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If he didn't pace, he'd freeze solid where he stood, so his feet kept moving. Occasionally, he paused to lean against the exterior of the cabin or the snow-dusted half wall outside it, but both were icy to the touch and bled fingers of cold into him, so he tried to stick to walking in aimless circles, round and round and round on his own. Heavy boots stamped the fluffy snow flat, and when he stopped to simply stand in the muddy sludge, he folded his arms across his chest to hold in the slight warmth provided by his gambeson, glad that his outerwear was thickly padded and somehow still dry. Even so, frigid air stung his cheeks and nose and burned his eyes until they felt nearly numb, and possibly, he hated Haven.
At the very least, he found it unsettling.
To be fair, any place so packed with people would have unnerved him, so it wasn't entirely the fault of the crowded encampment that he was on edge and freezing, doing his best not to jump at every small sound. Not that any of the sounds clanging through the air were quiet. The clash of steel on steel was a constant backdrop to the rest of the din in the tiny village. Horses nickered in their pen, the bellows whooshed to stoke crackling fires, and voices, so many voices, talked all at once. They laughed, shouted, argued, and complained, three days of neverending noise and Maker, it really didn't stop, did it?
He'd adjust. He had to adjust because he'd walked through those formidably tall, wooden walls of his own volition, with no chains around his wrists or soldiers prodding him in the back to keep moving. He'd marched in right alongside the apparent leaders of the fledgling Inquisition after joining their cause with the promise to help if he could, so he'd adjust to standing and waiting and pacing, just another face among the many, many faces safely locked behind Haven's gates. Safe when he had no right to be. Safe when the only thing keeping him that way was the ignorance of the people who'd invited him to join them. They'd string him up by the neck if they had any inkling of who he actually was. Of what he actually was. Or wasn't.
But they'd been looking for a Warden, so that's who he made sure they found. A shoddy imitation of the man they'd asked for, anyway, but it wasn't as if any of them had noticed the difference. Not yet.
Not ever, if he played his cards right. Head down, mouth shut, stick to the outskirts near the barracks, and he'd be fine. So what if every second of it was miserable and cold, and so what if he struggled to stomach the anxiety that kept his nerves raw and sleep at bay? He'd learn to let the constant noise of chatter become a droning buzz that he could block out if he managed not to think about how every voice was a person and every person was someone who could potentially unravel his lie. He didn't need to talk; no one seemed to care that he didn't know anything when they'd asked where all the Grey Wardens had gone, so no one was bothered that he kept to himself, quiet. Maybe that sort of behavior was normal for Wardens on the whole. Not like he would know, much as he was required to pretend otherwise.
Honesty might have been easier, but he'd gotten used to doing things the hard way over the past few months. Living on his own, if what he'd been doing could even be called living, had been a unique brand of torment. Couldn't get much lower than not being able to stand sitting alone with the rotten husk of a person you'd become, but that's what he'd chosen for himself when he'd run, and there was no going back on that now. Day after day and night after night of wandering from place to place to stay on the move, weeks and weeks of keeping his head down to avoid running into anyone, he'd lost track of the months, having his own voice being the only one he heard—and even then, rarely—and all of that time trying to stay isolated, he'd only ended up with the fucking Inquisition on his—well, not his, but a—doorstep, asking questions and making offers based on assumptions. Or worse, rumors. And all because he'd decided to do something other than sit on his hands after so long spent watching everything going to shit all around him.
It was the right thing to do, or at least, that's what he'd told himself, standing there while trying not to stumble over his words when that woman—the Herald of Andraste, they'd called her—informed him that things had gotten far worse than he'd realized. Grey Wardens missing, Mages fighting Templars, chaos cropping up everywhere, and all of it happening beneath that giant tear in the sky. They planned to close it, so what could he do but help? He could do some good, working alongside the people trying to get things back to normal, he'd reasoned, but standing so near the most pathetic training grounds he'd ever seen, he wondered whether that was true.
Watching the recruits practice wielding their swords, it became increasingly evident that most were incompetent. When blades weren't being dropped, they were being held incorrectly— more likely to draw blood from the person brandishing it than to ever strike its mark. Precious few knew what they were doing, and to their credit, they did their best to get the fresher faces on board with the basic concepts of combat. First, they demonstrated proper maneuvers, then they attempted to patiently explain those fundamental techniques, and then, when neither of those efforts made any real difference, they resorted to shouting at those who still couldn't manage to keep a weapon in their hand, calling them out by name.
It was the only shred of entertainment he'd found since arriving, so he didn't try to hide his interest, though he remained content to observe from a distance, feet moving ceaselessly while he paced and watched and listened. He hadn't expected to hear that detested syllable he'd discarded—left buried in the blood and the dirt when he'd run—called out over all the shouts and clangs and heavily falling snow. He hadn't practiced bracing himself for it, hadn't known to prepare himself to ignore it before the name drifted across the yard to catch him squarely in the chest. Standing frozen, it was fear that sent a shiver lancing up his spine, not the bitterly gusting wind.
