Thank you all for reading! The end of this chapter NSFW.
Blackwall was on his way to the training grounds when he saw the Iron Bull off in a corner, facing off against Cassandra, who was beating at him … with a stick? Intrigued, Blackwall headed their way to see what the purpose of this was. He didn't necessarily trust the Qunari to have the Inquisition's, or Bridget's, best interests at heart, but the big horned giant was awesome in a fight and entertaining to have around, and Blackwall found his unusual worldview intriguing.
As Blackwall approached, Cassandra wound up with the stick and smacked the Qunari hard in the midsection with it.
The Iron Bull grunted, setting himself for another strike. "Again." He seemed disappointed in Cassandra's next effort. "Oh, come on! This is why the Qun doesn't like women fighting. I should've asked Cullen."
Cassandra narrowed her eyes at the Qunari's words, and Blackwall chuckled to himself. If there was anything more calculated to get her best hit out of Cassandra, he didn't know what it would be. Unsurprisingly, her next strike was a mighty blow, laying the Iron Bull flat on the ground.
Wheezing, he moaned, "Good one."
The Seeker turned and saw Blackwall standing there. "Oh, good. Perhaps you can take over. Maybe the Grey Warden will be able to hit you more to your satisfaction?" she shot at the Iron Bull. Clearly he wasn't going to live that comment down any time soon.
She handed the stick to Blackwall, who shifted it more comfortably in his grip. "What are we doing here?" he asked as the Iron Bull got slowly up off the ground. "Not that I object to whacking you with a great bloody stick, but it seems like it'll be more fun if I know why."
"It's a Qunari training exercise to master your fear. Been a while since I needed it, but that nightmare demon …" He shuddered. "That fucker was big."
Blackwall could understand. Sometimes he felt like that at night, with Bridget's slender fingers on his body—the torment of knowing that he didn't deserve her touch helped him withstand the fear that he would lose her one day.
The Iron Bull shrugged. "I mean, I could explain it more fully, but it'd involve a lot of Qunari words."
"No need," Blackwall assured him, and walloped him hard.
"Oof! Yeah, like that. That's what I need to get past this demon crap."
Blackwall wound up and hit him again, and again, the Qunari's vocal approval and grunts of pain accompanying him. It wasn't unlike sex, really, he reflected with amusement, as the Iron Bull's rapturous battle cry increased in pitch and triumph.
At last he sighed, holding up his hand for Blackwall to stop. "I needed that. Thanks, Blackwall."
"Oh, anytime. Really. Don't hesitate," Blackwall said dryly.
The Iron Bull clapped him on the back, laughing. "Let's get a drink, eh?"
"Sure. Sounds good." Blackwall had built up a thirst, working that stick.
They went into the tavern. The Iron Bull lived there, so it was no surprise to Blackwall when all he had to do was nod at Cabot, the bartender, and two tankards of ale appeared on the bar. They carried them to a table in the back.
"So … Blackwall. That's what, Marcher?"
"Originally."
"But you spent time in Orlais."
Blackwall didn't like the sharpness in the single grey eye that was surveying him. The Iron Bull was far more intelligent than he liked to pretend to be, and extremely observant. "A little," he agreed cautiously. To forestall further questions coming his way, he turned one around on the Qunari. "And you—did I hear you were assigned to Seheron? Always wanted to go there, myself. What was it like?"
"No," the Iron Bull said shortly. "You don't want to go there. It's a damn ugly place, and it was only getting uglier when I left." He shook his head, looking down into his tankard. "Between the Fog Warriors, the Tal-Vashoth, my people, and the Vints, you couldn't go a day without blood. Everyone fighting everyone, until you forgot who was on your side. Until you weren't sure if anyone was."
"Tal-Vashoth. Those are the ones who look like your people but aren't?"
"Yeah. The ones who can't handle the fighting or lose faith in the Qun and go rogue. They flee into the wilderness and turn into bandits, attacking everyone. They're vicious; savage. One look at them and you can see why my people need the Qun to stay civilized."
"Civilized's an interesting word. I don't imagine the rest of Thedas would use it to describe your people."
