Tagged by the lovely @untouchable-face a while ago, but tumblr mentions are a shambles.
1. Do you have a favorite character to write? Who and why?
Problem Bear is my always and forever favorite. But the one I most enjoy, because there are exactly zero rules, practically zero canon or lore is Warden Gordon, that chuckling fuck! Bioware did nothing with him so he’s mine now.
Blackwall/Thom was an immediate draw because he’s got the one-two-punch of crippling depression and repressed arrogance. That’s gooooooood stuff. He feels like a waste of skin for three fourths of his waking hours but every so often in very specific situations he decides he’s King Shit of Fuck Mountain. The dichotomy is a lot of fun.
2. Do you have a favorite trope to write? Or one you want to write?
I love writing one character who has a good reason to know that everything is gonna go pear-shaped. The person who storms into the room like “Hey dipshits, guess what!” I think it’s Virgo wish fulfillment.
One I want to write is a devout unabashed idealist who is on a journey and isn’t cynical about it at all, is 100% earnest.
3. Share your favorite description you’ve written?
I like a lot of the descriptions in Out of the Woods
Steam followed her out of the Chantry’s side doors. Incense and green rushes had once reminded her of weddings, of the unending chant on hot afternoons, of holidays in a starched frock. Now she breathed cold night air gratefully. The smell of a chantry had become the smell of arguments, of snide jabs and the agony of faces turned her way expecting an intelligent opinion when all she wanted to do was shrug and hope Leliana had a good idea.
Evelyn dodged a puddle the size of her foyer in Ostwick then she picked her way through horse turds and piles of slush. Haven was nearly empty of trees. Thay had all been replaced now by half built cabins and tents - tents everywhere. Closest to the Chantry they were mostly full of soldiers and sisters. The mages preferred to keep to themselves near the lake. Lanterns made the canvas glow from within.
Without trails of urine carved through the snow - and the sound of a cot scraping rhythmically against the plank floor of the closest tent as someone had fun - they would be pretty.
4. Share your favorite dialogue you’ve written?
This one is hard to choose? I dunno if it’s my fave but I like a lot of Warden Gordon’s lines in Three Weeks to Weisshaupt. He’s a gregarious, chill, the-rug-really-tied-the-room-together kind of guy.
Blackwall sat back to give him a bit of room, but took hold of one of his wrists when he started to skin out of the thick jumper he wore over his ratty old shirt. “Easy, lad. It’s fucking freezing out here.”
“I don’t feel the cold like other people.” Thom pulled the jumper off, trying to take his shirt with it but the cuffs were buttoned tight. He jerked at them with a grunt of frustration, his hands trapped a moment.
“Easy,” the Warden soothed him. He ran a hand down Thom’s neck to his shoulder. Thom broke out in gooseflesh - not from the cold wind but from Blackwall’s thumb on his collarbone. “No rush, Thom.”
“You want me bare, I can see it.” Working one hand free with his help, Thom attacked the other inside-out cuff.
Blackwall laughed and the hot rush of temper it brought up shocked Thom. But the Warden’s hands were gentle as they got him free of his stupid shirt.
“Not laughing at you like that, lad.” Blackwall sighed and shook his head, dragged the backs of his knuckles down Thom’s sternum. “Look at you,” Blackwall chuckled as the light touch made Thom’s stomach clench. “Eyes wild, always thrashing around looking for a fight - and fit as the butcher’s dog.”
Thom went hot again and it must’ve shown even in the firelight, because Blackwall smiled and leaned in to kiss him. “Don’t worry about it, lad. There’s naught wrong with liking to fight and fuck better than anything else.”
5. Scene you haven’t written, but want to?
Kink. Always kink. I’ve got some ideas for caning that are so choice.
