The third chapter of my mini-series about Arya Lavellan and Blackwall.
Chapter 1 here.
Chapter 2 here.
The whole thing on AO3 here.

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

He sleeps in the barn for two agonizing, lonely nights. He wants nothing more than to hold her sleeping body close, but he also wants to give her space.

On the third night, she wanders into the barn and folds her arms. “Are you coming to bed?” she demands.

“Yes, my lady,” he says immediately. He follows her obediently back into the castle, feeling almost weak with relief.

After this, things return to a semblance of normal, but it is a semblance. There’s been a shift, a slight misaligning, and it rubs him wrong, like the creeping unreality of the Fade.

He accompanies her almost everywhere at her command. In the Emerald Graves, he draws the giants’ attention so she can poison them with her arrows. At the Forbidden Oasis, he boosts her up the steeper crevices and shields her against the giant spiders. She jokes with him and points out interesting sights, but she does this with Sera and Bull and Dorian as well.

They sleep together every night, her back pressed to his chest and his arm around her waist. She entwines her fingers with his to keep him close, but he can’t help but notice that she doesn’t curl against him anymore. She doesn’t tuck her head under his chin and throw her leg across his body. She curls passively on her side, waiting for him to enfold her.

She visits him in the barn every day. They chat about little things like they did before, but her laughter doesn’t come as easy. She asks questions about his past and about his knowledge of the Wardens, and he answers them truthfully. But he doesn’t say the most important words, the ones burning his heart to ash.

They fuck most nights like they did before, but her other touches are lacking, and it’s these everyday touches that he misses most desperately: her flirtatious hand on his chest, her tweaking of his beard, her gentle stroking of his back.

They don’t kiss nearly as often as they used to, and he feels emptier for it.

The worst part is the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes he half-wakes and finds her sprawled across him like she used to do. Her inhibitions fall away in sleep, and he understands that this – the unconscious embrace of her sleeping body – this is what she truly wants, but her waking mind is afraid.

Blackwall has lost her trust, and she’s afraid he’ll hurt her again. He wants to show her that it’ll never happen again – he would sooner die than hurt her again – but although he tries his best, he doesn’t know how to fix it.

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

Their travels are put on hold as the situation the Arbor Wilds grows more urgent. Lavellan spends her time with the advisors and Morrigan, planning for the big battle.

Blackwall spends his time training with Bull’s Chargers and sitting on the roof eating disgusting cookies with Sera. He works on the rocking griffon, and he helps Master Dennet with the horses. All the while, he ruminates on how to repair the damage he’s done.

“You have a lot of feelings,” Cole says.

Blackwall jumps in startelement and almost drops his screwdriver. He glares in the direction of the stables’ upper level. “Get down from there,” he growls. He turns resolutely back to his workbench and jumps again.

Cole is crouched on the table, a bowl of crushed mint in his hands. “Words hang back, pressing, pushing, pounding at the dam. He wants to tell her, but he’s afraid. What if the words don’t match? What if it’s not the same for her?” Cole fixes him with that eerie pale-eyed stare. “The flood in Crestwood was bad. It hurt people. But she needs this flood to heal.”

Blackwall scowls at the spirit-boy. “Go bother Solas, won’t you?” he mutters. He pulls a piece of sandpaper out from under Cole’s foot and starts sanding down the wooden toy.

“All right,” Cole says serenely. He slides off the table and ambles away, and Blackwall wonders irritably why Cole ever bothers to walk anywhere if he can just appear at will.

He tries to distract himself by smoothing out the rougher edges of the rocking griffon, but Cole’s words twist and turn in his mind. The spirit-boy speaks in tongues most of the time, but for once, his words aren’t completely nonsensical.

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

Days go by. Dark circles take residence under Lavellan’s eyes. Blackwall asks about the battle plans for the Arbor Wilds, and she explains to him in detail; he makes humble suggestions about combat strategy, and she takes them back to Cullen. But he doesn’t say the words that are swelling at the back of his throat and threatening to smother him.

