Dragon Age: Inquisition fic -- To the Victor

[artaxastra]

Ok, this is as good as anything I've ever done. I'm pleased with this one.

This takes place not long before Here Lies the Abyss. In Elleth's world Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts has already happened and Gaspard is on the throne with Briala pulling his strings. Revelations has not occurred yet.

Taking Griffon Wing Keep is easy. To the victor belong the spoils.
Blackwall/Elleth Lavellan
for mature audiences -- sex and nudity



The assault on Griffon Wing Keep begins at dawn and is over less than an hour later. It’s a sharp, quick fight, the biggest one yet in this battle in the Western Approach, and Griffon Wing is the largest fortified place besides Adamant. This just leaves Adamant left.

Elleth leads the assault herself with Cassandra and Blackwall. Dorian is counter to Venatori magic, and no one does it better. He’s at her side the entire time, every flourish sending fire racing at their foes, clearing a path for Knight-Captain Rylen and the Inquisition forces behind them. Dorian had the same training as the Venatori. Their senior enchanter doesn’t have a move he can’t answer. Cassandra and Blackwall are a wedge before them.

The fight is over before the sun lifts clear of the dunes to the east, casting long shadows across the Abyssal Rift. No one knows how deep it goes. Noxious fumes rise from it and sometimes the bottom wavers moltenly, like metal in the forge’s crucible. Griffon Wing stands right on the edge, just as Adamant does further north, built in the days after the Second Blight so that the Grey Wardens could watch for the return of darkspawn from the rift. That was seven hundred years ago, and the fortress had been abandoned for some time before the Venatori moved in.

There are quite a few prisoners. Dorian stays behind to question the Tevinter and to accept their parole. Letting them go without their weapons to make their way north through the Approach will give them quite enough work that further bonds won’t be necessary, and keeping twenty of them locked up is a useless waste. Elleth would be quite willing to execute this Magister Servis who seems to be in charge of Venatori operations but he’s not in evidence, and killing out of hand twenty prisoners who’ve done nothing in particular other than fail to hold a fort is not what the Inquisition does. Dorian will take care of that part while she, Cassandra and Blackwall clear out the varghests who’ve taken over the water hole, thus messing up the baggage train’s source of water.

Because of course there is a baggage train. Knight-Captain Rylen can’t hold Griffon Wing without one, and they need a staging area for the eventual assault on Adamant. Hundreds of Inquisition troops can’t stage in a bare desert without support. Somewhere to the east, a week behind, is Commander Cullen with the main body and his beloved trebuchets. The fortress will be waiting when they slog in, and there needs to be plenty of fresh water.

Getting rid of the scaly varghests is as much work as the battle, seeing that there’s only three of them to do it. Elleth gets bowled over by a scrabbling beast, but her armor takes the worst of it. Cassandra gets a nasty cut she says is nothing, and Blackwall looks chastened that a varghest actually managed to knock Elleth flat. No one got past him in the battle, but human foes tend to fight in a much more predictable way than large lizards.

“It’s just bruises,” she says irritably. Cassandra’s leg is bleeding profusely, and it is more to the point to deal with her injuries than Elleth’s. By the time protesting Cassandra is helped back to the camp and the attentions of a healer-mage, it’s full afternoon.

It’s so hot that her eyes water when she looks back across the wastes, so hot the air seems to shimmer. When she unfastens it, she drops her quiver with a yelp. The buckle burned her fingers.

The lower courtyard of Griffon Wing Keep is in full sun except for a narrow strip where the lightly wounded are sitting. The two more serious cases are inside, in what must have been the gatehouse guardroom. Elleth leaves Cassandra with Blackwall waiting for a healer-mage and goes looking for Dorian.

He’s on the uppermost level, and strides toward her with an enormous smile on his face, white tabard flapping over his leather armor. “I have wonderful news.”

“Good,” Elleth says. She’d wipe the sweat out of her eyes, but she thinks she’s out of sweat. “I could use some wonderful news.”

“The Venatori completely renovated the garrison quarters.”

