Chapter Text
Cecilia Trevelyan couldn't sleep. If she could fall asleep, she could stay asleep, but it was the falling part giving her trouble. It had been that way for weeks now, ever since the Conclave. She did what she could to ignore it, but at night, when she was alone and all the distractions of the day quieted down, there was nothing left to focus on but the mark and how it felt (a constant dull ache) and what it meant (something too blasphemous to even consider).
So she couldn't sleep. At first, she'd tried, laying in her bed with her eyes closed, adrenaline and unwanted magic coursing through her, her hand throbbing with every beat of her heart. Eventually she started just staying up, sitting by the fire and letting the heat and crackle and flickering light serve as things she could focus on, almost meditatively, until her body was exhausted enough to pass out without argument. Every other night she'd been left alone, her traveling companions slipping away into their tents one by one, leaving her to her sleepless ruminations in peace, but this night, the Warden wasn't moving from his place across the flames.
The Warden. Blackwall, his name was. She hadn't quite decided what to make of him just yet. Big and burly with wild black hair just beginning to grey at the temples and a thick full beard that obscured enough of his face that she found him hard to read, he'd looked angry, or at the very least annoyed, since the moment she met him.
She knew very little about Grey Wardens, only that they were supposed to be selfless heroes, but really, secretly many of them were just desperate people forced to choose between service and something worse—maybe starvation, maybe the noose, rarely anything as noble as the stories liked to say—but Leliana thought the Inquisition needed their help, and the help of this man specifically, so off she'd gone, deep into the Hinterlands to search for him while the rest of her team focused on the task that had actually brought them here: preparing to clear out an encampment of rogue Templars that had been terrorizing refugees on the road.
She'd been told by said refugees that this Warden was both irascible and inspiring—"just follow that path. You'll hear him yelling soon enough." They all seemed to like him, despite describing him as coarse and gruff and having bullied their sons and husbands into picking up swords and following him. She wasn't entirely sure what she'd expected after hearing all that, but it certainly wasn't for him to save her life before she'd even introduced herself, or to "Maker's balls" and "Andraste’s ass" his way into joining the Inquisition a few minutes later.
He'd been quiet since they'd picked him up that morning, doing his best to discourage small talk and get-to-know-you banter with one-word answers and a dour face. She was debating whether to try again—if chatting a bit would make him feel more welcome and willing to open up, or if it would just make him more irritated—when he spoke up first.
"Not going to bed with the others?" he said, poking at the fire to give it new life. She wondered if that was supposed to be a hint that he wanted her to leave, or maybe just to leave him alone, while he enjoyed his own late night meditation time.
She drew her knees up and rested her chin on them, staring at him across the flames he had stoked. "I don't sleep well lately. We don't have to talk if you'd rather be alone."
He shook his head. "It's kind of nice, after so long on the road alone. To have some company."
If he had enjoyed any of their company over the last few hours, he hadn't shown it, but the last thing she wanted to do was to discourage conversation. "All right then, Warden Blackwall. Tell me about yourself?"
He shifted a little uncomfortably, shaking his head slightly before giving a quick glance in her direction and then away again. "No, I'm rather dull. You don't want to hear about me. Tell me about you."
"All right," she looked up at the sky. "I'm from Ostwick; I have two older brothers; and I've recently acquired a magical hand, a religious title, and a reputation for being a heretic. Your turn."
He chuckled, an earthy, gravelly sound that rumbled through her and made her relax. "I'm from Markham," he began slowly. "One younger sister, but she's passed on now." He took in a deep breath like he was preparing to say more, but then let it all out with a slight shrug and a shake of the head. "That's about it."
"That's it?" she laughed and saw him begin to smile despite his best efforts to resist. "Come on, you're a Grey Warden. Surely there's a story there." His smile stayed steady, almost frozen in place, but he made no move to answer. "All right, let's start with something easier. What's your first name?"
"It's, uh," he leaned back, like the question had caught him off guard and he needed time to think. She cocked her head and scrunched up her brow, a bemused smile forming on her face as he blustered. "I don't use it," he finally spat out. "Don't like it."
"You won't even tell me what it is? It's that bad?" she wanted to laugh, but he wouldn't even look at her. She pressed her lips together, studying the way he sat: shifting one way and then the other, fidgeting with his hands, touching his ear. "I won't tease," she said. "I never liked my name either."
