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Blackwall nursed the freshly forming bruises in a bath, thankful none of the bones seemed to be cracked or broken. There was a big one on the back of his left thigh, swollen a nice, angry red. He did see the blows coming; he just didn’t care to block them. They weren’t even going to finish the job, those Orlesian boys. They didn’t even bother using real weapons. Blackwall saw two wooden sticks, one spade, and a couple of well-worn beer steins. They each took one or two shots at Blackwall, nothing more.
“Traitor,” one of them spat as they left Blackwall kneeling on the ground. Blackwall did not look up to see who they were. There were plenty more who wanted to beat him to a pulp, he was sure of it. And he wouldn’t have minded if someone were actually brave (or pissed off at him) enough to do just that. He imagined it would feel good and right, if horribly painful. He hated that all most anyone did was glare at him and curse under their breath as he passed by them. He knew how to deflect a blow of a melee weapon but had no clue how to shield himself from gossip and ill wishes.
And the frigid stare with which the Inquisitor Cadash fixed him from the seat of the Dragon’s Maw throne was the most blood-curdling thing he had ever had to endure. Her words shredded him to tatters as she referred to him not by the name of the noble warrior she had believed him to be, but the cowardly traitor and murderer that she now knew he had always been.
“For now, the Inquisition needs you,” the Inquisitor had said. The impersonal tone in that simple sentence crushed what was left of his useless pride into bits. He was nothing but a shield made of flesh to her now, and when—or if—they managed to kill the darkspawn Magister, she would have no use for him. He had no doubt he would be promptly thrown out of the Inquisition, out of her sight, out of her mind.
The Inquisitor’s decision to spare his life was no mercy; it was punishment by another name, to live the rest of his life knowing that yet another life was taken so his pathetic existence could go on. It was of little comfort to him that the man who was executed in his place was a traitor to the Inquisition; he was still innocent of the crimes he was accused of, just like Rainier’s men. In time everyone would forget about Thom Rainier and his crimes, believing him dead and gone—except those who knew whose head went rolling when Leliana’s agent swung the executioner’s sword.
The Inquisitor’s message was loud and clear: “I will remember your crimes, and so shall you.”
She did not accuse him of lying to her and betraying her trust—her love—and that made the whole thing hundred times worse. He would have felt relieved—glad even—had she decided to chop his head off for having hurt her. And the worst part was that he could have prevented all this. If only he hadn’t given into his feelings. If only he had never told her how he truly felt. Why didn’t he push her away when she insisted on being with him? Why didn’t he just leave her before he held her in his arms? But he was weak. Greedy. He took what wasn’t his to take. Again.
The bath water had gotten lukewarm by the time he managed to gather enough strength and will to stand. A thought of the tall stonewalls of Skyhold ramparts flashed in his muddled mind and he shivered despite the heat that still lingered on his skin. A coward’s way out, Blackwall shook his head. Not this time, he thought. This time, he was going to face the charges due him, and pay for them no matter the cost. Blackwall brushed the water off his body with his hands, threw his clothes on, and limped out of the bathhouse.
The icy mountain breeze caught Blackwall’s wet hair and beard, making small icicles out of them while he circled around the courtyard. He briefly halted when he came to the new practice ground where Cassandra—it’s Seeker Cassandra to him, now—refused to even acknowledge Blackwall’s presence, let alone indulge him in a bout of sparring. Blackwall turned his head away, and the sight of the blacksmith’s door caught his eye.
The door was unlocked and creaked open at Blackwall’s tentative push, letting out a whiff of warm air that caressed Blackwall’s half-frozen face. The place was surprisingly tidy, an array of weapons neatly arranged in a row on several tables. Blackwall picked up a single-bladed dagger and tested it on the edge of the table. Good workmanship, Blackwall thought then thumbed over the hilt not yet wrapped in leather. Unfinished dagger for an unfinished business…how fitting. Blackwall gave it a wry smile.
Leaving the blacksmith, Blackwall limped up the front stairs into the main hall then headed straight towards the throne room. The Inquisitor might as well be sitting on that throne right now, Blackwall mused as he took a sharp left towards her quarters. His heart sank lower the closer he got to the last door that separated him and the woman he—no, he didn’t deserve to be thinking of her that way. Blackwall breathed deeply for a minute before he raised his trembling hand.
Before Blackwall could bring himself to knock, however, the door swung open.
“Inquisitor,” Blackwall yelped. He could never get used to how she always knew when he stood outside her door, or how she made him feel when she pinned him with her gaze just like she was doing now. She studied Blackwall’s face intently then glanced down at the dagger in his hand, but didn’t raise any issue over either of them. Nor did she chide him for calling her “Inquisitor” instead of “my lady”, and he was disappointed by that more than he had any right to be.
“Come in,” she said in a low voice as if she were trying not to awaken a sleeping high dragon. Or perhaps she was trying not to scare Blackwall away. He wondered if he looked as skittish as he felt. “I was expecting you.”
