All things in the world are finite.
What one man gains, another has lost.
Those who steal from their brothers and sisters
Do harm to their livelihood and to their peace of mind.
Our Maker sees this with a heavy heart.
- Transfigurations 1:1-1:5
CHAPTER ONE - EXECUTION DAY
The sky is so overcast she can barely tell the clouds apart.
No matter, the merchant thinks as she rubs her chapped hands together. Good coin will be made today, always is on a day when there's a hanging. Everyone, from the street cleaners to the prissiest of nobles, finds a reason to be in Val Royeaux on Execution Day. 'Tis practically a holiday, especially when it's as well-known a murderer as this.
Waking up an hour earlier was worth it, she decides, surveying the prime spot she claimed for her stall, right near the gallows. Candy and nuts are spread out like treasure near the front of the table and fresh fruits are at the back. She hoped for a fine day, a hot day, where she could sell watered-down lemonade at ten copper a cup. But in this weather, it will barely sell for five.
No matter. Sweets always sell, especially the moss candy that's become so popular, thanks to the Inquisitor's lover. Someone saw him buying several packages at le Barre Chocolat his last visit to Val Royeaux. One could only assume they were for the Inquisitor. Since then, Orzammar couldn't ship it up to the surface fast enough. Every noble in the country wanted to try the Herald's favorite candy.
Already more people mill around the market than usual. The merchant smiles beneath her mask and puts her hand in her pocket, rubbing two coins together for luck.
It's going to be a good day.
#
A thin fog obscures the flags of Val Royeaux.
It's an ugly day, especially sitting in an open wagon instead of a carriage. The crisp air pinches her cheeks and tears sting her eyes. Because of the wind, Bethroot tells herself half-heartedly. At least they're finally on a smooth brick road instead of the rocky dirt path leading to the city. The jostling of the wagon always leaves her feeling off-balanced, like after a night of too much ale.
Bethroot slips her hand in her pocket, feeling the note Blackwall left her in the stables. The message is burned in her memory now; she doesn't even need to look at the words to know his handwriting is hurried and rushed. Part of her wonders when he wrote the note. No trace of a quill or ink pot were found in the stables, which makes Bethroot think he had that note in his pocket when they sat in the tavern. Somehow the thought hurts more than the others, that even with the night they shared, she still failed to change his mind. She couldn't find the words to make him stay.
"'Bout time we got here," Sera says, impatience lacing every word as she bumps Bethroot's shoulder. "Should we spread out and search or stick together?"
"Stick together, I think," Varric says, and Bethroot hears his concern. She looks up and sees him studying her, like she's a subject for one of his books, a tale to be told. Of course he's concerned. All everyone has been since Blackwall disappeared is sodding concerned.
"Why are you so interested in finding him, Sera?" It's surprising to hear real curiosity in Dorian's voice as he talks to Sera, but not an unwelcome one.
"Beardy's family," Sera says at once, twirling an arrow between her fingers, sounding just as lost and confused as Bethroot. "Like an older brother. I always wanted one, yeah? He's a much older, much hairier brother." Sera bumps Bethroot's shoulder again, a frown on her face. "He really didn't tell you where he was going?"
Bethroot's fingers curl into fists at the hint of accusation. A hand-to-hand combatant she is not, but she could desperately use something to punch right now. Every day since they left Skyhold it's been the same question from Sera, as if she doesn't believe Bethroot's not at fault for Blackwall's disappearance. Even showing Sera the note he left wasn't enough to stop the questions. If only it was something as simple as an argument. An argument she could understand.
But this? Blackwall leaving Bethroot naked and alone in the loft, without even a blanket, could only have one explanation: his Calling. He promised. He promised if he heard the Call he would tell her, to give her the chance to say a proper goodbye before she started to mourn.
"I don't think the answer's changed since yesterday, Buttercup," Varric says, to which Sera simply rolls her eyes. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees and lowering his voice so only she can hear. "Cadash, you consider Hero might not want to be found?"
Her nod is curt as she runs her hands over her thighs, willing the wagon to go faster. Of course Blackwall doesn't want to be found, why else would he have skulked off in the middle of the night? But he's also not thinking clearly, she's sure of it, or he would have never left that report in his quarters.