The Inquisitor and her advisors finalize their plans, and they make the announcement to everyone: they move on the Arbor Wilds in two days’ time.

Lavellan paces in the bedroom late that night. A cloud of nervous energy buzzes around her, as though Sera has thrown a grenade of anxious bees at her feet. “Leliana’s spies will be in place by tomorrow morning, and their ravens will return before nightfall. The Orlesian army is already en route, and our suppliers stand ready to provision their journey. Cullen’s people will join up with them before they head south. Bull and Krem have the Chargers raring to go, I have a full stock of elixirs ready, Morrigan is-”

He takes her hands and stops her. “Arya. Stop. Come here and breathe.” He pulls her down to sit beside him on the couch.

Her fingers are tense and cold, and she stares at him, all authoritative Inquisitor. “Will you come with me while we search for this eluvian?” she demands.

“Of course,” he says. He squeezes her hands, trying to infuse some warmth into them. “I’ll always be by your side. You know that.”

Her mask suddenly falls away, exposing a heartbreaking mixture of hope and disbelief painted across her face, and Blackwall barely has a moment to take it in before the Inquisitor reappears. “Good,” she says brusquely. “I’ll bring Solas along as well; his knowledge of elven lore will be invaluable. I can’t decide if Bull or Cassandra would be-”

“Arya,” he interrupts gruffly. He’s close to choking on his own regrets, and Cole’s words are rattling around his mind: She needs this flood to heal.“I will never leave your side again, not unless you command me to go. Do you understand that?”

She falls silent and averts her eyes. Her fingers are stiff in his hands. “You can’t promise that,” she says.

“I can,” he says, and she finally looks at him, her attention captured by the vehemence of his tone. He stares into the clear pools of her amethyst eyes. They’ll soon be facing the biggest battle they’ve ever seen together; Blackwall knows the stakes, he knows what’s at risk, and if ever there was a time to say all the words that have been clamouring at the back of his tongue for weeks, it’s now.

“I should never have left you the way I did,” he says. “It was cruel. It was… I was a fucking fool. I can’t imagine what you must have thought-”

“I didn’t know what to think!” she suddenly yells. She pushes herself to her feet and glares at him. “I thought… I thought you used me. Maybe you had another woman somewhere, or a secret family…” She trails off and rubs her nose, and Blackwall can’t stop himself; an incredulous burst of amusement escapes his chest.

“Another woman? Me? When would I have found another woman while wandering around in the woods for years?”

Arya’s face is turning adorably red – whether with fury or embarrassment, he can’t be sure. “How could I have known that?” she snaps. “You left me no information. You left me nothing. And then it turns out you ran off to have yourself executed.” Blackwall’s perplexed amusement abruptly disappears as a tear runs down her face. “What if Leliana hadn’t found that announcement about Mornay? What if we’d been even one day late? It was luck that we got to Val Royeaux when we did!”

She’s shouting now, her fists clenched and her face twisted with rage. “You left me, Blackwall. After everything we had, you left me and you would have died without telling me why! How could you think I would just… get over it? You didn’t think I loved-”

She clamps her lips shut and turns away, her arms wrapped tight around her middle. Blackwall rises to his feet, his heart pounding with a combination of anticipation and distress. The word she said, that word she bit back, it’s the one that’s been burning his tongue for months, and he wants to be the one to properly say it first. It’s the least he can do, the least she deserves.

He strides around to face her and takes hold of her arms. “Arya, I-”

She wrenches away from his grip. “I gave you everything,” she yells. “I held nothing back from you. I’ve been in this completely since the very start. I trusted you, you stubborn asshole, and you gave me lies and then you left me. You left me,” she screams, then sobs and covers her face with her hands.

