Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.

- Lao Tzu

#

They're finally alone.

It's been hours since they stepped out of the Fade and since then, all they've done is work. The bulk of the Inquisition forces set up camp outside Adamant, but some have been given rooms inside the Fortress itself. For once, Bethroot is grateful for her title, allowing her to sleep in a bed tonight, rather than a tent. Because she is absolutely exhausted.

After announcing her decision to ally with the Wardens, Bethroot walked the makeshift field hospital, sitting with those injured, muttering words of comfort, and holding the hands of those about to die. Tomorrow she would light a mass pyre for those Inquisition soldiers who died today. She invited the Grey Wardens to join them in the memorial, but they told her they preferred a more private ceremony. Blackwall was invited and Bethroot tried not to feel slighted when the invitation didn't extend to her as well.

Blackwall hasn't let go of her hand since the scout started to lead them to their room. Bethroot can't imagine how difficult today must have been for him, fighting other Grey Wardens and watching them try to accomplish the unthinkable. He's leaning against the wall now, so Bethroot rests against him, pressing her cheek against the cool metal of his chestpiece as he places his hands on her shoulders.

Minutes pass as they stay still, not speaking, just embracing. Blackwall moves away first. "I need to get out of this fucking armor." The words are harsh, but Bethroot only hears the absolute weariness in his voice.

Bethroot nods and turns to inspect the room. It's small, about the size of Blackwall's quarters at Skyhold, with a bed pushed up against the wall, a table and oh Ancestors, a metal basin big enough to stand in so they could wash. Whoever prepared the room even left them buckets of water. It'll be cold by the time they use them, but the water's clean and that's all that matters.

Her mind still reels from everything that happened, regaining her memories, and the truth of who saved her in the Fade. But one moment after that sticks out in her mind, and Bethroot won't let herself rest until she's at least asked the question.

"You didn't correct them," Bethroot says softly.

"You've got to give me more than that," Blackwall says with a hint of impatience. She watches as he takes off his chestpiece and rolls his shoulders. He has a well-practiced routine when it comes to removing his armor, one Bethroot enjoys observing.

"When that one Grey Warden said Alistair was the senior Warden," Bethroot says. "He's not. You are."

She thinks how her stomach lurched when she heard those words, sure that Blackwall would step forward and offer to lead the remaining Grey Wardens. But he remained quiet, and Bethroot's curious to know why, especially after so many listened to him while dealing with Erimond.

Blackwall says nothing as he methodically removes his gauntlets and vambraces. Resigned to yet another unanswered question, Bethroot kneels down and starts unbuckling her boots before kicking them off one at a time. She wiggles her toes as she takes off her socks, knowing she should work on maintaining her kit, but that's absolutely the last thing on her mind. So instead she concentrates on the cool stone floor beneath her feet.

"My place is with the Inquisition," Blackwall says finally, sitting down on a wooden chair before leaning over to take off his greaves. "No sense speaking up and causing a power struggle. Alistair is a good man. I'm sure he'll be a good leader."

Bethroot nods, running her hands through her hair, feeling dread well up in her stomach as she wonders yet again if she did the right thing in the Fade, asking Hawke to stay behind so she and Alistair could escape. Was it the right choice for the mission or the right choice for her? And could there have been a way to save them all? Questions and doubts weigh heavy on her shoulders as she takes off her own leather gloves.

Once his greaves are removed, Blackwall straightens in the chair and twists his torso from side to side several times before taking a deep breath. She interrupts the routine then, which he never seems to mind too much. Now that he's only in his gambeson and trousers, she reaches around his shoulders, and pulls herself up on to his lap.

Her plan is to lean in for a kiss, but Blackwall grips her waist tight and buries his face in the crook of her neck. She feels his breath uneven against her skin and when his fingertips search for her pulse on the other side of her neck, Bethroot closes her eyes. "Blackwall?" she asks softly. He seems more distraught than she realized after their quick embrace once they made it back from the Fade.

"I thought I lost you," he says, his voice muffled. Bethroot doesn't move as he digs his fingers into her hips; she doesn't even dare to practically breath. He looks up then, before resting his brow against hers. "I stepped out of the Fade and you weren't behind me." There's a roughness to his voice, making him sound even more gruff than usual. "It was fucking Haven all over again."

She thinks to make light of his words, to tell a joke, maybe say she's grateful for the lack of snow, but something tells her this is not the time. "I'm right here," she says, running her fingers through his hair, caked with blood and sweat. They both need to wash but she'd rather talk if he's actually willing for once. "Safe and sound." He's not spoken of the destruction of Haven before. There's not much she remembers other than the cold. "Haven was bad?"

He nods once. "But this was worse, waiting for you to come out of the Fade."

"How so?"

"We weren't together then," he says, and Bethroot hears the weight and pain behind each word. "You know I cared, but that was then. I wasn't… I didn't…" Blackwall kisses her so forcefully Bethroot almost falls off his lap. But she grabs his gambeson and steadies herself, kissing him back with just as much passion. After only a few moments, they break apart, and Blackwall rests his cheek against her temple. "Bethy."

