#visit some clans to investigate their hand and close fade rifts along the way

[companionsofusall]

god a character can really drive you insane

[pikapeppa]

The Griffon and the Halla: Blackwall/Lavellan, part 2/4

For those of you that read and enjoyed the first chapter: thank you so much!! ❤️ Second chapter here on AO3, if you prefer to read it there. 

A week goes by.

Arya visits him in the stables during her sparse free time, and they chat idly about his woodworking and what she should name her giant nugs. And he doesn’t tell her the truth.

At night when they return to Skyhold from their travels, she presses herself against him, his naked thigh snugly ensconced between her own. She whispers about her life in the forest with her clan, and he tells little tales of Liddy, tiny bites of his former life that are small and safe to share. But he doesn’t tell her the truth.

She bucks beneath him, their fingers intertwined as they gasp together in their release. Afterwards, as she runs her fingers through his damp hair, she asks him to tell her stories.

The words are pressing at the back of his teeth. They grow hotter and more desperate with every passing day, but he can’t bring himself to release them: he’s far too happy. He’s not the man she thinks he is - he’s selfish and cowardly, and he’s nobody’s hero - but he loves her so fucking much, and he can’t tell her the truth.

*************

They travel to Crestwood to meet with Warden Stroud.

Blackwall has no good reason not to accompany her, so he readily agrees when she requests his presence. They speak with Hawke and Stroud, and Lavellan turns to him like he has insights to give her. He prevaricates and dissembles until she nods with satisfaction, but it feels like needles are poking his heart.

The Western Approach beckons, and they investigate Stroud’s lead on the Warden mages. A writhing discomfort settles heavily on his shoulders as they sink more deeply into the Wardens’ internal strife, and with a slow creeping of dread, he realizes that he should have told her the truth weeks ago. The deeper they sink into Warden activity, the more precarious his lies become, like a teetering rockslide that’s an inch away from crashing.

Another week slides by, and Lavellan works from sunrise to sundown with her advisors to plan for the assault on Adamant Fortress. She curls against his chest at night, her undereyes dark with fatigue. He strokes her chestnut hair and rubs the knots from her shoulders until she falls into an exhausted sleep.

He can’t tell her the truth, not now. She’s far too busy, and she has more important things to worry about.

Days later, they march on Adamant Fortress. He’s the aegis protecting her from demons and the blade that tears her foes apart. He stands strong and takes the hits that are meant for her. In the heart of the fortress, they find themselves facing a rift and a ring of Warden mages. Erimond is smug, but Clarel’s face is creased with uncertainty, and the Wardens are scared.

A chase ensues. They dodge the blasts from Corypheus’s archdemon, and Clarel dies a hero’s death when she blasts the archdemon in return.

And then they fall into the Fade.

An hour later - or maybe a day, or just a minute, Blackwall isn’t sure - Lavellan tears through the rift with the mark on her palm, and they return to Adamant Fortress one Warden short.

Blackwall’s heart is heavy with dismay. The Wardens have lost so much already: blood sacrifices, their Knight-Commander, their damned reputation, and now Stroud. When the Inquisitor orders the Wardens into exile, it’s like a punch to his already winded gut.

“Your Worship,” he says. “I would stay, and continue our fight. If you allow it.”

He can’t shave the stiffness from his voice. The Nightmare is too recent, and the Wardens’ failure too raw. But a thread still tugs in his chest as her violet eyes widen in alarm.

Her voice is calm as she replies. “Of course,” she says. “I have never doubted your loyalty, Blackwall.”

He inclines his head curtly and turns away to help the remaining Wardens to gather their injured. From the corner of his eye, he watches as she debriefs quickly with Cullen and Hawke, then strides toward him.

Her face is stern and her steps authoritative, and despite his anger, he straightens and folds his hands behind his back. He’s a soldier at heart, and she’s the Inquisitor, and everything about her mien is screaming for him to obey. But she shocks him by cupping his face in her hands and kissing him hard.

He’s instantly thrown off by the ferocity of her affection. Without thinking, he slides one arm around her waist and sinks into the warmth of her kiss.

Eventually she pulls away and glares at him. “I would never make you leave,” she says fiercely. “You’re a good man, Blackwall. You’re my shield and shelter, do you understand?”