@brialavellan @heyitsharding @gingerbreton if anybody feels like playing along
I’m doing something a bit different with this Rainwall pic, please hit me up with your best face claims for young-ish, cocky bastard Thom! (And for Gordon for that matter, although I kinda have him sketched out already)
It had been raining for three fuckingdays. Mud was everywhere, nothing on the horizon but more rain. Thomdidn't even know where they were. Nevarra? Orlais? Somewhere on theborder? They'd been marching for a week. March. Stop. March. Camp.March. Shit in a ditch.
Sometimes Thom wished he'd stayed backin Markham, flipping burgers at Coco's Fry Box.
Course...he wouldn't have met Gordon.
They shared a tent, as usual. Thom'sshoulders were in more pain than he'd thought possible. Poor Gordontried to help, tried working out the knots, tried massaging that spotbetween his neck and shoulder blades that burned like fire.
“Nothin' for it. Gonna have to getsome sleep, hope we reach the Dunes tomorrow.” Thom leaned backagainst Gordon's chest. “Sick of this fucking endless march.”
“Pissbags don't even have any workfor us to do, you know?” Gordon took a swig off the flask. “We'rejust out here to look good.”
Thom took the flask. Whiskey. Goodwhiskey. “If they expect us to look good, they're gonna bedisappointed.”
“Hey,I'd say at least one of us looks good.” Gordon's tight beardtickled his ear.
“Flatterer.”
“Wasn'ttalking about you.” Gordon silenced Thom's comeback with a kiss.They stayed silent, soft wet kisses matching the rain outside. Beforehe knew it, he was on his back on the bedroll, Gordon on top of him,grinding, grinding.
Maker,his back hurt. And his shoulders. And his fucking knees. He tried.Gordon's tongue was nice, but it did nothing to dissolve the pains inhis body. His hand on his cock was nice too. Maybe that could help. Alittle. Maybe.
“Spreadyour legs, lad.”
Thomdid, with a sigh. It was cold in the tent. He shivered, and not fromGordon's hand. The man himself was sticky with night sweat, whiskeyon his breath and in his beard. Thom kissed him again, fuck the painaway, get off and sleep. Gordon's hand tightened up.
“Shh.Walls are thin.” Gordon kissed Thom's moans back, kissed him againwhen he opened his mouth to protest.
Finally,it clicked. The sensation was good, the bedroll oddly comfortable.Thom rocked along, staying nice and quiet, soaking in Gordon'sskilled touch. It was good. Gordon smelled like sweat, like runeozone, like cheap cigarettes, like...
“Didyou just?” Thom sniffed the air again. “You did, you fuckinglout.”
Gordonflinched. “C'mon, lad. You know these military rations aren't easyon the digestion.”
“Oh,Maker's shitting breath, that is awful!” Thom yanked his pants upbefore the next wave of smell hit him. “I'd rather take my chancesoutside!”
“Thom!”Gordon choked out his name before the laughter hit him. “Thom, comeback here.”
“No.Not with you gassing up the place.”
As ifon cue, another cloud of gas filled the tent. And another.
Later,Thom would reflect that a sweaty three man tent was far preferablethan sharing one tent with a man who could kill you with a singlefart.
Warning, sad stuff ahead. Character death. Thom & Blackwall
Fuck. Fuck. Shitefuckshitefuck.
You've killed him with the stuff, now, you ass.
Thom drops the empty vial and pats Blackwall's colorless cheek then thumbs open one eye carefully as he had seen the Healers do in the field a hundred times. "Come on, come on you son of a bitch, come back." Everything is awkward, working left-handed.
There. A breath, wet and rasping but a breath.
"That's it, you're all right."
He isn't. Even in the dark there's a stain spreading through the weeds under Blackwall. Thom shoves another wad of dry grass under Blackwall's doublet, pressing hard against the wound with the heel of his good hand. Blackwall groans, one boot pushing feebly at Thom's knee.
"Sorry, I know. Drink this, one more."
