#Adaar/Blackwall

[queenofangrymoths]

The Only One Who Will Ever Love Me

(Hissera Adaar/Blackwall)

When the Saarebas escaped from the Qun, it took an opportunity to grab its soulmate journal. It could not read the words inside. Thom Rainier didn't write in his journal until one night it became covered in blood. That changed everything.

[mikkeneko]

The conclusion, for now, of the ‘Blackwall’s cover gets blown by the actual Grey Warden in the Inquisition’ saga. There may be a few more Anders and the Inner Circle vignettes later, but they won’t specifically deal with Blackwall. (Probably.)

( Blackwall | Cullen | Cole | Dorian | The Iron Bull | Hawke | Sera | Vivienne |  Blackwall II | Leliana | Blackwall III )

Anders mounted the stairs towards the Skyhold great hall, and noticed with some misgivings that there were few other people around. A messenger had come to the infirmary not long before, asking his presence for 'the judgments of the Herald.' Yet unlike all of the other judgments the Inquisitor had performed -- including his own -- this one seemed to be private, without the general public in attendance.

 He stopped in the antechamber, arrested by the sight of the people gathered there. Blackwall was there, as was Leliana -- and, somewhat to his surprise, Iron Bull. The Iron Bull leaned up against the wall behind him, his pose and expression casual but his gaze sharp. Why had Adaar chosen to bring him into this? For support, insight, or perhaps just to make sure that Blackwall didn't run? Either way, it was hard to read past his air of affability to discern what he really thought of what was going on.

One look at Blackwall's face told him everything. The warrior didn't look bewildered, or anxious, or angry -- his shoulders were slumped, his back hunched, and the face beneath the bushy beard was wracked with lines of guilt and grief. He had the look of a broken man, who knew his fate and was resigned to it.

It was all too familiar a feeling to Anders. After a moment's hesitation, he swallowed and stepped across the antechamber to Blackwall's side. "Listen," he said, hating himself even as he did so. He'd ruined Blackwall's life, blown open his secret, probably destroyed his chances with Adaar; he wouldn't blame the man if wanted to hear nothing from Anders ever again. But still, he had to say it. "I want you to know that I'm… sorry for how this turned out. I didn't wish any harm on you, on anyone." 

Blackwall hunched down further, but after a moment, he grunted out, "I know." He looked up at Anders, his eyes dull and face drooping. "You… I don't blame you." 

"You don't?" Anders said, startled.

"No… telling her the truth…" He slumped even further. "It's the right thing to do. I should have told her months ago… I meant  to, but I just didn't have the strength. You… had the strength I lacked." 

Anders nodded; the lump in his throat blocked any further speech. He backed away, and the Iron Bull met his gaze and gave a wave of his hand like a lazy, informal salute. 

The doors to the hall opened, and they all turned to look as Josephine stuck her head out of the doorway and beckoned them inside. "The Inquisitor is ready to begin," she said, her softly accented voice struggling for a neutral tone.   

Blackwall stood up, keeping his head bowed, and trudged into the great hall. No chains for him, Anders noticed, although the Iron Bull shadowed him all the way in. For such a big man, he did a remarkable job of making himself unobtrusive, Anders thought. 

After some hesitation, Anders followed them in. The messenger had summoned him, after all; his testimony as a Gray Warden might be required. He wished Cole were here, to confirm his story if needed. 

It wasn't needed. Blackwall -- or Thom Rainier -- denied nothing. Neither the lie about his identity, nor the crimes for which he had initially been wanted. Nor was he a Gray Warden, although he insisted that he had in truth been recruited as one -- the real Warden-Constable Gordon Blackwall had met him in a tavern while on the run and decided to take him on as a recruit. During their return journey to Val Chevin, the real Blackwall had been killed by darkspawn and Rainier had made the impulsive decision to take his place. 

Anders had no trouble believing this account of things -- either that the Grey Wardens would choose to recruit a wanted criminal if they showed promising skills, that the real Blackwall was more likely to have met an untimely end at the hands of darkspawn than his prospective recruit, or that the criminal Rainier would have felt such an overpowering desire to stop being himself and start over as a new man. None of the testimony had the feel of a lie -- over the years since joining with Justice, he'd found that he could almost always tell truth from lies. Belatedly, he wondered if that ability was why Dian had asked him to attend. 

The cross-examination was brief, conducted mostly by Leliana while Adaar sat stone-faced on the throne. It was the ornate monstrosity fashioned after the flames of a pyre that Anders remembered seeing from his own judging, although it seemed today that all the energy and animation had been drawn out of the metal itself, leaving the blades of fire frozen and unmoving. 

