Chapter Text
When their eyes met, his throat tightened, a sensation spread across his chest so profound it bordered on a revelation. In that instant, Blackwall realized, with unshakeable certainty, that he will never behold anything lovelier in his existence than the green of her eyes and the shape of her face.
It left him shaken.
When the arrow came, his shield protects her head. When the bandits showed themselves, he told her to leave or fight. When he was asked to join the Inquisition, he thought to himself, no, never.
But when he looked into her eyes and found a hurt so nestled deep in there, he finds himself at Haven, watching her, wondering.
-----
She hates humans.
People talked and Blackwall sees.
They say she was half-mad and feral when she awoke after falling from the Rift. They spoke of how she had bitten and clawed and howled like a beast when she was restrained by the guards and put into chains. One man had lost a piece of his ear and another had his finger half-severed where she had bitten, almost completely through. Cassandra, bearing two bites on her left arm, was convinced with the righteous certainty of a Seeker that the young elf was behind the destruction of the Conclave and was declared the prime suspect in the explosion. When the young girl found an opportunity to flee, she ran. In her escape, she had stumbled upon a rift and sealed it with her hand. And in an instant, she was the Herald of Andraste.
Cullen, once said, “She is very unlearned among people.” Diplomatically put. Blackwall had seen her sink her teeth into the arm’s of a runner who had come up behind her too quickly. He had watched how she bared her teeth at Cassandra, her Elven ears tucking downward like a wolf in warning. In the presence of Cullen, she would grow very still and unmoving. Frozen like a stone.
With Blackwall...
She would circle around his peripheral. Blackwall knew of wild things. He had lived, hidden, isolated long enough to sense when he was being watched. It varied, day to day, how long it would take her before she grew in close enough for him to see the full brightness of her hair. Iconically bright. Twice, he caught himself turning to look for her, only for her to vanish, like a startled ghost.
He realized it was better not to search, to fight against his instincts, and to continue working. Sometimes she would get close enough to stand at the entrance of the stables. But that was all she ever did.
Then Haven burned.
-----
“There is something going between the Boss and Solas,” Iron Bull said, starting the topic of conversation.
Blackwall looked at him expectantly. He would never himself gossip openly about the Herald, but when another spoke of her, he finds himself listening. Attentive. He wasn’t alone. Gossip and Hearsay was as good as currency to many, when it came to the most controversial figure in the Inquisition. People knew so little of her, they wanted to know her better, but couldn’t, and Bull was now speaking of something even Blackwall had cued in on, for how little he actually sees the Inquisitor at Skyhold in recent days. If Blackwall had ever managed to glance upon her in full, out in the open amongst the bustling business of humans everywhere, then he had always seen her in Solas’s shadow. They were rarely apart, their heads always turned towards one another, speaking in secret words only shared between the two of them. No one else could come in so close.
Blackwall had witnessed Solas kissing her, once, a brief pressing of lips against her forehead. It became somewhat common knowledge then that a relationship of sorts had developed between the two.
Then something had changed.
Varric groaned. “And just when I was starting to hope things were getting better.” Varric leaned in, moving his mug to the side, a true story teller at heart. “You must have heard a lot already but let me tell you. In the beginning, our young Herald relied heavily on our Chuckles to complete even the most basic tasks. If you think she barely speaks now, you should have seen her at the start. She couldn’t function, not with all the humans around her, and that made it difficult to get sh*t done. Extremely difficult. Lack of communication caused a lot of problems but not as much as the biting did. Then, Solas took it upon himself to cultivate her ‘social development’. He was the first to show everyone that she wasn’t some mindless animal, that inherently, under all that rage, she had clear head and her solutions to problems were efficient and successful." Varric sighed, deeply. "It looked like his ‘social development’ project was starting to work, for a while. She stopped biting since Skyhold. She was even beginning to open up, after a fashion, and then…” Varric trailed off. “Well.”
