Chapter Text
As he made his way up through the castle and up the stairs to the library, Blackwall couldn't help the feeling of unease that settled over him. It was foolish, but he felt a mad urge to run back to the barn and don his armour, as if that could protect him from judgement. Before, he had chosen to stay apart from other people for fear of somehow revealing his secret, but now he chose to stay away because venturing into the castle brought him naught but stares and whispers. Once, a messenger had spat at his feet. It was better, down in the barn with the horses, where he could pretend for a while that nothing had changed. Up here, he had to face his consequences head on. But, to his surprise, there were no stares and whispers. In fact, no one gave him as much as a second glance. He emerged at the library unscathed but wrong-footed.
The library itself proved another challenge. There were shelves upon shelves all around the room, rows of books that went on for seemingly miles, and he had no idea where to even begin. He floundered helplessly for a moment or two, seriously debating turning his tail and fleeing, when an amused voice broke into his reverie.
"Blackwall! Are you lost?"
He turned to find Dorian curled in a window seat between two of the rows of shelves, with a book in his hand and piles more of them surrounding him, illuminated by a shaft of morning sunlight that bathed his brown skin with a healthy glow. He had eschewed the leather-enforced robe and complicated array of buckles he wore in battle for a cloth tunic and simple, supple leather breeches, though the tunic was still in the Tevinter style and richly embroidered with a pattern of coloured silks, very unlike the robes the rebel mages wore. Blackwall found himself wondering, not for the first time, about his intricately groomed hair; was it oil that he used to keep it in place? Despite all the ways in which he stood out, however, Dorian looked at ease there.
"Cat got your tongue?" There was a gleam in Dorian's eyes as he fixed his gaze on Blackwall.
Blackwall shook his head to clear it. "Hello, Dorian. How are you?"
"Yes, yes," Dorian said dismissively, waving a hand. "Hello, yes, the weather is marvellous isn't it, how about this Inquisition we're having, hm?" His lips twitched into a familiar smirk. "Never mind all that, what brings you to the library? I may faint from the shock. I wasn't even sure you could read."
Blackwall scowled, but Dorian only quirked an eyebrow at him, waiting. "If you must know, I'm looking for a book," he said at last.
"Positively astonishing." Dorian's voice dripped with amused sarcasm, but he put down his own book and pushed himself to his feet with his usual lithe grace. "Well, let's see. We have texts as far as the eye can see on such important theological questions as whether Divine Justinia III preferred silk smallclothes, but very little in the way of anything useful."
"I—" Blackwall paused. Sighed. Oh well; in for a copper, in for a royal. "I was looking for a book on Warden history."
The briefest flicker of surprise passed over Dorian's features before he schooled them back into studied indifference. It was quite fascinating to watch.
"Indeed?"
"Yes, I—there's much I don't know. Warden Blackwall, he had some papers on him when he—when he died, but it's… I would know more, is all," he finished, hearing the note of defiance in his own voice. He lifted his chin, daring Dorian to make an issue of it. "I lived his life for many years. The least I can do is try to understand it properly. I realised at Adamant that there was something more to the Grey Wardens than bravery and chivalry. Something darker."
It was, perhaps, the most he had ever said to Dorian in one go, or, at least, the most that did not include an insult from either party. Much the same thought seemed to have occurred to Dorian himself, since he was looking at Blackwall as if he had never seen him before, with something akin to pity in his eyes.
"Can you help or not?" Blackwall said gruffly.
"I can try. There are some non-Chantry history books around here somewhere, and some of the volumes the Inquisition has received as gifts have yet to be catalogued. Helisma may have a better idea." He shuddered delicately, though for what reason Blackwall was uncertain.
It became clearer, however, when Dorian led him over to a different area of the library, occupied by a number of tables filled with mages poring over odd bits and pieces and occasionally firing tiny sparks of magic at them: strange orbs that glowed almost too brightly to look upon, brains and tongues and eyes pickled in jars, rows of teeth of varying sizes. Dorian bent down to examine an enormous dragon claw that had been neatly sliced in two, but straightened as a young mage approached them.
"Good morning, Helisma," he said politely. Blackwall saw his fingers twitch.
"Good morning, sers. Was there something you needed?" She had a soft Orlesian accent but her voice lacked any expression or inflection. It was unsettling, to say the least. Blackwall's eyes were drawn to the yellow sunburst tattooed on her forehead.
