Work Text:
I.
It looks like it’s going to rain.
Blackwall hopes it doesn’t, not when they’ll be stuck in a wagon with no chance of cover for close for ten hours today. It’s one of those days when he wants the sun to warm his face, but the amount of clouds overhead make it almost impossible. So he focuses on his duties instead.
He’s always liked breaking down camp. There’s something satisfying about watching the pieces disappear until there’s finally no trace anyone spent any time here at all. Blackwall ducks back into the tent he shared with Dorian and rolls up his bedroll. Dorian’s bedroll is already in the wagon; the man gets up at a ridiculous hour to shave. Blackwall never bothers to shave on the road, but then, his beard hides the scruff on his neck, unlike Dorian’s.
With the tent empty, Blackwall takes the time to fold it up, while Bethroot and the wagon driver, an elf named Aldrien, work on breakfast. The Inquisition guard traveling with them, Jaddon, breaks down another tent while Sera is nowhere to be found.
They’re less than ten hours away from Skyhold and soon Bethroot will want answers. He told her they would talk. But when he said that, Blackwall actually thought he might find answers by now. He brings out the Warden-Constable’s badge, looking at wood which had been weathered and silverite which hardly showed any passage of time. His mind wanders back to that day on the Coast, when the dark spawn attacked. Blackwall thought he had gathered all of the Warden-Constable’s possessions after the ambush; he hadn’t realized he left anything behind.
“Breakfast?”
Bethroot’s voice cuts through him and he turns, placing the badge back into his belt pouch. She offers him a bowl of some sort of porridge, lumpy and not all that appetizing. But he takes it from her with a nod, trying to ignore the warmth spreading throughout his belly as their fingers touched. He sits down on a log around the fire without another word, and like most days at camp, she sits down next to him.
Breakfast is a silent affair, it always is. Bethroot and mornings do not agree, they all learned early on. But Blackwall must admit he enjoys the quiet as they eat and ready themselves for the journey ahead. Sometimes this quiet feels like the only truth he can give the Herald, simply being there as a silent support.
Yet Blackwall knows they both want more. He wants her so desperately, yet to give in, seems like it would be a betrayal.
Everyone is eager to get back to Skyhold, so breakfast is over quickly. They break the remainder of camp, and before he knows it, Blackwall is climbing into the wagon. She’s always the last one in, something from her smuggling day, she told him a while back. Bethroot looks to make sure everyone is in the wagon before taking Dorian’s offered hand and climbing in. Thankfully, both the seat next to and across from Blackwall is taken, so she can’t sit near him, distracting him from his thoughts. But he makes the mistake of looking up, and meeting Bethroot’s steady gaze.
And that’s when he truly realizes: the Void is a pair of light blue eyes.
II.
He’s a fucking coward.
Four days out to the Coast. Five days pursuing Inquisition business. Four days back to Skyhold. Thirteen days of resources wasted because he doesn’t have the balls to tell Bethroot the truth. Blackwall knows she would say the opposite, and point out they had other things to do out there - getting the Blades of Hessarian on their side could be considered a coup - but it pushed back their trip to Crestwood to meet Hawke’s Warden friend.
It doesn’t change the fact that she upended the Inquisition’s entire bloody schedule because of him. Because he’s a selfish, bloody bastard who can’t let her go.
“Strange to think of that as home,” Bethroot says as Skyhold comes into view.
It’s the third time Blackwall’s seen Skyhold from the outside, and each time still takes his breath away. How could a castle like this ever get lost? Something doesn’t sit quite right with Solas’ story, but he’s worked with the elf long enough that he trusts him. But however the stronghold came to be, Blackwall never thought he’d live in a place like this.
“Too bad your feet never touch the floor,” Sera says with a laugh, nudging Bethroot with her elbow.
Bethroot scowls slightly, like she always does when people point out the obvious: that’s she a dwarf surrounded by mostly humans, a handful of elves, and precious few other dwarves. “Josephine found a desk and chair that’s comfortable,” Bethroot says. “Nice to have something I can sit on without having to jump.”
“You really have to jump up on every chair?” Sera lets out a peel of laughter. “Even the latrine?”
His lady’s cheeks redden slightly as she looks away. Blackwall can only guess that means she does. “Leave it be, Sera,” Blackwall says quietly, crossing his arms over his chest to keep himself from fidgeting.