He has no idea how much potion is too much. The vial slips out of his right hand slick with blood. Mostly his own. Those fingers won't grip the way they ought to. Thom is cold, the kind of cold you get when you're fucked and somebody tells you to lay down and put your feet up in the air.
Shit. He should be doing that, a Healer was always holding the bloke's legs up. Thom bites the wax seal on the potion, peeling it away in one long strip.
"Cold."
He spits the wax out and bites the cork that was underneath. It breaks in half. "Cold? Yeah, drink one more and-"
"Old. Old." Blackwall coughs, his body going rigid then limp again. "Quit."
Thom pushes what's left of the cork back down into the little bottle, opening it. Yellow goo leaks out and drips down onto the silverite griffon between them. When Thom moves the bottle to his lips, Blackwall turns his head away.
"Don't be a prick." Thom has blood in his eyes. He can hear his heartbeat, can feel it throbbing around the arrow broken off in his shoulder. His arm won't hold him up any longer, and he lands on his elbow in the long grass. He drips on Blackwall, too, blood and probably tears.
Blackwall opens both eyes, finally. Thom goes lightheaded with hope and dribbles some of the healing draught in when Blackwall's lips part. He pushes the bottle away.
"If you're good enough to argue, you're good enough to swallow." But Thom knows better. This is the last rally, he's seen it before. Blackwall's lips move but Thom can't hear over the waves down below and the pounding of his pulse and some strange rattling noise that he finally realizes is the buckle on his sword belt. He's got the shivers. "Please," he says, but he knows the Warden's going.
The wind is merciless, it never stops here, and the blood on his hand has dried to itchy scales. Blackwall looks at the frayed stick protruding from Thom's shoulder, his eyebrows twitching up, fingertips nudging the bottle Thom holds against his chest.
"'s not so bad," Thom whispers around chattering teeth. Blackwall frowns and coughs, blood comes up with it and his mouth works to make words. Thom drinks the potion. It's the last one.
Blackwall settles back, one side of his mouth curling up. "Good lad."
The potion kicks in. Blackwall takes two tries to turn his head with a grunt. The moon is suddenly brighter to Thom. Blackwall's beard writhes like smoke, the white hairs standing out in little lightning strikes. The Warden's hand falls heavy on Thom's, and he can see the bones through the skin and the gleaming knobbly knuckles contracting. Thom can't feel it, can't feel anything but the crunch of dead grass under his ear.
He blinks and Blackwall's hand is just a hand again, blood dried around the nails. It’s morning and the sun is out, warming the side of his face and his leg where his breeches are torn open. Thom can feel agony waiting just outside the fading potion. His tears burn running down to his split lip. The Hurlock's arrow is on Blackwall's chest, he must have pulled it out of his own shoulder in his delirium. Thom wonders if it was before or after Blackwall faded away.
There’s plenty to be said. Apologies, blame, all of it. But no point talking to a cold corpse. Thom closes his eyes again. It’ll be nice, going to sleep.
Mama the pack horse is nosing around near his boots, pulling up grass and making snuffling noises. Thom kicks at her and it lights up all the pain he’s been ignoring. His shoulder is on fire, his head throbs all of a sudden. He groans and Mama stomps up to his face, her dumb horse mouth lipping at him, getting his cheek damp with her breath.
Thom doesn’t have the strength to push her away again so he opens his eyes and takes a long hard look at Blackwall. Mama sniffs him, then the dead man beside him, and she nudges his hurt shoulder.
“I know,” he groans, pushing up onto his elbow. “I know.”
Blackwall deserves a proper send off, but fucked if he knows how he’ll start a fire one-handed, much less what he’ll use for fuel. Distant voices are coming up the hill behind their camp. Thom sits up and promptly falls right back over, only coming back around to a rough hand on his shoulder and some really foul breath.
