IV. Pride
"Rainier?"
Thom stood up, back straight and pulled at the hem of his uniform jacket, wanting to give the best possible impression when he walked into the office. Four years in the Orlesian army and his chance for a promotion had finally arrived. He had worked mercilessly these past four years, desperate to be noticed, to be given the opportunity to be trained as an officer. He might not have the same classical education as most of the other officers, but he understood how to be a leader of men. And he'd be a good one, he knew, if given the chance.
Three masked officers sat at a table as he entered the Major's office. Major Bouchard had campaigned tirelessly for Thom over the past year, and hopefully all of their efforts would pay off. As an enlisted soldier, Thom wore no mask, so he made sure to keep any emotion off of his face as he settled into a parade rest.
The two officers with Bouchard Thom didn't recognize. When dealing with masks, Thom learned tells, found other ways to discover someone's identity while waiting for them to speak. Thom had a captain who had a busted toggle on his jacket, hadn't been mended in more than a year, making Thom believe the man left it on purpose. There were other ways to discover a person, they way they tilted their head, or favored one of their legs. A hundred different ways to discover the true person behind the mask and Thom considered himself an expert at it.
The man on the left had a few loose threads hanging from the hem of his gambeson, almost a crime in Orlais, while the woman silently tapped her foot, over and over again. Thom filed these tells away for later, if needed.
He hadn't thought the Orlesian army would be the life for him, but when he had realized he was broke with few opportunities outside of mercenary work, it suddenly seemed to be a viable option. Thom simply had no idea how well it would suit him. He loved the life, being in camp, fighting for his adopted homeland. And now hopefully that passion would be rewarded.
"You're from the Free Marches," one of the masked men said, a captain, from the look of the insignia. Thom didn't recognize the voice.
"I am, Captain," Thom said, not bothering to hide his accent. He knew a couple of other Marchers, so desperate to fit in, they faked the accent, which people always saw through. Nothing like the sneer of an Orlesian looking down on someone trying to fit in.
"And you fight for Orlais?"
There was only one answer. "I would die for my Empress."
Major Bouchard picked up a box from off of the floor and put it on the desk. "Congratulations, Officer Cadet, Rainier." She pushed the box towards Thom. "You will wear this in public when you represent the army from now on."
"Thank you, sers," Thom said, walking up to the box, knowing what sat inside and realizing the whole outlook of his life was about to change. Making sure his hands stayed steady, Thom opened the box and looked at the mask sitting upon blue silk.
With a deep breath, he placed it on his face, ready to start playing The Game.
#
"This is making my head hurt," Cadash says, putting her leather coat in her lap and rubbing her temple.
"You're the one who wanted to know more about military tactics and history, my lady," Blackwall says with a chuckle.
They sit on chairs outside the small dwelling next to the smithy, working on their gear. The weather is not nearly as chilly as most days, and with the sun high overhead, Cadash suggested they work outside. She does that, Blackwall's noticed. If given the chance to be out of doors, she takes it. Strange attitude for someone who grew up in cities. He wonders it has anything to do with the mark or the Conclave.
Over the past few months, they've developed a routine when it comes to maintaining their kits. In camps, they'll sit cross-legged on the ground across from each other, within easy distance to share oils or whetstones. Depending who traveled with them, others might join, widening the circle. Cassandra always joins, as does Varric. The mages tend to deal with their gear themselves, unless one needs an extra needle and thread. Blackwall always makes sure he carries extras now. Sera barely maintains her kit, much to his own frustration and Iron Bull prefers solitude when working on his gear.
At Haven, it's just the two of them, whenever Cadash finds time in between meetings and dealing with the faithful. She'd walk over to the smithy, bow slung across her back, lugging a bag full of equipment. Blackwall would grab his own kit and together they'd start to work. The routine suited him, he found. He always enjoyed taking care of his own gear. Once he made captain in the Orlesian army, they would have provided a man assigned to do all the work for him, but Blackwall refused, preferring to deal with everything himself.
Today Cadash is working on cleaning her armor while Blackwall is sharpening his dagger, wanting to make sure every last piece is ready for tomorrow's journey to Redcliffe to meet Fiona. It's comfortable, working with Cadash. She's seemed to realize there are questions he simply won't answer and stopped asking. So they talk about the present, sometimes the future and the only history they discuss are those of the great battles of Thedas. And sometimes, they simply don't talk at all, the silence never uncomfortable between them.
