With a thunderous crash, the mountain of spiky red lyrium crystals, which supposedly was a person at some point, falls to the hard, ice-locked ground, a few pulsing, humming shards breaking off at the impact, bouncing off the rime like jets of hot blood.
āBits up, face down!ā Sera declares dramatically, thrusting her bow upwards in a little dance of triumph - and then frowns, slows down, and squints at the vanquished red colossus with an expression of doubt and increasingly more evident disgust.
āIā¦ I guess? Where does this thing have its bits anyway?ā
āDo not overthink this, my dear,ā Vivienne drawls, regarding Sera with half-lidded eyes and one eyebrow quirked. 'It will break your poor little brainā.
Sera scoffs and blows a raspberry - itās a long one, with lots of obvious effort put into it, but the sound is completely inaudible, drowned out by the flap of gigantic wings and an echoing screech that comes somewhere out of the empty, dizzying blackness of the sky. Thatās their sign: the creature who commands the screeching dragon, the mysterious Elder One who came to ravish Haven, has noticed them. Time for the Herald to make her stand against the monstrous invader - the Elder One came for her, after all.
'Itās time,ā she says curtly, flexing her shoulders and gripping tightly at her giant war axe.
Few other elves have been known for wielding one - but then, she has the built for it, her body all hardened muscle and sinews underneath her flapping overcoat and torn-up, slightly singed blouse. Wound up tight as a spring and ready to be launched into battle one more time. One last time. Her final feat of heroism in the name of Andraste - like in the epic poems of old that Varric likes to parody so much. A lone warrior, small yet fierce, clashing against a dragon and its rider.
'Run,ā she repeats, her tongue darting across her parched lips and her nostrils flaring.
And they obey. They clear the path for the upcoming confrontation, charging down the empty, body-strewn streets, past the scorched carcasses of ruined buildings, towards the tall, beckoning gates of the Chantry, where they will be ushered off to safety while the Herald holds the enemy off. That was the plan - but not everyone is willing to go along with it.
They are almost halfway there when the lone man in the party, the Inquisitionās resident Grey Warden, digs his heels deep into the frosty, silver-powdered soil and, turning around, begins to walk back in swift, determined strides.
'Oi, Beardy!ā Sera cries in alarm. 'Whatcher doing?! Stop! Oh, shite, he is being hero-like! Look, Viv, his hair is even waving in the wind and everything!ā
That is true. The cold breath of the mountains is rushing right into his face, his black, silver-specked mane, which he tied back into a bun for battle, is now flapping loose behind him, while the last soft embers are floating slowly through the air all around, together with the glittering snowflakes. He does not care for that though - fuck, this is the last thing he would ever care about! He is not turning back to be a hero, to make an impression, to write himself into some bloody annals (yeah, Fuzzhead would like that Ā turn of phrase) as the saviour of the Herald. He is doing it becauseā¦ Because he cannot bear leaving her alone.
He knows her: she is very easy to get to know (very pleasant, too, though he does not quite let himself fully enjoy this pleasantness). He knows how much it means to her, a modest elven servant (who did not even have a family name of her own, and became known under the household name of her masters, La Vellan, like she was a part of inventory from some crest-stamped crate rather than a person), to have been chosen by the Maker as the protector of the faithful. He knows that it has always been her dream to set a shining example for all of her kin across Thedas, to turn her story of rising above poverty into a source of hope and inspiration, to prove to the Chantry that the Maker does not look down on the elves, after all. He knows - she has talked to him about this so often, with her face flushed with excitement and the warmth of their campfire, the light in her eyes making him feel a little dizzy, her enthusiasm infecting him, going to his head like wine fumes (and not her enthusiasm aloneā¦ Makerās balls, sometimes the way her light, casual tunic rolled up or stretched down during her animated gestures, revealing slivers of her lithe, scarred body, was a bit too much for him).
He knows. He knows that she will not back down, true to her honour as the Elven Herald; that she will be holding off the Elder One and the dragon for as long as it takes for the Inquisition to get out along Roderickās escape route. This will be a long and gruelling battle - and it will kill him if he is not there to make certain that she emerges from it alive. She has not been intending to, her gaze burning with fervent readiness to sacrifice herself for the greater good, the way Andraste did once - but, much as he respects her as a warrior and a leader, he cannot agree with her here.
