Chapter 1 of my four-part take on Blackwall/Lavellan’s romance during Inquisition. Read here on AO3!

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The first time they kiss, Blackwall takes her by surprise.

He stands on the balcony admiring her before making his presence known. She’s waiting for him, pacing nervously like a caged lion, and he watches her footsteps with a bittersweet ache in his chest. He knows what he wants, but he also knows what’s best for her, and it’s certainly not an imposter wearing a thin veneer of morality.

Lady Lavellan turns, and her eyes widen slightly as she catches sight of him. A broad smile breaks across her gamine face.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she quips. Her amethyst eyes hold a cheeky glint, and despite his inner turmoil, his shoulders relax at her humour. She knows why he’s here; she invited him. He wouldn’t have come otherwise.

He’s still not sure it was wise to come at all.

He takes a step toward her. He’s here to thank her and nothing more; that’s all he should do, it’s the only thing that’s right, but before he has time to cement his will, his heart surges ahead, racing towards its fondest desire, and he’s powerless to do anything but follow.

“I just… had to see you,” he admits helplessly. He wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her against him. Her pupils dilate with excitement, and he takes a moment to admire the welcome parting of her lips before taking full advantage of their softness.

Arya is sweet and pliant, sinking enthusiastically into his kiss. Her fingers grip his shoulder, her breasts press against his chest, and he blissfully savours the plumpness of her lower lip. The moment is perfect, she’s perfect, and this is wrong, it’s wrong and he knows it…

“It doesn’t feel wrong,” she breathes. The selfish part of his mind, the part he tries so hard to deny, agrees with her and clamours for him to follow suit.

He gazes at her pleadingly. His resolve is crumbling under the shining approval in her gaze. He tried so hard to steel himself before coming here, but everything about her makes him weak in the knees: the sultry arch of her back, the sheen of his kiss on her lips, the goodness that shines from her like veilfire…

Blackwall is lost. He can’t do right by her. She’s knocked him hopelessly head over heels, and he’s unable to right himself. “I need you to end this,” he begs. “Because I can’t.”

She grins and strokes his cheek fondly. “I’m not letting you go,” she says.

His heart quails with sorrow and swells with joy. She thinks he’s being foolish and noble, but she has no idea. He cares for her more than he’s ever cared for anyone, and he’s deceived her more terribly than he’s ever deceived anyone, and she has no idea. “You’ll regret this, my lady,” he warns.

She cradles the back of his neck and kisses him hard. Her fingers are in his hair, her lips hot and branding, and he basks in the glory of her mouth.

“Do you regret that?” she breathes. Her voice is a velvety whisper against his cheek, irresistible and addictive, and at long last, he capitulates. His mask is briefly lifted, his chains broken by her acceptance, and for a shining moment he lets himself be himself.

He pulls her close with a hand on her hip and devours the sweetness of her lips. Her silken tongue is in his mouth, his teeth are on her lower lip, and he walks her backwards until they meet the sturdiness of the banister.

He pens her against the banister and she gasps, a sound more melodious than Maryden’s most beautiful ballad. She presses her hips firmly to his, and her excitement bleeds into him, a streak of red-hot eagerness that brings his cock to full attention. He cradles her neck in one hand and explores the hem of her coat with the other, his fingers sliding inside, his thumb tracing along her ribs, his palm sculpting the curve of her waist.

She’s panting, her eyes feverish with hunger as she arches into his touch. She reaches for his belt, her nimble fingers sliding over the buckle, and it’s all happening so fast: His belt hits the floor, hers is flung lazily over the arm of the couch, their coats are hastily discarded as they fall onto the bed, and Blackwall can’t quite believe his fortune. He came here tonight to thank her for supporting him, for being everything he wants to be, but this...

Arya stretches sinuously beneath him, half-clothed and tempting, and she’s everything: the sight of her, the feel of her, it’s more than he dared to dream. She wraps one leg around his waist as he cradles her neck in his palm, and she tilts her chin up entreatingly.

“Kiss me,” she commands.

Blackwall eagerly complies. His cock is pulsing with lust, but his heart is pounding even harder. He’s a soldier at heart, a man who follows, and he’s never been happier to follow an order.

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

The second time they kiss, she takes him by surprise.

He’s chopping wood in the courtyard, splitting logs carefully so he can carve a rocking griffon for the children. Small deeds for small people make a big difference – he and Sera are in agreement on this front – and this is the first time in years he’s had the time to use his hands for carving instead of killing.

She saunters towards him, hands in her pockets and a smile on her face. “Keeping busy, I see?”

