Work Text:
Above all, Blackwall considers himself a practical man. He’s not one to waste time with prayers, well aware Andraste deserves better than his benedictions. But there are are days when verses of the Chant of Light run through his head like an endless current, threatening to drown him.
Before the Inquisition, those days he’d find a village with a Chantry and simply walk through, head bowed, and if a Mother or a Sister gave a nameless Grey Warden their blessing? He’d let the words soak into his skin, hoping that Andraste would realize he hadn't forgotten her even if he wasn’t good enough to ask for her favor, let alone her forgiveness.
He doesn’t have that option in Skyhold. Here his face is known. There’d be no quiet anonymity as he whispers apologizes to the children he murdered, to Liddy for not being being a better brother, to his men for putting gold above the country he served for almost twenty-five years.
So he waits until dark, until the crowd from the evening meal have cleared out of the Main Hall, and walks to the small altar set up in a private room by the Gardens. The room is mercifully empty and he slips inside, closing the door behind him.
A candelabrum is toppled over on its side, which he picks up at once. The only seating is pushed unceremoniously against the wall, not even facing the statue of Andraste, which looms over the room. He glances at the chandelier lying on the floor; he would need help to move that and this is his time to be alone.
Flames from a dozen lit candles flicker against the walls, the only light in the room. He’s never been particularly a pious man; no soldier his age is. He’s been the cause of too much pain, too much death, to ever believe that there’s salvation waiting for him whenever he closes his eyes for the last time.
His eyes adjust to the darkness, allowing him to read the inscription at the base of the statue. It’s from the Canticle of Trials, one of his favorites when he had a right to one. He mouths the familiar words but ensures no sound crosses his lips.
Maker, though I am but one, I have called in Your name,
And those who come to serve will know Your glory.
With a steady handy, he lights a candle, thinking of the Herald, of the way people look at her, like she alone can save them, sure he’s looked at her that way himself. Only a few weeks ago, on the ramparts, he told her knew their soldiers, and he did. He understood the heartbeat of an armed force, always had. There’s a pulse that surrounds an army, and the Inquisition’s is strong. These men adore her.
He…
She asked a simple question today: what changed? And the words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, telling her he could never regret a life with her in it. When she turned and walked out without another word, Blackwall didn’t try to stop her, staring at the spot she stood, wondering how he would ever get her out of his blood.
The door opens behind him and Blackwall straightens, bracing himself for whoever it might be. Flissa walks inside and giggles at the sight of him. Always a flighty thing, she was. Poured good drinks when she worked the tavern at Haven, though.
With a respectful nod, he leaves the room in silence, carefully closing the door behind him.
The night has chilled a bit; he’s glad for his quilted jacket as he stands in the garden, aimless as a weather vane with no wind to guide him. He had planned on spending most of the evening at the altar, hoping the atmosphere would give him a clarity about the Herald he no longer possessed.
The tavern. Sera will be there, he is certain. A few rounds of drinks won’t set him right, but could at least muddle the details for a few hours.
He pushes open the door leading to the Main Hall and stops. The Herald is sitting alone at Varric’s table, shoulders hunched, holding a quill and staring at a piece of parchment.
She doesn’t seem to realize he’s there, across the hall, so he takes the chance to watch her. The first thing he notices is that her feet don’t even touch the floor. She’s swinging her legs back and forth, almost like a girl, and a wave of affection tears through him. Fond. As if that one syllable could encompass his feelings for her.
Oh, Maker, how he could love her if he gave in.
She drops the quill and buries her head in her hands, causing Blackwall’s brow to furrow. He’s seen her at work before. Once a week, Varric hosts a table full of dwarves, who all work on their finances. She sits opposite of Varric and together they lord over the other dwarves. It’s become a bit of an event at Skyhold, with people watching them work, hearing bits of the dwarven language being spoken and the occasional argument. Varric had to even break up a fight once.
The Herald seems much more comfortable in the environment of finances and business than she does with the Faithful. So Blackwall can’t imagine she’s working on business, not with the weight she’s currently carrying in her shoulders.
He’s lingered too long, he decides and takes a step the moment Bethroot twists her torso to stretch. Their eyes lock and Blackwall stomach clenches at being caught. But then with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, she nods before picking up her quill, giving him permission to leave the hall without saying a word.
Though something is clearly upsetting her and he takes a moment to decide if he should let her have her privacy and find Sera or continue his slow descent into the Void and speak.
He speaks.
Less than half a dozen steps later, he stands next to her, looking down. “My lady,” he says, half hoping she’d ask him to join her, half hoping she’d send him away.
A seat is offered with a wave of her hand and he sits, slouching slightly in the chair so not to be so tall above her.
“You were a soldier, once, right?” she asks. There’s pain in her voice, one he recognizes, a pain of someone who’s lost. He nods slowly, glad he doesn’t have to lie, as she hands him the piece of parchment she had been writing. “Ever have to write one of these before?”
His eyes skim the page. A letter of condolence. He’s written more of these during his career in Orlais than he cares to remember. She looks up expectantly at him and he answers the question he knows is on her lips.
“It never gets any easier.”
“Dammit,” she whispers, leaning back in her chair, looking up at the ceiling. “How am I going to get through this?”
It’s then he sees the list of names on the table. He glances at the letter she handed him, running his finger under the name. Deidre Appledore.“She died at Haven,” Blackwall says, thinking of the plump woman, an archer, no more than twenty years old. So many good men and women died that day, soldiers he helped train. “Are you writing everyone’s family?”
“Not everyone listed a next of kin.” She sighs and takes the parchment out of his hands. “For some of them, there’s no one to notify.”
The thought makes him wonder what would happen if he’s killed on the battlefield. The Inquisition would probably notify the Grey Wardens before they cremated him. The Warden-Constable would finally be able to rest, with a dead man no longer using his name.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says, hearing the gentleness in his voice. “The lady ambassador could get a note printed and all you would have to do-”
“I want them to be my words,” she says, her eyes bright. “They deserve that much.”
She looks so upset, and because he wants to comfort her even when he shouldn’t, especially when he shouldn’t, he places his hand on top of her small one. He swears he can feel the heat of her hand through his glove.
“You tell the family what they need to hear,” Blackwall says, the most honest thing to come out of his mouth since they’ve met. “The soldiers, every single one of them, died quick and heroically and most of all, painlessly. Doesn’t matter if it’s a lie, because this isn’t for you. This is for them.”
She nods, and with her free hand, runs a finger over the list of names. “I didn’t think it would be this hard,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’d worry if it were easy for you,” he says.
She smiles at him then, a private one, one that he has no right to see and Blackwall removes his hand far too hastily. The smile disappears and is replaced by a naked longing on her face that is too much. He cannot give in. He cannot.
So instead he runs like the fucking coward he is. “I’ve disturbed you long enough, my lady,” he says, standing up, not meeting her eye. “Good night.”
He makes it to the end of the table before she says his name. He doesn’t want to turn, not if she looks at him like that again, like he has every right to be by her side and wonders why he’s not.
But the emotion is gone from her face, now blank as an Orlesian mask. Bethroot picks up the parchment and says, “Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome,” he says at once, wringing his hands slightly in front of him. Andraste might not welcome his prayers, but surely it’s not blasphemous to continue to help to her Herald? Simply another way to show the Maker’s bride he hasn’t forgotten her.
The Herald starts to write, so he leave the Main Hall, trying to stop the hammering of his heart.
They can’t continue like this. Not when its become increasingly clear she might care for him as much as he does for her. Too many questions hang between them and she deserves answers.