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Blackwall was restless. He’d pled off and Zaryn had gone to the Winter Palace without him. He didn’t want to leave her side, but it was too much of a risk for him. He comforted himself with knowing Bull would be watching out for her, analyzing the crowd as they dismissed him for a dumb brute. Vivienne and Dorian would advise her on the politics, dancing the dance and taking the pressure off of her. And Sera would … wait, no. He didn’t want to think about what Zaryn and Sera might get up to. His beard was still shorter than he’d liked after the fireworks incident.
She’d been gone only three days already, of the three weeks he expected her to be away, and he was already reduced to prowling Skyhold’s battlements. He’d ruined a carving this morning with his distraction, looking up at every footfall even though he knew it couldn’t be her.
He thought about inviting Varric to join him for a few rounds at the tavern, but the dwarf was deep in correspondence when he’d sought him out. His feet kept going without his brain consciously directing them and he found himself halfway up the stairs to her rooms before he realized where he was. Giving in, he climbed the rest of the way up. At least there wouldn’t be witnesses to him wandering around like a lost puppy here.
He hadn’t formally moved in, still keeping his quarters over the barn, but there were signs of his presence here. She’d had an armor stand installed for him, and most of his clothes were in her wardrobe. A grooming kit had appeared on her dresser one day, tiny scissors and combs and oils for his beard. The main reason he still maintained his old space was that she’d laid down the law. No sawdust allowed. And sometimes he liked to work late, sanding by firelight, and she was such a light sleeper that he’d end up in his loft, not wanting to disturb her slumber by tromping up the stairs after she’d retired. She worked herself so hard, and slept so little sometimes, that he didn’t want to deprive her of what little she managed to catch. Most of these mornings when she woke alone, she’d come find him, slipping into his bedroll without disturbing him, and he’d wake up with her nestled in his arms.
Surrounded by their things here in these rooms, the restlessness of missing her faded somewhat, but he was still ill at ease, needing something to keep his hands occupied. Blackwall found himself at the bookshelf, sorting the volumes. Zaryn had spent almost half an hour going through the shelves when packing, looking for a book on court etiquette that Josephine had given her, so they now were even more of a jumble. It ended up being more of a task than he’d anticipated, as shortly after he started he decided they should be organized by topic instead of by author.
One of the keep’s servants found him surrounded by stacks of books when she came up to dust and freshen the linens. He barely noticed her, so engrossed in his project as he was, and was startled when she interrupted him. She’d finished her tasks, left, and come back with a tray, a light meal and a tankard of watered ale. She waved off his thanks and told him to leave the tray at the top of the stairs when he was done. He did so, and was startled again when she appeared in what seemed to be only a few minutes with a dinner tray. The light was starting to dim, he realized, and his back was complaining and his stomach was rumbling. He’d only just finished planning where everything was going to go back on the shelves, though. Maker’s blood, she had so many books. And these were just the ones she felt like she had to have nearest at hand – she spent hours in the tower library as well, reading up on every subject imaginable, trying to be what everyone expected of her.
There was no reason to rush to finish, he reminded himself. So he ate his dinner, brought the tray down to the kitchen himself, and headed to the tavern. It was quieter than usual. Bull had brought most of his Chargers along with the Inquisitor’s party, escorting them to Halamshiral. Varric was propped up at one of the corner tables, though, cards in hand, a game of Wicked Grace in full swing. He inserted himself at the next round and played several games, managing to almost win once, and retired early.
The next morning Blackwall visited the tower library, wheedling a handful of the little metal clips and slips of parchment the scribes used to label their shelves. He spent the morning measuring stacks of books and deciding where to place them on the shelves. The driest, most boring tomes went on the top shelves and Varric’s novels took up the entire length of one shelf, three up from the floor, just where Zaryn’s fingers would find them easiest to reach. As he shelved the books, making sure he got the series in order, he noticed that each volume of the Swords and Shields serial had been autographed by Varric, with a personal note added on every title page.
He didn’t understand her love for the things at all. He’d given the first chapter a try after listening to Zaryn and Cassandra gush over them for hours, and put it down after the first few pages. But with several weeks ahead without her, he found himself returning to the books after he’d finished shelving the last stack, pulling out the first volume and settling in to one of the padded chairs next to the fireplace. He couldn’t be with her he’d, but he could spend some time with something she loved.