He pulls her to his chest and wraps his arms around her, his heart aching sympathetically in time with the wracking of her body. He cradles the back of her neck in one palm and kisses the top of her head. “I was wrong,” he says, his voice quiet and fierce. “I handled it badly, and I’m sorry.”

She chokes out a caustic little laugh and weakly pounds his chest. “You’re sorry,” she spits mockingly. “You’d rather have died than stay with me and tell the truth, and all you can say is you’re sorry?”

He ignores her feebly striking fists and holds her tight; he’s not letting her go, not this time. He can see his missteps clearly now, and he knows she’s right, but it’s more than that. Blackwall is not the man she thinks he is. She thinks he lied because didn’t love her enough to stay, but she’s wrong. He loves her so fucking much, and he needs to convince her of this.

“I was a coward,” he agrees. “I ran away rather than telling the truth, but it’s not what you think. I… you deserve better,” he blurts gracelessly. “I’m just a man with a stained past, and-”

“I don’t care about your fucking past,” she snaps angrily. “All that matters is what you do now.”

He presses his lips to her cheekbone to hush her. “I know,” he whispers. “I know that now. But I didn’t know it then, and I didn’t want… I was afraid you’d be disgusted by me.” The words are hard and painful to say, and they scrape his chest like knives.

“That’s stupid,” Arya retorts, but her voice is softer, the edge of anger smoothing away bit by bit. She presses her cheek against his chest, and a burst of heartbreaking tenderness makes his throat ache.

“I have so little to give you, my lady,” he murmurs. “I have my sword and shield, and those are yours to command. But from the moment I laid eyes on you, my heart has always been yours. It’s not much, but it’s yours.”

She sobs again, but she’s pliant against his chest, and he gently wipes her tears from her tattooed cheeks. “I love you, Arya,” he says fiercely. “More than life itself. I’ll never lie to you again, and I’ll never leave your side. I love you.”

Her shoulders relax, and she slides her arms around him in a loose embrace. He presses his lips to her temple in a gentle kiss. “I love you,” he whispers again.

Cole was right; saying the words is like a dam breaking, and he can suddenly breathe easier as the weight is lifted from his chest. He keeps her close with one arm around her waist, but he tilts her chin up with his other hand and gazes into her eyes. “I love you,” he tells her softly. It feels so good to finally say it, and every recitation is like a shadow leaving his heart.

Her face is blotchy, her eyes reddened with tears, and she’s never been more beautiful. “I love you. Do you believe me?” he asks.

She swallows hard, then nods her head. “Yes,” she whispers, and a tiny smile lifts her lips.

He smiles back at her, and she smiles more widely still, then laughs.

It’s a watery sound, tremulous and tight with the remainders of her tears, but it’s a genuine laugh nonetheless, and Blackwall missed the sound so very, very much. Relief pounds through him, ratcheting up his already pounding pulse, and he kisses her smiling lips.

She parts her lips eagerly and nips at his lower lip, and he savours the feel of her mouth as it slides over his. She wraps her arms around his neck and delves her tongue into his mouth, her body flush to his, and he clutches her close and welcomes the heat of her tongue. It’s been so long since they kissed like this, a proper lingering kiss with the hard press of lips and the twining of tongues, and Blackwall is so damned relieved.

She breaks from his kiss and hastily starts shedding her clothes, her breaths short and desperate as she flings her gloves and vest aside. Her haste is contagious, and Blackwall starts to pull off his own coat and gloves, but he’s thoroughly distracted by her. She’s naked from the waist up, her breasts bobbing as she impatiently kicks her boots aside and drags her trousers off. Before he can do more than shuck off his coat and and shirt, she leaps at him and wraps her legs around his waist.

He catches her weight easily and tilts his chin up, and she kisses him ferociously. Her ankles are locked at the small of his back, her fingers tugging his hair and her breasts pressed to his chest, and Blackwall is so damned happy he could cry. She’s his Arya again, all uninhibited heat and passion, and he missed her so damn much.