"Compared with Tal-Vashoth they would. Ever seen one?"
"No. Not a lot of Tal-Vashoth in the Fereldan wilds."
The Iron Bull grunted, draining his tankard. "Cabot! Where in the Void are you with the next round?"
The bartender came over with four more mugs in his hands, putting them down on the table with less hostility than Blackwall would have expected. The Iron Bull tossed him a coin—before it disappeared into Cabot's hand, Blackwall saw the glint of gold. That would explain how the Qunari got special treatment; Cabot didn't usually come out from behind the bar, not even for the Inquisitor. Blackwall wondered how much else the Iron Bull's gold paid for. Cabot heard a lot. Did he report back to the Qunari?
Meeting the Iron Bull's eye, Blackwall saw a smile in there, as if his thoughts were written plainly on his face. To a Qunari spy, maybe they were. "Isn't Tal-Vashoth your cover story?" he asked.
The Iron Bull sat forward, and Blackwall was pleased to see his shot had gone home. The Qunari's skin wasn't as thick as he pretended. "When I burned out, I didn't go rogue," he growled. "I reported in and went where the Ben-Hassrath sent me. I'm doing my job, serving the Qun out here. I'm not some bandit. I am nothing like them," he added viciously.
"I didn't say that was who you were; just who you pretended to be," Blackwall pointed out.
"Hey. I'm a merc, not a bandit. There's a difference."
Blackwall hadn't considered it before, but he supposed there was. He nodded.
The Iron Bull grunted, satisfied.
"You know, I've always wondered something."
"Oh, this oughta be good."
"Why don't you wear heavier armor on your blind side?" The Iron Bull's armor was light in general, but he tended to wear more of it on the side with the good eye.
The Qunari shrugged. "If I did that, I'd just be telling people where to hit me." He grinned. "As it is, every half-decent fighter sees the eye and thinks he can feint, then come in with a low stab. Then I chop his head off. It's like a gimme."
"Come on, that can't work every time."
"It doesn't. But taking a blade to the ribs is a pretty good teacher."
Blackwall stood up abruptly, draining his mug. "Come on, I want to go test that out."
"Oh, yeah, you're on. Ten silvers says I predict your move every time."
"Nobody's that good." The Iron Bull raised his eyebrow, and Blackwall shook his head. "All right, but fair warning—I'm going to enjoy taking your money."
"If you could manage to get any of it, I wouldn't blame you." As they ambled toward the training ground, the Iron Bull looked down at Blackwall. "So, you and the boss?"
"Yes?" Blackwall drew the word out warningly.
"She seems so fragile, like she'd break if you breathed on her wrong."
"You've been in combat with her enough to know that's not true." It was, in fact, what Blackwall had originally thought, but the more he got to know her, the more he understood and respected the core of strength at Bridget's center.
"In bed, too, eh?" Blackwall frowned at him, and the Qunari laughed. "Come on, let's see you try to beat the crap out of me."
Bridget presented herself at Vivienne's door at the time the older mage had appointed for tea. It irritated Bridget mildly to be expected to fit her schedule to Vivienne's, but she was also aware that Madame de Fer had spent a great deal of time and effort working her way to the top of Orlesian society, a place where one had everything one wanted at exactly the time it was wanted. Waiting on someone else's schedule would be a hard lesson for Vivienne to learn.
"Ah, my dear, exactly on time. How refreshingly punctual." They exchanged air kisses, and Vivienne led Bridget to the low table by the sunny window where the tea things were arranged.
When they were both seated comfortably, with cups of steaming tea and plates of delectable little sandwiches and cakes, Bridget tried to decide how best to get the other woman to come to the point. While Vivienne's tales of gossip from the Orlesian court were entertaining, there was a War Meeting later this afternoon that Bridget wanted to be prepared for.
Watching her, Vivienne smiled her lovely smile. "I forget that you are a Marcher through and through."
"You're also from the Free Marches, though," Bridget pointed out.
"Yes, of course, but I rid myself long ago of that tedious need to pay attention to the clock and the equally tedious urge to stay busy—dreadful word." Vivienne shuddered. "I am Orlesian to the core, now."