She saw him think for a moment, going back to the moment when they'd met. "Cecilia?"
She nodded. "It's so…ladylike. And I didn't even want to be a girl," she laughed. "Don't worry. It's fine now. It bothered me more when I was younger. I tried to get everyone to call me Ilia instead. No one did, of course. Well, my brothers used it sometimes, but mostly everyone acted like I was being ridiculous for wanting to be called something that felt like me instead of…well, something they wanted me to be."
He was quiet, watching her through the flames. His gaze had an intensity to it that almost made her uncomfortable, like he could see more of her than she realized she'd been showing. "It's a lovely name," he said finally, and quite gallantly, she thought. "It suits you."
"Thank you," she bowed her head in return.
"A Trevelyan you said? From Ostwick? You one of the nobles?"
She heard the disdain in his voice when he said the word and wanted to defend herself, as if saying 'she wasn't like them' would somehow absolve her from having grown up behind the high walls of her father's keep with advantages and safety denied to most, and almost certainly denied to someone like him. "I am," she admitted. "Much to the dismay of the rest of the family, I assure you," she couldn't help adding.
"Hmph." That seemed to be the end of that. He closed himself back off, going back to poking at the fire. She was surprised when he spoke again. "What's their problem with you?"
"My family? Oh. Well. How long were you planning to stay up?"
He snickered. "That bad?"
She glanced around the darkened camp, at the grizzled man sitting across from her, and back into the flames, searching for the right words to explain without overdoing it. They'd just met; he hadn't even been speaking to her for most of the day, and she'd already let things get too personal just talking about their names. "I haven't done a very good job of living up to my parents' expectations for a daughter." He didn't say anything, and he wasn't really looking at her, so she let herself continue. "They wanted me to join the Chantry, and I didn't. They're angry that I never took vows. The Conclave was supposed to be my last chance before…I don't know. They would try to marry me off instead, I suppose."
Now he was looking at her. Through her. She'd said more than she meant to again, and his piercing grey eyes were too much. She looked away. "Maybe if it turns out I am the Herald of Andraste, that will make up for the rest," she tried to make it sound like a joke, but she knew it didn't land.
"Do you think you are? The Herald of Andraste?"
She frowned. "I don't know." She turned over her hand and looked down at the deep green mark in the center of her palm, its branches traveling across her hand and up the inside of her wrist like lightning scars, faintly glowing in the dim light, but aching less since he'd been distracting her. "This has to mean something, doesn't it?" She looked up at him.
He shook his head slowly. "I'm not the one to ask. I'm not very religious," he said apologetically.
She smiled. "Don't worry. I'll forgive you."
"Can you do that?" he asked, tilting his head and ever so slightly returning the smile.
She shrugged. "Why not? If I am the Herald of Andraste, forgiveness seems like it should be part of the job." Her smile widened. "Have any other sins you'd like to confess?"
His smile faltered. "I'd better not," he said ruefully.
"Probably for the best," she said, resting her chin back on her knees and staring into the fire. "If it turns out I'm not the Herald after all? You'll have spilled all your secrets for nothing." She yawned, bleary eyed. "We couldn't have you running around thinking you've been absolved if you haven't."
He was quiet for a long time before he spoke again. "You're tired, my lady," he said, his voice softly floating over the crackles and hisses of the fire that separated them. "You should get some rest."
She wanted to argue, but he was right, and she realized with a start that her mind felt emptier than it had in weeks. "Thank you for your company, Warden Blackwall," she said, offering a playful bow as she stood. "I'm glad you decided to join us."
She almost missed his quiet, "I am too," as she slipped into her tent.
Morning came too soon, as it always did on nights she couldn't sleep, but especially this morning, knowing what was coming. Part of her had hoped it would take longer to find Blackwall, that she would be lost in the woods somewhere while the actual assault on the Templars took place and she could just avoid the whole thing, but she was back and Cassandra wasn't going to let her stay at camp while everyone else did their part.