Bethroot gives him a small smile as Sera sticks her tongue out at him. Blackwall simply shakes his head and looks up at the ramparts. He hears activity, people yelling, no doubt informing Skyhold that the Inquisitor’s back. The last time they returned, no one seemed to notice and he’s not surprised the lady ambassador decided to make sure that didn’t happen again.
Before long, the wagon crosses the courtyard, and Blackwall feels his heart start to speed up. What will he tell her?
Master Dennet meets them in the stables to care for the horses, and Sera jumps out of the wagon before it’s even come to a full stop. Blackwall gets out next, followed by Dorian. Then without even thinking, he holds out his hand to help Bethroot out of the wagon. It’s something he’s done so many times now, it’s become habit.
But this time, when her feet are firm on the ground, she doesn’t let go, and he doesn’t pull back. He should, he knows he should, but he can’t seem to do anything except look down at her and feel his heart pounding in his throat.
There’s a soft smile on her lips when she looks up at him. “Can we-”
“Inquisitor!”
Blackwall drops her hand at once and steps away. Bethroot’s face is neutral, back to business already as the messenger walks up to her. “You’re needed in the war room, your Worship.”
“Of course,” she says. “I’ll go right now.”
She gives him one last look before walking away. Blackwall lets out a sigh, running his hand over his face. He takes out the badge again, and stares at the emblem.
It’s never felt heavier in his hands.
III.
Even with an open window, a cool mountain breeze blowing in, it’s still too damn warm in Blackwall’s quarters. He sits on the edge of the bed, trying to catch his breath. He thought a tug would help.
It didn’t.
He pushes the chamber pot he spilled into under the bed to clean up later, before walking to the commode with its basin and a fresh pitcher full of water. The entire time he touched himself, all he could think of was her, whispering in his ear, picturing her small hands exploring his body, the way she might taste, what it might take to get her to cry out his name…
A name that’s not even his.
Splashing some water onto his face, Blackwall grits his teeth. Maker, he’s never been like this over a woman before. Never. But back then, if Blackwall saw a woman he wanted, it never took long before he had her in his bed, and she was forgotten the next day. Part of him is terrified the same would happen with Bethroot. What if he gives in? What if he gives in and then his infatuation is gone in the morning? He’d never forgive himself if that happened.
Except this isn’t about sex, he’s sure of it. If he truly thought it was, he’d go to the tavern this instant and find a willing woman. He wants to know Bethroot, know her thoughts and opinions, and everything about her really. There’s just something there that makes him want to be around her constantly. The way she bloody looks at him... When her eyes are on him, Blackwall can almost believe he’s the man she thinks he is.
But he’s not, and he never will be, he knows, moving to the small table where his gear sits. At least maintaining his kit is something tangible, with a result at the end. So Blackwall picks up his sword and sits down, whetstone in hand, and tries to concentrate. Even then, his mind wanders to Bethroot, of the hours they spent together in Haven and in camps, working on their gear. The way their hands would linger a bit too long when she handed him arrows to be fletched.
Blackwall stands, dropping his bar of Celestine Black onto the floor, breaking it in half. “Fuck,” he mutters as he picks it up off of the ground. He’s making himself ridiculous, he’s sure of it. The walls feel like they’re closing in around him; solitude is not what he needs at the moment, he decides.
He’s not ready to see Bethroot - if he ever will be - so that leaves Sera. The corners of his mouth inch upwards, knowing he’ll be welcome in the little room she’s claimed as hers. If he wanted really, most any soldier at Skyhold would let him sit at their table. But that’s not what Blackwall wants right now; he’d have to put on too much of a show. Be the Warden. At least with Sera, he can just be himself.
So after Blackwall puts himself back together, he leaves his small quarters, trying to convince himself it will be for the best if at the end of the night, he comes back here alone.
IV.
“Andraste’s tits, always with the brooding,” Sera says, rolling her eyes. “That’s why we went to that miserable place, innit? So you could stop brooding?”
“You don’t understand,” Blackwall says. But then even he smiles slightly at how ridiculous he sounds. They’re sitting in her alcove in the tavern. He’s come to like this place more than he cares to admit. He can be himself here, with Sera, and not have to worry about anyone looking down on being common.
“You’re right, I don’t,” Sera says, grabbing the bottle of whiskey off of the table. She takes a sip, right from the bottle. “You want to fuck her and she wants to fuck you. But for some stupid reason, you’re not mashing your bits together.”
“Wish it was that simple,” he says, taking a sip of his own ale. Looking out the window, he sees that it’s almost dark out. He’ll have to seek Bethroot out soon, or he has the feeling she’ll be the one to look for him. He knows what he should do, what he must do, actually, but the thought of going through with it, of ending any chance of being with her freezes him up inside.