“What?” Iron Bull pressed. “Did he start to develop her a little too socially?”
Varric laughed. “I don’t know. I couldn’t possibly tell you what happened. All I know is. He was in. We were out. Now he’s out and everyone out and now she’s the most isolated she’s ever been since this whole charade started.” Varric shrugged, sighed. “Look, I don’t know how she’s going to hold out much longer. At this rate, it’s going to be Benson all over again.”
“What?” Sera asked. “What’s a Benson?”
“Benson. Reassigned to night guard. He used to watch over the Inquisitor when she was still being accused of blowing up the Conclave. Almost lost his fingers.” Varric wiggled his.
“Oh! Right.” Sera said then shuddered. “I heard of that. Heard it was only holding on by a string. Eugh. Bits are gross.”
Iron Bull was thinking. “How does this play out, diplomatically, the Inquisitor hating humans?”
“Ruffles sure has her hands full.” Varric agreed. “But it’s not as hard as it looks. For all her obvious flaws, and “liabilities” as our golden Ambassador deftly puts it, our Herald completes her missions and seals the rifts. When your backyard is crawling with demons and abominations, you hardly care much if the Inquisitor is not too fond of rounder ears. Well, that’s not entirely true. People do care. But some may say it’s to be expected, with her being Dalish.”
Iron Bull looked at Varric squarely in the eye. “She does not hate humans because she is Dalish.”
Varric paused at that. “I know.” He admitted, hesitantly. A silence settled across the table and no one pushed to speak further about it.
“She’s a sh*t shot.” Sera said.
Of all the things that was said about the Herald, this made Blackwall speak up. “I heard about that. Is she really?”
“I bet you two silvers that she had never held a bow longer than a year. sh*t with a dagger too.”
This puzzled Blackwall. Varric saw his expression. “That’s right. She fights, but not like we do. It always seems like she is holding back, but when she shoots, her arrows misses, not all the time, but.. enough. Enough to leave her too open.”
“Yes,” Bull roars. “But she has enthusiasm!” It jars the drunken Dorian sleeping at his elbow, awake.
“Wha-“ Dorian started, blearily, but Bull was already pushing on.
“She shoots, misses. She draws her bow and shoots again, it grazes her opponent. She doesn’t have time for the third shot, her enemy is already too close, so she drops her bow to the dirt and draws a dagger from her sleeve, baring her teeth. She lunges, all reckless abandon, not caring that the Bandit already has his dirk in her ribs, and hacks away. By the time we’re there, she is howling like a beast, all rage and hate. It’s almost hot if she didn’t look so miserable doing it. But she's passionate.”
Blackwall felt unwell. He had seen the way she had been dragged back to Skyhold, not once, but regularly in recent days, bandages soaked wet, dripping blood, face almost paler than her hair. She would not take Solas on her missions anymore. He had always been there to heal her, but now she stubbornly refuses his presence. She would not yield either in bringing Dorian or Viviene with her. They were human and she could not tolerate their nearness, let alone their touch. So she would be brought back to Skyhold, slumped in the arms of Iron Bull, ushered into a tent where a young Elven healer frantically poured her magic into the Herald, to cull the bleeding and bring her back from the doors of death.
Varric was right. Blackwall thought. She wasn’t going to last much longer like this. Blackwall was speaking before he knew it. He knew it wasn’t fair of him to say what he was going to say, but he was addressing all of them regardless. “How could you even let-“ But Iron Bull was already cutting him off.
“Stop.” Iron Bull said. “I know what you are trying to say, but don’t. Most of the time we are already ass full in demons before we even realize what she’s doing. It was better with Solas. He always watched her like a hawk. He usually prevented her from doing anything reckless. Now,” Iron Bull gestured to all the non-humans at the table, himself included. “Its just us.” Blackwall looked at Sera and Varric, then back to the Iron Bull.
“Is there truly no one else?” Blackwall asked.
