"And what'd you have to do for this?"
Thomas's mother didn't even look up from the basin as she asked the question, her knuckles scraping against the washing board. His mother was a known hustler in Markham, her hands never idle, always washing or mending or baking, anything that might earn the family some extra gold.
"Messer Jo-"
"Don't say the name, you stupid boy, I don't want to know," his mother said quickly.
"Sorry, mum," Thomas said, his voice quiet. He knew better than to say names. His mother taught him that years ago. He looked over at his sister, Liddy, playing by the fire and tried not to feel the sting of jealousy. She never had to work for coin.
"Are you going to answer the question or not?" his mother asked, a hint of impatience in her words. This is how it went, week after week. She asked questions and Thomas did his best to answer.
"This," Thomas said, pointing at a small copper piece, "is for bringing a package to a man at a tavern-"
"Did you ask any questions?"
"No, mum," Thomas said at once. He pointed to the silver coin, his largest earning to date. "This was for keeping watch in the barn."
His parents sent him to work at rich men's farms as a stable boy and while his mother took his wages every week, Thomas had other ways to earn some coin. Not all the coin made its way into his mother's pocket. He didn't know what he saved for, not yet, but Thomas liked the idea of having money of his own.
"Keeping watch for who?" she asked.
"Don't remember," Thomas said, putting his hands in his pockets. His mother didn't need to know that the son of the house, a tall man of twenty, went up to the loft laughing with another man.
His mother grabbed his chin and looked him, right in the eye, a satisfied look on her face, a look Thomas rarely saw. "You're better than they are, Thomasas," she said softly. "Better than any nobility out there. You'll earn your way to the top, like a man should, and not have it handed to you on a platter."
"Yes, mum," Thomas said, thinking of the other two copper pieces in his pocket, safe from his mother.
"Good lad," she said, mussing his hair. "Now, remember, don't tell your father about this. It's our little secret." Slowly, she slid the coins off the table and into her palm. "Now take your sister to market."
Feeling like he had passed a test, Thomas walked over to his sister. "Come on, Liddy!"
"But I'm cold, Thomas."
He sighed. She was always cold. "Then bring a shawl," he said, picking hers off of the floor and wrapping it around her shoulders. They didn't get to go to the market alone very often and he wanted to enjoy every moment.
They lived close to the market, but even the short walk winded his sister. "Anything you want, Liddy," Thomas told her proudly, keeping her small hand in his to make sure she wouldn't get lost.
But Liddy had simple tastes, usually asking for a ribbon for her hair or a feather to make a quill, even when he told her she could have more. She said she never wanted more.
This final time they made the trip, she asked for flowers.
#
"Room here at the fire, Warden," a farmer calls out.
The afternoon air is chilly, even with Blackwall's gambeson. A few minutes in front of a fire would do a world of good. He walks over to the farmer, who lords over a pot of stew, the spatula in his hand a specter. The man presses a full bowl into Blackwall's hands. "Grey Wardens saved my brother in Denerim during the Blight. Happy to pay it back a little."
Blackwall nods his thanks and sits down on a log circling the fire, dropping his pack carefully onto the ground. Wardens Brosca and Alistair, two names that earn him free drinks in most taverns and a good meal besides. It seems everywhere he goes in Ferelden, the Wardens were there ten years before, helping and making a difference. And people remembered.
He hopes there are places, village or towns, that remember the name Blackwall as well. The Warden-Constable deserves it.
Taking out his wooden spoon from a pouch on his belt, he eats in silence, never wanting to give too much information about himself. Leaving the Hinterlands looks more and more like a good idea. Too much activity, with the Inquisition and its Herald poking around.
Even with this small crowd gathering around, as yet another young man walks over for supper, Blackwall feels his muscles start to tense. He's too exposed now and wants the familiarity of an open and more importantly empty road beneath his feet, where it's him alone with the company of his own thoughts and grief.
Perhaps Gwaren is the answer. He made the trip a few years ago, trading his wooden trinkets for salt he could use for trade anywhere in Ferelden. Maybe he'd even spend a day on the coast. He always did like the sea.
"Bloody bandits are back," the young man grumbles. Around him, several men and women sighed as if the young man's news was expected. "Charging a toll this time."
"As if we didn't have enough trouble with the hole in the sky," an elderly woman says.
Blackwall looks west, towards the Breach. It can barely be seen from the Hinterlands, but it's still there, waiting and watching. The rifts are more dangerous, in his mind. Anyone could stumble upon one, and without a way to close them? Bloody disaster.
"We have the Herald, though," someone behind Blackwall says. "She's helping out up at the Crossroads. Inquisition is there, too."
