"He's gone," Ilya murmured distantly, sinking into a chair at the war table.
The others were silent, simply observing her.
"And you knew." Ilya Trevelyan lifted her eyes to Leliana. "You knew his real name. Thom Rainer. His men killed children. And you never told me."
"Inquisitor," Leliana began, "it was a security risk. Blackwall is obviously trying to live a new life. If you brought up his past, it's possible he would have turned on you."
"The Inquisition is about new beginnings," Cullen interjected, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"But has he made up for his crimes?" Josephine asked the two of them. "He ordered soldiers to kill an entire family. That is not something forgotten or forgiven."
"No." Ilya rose. "It is not. I'm heading to Val Royeaux. I need to talk to him."
No one dared speak to the Inquisitor after the war room door slammed shut behind her––no one but Varric, who stood outside, waiting for her.
His arms were crossed over his chest, blocking her path down the hallway. "I know what happened between you and Blackwall."
"Yeah. It was pretty obvious." She avoided his gaze and moved forward only to be confronted yet again. "Move out of my way."
"This morning. He left before you woke up."
She froze. "And how is that your business?"
"Cole told us at breakfast."
"Cole?" she exclaimed. "Out of everyone . . ." She pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. "Wait. 'Us'?"
"Yeah . . ." Varric scratched the back of his neck. "Everyone knows."
"Fan-fucking-tastic. Now will you please move out of my way?"
"I'm coming with you to Val Royeaux."
"Why do you even care?"
"I have a bit of experience with being betrayed."
"Bianca." Ilya sighed. "Stay here. There's not going to be anything to see. Just another broken heart."
And with that, Varric moved. There was nothing more he could do. Nothing but watch the disaster unfold.
The journey to Val Royeaux took weeks. Ilya rode her horse alone, unaccompanied for the first time since she had been cursed with the Mark.
She stopped at Haven, the dead buried by her guilt. She rode through the blazing fields of the Exalted Plains. She passed the villages of Emprise du Lion, burned to their foundations. At last, she crossed the Whispering Sea on a fishing boat and arrived at the marketplace.
Rain dimmed its former magnificence, painting the blues and reds of Orlais as grays to match her mood. The wooden platform stood to her left, bodies swinging from ropes in a weeping wind. The executioner had thankfully covered their faces; this was a marketplace after all.
She ignored the shopkeepers calling to her from under their awnings and made her way to the dungeons. Past the guards, past the tropical tree, past the apostate's shop––the metal door of the prison chilled her even before she knocked.
"I'm here to see Bl–Thom Rainer."
The guard stared at her blankly.
"Blackwall? He . . . He said he was a Grey Warden. He was arrested a few weeks ago." Seeing his persisting confusion, she added, "I'm the Inquisitor."
"You're looking for a prisoner from a few weeks ago? Hm." He leaned on his poleax and scratched his beard. "They just sent all of them to the gallows yesterday."
Ilya's heart dropped.
"What?"
"They had to make room for new criminals. The Inquisition just arrested two dozen co-conspirators in the Grand Duchess's coup. No one wrote on the criminals' behalf so . . ." He shrugged.
"Where?" she choked out. "Where were they . . . hanged?"
"At the gallows in the market." He looked at her like she was insane. Of course it was at the market gallows.
Ilya trembled. "Okay. Okay. Thank you."
The guard simply shrugged.
She fled, hair whipping around her face in a renewed torrent outside.
There was no one outside but guards now, a few of whom yelled at her to slow down. She ignored them, eyes unseeing but for the visage in her mind.
She stopped in front of the wooden platform.
The apple trees glistened with crimson fruit. Ilya picked out his form now, his simple linens now stained with mud and blood and the sky's tears. He swung in the wind, feet dancing like at Val Royeaux when they paraded in silk.
It didn't look like him. She took that solace for a moment, only a moment. His tall stance—gone. His coveted beard—covered. His Grey Warden sigil—stolen.
All lies, all gone.
Still, the love was real. And now that was gone too.
Ilya pulled herself up to the platform and threw herself at his form. She hugged his legs, stilling him.
Her tears and the rain were indistinguishable on her ruddy cheeks, so like blood.
"I'm sorry," she whimpered into the fabric. "Maker, I'm sorry."
And she wept there for a long time, the Inquisitor holding the body of the man she loved in the Val Royeaux marketplace, everything drained of color and light.
Until someone spoke behind her.
"There's nothing you could have done."
"Varric?" Ilya tore herself away from Blackwall and turned around.
Sure enough, Varric stood on the ground in front of the gallows. "He chose this fate. He wouldn't have let you do anything otherwise. The people we love have their own demons to face. Sometimes, they have to do that alone."
"But I'm the Inquisitor! I could have had Josephine write a letter, Leliana send assassins, something . . ."
"You know he wouldn't have wanted that."
"Then what? What do I do now?"
Varric studied the apple trees, and his face turned somber. "When Hawke stayed in the Fade, I wanted you to open a rift and let us jump through to save her. It took a lot of time and a lot of letters, but I realized that was Hawke's choice, her journey, her . . . story. Not mine. We can't keep telling other people's stories. They have to be the ones to write the end."
Ilya sniffed. "What do I do now?"
Varric stretched out his arms, and Ilya slid off the platform to greet him. They embraced in the rain.
"We write our own stories," he whispered tearfully.