"Did you hear? Blackwall's on his way back to Skyhold."
"We're on duty, Jessa, we shouldn't be gossiping," Mac says, pushing his helmet back. He hates these Inquisition soldier uniforms, especially the helmets.
"We're patrolling the ramparts, not exactly a thrilling assignment," Jessa says as she adjusts the shield on her back. "I'll be glad when he's back. I finally felt like I understood what he was going on about when it came to shields." Mac stops at once and Jessa takes a few steps before she seems to realize. "Don't want to gossip, but you'll just stop walking? Have it your way."
"You actually want to keep working with that monster?" Mac asks, sure he must have heard her wrong. The man let his own troops to die to save himself. There's no coming back from that, no matter how much he tries with the Inquisition.
Jessa sighs. "Show me someone better with a sword and shield," she says, and Mac doesn't appreciate the patronizing tone in her voice.
"The Lady Seeker."
"Perhaps," Jessa says with a nod. "But ask her for help? She gets impatient if you don't figure it out on the first try. Blackwall acts like he has all the time in the world to help you learn." She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back. "So yes. I will ask that monster for help if he's willing."
Mac starts to walk again, looking for marks along with walls with possible codes or messages, like the Nightingale instructed. It takes Jessa a moment to catch up and he wonders how many other soldiers feel like she does. And how many agree with Mac? He doesn't like the idea of a divided camp, but it looks like that might be exactly what they have.
#
Josephine waits by the carriage, ignoring the pressure at her left temple, and instead wishes the day would end.
She's barely slept since she received the missive from the Empress, to make sure everything would be ready for this moment. And suddenly the door opens and there he is, hands chained and squinting thanks to the bright autumn day. Rainier looks awful, thinner than before, his beard an absolute mess. As he walks closer, she sees a yellowish bruise on his cheek and one eye is half-swollen shut.
There's a part of her that's glad the Inquisitor will not see him like this, and won't until well after the mages at Skyhold have a chance to heal whatever injuries he received.
Maker, what had they done to him in prison?
For a moment, Josephine thinks to send a message to Ser Allard, protesting Rainier's obvious mistreatment. Already she starts to draft the missive in her head, before taking a moment to think. In the end, what good would it do? Relations between the Inquisition and Orlais need not be strained any further because of one man.
Rainier's eyes don't stay still, darting from side to side, clearly searching for the Inquisitor. "She is at the Storm Coast," Josephine tells him.
He looks at her then and she feels her mouth go dry. "Of course, the alliance," he says, glancing to the ground. "Ambassador…" His voice trails off and Josephine is not quite sure what to say. She wonders if the Inquisitor ever told him about her own past, how she, too, killed in the name of the Game. It's at that moment she decides to concentrate on the man who joined the Inquisition as opposed to the captain of the Orlesian army. No matter his past, he's done a great deal of good for the Inquisition and it is important she remembers this.
"This was the Inquisitor's decision," she says, wishing there was a way to tell him Bethroot still loved him without betraying her confidence. Then perhaps he wouldn't seem so broken. "I simply aided things along."
Rainier nods, and Josephine thinks he might understand better than anyone just how much would have to be done to secure his release. The man did survive the Game for more than twenty years, after all. "Are you coming back to Skyhold, as well?"
Josephine shakes her head. "I have more business to attend to," she says, thinking of all the work she'd like to complete before leaving Orlais, if the Inquisition is to meet the Orlesian demands in time. She takes a step closer and lowers her voice. "Once you're out of the city, the guards have instructions to release your bonds until you're back at Skyhold."
"And then?" His voice almost shakes, like he both dreads and welcomes his return.
"Unfortunately, we will have to keep you in a cell until Judgment. Appearances must be maintained," Josephine says, hearing the apology in her voice. If only he would not wear defeat so on his shoulders. Perhaps it is too much to ask for hope when there is still a Judgment ahead of him.
Rainier nods, looking down at the manacles around his wrists. "How is she? How is she taking all this?"
"I have not seen her in two weeks," Josephine admits. "She doesn't know you've been released yet. It will take some time for the crow to get to Skyhold and a runner out to the Coast."
"But how is she?"
"Tired," Josephine says honestly, thinking back to the last time she saw the Inquisitor, as she begged not to have Rainier drawn and quartered. Missing you, she think silently, before adding, "I do not think she was eating as much as she should."
