"Nothing haunts us like the things we don't say." -Mitch Albom
-1-
The moment he heard the soft whimpering, he knew something was wrong.
He had been peacefully sleeping (a rarity for him) when he was awoken by the noise. He was generally a light sleeper, bred into him from years of night raids as a mercenary and a soldier in the Orlesian army.
Even through the initial fog of sleep, it did not take long for him to realize the source of the sound.
Blackwall shifted onto his side, trying to get a good look at his lady beside him. She was also on her side facing him, but with knees drawn up towards her chest and arms snaked around them. Tear streaks from closed eyelids shone on her skin from the light of the full moon squeezing through the open balcony doors, her mouth open to emanate another string of distraught noises.
This was not the first time he had seen her in such a state, but it did not diminish the pain it caused him to see her so helpless. As much as he wished to just gather her up in his arms, he had quickly learned when she was in the throws of a nightmare to gradually wake her before doing so, else risk a reflexive swipe or kick.
He scooted himself closer, right hand reaching out to cup her cheek, left resting on the top of her head. At the sound of another whimper, he began alternating running his thumb just underneath her eye and the bridge of her nose, while his left hand traced circles on the crown of her head.
The change in Ellana was almost immediate, muscles in her face relaxing and her arms loosening their grip around her knees. Though she let out another cry, it was weaker than the others had been.
Even as she began to shift, he did not cease his ministrations, chancing a brief press of his lips to the center of her forehead. As he pulled away, he caught a breathy, "Ir abelas…ir abelas."
This was new. He had never heard her talk in her sleep. And he recognized that Elvish phrase, one of the few Ellana had taught him he could remember. Why was she sorry? Who could she be directing it towards?
With a sudden jolt and choked gasp, her eyes snapped open, wildly darting around as if trying to discern her surroundings. He shushed her, continuing to run his calloused fingers over her face and hair in an attempt to soothe her.
She blinked twice, clouded emerald eyes resting on his concerned face. Her breathing slowed as recognition flared within them, burning away some of the haze.
"Sorry I woke you," she said, voice as hoarse as if she had been crying for hours.
"It's ok," he said, retracting his hands as she sat up on the bed, knees again pushed up towards her chest. She kept one arm around them, the other used to wipe away the wet smears on her cheeks.
Minutes ticked by in silence. Usually it didn't take much for her to confess to him the focus of her nightmares. Of Haven, of Corypheus and the Temple of Sacred Ashes, of Alexius' dark future, of Adamant and the Fade. Of any number of terrible things befalling one of their companions, her clan, him.
Blackwall eventually followed her up, laying what was meant to be a comforting hand over the knee closest to him. "Are you alright, love?"
She covered his hand with her own clammy one in reply. She tried to smile reassuringly at him, but he did not miss the strain at the edges.
"I'll be ok, vhenan. Just a bad dream." Her hand fell away as quickly as it lay. "Just a bad dream."
His free hand found its way onto her back, hoping the gentle pressure acted as a stalwart presence, a silent encouragement for her to talk further. But all he got was an insistence that they try to go back to sleep.
He could not help the worry brewing inside him. It was not like her to be so vague or evasive. In fact, he had never met someone so upfront and honest (the opposite of what he had to be).
Understanding then dawned on him as he recalled the few other times she had had nightmares she refused to discuss, similar to how she acted with everyone on one topic in particular when asked about it.
Drawing away, he opened his left arm and gestured down to it with his head in silent invitation. She nodded, seemingly catching his meaning, and curled her body into his, her marked hand splaying itself against the thatch of dark hair on his chest. Ignoring the warm press of her breast against his side, he lowered them back down onto the bed, his hand returning to her back. Rubbing up and down it with his palm, he could still feel the lingering tension, over what he was sure was a nightmare about her sister.
He wished he knew more, beyond the simple fact that her sister had died. It clearly affected Ellana eight years later. He wished he could take away that pain or, at the very least, share the burden with her so she was not shouldering it alone.
But he never dared press further about the circumstances behind it, for fear of giving her unspoken consent to ask more about his past. One of the things he quickly came to realize about Ellana was how inquisitive she was, curious to know about everything and everyone. He knew she had to wonder. Wonder why he didn't tell her more, wonder about the things he refused to say. He had caught her staring at him more than once since they met, as if trying to decipher him. She had not pushed him since their relationship began, but he knew she would jump at any chance he gave her.
And he couldn't give it. He hated himself beyond measure for it, his selfishness, his cowardice. But he could not bear for her to despise him, not bear to lose her now.
Maker help him, he loved her. And he didn't deserve to.
"Blackwall?"
His hand at her back stilled, noting the tremor in her call. "Yes, my lady?"
She gazed up at him from where her head laid on his shoulder, frozen tears now sparkling in her eyes. "Don't…" She broke off in a wavering breath, eyes slipping shut. She took a minute to compose herself before trying again. "I don't want to go back to sleep."
His heart ached at the hint of desperation he caught in her voice. He wished he could be her shield in the Fade, just as he was on the battlefield, but that was one journey he could not follow her on.
He craned his neck down to nuzzle his nose against her temple, offering what comfort he could. "I'll be right here," he said between kisses to her floral-scented hair.
She answered with her own kiss to the rough patch of skin at his shoulder, the corners of her lips lifting in a watery smile. "I know."
She then snuggled herself closer to him, not leaving any empty space between their bodies. "Tell me more about the tourney. The Grand Tourney you were in."
Securing her in his arms, he did as she requested and told her what he could, about this one glimpse into his past he had given her, to help chase the last remnants of her nightmare away. He told her of the sights and sounds, the contests, the Chevalier, descriptions of his (left nameless) competitors, the reward of a sage leaves coronet and the Celebrant trophy blade. Until her breathing finally evened out and deepened in a steady rhythm, having slipped into what Blackwall could only hope was a more peaceful sleep.