“She did bring Cole once, isn’t that what you told me, Bull?” Dorian asked, looking much more awake, but slightly unsteady. He leaned against Bull, for support.
“Yeah,” Bull said. “Once.”
The silence returned.
Varric shifted in his seat uncomfortably.
Sera spoke, “Good riddance.”
-----
He had pressed his face into the crook of her neck and breathed in deeply the scent of her skin. “You cannot hide it much longer.” He whispered against her. She had liked him enough to accept his touch, could bear the kisses he placed on her skin. His presence had offered much stability. But this…this was too much.
Overwhelmed by the press of his body against her, she felt something stir in her subconscious. No, she thought. Oh sweet Maker, no. She never again prayed to her Elven Gods, the Gods she once held so close to her heart, when she grew up in her clan under the glow of her father’s smile. She had once, long ago, prayed for them to save her, but they had left her with a fate worse than death. They had kept her alive. So when Solas reached under her shirt, to reach with clever fingers at the hardening buds of her breast, she felt the thing inside her stir and wake, eyes opening in the darkness. Solas felt it too, and he made a noise of approval at its presence.
She prayed desperately to the Maker.
It felt good when he rolled her hardened peaks between his fingers, and it felt good when he pressed his lips against hers and devoured her mouth. But the fear couldn’t let her enjoy it. The way she was quickly losing control. The energy around them began to change, growing hot, almost igniting. Panicked, she tried to jerk away from him, but one of his hands held her waist hard, his grip unmoving like stone.
“Solas.” She said, afraid. “Solas, please stop.”
Her looked at her then, his expression unreadable. She saw the way his gaze trailed over her face, the bright color of her white hair, the shape of her mouth, and then his gaze settled onto her eyes. Then he looked into her eyes, to the core of her, broke through the barriers she held tightly around her at all times, and he saw what she kept hidden deep inside. There, in the very center of her being, lay a white wolf with red eyes, resting upon a pool of memories. It felt Solas’s presence and snarled at his unwelcome intrusion. Solas smiled at that, not a gentle smile, and showed his own teeth in response. The beast inside her rose to its feet at his challenge, rippling the memories beneath it. Lavellen gasped when the ripples casted images to the back of her mind. She was looking at Solas but all she could see was-
There were seven of them in the room, six hands had held her throat, two of them-
No!
A silent scream tore its way to her throat. She felt the rush of magic swell up inside her, the magic she had kept forced deep down and locked up a thousand different ways. But Solas somehow had the master key. He was going to unlock all of her.
When she felt his hands slide up her inner thigh, his fingers brushing against her secret warmth, her mind went blank with mindless terror as she felt the felt the beginnings of the transformation take place.
So she sunk her teeth as hard as she could into the pale flesh that was his neck. His skin broke instantly, blood spilling in her mouth, and he reeled back, startled, but it was enough for her to push him roughly off her. Energy was building up inside of her. She was going to burst, she was going to explode! When he reached out his hands towards her, she flinched away from him horrified.
There was clarity in his eyes then. A recognition that he had gone too far.
“Ir abelas, forgive me, I did not mean- I had only wanted-”
But she was already running, running, running. She couldn’t run farther away.
Solas had tried to approach her three times afterwards, but she avoided him more fervently than she did the humans. Once, he had tried to reach her in the Fade, to talk to her, to apologize, to explain, but the sight of him only startled her awake, her heart lurching in her chest the way it does when one catches themselves falling. She couldn’t bear to be in the castle anymore. She could hardly tolerate it before. Solas had helped, his presence was a type of shield, but now-
She finds herself sleeping in the Forest. Her sleep was not deep, and the exhaustion of it was beginning to sink deep into her bones. For whatever archer she had attempted to be before, she was hardly better than a child with a stick now. Before, she had tried to attempt timid small talk with her companions. Now when she travelled, a stiff silence shrouded her like some abysmal cloud. She had liked Varric’s jokes, was curious about the Iron Bull, and had watched intensely how Sera drew her bow and shot her arrow before she ever seemed to aim, and it had always struck true. She had wanted to learn more about the bow from the city Elf, but struggled to understand Sera’s cryptic, confusing remarks. Before, Solas had been at her side, watching her, protecting her, talking with her, but always asking her questions.
