#cadashwall

[lelianasbong]

shoutout to blackwall for saying "the beard doesn't bother you as much as i feared" after you repeatedly chase him down in a barn so you can shove your tongue down his throat

[persephoneggsy]

birthday present for my very good friend @breadedsinner!!

a modern au take of her inquisitor, rota cadash, and her beau thom rainier!

[astraphone]

the stubborn grace of being loved regardless

2.2k, blackwall/amber cadash. for as long as they’ve known each other, blackwall and inquisitor cadash have been keeping secrets from each other and from the world. when blackwall’s secret comes to light, amber feels it’s only fair to reveal a truth of her own.

Inquisitor Cadash is no stranger to lies.

Before she was the Herald of Andraste, before she was anyone at all, she was a kid in the slums of Ostwick trying to drum up whatever extra coin she could from unsuspecting passers-by. She was always a charmer, with a knack for convincing anyone that whatever useless trinket she was selling was worth buying. It was all but inevitable, for a surfacer with few other prospects, that her talent would catch the attention of the Carta, using that honeyed tongue to smuggle and sell lyrium to the highest bidder.

Not much has changed in the Inquisition, really. She’s still selling lies to anyone who will listen, just packaged differently and with much higher stakes: yes, I’m the Herald of Andraste. Yes, I’ve been chosen by your god, and yes, that makes me someone you should follow.

She’s not particularly proud of it. But she’s learned by now that what she believes is much less important than what the people around her do. Trick them into thinking you’re something holy, and they’ll move mountains.

As any good liar, Amber knows another when she sees one. She’s always known that Blackwall harbors some dark secret, and of course she’s wondered, but she’s never been one to trouble herself much with people’s pasts. There has always been an implicit understanding between the two of them—one without which she doubts they could have ever attempted a courtship—that their pasts are their own business, and she’s been content to leave it at that.

This, of course, all changes when the bastard goes and turns himself in.

When she goes to see him, he won’t look at her. He glances up briefly as she approaches his cell, just enough to see that it’s her, then returns to staring at his hands from where he kneels on the floor.

A cold panic has been building within Amber since she stood in the crowd before the gallows and heard his confession. He’s going to hang. He’s going to hang for something he did years before he met me, and he’s here on purpose, and he never said goodbye. Some of it recedes as she stands before him, the worst-case scenario of him being lynched by a mob of angry Orlesians not yet come to pass, at least.

“You weren't supposed to find me. You were just supposed to think I was gone.” His voice is a ragged, utterly broken thing.

“So I gathered. I wasn’t supposed to know where you went, or what happened to you, or why you abandoned me in the middle of the night without a word. Too fucking bad, Blackwall.” She’d intended to come in with more empathy for the man who’s certainly having one of the worst days of his life, but her worry for and fury at him have been warring in her mind since his disappearance.

He flinches as though she’d struck him. “I never wanted to hurt you. For what little that’s worth. I thought you’d be happier thinking I was a noble man, a Grey Warden, instead of this.”

She takes a careful step forward and sits cross-legged in front of the bars, easily close enough to touch him. She doesn’t, but he shrinks back anyway, like he’s afraid she might. “Well, I’m here now. You may as well tell me the rest of it.”

He sighs, visibly relaxing by a fraction when she makes no further move towards him. “I suppose it can’t get any worse.”

She sits silently as he tells her all of it. It’s a long story, and her focus slips once around the middle, but he knows the signs of that well enough by now, waiting patiently for her to regather her attention.

When he runs out of words, she’s quiet for another moment, not speaking until something like a plan has formed in her mind. “Okay. This isn’t ideal, but we have a few options. Storming the jail outright is probably unwise, but doable worst-case. Leliana could probably sneak you out, but… I know people who make a living off jail breaks. We’ll just need a delay on your execution, which I’m sure Josephine can arrange…”

She trails off as she realizes that Blackwall is staring at her, disgusted disbelief written plain across his face.

“Are you mad?” He jerks forward, rattling the bars of his cell. “Haven’t you been listening? I deserve to rot in here.”