“Oi, wake up!” the bad breath says, and Thom looks up into broken teeth and a sunburnt nose. “You all right, Warden? Sit up, man, you got a name?” When Thom blinks at these newcomers they look between him and the pile of dead darkspawn a foot away. “Your friend, he’s gone, fella. Hurlocks got him.”
“Yeah.” Thom lets them pull him upright and settle him against the nearest tree. His right arm still isn’t obeying him and he’s pretty sure fever is running through him.
“What’s your name, mate?”
“Blackwall,” Thom says, staring at the silverite griffon on the dead man’s chest. “Name’s Blackwall.”
i,,,,, oooooo,,,,,, dang it,,,,,,, uuuu making me ship,,,, rainwall 👌🏽👌🏽,,,,,,, and reading your smutty smut and then,,,,, then realising,,,,, he god,,, dANG,,,, DIES.,,,, HE JUST,,,, OH DAMN YO,,,U JUST CRUS H E D,,,,,...,... M E
I know. I know.
Gordy dies, and his beautiful, chill “The rug really tied the room together” spirit dies with him. But at least as far as I’m concerned: He got laid right for a couple of weeks first. And, let’s be real, Gordy would rather die stepping in front of a Hurlock for a younger man who had a chance to make something of himself. That’s honestly the best possible end for him. And he had Thom there with him. He didn’t die alone, which he had accepted he probably would.
He had Thom to at least look him in the eye, maybe hold his hand as he went under. He didn’t get dragged off by darkspawn and eaten. He died under the sky and not in cave. All things considered, it’s better than what Gordon had prepared himself for.
The Inn of the Hapless Ass A Thom Rainier/ Gordon Balckwall fic (3.6k)
Thom washes up in a tavern near Churneau and bumps into the oldest Warden in Orlais.
Read it at Ao3: The Inn of the Hapless Ass or under the cut for length.
Art of Gordon above is by ironhammer who very kindly let me paste it onto my outpouring of self-indulgent RainWall fascination. I’m grateful to gap-var-ginnunga who came up with the setting and the direction of this fic.
At seven he had put squirming earthworms back into the garden beds after a hard rain.
“You cant save ‘em all, Gordy.” Uncle Len watched, leaning on his spade.
Stubborn, his chin tucked into his chest, he had carefully covered the worms with the freshly turned soil so they were out of sight of the crows waiting on the fence.
Twenty years on saw Gordon back in his Uncle’s paddock, waiting for the old man to walk him down to the Chantry, to light a candle for his father’s soul. Gordon had been in Orlais for more than a year this stretch, but he still wished he had been in Denerim for the small service his aunt and uncle had cobbled together last spring.
“Have you had many takers,” his uncle asked. “For the vows…or whatever it is you do to a new one?”
Gordon nodded, eyes on the muddy ruts down the lane. “I have. They all go from filthy wretches in a cell to people doing their duty. Helping fight the blight.”
“I know you see your Da’s face on all of ‘em, lad. The Wardens were a second chance for you, and a good one, but not everybody wants to change. My brother wouldn’t have been one to sign on for something noble.” Uncle Len shook his head. “Maker knows he coulda used somebody as bull-headed as he was, to drag him outta the stocks - to put him on the higher path when we were young. But there wasn’t anybody for the job.”
As they started up the last hill, Gordon pulled a fresh candle from his pack. Tradition said to scratch the name of the dead into the wax, let it melt away in Andraste’s sight within a Chantry. But Gordon had added three more marks: V for vagrant, T, thief, and D meant debtor. Each of them had been branded into his father’s right hand. Those scars would always be clearer in his memory than his father’s face. His uncle took the candle and rubbed a thumb over the T.
“It’s not your fault, lad. He’d earned those brands ten times over before they put even the first one on him. And once he had it, well, that’s the end of it. No other life for a bloke branded thief.”
It was an old innkeep along the the North Road who told him his mother was dead the following winter.
“I’m that sorry, Gordy. Yer Ma was…well, there was no keepin’ her under one roof for long. But she loved ya, in her own way.”
