against the wood of the door. She hesitates shortly, and then steps back to allow him entrance. He walks in and hears the door close behind him. When he turns to watch her she moves silently and gracefully across the room to lean back against her desk, her hands holding the edge behind her. "Pardon my attire. I was about to retire to bed."
Blackwall nods and tries to ignore the soft gleam of her skin in the moonlight sifting through slants in her windows. Candles burn in dim warmth around the room but it is mostly silver in the night, striking and ethereal and whispering of memory. "I will be quick then."
She crosses her arms over her chest and watches him.
"I request permission to leave the company of the Inquisition."
Her brows furrow. "No," she says simply.
Blackwall huffs. "You haven't even let me plead my case."
"You have no case to plead."
Blackwall remembers how she can stir a heat in him, though he wishes to forget. "There is only pain to be felt should I stay. I cause our companions discomfort and unease. I am one soldier of many and will not be missed for my skill. And you…" He stops suddenly, watching as she does not change expressions. "You cannot be free of me unless I go."
Lavellan scoffs. "You give yourself too much credit."
He takes an angry step closer to her. "Do not lie to me, Wren."
Her fingers clench her arms tighter with the intimate use of her name. Her eyes are suddenly hard, her voice quaking only the slightest bit. "An ironic demand, don't you think?" She takes a sharp breath through her nostrils.
Blackwall is silenced momentarily, but not discouraged enough to stop. Because he knows her well enough to recognize veiled hurt. He knows her well enough to understand the betrayal behind her barbs, the knowledge that somewhere, something inside her is crying. He takes another step and her eyes flash dangerously. "I don't expect your forgiveness."
"Good." Her voice shakes and she clamps her mouth closed.
He lets out a weary, aching breath. Pushes down the tightness in his chest. "Can you not see that keeping me here is hurting you? Us? Whatever you want to name it. I can bring you nothing but the ugly reminder of a false love."
Her throat is tight as she speaks. "It wasn't false for me," she says lowly.
Blackwall blinks in mild surprise at the admission. Hesitates only a moment. "Nor for me," he says sincerely. "Whatever I told you of my past, my feelings for you are genuine. I never lied about how I felt about you. I never lied when I held you."
Lavellan sniffs and turns her gaze to the window. "But that is not the issue, is it?"
He sighs. "No. It is not."
"The issue is that you are a coward."
Something flares within him at the notion. "I have never denied it. I was a coward for my crime, for my running, for a life I stole."
"As you are now for running again." She turns her gaze back to him and he can see the wetness dotting her eyes. She is too proud to wipe at them, too proud to admit to the vulnerability she cannot hold back.
"I should have died at the Orlesian Gallows."
"You're wrong," she almost growls.
"How? How can there be any justification for what I've done? The lives I am responsible for?"
"It is not about justification," she nearly shouts, moving from her lean on the desk to step closer toward him. "It is about bettering this world when there is worth enough in you to do so. It is about not throwing away the chance at amends."
"There can be no amends for such an act!" His voice is deep and echoing in the space of her room.
She shakes her head harshly, her mouth clenched. "You are such a fool." She throws her hands into the air and stalks across the room. "What good will your death do?"
"It will be penance, at the least," he urges. He cannot help this anger swelling within him.
"Penance," she scoffs. "It is only a waste. An escape. It solves nothing."
Blackwall pulls a deep breath in and clenches his fists at his side. "It is what I owe those innocents lost. It is what I can do. The only thing I can do." He moves to walk out her quarters, reaches a hand to the door handle. When he has it pulled open there is the slight warmth and wind of a spell brushing against his shoulder before the door is slammed shut and locked, reverberating in the silence around them. Blackwall stills, his back to her, and knows that she stands with her hand outstretched toward the door. He pulls a heavy breath of rage through his nose.
"You will hear me out, Blackwall. You owe me at least that much." Her voice is venomous and spitting at his back.
She lowers her hand to stand stiffly in the center of the room.
Blackwall breathes silently for several seconds, his gaze on the shut door, his hands shaking in fists at his side. "And how do you imagine this will go, my lady?"
"Painfully but honestly," she answers without hesitation.
He whips around to face her and stalks toward her. She does not retreat. "What do you want from me?" he yells. "What would you have?"