She needs to survive this. And not just because she is the Herald, and Thedas - other elves, first and foremost - might still have need of her. Because she is a damn good woman, who has been through far too much for someone so young and pure-hearted: the humiliation of servitude, the abuse at the hands of her latest mistress (some snotty young cleric who died at the Conclave), the daily horrors of the battlefield that, as affirmed by Solas and reluctantly admitted by her own self, bring her nightmares - which she used to be so ashamed of, thinking that they do not befit a warrior of faith, until Blackwall had a bit of a talk with her, which may have been clumsily worded on his part but at least made her a little more assured in her own strength.
She has suffered enough; she deserves to live a long and content life. She deserves to see the day when this fucking mess is finally over; she deserves a chance to lay down her weapon and justā¦ oh, he doesnāt know, walk through a field like that girl in an Orlesian painting she admired so much in Vivienneās parlour, waist-deep in swaying golden wheat, a crown of cornflowers on her head, the sun kissing her shoulders, not a care in the world, not a single Rift in her path, not a single human breathing down her neck. She justā¦ She deserves to be bloody happy! And happiness does not equate marching off to battle from which she may never return!
If it ever comes down to this, if a choice has to be made who dies to buy the Inquisition time for an escape and who heads out of Haven, better that death claim not this brave, beautiful young elf, this new Andraste who radiates hope wherever she turns - but an old, spent, worthless man, who does not deserve a sweet and happy ending, and has more than enough to pay for with his blood. At least like this, he will be performing a service to the Inquisition; he will be of far more value to their cause - to the world - dead than alive. Unlike her.
Each of these thoughts spurs him on, ringing far louder and clearer within his mind than any of Seraās calls for him to stop, or outraged squeals as Vivienne drags her back to the Chantry. You go, Fuzzhead. Go with the wicked Orlesian. You deserve to live through this as well.
Soon, he is back at the head (at least, he thinks itās a head) of the fallen red behemoth - holding the glare of the Herald, who seems stunned and a little angry.
'Blackwall?! What?! Why?!ā she breathes out, each word a violent gust of milky vapour. 'You shouldnāt be here! This is my fight! The Elder One wants me - and he is going to get me!ā
'Not if I stand in between you two,ā Blackwall says quietly.
Then, seeing that she has begun to gasp rapidly, he adds, his voice a little louder but steady and collected,
'Hey now, I am not here to compete for glory. I am well aware that you need to be the one fighting evil, for your peopleās sake. I just want to cover your back when you are finished here and head to rejoin the Inquisitionā.
'Cover myā¦ā she echoes faintly, with her legs suddenly beginning to bend in the knees, while she lowers her axe, blade sinking into the ground, and grabs hold of its hilt for support, like an old woman would do with a cane.
'By Andrasteās holy pyre - youā¦ You said almost these exact words to me in that twisted future! You were sickā¦ Red lyrium growing inside youā¦ And you still faced down a whole horde of demons while Dorian worked on his spell to reverse timeā¦ The last thing I sawā¦ before we jumped into that portalā¦ Was the red trace on the stone as a demon dragged your dead body across the floorā¦ Iā¦ā
Letting go of her axe, she leans forward, her chest racked by a dry, cough-like sob, and grasps frantically at the front of Blackwallās jacket.
'I canāt see the same thing all over again!ā she whispers, her face closer to Blackwallās than it has ever been - than he has ever allowed - while he thinks that he can sense his own hand pressing at her back between the shoulder blades. This gesture is meant to support her - but in truth, it keeps him standing upright as much as herself, because her next words almost make him keel over in the wake of the enormous leap his heart makes.
'I canātā¦ I canāt lose you! Not for real! Pleaseā¦ Please, leave me! Run to the Chantryā¦ before itās too late!ā
It already is too late, though. Before Blackwall can reply, there comes another flap of dragon wings, much closer to the ground this time; the sound makes the Herald start and step away from him, groping for her discarded axe.
'Fine,ā she mouths, her eyes still on his face (which, as he has just realized, is burning). 'Stay. But on one condition. We survive. Togetherā.
andulkaphoto
kianamaiart
prguitarman
titsay
dailybridgerton
dededos
gummygunk
