DAY SEVEN
She wakes before him, which happens so rarely Bethroot worries something is wrong. But Thom is flat on his back, gently snoring, and she's snug in the crook of his arm.
The fire is all but out in the fireplace, but thanks to the morning light - the sun is still behind the mountain, they haven't missed today's sunrise yet - she can clearly see Thom's face. Bethroot watches his eyes, wondering where he might be in the Fade, what sort of dreams he had during the night. Lately, there seems to be an echo when she sleeps, a chime that she can't quite hear. She doesn't think she's dreaming, that would be ridiculous, but perhaps her trip to the Fade still clings to her skin. Asking Solas is an option, but she thinks to keep this to herself for now.
"Bethy." His voice is hoarse from sleep and Bethroot feels that same wanting from yesterday spread throughout her body, thanks to the way his voice curls around her name.
"Good morning, Thom," she says softly, waiting for the cringe or the wince that usually accompanies his given name, but none comes.
Running the palm of her hand up his chest, his chest hair tickling her palm, she finds herself again wondering about the scars on his right shoulder. Her fingers trace the scars and Bethroot decides she'll have to ask about them some day. A warmth runs through her and she smiles, knowing when she finally gets around to asking, Thom will answer.
As if he's able to read her mind, Thom says, "The Battle of Perendale, nine thirty-one." His eyes are closed as he continues. "Bastard Nevarran had a spiked mace. Tore right through my armor."
"Is that why you have the extra armor on that shoulder?" Bethroot asks.
"I'm not awake enough to go over armor dynamics," he says with a chuckle. "Maybe later."
Thom lifts his hand, then closes it into a fist. She tilts her head slightly in confusion, but then he takes his fingers and gently glides them along the scar on the left side of her face, silently asking a question.
"An old lover and I tried to branch out on our own and the deal went south," Bethroot says, taking his fingers and holding them to her lips. "He had to choose between the lyrium or me."
"No," Thom says and she can hear a hint of disbelief in his voice.
Shrugging, Bethroot remembers how much pain that knife caused. Even four years later she can remember the blade piercing her skin, though it feels like a lifetime ago, something that happened to someone else completely. "If our positions had been reversed, I probably would have made the same choice back then."
"And now?"
She leans forward and presses her lips against his. "I've changed a lot since then. You understand."
He nods, his eyes bright, before kissing her. The kiss is soft and slow and when Thom slides his hand around her hip to rest on her ass, Bethroot remembers exactly where they left off last night.
His tongue slides between her lips and Bethroot ignores the awkward angle she's at, wanting to only concentrate on him. They kiss until she can barely breathe, all lips and tongue and saliva. But when she takes his hand and guides it to her breast, Thom pulls away.
"Wait," he says, his voice strained.
Bethroot turns her head, her stomach suddenly a knot of anxiety. There have been times in the past when he's stopped things before they really started and she's always understood. But this, this she doesn't understand. Kissing her like that and then wanting to wait doesn't make any sense.
"Your face, Bethy. Fuck, I'm doing this all wrong." With one quick move, Thom is on his side and before she can respond, he kisses her hard.
She relaxes against him at once, but it's a quick kiss, over before it's really begun. "What are you doing wrong?" she asks, trying to figure out what he's talking about.
"Be quicker to list the things I've done right," he says with a chuckle, which loosens the knot in her stomach. But then his face turns serious in a way Bethroot doesn't quite understand. "Before we - before we do this, there's something I need to say."
There's no laughter in his voice now as he places his hand on her hip. Taking a deep breath, Bethroot takes a moment to adjust her pillow, wanting to be face to face with Thom. "I'm listening."
"When this started, I let you think I would only be around for a few years," Thom says.
Bethroot inhales sharply, wondering whether it's worth it to correct him or not. Complete honesty wins out over a lie of omission. She puts her hand on top of his, and gives it a squeeze. "I didn't learn about the Calling until Crestwood," she says. "We were already together then."
Thom's eyes go wide from realization as he runs a hand over his beard. "I didn't think of that at all." He wraps his arms around her then and Bethroot offers no resistance as he pulls her flush against his chest. "Oh, Maker, what I've put you through…"
"It's alright," she murmurs as he rests his brow against hers.
"No, it's not," Thom says simply. "And I don't think I've actually said the words 'I'm sorry' to you yet. I should have handled everything very differently. I know that now. Will you ever forgive me, Bethy?"
She pulls back to get a better view of his face. There's no question of the earnestness there, of the hope reflecting in his eyes. She can think of only one response and she means every word. "I forgive you, Thom."
