Please remember, this fan fiction is rated M for violence.
Thanks to enc0432, and to you, reader for your support. I want to take a moment to say how amazing it is that there are people from the UK, Australia, Canada, Russia, Kazakastan, and hell, all over the world, who are reading this story and taking time out of their day to read the next chapter. That's pretty awesome. I mean, to me it's cool that some folks from my own country are enjoying Roses, but it's almost mind blowing how there are people all over the world tolerating my self-fulfilling nonsense.
Seriously, thank you.
Disclaimer: not going to bother putting a disclaimer down anymore, you guys get the point.
Chapter XI
Blackwall raised his blade to parry a red Templar; he used his shield to put the man off balance, and then gave him a hard swift kick in the stomach sending him to the ground. Blackwall jammed his sword into the Templar's neck and twisted, finishing him quickly before turning to find his next foe. It would be one of the tower shield wielder making slow headway towards Genevieve and Sera's position at the top of the hill. An easy target so long as he remained distracted.
He saw Genevieve take notice as he made his way towards the tower shield. She flung a spell at the Templar to keep his attention on her. Blackwall crept up behind the man and drove his sword into his back. He freed his blade and let the Templar drop like a stone.
"Dorian!" Genevieve shouted, voice panicked. A chain of lightning shot from her staff, striking the two Templars heading for him, paralyzing them both and giving Dorian the chance to cast a terror curse one. The curse and sent the unlucky bastard fleeing to Blackwall's sword. And the other fell to one of Sera's arrows. It left them victorious, but exhausted.
Blackwall cleaned his blade on a Templar's skirt. He had battled countless red Templars, but to this day the grotesqueness of their mutated forms still struck a note of primal fear in him. He turned away from the creature in hopes of forgetting its lifeless red eyes.
"Everyone alright?" Genevieve asked, slightly out of breath.
"In retrospect, I should have stayed on the hill, I could have hidden behind you," Dorian chuckled. His hair was a little out of order, but he looked unharmed.
"Shite Templar bastards," Sera grumbled as she went around collecting her arrows. The other day she'd received a good knock to the head; her headache had put her in a foul mood and lucky for her companions she directed at every red Templar she saw.
"Good to know you're okay, Sera." Dorian laughed again.
They had been in the Emerald Graves for six days now clearing out the red Templars and disrupting their lyrium routes. And now it was finally done; they had taken out the freemen and the Templar camps. All that remained was to inform the militia. They would make their way home then, just in time for the Inquisitor's Name-Day Extravaganza. Naturally, Genevieve didn't know a thing about it. Josephine had threatened each member of the inner circle into total silence on the matter. By the time Genevieve found out, it would be too late to stop it.
Blackwall disliked keeping the secret from her, but Josephine had made the most convincing of arguments. Although the plague is over Serah Blackwall, you must know how much the Inquisition is in need of a morale booster; a grand tourney, with food, drink, and celebration would be just the thing. Her words echoed in his head, and no matter how much he wanted to tell Genevieve, he kept quiet. Because it would boost morale and it would bring some joy to those who had suffered so much loss since the illness.
"So, Inquisitor," Dorian began as they found a shady hilltop to make camp for the night. "You're turning what—thirty in two weeks?"
Genevieve rolled her eyes. "Twenty-nine, Dorian, you know that."
"I remember when I turned twenty-eight; it felt a whole lot like being twenty-eight." Dorian smirked. The mage threw his saddle blanket over a rock and sat down, perfectly content to let the others do any work.
Blackwall would never understand how anyone could stand the magister, or for that matter, how Genevieve could possibly be related to him. But the Inquisitor seemed to like him; she even respected him. He supposed it was the camaraderie of intellectual types coupled with the way they mercilessly teased each other. The fact that they were both mages cemented their friendship.
"So," Dorian continued, languid as a cat. "Any gifts you want in particular? Something encrusted in jewels? Hemmed with lace? Or would you prefer a certain someone with a rather hairy chest and dislike for soap? I'll even put a bow around him if you like."
Blackwall cleared his throat and saw Genevieve turn bright pink up to her ears. Sera burst into that maniac laugh of hers. Dorian, on the other hand, had a most pleased smirk on his face.