In Elven, so puzzled, he would ask, “Why do you use a bow and a dagger? The fade warps around you, though you try to hide it well. Why do you not want to let the others know you are a mage? Use your magic, it will be better. It is strong inside of you, and yet you keep it so deeply trapped inside. Why?”
Why? Why? Why? He peppered her with so many questions, honest confusion laced in his voice. She couldn’t give him the answers he wanted. She had always enjoyed his company, found refuge in his presence, and sometimes his kisses made her feel.. something. But he had wanted to know too much.
He wanted too much.
He had almost broken through all the barriers she had built. He would have her return back to…that.
No. Never again.
Varric was beginning to worry about her. She can see it on his face. She had completely stopped talking after her incident with Solas, and his absence in their party spoke many layers. Even the Iron Bull would stare at her now, with serious eyes. But she avoided all of them, and did her best to land a decent shot against her enemies. But the lack of sleep was wearing on her, and she rarely ever lands a hit against her target now, and more often than not, she finds herself half dead, carried in the arm’s of the Iron Bull back to Skyhold.
Rebuilding back the barriers that Solas had torn down had taken everything from her, it demanded all of her energy, but she does it, regardless. To hell with him.
But he knows now. He had seen it inside of her. And he had seen the memories it had been guarding.
He knows.
She hated him.
It rained. It rained and it rained, for almost a week, she slept in the rain. When one night she found the ground too hard yet too wet, the air too cold yet so hot, and her clothes too unbearably soaked against her sore muscles, she finds herself weak and trembling against the entrance to the stables, the smell of horses comforting in her dizzy haze. There were no candles burning, but she knew who lived here. Back in Haven, she had watched him from afar. Somewhere in the loft, she knew he must be sleeping. She was grateful for it. She was so tired, and everything hurts. She just wanted to spend one night someplace dry, but the castle was so full of humans, at all hours of the night.
And Solas was there, too, somewhere.
She struggled to bring herself into one of the empty horse stalls, realized how weak her legs were becoming. She was grateful when she saw a mound of clean dry hay tucked in the darkness and collapsed on top of it. Her head was spinning. Maker, everything hurts. It was hard to breathe properly, her chest was too tight. She closed her eyes against the tears she felt threatening to spill across her cheeks.
She prayed that she would die then, that she would go to sleep, and that she will never open them again to see this world. The idea of it was so comforting, so lulling, as she felt her body grow suddenly very cold, she almost smiled, hoping it would come true.
Finally.
Mercy.
She heard a noise. When she opened her eyes, she saw that the horse stall was awash with candle light, and carrying a lantern, and holding a sword was him, the human.
His name is Blackwall, her mind told her. And he was always helping others, whenever she looked.
He had never once looked at her like she was a beast.
“Inquisitor?” He was plainly taken aback to see her there, slumped, and soaking wet on a pile of hay, drenched white hair clinging to her pale face. “Maker.” He swore, disbelieving his eyes. “I must go and fetch help-”
He was almost halfway out the exit before she cried out, “No!”
He froze at the doorway, looking at her with wide, uncertain eyes.
“My lady,” he said, very seriously. “You are sick.”
She wanted to close her eyes again, to sink into that feeling of coldness she had felt a moment ago. “I know,” she said, finally. “Let me die.” Then she did close her eyes, sinking into the feeling of pain all around her.
He grew very quiet. She thought he had left her then, to go and get help, regardless of what she wanted. She was surprised when next she opened her eyes, she found him beside her. She saw his face in the lantern light. As human as they come. Older, with crows feet at his eyes. So much hair. He towered over her, she could see how large and strong he was. Even if she were not sick, even if she were at full strength, she couldn’t imagine being able to fight him off. She wouldn’t be able push him away, she wouldn’t be able to break free of his grip. But maybe if she begged. If she begged enough, he would stop.