“It really is, you know,” Sera says. “It really is that simple. Maker, you’re getting boring.”
Blackwall runs his hands through his hair before sitting up straight. She’s right. Sera is fucking right. If he’s not training or sparring or working in the armory, he’s thinking about Bethroot. He can’t continue like this forever; he’ll go mad. It’s time for him to put a stop to this.
The whiskey looks too inviting, so he takes the bottle from Sera’s hands and takes a large swallow. The alcohol burns his throat but it wakes him. So he stands and looks at Sera. “When I’m back in an hour, I’ll want to do some serious drinking,” he tells her.
Sera snatches the whiskey bottle back from him. “Wait, you really going to turn her down?” she asks, getting onto her knees. “Is this because she’s the Quizzy?” Her voice turns soft and from what he knows of her, there’s actual concern on her face. “You’re just as good as she is, Beardy. Don’t forget that.”
“Thank you,” Blackwall says softly, staring at the door. He’s never had a friend like Sera before. His friends were other officers in the Orlesian Army and there was always a barrier between them. Everyone jockeying for the next promotion or trying to make the best impression. And he could never truly be himself with his men. They needed a figure larger than life for the work they did. With them, he could sit down and have a pint and talk women, but never his heart.
Would Sera still say those words if she knew the truth? He doesn’t want to know. The thought of her looking down on him hurts but the thought of letting the truth roll of her back and not caring at all hurts more. She should care. Not just about the little people but all the people.
“One hour,” Sera says, leaning back into the cushions. “You’re not back by then, I’ll know you’re fucking her. And then you’ll have to face me in the morning, knowing that I know that you fucked her.”
“It’s not about sex, Sera,” Blackwall snaps as he walks to the door.
It’s not often Blackwall is able to see Sera speechless, but this is one of those times. “Wait, what?” she asks finally. “You serious? This is about bloody feelings?”
Blackwall sighs, and glances over his shoulder. “I don’t even know any more.”
V.
Blackwall stands near one of the tables in the Main Hall and stares at the door which would lead him up to her quarters. All he needs to do is find the courage to go up to the guard - Diana, he thinks her name is, a woman who works wonders with a dagger - and ask if he could wait for the Inquisitor up in her room.
There’s a half finished goblet of wine near his hand. It would be so easy to finish the glass, knowing it would give him the strength to get up to her room. But he’s not had a drop of wine since the night he met the Warden-Constable. Wine goes to his head too easily, and makes him a fool. Bethroot deserves better than that.
So he walks up to Diana, ready to make his case. And instead of having to ask, the guard simply opens the door. “We have a list, Warden,” she says quietly. “It’s a list of people allowed to go up to the Herald’s room without her there.”
“A list,” he repeats slowly.
“The Inquisitor added you, Ser, to the list when you all came back this afternoon.”
Blackwall slips through the door without another word, his blood pumping far too loudly in his veins. Closing the door behind him, he tries not to think about how many people just saw him enter the Inquisitor’s private residence. She added him to the list, a list that probably went to Cullen and the Nightingale and maybe even the lady Ambassador.
The journey up to her room seems to take an age. How does she manage this many stairs every day? When he finally makes it to the top, he knocks, even though the guard would have told him if she was there. So he takes a breath and walks inside, only to be confronted with even more steps.
Once he reaches the landing, Blackwall purposefully ignores the bed and looks at the dwarven desk, which is just taller than his knees. The rest of the furniture is human size, including a very comfortable looking bed-
He walks onto the balcony, his back facing the bed, which he had to stop thinking about somehow, and looks out at the mountains. This view is worth all those steps, he thinks.
His hands grip the railing of the balcony, knuckles almost turning white. If he could just somehow explain, somehow manage to discover the right words to tell her that he’s truly the last thing Bethroot needs in her life, maybe she can end this. Because he can’t, he realizes that now. Because Blackwall wants her, desperately.
No, that’s not the right word. Wants implies like he has a choice in the matter, and that choice left him long ago, well before Haven’s destruction. Blackwall needs her, needs her more than anything in his life, more than he has any right. He feels like he’s fucking drowning, constantly, and she’s the only way he can breathe.
The door opens. Heart stammering, Blackwall leans against the door frame of the balcony, trying to look the picture of ease, when he’s never been more nervous in his life. The footsteps are near; he can see the top of her head, and he briefly closes his eyes, desperately hoping Bethroot will find the strength he no longer possesses.