"Mage," Blackwall growled, this only made Sera laugh harder. He had to wonder how long Dorian had been sitting on this joke—days maybe—waiting for the perfect moment to embarrass the Inquisitor into muted horror.
In a sing-song-voice the elf said; "I know what you two did, up in the loft."
"And we will not talk about it," Blackwall threatened with a shaking fist. Genevieve just remained silent turning pinker and pinker with each passing second.
"Getting hay in your nooks…crannies."
"Sera," Genevieve managed to choke out. "That's enough,"
"Yeah, yeah alright," Sera muttered. "Just wanted to get your knickers in a twist. Though I supposed you're right, I should be letting beardy do that."
Genevieve rolled her eyes in defeat and gathered up their water skins. Blackwall pointed at Dorian; "At least get a fire started so we can have something warm to eat." And he followed after the Inquisitor. He could hear Sera laughing as they disappeared into the woods.
Blackwall followed Genevieve to a nearby stream. She had dropped the skins and her staff on the bank and was working on getting her boots off. She jumped around on one foot for a while and would have fallen if Blackwall hadn't have caught her by the elbow. They both laughed and she pulled her boot off with a swift movement.
"Sorry about them," she muttered, she was leaning into his chest now, taking off her socks. "They like to tease, but I think they're happy for us,"
"Aye," Blackwall agreed and set her back onto her feet.
"Oh Maker, this place is gorgeous." She stretched and dipped her feet into the stream.
"Isn't that cold?"
"Yes," she smiled. "Feels good, think I tweaked my foot in that last fight." She dipped her hands into the water and washed the dust from her face.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, she was always worried about everyone else, but never herself.
"Oh, I'm fine," she was watching a little brown nug slowly coming towards the stream. "Trying not to think about hay, but I'm fine," then she raised her hand and bolt of lightning struck the nug and it fell over, dead in an instant. "I found dinner," she chuckled.
Blackwall went over to pick the little beastie up. There was a bit of burnt hair where the bolt had struck it, but it was in good condition. And lying under it, almost crushed, was a patch of yellow flowers. He picked one it and presented it to Genevieve. She rewarded him with a wide smile; "Yellow moonbeam," she told him.
"It's a pretty one," Blackwall agreed as she tucked the flower into the fold of the book hanging off her belt. As he laid the nug out on the grass and started cleaning it for supper she went to the bag she'd left on the bank and pulled out a lyrim tonic.
"Been a long time since I've had nug roasted over an open fire," Blackwall said, trying to keep himself from gawking as she sipped at her potion. It was difficult to think of her as an addict, even though she insisted that "addiction" wasn't exactly the right word for it.
"I keep mint and thyme in my bag, if you want to spice it a little." She finished her tonic and picked up their water skins and started filling them, one at a time. "Belinda always bastes it in honey; I never even liked nug until I tasted hers,"
Blackwall laughed, with the potion finished it was easier to not think about it. "That woman has a way with food; I'll give you that," of everything he had with her, he liked this best of all. That they could just sit and speak of food and other simple things. It had been what he missed most from before. Then when they lapsed into comfortable silence, she started singing.
Genevieve filled the last of their skins and then sat on a rock near Blackwall where she could keep her feet in the cool water. The sun was setting now, the nights in the Graves had been mild, but Blackwall could feel a light breeze coming in from the north and he wondered if they would need to erect tents to keep the chill off.
With the nug cleaned and skinned, Blackwall wiped his knife clean and put it back in his belt. Genevieve started getting her boots on, singing. As she pulled up her socks she stopped, frozen, eyes wide like a deer listening for danger.
"My lady..?" Blackwall paused, confused. He saw the color drain from her face, her pupils grew wide. Was the lyrium doing something to her? He rose to go to her when his own battle instincts made the hair on the back of his neck stand. Too little, too late.
"Templars!" she jumped up, skin pale and green like she was about to be sick. No sooner had the words left her mouth when an archer came out of the bushes across the stream and fired. The arrow took Blackwall in the shoulder, just above his plate mail. He dropped the nug, and reached up to draw his sword when another Templar came barreling at Genevieve and tackled her to the ground, another was around behind him, grabbed his arm, and wrenched it behind his back almost breaking it.
The Templars were laughing, how long have they been watching, and we had no idea?