He devours the sweetness of her mouth as he carries her to bed, then crawls onto the bed and carefully lays her on her back. Immediately she reaches for his belt. “Fuck me,” she breathes.

He captures her hands. “Wait, Arya, slow down. I want…” He trails off as she arches her back, his attention snared by her perfect petite breasts. He drags his eyes to her face and tries again. “I missed you,” he begs. “Just… just let me look at you.”

He’s not making sense, and her golden nakedness isn’t helping him gather his thoughts. It’s not like they haven’t been together almost every night, but it’s different now. He feels different now. He might not have fixed everything, but the words of love that he was hoarding in the depths of his throat have finally been freed, placed in her delicate palms for her to keep, and for the first time since he came back from Val Royeaux, Blackwall feels free.

He wants to savour this reunion, to take his time with her and show her how much he fucking loves her, but she’s his Arya, a voracious tempest of temptation, and the woman is used to taking what she wants from him.

She boldly spreads her legs wider. “Look all you like. No one’s stopping you,” she quips, and his heart throbs with with fondness even as his cock jerks with lust. She’s teasing him, teasing him like she used to do, and by the Maker’s bloody balls, he missed her so damn much.

He grapples with her until he has both her wrists in his left hand, then stretches her arms over her head. He supports himself on his left elbow and slides his right hand over her breast. Immediately she stops squirming and arches fiercely into his callused palm, her eyelids fluttering shut and her lips parting with pleasure.

“I will look, my lady,” he purrs. His greedy gaze roves over her body as he teases her nipple with his thumb. Her taut belly quivers with anticipation and her tender inner thighs are shining already with the sweet slickness of her arousal. He palms her breast firmly, then ducks his head and smoothes his tongue over her nipple.

She mewls sweetly and bucks her hips, but Blackwall ignores her writhing; he swirls his tongue around her nipple, then tugs the tiny bud with his lips. When he hears her panting, he lifts his face and looks at her.

Her cheeks are flushed pink, her lips cherry-red and lush. She’s the most exquisite thing he’s ever seen, the most exquisite thing that’s ever happened to him, and he stares at her face in complete adoration as he pinches her nipple before slowly trailing his fingers over her sternum and down over her navel.

Her breaths are sharp and shallow, each exhale punctuated by a breathy whimper, and he stores the sound in his memory like the most precious treasure. His fingers stroke carefully through her chestnut curls until they’re at the threshold of her heat, and he pauses.

She gasps for breath, then opens her eyes and stares at him. “Blackwall, touch me,” she orders. Her voice is breathy with want, her wrists straining in his grip, and despite the demand in her voice, her eyes are wide and pleading.

“As you command,” he growls. He slips his fingers lower to curve along the softness of her feminine folds, then lightly strokes the slick moisture there.

She arches her back viciously, her arms straining with exertion as she tries to fight his grip. “Falon’Din’s fucking balls, Blackwall, just-!”

He plunges two fingers inside of her and watches with relish as she throws her head back and cries out with surprise and ecstasy. Her hips buck against his hand, and he swirls his fingers in her tight heat for a moment before drawing his fingers free.

Arya sobs with pleasure and spreads her legs wide, but before she can speak, he lightly strokes the swollen bud of her clit, and the effect is instantaneous: the frantic bucking of her body slows as he strokes the red-hot button of her pleasure. She cranes her neck to the side and arches slowly into the gentle stroke of his finger.

Her eyes are squeezed shut, but Blackwall watches her hungrily. He slides his finger lightly around her clit, and she matches his rhythm with her hips, thrusting slow and sinuous against his hand. The tendon in her neck stands out like a banner, and he can’t help himself; he lowers his lips to her neck and nips the tempting line.

She moans, a shivering harmony of sound that makes Blackwall’s cock surge in his trousers. “Yes,” she gasps, then bucks sharply against his hand. He straightens his fingers, and she gasps more loudly still, then rubs herself against the flat of his fingers.