The dwarf told him there had been nothing but a grimy bag of ragged clothes and a half full bottle of gin under the cot in the room upstairs. All that remained of Mrs Trevor Blackwall’s possessions was an unremarkable mess.
Twenty years on top of that memory, and his fiftieth year was coming up fast. It didn’t seem possible he had lived longer than the two wretched souls who’d spawned him and then left him with their kin when they couldn’t be bothered to raise him. Fifty. Maker, what else do you intend for me? None of us live to see sixty. Not even the dwarves.
Gordon settled himself more comfortably at his table in the corner, propping his bad leg on the stool across from him. This tavern had gone downhill since he had seen it last. A shame, ‘The Hapless Ass’ was one of the better names he'd heard. The floor was covered in damp straw that didn’t soak up spilled wine or help the stink of rancid tallow lamps and unwashed bodies. The beer was flat and he didn’t dare trust the food or the other customers. Better than being out all night in the rain, still. Thank you for small favors, Maker, carry on smilin’ on me - sadly or not, as you will.
Cold wind came in with the next patron, making the flames tremble and threaten to go out until the door swung shut. He dripped on the bar as the price for a room went up, then back down when the innkeep’s haggling was answered with muttered contempt. The pack over his shoulder and the shield lashed to it he kept, ignoring the offer to have it taken upstairs.
Gordon didn’t blame him. He kept his own things close. He only trusted his horses to the stable because he knew Friendly would have a thief’s fingers for supper and his pack horse, Mama, can kick up a fuss loud enough to wake the dead.
With his hood thrown back, Gordon could see a rat’s nest of damp black hair and a bloody big scowl looking the room over. It was sit at the door or all the way across next to three rowdy local boys deep in their cups and full of bad songs. The sellsword - the stranger couldn’t be anything else, nobody that road-worn and traveling alone was an enlisted man - chose to sit all by his lonesome at the hearth, spreading his oilcloth wrap out to dry.
It wasn’t the done thing to stare at loners. Gordon had mending to do while the lamps were burning, anyway. He poked slowly at it, sewing had never been his best skill. He had the patience for small stitches, but his eyes got swimmy now unless he held things out far enough. It made him feel old, squinting in a corner while the young bucks tried to butter up the barmaid as she bounced between them and fetching wine for the big stranger. She was plump as a partridge and nearly spilling out of her stays. Gods, she’s a wee babe, too young to be thrown to louts. Though she was probably twenty and didn’t that make him feel ancient?
The faces around him got younger every time he passed through these towns. The men he called friends died off while he was up in Weisshaupt or trolling through Val Firmin’s dungeons, or Maker help him, Kirkwall. One by one they were done in by ague or apoplexy or dull bad luck and now it was their grown children who took his coin for a meal.
A yawn caught him as he rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the crick in his neck. He knew better than to try to sleep yet. Gordon never got more than four or five hours without the dream. Blood and grit on his face, crawling through a mineshaft, pushing and pushing on knife-edged shattered rocks until he could squeeze through a gap ahead. And always the gibbering racket of deepstalkers just behind him in the black.
“Fucking shite!”
A splatter of wine fell across Gordon’s table, knocked there by the stranger standing up and swiping his cup aside. Then it was just another bar fight.
The local boys had it in for the stranger, and he was itching to scrap. Gordon pulled his mending into his lap and pushed back a little from the table in case he had to get up and settle things. The stranger waited for them to make the next move. He’d taken a solid stance, hands up with weight off his heels, dark and still as a wolf in the underbrush.
The stranger, the wolf, did all right for himself, even at three-to-one. He had a good pace to him, for certain. There wasn’t a lot of extra swing in his punches - all tight and neat with elbows close to the body. An hour of drink hadn’t made him sloppy.