"Thank you," he breathes, and Bethroot hears a benediction in his words. "Maker-willing, I've a long life ahead of me." His eyes close as he takes a breath and when he continues, there's a hitch in his voice. "If you stay with me…"
The knot of anxiety comes back in full force. "If?"
Thom kisses her softly then and she can see the pain on his face, in the furrow of his brow. "I might as well speak plain," he says, his voice tight. "Bethy, I know you want to be a mother."
She blinks a few times and looks away. She didn't realize she had been so obvious looking at the children around Skyhold and the camps. They never spoke once about the future, because Bethroot thought they didn't have one. Deep in the back of her thoughts, never lingered on when he was near, she figured she would fall in love again after Blackwall went to his Calling. And she always assumed this mysterious person would be another dwarf and they'd raise a family together.
Her relationship with her mother had been one of the most important of her life. Even now, more than two years later, Bethroot doesn't go a day without thinking of her mother, though the sting lessens slightly each day. She wishes Thom could have met her.
Bethroot always hoped to share a bond like that with a child of her own some day. A child she might never have if she stays with Thom.
"Half-dwarves are rare, but not impossible," Bethroot says, her voice low and full of conviction behind her words. "And if that doesn't work, there are always children that need parents."
Thom reaches out then, putting his hand on her cheek, and she leans into his touch, like always. "No one would give me a child to raise. Not after what I've done," he says and there is sadness lingering throughout his voice. "If we are to do this, if we're going to be together, I want to make sure our eyes are open."
Rolling onto her back, Bethroot brings the blanket up to cover herself as she turns his words over in her mind. Her life would be enriched with a child, no doubt, but she would still be whole without one. Then she thinks about Thom, how dark everything seemed without him, and those horrible weeks when she didn't know if he would live or die.
The mark on her hand might be an anchor to the Fade, but he is her anchor, keeping her grounded. She turns on her side and there is such understanding in Thom's eyes that it's almost painful. He's giving her permission to live the life she dreamed of as a child, a life as a wife and mother, but it would be a life without him.
Bethroot makes a decision which will affect the rest of her days. She wants to be with him. She wants Thom Rainier, a man with a despicable past, who isn't really a Warden.
The certainty of him settles into her bones and Bethroot smiles, knowing exactly how to show him.
#
She slips out of bed before Blackwall has a chance to ask her to stay. "Bethy?" he asks. The confusion in his voice makes her turn around and she holds up a hand, silently asking for time. So he clears his mind and enjoys the view as Bethroot walks to her desk.
He watches her take something out of the top drawer, but misses what it is, because he's a dirty old bugger who can't take his eyes off her breasts. There's a knowing smirk on Bethroot's face as she walks back to the bed, a hand behind her back.
Once she reaches the bed, Blackwall holds out his hand to help her back up. It will never cease to amaze him how her hands, which are so small compared to his own, always end up comforting him.
Bethroot settles back into bed, close enough so they're almost touching, but not quite. And then she brings her hand out from behind her back and unfurls her fingers.
His breath catches as he realizes just what he's seeing: the handkerchief she made just for him all that time ago, the one he thought lost in an Orlesian prison.
Blackwall somehow remembers to breathe as Bethroot places the piece of linen into his hand. And this time, their fingers stay entwined together. "Here," she says simply, as if she hasn't just returned the most precious item he's ever had in his life. "I believe this is yours."
It's slightly worse for wear - he'll need to find a hot iron and clip the stray threads - and even in the low light he can see patches of dirt marring the fabric, but it's perfect and it's his.
"I never thought I would see this again," he says, hearing the wonder in his voice and knowing it to be ridiculous. Surely, there's a simple story to how Bethroot came to find the handkerchief, but right now he doesn't care much for the details, only that it's not lost in Orlais forever.
"Thank Josephine," Bethroot says and there's a hint of redness in her cheeks as she scoots a bit closer. "She's the one who found it."
He brings it up to his nose and inhales deeply, realizing right away that it will need to be washed. But hints of her are there. Blackwall swears he smells a trace of the lavender soap from Denerim she favors. Then, as carefully as he can, he reaches over Bethroot and places the handkerchief on the nightstand, where he can see it.
Her arms go round him and she buries her face in the crook of his neck. Without even thinking, Blackwall slides his hands around her, bringing her in as close as he can. Perhaps the honorable thing to do is try to convince Bethroot to change her mind, remind her that she's only twenty-six and that he'll be an old man sooner rather than later. But the truth is he's too relieved to even consider the thought. Instead, he kisses the top of her head, wondering what he might have possibly ever done right in his life to deserve this.