"Can I try that oil you were bragging about?" Cadash asks. "The one you used on the straps on your shield?"
Blackwall furrows his brow. "I don't have much, my lady. Not enough for your entire jacket."
She waves a hand. "I just want to try a little bit." Pointing at the hem of her jacket, she adds, "Just here. Then I can compare. If I like it, we can talk to Threnn about getting more."
"Well, since you don't plan on using my entire stock, I suppose I can share," Blackwall says with a laugh. It's an oil he hasn't used in years, one he used regularly back in Orlais. But when he heard Threnn was sending a man to Val Royeaux for supplies, he sent in a request.
He tosses the vial to her and she catches it one-handed. Taking her time, she uncorks the bottle and dampens her rag, before rubbing the oil into her coat. It's almost sensual the way she strokes and Blackwall inhales sharply at the thought, before pushing it out of his head. No point going down that road, none at all. To distract himself more than anything else, he says, "Do you want to go over the Battle of River Dane?"
Her eyes close and Blackwall can tell she's thinking. "That's the last big battle of the Ferelden revolution, right?"
It's harder than he thought it'd be, talking about some of these battles. He's learned all about them, of course, but from the viewpoint of Orlais, which was that Ferelden didn't beat them, they simply weren't worth the effort any longer. But he's always enjoyed teaching, and he's not above feeling a bit pleased that she's come to him for military history lessons, and not someone like Cullen.
Cadash corks the oil and tosses it back to him. She brings her armor right in front of her face and inhales deeply. "Oh, I like how this oil smells," she says, taking another deep breath.
Blackwall puts down his whetstone, having finished his dagger and grins. "You're stalling."
Hugging her armor to her chest, Cadash shakes her head and says, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"The Inquisition has perfectly good fletchers," Blackwall says. "Why do you keep insisting on doing something you hate?" She opens her mouth to speak, but Blackwall holds up his hand, having heard her argument before. "I know, I know, you don't like the arrows, they're too human for you."
"Not too human," Cadash says sheepishly. "Just too big for my bow. So I make my own."
He wonders about that, sometimes. Wonders what it must be like to be a dwarf surrounded by so many humans. Besides Varric and Harding, he can only think of a few other dwarves in the Inquisition. Cadash seems to handle everything easily, but even he's noticed a look of frustration on her face when she can't reach something or she's handed an item clearly meant for human-sized hands.
It's not quite the same, but he remembers when he fist enlisted in the Orlesian army, being one of the only Free Marchers, with others pretending not to understand his accent or looking down on his slang. There's something to be said for the familiar, and if Cadash would prefer smaller arrows made my her own hand, he's happy to help.
Blackwall holds out his hand and tries to put a long suffering look on his face, though he's fairly sure he doesn't succeed. "Give 'em here. I'll notch."
Her smile takes up almost her entire face. "Thank you!" she says, jumping out of her chair and draping her armor over the stone wall to air it out. She grabs a handful of rods from her quiver. "I've already waxed these."
She stands in front of him and places the soon to be arrows into his outstretched hands. Both of their hands are gloveless, thanks to their work and the tips of her fingers casually brush his palm as she places the arrows in his hand. Blackwall feels a shudder through his body and tries to remember the last time he was touched, skin on skin. He can't even remember. Before he met the Warden-Constable, certainly. There was a qunari he spent some time with as a mercenary, but on those rare nights he bunked with her, he'd be so drunk it could barely even count as sex.
The air seems warmer now and Cadash sits back down in her chair as if nothing happened. And he's sure that for her, nothing has, except a pathetic old man offering to put some nocks in her arrows. Blackwall takes a deep breath and grabs his carving knife from his belt. "How many are we making?" he asks, pleased he hears no unsteadiness in his voice.
"Just a dozen," she says, opening a tin of beeswax.
Blackwall puts the first arrow between his knees and starts to work. He's notched arrows for her before and remembers how deep to cut. The smooth rhythm of carving calms him and he pushes the memory of Cadash's touch of out his head.
And before long, he starts to tell her about the Battle of the River Dane.