His lingering disapproval instantly melts away, leaving an aching guilt in its place. “Yes, my lady,” he replies huskily. He isn’t the man she thinks he is - he’s good at guarding and nothing else - but he loves her so fucking much, and he’s powerless to do anything but kiss her rosy lips.

But for the first time, Arya’s kiss isn’t enough to scald away his guilt.

*****************

A few days pass. Lavellan travels without him, accompanying Dorian to Redcliffe for some kind of family meeting and taking the Iron Bull to the Storm Coast, but for once, Blackwall is relieved to be left alone.

He’s slept poorly since they returned from Adamant. He lies in Arya’s bed at night, her hair tickling his chin and her warmth beneath his palms, but the Wardens’ departing backs march away behind his closed eyelids, and Stroud’s sacrifice haunts him in the early hours of the morning.

It’s not right, he thinks. It’s not the Inquisitor’s decision he questions; he understands her reasoning, though he doesn’t like it. It’s the guilty injustice of it all. The Wardens only ever meant to be good, to do good, and their legacy ended in disgrace. Yet here he stands at the Inquisitor’s side, and here he sleeps in the Inquisitor’s bed, his entire identity steeped in bitter lies but unscathed by controversy or shame.

He can’t stop thinking about his past. His men’s faces flash through his mind one by one, like macabre tarot cards at some cheap fortune teller, but Blackwall takes these omens seriously. Their blood is on his hands, theirs and that of their victims, and it’s like a hastily stitched wound has split wide: the remains of his past are there, ugly and infected, and if he has any respect for the stolen title of Warden, he needs to cure this illness. Seeds of his sins have lain dormant in his chest for years, but they bloom to life now, and his rationalizations and feeble excuses are insufficient to cull them back.

Then one day, while perusing the announcement board in the tavern, a piece of news catches his eye: the execution of Cyril Mornay, taking place in Val Royeaux within the week.

An ice-cold weight drops into his belly as he reads the notice. Given his preoccupations for the past few days, he can only take it as a sign of fate. He can’t run anymore. He’s finally been snared by the cruel trap of truth: he’s been living on borrowed time all along. He’s shamelessly stolen snatches of time from his Dalish lover, but unbeknownst to her, it can never be returned.

Blackwall agonizes in the barn for the rest of the day. He tries to finish the rocking griffon, and he tries to brush the horses, but he’s unable to concentrate; he needs every scrap of his will to build the fortress around his heart.

He polishes the Warden-Commander badge until it glows as brightly as her anchor. As the afternoon sun fades into gloaming, he waits for her to visit, badge securely tucked in his pocket.

He knows what he needs to do. He just needs to bolster his courage to do what must be done.

******************

In the end, Blackwall takes the coward’s way out, and the kiss he doesn’t take is the one he misses most.

He stares at his elven lover as she sleeps. Moonlight shines through the barn’s windows onto her bare body, dyeing her skin from its usual burnished gold to a pale pearlescence. Her face is peaceful in slumber, her short hair in damp disarray from their exertions, and he prays fervently to the Maker that she’ll have peace without him.

She’ll forget him someday. Blackwall is not the man she thinks he is, after all. Another man will catch her heart, a better man than him, and she’ll be washed clean of his memory.

His throat aches with grief as he watches her breasts rise and fall with easy slumber. He desperately wants to kiss her goodbye, to taste the bliss of her lips one last time, but he loves her so fucking much, and she deserves a better man than him. In this bitter moment of parting - a moment she didn’t know was coming - he can almost convince himself that she’ll forgive and forget.

***********************

He rides for Val Royeaux.

He forces himself to think of the soldiers he abandoned in Orlais. He thinks of their loyalty, their unquestioning faith in his judgment, the way he ran and left them all to die in disgrace because of his orders. He forces himself to remember their faces and their camaraderie. He gorges himself on guilt until the idea of a rightful death is palatable in comparison.

He forces himself to think of them, because the alternative is to think of her.

Every breath he takes is torture, the grief like a knife below his ribs. With every step away from Skyhold, he regrets the kiss he didn’t give and the words of love he didn’t say. Lady Lavellan deserved better than to be left alone in the night; she deserved better than a tumble in the barn and a paltry note.

