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Rocks crunched underfoot as Blackwall ascended the mountain. The faint, flickering light of his lantern illuminated the path before him. It was the only light in the pre-dawn darkness outside of Skyhold. The climb was simple as he continued up a once neglected path that his boots had worn to a more well-trodden state.
This morning ritual was peaceful. Climbing up and down the same path every morning gave one time alone to think. Even the stables suffered the hustle and bustle that fed Skyhold. It never gave one a moment’s peace. That had been the original motivation to come up here. A selfish want for peace that had changed to something else. Though perhaps it was still selfish of him. Still, without a need to escape Skyhold’s endless thrum of energy, he never would have come up here, and he was glad he had.
Partway up the mountain was an open, flat, grassy area. Just big enough to house a small camp. In that spot, where a normal hiker might take a reprieve, were vibrant orange flowers. They painted the mountain side. Their presence gave life to the dull, grey stone. It was their bright colour that immediately pulled her to mind. Her radiant smile and sweet laugh. Warm brown skin, dark wavy hair, and striking eyes that pulled him in.
That vibrant splash of colour in a dull environment. Josephine.
She was a beautiful flower in her own right, though these lacked the thorns she hid beneath finery and flattery. He knew from the moment he saw them, a bouquet of them would suit her desk perfectly. A reminder of the life she brought to the Inquisition. So, he had collected some and found a vase, leaving them on her desk when no one was around. And so it had been every morning since. Before dawn broke, he would climb the mountain and leave her a fresh bouquet, back in the stables working on his wood carvings before anyone was the wiser.
Blackwall reached the open area and moved to a new patch of flowers. He pulled out a knife and trimmed the stems. He contemplated what he might do for Josephine when winter came. The flowers would die until the next spring. There would be nothing to fill Josephine’s desk with then. The question remained on his mind as he wound back down the mountain. He knew there would be a solution, but the sooner he had one, the better. Perhaps he could carve her flowers.
His eyes moved to Skyhold as he continued down the path. It slowly came back to life after the peace of night. Though the silhouettes of guards passing by braziers had been visible during his ascent, lights now flickered in the windows. He wondered if one of those lights was Josephine.
What would she be doing at this hour? Would she still be asleep, or would she be preparing for the day? Carefully selecting an outfit, brushing out her hair, and delicately applying her makeup. Briefly, he let his mind wander to helping her with her hair. Gliding a brush through silky, ink black waves. Then he pushed it aside. He wasn’t cut out for Josephine’s lifestyle or any kind of domesticity. He found comfort in the thought. One he wouldn’t let himself indulge.
He wound through the corridors of Skyhold, tracing the familiar path to Josephine’s office. He scooped up the old flowers as he reached the desk and arranged the new bouquet in the vase. The old ones were still beautiful, but lacked the vibrancy of the new flowers. He was thinking of what to do with the old flowers when someone cleared their throat behind him. He turned to find Josephine lingering in the doorway.
“Lady Josephine,” he said, giving her a small bow. She looked radiant. A few loose strands of hair framed her face, and her cheeks were a little flushed. A vision, as always.
“Good morning, Blackwall,” she said. Josephine crossed the room and stopped at her desk. Her fingers ghosted over the flower petals and Blackwall briefly thought of how easy it would be to reach out and take her hand.
“I don’t mean to keep you, my lady. Have a good day,” he said and stepped away. He had reached the door when Josephine’s voice stopped him.
“Blackwall.”
He didn’t want to turn and look at her again. It would almost be too much.
He wanted to stay. He wanted to bask in her presence and enjoy the warm feeling she sparked in his chest. He feared looking at her again would buckle his self restraint. Still, he turned. Her voice tugging at him like a siren’s song.
“Thank you. For the flowers,” she said, suddenly shy. It startled him, seeing her without her usual confidence.
“Of course, whatever you need. Whatever you want,” he said, the words slipping out before he could think them through. He was sure he imagined it, but he thought her cheeks darkened a bit more.
“Thank you.”
They lingered in that moment. Neither one moving. There was a sense of something unspoken hanging in the air between them. They refused to move forward, to say it. To shatter the illusion of their careful dance.
“Good day, Josephine,” Blackwall said, bowing quickly before leaving. He didn’t wait for her response. He didn’t want to risk her voice pulling him back.