"We'll go to the execution. If he's not there…" Bethroot looks over at Cullen, who deigned to join them on the journey, to meet with some chevaliers who hoped to join the Inquisition. "Well, there's plenty of other work to be done."
The words taste like dust in her mouth. This is their only lead. If he's not there… She could go to Orzammar, to the entrance of the Deep Roads, but there's simply no time. Already Bethroot has taken more time than she should, coming to Val Royeaux to hunt for him. As much as she wants to search all of Thedas for Blackwall, there remains the simple fact she is the Inquisitor. Her heart won't stop beating outside of her chest right now and if they fail to find him, Bethroot will somehow have to push away her confusion and hurt, and work.
A gust of wind chills the air and Bethroot crosses her arms over her chest, wanting to shield herself, trying to keep in any warmth she can. If Blackwall sat next to her, he'd see the shiver and scoot a little closer, letting her lean against him slightly so they'd share the warmth from their bodies. But he isn't here. He might never be here again. Bethroot angrily wipes the tears from her eyes which are most certainly caused by the wind.
And just when Bethroot thinks this day can't get any worse, it starts to rain.
#
In a way, Mornay is glad the day is finally here. It's been exhausting, living on the run, and every day feels like it's taken away a year of his life. Every time he hid or used a false name he lost a piece of himself. There's an indignity to being forced to give up your identity. He's forgotten what it's like to be a civilized man, to walk around Jader with his head held high and his wife on his arm.
Years ago, most considered him lucky, one of Rainier's men, a group of hand-selected soldiers from the company. Not only that, Rainier personally choose him to be his second-in-command. It never bothered Mornay that Rainier was almost a decade younger; he still had things he could teach an old soldier.
Now Mornay hopes Rainier's dead in a ditch somewhere. Bastard deserved no less.
How did he miss the signs? They had to be there all along, didn't they? Rainier's disappearance after rumors of an investigation reached Jader shocked them all. And once Nia had been captured, the rest of them ran, ran as far as they could from Orlais. But whispers found them, revealing truths Mornay once considered impossible.
A noble admitted to paying Rainier to injure a man, or a mother bribing him to promote her son. Decades of abuse, of working the system for Rainier's own personal gain, and Mornay never realized. How could his captain, a man willing to take in anyone, not caring what country they came from, be the same man who abandoned them all in their hour of need?
How many bottles of wine had the two of them shared? How many times did Mornay simply shake his head as Rainier found yet another woman to bed? How many times had they saved each other's lives? Four years Mornay served as Rainier's right hand man and they were friends for half a decade before that, at least.
And Mornay never discovered the truth. He might have well put the noose around Trembley, Nia and Yount's neck himself, for all the good he did them.
Only Paquet and Roig ran free now. Mornay wonders where they are. Perhaps Roig went back to Nevarra? He hopes Paquet found some peace. She never quite recovered after killing the eldest of the Callier children. He likes to picture her safe in a Chantry, a place where the Sisters might protect her, where she could be alone with her grief.
But these are an old man's dreams. And he's never felt older as the guards open the door to his cell. So as rope is tied around his wrists, Mornay turns his thoughts to his children.
He married late, far past the time he should settle down. But his oldest is a lad of seventeen now. Old enough to know his mind and have some idea what he wants out of life. Would he be a soldier like his old man? A shiver runs down his spine as the guard pushes him forward. From what he remembers, the boy, with his dark green eyes and strong jaw, had a gentle soul; a soldier's life would crush his spirit. One of Delphine's brothers works as a smith. Much better to apprentice the boy there.
If any of his children would be in the military, it would be his twin daughters. Such practical children, even at their young age, always protecting their clothes, making sure the rules were followed as they played with toy swords. Mornay can picture their yellow braids flying about as they sparred 'like Papa.'
The guards drag him outside and he feels the autumn air against his skin. Looking up at the sky, Mornay sees rain starting to fall; he always did enjoy the rain. And as he starts to walk to the gallows, he thinks of the one regret he has. Not being able to see what sort of adults his children will grow up to be. He doesn't worry about Delphine. His wife is strong, and young enough to find another husband, someone to look out for her as she grows old, since he failed so miserably.