He straightens at her approach and hastily wipes the sweat from his brow. “My lady,” he greets her. “What can I do for you?”

She raises her eyebrows, then gives a little laugh. “Oh. Nothing. I was just… checking in with everyone. Is there anything you need?”

You, he thinks instantly. A memory of the previous night springs to his mind: the golden expanse of her skin in the firelight, vibrant and shimmering like polished steel. His manhood stirs in his breeches, unfurling with interest at the fond memory, and he shifts awkwardly to hide his ardour. “No. Thank you,” he says gruffly. “These lodgings are much nicer than I’m used to. I’ve got everything I need.”

She nods a polite acknowledgement, then sidles closer to him. Her hands are clasped behind her back in a businesslike manner, but a tiny smirk lingers on her lips.

She steps closer still, and the breeze wafts her unique scent towards him. She smells of crystal grace and warmth, and in his distraction, he almost misses her words. “Everything you need?” she murmurs.

Her head is tilted flirtatiously, and her closeness is… more than that of colleagues. He surreptitiously looks around. The residents of Skyhold are milling about, talking and training, relaxing and working, and nobody in particular is looking at them, but by the Maker, she’s the Inquisitor. She’s the shining paragon of this organization, their proud sigil and their righteous sword, yet she’s standing so close to him. Blackwall isn’t sure what he expected, but this – her nearness in front of, well, everyone: this is not what he expected.

He looks back down at her. Her gaze is warm and inviting, and her intention couldn’t be more clear unless it was inscribed across her forehead, but he still can’t quite believe it. Why him? Of all the respectable, honourable men in the Inquisition, why-?

Suddenly she reaches up and cups his neck, just like she did last night, and before he can say a word of caution, her lips have taken his.

He’s stunned. The Inquisitor is kissing him in public, in full view of the entire castle.

A surge of emotion squeezes his chest, and he wraps his arms around her waist, holding her close as though she can cure the bittersweet ache in his chest. But she can’t heal this wound; she’s the unwitting cause of it, after all, his sweetest poison and his most aching antidote, but he holds her close all the same. He’s hurting them both in the long run by letting this linger, but Blackwall knows the limits of his strength, and now that he’s tasted her infinite sweetness, he’s incapable of going back.

A long, utopian moment later, she pulls away and smiles slowly at him. He gazes at her face, drinking in her fine elven features and the enticing flush of her lips.

Reluctantly she steps back, squeezing his fingers once before finally releasing his hand. “We’ll talk later,” she says.

Her tone is light and professional, but her violet eyes are glittering with intent, and he feels his cheeks warming with pleasure. He doesn’t understand her interest in him and he suspects he never will, but the unspoken promise in her words is enough to wipe the incredulity from his mind for now.

He inclines his head courteously. “As you wish, my lady.”

She grins, a flash of blinding humour that steals his breath for a moment. “Always so polite, Ser Blackwall,” she teases. Then she saunters away.

He smiles foolishly as he watches her departure. He picks up his axe and glances around the courtyard once more. He’s a beacon of happiness, and it feels like everyone should be staring at his vulgar glow, but aside from a passing stonemason who throws him a hearty wink, no one seems to be paying him much attention.

Blackwall releases a soft breath. It’s for the best, really, if they don’t notice her fondness for him; the Inquisitor deserves to keep better company than a man like him. Besides, if people start to notice them, somebody might notice him. He’s travelled alone all this time for a reason, after all.

He goes back to splitting logs one by one, but he can’t stop the smile from lighting his face. We’ll talk later, she said.

He wonders how long he’ll have to wait.

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

The third time they kiss, the entire tavern takes him by surprise.

It’s late evening, and Blackwall is enjoying an ale with Sera and the Iron Bull. The tavern is more lively than usual tonight: word of Sera’s playful pranks on the Inquisitor’s advisors are spreading through the castle like wildfire, along with a rumour that the Inquisitor herself played a role in Sera’s escapades.

“Was it really the boss’s idea to dump a bucket of water on Josephine’s head?” Bull asks with a hint of disbelief.

“Of course not, you lump,” Sera riposts. “It was my idea. Lavellan just pointed out the door, filled the bucket, and put it in place. Me and her, we’re brains and brawn, yeh?”

Blackwall smiles into his stein. Sera is the only person who would ever describe the slender Lady Lavellan as ‘brawny’.

Sera elbows him roughly. “What are you grinning about, you?”

“Your clever practical jokes, of course,” he says mildly. “What else?”

Sera snorts boisterously and downs her third shot of Abyssal peach. “Yeah right. I see the way you look at her.” Sera makes an obnoxious kissing noise until Blackwall rolls his eyes and elbows her in return.