Blackwall followed her to the fireplace nestled between the tall stained glass balcony doors. He remembered standing by one of the doors that night, waiting for the Inquisitor to come back to her quarters. “I knew you’d come,” she’d said then, too. Either he was very predictable or the Inquisitor knew him better than he knew himself. Maybe it was both. He wondered if she also knew of the longing he felt now as he did then, only this time it was overshadowed by guilt and despair rather than fluttering stomach and a glimmer of hope.
The fire glowed warmly in the color of the Inquisitor’s neatly cropped hair, which looked and smelled freshly washed and dried. She went to sit by the fireplace, bundling herself up in her favorite dark green nightgown and a thick wool blanket. Without her bow and arrows, she looked vulnerable, in need of protection. Yet this was the most formidable woman he’d ever known: a woman of honor and substance, integrity and courage. She was everything he pretended to be, and knew he never could be. He placed the dagger in front of her as he took a seat beside her, hoping she understood what he wanted her to do with it and the reasons why.
“An odd choice for a peace offering,” the Inquisitor chuckled softly.
“There could be no peace in my heart knowing what I have done to you,” Blackwall said, barely managing to not add, “my lady”.
“Glad to hear that,” she said. Blackwall detected no hint of sarcasm in her voice. “That means you still care,” she added. Only one of them was certain of the truth of those words, and it wasn’t Blackwall.
Blackwall wished for the first time he were as eloquent as Dorian was. Dorian would have been able to pull a string of fancy words out of the Fade to explain what he was thinking. All Blackwall could manage was a groan. At least he sounded as desperate as he felt.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Blackwall nodded, picked up the dagger and pointed it at his chest just below the rib cage. He then guided her hands onto the hilt of the dagger one by one. When he let go of her hands, she stared at the dagger for a second then threw it into the fireplace. Sparks flew everywhere and the logs hissed at the intrusion.
“Why?” Blackwall cried out.
“I’m not done talking,” she answered and quickly tucked her hands under the blanket. Blackwall waited, counting the loud crackles of the fire. She remained silent, however, seemingly deep in thought. It was as though he were being kept waiting for yet another judgment. Only, this time he actually cared just what sentence he would be handed down.
“I’m sorry for doing the whole judging thing,” the Inquisitor finally began just as Blackwall contemplated fishing out the dagger from the fireplace. “But I had to. They needed it. To see you judged and punished. So I did it. For them.” Blackwall’s chest tightened at the anger and frustration in the Inquisitor’s voice. Orange sparks danced in her wet eyes for a brief moment, but the Inquisitor shut her eyes and shook her head.
So many questions sprung up in Blackwall’s head in that instant, but none made it past his lips except for “What are you saying?”
The Inquisitor contemplated the question for a bit, likely searching for a simple explanation. It wasn't that the Inquisitor took Blackwall for a simpleton. She simply wasn't used to him not knowing exactly what was going on in her mind. Slowly the Inquisitor opened her eyes, fixing Blackwall with a piercing gaze and said, “I’m saying I knew. From the very beginning. That you were hiding something from everyone. From me. That you had done something so terrible you couldn’t bear to tell a soul.”
“You knew?” Blackwall felt his brow rise and blood drain from his face.
“Oh, come on, of course I did! How daft do you think I am?” With that, she slapped Blackwall’s arm and rolled her eyes. Blackwall winced.
“And this…this never bothered you?” Bother was perhaps not the right word for it, but that was all Blackwall could think of.
“You weren’t bothered by my past, were you?” The Inquisitor smirked, though there was no mockery in the way she repeated the poorly chosen word.
“But all you did was smuggle some things,” Blackwall protested. “You are no murderer. You are no traitor. Our crimes are nothing alike.”
“You don’t know that,” she said flatly and squinted her eyes at Blackwall the way she often did when she was aiming her bow. “Your crimes were made public. Mine haven’t been. That’s the only difference.”
Blackwall felt trapped between his need to ask about her past and his desire to hold her. But her past didn’t matter to him; it never had. And he was too afraid she would pull away to try and put his arm around her hunched shoulders.
“Besides, aren’t we all atoning for what we’ve done, for one reason or another? Trying to right the wrong, paying for the mistakes we’ve made? Isn’t that what makes us fight harder than anyone to bring order to this chaos?”
Blackwall thought of the Inquisition’s inner circle, and he could think of no one who did not have any regrets over the past or carry some kind of burden. In a way, he had it easier than the rest; he had someone to judge him and decide on his punishment. Others had to do that on their own, and he knew better than anyone how difficult it was to keep holding yourself accountable when no one was pointing a finger at you.
“But I’ve hurt you, my lady,” Blackwall said. He probably shouldn’t have called the Inquisitor that, but he simply had to. And he was willing to suffer the consequence.