She hears fear mingled with a sort of reverence in his voice and a beautiful certainty courses through her. He loves me, Bethroot thinks, breaking into a smile she can't contain. The realization unlocks her own heart, shifting through the doubts she's had since learning about the Calling. Time is not on their side, this she understands. They might only have a few years together before she'll have to see him off to the Deep Roads, but oh, how she will love him until that day comes.

Bethroot leans back and looks him in the eye. She thought to make a declaration, but as she sees his face soften, Bethroot understands none is needed. They both already know. The words just only need to be spoken. So she kisses him softly and whispers, "I love you," against his lips, just loud enough so he can hear.

He stills and she can see the grief on his face at her words. Perhaps this is what he hoped to protect her from, when he tried again and again to push her away. Would she have pursued him so relentlessly if she knew the truth about the Calling? She thinks not and for now, she's grateful for her ignorance. Her heart will be broken by this man some day, but she's certain every moment will make up for the hurt.

The silence starts to feel a bit overwhelming as the seconds tick past. And just as Bethroot decides she doesn't need to hear the words out loud, he says, "I love you, too." His voice is dark and quiet and reaches down to the depth of her soul. She's heard those words before, but only by someone who said them because they were expected, not like Blackwall, who says them like his life depends on them.

She kisses him then, gently pressing her lips against his, scouting this new terrain in their relationship and quickly decides she likes the ground beneath their feet. Blackwall deepens the kiss, slipping his tongue between her lips and Bethroot lets herself forget. Forget those earlier decisions she was forced to make - what gives her the right to decide the fate of an Order a thousand years old? - forget the death that permeates the very stones of Adamant's walls, forget everything except him.

Minutes pass, and when they part, Bethroot simply lays her head on Blackwall's shoulder. Her eyes close as he starts to rub the back of her neck. "Much as I want to ravish you right now, I don't think I have it in me tonight," he says quietly, but she hears a touch of humor in his voice.

Chuckling, she gives him a kiss on the nose. "Then why don't we wash up and go to bed?" she asks, standing up and holding out her hand. "You can ravish me in the morning."

Blackwall takes her hand at once. "And that, Bethy, is why you're the leader of the Inquisition."

#

He should have gone to Gwaren.

As they start to undress next to the wash basin, Blackwall thinks back to those few days in the Hinterlands before he met Bethroot, when he thought to leave the place, worried the Inquisition might cause him trouble. Salt was the answer at the time. Walk to Gwaren and leave the problems of the Hinterlands behind him.

But the Inquisition found him anyway, and he's been damned every since. Blackwall told her once he couldn't regret this life, a half-truth, one of many he tells her every day. As much as he cares for her - loves her, he can admit this now - he'd trade it all if it could bring those four children back. But nothing will bring them back, and he's forced to concede as pure as he'd like to think his love for Bethroot is, it's mingled and twisted with the very worst aspects of his soul.

There's the greed he feels when he looks at her. She deserves so much than a liar and a murderer, yet not even that knowledge can make him walk away. He needs her, in a way he simply doesn't understand, doesn't think he ever will. Then there's his bloody cowardice. He had the chance on the Storm Coast, the perfect chance to tell her, perhaps not everything, but enough so she'd give him up completely. And he just couldn't do it.

And now she loves him.

She loves him.

Maker, he's never been given a gift like this before. He never wanted anything like this before they met. Thom Rainier wanted tangible things he could hold in his hands: gold, women, wine. To that selfish bastard, the love of a good woman paled in comparison to the thrill of sharing a different woman's bed each night. And Rainier never cared for any cause except ones that might line his pocket with gold. What a damned fool he had been.

But he pushes the thoughts away and concentrates on the here and now. Bethroot's out of her armor quicker than he and Blackwall looks over her body, checking for any injuries or new scars. A quiet sigh of relief escapes when he doesn't see any. Means he's done his job out in the field, making sure anyone who would hurt her goes after him instead.

Blackwall removes his gloves and boots as Bethroot locks the door. He grunts in acknowledgment as the last thing they need is someone barging in with Inquisition business while they're washing up. He lets his eyes linger on her naked body as she walks back towards him. And to think he once worried he might not find her non-human proportions attractive.

"Do you really need so many buckles on your clothes?" Bethroot asks with a smile as she helps him with the toggles of his gambeson. They have a practiced routine now. He starts at the top and she starts at the bottom, meeting in the middle.

It's a question she's asked before, so Blackwall simply shrugs out of his gambeson, placing it on the floor. As she brings a wooden chair over to the basin, he removes the rest of his clothes, waiting for the reaction he knows is about to come.

There's a gash on his right side, courtesy of a Warden and an ugly yellow-purple bruise forming on his left thigh thanks to a bloody Pride Demon. "You didn't tell me you were hurt," she says softly and there's such care and concern in her voice he needs to close his eyes.