That’s why it’s good that I’m gone, he tells himself. She deserves better, and she’ll only have it without me. He knows his Arya, knows her moods and her ways, and he knows that she’ll be absolutely furious that he left. But anger is good; it’s what he wants for her. Anger will keep her away from him.

He arrives in Val Royeaux barely in time to witness the sentencing. He jogs toward the gallows and repeats a list of his men’s names in his head; it helps to drown out the haunting echoes of her laughter.

They read out the sentence for Cyril Mornay, and Blackwall takes a deep breath. His time has come, and he is ready.

Thom Rainier strides towards the gallows without hesitation, and only now does he allow the memories to flood his mind. She comes in flashes, shining moments of the everyday that he didn’t cherish enough while he had them: the way she dragged her fingers through her hair when she was frustrated, her playful insult wars with Sera, the way she would rub his earlobe gently between her fingers when they lay talking idly in her bed.

He takes a deep breath and remembers the precise amethyst shade of her eyes. I love you, he thinks. He mounts the steps to the gallows and barks for the executioner to stop.

A gasp rises from the crowd, and above it, a dreaded and beloved voice rings out clear as a bell. “Blackwall!”

His heart sinks like a stone. Her voice is his favourite sound in the world, and he’s never been less pleased to hear it. He closes his eyes and prays to the Maker for strength. He’d hoped to be here sooner, that this whole sorry business would be done before the Inquisitor could arrive. He rode as fast as he could and he only just arrived in time, and some irrational, furious part of his mind wonders if Dorian or Solas used magic to get her here faster. And yet, some part of him isn’t surprised. His Arya is the most passionate and stubborn woman he’s ever met, and he can only blame himself for thinking she wouldn’t come.

But the fortress he built around his heart stands strong, and he leans on it for support as he finds her lovely face in the crowd. She’s pale as death, her violet eyes huge with distress, and the remorse almost chokes him. He did this to her. By giving in to his selfish love for her, by binding her with the chains of her own affection, he’s caused her this pain. The only thing he can do now is set her free.

He swallows the lump in his throat and announces his lies. He watches as Arya’s eyes grow even larger in the pallor of her face. Dorian grips her hand, his face slack with shock; Solas is glaring fiercely, and Sera is shouting and flapping her hands in agitation, but Arya’s face is all he can see.

Thom Rainier drinks her in greedily as he’s dragged away in chains. He imprints her face on his mind: her eyebrows tight with consternation, her lips leeched of their usual scarlet flush. It’s a harrowing image, one he never wanted to see, but he forces himself to remember her this way. This is what Thom Rainier brings; he’s the herald of misery, the giver of grief. It was a farce to think he could ever make her happy, and if her shock and dismay is the last thing he sees, it’s all that he deserves.

******************

She visits him in prison.

His own flare of anger takes him by surprise. Why won’t she leave him behind? He’s not the man she thought he was - he’s Thom Rainier, a murderer and a deserter - and he loves her so fucking much, and he’s not worth a second of her time. “You weren’t supposed to find me,” he tells her angrily. “You were supposed to just think I was gone. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

She narrows her eyes. “You mean you didn’t want me to know the real you.”

Gone is his distressed elven lover. She’s all Inquisitor now, her expression forbidding as she interrogates him about his past.

He’s a soldier at heart - a tainted one, a traitorous one, but a soldier nonetheless - and he can’t resist her implacable authority. He answers her questions honestly with his head hung low. She burns with anger and purpose, that passion for justice that he’s always found so compelling, and now that her righteous focus is directed at him, he can barely stand to look at her.

Eventually, she runs out of questions and falls silent. He lifts his eyes to her face. Her expression is flat, but he can see the tension in her clenched jaw as she stares at him through the cold bars of his cell.

I love you, he thinks. “There’s nothing more to talk about,” he grunts.

She lifts her chin haughtily, then turns on her heel and stalks away.

He watches her go. Good, he thinks. The Inquisitor has finally realized who she’s been wasting her affections on, and she’s done exactly what he hoped she would do: she’s left him here to die. It’s just and fair, and it’s exactly what a man like him deserves.

His eyes feel hot. He sits heavily on the floor of his cell. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and waits for the end.

******************

He doesn’t know what favours she called in or whose palms got greased, but before he understands what’s happening, he’s freed from prison, shoved onto a horse and forced back to Skyhold under guard by Cullen’s soldiers.