There’s something almost feral in his eyes, but she doesn’t back away. “Listen to me, Blackwall. Or—” she falters, silently cursing her memory as she struggles to recall the unfamiliar name.

“Rainier,” he mutters.

“Rainier. Whoever. You came here to stop an execution. And that was very brave, and you succeeded, and you dying here isn’t going to make a single thing better. So now I’m going to get you back to Skyhold, and we’ll figure the rest out from there.”

She hadn’t for a second considered doing anything else. This isn’t the first friend Amber has had to break out of jail, or the first lover who’s confessed a crime to her. This, after all, is why she agreed to join the Inquisition—leverage to keep her people safe, no matter the circumstances.

“There’s nothing to figure out,” Blackwall snaps. “You know it all now. There’s no future for me outside this cell, and I was a fool to ever pretend there was.”

Every time he’d warned her they had no future together, she’d assumed he’d been referring to the Warden’s Calling. She’s almost insulted as she realizes that it’s been this all along—this, as if she doesn’t also have blood on her hands.

“You think you’re the only murderer here? I spent twenty years in the Carta. Would you see me hang for it?”

“You left that life behind.”

“So did you.”

“I ran from it, like a coward, and I left my men to die in my place.” He rises suddenly, like he’s unable to bear kneeling in front of her anymore. She stands with him, though he’s so much taller that she has to crane her neck to look at him properly.

“And I didn’t leave the Carta until an opportunity fell into my lap.” Despite her best efforts, her voice is rising to match his. “Let me be clear. I am very fucking angry at you right now, because, again, you left me and went off to die without a damned word. But I know what it’s like to have a past you’re not proud of. Maker, Blackwall, I married into one of the worst Carta families there is. You think I’d turn my back on you over this?”

“As I understand it, your marriage didn’t work out.”

“Because of the future she wanted. Not the past she’d already lived.”

“I’m not a good man, my lady.”

As if she’s a good woman. As if that’s ever been a prerequisite to her heart. “I love you. I don’t care.”

She’s never told him she loved him before, at least not in so many words. She’s certain he already knew, but he flinches again anyway. “You should care.”

“Well, tough shit! Is that a problem?”

“It’s not right! You would drag yourself down with me. You would drag the whole Inquisition down with me if you allowed me to return. You’re better than that, better than using your criminal ties for a traitor and a killer.”

“You—you—” She’s starting to stammer, as she tends to when she’s agitated, and she can’t help the tears of frustration that well in her eyes. She forces a breath, pulls her words together. “You put me on a fucking pedestal, you always have, and you’re wrong. You talk like I’m corrupting the Inquisition for my selfish means, but the Inquisition was built on my selfish means. Do you—do you want to know a secret, Rainier? You told me yours, so it’s only fair. This whole thing is a sham.”

In the end, it’s far easier to say than she thought it would be. One frustrated outburst, and the truth she’s guarded so closely all these months is out there in the world, no taking it back.

“What do you mean?” Blackwall asks slowly after a few agonizing seconds of silence.

“I don’t believe in any of this.” It’s a relief to finally say it out loud; some of the pressure in her chest that’s been there since the Conclave eases, just a bit. “I don’t believe in the Maker, I certainly don’t believe I’m the Herald of Andraste. I’ve been lying since I woke up in Haven, because I saw a chance for a better life and I stole it.”

“But you've always—” Blackwall’s eyes go distant, likely recalling everything he’s ever heard her say about her so-called faith. “What, truly?”

“Truly. And now you’re the only one who knows. So, what will you do? Expose me for a fraud? I won’t stop you.”

“No, I—of course not. I’m just…”

“Rethinking every conversation we’ve ever had?”

That, of all things, gets a snort out of him. “You know the feeling, do you? What a pair we make.”

“Frauds and liars both.”

He sinks back to the floor of his cell, his manic energy apparently spent, and she follows him back down. They sit there quietly for a moment, watching each other from either side of the bars. She wants, so badly, to reach out for him, but she keeps her hands at her sides.

“Was it to get away from the Carta?” He asks finally.

She nods. “I didn’t agree to stay until Leliana promised to bring Ingrid to Haven. I thought being such a… prominent figure would give us some protection if they came looking for us. I never expected it to go this far.”