"Thom! Enough. Hold." Scowling, one of the instructing officers stomped over to a flush-faced recruit. He jabbed a finger into the young man's scuffed breastplate twice, glanced down at the sword loosely held in his hand, and then shook his head. "Wrong, wrong, wrong. We've been over this again and again. What part of 'keep a firm hold on the hilt' are you failing to grasp?"
Mumbling something inaudible from across the yard, he hung his head, and the instructor scoffed.
"Learn to get it right, and quickly."
Another muttered response was lost in the distance between them, and the officer barked out a dismayed laugh.
"No, you do not have 'time to figure it out,' where do you think you are? These clashes between Templars and Mages won't wait for you to pick up on how to work a blade, lad. The Commander needs people out there to put an end to these skirmishes, and you can bet your arse that tomorrow you'll be on the march with the rest of us. Best you stop making excuses if you value your skin."
It was harder to watch after that; less entertaining. Briefly, he considered meandering over to offer his assistance. His skill with a sword was renowned, after all—once, when he'd been someone else—but for all his pacing, he couldn't bring his feet to move in the direction of the training grounds. Whether it was cowardice or wisdom that kept him immobilized, he couldn't be sure, though he suspected the former. But what did it matter? It was just as the officer had said: if he hoped to keep his skin intact, he'd figure it out.
Hiding in plain sight was more difficult at night. Once the sun went down and the already abysmally low temperatures dropped to nearly deadly, sufficient heat could only be found in the boisterously loud tavern or while crowded around one of the still-blazing campfires. He opted for the fireside, perching himself on the edge of one of the few makeshift stools situated within the circle of light before the rest of what appeared to be the usual crowd showed up. When they did, the evening grew louder, and he was bumped into and jostled where he sat as tired-eyed recruits peeled off their gloves to warm their hands in the smoke-filled air, tipping back bottles of sour-smelling ale while they talked around mouthfuls of stringy, dried meat.
There, the name glanced off his shoulders much more disarmingly amidst all the friendly, booze-filled banter. He knew it wasn't meant for him, so he kept his eyes on the flames until they were dry and burning. Then, when the stinging was too much to bear, and he finally did look up, no one gave a second thought to why he lifted his head whenever a specific syllable was spoken. After all, he was only dodging the smoke on the shifting wind, not a name that wasn't supposed to be his.
It gave him a chance to glance at the young man, though a glance was meant to last for roughly a second, and he'd been scrutinizing the recruit across the fire for far longer than that. Sitting so close to one another, it struck him that the boy was younger than he'd first thought— barely eighteen if looks were anything to go by—and the longer he stared, he began to notice they shared a bit of a likeness. Thick, black hair was matted down at the top of the lad's head from where his helmet had flattened it, but around his ears, it curled a little. His face was dirty but unlined, with light eyes set above a crooked nose, and above his lips were a few rough patches of wispy, dark hair— not quite a mustache, though it had potential.
Before anyone could rightfully accuse him of gawping, he forced himself to look away, discreetly scanning the faces of the rest of the men around the fire before guiding his eyes back to the flames. All of them were younger than he'd first assumed, and none had more than light stubble covering their jaws or peach fuzz dirtying their upper lips. How had he not noticed before? Dragging his hand over his face, he gave his unruly beard a quick tug. Was he supposed to have begun shaving once he'd agreed to join up? So far, no one in charge had made any specific demands of him, but if taking a razor to his face would eventually be required…
He could worry about that later. Tonight, he'd do his best to stay warm, and in the morning, the yet untested troops would set out along with the Herald and a few select others to sort out the conflict between Mages and Templars. With any luck, he'd be left behind in Haven, free to enjoy the relative silence while agonizing over all the ways everything could come crashing down around him.
He'd never been very lucky.
Redcliffe stank like sweat and smoke and piss, and towards the water, like fish, too. The stench was rancid, congealing like fear on the back of his tongue, thickly wet and bitter. When no one was looking, he spat into the browning grass along the side of the road, hoping it would help. He spat three times before he realized that perhaps the fear he tasted was internal. The familiar mantra repeated in his head—head down, mouth shut—as he dutifully followed behind the others to bring up the back of their little group, taking care not to look into any of the faces they pushed past on their way to the tavern.
They made slow progress, their destination clearly not a priority for the Lady Herald. Wandering through town, she paused every few steps to speak with the locals, offering assistance and asking questions. He tried not to fidget whenever they came to an abrupt stop that left him standing too close to strangers for comfort, keenly aware that any one of them might recognize him. Head down; mouth shut, head down; mouth shut, but every now and then, he dared a glance up to take in his surroundings. Though nowhere was apparently immune to the cracking green rifts that popped up to spew out demons and spirits, the village was holding up better than most anywhere else he'd seen.