At last the inquiry came to a close, and all present -- Josephine, Leliana, and the Iron Bull -- looked up to the Inquisitor for a conclusion. After a long silence she stirred, and her voice filled the empty hall. 

"Gordon Blackwall is dead," she said, the words ringing out like drawn steel. "He died with honor, serving with the Inquisition to defend the world from Corypheus. Word of his sacrifice will be spread across all the land." At this she glanced over at Bull, who met her eyes and nodded in understanding. 

"For obvious reasons, you cannot remain in Skyhold any longer." Her cool, stony eyes settled back on Rainier. "You must depart this keep by nightfall, and anything left behind will be destroyed on Blackwall's pyre." 

Rainier bowed his head, eyes squeezing closed. Anders saw a flicker of quick motion at Dian's through, like a gulp of air. "However..." she said. "If Thom Rainier were to come to Skyhold, seeking to lay down his life for the cause and serve the Maker and his bride in penance for his sins... then he would find a place here. If he were willing to face the censure of those whom he deceived, those he has wrongs, then he could have that chance. 

"All who seek to stand against evil are welcome. No matter your sins, Andraste makes it clear: With a penitent soul, you can be forgiven. With a brave and compassionate heart, you are not unworthy of love." 

Rainier looked up, stunned and disbelieving. Anders could sympathize. Josephine looked like she might cry, and even the Bull cracked a small smile. 

"I would recommend a change of clothes... and a shave," Leliana told him dryly. 

"Thank you," Blackwall -- Thom Rainier -- choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "Thank you, my lady… Inquisitor."

  Anders knocked on the door to Adaar's quarters, hoping that she would be willing to see him quickly; his hand was already going numb from the tin he carried. "Lady Adaar?" he called out. "It's me, Anders." 

After a moment she opened the door; her eyes were red again from weeping. "Oh, Anders," she said, sounding tired. "Come in… can I help you?" 

He cleared his throat. "Actually, Lady, I was hoping I could help you," he said. "You've had a pretty trying day." Pretty much the only one whose day had been worse was Thom Rainier; he had left Skyhold already, and the Bull's Chargers were already in the tavern beginning to spread stories of "Blackwall's" heroic death. 

Dian shook her head. "I've lived through worse. I don't know why this should hit me so hard," she said, a touch of desolation in her voice. "I tried to do the right thing, I think  I did the right thing, but…" 

Anders nodded understanding. "But it still feels bad," he said. "Missing him, knowing it's your own actions that drove him away; that you hurt the one you cared about, however necessary." 

Dian nodded. "Yes," she said, almost a whisper. "It does feel bad." 

"I don't think it would be a lot of help to tell you that you did the right thing, or try to suggest that everything will get better later on," he said. "For tonight, all you can really do is try to think of other things, and try to feel a little better." 

"How?" she said despairingly. 

"Well, that's what I brought this for." Anders held out the tin he carried, frost creeping up the sides.  An oversized metal spoon stuck out from the corner, under the lid. "Here." 

Dian took it, frowning slightly in perplexity; she moved the top off and sniffed, and her eyes widened. "Chocolate?" she exclaimed. "And… is that alcohol I smell?" 

"Well, yes, but only a bit," Anders admitted. "I had to get the chocolate from Josie, and a few other ingredients from the kitchens, but… It's an old Circle recipe, there's not an apprentice who doesn't learn it from the time they start casting frost spells. It's called creamed ice, and you can mix it with fruit, cheese, yogurt… or chocolate. In the Circles it's said that there's no better remedy for a broken heart." 

Dian smiled. She opened the tin and took up the spoon, eyeing the ladleful of brown goop with a doubtful gaze for a moment before she licked her. Her eyes widened. "It's amazing!" she exclaimed. 

Anders smirked. "What can I say, magic has its uses," he boasted. 

"It certainly does." Dian sat down on the couch in front of her fireplace, the tin seeming much smaller in her hands. She looked up at him and managed a small smile. "Thank you, Anders." 

"It was the least I could do," he mumbled. "After… all the trouble." 

"It's enough," she said. "That you cared."

They sat in silence for a few moments, consuming the cold treat in small nibbles. At length, the peace was broken by a small sniffle.

"Do you think he'll come back?" she asked, and Anders perched on the back of the couch and laid a hand on her shoulder.

"With you to come back to," he said, "I'm certain of it."

[mudd-art]

Blackwall loves Tau but he does wish she wouldn’t yank on his armour to get his attention.

