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Now that he is here, he is not exactly sure what the fuck he is doing.
It had been such a moment of clarity when she—the Maker-damned Herald of all people—had turned away, off to find another battle, off to find someone else to save. It had seemed so clear, like when he met Blackwall: so clear. If she was off to save someone . . . why couldn’t it be him this time?
It was captivating, certainly, her level of openness and raw power. He knew he was impressive with his sword and air of Warden mystery, but it was nothing to impress some farmer, some merchant, and gain their trust. To look in the eye of raw power—and if the Herald of Andraste had anything it was raw power—to look that in the eye and see it smile back at you.
Armies march on the promise of a smile like that.
The Seeker obviously doesn’t trust him. In his most honest moments, he would not claim to trust himself either, so it is not offensive. But it had still been a shock when she insisted on talking the second watch with him. She had sent the scout who was to have sat it with him to his bedroll, nodded a grunt in Thom’s direction and then walked the perimeter before settling into a spot against a log not ten feet from him. She hasn’t deigned to look in his direction, but he knows she watches all the same.
Truthfully he would worry if she didn’t treat him this way. But he would like to find a way to disarm her, if not befriend her. He understands she served the Divine as the Right Hand; he is sure she has met her share of Grey Wardens and he could do without her watching him so closely.
He is still casting about for suitable topics when she stands, tugging on a water skin at her waist. She takes a drink, walking toward him. She stops short of him and offers it to him; he waves her off, patting his own. She nods brusquely, but not unfriendly, and sits down next to him.
They stay there, side by side, and stare out into the darkness. Thom swallows reflexively and looks through the gloom. A breeze comes off the pool at the base of the waterfall near camp, lifting the feeling of stale sweat off his forehead and lived-in armor. The days are getting warmer and the air in this part of Ferelden is humid and sticky as the ground warms and throws off the spring thaws. When he’d shook the Herald’s hand earlier, considered her searing, hazel eyes, he’d been excruciatingly aware that he hadn’t bathed beyond a quick sluice in a stream in over a month.
“How did you find her?” He is startled to hear his own voice ask the question. It is not the opening salvo he intended, but once the words are out, he can hardly entreat her to ignore him. He turns to look at her in polite interest; besides, his curiosity over the Herald is too much.
The Seeker shifts, moving the weight of her torso forward to prop her elbows on her thighs, her hands clasped in front of her. Her fingers are casually laced together, as if she is contemplating the number of rabbits it would take to fill their stew pot on the morrow. But he can see the muscle in her upper arms lock and tense as her mind cycles through her answer. Thom watches her stare at her gloves and she continues to sit.
He stirs to ask the question again, but thinks better and shifts to gaze out into the gloom and the mist.
A night bird cries in the distance and she shifts as if tugged from memory.
“Were you in Kirkwall, Warden Blackwall?”
“Years ago, long before the Qunari came, back when I was a soldier.”
“Ah,” she answers flatly. “Then you have not seen the devastation, but you will remember what it looked like before. You will remember the Chantry?” It is a question, but spoken in a way as if she expects his assent. An odd manner, but not so strange for a soldier, he supposes.
He clears his throat with a rumbled, “Yes. It was a fine edifice.” She seems to wait for more so he spins into her expectant silence: “I had come up from Markham and had never seen its like elsewhere in the Marches.”
“Marcher? I had wondered on your accent.”
Thom curses under his breath; he knows he is supposed to be out of Orlais, but his accent has always been that of a Marcher, even after the last decade and better in Ferelden. Perhaps it will be simpler to have it in the open, instead of wondered at in hushed whispers. He grunts his assent and she continues.
“From the docks of the Gallows to the foot of the grand stairs, it was 86 winding steps rising up from the seawall. Once at the grand stairs, it was 246 steps to the Chantry doors. After reaching the doors, it was another 25 steps into the nave. Once at the cross of the nave, you would ascend 137 steps to the chancel. It was said that from there on a clear day you could see if the Couslands were in residence at Highever.
“The crypts descended to another full three levels below the nave, perhaps another 100 or so steps actually below street level. It was large, formidable: a testament to the intentions of the faithful and the might of the Chantry in the wake of Tevinter’s foray into Orlais.
“When the explosion happened, Divine Justinia sent me to survey the damage as soon as word of the chaos came. By the time I arrived, the City Guard and the Templars had created some sense of order. But it did nothing to negate the unreal quality of this large, cavern-sized hole in the middle of the city: as if the Deep Roads had opened up and swallowed the faithful.” She whispers the last to a stop, working her jaw, a hint of disgust in her barely concealed scowl.
Then it is gone, and she lets out a slight exhalation, says simply: “It was devastating and I prayed to the Bride never to see its like again. I was to discover, however, the indifference of the Maker to my pleas to the Bride when I came to Sacred Ashes. It is the sound I remember most, the never-ending carnage of flame—” Thom jolts. His thoughts race to a carriage burning in the forest, nostrils grabbing a whiff of the smoke from their own campfire; his pulse quickens.