VI.
This isn’t what was supposed to happen.
But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care because Bethroot is in his arms and he’s kissing her and she’s kissing him back. Maker, Blackwall doesn’t think he’s ever kissed anyone like this before, like nothing in the entirety of Thedas matters outside this one kiss.
She’s sitting on the railing now, and Blackwall can’t imagine that’s comfortable, so he somehow manages break off the kiss, when the only thing he wants is to never stop. “The sofa?” he asks quietly, not wanting to presume.
“The bed,” Bethroot says at once, and there’s a sense of relief in her voice, a relief that Blackwall understands completely. How long have they both wanted this? Every day since they met has led to this very moment. Blackwall can already feel his cock straining his trousers as she pulls him closer. Five fucking years since he’s been with a woman and now there’s no doubt in his mind that is how the evening will end. “Oh Ancestors, the bed.”
“My lady,” he mutters, resting his hands on her ass and lifting her up off the railing. It takes only a few steps before Blackwall sets her down on the side of the bed. She kicks off her boots immediately as he quickly takes off his gloves. He needs to feel her skin under his palms, under his fingers, under his own skin until he has learned every inch of her.
Bethroot’s risen to her knees, making them almost eye to eye. Hands freed from his gloves, Blackwall places his hands on her cheeks, carefully as if she were made of glass, and simply looks at her. Her eyes are wide, lips swollen, but smiling at him like he’s the best thing to ever happen to her. The look on her face is almost too much, it’s overwhelming, the enormity of what he’s about to do, what he’s about to let her believe. The consequences… He doesn’t even want to think about the consequences, not now, not ever, not until it’s too late.
Her hands work the toggles of his gambeson as she asks, “Have you ever been with a dwarf before?”
“No,” he says, his voice quiet, glad he can tell her the truth. “Have you been with a human?”
She shakes her head, pushing his gambeson off his shoulders. Blackwall takes it off the rest of the way and throws it to the ground as Bethroot lies back on the bed. “We’ll figure it out,” she says, grabbing his hand and pulling him down on top of her.
Together, Blackwall thinks, taking care not to rest too much of his body weight on hers, while settling between her legs, their hips flush. They kiss, and Blackwall feels a hint of nervousness crawling through his skin. Bethroot is young, he knows that, and he’s not nearly as young and weighs almost a stone more than he should. What if…
But then her hand strokes his cock through his trousers and the look of delight on her face is enough to chase any doubts away.
And then he stops thinking of anything other than her.
VII.
She falls asleep only minutes after they finish.
Blackwall hoped he would as well, but he’s never felt more wide awake. Awake and bloody restless. He knows from Sera, who’s shared a tent with Bethroot, that once the Herald is asleep, she stays asleep. So Blackwall takes a risk and slips out of bed, this need to move not leaving.
The cool air feels good against his skin, still slightly sweaty, so he walks out onto the balcony, knowing no one can see him standing naked as the day he was born. Crossing his arms over his chest, Blackwall waits. He waits for the usual feeling after sex, the churn of his stomach, letting him know to leave quietly and without any fuss, knowing he’ll never see the woman again. How many women had he left in his life? He can’t even begin to fathom the number after thirty years. Thirty years of finding his way into a woman’s bed and leaving when he feels it in his gut. It would serve him right to get that feeling right now, and ruin the most precious thing in his life.
So he waits, but it never shows.
Even without the feeling, he should still leave. If he had any decency, any chivalry at all, he would wake Bethroot up, apologize, and then leave the Inquisition forever. Go back to being Warden Recruiter Blackwall, where he managed to survive thanks to a hunting knife for food and his carving knife for a bit of gold, if needed. Funny how many people are willing to buy a small wooden dragon made by a Grey Warden.
It was a hard life, a humble life, but it was a good life. A better life than he deserves.
But Blackwall knows himself too well, knows he’s a greedy bastard and a coward. After this? After actually being with her, he’ll never be able to leave. Never. To think he considered himself a brave man, once.
A man who led a company of soldiers. A man who sat proud on horseback, traveling the streets of Montsimmard, indulgently passing out petit alms to local children. A man who learned quickly how to play the Game, even after being raised in the Marches.
A man who was good at it, even as he despised every moment.
The wind is blowing harder, hard enough Blackwall decides to step back inside and sit on the sofa. The restless feeling hasn’t left him, so he looks around the room, picking up details he missed before. Lady Montilyet truly spared no expense when it came the Inquisitor’s room, with the stained glass windows and the velvet bedspread. Even a plush feather mattress, when most of the other beds simply have straw-filled ones.