I had too much fun with this one~

[pigeoncheeks-archive]

are prompts still open? if so i'm gonna be the asshole and say anyone/blackwall - "you missed your calling" (THAT calling pls)

YOU’RE THE DEVIL.

The nightmares come nearly every night now, and he always looks so tired. Sometimes, she wakes up in the middle of the night to find the bed empty. He’s usually by the window, staring off into the night. Sometimes she wanders around the castle for hours, only to find him in the stables, or the garden, or on the battlements. The dark circles under his eyes won’t go away, and it might just be her imagination, but she feels as if the veins in his face and hands are becoming more pronounced, standing out a stark grey against his weathered skin.

He wasn’t young to begin with, when the Inquisition was in its infancy, when the world was tearing itself apart around them, but now, nearly fifteen years later, he is showing his age more than he ever has. The beard that once bore only a few strips of silver can now easily be called “salt and pepper.” The lines around his eyes are deeper. On cold mornings, he can hardly get out of bed without creaking and groaning, and during the rainy season, his joints and old wounds pain him so much she’s tempted to fetch a healer.

She’s no spring chicken herself, as he would say, but qunari age differently, a bit more slowly, less noticeably. Not quite in the way elves do, but she’s only just discovered her first grey hairs in the last year, and her laugh lines are still but faint creases at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

She knows it’s coming. She knows she can’t stop him, and to do so would be cruel for them both, just prolonging the inevitable because she can’t say goodbye, and even she isn’t that selfish. The years have changed her. She’s the same wild, impulsive brawler she ever was, but time and authority have tempered her, made her so that she thinks of the greater good before her own wants and needs– perhaps she has more of the Qun in her than she thought.

It won’t be another month before he steals away in the night.

She’s got the spot marked on her map, the nearest entrance to the Deep Roads circled in red ink. She’s also got a bag packed and her axes sharpened and a note written to Cassandra with instructions for when she’s gone.

She’s no storybook damsel. She’s not going to waste away just because her lover is going to his death. She still has a good couple decades left in her, she could love again, run things at Skyhold and keep the peace in Thedas until she dies peacefully in her sleep. But that’s not her style.

They’ve been lovers, partners, comrades-in-arms for so long now, it just doesn’t feel right to let him go off on his own to battle until he falls. If Ser Blackwall of the Grey Wardens and Lady Inquisitor Oz Adaar are going down, they’re going down back-to-back, together, and they’re going to take as many darkspawn with them as they can. She can’t see herself going any other way.

Maybe it’s sappy. Maybe it’s stupid. But, hell, she loves the grizzled old bastard, and what’s dying of old age compared to going down in glorious battle one last time, with the man she loves at her side?

________

The morning he plans to depart dawns cold and clear, and he can’t lever himself out of the bloody bed. He’s stiff and sore, the cold seeping into his bones and his muscles still aching from an… enthusiastic “last hurrah” romp the previous eve. He should have known she’d do this, wear him out so he can’t leave without her.

They’ve been dancing around each other for weeks now, neither willing to let on that they know the other’s plans. She wants to leave with him, die with him, and he’s not going to allow it if he has to sneak away before she wakes and high-tail it to the Deep Roads as fast as he can go. But she’s outsmarted him again. He should have known the moment she busted out the toy chest.

He lies there, glowering at the ceiling, with the Inquisitor draped over him, until the sun peeks through the drapes, and she starts to stir, nuzzling into the coarse hair of his chest. Her eyes open slowly, bright gold and droopy, and she yawns, showing off her pointed teeth. And then she smiles, glances out the window, then back at him.

“Looks like you missed your Calling,” she says roughly, trailing a claw along the spread of finger-shaped bruises at his throat. Her tone is a strange mixture of smug and sad.

“For now,” he says gruffly. “Can’t get myself out of the damn bed anyway.”

“Good. I won’t have you sneaking off without me.”

“And I won’t have you killing yourself needlessly just because my time’s up, lass.”

She rolls her eyes and sits up, shoulders hunched. “You can’t stop me,” she mutteres defensively, petulantly, and he’s reminded of how much younger she is than he, how much time she still has left ahead of her. He forces himself upright even though his muscles throb in protest, and his joints pop the whole way.

“Lass…” he says, slow and sad. She won’t look at him. “It’s just the way this goes. I can stay and waste away right in front of you, or I can go and die a Warden’s death.”

