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. 

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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.

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