#anyway. i saw a post a while ago about how the immediate tension between cadash and blackwall at skyhold

[astraphone]

if you give it a name, then it’s already won

1.5k, blackwall/cadash. after the breach is sealed, the man who calls himself blackwall shares a moment and a dance with the herald of andraste.

Hours before it is lost, there is dancing in Haven.

Blackwall isn’t with the Herald as she and the mages close the Breach, but even down in the village it’s obvious the moment she succeeds. With a blaze of light and energy, the sky stitches itself back together before his very eyes. For the first time in months, the green, angry menace above settles. Scarred, still, a reminder of what happened here, but quiet at last.

The villagers have already begun drinking by the time the Herald returns from the temple. A wild cheer erupts at her approach, and though Blackwall intends to congratulate her, he quickly loses sight of her in a gaggle of admirers. Probably for the best, that. Tonight is for her, and she hardly needs him interrupting her festivities.

That thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and he hurries to find himself a drink before he can dwell too much on things that aren’t for him. Today was a victory, for the Inquisition and for the world. He’ll focus on that, not on the way he’s itching to find the Herald in the crowd, to see her grin up at him when their eyes meet, to run his hands over her and—

Well. So much for not dwelling on it.

The fact of the matter is, they’ve been... flirting. He’s almost certain she isn’t serious; she flirts with him like it’s a light-hearted reflex, just part of her charm, and he should know better than to respond in kind. Easier said than done, though, when their banter comes so easily, when she smirks when she catches him watching her, when he hears her laugh as they take down demons together, all exhilarated adrenaline.

He’s not courting her. He hardly knows her, really, and he does know full-well how unworthy he is of even attempting such a thing. But it’s a pleasant fantasy to indulge in from time to time, that a woman like her might see something in him, of all people. 

“There you are.”

Blackwall just about jumps out of his skin. As if summoned by his thoughts of her, the Herald of Andraste herself stands at his side. She’s changed out of her armor into casual clothes, carrying a drink in one hand and a half-eaten plate of food in the other. Her face is still smudged with what must be soot from the Temple, and he pushes down the urge to reach out and wipe it off for her. She looks tired, he thinks.

“I haven’t seen you all night,” she says. “Was starting to think you’re avoiding me.”

“Never, my lady,” he manages once he finds his tongue. “Are you enjoying the festivities?”

“Sure, as long as they keep the ale flowing.”

The mug in her hand looks nearly untouched, but he decides against pointing that out.

“I believe congratulations are in order,” he says instead. “You did a great thing tonight.”

She smiles, but there's something almost sad about it—and when did he become so good at reading her expressions? “My hand did, you mean. And the mages.” She seems to catch herself, looking inexplicably annoyed for a moment before continuing. “But—you’re right. We did good.” 

“Are you alright?” He ventures.

“Sure as stone. Why?”

“I suppose I expected you to be celebrating. You did, after all, just accomplish what we’ve all been hoping for.”

“I know that,” she snaps, then sighs. “Sorry. Just tired.”

“You don’t have to talk to me," he says slowly. "But I will listen, if you do.” 

She looks at him for a moment, as if deciding whether she wants to say anything, then seems to come to a decision. “I’m fine. Just thinking about what happens next, now that I’ve done my part.”

“I’m no expert, but I don’t get the impression that this whole mess is over. Do you?”

“No. But they brought me in to close the Breach. Half the Chantry still wants me in chains, and I’m fairly certain the Carta will tell me to sod right off if I go crawling back, so…” She grimaces. "It's Inquisition or dust for me, I think. I just hope I still have a job now my bit's done."

"The Inquisition would be mad to let the Herald of Andraste go. And regardless, surely you realize you're far more to these people that just your mark."

She glances down at the mark in question, still sparking with light underneath the leather glove she wears. "Still hard to believe sometimes. All this for someone like me." "Breach or no, the people still need you. The Inquisition still needs you." And then, because he's been drinking and he's feeling rather bold, he adds, "And, for what it's worth, I still want you. Here, I mean. I still want you here, helping."

She raises one scarred eyebrow at him, pointedly enough that he feels himself blush. "Right."

He'll gladly put his foot in his mouth a thousand times, if it brings back that little half-grin of hers. Seeing a ghost of it now, he gestures out towards the gathered crowd of dancers. “Come on. Tonight is for you; it would be a shame if you didn't enjoy it."

The Herald snorts, a surprised and undignified thing that makes him grin. “What, you want to dance? I've been told I have two left feet, you know."

"I'll be the judge of that, my lady. If you'll allow me."

"Oh, fuck it." She tips her mug back and downs her drink with impressive speed for someone her size.  "Lead the way."

He extends a hand to her and she takes it with a smirk. This is foolish, he knows; just about all of Haven is out here tonight, and people will talk. She hardly needs that kind of rumor on her plate. But once her hand is in his, he’ll be damned if he lets go.

With a half-bow towards her, he leads her into a dance. He’s never danced with a dwarf before, and has to adjust a bit for her height, but it’s easy to get used to her. As though all that time spent twirling around ridiculous Orlesian ballrooms a lifetime ago was merely a lead-up to her.   

Despite her initial protests, the Herald is a fast learner, and soon she’s laughing breathlessly as he spins her. He finds that he doesn’t care about the people watching, the whispers that will surely come, the voice in the back of his head telling him he doesn't deserve this; in this moment, she's the only thing that matters.

The dance is over too soon, and as they come to a halt they're both smiling like a pair of fools.

"How'd I do?" The melancholy of a few moments earlier is vanished from her face now, her eyes bright and shining with mirth.

"You're a natural, Lady Cadash." Caught up in the moment, acting more on instinct than anything else, he catches one of her hands in his and presses it to his lips.

Too far. He knows it instantly, as her eyes snap up to meet his, open wide with surprise. He drops her hand and takes a hasty step backwards, but she follows, so close they’re nearly pressed against each other. It would be damnably easy to do something unwise in this moment. She’s closed most of the distance herself; all he has to do is lean down and brush his lips against hers.

No. He shakes his head to help clear it, although he can't quite bring himself to move away again. “I—I forget myself.”

The Herald's voice is low, meant just for him. “I think I like it when you forget yourself, Warden Blackwall.”

The moment is broken with the sound of that name. He’s long-since gotten used to it, thinks of it more than he thinks of the name he was born with, and on most days hearing it reminds him of the sort of man he wants to be. Tonight, it’s a reminder of why he shouldn’t be doing this. The Herald of Andraste, this remarkable woman with the world at her feet, deserves far better than a lying, murderous fraud.

He takes another step back, and this time she doesn't follow. "I'm sorry,” he mutters.

He thinks he might see disappointment flash briefly on her face, but she only shrugs. “Don’t apologize. This was the best part of my night.”

“Given what you’ve accomplished tonight, perhaps you need to reevaluate your priorities, my lady.”

He means to say it lightheartedly, but he must have struck a nerve, judging by the way her eyes narrow. "Perhaps you need to figure out what you want, Warden," she says sharply. "Come find me if you do."

She stalks off, and he watches her go. She's joined by Cassandra a moment later, and he turns away.

Maker, he’d wanted to kiss her. He almost had kissed her, and she’d looked at him like she’d wanted him to. She's wrong; he knows exactly what he wants, he's just desperately fighting a losing battle against it. 

When the alarm bell starts ringing, it's almost a relief.