When she finally goes to sleep, she still remembers their dance vividly, his arm around her, his hand around hers. She liked that. She would like that again.
Most of her companions and soldiers visit the tavern, and often they dance, but that is not what she wants. She wants him to hold her again, wants to whirl as the world moves from night into day and thus remain in place, in the peaceful bay of his arms.
In the morning, she reaches into one of her chests and takes out a gown, the only one she has here with her. The one she always takes with her. Foolish sentiment, perhaps, but no one can be wise all the time.
The gown is made of soft grey wool, perfect for the cold air of Skyhold. As it was perfect for the winters at Ostwick.
You have always loved those Grey Warden fairy tales, Gweneth said to her while visiting home on her name-day, and gave her that gown. Her older sister had spent a full year giving up her sparse hours of life otherwise filled up by Chantry duties, working on the gown each evening to carefully stitch the pattern. There are feathers embroidered on the material, on the back of the gown. Reaching forward to her shoulders when she puts it on.
For you to fly, little sister, Gweneth said back then.
In the evening, she puts the gown on. Just for luck, she thinks. The material has no smell other than her perfume – ah, vanity, vanity – but to her it will always bear the scent of incense, liked it smelled when she first put it on.
She finds Blackwall in the stables, working on the rocking chair. He smiles briefly when he sees her, turns for a moment to put the tools back onto the table... then freezes mid-motion, turns back towards her and stares. Just for a while. Then he coughs, glancing away briefly.
"You look very beautiful, my lady."
"You flatter me, ser," she replies with a smile. The gown is plain, but well, it is still a gown. And she feels different wearing it, a little more carefree. "How is the work going?" She comes closer, to examine the wooden griffin. It is a little crude, but adorable all the same.
"Well." Blackwall takes a step back, gently brushes his fingers across her shoulders. "Feathers?"
"Wings, actually." She smiles. "My sister made it for me. Said it's griffin's wings, for me to fly on." She lets out a quiet laugh. "I loved all the Grey Warden tales when I was a child, and this was our private joke."
His hand touches the wool again, stops at her shoulder. "Truly lovely."
Fly, she thinks. For once. If the world is to end tomorrow, what is there to lose?
"The concept? The gown?" She looks up at him, smiling, gently touches the hand resting lightly on her shoulder. "Or the lady?"
"All of them," he answers. He looks as if he wants to say more, but hesitates.
As the silence stretches between them, she becomes aware of the notes of a song floating from the tavern.
"I'm not a griffin," she says softly, almost playfully. "I can't fly." She has almost forgotten how to be playful. "But if we danced, ser, perhaps I could pretend I'm floating in the air?" She looks into his eyes, slips her hand under his. "Surely another dance cannot be that terrifying?"
He moves at last, takes her hand in his, bows over it, brushing his lips across her knuckles. "More than you know, my lady," he says quietly, his deep rough voice taking on a softer edge. As if what he said was a good thing. He pulls her to him gently, and fluently she moves into his arms, her hand settling on his shoulder as they begin to sway to the barely audible music.
There is a softer look to his eyes, too. Oh, she knows he is fond of her, and this – talking, flirting, this something has been going on for some time, but now it is something different. Something deeper. Care. Love?
She cannot look away from his eyes. Blackwall's gaze holds hers, and she can almost feel the air around them gaining substance, becoming dense, heavy. Heady.
She stumbles on something, probably one of the dog toys the mabari pups scatter all over Skyhold. Blackwall holds her a little tighter, and they shift closer, but when she is steady on her feet again neither pulls away. The music from the tavern is dimmed, and the whole scene feels slightly unreal, as if there was nothing in the world but the two of them.
She moves her head, just a little, and Blackwall moves his, and a moment later her temple is resting against his cheek. She breaths in slowly, trying to reign her emotions in, because she is supposed to behave like a leader and an adult woman, not a love-struck girl... Blackwall kisses her forehead softly. She leans into his touch, into his warmth. She moves her hand from his shoulder onto his chest, and his hand slides up from her waist to her shoulder blades. The hold of his other hand on her loosens and he shifts his palm to twine his fingers with hers.
The music goes down when the song is finished, and they stop, but do not pull apart. She is dimly aware she is trembling. Or maybe it is just her heart that makes her feel so, her foolish heart, fluttering wildly in her chest. This is like drowning, or falling, the sinking feeling in her stomach.
Blackwall kisses her temple; his beard tickles her skin a little. He kisses her cheek. Then, very gently, his lips brush the corner of her mouth, and she cannot breathe, and something tightens in her chest.
It takes a lot of effort to open her eyes. Blackwall is looking at her, caught under the same spell as she is. He raises his hand, brushes back a strand of hair falling over her face, giving her time to get used to his touch, then gently tilts her chin and kisses her.
For a moment her heart stops altogether, ready to burst from too much emotion. His kiss is soft, tender, but it has been so long since the last time that she has forgotten there was an empty space in her life, and suddenly it is filled, and she cannot quite wrap her mind around it, cannot deal with it. Her hand clutches at his shoulder, and she holds onto his palm, onto him.
When the kiss is over, Blackwall pulls away a little, but stays close, his nose brushing hers, his forehead touching hers. "Ah, my lady..."
She leans into him, lays both palms flat on his chest, rests her head on his shoulder. He puts his arms around her and holds her close, his fingers toying with her braid.
"What now?" she whispers. "What did it mean?" She calms down enough to draw from the same strength she uses as a commander. "What did it mean to you, ser?" she asks, her voice quiet but clear. Gently enough, but demanding an answer.
His warm hand cups the back of her head, and he presses a kiss into her hair. "Everything." There it is again in his voice, the same note of sorrow she has sometimes seen in his eyes.
But she feels good in his arms, safe and protected and loved, and she ignores it.