Dorian nodded. "Blackwall here was looking for a book on Grey Warden history and ritual. Did we have a copy of the Genitivi somewhere?" To Blackwall he added, "One of the few Chantry scholars I can stomach. Apparently he was an interesting fellow, despite being a monk."
"There is a copy in the collection of texts that King Alistair sent to us. One moment." She bustled away.
Blackwall turned to Dorian and said, softly, "Is she...?"
"Tranquil, yes. Hideous business. Ah, here we are," he said, as Helisma returned with a very large tome bound in rich, deep-red leather. Dorian took it and blew on the cover, so that a cloud of dust went up over the balcony railing and the gold-embossed lettering that read The History of Grey Wardens in Ferelden became visible. He coughed. "Good grief, you'd almost think the King of Ferelden never reads."
"Thank you," Blackwall said to Helisma, who bowed and excused herself. He watched as she stopped at one of the tables to speak with a mage examining a chunk of what looked to have once been part of a wyvern. She looked no different from any other mage, apart from the tattoo.
"Well, here it is," Dorian said, handing him the book. "A bit of light reading for you."
"Thank you," Blackwall said again, but Dorian waved him off.
"No need to thank me. I'm grateful for anything that keeps me from having to read southerners' wildly inaccurate ideas about Tevinter." His tone was light, but there was clearly more than a grain of truth there.
"In that case, how about a drink in the Herald's?"
Maker's breath, where had that come from? That hadn't been what he'd intended to say at all.
Dorian laughed. "At this time of day? I'm not sure even I could stomach drinking Cabot's swill this early in the morning, and you know I'll drink anything." His smile was bright, though, when he touched Blackwall's arm and added, "Some other time, perhaps."
Blackwall fled.
*
For the time being, he decided, he would forego further expeditions into the castle. He still felt confused and conflicted about the way people had reacted to him. He had done terrible things; he deserved to be condemned and treated with contempt, not ignored and allowed to continue unmolested. Instead, each day after his morning training routine he settled onto one of the many wooden crates that were stacked in the barn and let himself be drawn into the book. As Dorian had suggested, Genitivi had turned out to be an engaging author, and his histories of the founding of the Wardens were fascinating.
Blackwall was immersed in an account of the Third Blight when he became aware of raised voices outside in the courtyard.
"—letting Magisters walk around freely, unsupervised! They would kill us all if given half a chance! This is an affront! Where are the templars?"
"I can assure you, I'm hardly in the habit of assaulting random clerics, which is more than can be said for Samson and his ilk!"
Dorian's voice, and he sounded rattled. Blackwall frowned and closed the book, pushing himself to his feet and heading for the door.
"How short these people's memories are! Have we forgotten Kirkwall? Have we forgotten Elthina? That is what comes of letting mages do as they will!" The speaker had a pronounced Starkhaven accent, and her voice was growing louder as she became more agitated. "The Imperium would have us all subjugated and enslaved if they could, ruled over by magic instead of served."
"I am not a Magister and I don't speak for all Tevinter, as presumably you do not speak for the entire Chantry. I have no interest at all in enslaving you."
Stepping outside, Blackwall took in the scene in front of him. There was Dorian, face to face with a woman garbed as a Revered Mother. Her face was bright red with anger and her eyes were narrowed as she glared at Dorian. Dorian, for his part, had lost all of his casual nonchalance: his eyes flashed angrily and his hands were balled into fists at his sides. A number of other clerics were milling about looking anxious, and the group was surrounded by soldiers armoured in white with Starkhaven insignia on their chests.
"What's going on here?" Blackwall said loudly, and several angry faces turned towards him. "Is there a problem?"
"The problem," the Revered Mother said, "is that the Inquisition apparently allows Tevinter Magisters to walk its fortress unchecked. We will soon be besieged by demons."
Dorian snorted in disgust, throwing his hands up. "Fasta vass! Demons! I am no more a threat to anyone here than you are, and I've certainly never done anything at all with a blighted demon."
"Dorian is a valued member of the Inquisition," Blackwall said, taking a step forward in the hopes of putting himself between Dorian and the soldiers, who had begun to shift restlessly and lay hands on their sword hilts. He did not doubt that Dorian could defend himself, but he would rather it didn't come to that. "The Inquisitor trusts him with her life, and that should be good enough for you."
The Mother looked Blackwall up and down, seeming to take him in properly for the first time. "Ha! Magisters and murderers too, it seems. It was a mistake to for Prince Sebastian to send us here."
Blackwall opened his mouth to argue, but found that he had no answer for that.
