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Blackwall was resolved to be reasonable. After all, the Herald barely knew him. She flirted with him, but she flirted with almost everyone, including that frigid bitch mage from Orlais, so he knew it didn’t mean anything. The problem was that it did mean something to him. Her words had slipped and slid under his skin, wrapping around his heart like silk, and now she was half dead and alone in a tent with some healers.
He understood that being in a tent with some healers was likely the best thing for her. Hence, his resolve to be reasonable.
“Where the fuck is she?” he demanded, stomping toward Cullen and Cassandra.
Yes, that sounded reasonable. Perfectly, utterly, and completely reasonable.
“Where is who?” Cassandra asked.
“Isn’t it whom?” That from Cullen.
Blackwall’s hands curled into fists as he resisted the urge to strangle the Commander. “The Herald.”
Cassandra gave him a measuring look, the kind of probing stare he detested. It was the look of someone trying to peel back layers and masks and protections. “Resting,” she said at last. “She does not need to be disturbed.”
He wasn’t going to disturb her. He was going to ensure the healers were doing their jobs. “I want to see her.”
“With all due respect, Warden Blackwall, the Herald—”
“With all due respect, Commander, if you don’t tell me where she is, I’m going to wring your neck until your head pops off your fucking shoulders.” Maker, he was better than this, but he was on the very edge of sanity. He’d been worrying about her for days, whittling griffons and other foolish things to pass the time, not knowing what else to do but needing to keep his hands busy.
Cullen took a step back, his eyes flashing. “Intimidation—”
Cassandra put her hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “No,” she said, still studying Blackwall with that intense, stripping look. “Come with me.”
She took him through the rows of tents, surprisingly neat. Cullen’s influence, of course. The man couldn’t stand a disorganized camp. When Cassandra stopped before a nondescript tent near the center of the camp, there was nothing to make it stand out from the others. No additional guards, no markings, no banners. Blackwall swept his eyes across the surrounding area. Not even any of the Spymaster’s people skulking in the shadows.
“She is here. Mother Giselle has been tending to her,” Cassandra said, pulling the flap aside. “I will give you thirty minutes.”
“Of course you will,” Blackwall muttered, ducking into the dark, oppressively hot tent. The Seeker could come back in a half hour and bring an army with her. He wouldn’t be leaving the tent until the Herald was healthy.
The tent itself was small, cramped. There was only one cot, and a small figure lay on it, swaddled heavy wool in blankets. A stool stood beside the cot, the only sign that someone else had been in the tent. Nearby, a small, contained fire burned brightly, almost cheerfully, the source of the stifling heat.
Slowly, Blackwall settled on the stool, dragging it closer to the cot. The blankets were draped over the Herald’s face; she lay on her side, curled slightly into herself. Reaching out, he brushed the blanket away from her face. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes closed, an a hat as thick and woolen as the blankets covered her head. Delicate fingers were curled under her chin, and he reached out to touch them. They were like ice.
Scooting the stool closer, he pulled her hand from the blankets and clasped it between both of his. “My lady,” he murmured, bringing the tips of her fingers to his lips. He kissed each one in turn and held her hand under his chin.
She was still freezing, trembling even with all the blankets and the heat in the tent.
He hesitated. She deserved someone noble to care for her, like Cullen. Someone who would bow over her hand and bend to her every wish, like Bull. Not someone like him. Not someone stained and dirtied by a filthy past.
But she needed heat more than she needed goodness. Kicking off his boots, he slid onto the tiny cot and drew her slight frame, made bulky by all the blankets, into his arms. He stripped the blankets off her until she was pressed against him in nothing but a shift, thin and almost sheer. Swallowing, he averted his eyes from her breasts, but not before he saw her dusky nipples through the translucent fabric. Gritting his teeth and ignoring the stirring of his cock, he wrapped her in his arms and then pulled the blankets around them both.
She snuggled into him immediately, curling against his chest as her eyes fluttered open. She regarded him with a blank, glassy expression. “Cold,” she whispered, pressing frigid fingers against his neck and into the thick hair of his beard.
“I know, my lady,” he said softly, tugging her closer.
He shouldn’t be with her, shouldn’t be anywhere near her. She was everything good and wonderful in the world, and he was a broken, ruined man. But he couldn’t stay away, not when she was hurting. Not when she needed… well, she didn’t need him. She didn’t need him, but he needed to help her. To be there for her, even if she wouldn’t remember when all this passed.
He hoped she wouldn’t remember.