The Inquisitor sits on her throne and stares coldly down at him as Josephine shakily introduces him - the real him - to the crowd of onlookers. He ignores the whispers and glares at Lavellan. She should have left him. He’s made his peace and accepted his wrongs, and she has more important things to do than waste her valuable time on a murderer.

“Josephine’s reputation is tarnished now. The world will learn how you’ve used your influence. They’ll know the Inquisition is corrupt,” he accuses. He’s being a hypocrite and he knows it, but he’s just so angry. She wouldn’t have brought him back here unless she thought he was something worth saving, and she’s wrong. He breathes hard through his nose as he awaits her response.

She rises from her throne and glares back at him. “You left me no choice,” she snaps, her voice ringing authoritatively through the hall. “When one of the Inquisition's staunchest warriors leaves without a good reason, you can bet I will hunt him down.” She pauses, and he watches her chest rise as she inhales slowly, then speaks in a more measured tone. “Thom Rainier: you lied to the Inquisition. You lied to me,” she grits. “But a man is more than his words. You’ve shown your mettle with your deeds. By the power of this Inquisition, you have your freedom.”

A buzz of interest goes up from the crowd, and he gapes at her in horror. He should be punished. Maker’s balls, she should be punishing him. “It cannot be as simple as that,” he protests.

“It’s not,” she retorts. “You’re free to atone as the man you are, not the traitor you thought you were or the Warden you pretended to be.” She lifts her chin stubbornly. “I know who you really are. Keep on being that man.”

He gazes at her with abject gratefulness. Vindication is not what he expected and it’s not what he deserves, but Lady Lavellan has given it to him all the same.

Blackwall can’t speak. His heart is in his mouth, pulsing at the tip of his tongue, but he can’t speak it now. Arya is the finest thing that’s ever happened to him, and he won’t lay his heart bare like this, chained like a common criminal with everyone gawking. She deserves so much better than this.

She watches him for a moment longer, then descends the dais. She reaches up and briefly cups his cheek in her palm.

He closes his eyes and swallows hard past the lump in his throat. Her caress is quick, but it makes his heart leap in his chest.

“We’ll talk later,” she says, then walks away.

For the second time in as many days, he watches her go. This time, however, her departing back isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to him; it’s a symbol of hope.

Cullen’s men unlock his cuffs as the crowd drifts away, and Josephine briefly stops on her way back to her office. “Good luck,” she says quietly.

He murmurs his thanks and respectfully bows his head, then trudges off towards the stables.

We’ll talk later, Lavellan said, and he can’t decide whether to dread or to anticipate her eventual arrival.

He wonders how long he’ll have to wait.

*******************

A few hours later, she finds him in the stables and nearly immolates him with her towering rage.

She slaps him twice and screams at him, and he kisses her more passionately than he ever has before. Somehow, his kiss seems to work; her fingers pull fiercely at his clothing. “You’ll tell me the whole truth. I want to know everything,” she threatens.

Half-heartedly he reaches down to stall her hands, even as a perverse flare of desire sparks to life in his belly. “Arya, wait. Are we talking, or…?”

“Not right now,” she snaps, then grabs the back of his neck and kisses him hard.

Her mouth is absolute, unequivocal bliss, and he freefalls into her heat. He shouldn’t enjoy this, he shouldn’t, but… Arya knows the truth now. She knows the ugliest corners of his soul, and still she’s here, her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, and by the Maker, he loves her so fucking much.

It’s not until she leaves the stables an hour later that Blackwall realizes they didn’t talk.

(A/N: smutty/angsty oneshot about their confrontation in the stables is here on AO3. Enjoy if you are so inclined! xo)

[shardclan]

Since the moment the old dynasty ended, Arcanus had been Telos' right hand. Before Bestealcian was trained well enough to be her Umbra Wolf, and before Lutia had healed enough to be Queen's Mage, Arcanus had faithfully been at her side. And despite the undeniable fact that his personality had softened and lightened and that he clung more openly to the few dragons he was attached to, most of his time was still undeniably spent watching Telos' back. 

So it was strange to finally feel what it was like to be on the other side of her desk, pinned in place by her gaze. 