“How nice.” Dorian is going to take his sweet time standing in the sun to tell her this.

“I told Rylen to put you in the commander’s rooms for now. He can have them later when we move out.”

“What do you get? The seraglio?”

Dorian laughs. “As if they’d have a seraglio here.” He’s not even perspiring, curse the man. “But there’s something much better. An actual Tevinter bath!”

Elleth shakes her head. “You’ve been on about them since we got to the Exalted Plains.”

“Have you ever been in a Tevinter bath?”

“I can’t say that I have,” Elleth says. She’s traveled widely, it’s true, but never in Tevinter. And those places outside of Tevinter where they have them aren’t accessible to elves except as bath servants.

“Ah, then you get first dibs!” Dorian says. “I’ll tell them to hold it for you and Cassandra.”

“Cassandra got clawed but she’s with the healer now,” Elleth replies.

“Then I expect she could stand to get the stiffness out once the cut’s closed,” Dorian says. He really does like Cassandra, a friendship that seems to be growing despite initial suspicion all around. But one thing she loves about Dorian and Cassandra both is that neither is afraid to change their mind or apologize when they’ve been wrong.

“What about a hot meal for our people?” Elleth asks. “Have you thought about that?” She left him behind to handle logistics.

Dorian nods. “The baggage train is setting up and Havelson is inventorying the garrison’s supplies. Now that the horses can use the water hole, we’re fine there. Havelson says that it will be well after sunset before there’s a meal ready, but any who are hungry can come by the kitchen and find something cold now.”

Actually, the thought of eating something right now turns her stomach. “Well, after sunset is fine. Thank you, Dorian.”

He produces an orange from somewhere, like a juggler instead of a mage. “You’ll want this.”

She means to protest that she doesn’t, but holding it the scent hits her, sweet and ripe and full of juice. Dorian doesn’t say, you’re probably dehydrated, eat this, but his little cocky smile says it for him as she rips the peel off with her thumbs and bites into it.

“You’re welcome,” Dorian says.

“Thank you, Dorian.” The juice is dribbling down her chin, the most perfect thing she’s tasted in weeks. He’s like an infuriating little brother, not that she ever had one. Or that he ever had a sister. But if they had….

“Sadly,” Dorian says, “the garrison left very little wine and an unfortunate vintage.”

“Will you survive?” Elleth asks with mock seriousness.

“Possibly.” He shrugs. “I suspect they drank the good stuff.”

“Well, I’ll tell Havelson to ration it.” Elleth looks up at the brilliant sky and winces. “I’m not sure anybody should be drinking it in this heat anyway.”

“We drink it well-watered in Tevinter. At least in good company.” Dorian drops his voice. “You know the temperature is going to drop abruptly after dark.”

“It does in the desert. It did last night. And night before.”

“This close to the Rift,” Dorian says. “Remember, nobody’s ever found the bottom, not even the Grey Wardens.”

“I’ll post a close watch,” Elleth says. The last thing they need is darkspawn trying their defenses on the night after a battle.

“I would,” Dorian says seriously. “The good news is that the only hole in the fortifications is the gate we knocked down. So there’s only one weak point.”

Elleth nods. “And anything from the Rift would have to pass the fort to reach the water hole. The ostlers will camp there with the horses and the wagons that won’t fit in the fort. And for that matter with anybody who won’t fit in the fort. I’ll tell Rylen to put half a dozen Templars on the camp too.”

“Everybody will fit in the fort,” Dorian says. “It won’t be that way next week when Cullen gets here, but….”

“That’s next week’s problem,” Elleth finishes. “And I doubt the darkspawn are going to attack 600 foot.”

“Plus his Maker-blessed trebuchets.”

“We can’t very well attack Adamant without them,” Elleth says. “And I don’t envy him hauling them here from the Dales.”

“I’d rather have the varghests.”

“You didn’t have the varghests,” Elleth says.

“Which is why Cassandra gets the baths before I do.” Dorian grins. “Maybe she’ll share with you.”