She turns to him, eyes flashing. “Oh, shove it, old man,” she sneers, thumping the back of her hand against his chest. “I’m going with you. It’s my choice, damn it, and I’m not letting you die alone! Better or worse, remember?” She flashes the ring on her hand at him, a simple steel band etched with little symbols. The matching one on his suddenly feels very heavy. “This is my choice. We’re comrades, you and I, and I want to be there with you when you fall. I’ll follow you whether you like it or not, and my mount’s faster than yours in a pinch. I could catch you if you left.”

Her strong jaw is taut with determination, the set of her shoulders hard and fierce. He knows he can’t win.

“You’re a fool and a brat,” he says with a heavy sigh, cupping her chin and pulling her to him for a kiss.

“I’m your Inquisitor, you insolent twat,” she whispers back harshly, digging her claws into his hair and tugging him against her.

“Yes, you are,” he whispers fondly.

______________

They set off that evening, side by side, and she sees him to his end in the tunnels of the deep. It’s the glorious battle she hoped for, and she sees the fierce shine in his eyes as he takes a sword meant for her. There’s a fury that overtakes her then, and she becomes a whirling dervish of death and destruction until she’s surrounded by corpses, dozens of darkspawn, and one Grey Warden.

______________

The Inquisition is surprised when their leader returns, battered and bloody, short a few fingers and an eye, with two steel bands on a chain ‘round her neck. She doesn’t speak of what happened, and no one asks, but sends a missive out for the nearest Grey Wardens. The taint is in her eyes, the veins spiderwebbing her sallow golden skin.

There’s a bit of political unrest, many taking issue with a Warden leading the mighty Inquisition, but the missing eye works to Oz’s advantage. She cut an intimidating figure before, but there’s a new hardness to her now, and edge. She talks down the dissidents with a few words and, surprisingly enough, no threats. She keeps her throne until the day she is summoned to her own Calling.

She passes his grave on the way. Her once-golden hair gone white, her proud shoulders stooped. She sits by him for a while, the stones piled over him, the sword stuck into the ground tarnished and rusted, vines twisting up the blade.

“You got your way,” she tells him. “You were right, in the end. It was hell getting out on my own, and toting you with me, but I did it for you, you bastard. Feels right, going this way. A Warden’s death.” She bows her head and laughs, once. And then she pushes herself to her feet and takes the chain from around her neck, draping it over the hilt of his sword.

And then she sets off for the tunnels.

[pigeoncheeks-archive]

oz/blackwall and the prompt “I’m sore in places I didn’t even know existed.”

Some pointless pillow talk and mild nsfw beneath the cut!

She’s leaning back against the pillows with the most satisfied, smug look on her face, arms crossed behind her head, eyes at half-mast.

He’s sprawled out next to her, still breathing like he’s run for miles, every inch of him aching in protest. He’d like to roll over onto his back, but he knows, no matter how soft the bedspread is, it will feel like sandpaper against his stinging backside. There are rope burns at his wrists and elbows, ankles and knees, and every muscle in between is throbbing with a deep, persistent ache. And he isn’t even going to address the state of his arse. Really, he’s too old for this.

“I’m sore in places I didn’t even know existed,” he grumbles into the pillow.

The qunari woman smirks, rolling onto her side to face him and trailing a gold-tipped claw down his spine. He shivers a little, feels his stomach tighten with a faint echo of arousal, though he knows there’s no chance of getting hard for hours, and he’ll be utterly useless anyway, sore as he is. “Oh, poor thing,” she says in that rough, low voice of hers, her hand finding his are and giving it a little squeeze. He hisses at the sting and chokes on a little moan. “I can give you a backrub if you want,” she says, sounding, for once, more earnest than sly.

He raises his head, frowning suspiciously. “I won’t be any use to you, lass, I hope you know that. I’m worn out for the night. The next week, maybe. You weren’t exactly gentle.”

She laughs, and without another word, she’s straddling his back, carefully holding her weight above him and tracing patterns into the broad expanse of muscle. “You weren’t complainin’ twenty minutes ago when I had you bent over the foot of the bed,” she says carelessly, beginning to work at the tension in his back. He sighs and buries his face in the pillow.

“Twenty minutes ago, I wasn’t doing much thinking. I seem to forget I’m not a young man anymore. I don’t bounce back like I used to.”

She makes a soft sound, almost sweet, and  he feels the touch of warm lips and cool piercings against his shoulder. “I can go easier, y'know. I don’t mind.”

He snorts. “Lass, I would have stopped you if I didn’t like the roughness,” he says, smiling faintly into the pillows. “Maybe less of the rope tricks? Not good for the back, you know.”

She laughs, and pushes her thumbs down on either side of his spine just right, and he gives a rough, guttural groan. “I can work with that.”