"Go to le Barre Chocolat Confiserie," Rainier says with a tilt of his head. His Free Marcher accent surround the words heavily, and suddenly Josephine understands all the rumors she's heard, of Thom Rainier's way with women. To an Orlesian woman, he must have seemed almost exotic and possibly a bit dangerous, a combination tempting for many. "There's a moss candy they stock. It's her favorite."
"I'll keep that in mind," Josephine says, making a note to send Vern there at once. From the corner of her eye, she sees Calliope signal her. "And I have an appointment to keep. I wish you a safe journey, Ser Rainier."
Josephine turns and decides not to acknowledge the way he winced at hearing his name.
#
It takes every ounce of Blackwall's strength not to tear into the food being placed in his hands. He's been given a bowl of broth and a crust of bread. Simple food, but after almost three weeks of prison gruel, it smells like a seven course banquet.
"It'll be hard, but you don't want to eat that too quickly," one of his guards, Lester, says.
Blackwall nods and carefully brings a spoonful of broth to his lips. It's fairly bland, but it's hot and slides down his throat easily, unlike the gruel which he seemed to need to swallow twice. He takes a breath of clean autumn air and for a moment, he can pretend he's not a prisoner any longer. Granted, the three soldiers he travels with have been generous. Already he's had a wash in a nearby stream and Lester lent him a straight-edge razor and a tin of wax for his moustache. Now with decent food in his stomach, sitting in front of a warm fire with the night sky above him, Blackwall almost feels human again.
His stomach wants to protest at the solid food and before he can stop himself, he lets out a small belch. "Pardon."
Lester chuckles and digs into his own food. "No ladies about tonight, so no apologies needed," he says. "I was serious, though. You need to eat slow. When I was a lad, I had some time in the stocks and then gaol. First thing I always did when I got out was gorge myself and I always paid the price."
Blackwall looks at Lester with a renewed interested. The guard is a man around Blackwall's own age, which is rare. Most of the recruits are younger men, eager to prove themselves. But not Lester, who's always content with whatever the Inquisition asks of him. Blackwall's never heard the man complain. They've had pints together more than once in the tavern and before all this, Blackwall might even have considered Lester a friend.
One thing Blackwall is good at is listening to advice, so he forces himself to eat even more slowly. The other guards ignore him, which is about what he expects. Once, they would happily listen to his stories and ask for his advice about fighting, women and life. Now these other guards would rather have him out of their sight.
"So why'd you do it?"
And there's the question. His inner hermit wants to rebel against the invasion of his privacy; no one has the right to ask those questions. Though he lost that right the moment he left the Storm Coast without telling Bethroot the truth.
Once he had an answer he believed in: gold. It always came down to fucking gold, feeling like he never, ever had enough, and wanting to be better than them. He doesn't even know who they are any more - could be nobles, chevaliers, higher ranked officers. There are times he can still remember his mother's hand on his chin telling him, You're better than they are, Thomas.
"Wish I had a good reason, but I don't," Blackwall says quietly. The other guards in the camp are still and clearly listening to his every words. "I thought I needed the gold."
"And after?"
Blackwall hears no accusation in Lester's voice, only curiosity. He's fairly certain he'll be answering these questions again and again once he gets back to Skyhold; he might as well practice now. "I've no excuse except for my own cowardice," Blackwall says as honestly as he can, remembering the night he ran. How he already had a satchel packed by the time a scout came to warn him, thinking he wasn't about to die so some other officer could get a promotion by stepping on his corpse.
And because he decided his life was more important than those under his command, three good people died after Blackwall convinced them to trust him. Trembley, Nia and Yount. Dead because of him.
Lester keeps silent, and Blackwall goes back to eating his broth. After he finishes, he offers to clean up and the other guards seem to have no issue letting him. Blackwall takes his time, walking to the stream and back, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs.
When Blackwall's settled in front of the fire again, Reyer, another of the guards, seems to have gotten over the his disgust and asks, "What's she like? The Herald?"
It's hard to remember sometimes that to most of the Inquisition, his lady is a figure larger than life, someone they might only ever see from afar, when Blackwall was lucky enough to share her bed almost every night. And now? He's not sure of the role he'll play in her future, so he says, "I don't know if I have the right to answer that anymore," hearing the distress in his own voice.