Mother Giselle ducked into the tent some time later, after the Herald had fallen asleep once more. Blackwall was wide awake, unable to drift to sleep with such a precious creature in his arms. He looked up at Giselle as she entered. “Something hot for the lady to drink,” he said, and Giselle, bless her, just nodded and ducked back out.
When she returned, he had maneuvered himself into a sitting position, the Herald tucked between his legs and leaning against his chest. She was awake, all the jostling having disturbed her, but still bleary eyed and confused. Giselle set a bowl of steaming broth on the stool along with a piping hot cup of tea.
“You are a good man, Warden Blackwall.”
He clenched his jaw. “I’m many things, but not that,” he said, rubbing the Herald’s shoulders. She let out a little moue, head tipping back as she curled against his chest.
He offered her the broth, encouraging her to drink little sips of it. When she was finished, he caught her hands in his, checking the chill in her fingers. Still icy. He curled her hands around the still hot cup of tea, bracketing her hands in his, and curled around her. His head on her shoulder, his chest against her back, his legs on either side of hers.
The awful, ugly, basest part of him wanted to strip off her clothes and lay with her, skin touching skin, but he wouldn’t do that to her. Instead he held her, and it would have to be enough.
“I have these dreams sometimes,” the Inquisitor said abruptly, and Dorian looked at her with a cocked brow over the top of his mug of ale.
“Is this where you tell me all the naughty details about your sex dreams about me?”
She scowled at him. “You’re not my type.”
He clasped a hand over his heart, reeling back in his chair with a cry of distress. “Say it’s not so!” He swung forward, leaning across the table to clasp he hands. “I’m everyone’s type,” he said with a wiggle of his brows.
She stared at him before bursting out laughing, and he wasn’t sure how much his pride should be hurt. Sometimes, he wished his parents had found a woman like her for him in Tevinter. Maybe he wouldn’t have left if he could have been with a woman who liked and respected him – and who he liked and respected. They would have been good together, just not good together.
“My pride can’t take these blows,” he said, pressing a hand to his head and feigning a swoon. “Now, tell me about these dreams of yours.” His eyes flicked to her left hand. He worried for her, though he didn’t tell her. Everyone worried for her and the Anchor in her hand quite enough. She didn’t need someone else burdening her with their concerns.
A small smile turned up the corners of her lips. “I’m in a tent, freezing. It’s so cold, I can’t feel my fingers or my toes.”
He winced. “Sounds like you’re remembering Haven.”
“Yes, but then, when I’m at my coldest, someone slips into the tent and holds me. He – I’m sure it’s a man – wraps me up in his arms and feeds me hot tea and broth. He strokes my hair and promises he’ll protect me. And he’s just… there’s this presence to him, like he’s bigger than reality. A sort of… well, a wall, I suppose, between me and everything else.” A dreamy look crossed her face, making her look suddenly young. But then she sighed and the world-weary, overworked Inquisitor returned. “But it’s just a dream. Mother Giselle tended to me.”
Dorian hesitated. He knew Blackwall had stormed her tent. Knew the Warden had cared for her for three days. But if she didn’t know, that meant Blackwall had slipped out before she regained consciousness. It was Blackwall’s secret to tell, not Dorian’s. So instead of saying, “It was Blackwall. He adores you and cared for you, he wants to make you happy,” he said, “Sounds like someone has a hidden romantic side.” And he leaned across the table again. He couldn’t tell her Blackwall’s secrets, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t push her in the right direction. “And, you know, there’s a very big wall you could always try cuddling up to on the other side of the tavern.”
The Inquisitor went scarlet from her cheeks to her neck and, Dorian was willing to bet, well past the neck of her clothing. “Warden Blackwall is an ally and a friend!” she sputtered.
“And very large and probably delightfully warm.” Dorian smirked. “I know how you detest the cold.”
She flicked a little tongue of fire at him. “You’re incorrigible.”
“It’s why you like me,” he said cheerfully. And, later, he was pleased to see her siddle up to Blackwall with two mugs of ale, offering one to the weary Warden.
“That was a good thing you did, Vint,” Iron Bull said, settling in the Inquisitor’s empty seat.
Dorian snorted. “Someone has to shove her in the right direction, else she’ll be tripping over her feet around him until the end of days.”
The Bull laughed. “At least that’s not very far away.”
“No,” Dorian agreed softly, watching her drop her fingers on Blackwall’s shoulder. Watching Blackwall’s eyes go wide then dark with barely restrained desire. “So they’d better get moving.”
Later, Dorian took the long way back to the library, wandering by the stables. The Inquisitor was there, with Blackwall, wrapped in his arms and kissing him sweetly. She stood on her toes, and he hand his hand in her hair. Dorian smiled, softly, and was glad for her happiness.