“You wanted a better life for your daughter. There’s no shame in that.”

“Sure, fine. My reasons were good. But I’m, I’m important now, right? The things I say have weight in the world. And I’m pretending that’s a gift from a higher power and not dumb luck.” She shrugs. “Not saying I mind it, necessarily. Or that I wouldn’t do the same again. But I’m not going to pretend it’s noble.”

“What you do now is noble, though.”

“That’s my point. Look, you told me once that you signed on to the Inquisition because of the person I am, not who I was. One liar to another, maybe that’s what matters. Who are now, and who we want to be.”

And damn it all, she does want to be something better than she was, doesn’t she? However this whole mess started, she’s in too deep to back out now, and she doesn’t think she would if she could.

“You didn’t kill anyone for your lie.” Blackwall, stubborn ass that he can be, is still trying to argue the point.

“That’s not really true, though, is it? People follow me into battle because they think I’m blessed by the Maker. Some of them don't come home.”

“People follow you into battle because they see a woman worth following.”

“And if I weren’t the Herald, they’d see a lyrium-addled Carta thug who can’t think straight half the time.”

He looks aghast. “Surely that’s not how you see yourself?”

“No. But I know how people looked at me before all this. And I’d rather them see something else, even if it’s built on a lie.”

Blackwall’s hands twitch, like he’d been about to reach for her but reconsidered at the last second. “Your people adore you, and not just because you’re the Herald. Your mark closes rifts, but it’s not what makes you a leader, and they know it. Andraste herself could disavow you, and they wouldn’t stop believing in you.” A pause. “I wouldn’t stop believing in you.”

“See, you say things like that to me, and then you wonder why I want you around.” She says it lightly, but he scrubs a hand over his face like he’s just barely holding himself together.

“I—” he breaks off, voice strangled, “I didn’t want to leave you. But you deserve better than this.”

“Damn what I deserve,” she says fiercely. “I want you.”

The sound that comes out of his mouth at that is half-laugh, half-sob. Tentatively, Amber reaches her hand up through the bars to touch the side of his face. He closes his eyes, leaning into the touch.

“You are remarkable, my lady,” he says, barely above a whipser. “And you’re doing good, no matter the reason why you started.”

“So are you.”

He reaches up to take her hand in his, pressing a kiss to it before releasing it back to her. “What happens to me, if you get me out?”

It’s not quite acceptance, but it’s close enough for her to work with. “I haven’t thought that far ahead,” she admits. “But I’m not leaving you to die here.”

“That might not be your choice. Whatever you may want for me, Val Royeaux wants my head on a pike.”

“I wouldn’t worry. I'm the Herald of Andraste, remember?” She winks at him and he finally, finally, gives her a ghost of a smile. “I tend to get what I want.”

Whatever happens next, there are two fewer secrets between them today, and despite the rest, she feels lighter for it.

[breadedsinner]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

A story about grief, healing, love, and getting lost in the Fade. Chapter 10 is up!

Also on Google Docs if you would prefer not to use AO3

“And you’re sure you can resist this… this fake Calling? You’re completely, totally sure?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Cadash chewed on her lip. “Then swear to me. Swear you won’t be swayed by this magic.”

Blackwall paused. Cadash could feel his eyes on her, studying the taught tension in her face. She had let him get too close; he knew she was seldom this serious.

“Lady Cadash,” he said, taking her hands and pressing them against his heart. The pained arm wriggled ever so slightly. “You have my solemn promise I will not fall to Corypheus’s corruption. I would sooner die than turn my blade against you.”

Cadash turned her head, her velvet black hair swishing over her profile, so he could not see her blush. “The idea is for you to not die at all, idiot. But I’ll take it.”

“Rota,” his voice was soft, a thumb placed delicately under her chin, turning her head back to him.

“Don’t,” her voice cracked. “Don’t die, I forbid it.”

“If my lady commands it,” he said, smiling, leaning in slowly for a kiss.