There’s a tremendous amount to do, and it’s nearly three hours before Elleth finds the baths with Cassandra. “Oh my.”

The baths are one floor below the main courtyard, underground really, and while the room is no bigger than a good-sized bedchamber, it’s cool and quiet. The walls, ceiling and floor are entirely tiled in shades of green, ranging from almost white to deep emerald, arranged in abstract patterns. The bath itself is a tiled pool in the center, the water recirculating by some clever Tevinter mechanism, with broad steps that go down one side.

Cassandra has clearly seen the like before, as she wastes no time shutting the door and stripping off her stained and sweaty leathers, dropping them on one of the benches along the wall. “Those were good pants,” she laments. The varghest’s claws have opened two long rips in the leather of the right thigh. It’s clearly beyond repair.

Though thankfully Cassandra isn’t. Elleth can see the puckered white marks where the mage-healer has drawn the skin and muscle together and sealed it, a wound that might otherwise suppurate and kill her now appearing weeks old. She’s stiff and she’s lost blood, but she’s certainly not going to die from it.

More slowly, Elleth undresses herself. She doesn’t have Cassandra’s complete careless self-confidence or quite frankly her beauty. If Cassandra is lovely fully dressed, like a sword that shines in use, she’s no less attractive stripping off for the bath. Elleth isn’t watching, of course, but it’s hard to miss those lean, tanned limbs and deep breasts tipped with coral, her full bush rather than Elleth’s sparse elvhen hair. It also doesn’t help that Elleth is ten years older, and rather than lean and athletic she’d better describe herself as mean and stringy. She hasn’t spent decades of practice perfecting herself. She’s eaten what there was and done what there was to do. Cassandra is simply spectacular. She’s the best of the best, and what she can do in armor certainly shows out of it.

But she’s not watching. As far as she can tell, Cassandra has no interest whatsoever in women, and she is a dear friend.

Elleth slides into the bath opposite Cassandra, submerging to the shoulders in tepid water. She can’t help but breathe a deep sigh. So cool, so nice, so buoyant. She leans her head back on the tiled edge.

“This is an improvement,” Cassandra says blissfully. “No sand.”

“I’m tired of sand.” Elleth closes her eyes.

“And to finally be pleasantly cool.”

“Let’s not hunt varghests in the middle of the day again, all right?”

Cassandra laughs. “I think they are more active at dusk and dawn. Should we wait until then?”

“I started a little after midnight last night. I was up ahead of the varghests,” Elleth says.

“That’s true. You had everyone eat breakfast at night and then start the movement to the Keep.” Cassandra sounds approving. “So that we were all in place at dawn.”

“Elves hunt at dusk and dawn too,” Elleth says. Her eyes are still closed. “Predatory animals that we are.”

“I respect predatory animals,” Cassandra says. She hesitates a moment. “I told you back at Haven to let me know if anyone was saying knife-ear or other things.”

Elleth opens her eyes. “Nobody dares say those things to my face anymore. Some think them, but.” She shrugs. “That is what it is. They’ll learn better or they won’t.”

“People do learn better of their prejudices,” Cassandra says. “There was a time when I did not trust mages. I thought they were all a bad lot. Or at least,” she hesitates again, “corruptible.”

“We’re all corruptible.”

“True. But you remember, I was raised among the Mortalitasi.”

Nevarran necromancers. Elleth hasn’t forgotten that bit. “I do remember.” Cassandra is sitting across from her. She’s taller than Elleth. The water just covers her nipples, which is a bit distracting. Friend, she says to herself. Friend she’s comfortable enough to bathe with. Don’t be greedy. “I recall you said you went to live with your uncle who was a mage after your parents died.”

Cassandra nods. “I was six.” There is no doubt more to that story, but she deflects, as Cassandra usually does, catching words on her shield. “And you?”

“My parents died when I was a baby. I don’t remember them.” She puts her head back again, letting the water drag at her hair. “The Dalish don’t let a child of the people starve. I was passed around from family to family until I was old enough to take care of myself.”