His mind locks away the memory and he finds the Seeker again in the night, her story uninterrupted by his past shames. “—never seen it outside of a Seeker ritual space, so I had no idea it would crackle. That close to the breach, veilfire was also more active; as if the rent in the veil called it up into the sky. Terrors shrieked and called to Fear Demons and my forces crumbled around us, stinking of ash and sulfur.
“That is where I found her, Ser Warden, matted with blood and ichor, calling out for help.”
“Maker’s Balls.” The blasphemy sneaks out of him in a breath and he is unable to recall it. But the devout Seeker doesn’t seem to notice, perhaps even agrees with him for all he can tell. Uninhibited by sense he asks the question that leaps to his mind: “Why didn’t you think she had been the cause?”
The Seeker snorts a laugh, a guffaw that rumbles in her throat, “What makes you think I didn’t? We took her into custody immediately. I did not see her fall forth from the Veil, but several of the soldiers in my advance party did; they were the ones that spoke of the . . . figure they had seen, the woman of light who lifted her out of the tear and then closed it behind her with a sundering clap.” Her tone holds a hint of distaste.
“You didn’t believe?” he asks, although he does not fathom why the Seeker would not find faith in the face of belief of so many others.
Her eyes shoot to his, the coal dark nature of them crackling in the light from the fire, “Believe?” her voice grates, a hiss of venom and feeling. “No, I did not. To my everlasting shame, Ser Warden, I put the shackles on her wrists myself as the Templar with me poured a Smite into her that should have winked out her connection to the Fade for a sennight.”
Thom hesitates into her momentary silence, offers: “I did not mean to cause offense, Seeker.”
She waves him away with a slight huff of disgust. “The offense is not yours. Dorothea was crumbled on the ground in what would have been the Divine’s reception room, but Most Holy was gone, and I could not afford the luxury to believe in miracles, or so I thought. It was Josephine—our ambassador—who reminded me that it was not luxury to believe in the miraculous, but our duty; that we must think beyond ourselves until we could seal the Breach.”
The Seeker pulls her pack to herself and pulls out a dark chamois and a vial. She uncorks it and Thom catches the whiff of mineral oil and something else, something spicy. She pulls her sword from its scabbard and begins to polish the blade. The Seeker works with focus, her hands moving in deep, crushing circles into the blade.
“I was on the eastern shore of Lake Calenhad,” he offers into her silence, “when the explosion happened. I had been in the Bannorn when the call for the Conclave came; I have not been in Val Royeaux in years and thought it might be pleasant to see the Divine’s retinue again. I began crossing Ferelden with the thought that I might spend a few nights around Haven.” He takes a drink from his water skin, wipes the back of his hand across his lips, recaps the skin. “I was waiting for the departure of a ferry to cross the Lake when the Breach flew across the sky. No one knew what it was, no one could guess what it meant. The ferry owner refused to depart after that.” He doesn’t mention that people had pressed him, asking if a Blight had started again. He’d run from the lakeside village, headed out in the cover of dark, travelled further south, tried to lose himself in country, praying it would swallow him up and leave him to anonymity.
“Andraste save us that we have to fight a Blight on top of the rest of it all.” Cassandra pauses slightly in her ministrations, “What is the word from the Wardens, Ser Blackwall?”
“Ah,” Thom breathes, striving to appear to be considering how much to disclose, weighing how he will answer the Seeker carefully, “it’s sparse out here in Ferelden. After Amaranthine, the Wardens are short here. It’s . . ., I left Orlais to help recruit in Ferelden. Even with a Warden on the throne, people get too easy after a Blight, forget that the Darkspawn are just below the surface, forget they need a Warden to believe in.” He finishes quietly, praying silently to himself that she will not notice he has not actually answered her question.
She snorts her assent, and Thom breathes slightly easier, “Yes,” she drawls, “people always seem to forget what it is to do what is needed.” She pulls the leather down the blade, drawing out the remainder of the oil along the blade, and moves to sheathe her weapon. “I will take a position down across from the Falls and keep a move on the perimeter; it is difficult to hear here over the water.”
The Seeker stands and picks up her pack. Before she turns to move off she looks Thom in the eye, “I am grateful you have joined us, Ser Blackwall. It will be a pleasure to have a man of your experience with us; I anticipate that our Commander will welcome your presence among our assets.” She nods at him and heads off into the gloom, a swagger in her hips as she picks her way down the slope to skirt around the wading pool and disappears into the night.
As she disappears Thom puffs his cheeks in a huff of breath. He thinks he’s done it; the Seeker may be mollified.
Maker, though; a Commander. How the fuck am I going to manage this? What in the name of the Golden City was I thinking?
Thom pulls Blackwall’s old pipe out of his pocket, tamps tobacco into it, and his thoughts drift to hazel eyes, full hips, and the crackle of lightning off of fingertips.