She lifts her chin as he stops just before her. "I will have your allegiance to our cause."
"You had it," he growls. "And now my allegiance must be to justice."
"There is no justice in you throwing your life away. Not when you can do so much more. When there are lives yet to be saved. When the good you may be capable of is still possible." She wants to shake him. Can only grit her teeth against the warm tears on her lids. Can only halt her shaking breath in her chest.
"Why?" he demands, towering over her, his breath hot against her face. "Why can you not let me die?"
"Because I cannot live in a world that believes more death is the solution to anything!" she screams. She clutches at her arms, trembles before him in a tangled mix of rage and fear and helplessness. This terrible helplessness. This knowledge that no matter what she does, the world's answer will always be a demand for blood. This horrible, senseless waste of life. This painful, meaningless disregard for existence.
Sometimes she dreams of a world she cannot recognize. But she wakes every morning in this one. And she thinks she's dying for it a little more each day.
Blackwall watches her with heated eyes, tries to reign in his breathing, tries to resist the urge to take her into his arms and cradle her there. This is not how he wanted tonight to go. Not with more hurt. Not with her shaking and angry and unreachable before him. He grinds his jaw tight and tries to stifle the growing sickness rising in him.
Lavellan shakes her head slowly, her eyes closed lightly, her hands clenching the silk of her robe as it drapes her form. "I will not," she begins, her breath low and forceful, "live in such a world."
Blackwall thinks he couldn't possibly love her more than in this instant.
"What I would have of you," her eyes rise to his then, "is the courage to become more. It is not supposed to be easy. And yes, some will hate you for it. But anyone who strives to put good in this world, to make right the atrocities, knows endurance. Knows hardship. And they do it anyway." She keeps her gaze steadily on his, watches him meaningfully. "It is easier to think your life is the fair price. It does not mean it is right."
Blackwall wonders how she can shame him still, how even at his lowest, she can illuminate fault in his thinking. How she can even imagine the possibility of good in him. How she believes it still. He cannot look at her then. "I'm sorry," he barely gets out, his voice catching against the rawness of his throat, his words heavy with the threat of breaking.
She only furrows her brows at him.
"For lying, for my past, for…everything." It is a hopeless sigh, his fists releasing their tension, his arms going slack at his sides. "For everything."
"It is not the lie that cut me the harshest." Her voice is a warm whisper between them.
Blackwall watches her in regret.
"It was that…" She stops, pulls her lip in and holds it there. She reaches hesitantly for his cheek.
He leans into the touch unconsciously. Nothing has ever felt so right.
She swallows, gathers her voice. "It was that you did not trust me with the aftermath of such a lie. That you did not believe in me enough to think I could understand. It wasn't because of what you thought I'd do with the lie, it was because of what you thought I'd do with the truth. I do not let go so easily. You should have known that."
Something clenches harshly in his chest at her admission. Shame. That's all he can feel in this moment. Biting, overwhelming shame. "I had hoped you would never find out. That I could die for my crime and you would never have to live with that knowledge."
Her hand slips from his cheek, but it is not harsh or angry. "I deserve better."
He nods, his eyes closing. "Better than I can offer."
She is silent for many moments, enough for Blackwall to realize that he may never find his way back to her. Enough to know this horrible, rending pain in his chest may never leave. He opens his eyes to watch her. "I hope, one day, to at least be a man you can call 'friend'." He hates that the thought hurts more than it should, that he may never know her touch or her heart or her tender breath at night again.
Her smile is shaky and tells of heartache she will not speak of. "I think that may be possible." Her voice lilts with a happiness she does not feel.
Blackwall stares at her imperatively, hopes that she can read in him all the thoughts and wishes he cannot express in words. "I never intended…well, intentions don't seem to matter enough in the end, do they?" he shakes off.
She pulls her lips in and holds her breath tight in her chest.
"Perhaps one day I can tell you about the real Blackwall. Give you insight into the lie you fell in love with." He does not say it with any self-pity, only apology and hopefulness. Only the tender throb of regret.
"No need," she says softly, her eyes fixing on his meaningfully. "I fell in love with the man before me. There was no lie in that." Her breath quakes with fearful anticipation.
