-32-

The air reeks of death.

The smell of decay is almost overwhelming, his throat and eyes burning. Bodies are strewn across the ground, a carriage on fire and wheels broken off its axis, only splintered wood remaining of the door. He recognizes the first body and tries to walk away, resisting facing the crime he committed. But he finds his way blocked by the gaunt face of Mornay. He says nothing, continuing to stare deep into his soul with accusing eyes. Shadowy figures join Mornay 's side, slowly taking the shape of his former company. People he used to call comrades before betraying them, using them to line his own pockets.

When he tries to approach them, he meets resistance, as if by a strong gust of wind forcing him back. No matter how many times he tries, he's unable to push through.

His way is blocked. He has no choice but forward now.

He approaches Vincent Callier, sword wounds scattered across his torso, his skull bashed in as if it was nothing more than a melon. Next a retainer, a gaping wound right in the neck, the arrow that claimed his life still stuck there. Lorette Callier and one of the children lie off to the side, her body draped over the child as if trying to shield him even in death.

Bile rises in his throat as he reaches two others, a boy and girl, mockingbirds hovering over their lifeless bodies. He tries to shoo them away, but they remain, their wings flapping in rhythm to the song he could now pick up faintly in the breeze.

He follows the trail of blood leading to what he fears is the last child, the youngest one. He braces himself to see the axe wounds all across her body, caught up in his men 's frenzied attacks. But as he approaches the body, the world stops around him -and his heart with it- as he catches sight of the distinct tattoos and pointed ears, the long coat she used to wear, the same one she wore when they first met. And the gaping hole in her chest.

His legs give way under him, falling to his knees beside her, calling his lady 's name; fathomless green tunnels stare back at him.

His eyes sting again, this time tears as he gathers her into his arms, his body shaking with the force of his sobs, a mournful cry that he didn 't think himself capable of escaping him. Wishing that the Maker would've taken him instead, that she hadn't died for his sins.

There is no fight left in him when he hears the approaching footsteps crunching on the grass behind him or the swoosh of air and metal as it comes striking down …

Blackwall's eyes shot open, gaze fixed on the dark ceiling above him. He propped himself up by the elbows, taking in gulps of air, his head frantically turning to seek out Ellana. It took him a moment for the sight of her beside him to sink in, that she was there, curled up on her side, the lines of her face relaxed as she slept away. At least she was blessed with a peaceful sleep.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting on its edge, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand. Blackwall drank it greedily, wiping his lips after finishing with the back of his hand. He touched at his cheek, fingers brushing against the wetness plastered on it and swiping it away as well.

His sleep wasn't usually nightmare-free, but this had been the worst one in awhile. Fuck, it was bad enough reliving that day, but to have Ellana there…

He shook his head, as if that would be enough to dispel all the images from his mind, but remnants still clung to him, as they always did. Blackwall then thought back to seeing the faces of his men. The idea crossed his mind again, of asking Varric to dig up information on the ones who had made it out alive, of going to make amends. It'd be the least he could do after what he'd put them through, even if his apologies were worth as much as mabari shit to them.

A pair of arms wrapped around his chest and a warm weight rested against his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts. "Thom?"

He looked down to meet a pair of sleepy green eyes at his side, a healthy glow in them again. "I'm alright. Just a bad dream."

Blackwall caught the soft understanding hum in her throat. "The massacre again?" she asked, her voice gentle.

He laid his hand over one of hers, giving it a confirming squeeze. "You were there."

His voice wavered, unable to say more than that. By the kiss he received on his shoulder, he didn't need to.

They sat in silence, Blackwall drawing comfort from her presence, running his thumb over her fingers and knuckles in mindless circles. The guilt of what happened would never fully leave him -it couldn't- but as more time passed since his reveal, he found himself more willing to accept such comfort and support, in a way he'd never truly been able to before. Because Ellana knew and accepted it; there was something liberating in that.

He turned over her hand, tracing along the ridge in her palm, the slightest thrum of the mark pulsing against his thumb. Hard to believe Corypheus had already been gone a month. But that didn't mean things were any calmer. The world was still rebuilding. There were still enemies to fight and scattered rifts to close, people calling on Ellana to come and help them. Still plenty of opportunities for danger to find her.

She wasn't defenseless, he knew that. But even after a year, she still leaned on others in combat, needing him to be her shield.

The thought of anything happening to her motivated and terrified him.

Her lifeless eyes flashed before him again and he couldn't contain the shudder, the shaky breath that escaped him.

She held him tighter in reply. "Thom." This time was a statement, that she was there, waiting with a ready ear as always.

But Blackwall couldn't find the words. Not out of reluctance or necessary concealment of his past as before, but because the words hurt. While she carried the mantle of Inquisitor, there would always be a target on her head from someone, somewhere, for what she represented, or the actions she'd taken. Including standing by the man who'd caused the death of a friend, a loved one, or innocent children who'd just been guilty of the misfortune of traveling with their parents that fateful day.

Blackwall knew -he'd always known- he couldn't save her from everything that the world would throw at them. But it still wouldn't be without a fight.

Finally, he shifted, facing her and cupping her cheek, vowing with every fiber of his being, "I won't lose you."

The strength of his words was as strong as the last time he'd said them back in the Arbor Wilds, during the debate between her and Morrigan over that bloody Well of Sorrows. He remembered the look she'd sent him, a pained certainty that it wasn't a guarantee, the fear that swelled within him at what such a look meant, only for relief to follow the moment Ellana stepped aside for the witch to drink from the well.

It was the same look she gave him now, her gaze breaking from his. But instead of letting it, and the reality of that possibility, linger and weigh them down, Blackwall kissed her hard. Ellana eagerly followed his lead, finding her way into his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck, her fingers fisting in his hair at the base of his scalp. When they parted for air, they held each other close, foreheads pressed against the other.

And when he flipped her onto her back, they didn't let go, both content on losing themselves in each other until the world came calling again.