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Blackwall knew moments into their skirmish at Dwarfson’s Pass that this rift was different, stronger. More malignant than the ones they had faced before. And for all the Herald’s bravado, their party was in serious danger. Shades swirled around their flank, wraiths attacked from all sides, and just as they fought with their last, a second wave burst through to dash their hopes of reprieve. They hadn’t anticipated such a force, and with scarcely two health potions left between them, they weren’t prepared.
Blackwall’s chest heaved with stolen breath in the spare seconds before the demons materialized again. He suveyed the impromptu battlefield and didn’t like what he saw: Varric’s right shoulder was bleeding badly and Bianca’s aim was going to suffer for it. Solas’ regal veneer was slipping as sweat dotted his brow. Their store of lyrium potions was tucked away safely, if unhelpfully, back at camp, and the mage was clearly feeling their absence. Even Blackwall wasn’t fully whole: the spasms in his calves and crunch at his joints weren’t exactly new, but, by the Maker, they couldn’t have chosen a worse time to flare up.
Blackwall’s fingers twitched at the horn at his side, begging to call the retreat, before a familiar voice rose up inside him.
Cowardice? Again, Thom?
His mouth went dry and the battle before him faded, replaced by another wafting in from memory. Just on the verge of sinking in, a warning from the Herald brought him back to their perilous reality.
Those mere seconds of doubt cost them their escape as the rift opened with a resounding crack. A shade burst from the portal at Blackwall’s left, engaging him instantly. But he was ready. The shade reared and Blackwall heaved his longsword to rend at the join of its neck and torso. A trail of black ichor spurt from the wound, coating his blade and his hands, but he held fast. It staggered back in pain, folding onto itself as Blackwall pressed his advantage with a pommel strike and—once the demon was immobilized—a vicious jab through its chest. The demon let out a shriek as it discorporated around his blade, earning Blackwall another precious few seconds of reprieve.
Blackwall squinted off to the south. Without the glint of her steel in the sun, he might have missed her entirely. Elonowen was still whole, her vicious speed affording her the upper hand against two shades. He let out a short huff of relief. Still, speedy or not, the Herald was putting too much distance in between herself and the rest of the party, inching towards the south gate as she danced out of reach of her assailants. They—he—wouldn’t be able to reach her in time if she met with trouble. A sense of foreboding trickled into Blackwall’s already clouded mind, but a mana burst slicing the air beside his cheek wiped away less immediate concerns. The smell of burnt hair met his nostrils.
Blackwall growled and he gripped his sword and shield tighter, turning to the enemies at his back. “You’ll regret that one, you will.”
The next minute passed in a blur of slashing, ducking, rolls and stabs as Blackwall gave everything he had to eliminate those damnable wraiths. They fell easily enough once caught, if you had the good fortune to catch them. Their wily nature had tipped more than one fight out of their favor and into an all-out brawl. Best to deal with them quickly. They couldn’t afford any more mistakes just now.
He blocked the next surge with his shield, snarling as he charged a clump of wraiths just out of sword's reach. Blackwall was almost on them, but the fiends twirled out of his grasp reach just as he raised his sword.
Bastards! He'd seen them pull this stunt before—drawing the warrior away from the fight, leaving the rest of the party vulnerable. And if he was being honest with himself, he'd fallen for it more than once, unfortunately. But not today.
He ran through his next steps in his head, thoughts scurrying to piece together a string of tactics that might save their hides. What was it about the best laid plans? Maker, any plan would do right now. Think, Rainier. Think!
He had it.
"Solas! A little hel—"
But Solas-—and Varric, it seemed—were deeply engaged in battering a rage demon, the mage's ice spells affording them the advantage for the time being as they weaved around its frozen form, never staying in one place too long. Blackwall gulped. This fight had gone cock-eyed and needed to end swiftly. A flash of green caught his eye and he raised his shield arm again just in time to deflect a fresh barrage of mana—four bursts by the feel of it.
Got their attention, have I? Good. Let’s end this.
He didn't waste any more time, barreling into the wave of wraiths and carving his sword through the air, slashing as he went. There was little finesse to this: the wraiths could not return his blows so he tore at them wildly, hoping his blade connected with something more than air. Luckily, his boldness surprised them, and one, two, four wraiths in all fell to his sword. But there was no time to spare. Even before the last wraith evaporated, Elonowen was once again top-of-mind. His eyes swept across the landscape until they landed on her lithe form still dancing across the battlefield, facing one shade now instead of two, but weighted under obvious exhaustion. Blackwall’s heart dropped. A red gash in her armor suggested an injury and—Maker’s balls—she was favoring her left side.
Bile rose in Blackwall's throat as time slowed. He’d done it again—let the wraiths pull him from the main fight. It seemed two months with the Inquisition wasn’t enough to erase seven years as a solitary tactician. But it didn’t matter now. He could be at her side in moments.