He doesn’t belong in this world. Not anymore.
Yet this world is where the Inquisitor is, so it’s where he wants to be. Blackwall will put up with just about anything - Vivienne’s veiled barbs or Dorian’s insults - as long as Bethroot is there beside him.
VIII.
The wind slams the balcony door shut.
It startles Blackwall, but wakes Bethroot up. Her back is to him as she sits up in one fluid motion. He watches as she looks over to where he had been sleeping. She sighs, one that seems to embrace her entire body before laying down on her back. “Oh, Blackwall,” she whispers.
There’s true pain in her voice and it finally dawns on him that she thinks he left her. “My lady,” he says at once, standing up from the sofa.
She turns on her side - Maker, her breasts are magnificent - and smiles soft and slow. “I thought…” Bethroot scoots back and pats the spot next to her. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. You’re still here.” There’s a hint of surprise in her voice and Blackwall curses himself for leaving her with any doubt.
“I wouldn’t leave you, my lady.”
Her half-smile tells Blackwall she doesn’t quite believe him. And why should she? What reason did he give her to remove any doubt? An embrace followed by a plea to send him away. A few spoken words and a promise of regret before kissing her like a man frozen and she the sun.
She deserves better.
He will be better.
That split-second moment on the Coast, before he picked up the badge, when he had the chance to tell her the truth, is in the past now. He can only look towards the future now, and resolves to be a good partner. A confidant, a lover, a shield, an anchor, anything she needs from him, Blackwall will give.
A rock-hard certainty settles in his stomach and spreads throughout his veins. She will never doubt his place by her side again, this he swears. She deserves the steadfastness of Warden Blackwall, not the uncertainty of Thom Rainier.
He climbs back into bed, letting his hand rest on her hip, not bothering to cover with the sheets. “Regrets are gone?” she asks, a teasing lilt in her voice as she threads her fingers through his. Her hands are so small compared to his own. He feels the calluses on her fingertips and wonders of their histories and promises one day he will discover them all.
“Utterly and completely,” he says, his voice low as he slides his thumb across her lower lip.
She smiles, then, not the half-smile from before, but a softer one, one he’s never seen her give anyone else. Blackwall leans down and kisses that smile, quietly, gently, very different than their earlier kisses. “I’m glad you came up tonight,” she whispers between kisses.
“And I’m glad you put me on the list,” he says, his voice just as soft.
A laugh escapes her lips. “It’s a very special list,” she says, kissing his neck, right where his beard ends. The feeling is better than he expects and Blackwall lets out a moan. He thought to encourage her to go back to sleep - Bethroot needs rest - but then his hands are on her breasts and he decides they have some time.
IX.
One of Blackwall’s greatest joys in life is the look on a woman’s face after he’s made them come with his mouth.
Bethroot is no exception.
Her smile is contagious, and her quiet laughter as she catches her breath is bloody mana. “Get up here,” she says, running her hands through his hair as he kisses her belly.
Blackwall’s glad to comply and crawls up the bed. He thinks to spoon her, but Bethroot places her hand on the back of his neck and raises herself up for a kiss. He can’t help but moan, knowing she’s tasting herself on his tongue, and by the eager way she’s kissing him, she apparently wants every last drop.
“That was…” She closes her eyes and Blackwall watches the rise and fall of her chest as she takes a deep breath. “That was fucking amazing.”
He can’t help the thrill of pride in his stomach. At least he remembered how to do this. His prolonged abstinence left him out of practice when they had sex earlier, much to his embarrassment. Even with his earlier tug, Blackwall barely lasted two minutes before quickly pulling out and spilling himself onto her sheets. Bethroot didn’t even come. A memorable tryst in the sheets it was not. But he’s certainly willing to put in the practice to get better.
“I’m glad you think so,” Blackwall says with a chuckle, settling on his side. She starts to prop herself up, and he can already tell what she means to do. And Maker, he must be getting old, because he’d rather rest. “We need to get some sleep, my lady.”
He bites his lower lip as Bethroot runs her fingers through his chest hair. He’s not used to casual touches like this, not anymore. “Any other day, I’d argue that, but I’m exhausted,” she says, kissing him again, and now he can taste her wetness on her tongue. Her eyes close as she lay her head on the pillow. “Good night.”