Bridget wondered if that were true. It appeared so, but there was that inner aspect of Vivienne that no one was allowed to see—at least, no one in the Inquisition—and Bridget imagined that if anything remained of the mage's Marcher background, it would be buried there.
"Besides," Vivienne continued, "these stories will serve you well when you attend the Empress's ball."
"Yes, I'm certain they will." The whole thing filled Bridget with terror. She didn't know how to dance, didn't know how she was going to approach the Empress of Orlais with anything like a sense of composure, and certainly couldn't play this "Game" she had heard so much about.
"I hope you will allow me to advise you in the coming weeks before it is time to leave."
"Of course. I would appreciate it very much!" Bridget assured the other mage. "Do I … will I need to wear a mask?"
Vivienne considered that. "It would be appropriate, but not necessarily in keeping with the Inquisition's reputation. You should consult Josephine and Leliana—no doubt they have a plan."
No doubt they did.
Putting down her teacup, Vivienne leaned forward, her expression serious. "You were correct that I have an ulterior motive for asking you to join me."
"Oh?"
"Yes. You—you were in the Fade. Physically. I confess to a burning curiosity to know what it was like."
Bridget took a deep breath. She really just wanted to stop talking about it, to put the whole experience away so that she could consider it more carefully later, when there was time for it. But Vivienne was a fellow mage, and so Bridget tried to find words that would touch on how it had been. "In all the times I've been to the Fade, I have never felt it respond so strongly to my presence."
"Naturally. You were there, touching it, altering things with your body as well as your mind. No one else has done that since the early Magisters assaulted the Golden City."
Privately, Bridget inclined toward Sera's way of thinking about that: She had been much happier when that was only a myth about a long-forgotten time, rather than a reality that brought everything else about that mythology into sharper focus.
"I don't mind admitting that I am positively envious of you, my dear … and that is not something I say lightly."
"No, I don't imagine you do." Bridget smiled. "Next time, you can go, and I'll stay at Skyhold."
"You laugh, but I would do so in an instant." Vivienne looked almost wistful. "Yes." Then she shook herself and retrieved her teacup. "Now, is there anything about Orlesian society that I can tell you?"
"Everything?" Bridget asked hopefully.
Vivienne laughed. "There isn't time for that, but … perhaps I should begin by telling you about Celene."
"Yes, please."
The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly—or as pleasantly as it could with Vivienne acting as Bridget's instructress in all things Orlesian.
Later that evening, she stood on her balcony, letting the breeze cool her, when Blackwall joined her. He held two full wine glasses in his hands and gave her one before leaning on the railing next to her.
"What are you thinking about so hard?" he asked her.
"Orlais."
He started, dropping his glass, and they both watched it fall down and down before the faint tinkle reached their ears as it shattered on the rocks below. "Sorry."
"It wasn't one of my favorites." She drew back from the railing, though, wanting to make sure her glass didn't share a similar fate.
They settled down on the sofa in front of the fire. "What is it about Orlais that worries you?" Blackwall asked.
Bridget snorted a laugh. "What doesn't? The Game, the protocol, the possibility—probability, really—that Corypheus is going to have the Empress killed, the clothes, the dancing …"
"The dancing?" He sounded surprised.
"Apparently you think the Circles are places where we regularly frolic and cavort."
Blackwall grinned. "Only in very naughty stories."
"Ah. That, sometimes." She smiled, leaning her head against his shoulder. "As to formal dancing, however … it's not exactly in the curriculum." Sitting up again, she looked at him earnestly. "You will come, won't you?"
He had stiffened; she could feel the tension in him. But he tried to answer easily. "What makes you think a grizzled old Grey Warden from the wilds of Ferelden knows anything about the Orlesian court?"