He came slowly for her, waiting for a motion of approval, a sign to keep going. She kept her lips buttoned for a moment, knowing every time she let this pass, every inch closer, it would just get harder when he eventually left. He was already occupying too much of her thoughts. He was already breathing her air. Her nose twitched at the all too familiar scent of chopped lumber ready for the fire, of rolled hay, of bubbling cider. Her fingers found his forearms, bristling against his thick, dark brown hair. Everything about him was so warm, so inviting.

[baewall]

“I missed you!”

Redraw of an older picture of these dorks. This was always my favourite drawing of them so I wanted to colour it!

[lyrium-lavellan]

P R O P H E T E S S

Cassia’s thing for gold is iconic and I love it ok

Vel - Nehri - Teya - Ashann - Ari - 

[pazithigallifreya]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Thom Rainier wrangles with his past (quite literally), and the Inquisitor is just plain tired of this shit.

Alas, there is no end in sight...

[astraphone]

if you give it a name, then it’s already won

1.5k, blackwall/cadash. after the breach is sealed, the man who calls himself blackwall shares a moment and a dance with the herald of andraste.

Hours before it is lost, there is dancing in Haven.

Blackwall isn’t with the Herald as she and the mages close the Breach, but even down in the village it’s obvious the moment she succeeds. With a blaze of light and energy, the sky stitches itself back together before his very eyes. For the first time in months, the green, angry menace above settles. Scarred, still, a reminder of what happened here, but quiet at last.

The villagers have already begun drinking by the time the Herald returns from the temple. A wild cheer erupts at her approach, and though Blackwall intends to congratulate her, he quickly loses sight of her in a gaggle of admirers. Probably for the best, that. Tonight is for her, and she hardly needs him interrupting her festivities.

That thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and he hurries to find himself a drink before he can dwell too much on things that aren’t for him. Today was a victory, for the Inquisition and for the world. He’ll focus on that, not on the way he’s itching to find the Herald in the crowd, to see her grin up at him when their eyes meet, to run his hands over her and—

Well. So much for not dwelling on it.

The fact of the matter is, they’ve been... flirting. He’s almost certain she isn’t serious; she flirts with him like it’s a light-hearted reflex, just part of her charm, and he should know better than to respond in kind. Easier said than done, though, when their banter comes so easily, when she smirks when she catches him watching her, when he hears her laugh as they take down demons together, all exhilarated adrenaline.

He’s not courting her. He hardly knows her, really, and he does know full-well how unworthy he is of even attempting such a thing. But it’s a pleasant fantasy to indulge in from time to time, that a woman like her might see something in him, of all people. 

“There you are.”

Blackwall just about jumps out of his skin. As if summoned by his thoughts of her, the Herald of Andraste herself stands at his side. She’s changed out of her armor into casual clothes, carrying a drink in one hand and a half-eaten plate of food in the other. Her face is still smudged with what must be soot from the Temple, and he pushes down the urge to reach out and wipe it off for her. She looks tired, he thinks.

“I haven’t seen you all night,” she says. “Was starting to think you’re avoiding me.”

“Never, my lady,” he manages once he finds his tongue. “Are you enjoying the festivities?”

“Sure, as long as they keep the ale flowing.”

The mug in her hand looks nearly untouched, but he decides against pointing that out.

“I believe congratulations are in order,” he says instead. “You did a great thing tonight.”

She smiles, but there's something almost sad about it—and when did he become so good at reading her expressions? “My hand did, you mean. And the mages.” She seems to catch herself, looking inexplicably annoyed for a moment before continuing. “But—you’re right. We did good.” 

“Are you alright?” He ventures.

“Sure as stone. Why?”

“I suppose I expected you to be celebrating. You did, after all, just accomplish what we’ve all been hoping for.”

“I know that,” she snaps, then sighs. “Sorry. Just tired.”

“You don’t have to talk to me," he says slowly. "But I will listen, if you do.” 

She looks at him for a moment, as if deciding whether she wants to say anything, then seems to come to a decision. “I’m fine. Just thinking about what happens next, now that I’ve done my part.”

“I’m no expert, but I don’t get the impression that this whole mess is over. Do you?”