Cassandra’s brows knit. “You had no other kin?” Cassandra herself has dozens of cousins. That was made clear at the Winter Palace, and an uncle who is Mortalitasi is at least kin to claim one.

“No.” Elleth closes her eyes. “I have no living kin.” The water laps at her. “I was a duty child. Somebody had to feed me and take care of me, but nobody really wanted to. You imagine the Dalish are free and we are, but we are also poor. We subsist. We hunt. We scavenge. Another mouth to feed is a burden. I would live with a family until they were done, and then there would be a council and I would be sent to the next. I ate as well as any child of the people, but it was not the same. It is not the same as having people who love you.” She shrugs, feeling the water splash over her shoulders. “I walked away when I was fifteen and went to the towns of men.”

Cassandra is silent for a long moment. She doesn’t expect Cassandra to understand, as much as she may sympathize. For all her fairness, Cassandra is Nevarran nobility, and she entered the Seekers and the service of the Divine when she was barely adolescent. She has known the want of long campaigns and the privation of a warrior, but she has never been poor. She truly cannot imagine what it is like to have no kindred, no Seekers, no Chantry, no Inquisition, no one to catch you if you fall.

“I hope you found happiness there,” Cassandra says quietly. She means well, and it is not Elleth’s intention to fault her for her birth.

“I’ve found a little of everything.” She lifts her head and smiles. “And I have found good friends.”

“We are that,” Cassandra says. Her dark eyes are warm. “Never doubt that.”

“I don’t,” Elleth says. She ducks her head underwater, making to wash her hair. She has said too much and not enough. She has said too much to shake off this tightness inside and not enough to ease it. Perhaps she could say more to Cassandra. Cassandra would never use it against her. But it will be awkward, worse than if she’d made an intimate suggestion simply because there is this hunger that never entirely goes away, the hunger for her mother’s arms. Surely if she were better, if she were best, if she were everything that anyone could want, they would hold her and tell her that she was finally done, that she was finally good enough! It’s foolish. She knows it. Her mother died in a swollen river forty-nine years ago and there is nothing that will bring her back. Sometimes she thinks she dreams her face, but spirits do not linger in the Fade so long. Better to be the woman she misses, soothing others’ fears. She’s not certain her mother was actually like that at all. She can’t remember.

Her head breaks the surface.

“There is some soap here to wash your hair,” Cassandra says helpfully. She has a pot in her hand. “It’s Tevinter stuff, but I don’t think it will ….”

“Make my hair look like Dorian’s?” Elleth says. She takes the pot from Cassandra.

“I am not sure anything will make anyone’s hair look like Dorian’s,” Cassandra says, and they laugh. It loosens the ache in her chest until it’s nothing but the pull of muscles long healed.

Someone, perhaps Dorian, has left two robes on one of the benches. One is dark blue silk with silver embroidery, the other leaf-green shot through with gold. Cassandra grabs the blue one the moment she’s dried off, and Elleth takes the other. It’s a floor length tunic, cut full with no belt and long sleeves. It must have belonged to someone taller, because on her it sweeps the floor in a cascade of cool, light silk.

“Much nicer than putting our dirty clothes back on,” Cassandra says with satisfaction. In hers she looks tall and graceful, like the heroines of the romantic novels she reads. She bundles her torn and bloody clothes together.

There’s a knock on the door. “Are you planning to stay in there all night?” Dorian asks plaintively.

Elleth laughs and opens it. “We’re done. Thank you, Dorian, for letting us go first.”

“Anything for My Lady Inquisitor,” Dorian says. “Now move. I’m dying.”

“Thank you, Dorian,” Cassandra says, turning round in the robe. “Where did you find this?”

“Oh you know. Looting this and that,” Dorian replies. “Tevinter mages never travel without an extensive wardrobe.”

So these belong to the dead. Well, the dead won’t wear them.

Elleth leaves Dorian talking to Cassandra and tries to find her way back to the former garrison commander’s rooms. They’re on the third floor facing the lower courtyard but two floors above it, with windows with carved wooden screens to let in light and air while providing privacy and heavy shutters behind them. The door likewise is heavy and reinforced with metal that appears merely decorative but isn’t. She opens it gingerly. “Blackwall?”