She wasn't a fighter. Yes, she knew how to use a sword—she'd spent years training with one, against her older brothers and training dummies and a kindly old master-at-arms who wasn't particularly worried about angering her parents—but the first time she'd actually had to use one against anything trying to kill her had been when she woke up after the Conclave, on the journey back to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She'd been holding her own well enough against the demons pouring out of the rifts as she sealed them, but this wasn't going to be like that, and she knew it. Cutting down demons was a far cry from cutting down people. People with families. People with dreams and fears and things they planned to do tomorrow or next week or next year that they would never get to do because of her.
She came out of her tent and flopped down on the ground beside Blackwall, who seemed to have gone back to his former taciturn mood with the return of daylight. He barely greeted her with a nod.
Cassandra had a map spread out on one of the tables and a small group of soldiers gathered around her. "This is the location where our scouts found the camp." She went on, detailing the plan of attack, all things Ilia probably needed to know but couldn't quite bring herself to focus on. She let her head hang between her knees.
Blackwall leaned over. "You all right?" he asked quietly, careful not to draw the attention of the Seeker.
She sat back up and nodded quickly.
"These are Templars, highly trained and adept at dispelling magic," Cassandra was saying.
She felt his gaze on her, but she intentionally didn't look at him. He already thought she was a pampered noble; the last thing she wanted was to seem like she wasn't able to keep up with everyone else here.
She could do this. She'd done everything else asked of her so far, and she could do this. She listened to the plan. She put on her armor. She grabbed her greatsword. She marched along behind Cassandra and Solas.
"Please be careful," the elf said, as they neared their target. "Stay close so I can keep a barrier on you."
She nodded. "Thank you," she said as she reached out to tap his arm. "Always watching out for me."
His smile was wan, but genuine. "You are the only one who can seal the rifts, after all."
They were close. She could hear the sounds of the camp carrying on the wind—overlapping conversations, a peal of laughter, the sounds of arrows hitting a target—and then they were spotted by the lookout.
You can do this, she told herself. Just stay close to Solas.
But it was chaos, brutal and bloody. She barely knew where she was, let alone where the mage had gone. She thought—maybe?—she felt the tingle of magic across her skin. The barrier he'd promised? But there were too many things that needed her attention, too many bodies moving around her—was that Templar armor? No; Inquisition, a friend. It was overwhelming: the whistle of arrows past her head, steel on steel, flesh being rent from bone, blood spurting, the cries of those who had been cut down and knew they weren't getting back up.
With every step and every swing of the sword, her body begged her to stop, her lungs burned and her muscles ached, and she didn't know how much longer she could keep this up, but she had to, because you're the only one who can seal the rifts, and the Templars trying to kill her didn't care if she'd been chosen by Andraste—they only wanted to live, just like she did, free of the Chantry and free of their obligations and—
She spun around and she saw a man—a boy, really—who hadn't even finished putting on his armor. He was holding a sword but no shield, and they locked eyes, and Maker, he looked just like the recruits she knew in Ostwick, the ones she'd grown up with. He probably couldn't even grow a beard yet. He could have been her own brother, sent off to train ten years earlier. She faltered, her grip on her sword loosening, and then he charged at her. He didn't have a shield, only a longsword, nowhere near the length of the two-hander she used. It had been a foolish, reckless charge; he hadn't left her much choice, but—
She spun around again. Nothing. Nothing? It was over? She thought it was over. Her lungs burned with every breath and her ears were still ringing with the clash of steel and she was shaking. She dropped her sword; it was too heavy. Had it always been that heavy? She needed to clean it before she stowed it anyway. She reached up to take her helmet off—it was suffocating—and she almost couldn't, her arms and shoulders were so sore, so drained.
How could she call herself the Herald of Andraste, surrounded by all this death? This couldn't be the will of the Maker, all this—
"Ilia!" She heard someone shout—was that Blackwall? It must be; she hadn't told anyone else that name. She turned towards the sound of his voice to see him running, sword drawn. He pushed her hard enough to make her stumble, and she looked back over her shoulder to see him locked with another man, his hand on the man's shoulder, his sword driven through his belly. Something hot and wet splattered against her face. Oh, she thought, that must be blood?
Blackwall used his foot to kick the man back, pulling his sword out as he did. She watched the man—the body—collapse onto the ground, just a heap of flesh where there'd once been life, all unnatural angles that made her own joints ache to imagine. She couldn't stop looking at it.