“She’s right,” Bull deadpans. “Everyone sees.”

This gets Blackwall’s attention. “They do?” he says, with a hint of dismay. Lady Lavellan would be better off if they kept their affair quiet. By the Maker, he should have told her to keep him an arm’s length away…

Bull frowns. “Of course. Your desire for sex with the boss is so potent I can smell it. You should follow your instincts, you know. It’s healthy. Take her to bed. Or on the table. Or against a wall. I can lend you some items to spice things up-”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Blackwall interrupts. His face is burning with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation. He’s not adverse to a little ribald sparring among friends, but this is different; it’s Lady Lavellan, and it’s more than just sex – or at least, it is for him. “Don’t talk about the Inquisitor that way,” he scolds.

Bull frowns more deeply. “Talk about her in what way? She wants to have sex with you, too. Maybe it’s you who should be tied to the bed. Seems to me she’s the more dominant one.”

Sera cackles at this, and Blackwall squinches his face and hastily gulps from his half-empty stein without responding. The Iron Bull’s words are vigorously stirring his imagination, and suddenly he can see it all too clearly: he’s stretched on her ridiculous Orlesian bed, stripped to the waist and tied to the bedposts, and his lady is rising above him-

The tavern door opens, and Blackwall jumps guiltily as a clamour of voices announces the identity of the newcomer.

“Your Worship!”

“It’s the Herald!”

He turns to look, and there she is, her Dalish tattoos creased by the broadness of her smile. She nods to everyone who greets her and addresses most of them by name, accepting their pats on her back and their enthusiastic shaking of her hand.

She meets his eye and shoots him a tiny wink, and he can’t help but grin in return.

“Hopeless sod,” Sera snickers.

Blackwall barely hears her. He’s too busy watching as the Inquisitor makes her way towards their table. She’s like a leaf caught in a river, floating easily and gently through the crowd, but just as easily snagged by everyone’s bids for attention.

The Iron Bull eventually moves away to join the Chargers. Sera remains beside him, eating plate after plate of chips and chattering to him and to the other patrons, but Blackwall only listens with half an ear. He watches as the Inquisitor drifts closer, carried by the conversations of those around her until finally she arrives at his side.

She sits beside him with a smile. Her knee presses comfortably against his as she takes her seat. “Blackwall, Sera. How are you?”

Sera swallows a huge mouthful of potato and speaks before he has a chance. “You two aren’t going to get all handsy, are you? Should I be taking my supper somewhere else in case you make me sick?”

Blackwall shoots Sera a stern look, but Lady Lavellan simply smirks and leans back as she sips her wine. “If you do have someplace else to be, don’t let me stop you.”

Sera snorts a laugh. “Trying to get rid of me, right? Nice try. I’ve no problem staying where I’m not wanted. It’s where I do my best work.”

The Inquisitor blinks innocently. “Of course I don’t want you to leave! In fact, to show how much I appreciate you…” She stands and cranes her neck to look over the crowd. “Maryden?” she calls, then jerks her head in Sera’s direction.

Sera’s eyes widen to the size of her plate. “No,” she blurts. “Not that stupid song-”

Maryden strums her lyre, and to Blackwall’s complete surprise, the Inquisitor breaks into song:

Sera was never an agreeable girl
Her tongue tells tales of rebellion.
But she was so fast and quick with her bow,
No one quite knew where she came from.

Blackwall stares at his lady in slack-jawed wonder. He had no idea she could sing, but her voice is wonderful, easily as clear as Maryden’s. Some of the nearby patrons hoot encouragement, and someone starts to clap, and soon the entire tavern is clapping in time to Sera’s song.

Sera’s mouth falls open with dismay. “You pisshead!” she whines at the Inquisitor.

Lavellan grins and waves an arm encouragingly, and the tavern rings with voices as the majority of the occupants belt out the chorus in various degrees of drunkenness.

She would always like to say:
‘Why change the past when you can own this day?’
Today she will fight to keep her way
She’s a rogue and a thief and she’ll tempt your fate.

Finally Sera shoves her plate away and runs off, much to Blackwall’s amusement. He grins up at Lavellan as she continues to sing along with the rest of the tavern. Pubgoers grin and pat her on the back, humans and elves and dwarves alike, soldiers and spies and stonemasons, and Blackwall marvels at her many sparkling facets. She’s the Inquisitor, their leader and their symbol, but she’s also Arya Lavellan, a Dalish archer who plays pranks and remembers the serving staff’s names and sings in pubs. She commands loyalty, but she also fosters love. It’s what Blackwall once sought to be as a captain, and perhaps he achieved it at some point, but he lost sight of what was important. He was selfish and shortsighted, blinded by his own greed and pride.