"Wait till the others see this!" The archer laughed, arrow still nocked and drawn on Blackwall. These men were not as disfigured as many others; new recruits, easily dealt with if they hadn't had the element of surprise.
"Let her go!" Blackwall roared, trying to break free from the one who had his arm. The Templar grabbed the arrow in Blackwall's shoulder and gave it a twist, making him cry out. How could they have missed a patrol? How could he have let his guard down?
"If you let me go," Genevieve didn't sound as desperate as she looked, but there was a tinge of fear in her eyes. "The Inquisition can help you; you don't have to be a lyrium slave—"
"Mages shouldn't talk," the Templar on top of her shouted and smacked her with a lobster steeled hand. He laughed when she went silent and drew a mocking, gentle finger along her cheek. "When you're Tranquil, you'll do whatever I say," to the Templar's surprise, she managed to free her left hand, he grabbed it, bent the fingers back, and Blackwall heard the crunch of broken fingers. To her credit, she did not scream, but he thought she might break her teeth with the force she grit them with.
Then she whistled. Blackwall knew what she was doing. He readied himself for the inevitable pain of throwing the Templar over his back. Then he would go for the one on top of her—drowning him would be easiest.
"I don't need magic to kill you," Genevieve growled, her left hand had been a feint. She had used the distractions to pull her dagger. With her right hand held firmly around her knife, she shoved it under the ribbed plate of the Templar's armor and into his kidney. Blackwall remembered when he taught her that, they had faced ridicule for weeks after because he had climbed on top of her to show her exactly where to put a knife, but he was so glad in the moment that they had endured the humiliation of it. The Templar dropped like a stone, and when she freed the blade he bleed out like a stuck pig.
Blackwall made his move and felt the arrow go deeper, but he broke from the Templar's grasp and flung him hard onto the ground, knocking the wind out of him. With Genevieve's assailant down, that left the archer. Blackwall readied to charge him. He knew he would take at least another arrow on his way across the stream, maybe another when he tackled him. But before he could draw his dagger an ear splitting cry broke through the gathering dark.
Fiend came rushing to them, teeth bared. The Templar archer only had a moment to react; he fired at the dracolisk and missed. The beast was on him, hungry for blood. Sera and Dorian came running too, weapons at the ready.
The one Blackwall had thrown down was crawling towards the river, hoping to make an escape. Blackwall wasn't going to have it. He ran at him and pressed his knee into the Templar's back and shoved his helmed head into the icy water. By the Maker, Blackwall wanted blood.
"You think threatening women is funny, do you?" Blackwall bellowed as he lifted the man's head out of the water for a moment. "How about I give you some tranquility," and he thrust his head back into the water, brought his knee up a little higher and popped his neck free from his spin. The trashing stopped then and Blackwall jumped up, wrenched the arrow out of his shoulder and gave them Templar corpse a kick for good measure. He wasn't done though, he wanted more blood—more Templar's to kill. But he settled for another kick to the corpse, and a third. By the fourth and fifth, he might have broken the Templar's ribs, not that he felt it.
"Enough, Blackwall," the Inquisitor snapped. "He's dead, let him be." That brought him out of his bloodlust. He turned, anger drained only for worry to replace it.
Sera and Dorian had freed Genevieve; she had tears in the corner of her eyes and was holding her left hand close to her chest. Blackwall turned to her and brought her into his arms, mindful of her broken hand. He had to hold her, if only for a moment.
"Are you alright?" he murmured into her hair. She'd take worse injuries without a shedding a single tear, but he would think no less of her if she cried now.
"You're bleeding," she muttered. He couldn't help but chuckle, he held her at arm's length to examine her. A fist shaped bruise was appearing on her cheek already and aside from her hand she didn't look to bad. "My hand hurts,"
"Yeah," he whispered running a gentle finger over her cheek to wipe tears away. "Let's get to camp and get patched up."
Sera was examining what remained of the Templar archer. "What happened?" she asked, disgusted at the sight. "This one's missing bits," she looked at the dracolisk; the beast's muzzle was covered in blood.
"He did good," Blackwall jumped to the beast's defense. Despite the pain, he picked up the nug he had dropped and tossed it at the dracolisk. Fiend caught it happily. "You earned it, you great ugly lizard."