He was a slow reader at the best of times, and this was most definitely not one of the best. It took him the rest of the afternoon and part of the early evening to get through the first two books. He kept going, though, because the third volume stood out from the rest of the series on the shelf. It looked like it had been read more often than the others, obviously a favorite. He didn’t think he could make it through the rest of the series, but at least he’d manage this one, as she seemed to love it so much.
The spine of this volume was creased and the corners were worn. Oddly, the pages in the center of the book were a different color. The inscription inside on this one read “Are you still reading these? I don’t know whether I should be flattered or worried. Oh, well. At least this chapter’s a bit juicier.”
‘Juicier?’ Blackwall thought, worried.
He tried to turn the first page, but the binding was cracked and the book fell open instead to where the color of the papers changed. The page on the left was all text, but the page on the right was, well, not. He squinted, realized the orientation was off, and turned the book, holding it up.
“Oh, Sweet Andraste!” he stammered, closing the book with a snap. Is that what ‘juicier’ meant? He peeked again, going a few pages further in, and frowned. He recognized one of those positions. Peering closer, he stared reading the inscriptions under the illustrations, and as he did, his frown deepened.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Three more letters to answer, and he’d be free, Varric thought as he sealed another envelope. At least until the next packet of letters arrived. Or maybe he’d just put them off until tomorrow and go drink now, because Blackwall was crossing the main hall towards him. Well, storming across, more like. The Warden’s normal expression was glower, true, but as a rule he didn’t scowl so thunderously. And there wasn’t usually as much stomping either. Varric realized he was grasping at air, reaching for Bianca even though he’d left her in his quarters. There was no need for that, he told himself, forcing his fingers to relax as he sat, projecting nonchalance.
“Can you explain this, Varric?” Blackwall growled, thumping a book down on the table.
Varric looked at the cover and groaned. “No, I can’t. I can’t explain why I ever wrote it, and I certainly can’t explain why you’re reading it.”
“Not the story. This book in particular. Can you explain to me, dwarf, why you added these particular pages to the copy you personally gave to my … to the Inquisitor?” Blackwall opened the book and shoved it towards him.
Varric glanced at the book, did a double-take and pulled it towards him. The pages in the middle of the book had been removed, and replaced with what looked like a section from a pillow book. A glance at the notation above the first illustration and he understood why Blackwall looked ready to break him into pieces with his bare hands. Ways to compensate for undersized members, it read.
“Blackwall, I swear by the Maker’s bloody balls, when I signed these books for the Inquisitor, this volume was intact. They all came straight from my publisher. I had to have them shipped special – they dug them out of their warehouse, from the dead stock. I did not put those pages in there.”
“Well if you didn’t then who bloody well did?” The growl was even more pronounced, and people were starting to stare.
Varric threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t know. Ask Leliana. She’s the one that asked me for them.”
“Leliana? Why would Leliana put that inside a book she was giving to ….” All the fight seemed to drain out of Blackwall, and he thumped down in the chair next to Varric. A few of the hangers-on who took up space in the main hall had started to drift closer, hoping for some juicy gossip, but they backed off when Varric glared at them. “Oh, Andraste help me, Zaryn thinks I’m …” He trailed off, out of words.
After a final glare, Varric took pity on him and finished the sentence. “Not a dwarf.” It took a few moments for his words to register, and he took that time to curse Cassandra fucking Pentaghast once again. If she hadn’t dragged him to Haven, he’d never be having what was turning out to be one of the most uncomfortable conversations of his life. “You know we’re built differently, right? Dwarves and humans?” Andraste’s flaming tits, Blackwall still looked like he was about to cry. “Stockier?” Still nothing, damnit. “Thicker?”
“So instead of talking to me about it,” Blackwall paused, and then continued in a rush, “she went to someone else to ask for advice. Which of course she’d do, because she was afraid she’d hurt my feelings.”
Varric let out a relieved sigh. “So you’re not going to flatten me now?”
Blackwall chuckled. “No. My apologies for the misunderstanding, Varric.”
“All right then. I think I need a drink now. Care to join me?”
“Thank you, but no.” Blackwall rose, picked up the book, and gave Varric a wry smile. “I think I have some more reading I should do.” He gave a nod and turned to go, tucking the book under his arm.
Varric watched him go, sitting back in his chair. It was probably a good thing no one but he and Zaryn knew about that night after they closed the Breach, or that might have gone even worse. Yeah, the rest of the correspondence could wait. He definitely needed a drink, and something stronger than ale.