"You all right?" He sounded very far away, even though he was right there, standing over the man's body, the body that had once been a Templar. A Templar who was trying to kill her? Why had he— "If I'd been closer," he was saying.
She raised her hand to wave him off—she was fine, nothing for him to concern himself over—and was startled to see how much blood coated her arm.
"Just going to wash up," she said, she… thought? There was a waterfall at the back of the encampment; that was where she headed, but it was too loud, too much. She couldn't go back to face the others like this, so she slipped over the edge of the rocky path to slide down the embankment and walk along the riverbank until the crashing of the falls gave way to the trickling of the water over tiny rocks and branches.
The water was cold as she splashed it on her face, drew it up her arms. Maker, there was so much blood. The more she tried to wash, the more the water turned red and she couldn't—
She was shivering, the icy water dripping down her face and neck and into her armor. She wiped her eyes and then blanched; there was still blood under her nails.
"Shit," she said under her breath, dunking her hands back in the river and scrubbing at her nails. They were so short; how could the blood be so caked underneath?
"Shit," she said again, sitting back on her heels. Her hands were shaking too much to even wash effectively.
She heard footsteps coming up behind her, and she felt a surge of adrenaline—she should grab her sword, she should stand up—but the steps were solid, unhurried. Probably a friend.
"I'm fine," she said, wincing at how unconvincing her own voice sounded. She glanced up enough to see that Blackwall was the one who'd come looking for her.
He knelt a few paces away, staring off into the woods as if he were waiting for something. "Have much fighting experience?" he asked without turning to look at her.
"Not much," she admitted. Her hands looked clean now, shriveled and pink from the chill and the scrubbing.
He nodded. "Taking a life is a weighty thing."
She was almost embarrassed that he had seen through her so easily, that everyone else seemed fine while she broke down.
"Does it get easier?" she asked, looking over at him.
His face hardened and she saw him clench his fist at his side. He still faced the woods, but he wasn't looking at them anymore, not really. She wasn't sure he was entirely with her at all. Just when she thought he wasn't going to answer, he replied with a clipped "Yes." The word was a cold, hard thing that settled deep in her stomach and did nothing to ease her mind.
He rose and crossed the distance between them, standing just beside her. He waited until she looked up at him before speaking again.
"You don't want it to," he said, his voice turned low and soft. "Trust me."
He held a hand out to help her up, one that had been wiped off but was still stained with blood. She took one breath, then another, before she grabbed hold of it. He flinched a little when she did, a sharp intake of breath that must have been because her skin was so cold after being in the river, but he recovered quickly and pulled her to her feet, probably a little closer than he intended, so close that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. His hand was large and warm, his grip firm. He smelled like woodsmoke and leather and sweat, but in a way that felt comforting and pleasant and safe.
"You called me Ilia," she said, looking up at him. She didn't often meet anyone she actually had to look up to see.
He froze, her hand still clutched in his, his brow slightly furrowed.
"Back there," she clarified. "You called me Ilia."
"Should…should I not have?"
She stared at him, at those grey eyes, at the deepening lines between his brows, unsure of what she was even trying to express. They'd stepped outside of time, the river ceased to flow, the battlefield she'd fled from disappeared, her other companions gathering bodies to burn and wondering where they'd gone—all stopped, all poised, tipped on the edge of something, waiting. "My own parents don't call me Ilia."
"I'm sorry, my lady. It won't happen again. I overstepped."
"No," she said quickly, her fingers tightening around his. "I was just…surprised. I've told that story so many times, and no one has ever…Usually they just laugh. Because it's silly."
"It's not silly; it's your name. It shouldn't be something that bothers you."
She hadn't moved her hand, but neither had he. Her skin didn't feel cold anymore; she'd taken on his temperature or he'd taken on hers, and now it just felt like he'd always been there even though he was a stranger, really. A stranger who'd saved her life twice in as many days and had just used a deeply personal name for her like it was the easiest thing in the world. A stranger whose bloodstained fingers were wrapped around hers, standing so close that if she leaned forward at all—
She pulled her hand back, feeling the cold bite of the air rush back in as she stepped away from him. Time resumed, speeding back to normal, catching them up with the world around them.
"Thank you," she said, avoiding his eyes, "Warden Blackwall."
He nodded, but otherwise remained motionless, waiting for her to move before he took his place at her side and walked her back towards the others.