Mornay looks at the crowd gathered in the marketplace and finds it hard to believe so many people are here to see an old man die. As the guards push him to the gallows, the whispers start, but Mornay ignores them all. These last few minutes of his life, he wants only to think of his children.
May they grow up to be better people than he.
#
Blackwall kept one sugar cube in his pocket for this very moment.
He rests his brow against the chestnut's forehead. "You've been a good friend," he says softly, petting the horse's dark brown mane. Blackwall's considered Victor his since he joined the Inquisition, even though he didn't ride nearly as often as he liked. How could he, with Bethroot not comfortable around horses? He certainly wasn't about to leave her behind.
Which is exactly what he did, he thinks, picturing her asleep on a bale of hay.
Heart stammering, Blackwall pushes Bethroot from his mind. It would be easy, too easy, to hop on Victor and ride back to Skyhold, citing Warden business. No doubt Bethroot would welcome him back into her arms. But then Mornay would die. Once, Blackwall would consider that an acceptable loss, a price to pay for keeping himself breathing. No longer.
Victor lets out a soft snort, nudging Blackwall's pocket with his nose. "Greedy," he whispers to the horse, not quite willing to give away his prize yet. Blackwall's throat constricts as he looks over at the stable hand. "You'll take good care of him?" he asks, hearing the plea in his voice.
The stable hand's words tumble over each other. "Yes, ser, of course, ser, like he was my own, ser."
Blackwall nods, knowing he's at least changed the lad's life for the better. Victor is worth at least ten gold, an unheard of sum for a boy that age. Blackwall knows; he was a stable boy himself once, a lifetime ago. And he gave the horse to the lad for free. Someone needs to look after Victor once Blackwall is dead.
Victor whinnies again and Blackwall puts his hand in his pocket. His fingers wrap around the sugar cube and he realizes this is his last connection to the Inquisition, his last connection to her. No doubt the work he did with the Inquisition was the most important of his life. But this, what he's about to do, is more important than just his life.
"Here you go," Blackwall says, as Victor takes the offered cube from Blackwall's gloved hand.
With one last pat of Victor's head, Blackwall readies himself. He's a soldier; he's always been ready to face death in any battle. But this isn't battle, this is surrender, finally admitting his sins to the world.
He wonders how quickly they'll hang him. If there's any justice in the world, it won't take long once he confesses. All he hopes is once he's in custody, he might have a few simple moments to think about Bethroot until the end.
Blackwall ignores the rain as he leaves the stable and walks towards the main marketplace of Val Royeaux. It's crowded, of course it's fucking crowded, no one wants to miss any of the drama of an execution. Bloody vultures, the lot of them. The people of Val Royeaux will eat you up and spit you out without a second glance. And to think he proudly considered himself one of them, once.
His step is lighter than it's been in years. Each step taking him closer to the gallows brings a certain sort of relief, letting him hold his head high. For once in his life, his mind is clear and he has no doubt he's doing the right thing. It's a strange feeling, that. But not an unwelcome one, especially not when his hours are numbered.
Once he steps into the main square, he sees Mornay already standing on the gallows, and Blackwall starts to rush, fear spreading through every vein. He can't fuck this up, not now, not when he's given up everything good in his life to save this man.
And as he walks behind the crowd, that's when he sees Dorian.
For a moment, Blackwall wants to look away, pretend he didn't see the mage. Then he could pretend it isn't Bethroot who stands next to him, one hand at her mouth, no doubt biting her nails to calm her nerves.
He should have known, he should have bloody known. She can't resist involving herself in other people's affairs, no matter how small. And now she's involved herself in this. Why couldn't she simply let him go?
The next thirty seconds are the most important of his life. Blood pounds in his ears as Blackwall comes up with reason after reason to walk over to Bethroot right now and hold her hand as together they watch Mornay die. It would be so easy. Too easy.
You are who you choose to follow.
If he wants to be worthy of his lady, Mornay must live, and Blackwall's death is the only way. He only wanted to go to his death with the knowledge deep in his soul that Bethroot thought him a good man. Now any chance for that is gone. Someday, he foolishly hopes Bethroot might forgive him for this, for the truth she's about to learn. But the noose is around Mornay's neck and it's time to act.
So he climbs the steps of the gallows and yells "Stop."