The final chapter of this two-shot. For those of you who have read my fanfiction "Two-Hundred Roses," I would like to say thanks for reading this one and that this story takes place appox. after the "forgiveness chapter." For those of you who haven't read Roses, you don't have to read it to enjoy this fic, but I would really like it if you did! Thanks guys!

Chapter II: Latent Functions

"Blackwall? Are you alright?" she had a voice like honey; sweet, the Maker had given her that voice to soothe the soul. It was enough to draw him from the nightmare, although even the Inquisitor could not banish it completely from his mind.

Genevieve Trevelyan placed her hand on his forehead. Blackwall didn't want her to see him like this. He'd hidden in the ruined shell of the southern tower on purpose. But when she wanted to find him she always did.

Blackwall pulled himself up into a sitting position. A sudden wave of nausea hit him and his head felt as if it might split open. The bottle of whiskey next to his makeshift bed explained why. He saw Genevieve frown and look down at the bottle.

"Drinking by yourself?" she crossed her arms. He felt too sick to try and decipher her emotion—anger that he'd hidden away to drink into unconsciousness, or disappointment that he'd done that very thing.

Blackwall tried to smooth his beard, but it was a ragged mess. He would need a bath and a comb to fix it. "Have I forgotten something?" he asked.

She tapped her foot. Displeased, then, Blackwall thought.

"You didn't forget anything," she muttered, he could hear a hint of annoyance in her voice now. "I've just been looking for you for a few hours. I thought you'd run off again."

Blackwall shook his head, he would never do that to her again. She'd given him her forgiveness, given him the delight of her company. Even though the road they traveled was still rocky and he didn't deserve even her harshest gaze, Maker strike him down if he ever left her again.

"I would not do that to you,"

"Uh huh," she grumbled, clearly annoyed and maybe even hurt. "Care to explain this than?" She pointed at the empty bottle and the bed he'd made from old furs.

Blackwall tried to stand, but he fell hard against the ground, nausea hitting him from all sides. His head spun warping the world around him. He was almost certain he was going to sick. And he did not want her to see that.

"There is no explanation," he snapped. "I wanted to drink, to be alone." It was not right to speak to her this way, but she had forgiven him for his crimes against the Calliers, she would forgive him for harsh words.

The Inquisitor nodded and clasped her hands, irritated. "Alright then," she growled. There was a hint of acid in her tone. "When you're in a better mood I'll be in my quarters, perhaps I'll see you when I finish my duties." And with that she stalked out of the tower, slamming the door behind her causing his head to reel at the noise.

When he was certain she was gone, he crawled over to the old chamber pot in the corner and vomited up the contents of his stomach. It wasn't much, he hadn't eaten yesterday. He took a soiled cloth out of his pocket and wiped his mouth. For a few minutes he entertained the idea of going outside, of waiting by the Inquisitor's door and then begging her forgiveness. But in the end he went back to his makeshift bed and fell asleep, this time dreaming of terrible screams.

XXXX

It was night when he woke again. His head was still aching, but now instead of nausea he just felt hungry. He never eats on this day.

Before he came up here he packed a little sack with the things he would need for his vigil. He groped around in the dark until he found the bag.

Four tea candles for the Calliers, one for their men, and five for his men, one candle for each squad he'd taken with him that day. So many of his men had been captured, tried, and executed for what he had done. Nearly five years later and it was still a source of constant shame.

He set the candles out around him in a half moon and lit them one by one, starting with the Calliers. He couldn't remember when he'd started doing this—perhaps after the true Blackwall had been killed. And he wasn't sure if the Calliers approved of his vigil; in truth he wasn't sure it was for them.

He watched the flames flicker and he wondered, like he always did on this day, if his dreams were the ghosts of his victims. More than likely it was his own demons that recreated Lady Callier's scream so perfectly.

Blackwall dug through his pack for a skin of water. He took a few slips, hoping to cool his scratchy throat and chase the remnants of alcohol from his mouth. He wanted to pray to the Maker for the souls of his victims, but every year he tried and every year he failed. It was too hard to face the Maker with prayer with such a stain on his soul. Besides, one day he would make a reckoning with the Maker and be left to wander the Fade for his sins. Why plead for a mercy that would never come?

The Inquisition made him want to be a better man; it had made him braver, honest even. And the Inquisitor's soft affection made him be the man he had wanted to be since meeting the real Blackwall. But that could not be enough for the Maker. If Andraste's sacrifice was not enough, it the Inquisitor's faith was not enough then his simple prayers would not be enough to quell the Maker's wrath.

