Thank you all for reading! Special thanks to suilven for her lovely beta work!
Josephine folded her mother's letter, frowning. To say that being informed of her own impending marriage by letter, without any previous discussion of the topic, was a shock would be an understatement. She looked around her office. Her desk was piled with papers, the pigeonholes where she kept important correspondence were bulging. Where would she possibly get the time to be married? Not to mention that certainly her prospective bridegroom would want her to leave the Inquisition, and that was impossible.
She opened the letter again, perusing the lines in her mother's elegant hand once more. Lord Otranto. She had a dim recollection of Lord Otranto … or did she? All the young noblemen seemed to run together in her mind, and she wasn't certain she could pick him out of the crowd.
The door opened, and she hastily folded the letter once more just as Cassandra poked her head in. "Oh, I am sorry. You are busy."
"Actually, less so than usual." Josephine tucked the letter under a pile of notes from the last War Room meeting. "What's on your mind, my friend?"
Cassandra sighed. "In truth, nothing of any importance. I find myself …" She spread her hands out in front of her and studied them. "I used to be so certain of—everything. And now I am certain of precisely nothing."
"That is how most of us spend our lives," Josephine told her.
"Is it? How disconcerting."
"It can be." Lord Otranto, Josephine thought again. Was he the one with the green eyes? Of course, she had always intended to marry, but … she had somewhat romantically, she supposed, expected to be able to choose the man for herself. Not that there was anyone within the Inquisition who had her eye, or amongst the nobles who visited, but …
"I have interrupted, after all," Cassandra said, calling Josephine abruptly back from the train of her thoughts.
"No, no, really, I am sorry. I just …" She tilted her head and studied Cassandra curiously. "Have you ever given any thought to marriage?"
Cassandra started, as if the question seemed pertinent to her, and flushed just a little. "Why do you ask?"
"You are a woman of great skill, and you have spent many years in a position of authority. I wondered if you had ever contemplated giving that up for a quieter life, or if you had hoped to find someone to share the work with you."
The grey eyes were steady on Josephine's face, the weight of Cassandra's gaze almost palpable, as if Josephine had touched a nerve. "I … have not thought about it at all."
Josephine recognized a lie when she heard one. "So you have considered it. Ah, yes. The Inquisitor." She smiled. "I've heard rumors about his prowess. Shall I tell you some tales?"
"No!" Cassandra's eyes widened in outrage, and then narrowed as Josephine allowed her smile to turn impish. "You have heard no such thing."
"Well, in truth, I have … but nothing to his detriment, I assure you. Indeed, I'm told he leaves his lovers quite … satisfied. If lonely."
"So you're saying that he treats women as playthings."
"Not that, precisely, no. Just that he makes no promises or commitments. On the other hand, since he joined the Inquisition apparently he has either been very discreet—or very celibate."
The two women looked at one another in silence as Cassandra digested this information. "I do not know why you are telling me this," she said stubbornly. "What the Inquisitor does with his free time is none of my concern."
"Isn't it?" Josephine asked. "If you say so. Nonetheless, my question stands—have you ever considered marriage?"
"Once, long ago. I determined I wanted none of it. As a Pentaghast, I am well aware that my prime attraction on the marriage market is for my bloodline, and to bring a husband nearer to the throne of Nevarra. I will be used by no man, nor do I consider my bloodline to be part of me. Therefore, any marriage based on it would not be my marriage, but that of my family." Cassandra stopped herself, breathing hard after her rant. "Were I ever to marry, it would be to someone who saw me for who I am, and cared for me as such. Nothing less would be acceptable."
Josephine smiled. "I had no idea you were such a romantic."
"Is it romantic to expect to be valued for who you are?" Cassandra asked in surprise. "I would not have thought so. Isn't it a woman's duty to stand up for what she deserves?"
"Yes. Of course it is," Josephine said. She looked at the corner of her mother's letter sticking out from under the pile of papers. "Thank you, my friend."
"I do not know what I have done, but you are certainly welcome."
"Would you like to have some tea?"
"Yes, thank you."
They went off to Josephine's small private parlor, where the talk turned to books and music, but Cassandra's words stuck in Josephine's mind.
The Herald's Rest was bustling, as it always was—the only tavern in Skyhold, it pulled all types. The rowdy partiers, those wishing for a quiet drink and talk, those who enjoyed Maryden's music and wanted to listen, the habitual drunkards, the pickpockets, the bards, the spies … and those who wanted to sit and brood over their ale all night. Blackwall fell into the latter category. His usual table was in an upstairs corner, as far from the relentless upbeat partying of the Chargers as he could get.
Tonight he was thinking of Halamshiral. The Inquisitor's formal invitation to attend the ball at the Winter Palace was expected any day, and there had already been some speculation amongst the companions as to who the Inquisitor would choose to bring with him to the party, other than his advisors, who would naturally be expected to attend. Blackwall very much wanted to be left out of this one, but he also very much wanted to avoid drawing attention to himself by asking Thule to leave him at home. "Home." There was a word for Skyhold Blackwall had never used before … but it was that. It was where he felt comfortable, accepted, even, for the first time. Thom Rainier had never been comfortable. Oh, he had been accepted, but it had been all a game. The ridiculous Game. Here he didn't have to play games. All he had to do was wield a blade in the Inquisitor's service. Thom Rainier would not have enjoyed being merely a cog in a wheel, but the man who called himself Blackwall certainly did.
"Warden Blackwall, do you mind if I join you?"
He looked up at the voice, his eyes meeting the merry ones of Scout Harding, and got hastily to his feet in order to pull out her chair. "If you wish." He had meant to sound off-handed, casual, but the words meant little next to the care with which he seated her.
She smiled, clearly not used to but liking the attention.
Blackwall resumed his seat. "I didn't know you were back at Skyhold."
