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Blackwall can tell what kind of day the Inquisitor has had by the dirt on her skin, under her nails, in her hair.
In a different life, in another time, there is a version of him that is clean-shaven and not wearing a layer of grime. That version of himself might have looked for something courtly, all perfume and porcelain, starry-eyed over a secret hidden beneath frilly petticoats. That version of himself, he thinks, is young and stupid.
When Willa returns from the Western Approach, she doesn’t speak. In fact, she halts him from speaking, holding up a hand as he goes to greet her. Then, without warning, she bends down and pulls off her brown leather boot, and tips it upside down. A stream of sand falls loose, forming a small mountain on the barn floor.
“That bad, my lady?” He asks. There is a smile on his face. Usually is, when he’s talking to her.
“I,” She says, throwing down her boot, “Hate,” She takes off the other, “The desert.” She throws that down, too, as if for punctuation. Her hair is somewhat frazzled, loose strands flying free from her woven bun and curling around her face. Combined with the intensity in eyes, it gives the look of something wild. Something animal, readying itself to pounce. He can’t tell if it’s to kiss him or kill him, but either way, he is thrilled.
“Do you know what I’ve learned today, Blackwall? Would you like to hear?” She steps closer to him as she speaks. Her head only sort of reaches his abdomen, and she has to tilt her face to look up at him. “I have learnt today,” She says, “That dwarves and sand do not mix.”
Now she is up close, he can see – her skin has turned a lovely shade of brown, and there is a spray of freckles across her nose that were barely visible before.
Blackwall brushes a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes and tucks it behind her ear. “Perhaps you’re not best suited for the desert,” He responds, “But the desert certainly suits you.”
Her features soften slightly at the compliment – not all the way, Maker forbid – so he takes the opportunity to lean down and kiss her. Her lips are soft, as always, full and lovely and tender under his. It’s divine, it really is, to think he is allowed to have something this gentle. Maker knows he shouldn’t.
When he pulls away, she goes half way with him, reluctant to break off the kiss. Even then, it takes her a second to open her eyes. She looks up at him through her lashes, a dreamy smile on her face.
“Smooth-talker,” she says.
Blackwall smiles. “I try.”
Her teeth sink into her bottom lip. Andraste’s tits, that bottom lip. What he wouldn’t give right now to do the same, to taste the sun and sand and salt. If this is how it is when she’s hot and bothered, she’ll have to go to the west again.
She doesn’t have to tell him when she has been to the Storm Coast.
Her hair is slick with rain, and there is a smear of dirt on her cheek. Even if not for that, he would have known from the grin on her face; he has seen, first hand, the effect the mountains have on her countenance. There is something about scrambling up jagged, rocky slopes in sheets of rain that has her beaming from ear to ear.
(“It feels like an adventure,” She tells him, later. “Seeing the world spread out under you like that – and knowing you climbed all the way up. It feels like you achieved something.”)
“Good day?” He asks.
She goes up on tiptoes in a wordless request, and he leans down to meet her with his lips.
She hums, content. “Better now.”
He smiles, and wipes away the mark on her cheek with his thumb. More than anything, it’s an excuse to touch her. He is pleasantly reminded, then, by the way she leans into his palm, that he doesn’t need an excuse. It’s a wonder each time he discovers it.
Her muscles tense as a shiver runs through her, and he remembers that she is soaked to the bone.
“Come on,” He says, looping his fingers with hers. “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”
(Later, he finds himself to be comforted by the sound of gentle dripping, like the droplets from her loose hair hitting the wooden balcony flooring. In the early morning, after rainfall, he feels a flood of happiness rush through him as he closes his eyes and imagines she is lay there, rain soaked and muddy, on the hay beside him.)
The day she comes home to him splattered with blood, his heart drops through his feet.
“Willa,” He calls, the carving tools dropping out of his hands as he rushes over to her. It’s matted in her hair, splashed across the embossed leather on her front, and, he notices, most importantly – it’s not hers. He breathes a sigh of relief.
Her face is drained of colour. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out.
He wants to pull her into him, hold her, kiss her face and neck and hands in silent thanks to the Maker for bringing her back to him whole. But that’s for him, not her. He doesn’t want to touch her if she doesn’t want to be touched. Instead, he reaches out with tentative fingers, and just barely brushes her cheek.
“What do you need?” He asks.
She blinks, looks up into his face.
“Nothing,” She whispers. “I need – nothing.”
He understands.
He draws up water from the well, heats it over the fire, then lugs it up the wooden staircase to pour it into an iron trough. It’s not a fast process; it takes an hour or so, at least, to get the water hot enough and then let it cool down again, and by that time the sun has set and the sky is dark. There must be people looking for her by now – a handful of soldiers tasked in secret. He has to imagine Leliana already knows about them, and has an inkling, if not for certain, of the Inquisitor’s whereabouts. That doesn’t matter now, though.
All that matters is wrapped in a blanket, hugging her legs, her knees tucked under her chin.
She strips bare without ceremony. He helps her, briefly, when her fumbling fingers fail to unfasten the buckles across her chest, then pulls his eyes away. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but it feels wrong to look at her now.
The water is still steaming when she lowers herself in. Her skin turns pink almost immediately, but she doesn’t shift. Doesn’t make a sound.
He washes the blood out of her hair, uses a cloth to wipe away whatever flecks of red are left on her skin. She sits there, inanimate, staring into space.
Slowly, her eyes regain focus, coming to full consciousness bit by bit.
“It was too close,” She whispers, at last. Her voice is hoarse. “I’m not used to it being – up close.”
He nods, grim. “It was them or you,” He says, with surety. “You made the right decision.”
Her chin wobbles, and at last, the dam breaks. She begins to cry. Blackwall wraps his arms around her, pulls her in close. He holds her, strokes her hair, murmurs soft words in her ear until she stops shaking. The water is luke-warm by this time, and his torso is soaked in it.
Her breathing becoming more measured, she pulls away, tilting her head to look at him. She runs a hand down the side of his face, and he leans into her touch. Her cool fingers soothe away the knot of worry that had developed there, smoothing away his frown.
“Thank you, Blackwall.” She says.
He presses a kiss to her damp forehead.
He makes himself a promise, then; he’ll be Blackwall as long as she needs him.
For as long as she needs him to clean the dirt from her hands.