Blackwall – the real Blackwall – set him on the right path, but Lavellan is the one who guides him forth. She’s a glowing torch lighting his path, her crystalline voice ringing with everything that’s good in this damned world. Where once he would have crashed hopelessly against the shores of his own shame, she stands as a lighthouse in the darkness of his life, brightening the shadows of his past with helpful deeds and cheeky jokes. He was trying so hard to be a better man, but with her example to guide him, it’s no longer a trial; it’s a privilege, one he’ll passionately follow to his death.

He stares at her, all amusement drowned away by the overwhelming swollen feeling in his chest. Lady Lavellan is clapping along with the rest of the tavern, no longer singing but grinning widely as she listens to everyone else’s song. Her cheeks are flushed with warmth and wine, and she sways from side to side in time with the melody.

Sera was right, he realizes. He’s hopeless. He’s utterly and completely in love.

The song draws to a close, and the tavern erupts into applause and cheering. Lavellan lifts her half-empty glass to the room at large, and the resultant cheer makes his ears ring. She sips her wine, then smirks down at him.

“So that worked well,” she hollers over the noise. “We’re finally alone.”

He smiles, though his swollen heart feels like it’s stuck in his throat. He looks around pointedly at the crowded pub. “In this place? I wouldn’t call this ‘alone’,” he shouts back.

She smiles more broadly, revealing the charming dimple in her left cheek. “I’ll take my moments where I can get them,” she yells. Then she grabs his coat collar and pulls.

He rises to his feet, powerless to resist her grip on his coat, and suddenly she’s kissing him hungrily, her hands fisted in his collar and pulling him close. The taste of her is intoxicating, the fruit of red wine and the honey of her tongue, and he shamelessly revels in her for a shining moment. Then, to his utter shock, the pub explodes into applause, even more boisterous than before, the noise so loud it almost shakes the rafters.

They’re cheering for them, for him and his lady together, and he’s gobsmacked by the approval. The Inquisitor is so far above him, both in rank and in deed, but from the level of hooting and hollering, no one seems to care.

Finally she pulls away with a tinkling laugh, and he stares at her in complete adoration like the hopeless sod that he is. “You know what this means,” he murmurs to her. “The pub has seen us kissing. It’ll be all over the castle by morning.”

She slides her arms around his neck and presses her lips to his ear. “Let them talk,” she whispers. Her lips trail gently across his bearded cheek, and then she’s kissing him again.

Her lips are gentle and soft this time, and he clutches her close like priceless treasure. The Inquisitor has publicly marked him as her own, and it’s like a weight has lifted from his shoulders. With this one open display of affection, she’s forced him to discard the yoke of self-disgust that was holding him back from her, and now as she presses herself against him, he can’t find it in himself to feel guilty.

Blackwall is not the man she thinks he is. But he loves her so fucking much, and in this glowing moment of complete happiness, he can almost convince himself that it’s enough.

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

After the blissful night at the tavern, Blackwall loses track of their infinite kisses.

Arya’s heart is an open book, and he’s blessed to be the only reader. She’s generous and free with her fondness; she visits him at the stables every day for no reason other than to kiss, her eyes glowing with mischief as he crowds her against the column and leans in close.

They kiss too frequently to count, but he cherishes every moment like golden medals on a ceremonial coat. Her affection is easy and casual, and she shows it in a million different ways: gentle stroking of his back when they sit together at the tavern, a teasing tweak of his beard when Dorian pokes fun at him, a flirtatious hand on his chest when she asks him to bash down a crumbling wall. It happens dozens of times a day, but Blackwall notices every touch with a leaping of excitement in his belly.

They spend every night tangled together in her bed, and Blackwall still marvels at how naturally it happened. He didn’t dare ask to join her, and she didn’t explicitly ask him to stay, yet here they are night after night, her naked body sprawled across his chest and her eyelashes fluttering against his skin as she walks the Fade in her dreams. As the moon shines through the window, he runs his fingers through her pixie-short hair and silently recites his love like a pious man reciting a rosary.

He strokes her silken-skinned shoulder with his thumb. I adore you, he thinks. I’m not the man you think I am, but I love you so fucking much. In these perfect moments of peace, he can almost convince himself the truth isn’t important, and that love will be enough.