"Got in this afternoon, been working on my field reports ever since. Not sure I'll be able to draw my bow for a week, after all that time with a quill in my hand." She flexed the dexterous fingers of one small, strong hand. Blackwall could see the calluses from her bow on those fingers, and a few scars, as well. He had a strong urge to take that hand in his, to massage the aching fingers. Under the table, he clenched his hand to keep from reaching for hers.
He smiled, instead. "I see you can hold a tankard with no trouble."
Harding chuckled. "Priorities, after all."
"I'll drink to that." Blackwall raised his tankard and they toasted one another, drinking deeply.
They sat for several moments in what Blackwall hoped was a comfortable silence. Certainly anything he could say would be less than comfortable—or more than comfortable, which would be equally as bad. Harding was smiling at him across the table, her pretty face shining. For him? Maker, let it be for him, he thought. And then he quashed the thought, and the searing flash of heat it sent through his body, as fast as they had come. He didn't deserve any woman, much less someone of as much wit and intelligence as the lovely lady who sat across from him.
He bowed his head, as sorry that she had come to sit with him as he had been glad a moment ago.
"Warden Blackwall? Is there something wrong?" She hesitated. "Should I not—"
"No!" he said hastily. "No, no, not at all. I just …" He cleared his throat. "This song. It's a bit … morose, don't you think?"
Harding looked over her shoulder. Maryden was visible over the railing, singing in the center of the tavern. After listening to the song for a few moments, Harding said, "A little. Poignant, I would have said. Brings a lump to your throat."
"That's a shame, then." When she turned back and looked at him quizzically, he couldn't help saying, "A lady like you shouldn't have to be sad."
Her cheeks turned rosy, and she lowered her lashes over those beautiful green eyes. "I don't know about that. Perhaps … perhaps we all need to be sad sometimes, because otherwise we couldn't enjoy the happiness of sitting in a warm inn with a tankard of chilled ale and talking with someone we—really like."
Blackwall's heart thudded painfully in his chest, his grip tightening on the handle of his own tankard. "You flatter me, my lady." His voice was husky in his own ears; he could only imagine how cracked and broken it sounded to her.
"Good." Her voice was soft; he shouldn't have been able to hear it amidst the din of the tavern, but strangely, it was the only thing he could hear, as though everything else around them had been silenced. "That's what I intended."
He wanted—Maker, how he wanted. But he had no right to reach for her, no right to drag her into the darkness of his endless chain of secrets and lies, no right to allow her to believe … With a great effort, Blackwall stood up. "I—need to go. I … I am sorry, Lady Harding."
With a formal bow, he hurried off, trying not to let the hurt and saddened look on her face brand itself on his heart, but it was already far too late for that.
Merrill looked around the big room with the murals on the walls. In the light of her candle, it appeared to be empty, but she knew it was where Solas lived. She had been avoiding him since they had returned from the Fade, but she couldn't avoid him any longer. She had to know what the Nightmare demon had meant by calling him "trickster or traitor". In the lore, the old tales, the original trickster was Fen'Harel; was that why Solas had no vallaslin, because he was most closely aligned with Fen'Harel? Was that why Solas was no longer with his clan? Had he tricked them, betrayed them, somehow? She had to know.
"You have many questions." His voice came at her from the darkness. Merrill turned, shining the light of the candle in his direction, and Solas came into the little circle of light, his compelling eyes on her. She could feel her heart beat faster.
But she did have questions, and she had come here to gain answers. "What did he mean, the demon? He called you 'trickster or traitor'."
"What did he mean when he called you 'murderer of your clan'?"
Merrill swallowed, trying to hold back the memory. "They—they attacked me. It was … them or me."
"Why did they attack you?"
"Because—because I wanted the eluvian to work! I had given everything to it. I was exiled because of it. After Tamlen …" But she didn't want to talk about Tamlen. Not now. "I tried everything. The only thing left was to ask the demon, but … Marethari, the Keeper of our clan, she took the demon inside herself, and I—I had to kill her." The words spilled from her, the memory too strong to deny. "And when she was dead, the clan attacked. I … They left me no choice! Don't you see? I didn't want to!" The tears burst forth from her, the tears she had held back for so long by trying to pretend it had never happened.
Solas's arms came around her, holding her against him, so gentle, his voice softly whispering to her. "Sometimes we are forced to act, Merrill, against our wishes, against our dreams and desires. Your clan chose their fates. They must have seen the power in you, the strength, and yet they came at you anyway. There was nothing you could have done."
She cried harder. Between sobs, she gulped, "I could have let them kill me. My life for the Keeper's. It should have been a fair trade."
"What have you but your life? And you have only one—if you did not trade it for your clan, then there must be more that you are meant to do, more that you are meant to become." Gently he lifted her chin, his eyes searching deep into hers. "Stop hiding, Merrill. Stop blaming yourself and allowing your guilt and fear to keep you from becoming everything you are meant to be."
Merrill blinked back the tears, which seemed to have stopped at their source. She no longer felt the need to weep. "You—you don't hate me?"
He chuckled softly. "For preserving your own life? No. I … have done the same, in a way."
"Did you—did you kill your clan, too?" she asked hesitantly.
A shadow passed over his face, and Merrill shivered as if the room had suddenly grown chill. "It was a long time ago, Merrill, and it doesn't matter now. Suffice it to say that I know the pain you feel; I have felt it, too." He drew her close against him again, cradling her in his arms. Merrill wrapped her free arm around his waist and pressed her face against his chest. He smelled like herbs, fresh and clean and sharp, like a winter wind.
And then he let her go, his hand lightly caressing her cheek as he did so.
"Good-night, Merrill."
"Good-night." She left the room as if in a dream, and it wasn't until much later that she realized he had never actually answered any of her questions.