“In here.” The room seems mostly office, with a large table and chairs and a collection of maps she’ll have to examine later. Carrying her dirty clothes, she shuts and bars the door behind her, her feet bare on the tile floor as she goes to the half-open door of the inner room.

There’s a metal bathtub in the middle of the floor, the fretted screens open on two windows so there’s a cross breeze, the light beginning to die outside, the cooking scents from the courtyard below drifting up with the voices of the Inquisition. The room is in deep shadow, but she can certainly see Blackwall sprawled in the tub entirely nude, his head resting on one end and his feet on the other. The water covers him about halfway.

“I thought since you were using the bath that I would carry the water up here and cool off too,” he says.

“Definitely cooling off,” she says. He’s certainly a sight. A long scar crosses his left shoulder angling across his chest just below the line of a pauldron. Seven or eight criss-cross on his thighs and hairy shins, a fresh bruise purple on his lower left arm. Another scar is low on his right breast, almost hidden in a tangle of wet chest hair that arrows down across his stomach to his pubis. His manhood lies quiescent against heavy balls, the water just lapping at it.

He follows her gaze and a slow smile spreads between beard and mustache. “Got to clean up for my lady.”

“I certainly wouldn’t want you to be dirty,” Elleth says.

“You look shiny and nice.”

“Dorian found the caftan,” she says. It’s ridiculous that she feels like blushing.

“Beautiful as always,” Blackwall says.

How can he say things like that with a straight face, with no irony or flattery intended? While lying completely naked in tepid water at her feet? Well, at her knees. The tub’s not that low. And yet he seems completely sincere. It’s only fair to return the truth. “And you are magnificent.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so.” He doesn’t believe her either. It’s true that the man in his mind is probably twenty years younger, less scarred, without gray hairs among the dark ones. The man he remembers in the mirror would have been handsome enough to make heads turn. She can see the shape of chiseled cheekbones beneath the beard, and his eyes are that particular shade of gray-blue that manages to be soulful and wicked by turns. Twenty years ago he would have made women swoon. He may not believe he can make at least one swoon now.

She walks around behind him, biting her lip. The desire that’s been stirring since the kick of the fight wore off is back, coiling round and round in her stomach. “I do think you need to do something about your hair though. It’s full of sand.”

“It’s a bit hard to do myself,” he says.

“Sit forward and I’ll do it.” He sits up, not quite able to sit crosslegged because of the narrowness of the tub, and she works on unknotting the leather thong that ties his long hair into a knot at the back of his neck just below the line of the helmet. The leather’s sweated through and now wet, and it resists her fingers. One brushes against the back of his neck and he shivers. Because of the water and the way he’s sitting she now can’t tell if there’s some more intimate reaction.

“You can cut it if you can’t untie it,” he says.

“I’m going to have to.” His knife is on the floor by the tub, and she cuts the leather neatly. His hair is certainly a tangled mess. She looks about for solutions. There’s a flask on the stool near the tub, probably the cleaning choice of the former garrison commander, and an ivory comb in the shape of a dragon. “Let me work on this,” she says. He’s patient while she works a few tangles out, then pours cool water over him from a brass pitcher. “You’re nothing but knots,” she says, and opens the flask. It’s oil rather than anything else, but that will make the knots slip.

“Jasmine?” he says as she pours it on.

“You’ll smell lovely.” The sun has set. The light through the screens has faded. The smell of roasting mutton drifts in, mingling with jasmine and the scent of his skin. Blackwall tilts his head back, the lines of his face for once relaxing, resting on her hands. The comb slides through slick hair, ebony and silver. “Now your beard.”

He reaches down and cups the water, splashing his face. “Jasmine,” he says.

She begins to comb on his left cheek. “You’ll never smell jasmine again without thinking of this.”

“That’s probably true.” He turns his face and kisses her hand, opening her right hand to kiss the palm where the mark is on the other one.