"Ah, you must be the delegation from Starkhaven." Commander Cullen had come striding across the courtyard, red faced and slightly flustered, and his voice broke the tension. "Come, come, the Ambassador is expecting you." He offered the Revered Mother his arm and steered her firmly towards the castle, throwing a pointed look over his shoulder as he left. "My men will be happy to offer your escort space to rest after your journey…"
Cullen's voice faded as the group moved away, and Blackwall found himself standing in the middle of the yard with Dorian and a crowd of curious gawkers, though they began to disperse once Blackwall glared at them. He made to offer Dorian a wry smile, but as he turned, he realised the man was almost hissing with anger.
"I was not in need of rescuing, Blackwall!" Dorian spat the word 'rescuing' as if it meant something offensive. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."
"I know that," Blackwall said, stung. "I only wanted to help."
"Kaffas, you're as bad as Cole," Dorian said, pacing now, with agitation evident in his every movement. His hands opened and closed as if he'd rather be holding a fireball in them. "I certainly don't need help from someone who has said much the same thing about 'my kind' many times before, if you'll recall!"
"That's not—" Blackwall began, but Dorian held up a hand.
"Save it, please. I'm not in the mood to debate the dangers of mages with a liar who murdered children."
He turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving Blackwall reeling, with only the susurration of a hundred excited whispers for company.
*
The straw soldier bounced on his stake as Blackwall's sword cut into him again and again. The sack casing was split by now and the straw was spilling out onto the floor, but he found that he could not stop. Again and again and again he struck, finding his rhythm, first sword then shield, until his arms ached with it and there was nothing left of the target but tattered rags and a notched wooden stake standing forlornly in front of the practice yard wall.
"If you were pretending that was me, I think you can safely say I'm dead."
Blackwall grunted and didn't turn around. Right, left, sword thrust, shield bash. His shoulders were screaming at him but he wouldn't stop now. He focused on his breathing, and his movements. Right, left, slash, block—
"Blackwall!"
The hand on his shield arm made him whirl around, and he had Dorian pinned to the wall with his sword to his throat before he had even had time to process what he was doing.
"Maker's breath, Dorian!" he exclaimed, dropping his arms and sheathing the sword as quickly as possible. "I could have killed you."
"I probably deserved that," Dorian said wryly, letting his humming blue barrier dissipate and smoothing down his ruffled robes.
"I'm sorry, I—"
"No, no, it was my own fault. I should know better than to startle a man who's holding a sharp implement," Dorian said. "No harm done." He grinned suddenly. "Well, only my pride at any rate. You know, I always harboured a secret assumption that I could best you in a fight if push came to shove."
Blackwall raised his eyebrows. "'If push came to shove'?"
Dorian waved his hand carelessly. "If mage came to grief. If the Inquisition was a bit less welcoming to outsiders from Tevinter, no matter how much they were trying to help."
"You thought that the Inquisition might attack you?" Blackwall said, blindsided. He'd never considered it from Dorian's perspective before.
"Of course I did! I expected to be locked up in a dungeon somewhere and never heard from again at best, and at worst—well. You've heard the things that people say about me. You've said them yourself."
Blackwall opened his mouth to respond, but Dorian held up a hand.
"No, let me—that's actually what I came down here to say," he said, his mouth twisting in a wry smile. "I appreciate that you stood up for me. I didn't expect anyone to do that. I didn't mean those things, and I shouldn't have said them to you."
"You didn't say anything that wasn't true," said Blackwall bitterly. "People should say those things. I am those things. A liar. A murderer."
"Those are things that you've done. They're not things that you are," Dorian said, his voice softening. He rested his hand on Blackwall's arm—and when had he got so close? Blackwall was near enough to catch the warm, clean scent of Dorian's skin, perfumed with the oils that he used in his precious baths and tinged with the distinctive, post-storm aroma of magic. "I've known bad men, Blackwall, hundreds of them. You're not a bad man. In everything you've done since, you strive to be a good man. That's what matters."
They were teetering on the edge of something. Blackwall's blood was rushing in his ears as he gazed at Dorian's earnest, handsome face.
Dorian suddenly gave a self-deprecating sort of shrug and stepped away. "Anyway. If you still want me to fuck off back to Tevinter, then we need say no more. But I rather think I'd like that drink now, if the offer still stands?"
Blackwall nodded jerkily. Dorian's eyes twinkled as he stuck out his hand.
"Truce?"
"Truce," Blackwall agreed, ignoring the sensation of a stone in his belly when he reached out his own hand and shook the proffered one, Dorian's long, clever fingers warm against his palm.