He shook his head, now was not the time to pick a fight with his creator, today was a day of sorrow and regret. He had never cried for the Callier family and he had never cried for his men; his vigil was all he could do for them. He hoped that, wherever they were, they understood his shift from the wicked path to the Inquisition and that they did not begrudge his good fortune in meeting the Inquisitor and falling in love with her.

He'd been rude to her today, he would seek her forgiveness tomorrow, but for now this duty took all his attention. She was worth more than the regret that called him to this task, but it was a responsibility he had placed on himself. He had promised himself years ago that this would be the day he stared his actions in the face. The Inquisitor would have to wait.

And as if she had been called from some far off place the tower door opened and Genevieve padded in softly. He felt her gaze on him, heard the soft sound of her breathing. After a time, she came to his side and sat down.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" she spoke so softly he wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it. A sigh when he did not speak. She leaned over and took his hand in hers. "I am sorry, something was bothering you, I should have asked you what it was, not yelled at you."

Blackwall would have hardly called it yelling and he didn't think she needed to apologize either. But she was that kind of woman. He sagged against her, a trouble sigh escaping his lips. She let him lean into her.

"They're for the Callier family, and for my men." He told her, flourishing her hand at the candles, He laid his head in her lap. She smoothed his hair with a soft touch.

"Oh," she muttered, still running her fingers through his hair. "Is this the day that…" she trailed off and leaned down to kiss his temple.

"I do this for them every year." He admitted. "When I don't have candles I lit little fires; I used to drink to keep the nightmares at bay but—" he sighed. "It doesn't work the way it did when I was younger. I kept it as part of the tradition."

She listened silently, her fingers combing through his dirty hair, fingertips gently massaging his skull. It was relaxing the headache away, but not the shame of his predicament. He still didn't want her to see this—telling her everything had been one thing, but this was real, too real.

Still, she was here. She had not run away. He would take it. "I should not have snapped at you, my lady," he murmured.

"You're forgiven," she whispered. It should have made him smile, but he could not. "Do you pray for them," she asked.

"The Calliers do not want my prayers," he grunted. The candles were beginning to burn out. "And no doubt my men cursed my name with their dying breath. No my lady, my prayers are meaningless to them."

"Do you think they would take mine?" she asked him. He thought any ghost who denied her prayers was a fool.

"Yes, my lady," he whispered. "I think they would."

She cleared her throat and sang the words. He did not know them by heart the way she did, but he could appreciate the sweetness of her voice, the trueness of her belief.

"Though all before me is shadow,
Yet shall the Maker be my guide.
I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.
For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."

Her fingers still continued their caresses. He focused his eyes on the flickering lights and let his thoughts fall on her gentleness. He knew his unworthiness and yet he still took her affection like a man starving for bread.

"Draw your last breath, my friends,
Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.
Rest at the Maker's right hand,
And be Forgiven."

She fell silent then, he felt her head bow and she stopped combing through his hair. He stayed quiet; this was a moment between her and the Maker.

In the hushed dark with her hands upon him, the warmth of magic thrumming through her blood, he thought that maybe this was how it was always meant to be. Genevieve believed as such. Providence, she called it. The Maker does not throw chips onto a board and let them fall where they will. If that is the case then he has no one but himself to blame for the actions of his children. Words to comfort a confused heart. She had hoped with all her heart that it had been Andraste who put the mark upon her hand. And when that proved to be false she claimed providence.

He always wondered if she believed it or if it was just what she said to keep herself sane.

He wanted it to be true for her. Just like he wanted it to be true that all his actions had lead him to her arms. It was an easier crime to swallow when he thought that Maker had guided him here on purpose.

And yet he could not believe that the god Genevieve believed so deeply in would let him take the lives of innocent people just so he might stand at the Inquisitor's side.

This was a consequence of his actions. A function of the sins he'd wrought. For good or ill, what he had done brought him here.

Although, even if it meant losing her, he would have stood in front of that carriage gladly and stopped his past self from murdering that family. He had to believe that, if not for his salvation, than for her and the man he thought she deserved.

Latent functions are the "unintended or unanticipated consequences of introduced changes or of existing social arrangements." Latent functions and manifest functions go together and it's just a sociology/criminology thing that I felt worked out pretty well in this instance.

On a side note the Canticles Genevieve uses are Trials 1:16 and Trials 1:14.