Her breath catches, a rush of desire jolting through her.

“The water’s gotten cold,” he says.

“Then you should get out.”

He stands up and steps out, water running down his lower body. She takes one step closer, running one finger down the track of a drop of water.

Blackwall looks smug. “You’re worked up.”

“You’d be worked up too if you’d just taken a bath with Cassandra.”

“Fair point.” He’s laughing. She sees him laugh far too seldom.

“I think you deserve to be worked up too,” she says, and goes down on her knees.

He groans, inevitably responding, but this isn’t really their thing. It’s not the way it works, not for them, not for more than a bite of appetizer. He reaches for her elbows, guiding her up until her hands rest on his chest. “I’m worked up,” he says. He runs his hand over the sleek silk of her caftan. “Shouldn’t get this wet,” pulling it up and over her head. He tosses it neatly in the direction of the bed.

“Absolutely,” she says. The fading light through the carved shutters makes patterns across their bodies, standing nude and face to face inches apart. It’s not as though there’s anything they haven’t seen before. It’s just that this seems so deliberate, so naked. There are no games to screen them. There are no devices, no my lady Inquisitor and gallant Warden, no fuckbuddies in the field, no bawdy tavern pairing, no sweet tumble in the barn hay as though they were adolescents fleeing parental supervision. This is just them. Whoever they are.

“My…” he says, and kisses her softly, gently, then harder as her arms go around him, pulling him body to body.

My own, my heart - there are so many endearments she hasn’t said. And she won’t say them now, not with words. She’ll just kiss him and kiss him and pull him over to the bed to lie down beside her in the twilight shadows. It’s like moving in a dream, or as if she were still underwater. He knows how to touch her. He knows how to bring her to the edge with his hands, and she’s already so worked up. It’s not taking long. She arches, straining and pumping against his hand, trying not to cry out loud enough to hear outside the room, the world going dark for a long moment of suspension, her heartbeat loud in her ears.

And before she’s down he’s inside her. “Can’t wait,” he whispers, his voice strained.

“Don’t wait,” she manages when she can catch a breath. So hard, so fast, so abandoned. She opens her eyes. His are closed, rearing over her like the hairy beast elves fear, intent on nothing besides his own pleasure. She puts one hand on his belly, then turns the hand with the mark to dig her nails into his hip. That does it. He groans, head snapping back, and she feels his shudder through her whole body. “There. Now.” They turn to the side, hearts pounding, legs twined together.

Elleth closes her eyes. Heavy. Warm. The overwhelming scent of jasmine. She’ll certainly never smell it again without thinking of this moment. It marks them both. Yes, one of her legs is crushed, but moving it seems like so much trouble. Enveloped. Filled to the brim and overflowing. It’s the intensity of his need for her that does this, when he holds her as though he will drown without her.

Blackwall’s hand moves on her hair. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispers.

“I need you to have it.” Her face rests against his shoulder. She shifts, getting her crushed leg over his, his privates against her lower belly.

“Did I hurt you? That was….” Harder than usual? Conventional for them? More of his weight on her? Does he ever finish a sentence?

Elleth smiles against his chest. “No,” she says. “That was good.” She lifts her head, the bawdy comment irresistible. “Afraid my tiny little elf twat can’t take it?”

He guffaws as she meant him to. His hand runs down her back in an absent caress. “I’ve been with elves before. I know it all fits more or less the same.”

“I’ve been with humans before. No surprises.” She stretches her neck, settling on his shoulder with his arm around her. “Besides, you’re not that big.”

“Ouch.”

“Just a nice, normal medium size.” She opens her left hand, the one with the mark, against his chest where his heart beats beneath her hand. “Not a thing to complain about.”

“I’m glad you have no complaints, my lady,” Blackwall says gravely.

“I’ll let you know if I do.” She reaches down and finds the covers and pulls them up around them. There’s a chill in the room now, and they’re both soaking wet. She closes her eyes, feeling his heartbeat under her hand. It’s been a long time since she got up at midnight. She could just rest this way another moment.