It should have been a simple task. Shekhinah and Ranti were certainly going to be wherever Faded had cropped up, so Arcanus and Bestealcian were to go investigate. It was supposed to be quiet, in and out, even if they found something wrong they were not supposed to raise even so much as their voice. Yet even before they were deep enough into the city for the daylight to have fully faded, there was so much that had left Arcanus in the wrong state of mind for the job.

“What happened?”

Stubs of Carnelian's cigarettes. Dozens of them. Some old, some fresh. Arcanus hadn't seen him since their talk about Stellaria and how odd Carnelian's actions had been lately. But Carnelian hadn't wandered far on his supposed job, it seemed. Signs of his presence only grew thicker as Bestealcian led the way, and Arcanus knew the imperial had been to see Hitth. He didn't smoke during stakeouts.

Bestealcian's jab at his disquiet. It wasn't even that she liked to push his buttons, she just didn't have a single reverent feather on her body. Her tone had been light-hearted and joking rather when she asked if he was worried about 'his boyfriend'. He wasn’t so far gone such childish words could upset him, but his reproach was firm. "Don't say that. It would hurt Atsushi if that kind of thing reached him." 

Even as he said it, he knew he was saying something strange. Arcanus hadn't forgiven Atsushi in spite of his reform. Lately he sympathized with him--he could no longer regard unrequited love as a waste of time and energy that could be better spent on self-improvement--but that didn't mean he actually cared about Atsushi. But he did care about Carnelian, and knew instinctively that if such a stupid misunderstanding reached Atsushi’s ears, Carnelian would-- He would...

Oh.

Something about how simple it was had deeply embarrassed him.  He was still new to openly caring for his loved ones, and practically new born at being in love, and it amazed him how easily he could now recognize the seeds of it in others. The old him would have never noticed, and probably not believed it if he were told. A part of him wished he was still that stoicism on his side. It felt indecent and invasive that the nature of a could-be relationship between two people could creep over someone uninvolved and dawn on them like that. Romantic gossip had merely been frivolous nonsense to him before, but it seemed downright rude now.

So it was that Arcanus had stopped being in the right frame of mind to meet Hitth long before they actually arrived at the crumbled temple, and finding his brother there was merely the largest crack in the already crumbling foundations of his once-stolid disposition. That Ashes responded with wide, fearful eyes and clutched fingers didn't help.

It was the guilt in his brother’s eyes that set Arcanus off. It said “I know. I know I shouldn’t be here. I know this isn’t safe, that I’ve put myself in danger, and that I’ve hurt you.” If it had been the first time, perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad. But Arcanus had already asked Ashes to stay away--had intentionally hid his visits from Stellaria and made a liar of himself. 

His sword was in his hand as he approached, and he was ready to become a murderer. “Not again!” he’d cried. “I WILL NOT LET THIS HAPPEN AGAIN!”

Then there had been the light. 

And the vision. 

His knees thudded in the dirt from a thousand worlds away, and the sword fell from his grip. Tiny insects that looked like motes of light in the high summer sun replaced the dark landscape. She was there as he’d seen in a thousand dreams, standing in the Summerlands with the high summer wheat waving around her waist. The unnamed scion was there with her, and of course she wasn’t unnamed. He heard a name called that wasn’t Shard and must have been hers but he was too overwhelmed to recall it. Telos’ eyes lit up in a way Arcanus hadn’t seen in near ten eons now, and Fragment appeared like a pouncing mirror from out of the stalking. He lifted her up, and Arcanus’ head and heart rang with the sound of her joyful laughter.

When he turned away, it was only because it was too bright to look at. He came to in that dark world with Ashes’ wild eyed, crying face right before him. Arcanus’ own face was wet, and it was not from his brother’s tears.

Bestealcian had ushered him back, but he had more or less been sleep-walking the whole way, right until the moment he had been called in. Ashes sat on one stool, another left open, Lutia on Telos’ left and Azricai standing to her right. Where Arcanus normally would have been. And when their eyes met, he felt his heart calm. He hadn’t asked her to. As the Judge, it was particularly illegal for her to use AREI on others. But he needed it the way Carnelian needed cigarettes and Eos needed the pearlcatcher scroll and Heaven needed pain. So he accepted that calming wave with as subtle but grateful an expression as he could...

...And didn’t say any of that. 

“When I saw Ashes there I lost control of myself,” he stated factually. “I made the move to kill Hitth, but when I did, I looked into...whatever it is they do. As we see, I made it back, but I am potentially contaminated as well now.”