They got back to camp and Blackwall sat down next to Genevieve so that Dorian could tend their wounds. They both drank two health potions each. Dorian wrapped some bandages around Blackwall's shoulder and under his arm but he couldn't really do anything more than that, they would need to make it to the main camp for a real healer. Genevieve took something for her pain and went to sleep immediately afterward.
Blackwall was going to ask if she wanted anything to eat a few hours later, but Dorian shook his head and said; "Taking a smite isn't fun, she won't have the stomach to eat anything, best to leave her alone." Then with Dorian's help, Blackwall got a tent over her.
After explaining the ambush to Dorian and Sera, Blackwall settled in for a long and uncomfortable night. The next day didn't improve much; if Genevieve felt better she didn't show it. They were desperate for a healer so they pushed on as hard as they dared and made it back to the forward camp in the middle of the night on their ninth day in the Graves. The healer set Genevieve's hand and healed all the muscle and bone damage done to Blackwall's shoulder and they were off for home the very next day. Genevieve had wanted to meet with the militia herself, but instead sent a bird so that they could get home.
XXXX
When they came into the valley, Skyhold looming over them, Genevieve noticed the stands first. They were simple, undecorated wooden bleachers with six rows of seating, one set on each side of a freshly tilled bit of land where a tilt was currently being constructed.
She stopped and turned her dracolisk towards the lists, Blackwall followed her while Dorian and Sera continued on. The refugee camps had been pushed back along the river, and there was a flurry of activity. With the fever in the camps under control the people were getting back to their daily business and preparing for the Inquisitor's Name-Day.
"They're building a tiltyard," the Inquisitor grumbled when Blackwall caught up. Her mood had significantly fouled since they left the Emerald Graves. He couldn't blame her.
"So it would seem," Blackwall said.
She sighed. "Josephine has her name written all over this," then she turned Fiend and said; "Let's get home; I want a long hot bath and a very large bottle of wine."
"Does your hand pain you, my lady?" Blackwall asked over the sound of his gelding's hooves on the stone bridge.
"Well, I won't be closing any rifts for a while…or holding my staff properly," she sighed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't complain. How about your shoulder?"
"The healer did excellent work," he assured her. In fact he hadn't felt so much as a twinge since they left the Graves.
"Good," They entered the gates and put up their horses. The yard was full of bustle now that the plague was over. It even felt brighter. The keep was beginning its healing process, the plague would leave scars, but it hadn't brought them down.
Blackwall was about to head to the barn when Genevieve stopped him. "When they see this hand, they'll want to hear your side of the story. Might as well come to the war room,"
Together they entered the main hall; Dorian was already telling Varric, Cassandra, and anyone who had stopped to listen, about their adventure. Cassandra peeled off from the group when she saw Genevieve.
"Inquisitor!" she cried, spying her broken hand. "Are you alright?"
"I'm alright, little worse for wear, but I'll be fine. Josephine and the others?" she made for the door and marched through Josephine's empty office, Blackwall on her heels.
"Await you in the war room," Cassandra said, hustling after them. Dorian and Sera followed them, slow and giggly like little siblings about to see their mother lecture their older siblings.
Blackwall pushed the war room open and let everyone in, he shut it firmly behind him and took a spot leaning against the wall. The others gathered around the war table. The witch lady, Morrigan took a position at Genevieve's right, much to Cassandra's chagrin. Nothing was said or done about it, so Cassandra took her left hand side.
"Are you alright?" Cullen asked, shocked when he saw Genevieve's broken hand. It was rare for her to return to Skyhold with such a serious injury. Not that it didn't happen; but as a mage she kept away from the rougher fighting.
"We disrupted Samson's lyrium routes," Genevieve offered, "missed a patrol, Blackwall and I were ambushed,"
"How?" Cassandra shot an angry glare at Blackwall.
At least she isn't ignoring me anymore, Blackwall thought. Though the Seeker's ire wasn't really an improvement.
"It was a stupid mistake," the Inquisitor explained, "If Blackwall hadn't been with me they could have just snatched me up."
"Fiend did most of the work," Sera chirped. "Ate a Templar's heart out, he did." She was exaggerating, but no one bothered to correct her.