“No. But they brought me in to close the Breach. Half the Chantry still wants me in chains, and I’m fairly certain the Carta will tell me to sod right off if I go crawling back, so…” She grimaces. "It's Inquisition or dust for me, I think. I just hope I still have a job now my bit's done."

"The Inquisition would be mad to let the Herald of Andraste go. And regardless, surely you realize you're far more to these people that just your mark."

She glances down at the mark in question, still sparking with light underneath the leather glove she wears. "Still hard to believe sometimes. All this for someone like me." "Breach or no, the people still need you. The Inquisition still needs you." And then, because he's been drinking and he's feeling rather bold, he adds, "And, for what it's worth, I still want you. Here, I mean. I still want you here, helping."

She raises one scarred eyebrow at him, pointedly enough that he feels himself blush. "Right."

He'll gladly put his foot in his mouth a thousand times, if it brings back that little half-grin of hers. Seeing a ghost of it now, he gestures out towards the gathered crowd of dancers. “Come on. Tonight is for you; it would be a shame if you didn't enjoy it."

The Herald snorts, a surprised and undignified thing that makes him grin. “What, you want to dance? I've been told I have two left feet, you know."

"I'll be the judge of that, my lady. If you'll allow me."

"Oh, fuck it." She tips her mug back and downs her drink with impressive speed for someone her size.  "Lead the way."

He extends a hand to her and she takes it with a smirk. This is foolish, he knows; just about all of Haven is out here tonight, and people will talk. She hardly needs that kind of rumor on her plate. But once her hand is in his, he’ll be damned if he lets go.

With a half-bow towards her, he leads her into a dance. He’s never danced with a dwarf before, and has to adjust a bit for her height, but it’s easy to get used to her. As though all that time spent twirling around ridiculous Orlesian ballrooms a lifetime ago was merely a lead-up to her.   

Despite her initial protests, the Herald is a fast learner, and soon she’s laughing breathlessly as he spins her. He finds that he doesn’t care about the people watching, the whispers that will surely come, the voice in the back of his head telling him he doesn't deserve this; in this moment, she's the only thing that matters.

The dance is over too soon, and as they come to a halt they're both smiling like a pair of fools.

"How'd I do?" The melancholy of a few moments earlier is vanished from her face now, her eyes bright and shining with mirth.

"You're a natural, Lady Cadash." Caught up in the moment, acting more on instinct than anything else, he catches one of her hands in his and presses it to his lips.

Too far. He knows it instantly, as her eyes snap up to meet his, open wide with surprise. He drops her hand and takes a hasty step backwards, but she follows, so close they’re nearly pressed against each other. It would be damnably easy to do something unwise in this moment. She’s closed most of the distance herself; all he has to do is lean down and brush his lips against hers.

No. He shakes his head to help clear it, although he can't quite bring himself to move away again. “I—I forget myself.”

The Herald's voice is low, meant just for him. “I think I like it when you forget yourself, Warden Blackwall.”

The moment is broken with the sound of that name. He’s long-since gotten used to it, thinks of it more than he thinks of the name he was born with, and on most days hearing it reminds him of the sort of man he wants to be. Tonight, it’s a reminder of why he shouldn’t be doing this. The Herald of Andraste, this remarkable woman with the world at her feet, deserves far better than a lying, murderous fraud.

He takes another step back, and this time she doesn't follow. "I'm sorry,” he mutters.

He thinks he might see disappointment flash briefly on her face, but she only shrugs. “Don’t apologize. This was the best part of my night.”

“Given what you’ve accomplished tonight, perhaps you need to reevaluate your priorities, my lady.”

He means to say it lightheartedly, but he must have struck a nerve, judging by the way her eyes narrow. "Perhaps you need to figure out what you want, Warden," she says sharply. "Come find me if you do."

She stalks off, and he watches her go. She's joined by Cassandra a moment later, and he turns away.

Maker, he’d wanted to kiss her. He almost had kissed her, and she’d looked at him like she’d wanted him to. She's wrong; he knows exactly what he wants, he's just desperately fighting a losing battle against it. 

When the alarm bell starts ringing, it's almost a relief.