Blackwall opens his mouth to speak but finds only uncertainty. Lavellan gulps down that sharp pang of fear and leans toward him fully, uninhibitedly, unashamedly. She meets his mouth with hers and there is everything longing and promising in the warmth of their lips pressed together. Everything desperate and knowing and tasting of memory. She pulls from him shortly after, tries to gather her breath. His hands are held tight in her hair, his mouth hovering above hers in hesitant desire. He shudders against her.
She closes her eyes and rests her forehead against his, exhaling sharply. She cannot shake this craving, this warmth, this ache for him that makes her feel foolish and lost and always, always, complete. Always as though the world is enveloped in his arms. She longs for that remembrance with a painful clench of air in her lungs, a sharp pang of defiance and want and selfishness. She must pull from him before she breaks further.
She turns her head, takes a step away and pulls her arms from his embrace. Blackwall does not resist when she pulls from him, even though every fiber of his being is screaming at him to pull her into him and never, never, let her go. He misses the warmth of her immediately.
She cradles herself in the silver moonlight streaming through the painted glass windows. Her back is to him. The image is something he wishes to never see again.
"I'm sorry." Her voice is soft and yielding.
He narrows his eyes at her back. "You have nothing to apologize for."
"I just…" she sighs, turns her head so that she can just barely catch his gaze from her position. "I don't mean to suggest…"
Blackwall keeps his mouth clamped tight, tries to keep his fists from shaking. Tries to keep every ounce of his being weighted and steady and not flying in anxious need toward her. "I know. I know I have lost you for good. I have made peace with that." He really hasn't. There can be no such peace. Not in this lifetime. But he wants her to know that he expects nothing from her. That anything else to happen between them will always and rightfully be her decision. But he needs her to know. He needs her to know. "You have done nothing to make me love you less. But that you look at me," his voice breaks, and he must steady the ache inside him when she turns further to catch his gaze. "That you look at me," he breathes raggedly, "and see anything of worth, is enough. It is enough." He must turn from her then and head for the door, before she sees him at his lowest, before she sees the hot tears lining his lids.
"Blackwall," she calls softly.
He stills before the door, but does not dare turn. He can hear the soft rustling of her movement, but she does not come close enough to touch.
"Thank you." She says it softly from behind him. She does not urge him to turn to her because she knows when it is easier to be alone with one's hurt. She knows what it is to turn away. She knows what it means to not want a witness to one's ruin. "I cannot know the future. I cannot offer you closure or hope. I cannot even know whether those are things I can offer myself. I can only tell you that…" She sighs, runs her hands through her hair and shakes her head. "Fenedhis," she curses lowly, and then pulls in a weary breath. "I don't know. Just that, I guess. That I cannot know the future."
Blackwall swallows thickly and turns his head just enough for her to catch his nod. "I do not ask for more, my lady." He moves for the door, pulls at the handle, and is gone a moment later.
Lavellan closes her eyes and runs her hands through her hair once more, holds them there and tries to breathe. Everything is silver and silent in her moonlit room. Everything is silent.
It is a slow progression. This learning to fit into each other's lives anew. This attempt at truth and brutal honesty and the barely-there hint of residual want. This strange and sometimes painful dance around hearts that still call for one another. But Blackwall will not ask for more, will not try for a love he feels undeserving of. Some days are easier than others. Days when her smile is natural and full and aimed at him. Days when the former ease of their conversations slips unknowingly between them. Days when he wonders how she ever looked at him before and saw something worthwhile. When he realizes what it takes of her to keep him in her life, what it takes of her to brave this new and slow-blooming friendship.
How strange, to fall in love with her all over again. To find that even as this new man, this half place between Blackwall and Rainier, as Sera so eloquently put it, the pull of her is still inexplicable and overwhelming. Even when he has no reason to believe he will ever again know the feel of her in his arms, this love is fervent and instinctually and it overtakes him.
Even here, in the "middle of nobody", the one thing that remains unquestionable to him, the one thing that will always be right and honest and eternal, is her.
Always her.
Sometimes, when she looks at him, he thinks it may be always him as well. It is that thought alone that keeps him by her side. That keeps him steady and striving and strong. That keeps him reaching for a man that can look in the mirror and accept the face looking back at him.