Telos glanced sidelong at Azricai, who appeared vexed but nodded anyway. Her fingers drummed along the marble top of the desk, until finally she clasped her hands together. 

“While you were gone, something came through the rift were the seat almost tore through the veils during transport. It looked like a dragon, though it might not have been. Faded attached to it.” 

When she was assured by their recoiling that they understood the weight of that statement, she continued: “According to Ranti, it’s functionally a spirit, but very special one. And the rest of the coven will be coming to incubate and stabilize its presence in this world when Auspice departs them on the next full moon.”

“W...well that’s fine then isn’t it...?” Ashes ventured timidly.

“I’m not sure it is. When Ranti tried to explain it, words like ‘ultraplanar’ and ‘greater manifestation’ were tossed around. There is also the very interesting matter where Ranti is apparently capable of using her orogenesis to materialize pure white celestine.”

Recoil was not all that Telos got out the two this time. Whatever else had happened to them in Hewn City, Ashes was the former student of a powerful Archmage and a scholar who thrived on greater understanding of magic; and Arcanus was a magic knight who believed from his youth that the past was something that should be learned from. 

“Where is it?!” Ashes screamed. He had the sense to sound scared rather than excited for once. “It’s extremely dangerous to Arcanites! Even a small amount could kill any one of us!”

“Outside House Betelegeuse,” Telos said coolly. “Sealing shut the rift, because now that something has finally come through it, more things are expected to follow. Sit down.”

“But--!!!”

“Sit down,” Telos repeated, with Arcanus’ steely voice echoing her. 

Ashes flinched, more at his brother than Telos. His hands flexed open and shut, gripping his hair, his clothes, each other. Much as Arcanus had never been on the other side of Telos’ scrutiny, Ashes had never been on the other side of Arcanus’ anger. He sat down.

Telos, meanwhile, took to her feet and circled the desk until she was standing over them both. “Something is stirring in this clan. After all these untried eons of picking up the pieces and figuring out how to be responsible for the old agreements, were are again at risk from something or someone who actively  means us ill. Right now, Dreamweaver is weakened and exhausted. They would protect us if they could, but I intend to protect them right now. So I have no patience for weak hearts.” 

She pointed the pommel of her rapier at Ashes. “I let your visits to the Hewn City go uncommented on because I thought you would stop when Arcanus asked you to. But instead you went behind his back. So I can’t trust that you won’t go behind mine as well.”

From where she still stood like a stormy-faced statue, Azricai decreed: “You are sentenced to house arrest, with the specification that you will be confined to your lab so as not to interrupt your important work. When your expertise as Tribune is required, you will be accompanied to and from the designated site, and you are not to be without your chaperone at penalty of imprisonment.”

Ashes opened his mouth to cry out in protest, but wisely closed it even though he trembled in his seat. When Lutia rested her compassionately on his shoulder, he let himself be guided away in silence that was only interrupted by his hitching, barely-controlled sobs.

This left Arcanus alone under Telos’ scrutinizing glare. Though he had not actively disappointed her, he could see her assessing the odds that he would go the same way. Addicted to whatever hidden desire he had been shown and willing to brave the dark and treacherous avenues of the Hewn City for another glimpse. 

He must have passed, since she let her rapier rest back against her hip. “Whatever you have seen today, I hope you understand that it is an escape. The way things are here and now in this world will not change, whether you chase that vision or not.”

Arcanus kept a stony countenance, but his heart fluttered beneath his breastplate. How strong the Morning Queen had grown. This Telos was certainly not the withdrawn and cynical Xannite Alchemist, but nor was she her freshly-coronated self, who was easily frustrated and prone to becoming excessively anxious over even small problems. 

He was a fool to love her for sure, but he couldn’t decide if it was arrogant of him to be as proud of her as he was at that moment. 

“I hope your heart will be focused on what is and not what could be, Arcanus.”

The sound of her laughter in the arms of Fragment rose up from the back of her mind, but it found less purchase than he expected. An ideal version of events it might very well be, but his Telos was here, and no miracle would happen that brought her family back to her in this world. 

“You are my charge,” he answered finally. “That is above all other things.”

Beyond Telos, he noted Azricai’s grip relax atop her cane and her knuckles regaining their color.