The more they walked and stopped and talked, the more his nerves began to fray, but at a fork in the road, the Herald turned left, toward the waterfront. Blessedly, it was less crowded near the lake, and there, he felt comfortable enough to lift his eyes from the ground to stretch his neck a bit. It would be difficult for anyone to stare into his face while he stood with his back to everything but water. Ripples danced on an expanse of cloud-splotched blue, and content to feel fresh air breezing over him, he closed his eyes to shut out the sound of everything except the waves lapping against the docks. Familiar and calming, the steady slosh-slosh pulled his fear away little by little, and with the sun on his face and warm wind in his hair, for the first time in longer than he could remember, the smile on his lips was genuine.
"Warden Blackwall," Solas called out, shattering the peaceful moment, "I believe that someone would like your attention."
It took him a few seconds to remember to react to the moniker, and when he finally opened his eyes and turned around to follow Solas' gaze down to his feet, a pair of dark brown eyes stared up at him.
Thin, though not quite skin and bones, the dog's fur was too short to be matted, though patchy and mud-encrusted. Back and forth, it wagged its stumpy tail, holding its mouth open in a display that could be considered friendly if not for so many yellowed teeth peeking out from beneath a slightly curled lip.
He took an uneasy step back. The dog followed, its eyes alert and focused on his hands. Shaking his head, he held them out, palms flat, and turned them back and forth to show they were empty.
"No food," he grunted. "Go on, now, shoo."
It only licked its lips and stared.
He threw a helpless look over his shoulder at the others, but they were already on the move again, ambling back up the road and toward the tavern.
Stumbling back another step, his stomach tightened when the dog immediately followed. "Go," he half-pleaded. "Go on home."
He could hear its paws padding in the dust alongside him as he trotted to catch up to the group. Worse, with his head hung low through the busier parts of town, he was forced to look at it, to see how intensely it watched him, those keen brown eyes rapt on his hands as they walked. Frowning, he held them out again, carefully inspecting them for anything that might have caught the dog's interest, but they were clean.
No, not clean, not ever clean, no matter how many times he washed them. A familiar guilt twisted inside him. Dirty hands, stained with blood, fouled with death: surely dogs couldn't smell the transgressions that refused to be scrubbed away? Hesitantly, he reached down, offering his outstretched palm to the dog. A low growl rumbled up from deep in its chest as its lip curled, and he pulled his fingers back right before it snapped, leaving its teeth clicking on empty air. Hurrying through the tavern door, he tugged it shut behind him before the mutt could slip through, and once inside, he didn't bother with keeping his eyes on the floor. A dozen places, a hundred faces, months of walking past any number of people who might have instantly pegged him for who and what he was, and only a mangy stray had managed to recognize the butcher in their midst.
There may have been a bit of luck on his side after all.
Feet aching and freezing again, he took up his usual evening spot at the fireside before most of the recruits came filtering through Haven's gate, all looking far more weary than he felt. They crowded him as they did every night, pushing and shoving to get closer to the fire's heat, though there wasn't much chatting as they uncorked their bottles of ale and chewed their rations. He didn't wait for the smoke to fill his eyes before looking into the faces surrounding him. There were fewer than the night before, one in particular noticeably absent.
Afraid that he already knew the answer, he nodded at the officer sitting across the flames. "The rest of them still on their way back?"
The officer pursed his lips and didn't answer, but that didn't have to mean what it likely did.
He wet his lips and tried again. "The lad who was struggling in the yard yesterday…"
"Plenty of those around here," the man said, sighing. "Were plenty, at least. Name?"
Maker forgive him, he couldn't bring himself to speak it. He shook his head. "Forget it."
"Hard to keep track of names around here, anyway. Could you describe him?"
He could picture him perfectly, but finding the right words was harder. "Young," he grunted. "Dark hair, average build, bad with a sword…" He'd already said that. He shrugged, unsure of what else to say.
"A bit of hair above his lip? Light eyes?"
He nodded.
The officer frowned. "Thom. One of the Mages got him in the back with a nasty spell. Poor lad never even got a chance to lift his sword. We managed to bring his body back, along with all the others who didn't make it."
"Oh." He swallowed hard, surprised at how readily nausea washed over him. The fire's heat seemed suddenly too warm, too bright, too—
The officer squinted curiously through the smoke. "Did you know him? Now that I look at you, there's a bit of likeness around the eyes…"
"No," he said gruffly, quickly clearing his throat while forcing himself to hold the man's gaze, "Never spoke to him. Just noticed him, is all."
"Well, if you want to get a last look, head to the Chantry."
The words were cold but not coldly spoken, each one falling heavily in the space between them. He pushed to his feet unsteadily. "Aye, I might do just that," he said, knowing he wouldn't.
His seat was spoken for the instant he stood, the small crowd parting for him as he stepped away from the fire. At his back, soft voices murmured, and bottles clinked: small sounds of somber solidarity for a Thom who deserved to be mourned. Head down, mouth shut, and boots slipping over ice and slush, he made his way toward the barracks in the snow-flecked darkness.