She looks up at him then, as if to answer his unspoken question. "I love you," she whispers. Blackwall marvels at the certainty he feels, at the knowledge deep in his marrow, that he is loved. The corners of his mouth twitch up in a smile and threaten to turn into a full-fledged grin as as he does something he hasn't done since the night he left for Orlais all those weeks ago.
With two fingers, he gently presses against Bethroot's neck and finds her pulse. It's quicker, quicker than he's felt before, but steady. Keeping his fingers on her pulse, Blackwall leans forward and rests his brow against hers as she wraps her own fingers around his wrist. "I love you, too," he says just as softly.
He's not sure how long they stay there, simply breathing in each other's arms, but he doesn't think it could ever be long enough.
"Speaking of eyes being open, what about you?" Bethroot asks suddenly and there is a slight hesitation in her voice. "You deserve to fight for a cause you can believe in. If you think the Inquisition - that I'm corrupt-"
"That was anger and fear talking, Bethy," Blackwall says, interrupting her, remembering the absolute hurt on her face during his Judgment as he lashed out. "I didn't mean it and more importantly, I don't believe that." He takes his hand and slides it around her waist, reveling in the smooth skin underneath his palms, and decides to repeat her own words back to her, in case she has forgotten. "And besides, my place is here with you."
Her smile lights up her whole face; it's a beautiful thing to see, and he's sure he will never see enough of that smile. "I'm glad," she says and there is joy in her voice. As much as he wants to ponder how he could possibly be the cause, he pushes those doubts away. In the darkest corner of his mind, he might think she deserves better, that he'll never be worthy of her, but Bethroot's made her choice and he'll respect it.
Blackwall makes no resistance as she pulls him closer, her breasts pressing into his chest. There's desire in her eyes and he can't wait another moment. Embers are seemingly around them and he's ready for the spark to set them aflame.
So, he kisses her, long and deep, and Bethroot kisses him back. But unlike their kisses last night, which were desperate and frantic, when they couldn't join together fast enough, these kisses are slow and quiet. Warmth radiates from from her palms as she slides her hands up his back. Between their kisses and his lady's touch, Blackwall feels himself responding.
Relief washes through him and he can't help but moan into Bethroot's mouth. She breaks away then, but only to turn onto her back and Blackwall thinks he's about to burst at the eagerness on her face as she reaches out for him. He settles on top of her and they kiss. Each touch is an affirmation as they whisper to each other: yes, please, more.
When Blackwall pushes into her, he realizes there is nothing but honesty between them. All the lies and the secrets are torn down. Illusions have been shattered and he is choosing her just as much as she is choosing him. He lay his heart bare before her and in response, she handed him her own, a gift he will treasure for the rest of his days.
And this time, when she cries out his name, his real name, Blackwall doesn't stumble or falter, instead keeping up the steady rhythm of his hips as he looks down at Bethroot, sensing a prayer on his lips as he kisses her. He's uttered no prayers since that night, almost seven years ago, but this morning, feeling the warmth of the sun on his back and hearing Bethroot's encouraging words in his ear, he thinks perhaps he could.
In fact, he thinks he should.
So he will. He'll find the time this afternoon to go to the small chapel in the gardens to give thanks to the Maker and Andraste. But for now, his focus is completely on Her Herald.
They finish together in a haze of moans and gasps and whispered words. Once he's collected himself, Blackwall rests his brow against Bethroot's, absolutely spent, having given her everything, everything he is and everything he hopes to be.
Bethroot squirms slightly beneath him, a tell-tale sign she'd like him to move. Rolling onto his back, Blackwall tries to bring her with him, which only makes her laugh. Then she settles on her side next to him, before stroking the side of his neck. His eyes close at her touch, at the softness of her palms and the callouses on her fingertips. Soon they'll have to get up and leave the quiet serenity of this room, but until then, he just wants to enjoy this moment.
"We missed the sunrise," Bethroot says softly, resting her chin on his chest as she looks out the open balcony doors. The light from outside softens her face as she lightly runs her nails over his chest. There's a look of peace on her face, one he's only seen a few times before.
Blackwall's hand rests lightly on her ass and he gives it a squeeze, which she immediately rewards with a smile. Always the sunrise with her. Before, he thought it fanciful, but right now, he can't think of anything he'd rather do than watch the sun rise with her. "There'll be others," he says and his mind wanders to the struggles ahead of him, ahead of them both. But, as she told him just the other day, they won't face those struggles alone. "We'll have our chance."
He looks out the doors and breathes in deeply, enjoying the crisp mountain air as Bethroot presses her lips against his chest. A sunrise. Such a simple little thing to look forward to. Yet, he does. Because it will be with her. And that's when Blackwall realizes, for the first time in a very long time, he will welcome tomorrow's dawn.