Though fate would have it otherwise. Solas’ cry split the air across the battlefield, and Blackwall cursed himself for forgetting the rage demon was still in play. He wasn’t some outlander squire, fresh onto the battlefield; The rage demon was clearly the biggest threat on the field and should have been eliminated first. Maker, where was his head?! None of that mattered now. Solas was drained, the fissures in his barrier liable to crack any second; the demon was advancing; and Varric—Blackwall's eyes fell upon a slumped figure draped in a singed red embroidered coat—Varric couldn't be of any help to anyone just now.
The sensible, dutiful part of his brain compelled him towards the rage demon while every remaining sense in his body demanded he fight at Elonowen’s side.
And then the cool tickle of Solas’ magical barrier slipping over his shoulders removed any illusion of choice. Blackwall set his jaw. Even injured, he trusted her to take out the other shade. She wasn’t their Herald for nothing.
Finish with them, and then see to her.
Letting loose his frustration in a litany of expletives, Blackwall turned from the Herald and charged the rage demon. And not a moment too soon as things progressed from bad to dire. Solas was on the ground, scrabbling away from the rage demon’s claws defrosting inches away from his face.
Maker’s breath.
In three great bounds, Blackwall was on the monster, leaping to drive his longsword deep into the demon’s spine with both hands. Varric and Solas’ barrage of bolts and ice had weakened the demon, but the fight wasn’t won yet. Heat licked at his gauntlets as the beast writhed beneath him, plunging his blade deeper. Desperate flames whipped around his torso as a clawed arm lashed around to dismount him, but the end was near. A few moments of persistence and its seething wrath dissipated into a single, smoldering scorch mark in the grass at his feet.
A quick glance around confirmed that the rage demon was the last to fall. Solas was rising to his feet, wincing with the effort; Elonowen was kneeling under the rift with her hand outstretched, ready to close the tear for good; Varric was the only unknown. With one terse nod and a meaningful gesture to the mage, Blackwall was off, dashing to the Herald’s side. Solas was more than equipped to revive Varric himself and, truth be told, Blackwall couldn’t have kept himself from the lady’s side a moment longer.
The familiar thrum of the closing rift met his ear, but Blackwall kept his eyes trained on Elonowen. He was still some distance away, but the determination and exhaustion tangling her features was clear as she worked to close the rift. Guilt raced through him as he closed the space between them; he had done this, all of this. He hadn’t kept proper formation, hadn’t held the line… he had let his focus slip… Maker, how could he have let his mind wander so far to allow this to happen?
That question begged further exploration, if they all made it through this. As for now…
Blackwall reached her just as an ear-splitting crack rent the afternoon air. Elonowen stumbled back from the force of the blast, sprawled in the moss in dirt as Blackwall dropped to his knees and reached out to steady her. “My lady,” he breathed, eyes darting around feverishly, checking her face, checking her armor, lingering on the gash around her middle. Her eyes fluttered. She was awake, if dazed from the impact. “My lady?” he hazarded again, peering more closely into her eyes as he supported her head and neck.
“I am here, Warden Blackwall,” she croaked, finding her voice. “You can stop your clucking now.”
The breath he had been holding came out as a small huff of laughter. “Aye. At once,” he smiled falteringly, now questioning how much of how she affected him he had failed to conceal these past few weeks. Am I really that obvious, he wondered before brushing the thought off. No time for that just yet, Rainier. Focus.
Blackwall cleared his throat. “So you are, my lady. And yet I must insist.” He shifted his arm to prop her up higher as he gestured to the wound in her abdomen, seeking her approval to explore further. She followed his eyes to her wound, grimacing before adding a terse nod.
Blackwall wasted no time, tracing his free hand along the contours of her armor, searching for additional injuries and ignoring the trill it sent through his body. They were… very close. Closer than perhaps they’d ever been before. But, to task. After two sweeps, he saw no damage save for the gash at her middle. She’d have trouble with that one, whether they had a health potion handy or not. Which, of course, they didn’t.
“Er…” Suddenly his mouth was very dry. Did he push too far? He looked back to the Herald’s face; she was putting on a good front, even splayed in the mud as she was, that the pain didn't affect her. Much. And maybe it didn’t. Yet. But Blackwall had been on enough battlefields to know the risks of such an injury and been on the receiving end of enough to know the bite that came with them. She needed better care than they could provide on the road and she’d struggle to get to camp in her current state. There was only one option.
“My lady, I…uhm,” he started, shifting his arms under her upper back and the crook of her legs. “I beg your pardon,” and in one gentle heave she was cradled in his arms as he rose to his feet as gently as he could muster. She grimaced at the movement, but settled in against his breastplate without argument. Blackwall’s breath caught; she was featherlight in his arms. Maker, he’d wielded swords heavier. The thought only increased his worry. Perhaps he’d misjudged the severity of her wound. He just—she always seemed so capable, his Herald.
Elonowen.
Lana.