This time, Blackwall watches her face as she falls asleep. In no time at all, she’s sleeping soundly, a look of peace on her face. He thinks back to the last time he saw that look, in Haven, as they sat by the bonfire celebrating the partnership with the mages. Hopefully he’ll figure out a way to bring out that look more often.
Sleep won’t come nearly as easily for him, he thinks. But what does it matter when Bethroot is curled up next to him like this? Propped up on his elbow, Blackwall brushes some hair out of her face, and wonders if she’s dreaming. If she could dream once, why couldn’t she dream again? An unworthy flash of jealousy washes through him, wishing he could have been the one to meet her in the Fade, instead of her sharing something so personal and unique with Solas, of all people.
When he finally falls asleep, whenever that will be, his dreams will be full of her, no doubt. To think he finally knows what it’s like to have her clench around him and the way her breasts feel under his palms. His body is more relaxed than it’s been in years. Sex always manages to calm him, no matter how stressful things are.
With one last look at Bethroot, Blackwall settles himself on his stomach, ready to try to get some sleep, if the reality of what he’s just done doesn’t threaten to overwhelm.
X.
He hates to do this, but Blackwall will not have her wake to an empty room. Squeezing her shoulder, he says, “My lady.”
Bethroot’s eyes flutter open, as she wakes by degrees. First her shoulders tense, followed by the muscles in her neck. Her nose wrinkles as she frowns. But then he watches as her eyes open, those blue eyes which have captivated him since the moment she asked, “Now where does this leave us?”
“You’re dressed,” she says, sliding her hand up his arm.
She tilts her chin up expectantly, clearly looking for a kiss. Maker’s balls, he’s awkward at this. Blackwall can count on one hand the number of women he’s woken up with in the morning. He’s not quite sure what sort of kiss this should even be. Thankfully, Bethroot makes the decision for him, sitting up and giving him nothing more than a peck on the lips.
While she looks out the open balcony doors, Blackwall finds it hard not to stare at her breasts. They’re even more beautiful now, bathed in sunlight as opposed to the darkness of last night. “What time is it?” Bethroot asks with a yawn. “The sun’s barely up.”
“I thought it wise if I left early, before breakfast is served in the Main Hall,” Blackwall says.
Bethroot leans back on the pillows, her brow furrowed. “I don’t care if people see you leave my quarters, Blackwall,” she says quietly.
“You’re the Inquisitor,” he says. “You need to protect your reputation-”
“Oh, sod my reputation. I’m a former Carta member. That’s stain enough for most humans,” Bethroot says and Blackwall can tell by the downward curve of her lips he’s upset her. “People will talk at first, but then they’ll get over it.”
She’s right, people will talk and already it makes him uneasy. People might want to know about the man sleeping with the Inquisitor and if someone goes digging… But Blackwall pushes those doubts away. “You’re right, of course.”
A satisfied smile crosses her lips. “You can leave if you want,” she says, turning on her side and grabbing another pillow. “I’m going to sleep for another hour.”
Blackwall stands, and tries to memorize the curve of her hips, her breasts, her neck. A surge of desire courses through him, and he wonders if it might not be a better idea to undress and join her back in bed. But he still can’t shake the feeling he should leave. “We’ll talk later, my lady,” he says, taking one last look before heading down the stairs.
Thankfully, the Main Hall only has a few servants and guards milling around. Even so, he knows the story of how he was seen leaving her quarters will be spread to all corners of Skyhold by the end of the day.
Nothing to be done about it now, Blackwall thinks with a sigh as he exits the Main Hall. The stillness of the Courtyard strikes him at once. He’s always loved this time of day, early in the morning when it’s still quiet. The sun he hoped for yesterday warms his face as he glances up at the tower where Bethroot lay sleeping.
Before Blackwall won the Grand Melee, he dreamed of courtships and chivalry when it came to women. He pictured himself a knight of sort, hoping for a favor of a lady’s affection, while bestowing tokens of his own. As he grew older, he assumed he’d never have the chance for something like that, especially since he was satisfied with tumbles with any woman who caught his eye.
But that was then. This is now and Bethroot deserves better. And since this is the path he finds himself walking down, maybe this is his chance to try. Of course, he’s already messed up the order - courting should be done well before fucking - but when did Blackwall ever get things like that right?
His thoughts are interrupted by a gale of laughter. He looks up, and there’s Sera leaning out the window of her alcove. “Know what you did last night, I do!” she yells with far too glee in her voice. Of course she bloody knows. And she’ll want to know everything. He supposes it won’t be too awful to give Sera a morsel. And then…
Then perhaps he’ll find Bethroot some flowers.