Their days sail by in an incessant flow of activity. Blackwall accompanies her almost everywhere at her command. They close deep road fissures in the Storm Coast, and he slashes through darkspawn so her arrowheads can bite deep. They muddle through the Fallow Mire, and he shoves the undead away from her so she can explode them with her arrows. He stands proudly at her shoulder as she convinces agent after agent to join their cause. In every place she deigns to bring him, he’s the shield defending her bow and the brawn behind her silver tongue.

Then they go to the Winter Palace for Empress Celene’s ‘peace talks’, and it’s almost his undoing.

Blackwall stands alone in the Hall of Heroes and minds his own business. He’s never been comfortable at these kinds of parties, but living under a stolen name has made him even more averse to such things. When some drunken noble almost recognizes him, he’s brusque and dismissive, but this only seems to foster the noble’s curiosity. Blackwall is a breath away from threatening the poncy fool when he hears her voice.

“Ser Blackwall, what a pleasure. It’s been too long.”

A surge of panic steals his breath. Her jocular tone is his favourite sound in the world, but at this moment it’s the last thing he wants to hear.

She sidles up to him and listens curiously as the noble mumbles about more drinks and lurches away, then turns her curious gaze on him. He breathes slow and deep to regain his composure as she asks about his alleged Silverite Wings of Valour. He’s too rattled to come up with proper answers, and he watches with increasing anxiety as her brow creases in a frown.

He shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake. He should have found an excuse to stay at Skyhold. She’s cottoned on, and his time is up. But Arya surprises him by taking his hand.

“Don’t listen to Josephine,” she says gently. “You don’t have to be nervous. Everything will be fine.” She winks. “I’m extremely charming, in case you didn’t notice. The court adores me already, and all I’ve done is walk through the doors.”

She’s comforting him. She’s the one under scrutiny, the heathen elf that every critical eye is watching, and she’s comforting him.

Blackwall swallows hard. Love and guilt are warring in his belly, rendering him nauseous, and he can’t find the words to answer. His lies were easier when he didn’t know her, but she’s no longer just a pretty archer with a righteous title. She’s the Inquisitor, his Arya, his leader and his lover, and she deserves the truth.

She blinks guilelessly up at him, ignorant to his unspoken angst. “Before the night is through, will you save a dance for me?” she asks.

Blackwall gazes into her lovely face. His chest is fit to collapse under the weight of his own deception. She deserves so much better than him, but as long as she wants him, he’s powerless to deny her. “All of them,” he says seriously. “Every dance is yours.”

She beams at him, then stands on tip-toe and lifts her chin. The kiss she bestows upon him is tender and light, an infinite comfort in this duplicitous place, and he hates himself for enjoying it.

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

The rest of the night passes with minimal fuss – at least by Inquisition standards.

Florianne is dragged away by the guards, snivelling into her lacy collar. Lady Lavellan persuades the Empress and the Duke and the elven spymaster to make nice. When it’s all over, Blackwall finds the Inquisitor on the balcony. As he approaches, he hears her heavy sigh.

He steps up beside her, and Arya looks at him. The corners of her tattooed eyes crinkle with welcome, but her face is pale with fatigue. “Ser Blackwall,” she says.

He inclines his head. “My lady. I’m surprised to find you out here all alone.”

Her smile widens slightly, and she leans against his shoulder and sighs again. “It’s been a long night,” she says quietly.

He presses his lips to her temple. “You work too hard,” he murmurs. “I can see wanting to get away from it all.”

She lifts her chin and bats her eyes at him. “Away from everything except you, my gallant Warden.”

He smiles, but his heart squeezes painfully. He should tell her; it’s a perfect opening for the truth. But how would he say it? Where would he start? Now that you mention it, I’m not a Warden at all…

He clears his throat, then steps back from the balustrade and holds out his hand. “Before we leave: may I have this dance, Lady Lavellan?”

She beams at him, her amethyst eyes bright with amusement, and takes his hand without hesitation. “I didn’t know you danced.”

“I did once. In another life,” he says. He pulls her close and inhales her floral scent.

“Hmmm. Another life, you say?” she murmurs. Her voice is dreamy and languid, but her question is genuine.

He steels himself to tell her. He can start with his name. That’s easy enough, isn’t it?

He takes a deep breath. He opens his mouth. And she begins to hum.

Her voice is soft and breathy, drifting with perfect melody across his neck, and the words fade into nothing at the back of his tongue.

He can’t do it. Not tonight. She’s relaxed and happy, and she’s earned this rest. Her lips caress his neck, a featherlight brushing at the edge of his beard, and a shiver of pleasure trickles down his throat and into his belly to pool in his groin.

She deserves to know the truth. It’s the least he can do for the woman he loves. Instead, he turns his head and meets her questing lips.

He’ll tell her tomorrow.