But it didn’t stop the others.
When he places his hands atop her forehead, tears spilled finally, trailing down her face. Maker, she was so tired. She can’t fight anymore.
He drew back, as if the sight of her tears scalded him. “Makers Balls,” he swore. “You are cooking alive.”
Was she? Then why did she feel so cold?
“My lady,” he drew far back away from her, giving her space. He had a hopeless expression on his face. How strange, she thought. As if the sight of her like this was hurting him. “You require a healer. I must go and-“ but she was already shaking her head. At the idea of someone lifting her up and carrying her away to some healer’s tent. No. She was done with that. She had enough.
“Leave me be.” She repeated. “Let me die.” It was becoming more difficult to breath.
“No,” Blackwall said, hard.
He stared at her drenched clothes, wrestled over something in his head. “Can you… Are you able to remove your clothes…on your own?” It goes to truly show the state of her condition when all she could do was shake her head. In any other situation, she would have been petrified stupid at his words. She would have recoiled away and try to defend herself, would have clawed at his face, bitten, screamed, howled. But the fight had truly left her.
The Gray Warden froze, then clenched his hands.
“Then I must beg for your forgiveness.”
She watched, weakly, as his hands worked at the buttons of her tunic. He turned his face away, focusing only on his fingers. When he got to the last button, he glanced at her face, for a brief second, before he turned to look away again. “Please, forgive me.” He bit out as he pulled the soaking shirt from her body. It was drenched through. She felt the coldness sink into her soul then, left so topless and bare, goosebumps crawled over her skin, but the human’s hands were already at her pants. He froze before he touched her. She looked into his eyes and she saw such guilt there, such anguish, she felt suddenly, amidst the confusion and delirium of her fever, so incredibly sad to have witness it.
“I- I must remove your clothes, My Lady. It is the only way to get you dry. I beg of your forgiveness.” He reached for the clasps of her pants and undid them. He did not look as he drew her pants down her legs, and he did not look when he untangled them from her feet. She did not wear small clothes. She was as bare as the day she was born.
But he did not look. Instead, he whispered, fervently, “Please forgive me.”
He shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around her body. It was marvelously warm from his body heat, and dry. The smell of it was foreign- it smelled like him. It was large enough to cover her entire body almost completely. Even by Elf standard, she was small. Still, she sagged at the relief of it, and couldn’t help but to close her eyes.
She felt herself being lifted and pressed against his chest. She felt herself being lowered, then covered by a rough blanket that all smelled like him.
Her fever grew significantly worse in the night. She twisted in bed, crying out in misery. When she felt an icy cold hand touch her forehead she cried out, “No, please, Mythal. I cannot endure this.” She was half dreaming, half remembering. It has been so bad since Solas tore down most of her barriers. It felt so raw. There were hands on her throat. Seven were in the room. Two of them loved to hit, one loved the face she made when she cried, another loved the sound she made when she screamed. There was a woman, too, laughing as she watched.
“Please, Falon’Din, let me die”.
“It’s ok.” She heard a voice say in the darkness. The power of it tore through her dream, through the confusion and violent images playing behind her eyelids. “It will be alright.” She felt a large hand pet her hair, rhythmically.
The voice sounded so sincere.
Will it? She asked, in the darkness, staring at the red-eyed wolf she held deep inside of her. It was fully awake now. Watching her.
Could it ever be alright?
But the nightmarish memories unraveled itself from her dreams, and the feeling of a hand stroking her head was so comforting. She remembered how, once, someone had petted her head the same way, when she was still a child, before she had wandered off from the safety of her clan to see a human village for the first time. Before they…
“It will all be okay.”
A tear slid down her cheek, but she sank into the darkness of sleep, finally quiet.