Wolf left his sword by the hearth and had a knife in his left boot, but he didn’t go for it. He took a punch to the gut with little more than a huff- Gordon knew he could’ve dodged it. Hands on his knees, he took a few breaths then shook it off, standing up straight with fists loose near his chin and grinning at the biggest of the local boys.
That gave them second thoughts. They milled around, their feet stirring the wet straw, not sure what to do with a fella who wanted a fight. Which the wolf obviously did. A smaller bloke pulled a knife but had his arm near wrenched out of the socket for his bad manners. He went down howling and when the wolf threw the little dagger away, the big lout caught him square in the jaw.
Wolf spit blood on the floor and worked his mouth a few times before taking the other by the hair. Gordon stood up, ready to stop things before somebody was killed but Wolf shot him a look and dropped the fella with a forearm to the liver, kicking him in the ribs as he stepped over.
The big one ran for it, dragging his mates stumbling behind and all three throwing insults over their slumped shoulders when they crowded through the door. Quiet came back. Broken crockery dripped cold stew on the hearth. The only other table was now a mess of spilled ale with a lone jug of wine upright in the puddle.
Wolf picked up the jug, giving it a turn and nodding to himself when it sloshed.
“You didn’t have to do that, Ser.” Now that the fun was over the barmaid came out from behind the row of casks, tugging at her dress and tucking her black hair back behind her ears. “My thanks, and all, but you shouldn’t be tussling on my account,” she said, bending over to pick up tankards with a smile. “Does your eye need looking at? I’m a dab hand with-”
“They paid up?” Wolf hefted the wine, cutting her off before she could finish getting flirty.
“Ye-es?” She frowned and looked up at the sellsword, a hand on her hip.
“Good,” he grunted, turning back to the fireplace and working the cork loose. “I’ll have their supper as well.”
Gordon shifted his mending and sat again as the stranger found the mess smeared over the hearth. He let out a sigh and pulled the tail of his unraveling jumper up to wipe blood away from one eye. Gordon only looked at the flat belly out of the corner of his eye, a bit of jealousy poking him. Should’ve appreciated being fit when it was easy, Gordy. He sat up a little straighter, tracking a line of black hair down to where it disappeared into manky breeches hanging off the stranger’s hipbones.
“Have a sit down.” Gordon nodded at the stool on the other side of his table. “Blackwall’s the name, lad. You’ve got a good jab. Most fellas get used to a shield, that arm goes sluggish.”
Wolf squinted at Gordon for a few seconds, blood-smeared lips pursed in thought. Finally, he hooked the stool with an ankle and dragged it to Gordon’s right. “Jack.”
“Not one for sitting with your back to a door, Jack?” Gordon chuckled and poured three fingers of whiskey into his cup, then held the bottle out. “Have some? Ah, your cup’s been smashed as well.” Gordon waved to the innkeep, who didn’t look eager to come out from behind the bar. The girl had flounced away into the kitchen, Gordon figured. He pushed his own cup toward his guest and asked for another.
“Doesn’t want to get in reach,” Wolf mumbled, taking a sip. There was enough dirt under the man’s nails to grow potatoes, as Gordon’s old Auntie would have said.
“Ach, don’t flatter yourself, lad,” Gordon laughed and nudged the edge of his cloak aside. Wolf’s eyes that were very light, maybe blue, latched onto the silverite griffon at his chest for a heartbeat before looking back to the door. “Folk find my type nerve-making, Jack. Could be they think the Blight’s on our tail, or maybe he fears I’ll conscript a cask for the evening.”
‘Jack’ - it's always Jack or Bill or Jane from mercenaries - worked his way through two bowls of stew and a loaf of rye bread before he came up for air. The third bowl was plunked down in front of Gordon. He ate it eventually, when the whiskey in his belly needed soaking up. Jack drank as fast as he ate and Gordon found himself pressured to keep pace.