She wakes alone in a strange place to a persistent thumping. Elleth sits bolt upright in bed. It’s full night, the room dark and decidedly chilly. She’s stark naked. Where is her knife? What is that thumping?

“Will you open the door? I have my hands full!” It’s Blackwall’s voice.

Elleth scrambles out of bed. The tiles are cold under her feet as she hurries to the outer office door. She opens it, staying behind it since she’s still entirely undressed. “What’s going on?”

He’s wearing his usual clothes and carrying a huge tray. The pervasive scent of jasmine surrounds him. She shuts the door behind him. “We slept through dinner. I went down and found some for us.” He carries it back into the bedroom, avoiding the cold tub, and sets the tray on the edge of the bed.

“What time is it?” she asks. There are so many things she should have done. So many people she should have talked to. It’s completely irresponsible of her to have vanished like this.

“It lacks an hour of midnight.” He closes the shutters on the windows, then uses the candle on the tray to light three hanging oil lamps. “Don’t worry. Everything is fine. Nobody is expecting you to meet with them. Everybody’s asleep except the poor souls who have the watch.”

It’s too chilly to stand around naked. The green caftan is on the foot of the bed and she pulls it over her head and sits back down on the bed. There’s no table in here.

“Now snug your feet up like a good girl. There was some rice and mutton stew left in the pot.” He takes his boots off and sits down beside her on the bed, the tray more or less in front of both of them. “Bread, oil, and some wine. I’ve only one dish of each because there’s a limit to how much I could fit on the tray.”

“We can share.” He’s heaped the dishes up, and it suddenly occurs to her how famished she is. All she’s eaten is the orange since breakfast in the wee hours as the army assembled. She tears the bread and dips it in the green oil.

He crosses his legs and reaches for one of the spoons. For some reason the arch of his foot strikes her as unbelievably intimate. His feet are pale. He must never run around barefooted. And he’s put on a clean shirt from his pack. Dorian or whoever brought her things up must have brought his up too. They’re not exactly discreet. It’s no secret that he’d share her quarters.
The bread and oil tastes incredibly good. She takes a cautious sip of the wine. “Dorian said the wine was terrible but it seems fine to me.”

“That’s Dorian,” Blackwall says. He’s making good time with the stew. “He has higher standards.”

She raises an eyebrow, tucking into the stew with the other spoon. “And you’d not know one grape from another?”

“I might. But I wouldn’t say so.”

Elleth tries to keep her voice utterly casual. “I suppose that’s one of those things one learns in Orlais.”

“It is,” he says, his mouth full. “There are so many cursed vintages. Everybody has their favorites.”

He never answers questions, but sometimes he says something more than he meant to. She’s thought he lived in Orlais, though his accent is Ferelden. He was something before he was a Warden, before being a Warden erased all else.

And now they are approaching Adamant. It must be hard, knowing that they face the Wardens and that his loyalties will be pulled two ways. Corypheus has destroyed the Templars and Chantry alike. Are the Wardens lost as well? She’s sure Blackwall won’t turn on the Inquisition. But if his superiors demand…what? If his superiors are under Corypheus’control? Will he be like Cullen and turn his back on the Order he believes in? It’s clear he passionately believes in what the Wardens do. Can he stay true to what he believes and be obedient? Or will this fight at Adamant destroy him? For a moment Elleth wishes she’d left him in Skyhold. Maybe this was too much to ask. But if there’s any hope of bringing the Wardens away from Corypheus, Blackwall is their best chance of talking them around. Besides, he didn’t want to stay.

All this goes through her mind eating stew. She glances sideways at him. He’s got a thoughtful expression. “Yes?” she says.

“I was thinking this is good,” he says.

“That it is.” Tomorrow has enough trouble waiting for them. No need to borrow it tonight. They’ll finish eating and put out the lamps and curl up together to sleep in a dead man’s bed, tight and warm and safe together. For now he is hers, greedy body and heart both satisfied.

To the victor belong the spoils.

I'd love to hear what you think!