"She was really there? I thought that was just a rumor," the elderly woman says, warming her hands by the fire. "You know, I heard she didn't have a stitch of clothes on her when she stepped out of the Fade. Naked as the day she was born."
Blackwall's heard a bit about this Herald. Some say she's a duplicate of Andraste herself. One rumor has her galloping across Felerden on a horse with a golden mane. He knows better than to put stock in such rumors. At least the Herald and her Inquisition are trying to change things for the better, which is more than most people these days.
Across the way, he hears a high-pitched scream. Blackwall stands immediately, his heart beginning to race as he heads toward the scream, like the good Warden he considers himself to be.
"Demons," he says, his voice coming out in a hiss. A Wraith circles aimlessly as farmers run the other way. Sliding his arm into his shield and unsheathing his sword, he takes stock of the situation.
He knows where there's one, there will be more. These people are farmers. If they aren't able to deal with some troublesome bandits, they certainly wouldn't be able to deal with demons. His adrenaline starts to rise, knowing he's going to be the only chance for these people. Good, honest folk, just trying to get on with their lives. This is what Wardens do. This is what he does, what he craves more than anything now: to protect.
He quickly takes stock of the people behind him. "You and you," he says, pointing at two sturdy looking men. "You can handle a pitchfork?" They nod in unison. He's always had that ability, able to look at a person and judge their strength. "Then you've officially become the last line of defense." Both men stand a little taller and Blackwall knows that feeling well, felt it himself four years ago when the Warden-Constable told him about the Wardens. "If these demons get past me, it's up to you to keep everyone safe."
"Yes, Warden," one of the men says. "We'll grab them now."
Blackwall gives himself one moment to think, It's them or me and it's not going to be fucking me, not today, before clanging his sword on the front of his shield. Ritual done, he charges.
It's been years since he's fought a demon; he did regularly back when his company toured The Exalted Plains. But muscle memory comes back quickly and and these demons seem weak. Perhaps the further away they are from a rift, the weaker they are. No matter, he thinks, letting out a final taunt, ensuring the demon's focus is on him and only him.
And then a Terror appears.
"Fuck," Blackwall mutters under his breath, as he braces himself with his shield, standing firm. He lunges his sword, trying to cut the Terror off at the knees, but it's already disappeared into the ground. He looks over at the farmers and their families, the two men standing in front of them with their pitchforks, as proud as any Chevalier. "Keep them safe, men," he calls, reaching for his grappling chain.
With a deafening screech, the Terror pops out of the ground, close to the men. Blackwall will have one chance and he won't waste it. He throws the chain and it hits his mark, wrapping around the Terror's torso, before he yanks the chain and the demon back to him.
The terror immediately wraps one of its arms around his and squeezes hard before letting go. Blackwall's sword suddenly feels heavy in his hand and he wonders if he's been cursed by the creature. No matter. Lashing out with his sword, Blackwall feels a renewal of strength surge within him. Two swings later, the Terror lay dead at his feet.
Breathing heavy, he stays in a combat stance, not wanting to be taken by surprise by any extra demons. He looks back at the farmers and smiles to himself. These people would remember his name, Blackwall's name. The Warden-Constable won't be forgotten.
Minutes pass, and no more demons appear. Just as Blackwall sheaths his sword, an elderly man, Giles, he vaguely recalls, yells, "The bandits! The bandits took everything!"
His hands curled into fists. Bloody cowards, waiting until he was distracted by the demons before moving onto larger prey. A young girl, no more than twelve runs up to him, holding a skin of water, which Blackwall accepts eagerly. As he drinks, he formulates a plan. He can't leave the Hinterlands, not yet. Not until these good people had a better chance of defending themselves.
He gives the skin back to the girl and stands in front of the crowd that's gathered. There's a strange mixture of hope and desperation radiating from the people. It's a look he's seen before. These are a proud people, people who would prefer to solve their problems on their own. They just need someone to show them the way.
"Demons and Blights are why the Grey Wardens are here, why I'm here," he says, his voice firm and clear. "But I can't protect you from bandits, not all the time. Some of you will need to stand up. Some of you will need to learn how to fight. If you'll let me, I can teach you." Pounding his fist against his chest, he adds, "Who's with me?"
The farmers cheer and the two pitchfork wielders plus a third walk up to stand by his side. "Well done," Blackwall says to the men. "Now, we need to gather whatever sort of equipment you have to use in a fight."
The men lead him away from the crowd and Blackwall wipes the sweat from his brow. As satisfying as this work is, he can't help but wonder what it might be like to be able to do more. Help more people, do more good. Perhaps some day he'll have that chance.
In the meantime, he has conscripts to train.