Genevieve then, in detail explained their trip to the Graves and when it was time to explain the ambush, she ushered Blackwall over to her side. After all was said and done, Genevieve promised them a written report then told the others they were excused and that she wanted to speak to her advisors alone.
As soon as the door shut behind them, Sera poked Blackwall with her elbow and smirked; "Inquisitorial meltdown, in three…two…" and just as Genevieve's voice rose in a vexed; "A what?" Sera said; "one," then skipped off.
Blackwall did not stick around to hear any more. He wanted to get some sleep in his own bed.
XXXX
When he woke in the morning, he came down from the loft to find Varric and Cole sitting around a freshly made fire. Varric was eating breakfast and Cole had his knees up to his chest, hat covering his face.
"Morning, Hero," the dwarf greeted and pointed a hand at a tray of food. "I brought bread and sausage,"
"Thank you," Blackwall yawned and sat down. "To what do I owe the visit?" It was odd for the dwarf to be up so early, Blackwall was immediately suspicious. But he didn't say anything about it and choose instead to build a sandwich out of sausage.
"I came see if you were feeling up to a bit of training today," Varric folded his hands across his chest.
Baffled, Blackwall said; "Training? Have you and the boy taken a sudden interest in the sword?"
"What?" the dwarf laughed. "No; you Hero, are you ready to train for the tourney?"
"I am not going to be in the tourney," he grumbled.
Varric laughed. "Are you kidding? You told me yourself that you used to be in them—"
"I was in two, as far as I know that doesn't make me an expert."
"So what? You should do it! Imagine it, Hero. You ridding in on your charger in armor shined up just for the occasion, you hand a pretty flower to your pretty Inquisitor and take to the lists in her name. And when you win she presents you with a reward and a kiss," he chuckled impishly. "And maybe even more,"
Blackwall rolled his eyes. "I haven't been in a joust in twenty years. Even if I did ride, I'd have no chance of winning,"
"Well that's not true, you have as good a chance as everyone else. There aren't any big names coming to this shindig, mostly lords and ladies. No true professionals."
"Right, just lords and ladies." He groaned. Cole repeated "lords and ladies," and then wondered aloud if there would be wonderful hats like there had been at Halamshiral.
"Oh come on Hero, you gotta ride,"
"I do not."
"But I got you a nice new set of armor and charger and everything! I even had the training yard set up in the valley."
"You did what?" Blackwall nearly spat out his breakfast. "You bought me armor and a horse? Are you mad?"
"I also bet Dorian twenty sovereigns you'd win. I sunk a lot of money into this, Hero." The dwarf explained.
Blackwall momentarily wondered how much money Varric had that would allow him to simply throw it around so easily. Horses trained for jousting did not come cheap, and neither did the armor, or the livery, or any part of it. That was why it was left to the wealthy, the well-connected, and the professionals. Once upon a time, Blackwall had been well off enough to enter a joust, he had not won, which led him to enter the melee, which he won with the help of an aging Chevalier.
"I am not interested,"
"Hey, Kid, tell him what you told me yesterday,"
Cole looked up at Blackwall and Varric smirked. "Shining, sordid, but stalwart. He's not a knight, but he could be, he's my knight—"
"Okay, Kid." Varric stopped him and fixed Blackwall with a clever look. "It gets a…a little more personal from there."
"She was dreaming in the Fade," Cole explained as if Blackwall wouldn't know. "She likes you in armor—you look dashing, she thinks. Do you think I could look dashing?"
Speechless, Blackwall put down his breakfast. Varric, with a smirk that claimed victory, said; "You've got a whole week to practice,"
Frustrated and now certain he didn't have a choice, Blackwall stood up. "I have to finish up the Inquisitor's Name-Day gift, and then you can show me this charger of yours."
I can't be so bad; he thought to himself, she does think you're dashing after all.
I've had trepidation about Genevieve's age from the very beginning; however, I can't help but feel that she is in her late twenties. In my original draft of this story, she was older, but the more I changed and wrote the more I realized how much younger she is that Blackwall. I finally decided that it was dishonest to the character if I made her older than I feel she is. Sorry if it weirds you out a little (this apology is sincere, I promise). Enc0432 assuaged some of my fears with a very blunt; "if that's how you feel. And besides, she's a grown-ass woman," so I leave you with that bit of wisdom.