The answer seems to satisfy Reyer and the topic switches to news from the Griffon Wing Keep, which is positive. He could tell them about the battle for the Keep, how after it finished, Bethroot went to climb up a ladder and missed a rung, falling straight on her arse. Blackwall was on the verge of worry until he heard how hard she started laughing, making everyone else around her laugh, too.
It's those moments Blackwall treasured, knowing one day they would eventually end. If their relationship is finally over, it's the little things he'll miss the most.
#
Every time she hears the wings of a bird overhead, she looks up.
Bethroot knows it's silly. No crow will find her out here, out in the Driftwood Margin wilderness. The most she can hope for is a runner waiting for her when they return to camp. Yet with each sound, she can't help but check.
Her companions are tired today, sore from rowing that damn boat after a long fight with the Red Templars. No one seems to really want to speak, and for once, Bethroot doesn't mind. She's taken more hits over the past ten days than she ever has before and her body hates her for it. Her shoulder is in agony - thanks to that Red Templar Stalker - and no matter how many potions she drinks, the sharp pain refuses to subside. Thankfully, tomorrow they'll load up the wagon and head back to Skyhold. She's glad. Her body needs the rest and her mind could use the quiet.
"You know that's not how crows work, right?" Bull asks as she looks up once again.
"I used to be a smuggler, of course I do," Bethroot says dully. But then she spots the Inquisition banners, telling them they're almost at camp. Warm food sounds just about perfect. A fire, if even possible in this constant state of drizzle, sounds even better.
The guards eagerly welcome them back, wanting to hear how the raid went. Bethroot lets Iron Bull talk as she sets down her quiver and bow, her body all but crying out in relief. The lead guard, Henson, she thinks his name is, hands her a plate of fish and turnips, along with a mug of some sort of ale.
And as Bethroot's about to take the first bite, that's when she sees the runner.
She feels cold inside, so cold, like she might never be warm. The answers she's waiting for are with that runner and Bethroot isn't sure how she will keep sane until the woman reaches the camp. So she sets her food down, stands up, and walks to the edge and waits. A year seems to pass before the runner is within earshot, and then right next to Bethroot.
"No idea what it says, Inquisitor," the runner says, a young elven girl of maybe twenty years. She's breathing heavily as she hands Bethroot the scroll.
Bethroot takes the offered scroll and clutches it to her chest. "Let's get you some water," she says, turning back towards the camp. She's stalling, why is she stalling? Why hasn't she ripped the scroll open yet to learn what it says?
"They'll take care of me, your Worship," the girl says with a grin. "Go on, then. I want to know what it says, too."
As she walks a few more steps away from the camp, Bethroot runs her thumb over Josephine's ambassadorial seal. Now that the answer to her question is in her hands, she's terrified. What if he's already dead? She loves him so much, the thought of opening this scroll only to read of his death will surely be too much to bear.
Less than three weeks ago, she turned twenty-six. How much can one person stand before they're allowed to cry out no more? Lantos' betrayal, her mother's death, the Conclave, all of sodding Thedas depending on her, and now this scroll.
She takes a deep breath and with a shaking hand, unfurls the scroll. Josephine's elegant script stares back at her and at the very top are the two most important words Bethroot ever recalls reading:He lives.
Bethroot drops to her haunches, and tries to control her breathing. Falling apart in public is absolutely not an option. She hasn't once since this whole thing started more than a month ago and she refuses to start now. Her tears are hers and hers alone and she will not share them with anyone. So she reads the rest of the scroll quickly. The exact terms are not laid out in print, in case of capture, but Bethroot senses from Josephine's words that a great deal was given up to obtain Rainier, but not too much, not enough to make Josephine leave him to his death.
Rainier will be on his way to Skyhold now, might even be there already. When she gets back to the castle, she will have to render Judgment on the man she loves. Bethroot has never felt comfortable with Judgments, but it's practically demanded of her. How can she possibly be expected to be impartial when it comes to Thom Rainier? What will it say about her if she's not able to give a fair ruling? There is no right answer to this. No matter what she decides, someone is bound to be upset.
And as Bethroot stares out into the sea, she wonders how much more weight her shoulders can take.