Blackwall is besotted. He’s completely lost in her: the taste of her neck against his tongue, the shimmering dew of sweat on her forehead, the hot moisture of her cleft, the wavelike undulation of her hips as she fucks his fingers. He watches carefully until she holds her breath, then at the moment that she inhales sharply in the peak of her pleasure, he bites her neck.

“Oh fuck,” she wails, and Blackwall grins against her skin. That’s his Arya, the delicate body of a rogue housing the bolshy mouth of a merc, and he kisses her carmine lips before sliding two fingers back inside of her and curling his fingers in a come-hither motion.

She screams into his mouth and tugs viciously at her wrists, and finally Blackwall releases her. Immediately she slides one hand into his hair, and once she stops shuddering with her climax, she pulls his head back. “Sit back,” she pants.

He watches her with abject devotion as she rises to her knees and shoves his chest until he’s sitting at the edge of the bed. Swift as a halla, she slides off the bed to her feet and tugs authoritatively at his belt. “Strip,” she commands.

Blackwall obeys. His boots come off, followed by his belt and trousers, and Arya drags his smallclothes off before shoving him forcefully in the chest until he’s sitting again. Immediately she straddles him and wraps her fist in his hair, her other hand on his cock and guiding him towards her entrance. “Fuck me. Right now,” she orders.

Blackwall obeys: he guides her hips into position, then firmly pulls her down onto his shaft.

Her tight pussy envelops him in a hot embrace, and he groans with helpless ecstasy. She cuts off her own animalistic cry of pleasure by sinking her teeth into his throat, and Blackwall gasps with a mind-numbing mixture of pain and pleasure. With one hand on her lower back, he pulls her firmly against his hips.

She digs her nails into his shoulders, her lips hot against his ear as she meets and matches his rhythm, and soon they’re fucking so ferociously that he can hardly catch his breath. Their skin slaps together with every thrust, and sweat pools in the notch at the base of her throat. His hands guide her as she slams against him, her hips rolling like a master horsedancer.

All the while, he can’t tear his eyes from her face. Her eyes are shut, her teeth clenched in a delicate snarl and her cheeks flushed with exertion, and Blackwall has never been happier. Every sorry moment of his sorry life was a step closer to this moment with this woman, and he realizes with a burst of clarity that he wouldn’t change a single choice he’s made if it meant not being with her.

His heart swells and throbs with unbearable love as his climax roils and swells in his core. Arya grasps his face in her hands and kisses him hard, her tongue thrusting into his mouth with the same conviction as his cock in her exquisite pussy, and with a shudder and a groan he bursts, his arms tight around his woman as his rapture rolls over him.

They slow down together, their sweat rendering them sticky and her breath hot on his temple. He contentedly trails his lips along her sternum while he catches his breath, and he can feel her heartbeat thundering against his mouth. A long moment later, she slowly slides off of him and collapses onto the pillows.

He gazes at her with a goofy grin. Her sweaty face is wreathed in a smile, her chest still heaving as she catches her breath, but she looks completely content. He drags himself over the bed to her side and flops down beside her, and she immediately rolls toward him and throws her leg across his body and tucks her head under his chin.

A sudden burn of tears stings his eyes, and he lifts his gaze to the ceiling to blink them back. His Arya is sprawled across him, her fingers gently rubbing his earlobe, and he knows that they’re both finally home.

They lie in comfortable silence, his hand idly stroking the line of her leg as he gazes with vacant happiness at the ceiling. Then she murmurs against his neck. “I love you too.”

Her voice is quiet, and he feels the vibration of her words more than he hears them, but her tone is clear and confident, and Blackwall swallows hard around the lump of joy in his throat.

Arya Lavellan is his shining light, the lantern that illuminates his nights and the sun that warms his days, and all Blackwall ever wanted was to be someone she could be proud of. Now, for the first time, with his lies rinsed away and their misunderstandings smoothed and sorted, he feels like he might be worthy of her love.