As the night wore on and nobody came through the door, Jack stopped staring at it. The deep lines between his brows smoothed out, even as the cut above one eye dried up and the skin went purple. He propped up on an elbow and told Gordon a yarn about the Hissing Wastes that had him laughing until he had to shove off from the rickety table and go out back for a piss. The wind had died down and the sky was clear. Gordon looked up so he could find Servani while he watered the bushes, its topmost star pointing north to the Anderfels.
Nothin’ up there but wind and grass and the big block of stones. The Order’s fortress wasn’t a home but it was warm, full of decent folk. The idea of taking a room and doing a bit of training had been sounding better and better lately. Let the young lads bring in the recruits, you can just teach ‘em to swing a sword and put down a demon or three. Eat supper in the Hall every night. Have somebody doin’ the washing each week. It sounds right pleasant, Gordy Blackwall.
He scratched at his stomach while he thought about it. The scars are familiar, his constant companions but he craves real company, the easy quiet of men who bear the same weight. Even if it makes him feel old, well, who does he have to impress anymore? Going out on the end of a Hurlock’s sword will be neither better nor worse if he’s had an easy year or two beforehand.
Friendly can’t bear staying put, but his ornery hide can go back out with whoever takes the Constabulary, can’t he? There’s always need for a good horse, even a good horse with a taste for meat.
Gordon laced himself back up with a chuckle. The Constable’s badge had never meant much, wasn’t as if he got paid more for the honor. The winters got longer every year and with the last blight six years away the only ones looking to be made a Warden were in a pillory or running from the noose. Anybody could recruit one of those goons.
“So that settles it then,” he said to the sky. On the other side of the wall in the ramshackle stable, Mama heard him and nickered. “Shush up, Mama,” he said fondly. “See you in the mornin’, girl.”
Jack had left their table for a corner where he stood well away from a fat dark bloke in a doublet that was too tight. There was a lot of nodding and fumbling with scraps of parchment, scraps Jack took and then backed up even farther from the fella’s hacking cough. Jack scratched at the week’s worth of beard on his chin, like he felt crawlies had jumped from the fat man to him.
As it turned out, that cough kept them all company through the night. He might as well have been under Gordon’s bed it was so loud. It was really something - stopped just long enough for a person to nod off, then be startled awake all over again. Gordon finally gave up before dawn, gathering his pack and feeling his way past the closed doors in the hall and down narrow stairs.
There had been a little elf around yesterday, but he was nowhere to be seen now. Gordon saddled Mama first, scratching her withers and letting her chew at the edge of his cloak. Friendly was impatient as always and nudged him. When that didn’t work the gelding shouldered him into the gate at the front of the stall. They had a little tug -of-war over Friendly’s bridle.
“Leave off. Give it!” Gordon growled. “You’ll miss me, evil fucker, when I’m dead in a cave someplace.” Friendly stopped fighting, his eyes showing white. “Ach, only teasing,” Gordon laughed, slapping the muscled neck and kissing Friendly between his eyes. “You’d miss me, wouldya? Wouldya? Let’s go home, hmm? Home for me and Mama, hmm?”
Still mumbling, Gordon shoved the stable doors open and nearly stepped on somebody. Whoever he was, he was half in and half out of the boxwood shrubbery that lined the inn, puking his guts up. Squinting in the dark, Gordon thought he was too big to be the stable boy, must be the sellsword. He had been mixing wine and whiskey last night, after all.
“Steady on, there. You all right?”
Jack stumbled to the well a few yards away and took a deep breath before plunging his head in a bucket. He came up swishing water around his mouth then spat, and slung wet hair out of his eyes. It couldn’t have been the first round of this odd hangover cure: he was drenched, and now looked every inch the bedraggled wolf in the dark. All sharp teeth, black hair, and heaving ribs.
“You’ll catch yer death, Wo-” Gordon said, stopping himself just in time. In truth he was distracted by the ratty old tunic gone see-through and plastered down tight all the way to his bellybutton.