"Healers patched me right up," Blackwall says, letting his knuckles ghost along her jaw line. "I've had worse."

He means to grab a rag from the small pile next to the buckets of water, but before he can, Bethroot wraps her arms around his waist. She stands on tiptoes and Blackwall doesn't move as she presses her ear to his chest, right next to his heart.

"See?" he says, ignoring the way her breasts press up against his stomach. "Still beating."

She kisses his chest then before looking up at him. The temptation of her lips is too strong and Blackwall leans down, kissing her softly, wondering if he'll somehow find the energy to take her to bed after all.

But his body quickly disagrees, reminding him that he's a man of forty-eight compared to Bethroot's age of twenty-five.

They break apart, and Bethroot grabs his hand as she steps up onto the chair. Her hand lingers and he feel the calluses on her fingertips as he strokes the slightly swollen knuckle on her left pinky, a broken bone that never healed correctly, she told him once.

She's slightly taller than him now, standing on the chair and from the smirk dancing on her lips as she looks down at him, Bethroot realizes it, too. Instead of commenting, Blackwall steps into the basin, his back towards his lady.

"The water's still warm," Bethroot says.

Only a moment later, she pours some water over his head, it's not exactly warm to him, but he doesn't say anything as it runs down his body. Dwarves seems to have a different scale when it comes to temperature, he's noticed.

But then he stops thinking as she starts running her hands through his hair, letting her nails scratch his scalp. "Maker's balls, that feels nice," he says, keeping his eyes closed. But then she finds a tangle and Blackwall winces as she pulls his hair harder than he'd like.

"Sorry," she says, putting one hand on his shoulder. "Wish we had a comb." Blackwall can almost picture her biting her lip as she works. He feels her run a bar of soap over his hair and he hopes that removes the worst of the remnants of battle.

He stays silent as she pours more water over his head and this time when she threads her fingers through his hair, the tangles have lessened considerably.

Bethroot quickly washes his back, his arse and the back of his legs. The water is only room temperature now, but it doesn't matter. They'll be clean when they slip under the sheets at least.

A moment later, she asks him to turn around. He complies at once and Bethroot looks down at his privates and says, "You really are exhausted, aren't you?"

He simply nods. Usually he'd be half hard and wanting when she helps him bathe. But Blackwall's still not sure how many hours they spent in the Fade. Time seemed to work differently there. Simply falling asleep with his arms around Bethroot seems more preferable than sex for once.

There's an efficiency in her movements as she washes his front, not lingering on any part of his body. When she's done, there's a smile on her lips. "All clean," she says as he steps out of the basin.

If only he could wash away his sins as easily as the dirt and blood. Blackwall pushes the morbid thoughts away as Bethroot takes his place in the basin. Repeating her movements, Blackwall pours the cool water over her head and runs his fingers through her short hair.

At this point, after so many months, he knows her body better than he knows his own. He knows to dig his knuckles into the tired muscles of her right shoulder, the one that does most of the work as she shoots arrow after arrow. He's careful around the scar on her left hip. If he didn't know any better, he'd think she had a bad injury there once. But he's never asked, for fear of her wanting to know how he received some of his scars.

And then there's her left palm. Since they met, he hoped that mark meant she was touched by Andraste Herself. Learning the truth in the Fade - that the mark is simply a spell gone wrong - hurt more than he thought it would.

Blackwall brings her palm to his lips and kisses her hand softly. Even if the mark is not a gift but a misfired spell, he's still grateful for its existence. It's the mark that brought them together, after all. If not for the mark, she would have died along with everyone else in the Conclave and he'd be on his way to Gwaren.

Of course, he thinks as he dries Bethroot off, it would be better for her if he had gone there anyway. But what's done is done.

They walk over to the bed, hand in hand. Bethroot slides under the covers first without him needing to ask. Blackwall hates being pressed up against a wall while he sleeps; the result of years of being a soldier and have to deal with raids in the middle of the night.

He settles next to her, on his side, pulling her back flush against his chest. She smells of lye and earth, scents which comfort him now.

"I don't want to go back to the Fade tonight," Blackwall mutters, knowing it's a journey he must take alone. But already he teeters on the edge of sleep as he rests his chin on the top of Bethroot's head. He's grateful he's not a mage, for he's sure any demon would find him easy prey, exhausted as he is.

"I'll be right here when you wake up," she says, squeezing his hand. Those are more than just mere words, he realizes. Blackwall hears love and protection and the freedom to be the man he craves to be - someone worthy of Bethroot Cadash, the Herald of Andraste - in her voice.

"Thank you, Bethy," he says quietly. It's still been a Maker-awful day, losing so many good soldiers and an exceptional woman like Hawke, but somehow, the simple knowledge that he loves her and she loves him, make it a worthwhile one. "Just so we're clear, I still plan on ravishing you in the morning."

She laughs then, a soft balm for his ears. "I'm counting on it."