“You can’t hurt me unless I let you,” she said defiantly, but didn’t admonish him for calling her his lady. The phrase was familiar on his tongue, but it carried so much more weight now.
“I don’t deserve you,” Blackwall pressed.
“We don’t always get what we deserve, do we? That would be too easy,” the Inquisitor grinned widely. Then after a beat she added, “Besides, it’s me who gets to decide what I deserve. And I have decided long ago I deserve you, Blackwall.” The name rang sweetly in his ears as if it signaled the end of all his anguish, all his doubts.
Blackwall had once told her she had the world at her feet, himself included. When she asked what he would do if the world had despised her, he had said he would reject the world for lacking in good taste. They would continue on as they were: us against them. But those were just words, even though he’d meant every word. The Inquisitor, on the other hand, had proven her intention with her action by risking her reputation and the Inquisition’s to give him a renewed lease on life.
“What do you see in me?” Blackwall asked, suddenly feeling exasperated. It was always the same question that nagged at him, wasn’t it? What did the Chevalier see in him that he let him win the Grand Tourney? What did the real Warden Blackwall see in him that he conscripted him and took a lethal blow for him?
“A man who remembers, ” The Inquisitor answered then paused. When it became clear he hadn’t understood what she meant, she continued, “We all make mistakes, but it’s easy to live with them when your mistakes are small and insignificant. It’s even easier if you blame them on others or circumstances. You never blamed it on anyone but yourself, even though there were others who could have been blamed at least partially for what you’d done. And you remember. You haven’t forgotten the things you’ve done, the people you’ve wronged, or the innocents you’ve slaughtered. You try your hardest to live up to what you could be, ought to be, and wish to be. You don’t let yourself off the hook, even if others have.”
Then she let out a long sigh and rolled her eyes at herself as if to say, “I’ve said too much”.
Blackwall sat there feeling like the full force of the Iron Bull’s charge had just struck him in the chest.
The Inquisitor had never spoken this much at once or so openly, not to Blackwall anyway. And if anyone ever questioned her decisions, she would sooner put an arrow in their face than take the time to explain why she did things the way she did. The Inquisitor once told him that Rekka wasn’t her real name but a nickname she was given by her Carta friends, for her fiery temper and propensity for wrecking things (and sometimes people). Yet she had gathered up the shattered pieces of him, putting them together into a whole that was more than the man he once was.
And what did he have to offer her in return? Nothing.
Nothing he could say was going to be enough. Nothing he could do was ever going to be enough. So he remained silent and took solace in the calm surface of the Inquisitor’s forest green eyes. There was wisdom in them that he couldn’t find in all of his years. The Maker was right in choosing her, he thought. Here was a woman who would stare the Void in the face and not back down. She would not hesitate to cut down those who stood against her, yet she would defend those who followed her with her life. She was willing to make the hard decisions and live with the consequences (and sod the rest, Maker bless her). He couldn’t think of anyone better suited to leading the world through all of the chaos and destruction.
You are who you choose to follow. If that were the case, perhaps there was still some hope left for him. For atonement. Maybe even redemption.
“My life is yours, my lady,” Blackwall promised.
“Then please come warm my bed for me,” the Inquisitor smiled.
How does she do it? Blackwall marveled. How does she forgive so easily? How does she make a lifetime of regret, remorse, and repentance far more tempting than a swift death? And how casually she implied that things were to be exactly as they used to be between the two of them. But how could anything be the same?
Blackwall hesitated, feeling unworthy of keeping her company after all he had put her through. But the Inquisitor deserved everything and anything she would ask of him, and he wanted desperately to show her exactly what she meant to him.
“Right now would be good, Blackwall. I’m freezing in here,” the Inquisitor called, already tucked under three layers of blankets but still shivering visibly.
“As you wish, my lady,” Blackwall nodded as he stood up then groaned when his stiff limbs complained.
“Are you hurt?” the Inquisitor asked, genuine concern in her voice.
“Just some bruises. Nothing to worry about,” Blackwall grumbled and rubbed his left thigh.
“I see,” the Inquisitor nodded. “Next time, keep your shield up. I don’t want those Orlesian soldiers thinking I keep you around just to warm my bed.”
Of course she knew, Blackwall thought as he climbed onto the Inquisitor’s bed. Sliding his bruised arm under the Inquisitor’s head, Blackwall gingerly pulled her closer. He rubbed her back until she stopped shivering and fell asleep. Cradled in Blackwall’s arms the Inquisitor slept soundly as if she had no care in the world, like she felt safe in his arms. Blackwall gently kissed the old scar above her brow, careful not to wake her.
“Mmm,” she murmured softly and fidgeted in his arms. Then she nuzzled him, burying her branded face in his beard. Blackwall could feel her every breath on his neck and every rise and fall of her chest upon his.
He wasn’t going to let her wake up alone this time.