“William,” he blurted out, twisting the tail of his shirt, wringing water into the grass. “My name’s William. Better to catch cold than his jail fever.” He shrugged, jerking his head in the direction of the attic where he had probably spent a night as sleepless as Gordon’s. “I can’t listen to that bleeding cough all the way to-”
“To where? What’re you being paid for, lad?”
“Never mind.” His crooked nose wrinkled in disgust. “Sod it, I’d rather starve.”
“Right then.” The sky was going on pink, time to move. With a nod for whatever he liked to call himself, Gordon tugged Friendly’s reins with Mama following dutifully. “I wish you luck, lad.”
“Hold!”
Here it comes. “Aye, lad?” He sighed, his breath fogging out ahead of him.
“Grey Wardens, they take fighters, don’t they?”
“Ja-William, lad. I’m not up to it. Not this time.” Gordon kept walking.
“But you must need them.” The sellsword had caught him up, hair dripping into his eyes.
Gordon kept a tight hold on the bridle in case Friendly tried to turn his head and take a chunk out of him.
“True enough, we do need good warriors. The whole world needs them.” Gordon sighed again. “Give it some thought, and next time you cross paths with one of us, be ready. The Order’s not something to leap into after one bad night, lad.”
“I don’t plan anymore.” The sellsword had stopped following him. “Every plan I’ve ever made has gone to shit.”
Gordon stopped and turned back. The wolf was leaning against a birch tree, hands crossed on the hilt of his sword. He shifted, not able to look Gordon in the eye.
“They’re all bad nights.” He pulled at his wet hair, tying it back with a scrap of leather. “The Blight, it’s inside you, isn’t it? It kills you in the end, yeah?”
“Aye.”
The sellsword nodded, like he was relieved.
“Is that what you’re after, William? There’s easier ways.” Gordon tried a laugh. “Keep walking round soaked to the skin if you’re lookin’ to croak.”
“I’ve been telling myself I’ll let some bastard run me through on a job, but,” he knelt in the grass and opened his pack with a grimace. “It’s not in me to throw a fight. Killing’s all I’ve ever been fit for even if I’m tired of it. Weary in my bones but when it comes down to it I can’t let them win.”
Gordon watched him rummage around and come up with a dry jumper.
“I don’t want my head caved in for some cunt smuggling lyrium.” Jack or William shrugged out of his wet shirt and into the moth-eaten homespun.
“You do still want to die, though?”
“Yes. But it’s always worse in the mornings.” He stood up with a lopsided grin that made Gordon’s ears go hot. “You catch me after supper, I’m a right charmer.”
Having nowhere else to seek counsel, Gordon scratched Mama’s spotted cheek, looking for anything in her calm dark eye. They’re all bad nights, he says. Aren’t they just - and getting worse.
Gordon never asked outright what his recruits had done. He didn’t need to, nine times in ten. A person’s fuck-ups were written all over them. He took a long hard look at the man across from him. Murder for certain, but no telling if it was orders or a crime. Manky clothes but a very good sword, and Gordon had seen last night that he would rather spend his coin on drink. He fidgeted but then stood at something like attention to meet Gordon’s eye. Soldier, then.
“There’s not much money in it, lad.”
“Coin comes and goes.” He dabbed at his bleeding lip with the back of one hand, frowning at the blood before licking it and dragging his hand across the leg of his breeches to wipe away the smear. “Fuck gold. Can’t buy what I want, Warden.”
“No?”
“You’ve got noble purpose,” came the answer, steady and firm. “A higher path. That’s all I want now.”
Mama breathed softly into his face, velvet nose warm. It was a nice enough morning, now that the sun was coming to stir the birds. The baker down the lane threw his door open so that the breeze was heavy with the smell of raisins and toasted seeds. Suddenly the shabby town looked hopeful as its coating of dew caught the early light.
Not so loud. I hear you, Maker, I hear you. But this is the last one, the very last.