"What makes you think I care? I need you there." She turned to him, gripping his arm, heedless of the thump of the empty wine glass falling to the carpeted floor. "Please? I mean, you've never refused to go anywhere with me before, but it's been plain to me that you don't want to go to this—you've been reluctant to go to Orlais at all, really—and I just want you to know that you don't have to, but … I really want you there." Knowing the position she was putting him in, and wishing her need for his comfort and reassurance wasn't so great that she had to basically force him to agree this way, Bridget smiled, hoping to take the edge off. "And not just because I am romantic enough to want one moment of dancing in your arms at a ball just like … just like I was a normal person."
He sat forward, his elbows on his knees, staring into the fire. He looked gaunt and weary, suddenly, and Bridget's heart smote her for pressuring him. She was just about to tell him that it didn't matter so much, not really, and she could do it without him, when he swung his head around and met her eyes and said, "Well, if we're going to dance to impress the entire Orlesian court, we'd better give you some lessons, hadn't we?"
She flung her arms around his neck. "Thank you. I know—I know this isn't fair of me, and you would rather not, and I'm so grateful. I'll be happy to make it up to you," she whispered in his ear.
"Oh, that you will, my lass," he growled. "But later. First, we dance." He got up and crooked an elbow at her in a gesture as elegant as any Orlesian nobleman could be, and Bridget took his arm and allowed him to lead her out onto the front balcony. "Now. You stand there, and I'll stand here. You curtsy, and I bow."
He had to teach her how to curtsy, to Bridget's embarrassment and her great amusement at seeing big, manly Blackwall dipping in a dainty curtsy. But then she picked up the steps rather quickly, advancing and retreating, coming near him and then darting away. The whole thing was an extended tease, and by the time their hands were touching she could barely concentrate on his instructions, wanting his hands on her so badly. He spun her gently around and caught her again, his hand resting on her waist, and Bridget pressed herself against him and kissed him passionately.
Blackwall responded with enthusiasm, chuckling as she broke the kiss. "That's not part of the dance. At least … not where anyone can see."
"Then let's go in," she said breathlessly.
"As my lady wishes." He took her hand and drew her back inside, pulling her hungrily into his arms as soon as they had crossed the threshold, his fingers on the buttons of her jacket even as his tongue found hers. Bridget's hands as feverishly worked the toggles on his jacket, both articles of clothing falling to the floor as they pressed against each other.
His mouth moved over her jaw and down her neck, tilting her head back. Bridget reached around and unfastened her breastband, slipping it off underneath the silk camisole she wore, and lifted her breasts in unmistakable invitation.
Blackwall groaned deep in his throat and took one nipple into his mouth, suckling it through the silk until it hardened, aching, under his attention. He moved to the other, repeating the process, his hands unfastening her pants and sliding them down over her hips and thighs.
Bridget kicked them away, standing before him in dampened camisole and equally damp smallclothes.
"Ah, lass, it's too bad you can't wear that to the ball."
She reached up and took the pins out of her braid, letting it swing across her back, watching as Blackwall stripped off the rest of his clothes. He was hard already, and she gasped at the sight, an ache building inside her.
He embraced her, the warmth of his skin against hers so welcome. His hands roamed over her back and her rear and her hips, and Bridget wasn't sure what felt better, his touch on her bare skin or his touch through the silk. At last, Blackwall let her go. Without his support, her legs trembled and threatened to buckle beneath her.
Blackwall lay down on the bed. "Come here."
Bridget crawled on top of him, the seat of her smallclothes resting against the heated length of him. She wriggled, and they both moaned.
She worked the smallclothes off herself, trying awkwardly to do so without losing contact with him. They ground together, bare flesh against bare flesh, until at last she couldn't stand the teasing any longer, and she reached down to take him in her hand, guiding him inside her.
It was exquisite. The brush of her most sensitive spot against him as she stroked back and forth, the gentle touch of his hands on her breasts, the sighs and moans he gave as his own passion rose toward completion. In the midst of her pleasure, Bridget had the dizzying thought that she could be perfectly happy making love to this man for the rest of her life.
The sheer rightness of the thought sent her over the edge, squeezing him with her internal muscles as she went, making certain he followed.
When the storm had passed, she collapsed on top of him, drowsily listening to his heart beat beneath her ear.
"More lessons tomorrow, then?" he asked eventually.
Bridget chuckled. "Yes, please."