Penitence
Took a while to write and it’s a bit out of the timeline, but here’s some Blackwall x Lavellan for your pleasure. Leaving it under the cut for length, but opinions / comments are kindly welcome!
If there was one thing Gordon Blackwall disliked about being back in the North, it was the snow. It numbed his hands, gathered in his beard and made every drunken stagger back to his little corner of Haven a treacherous expedition. If he had a copper for every time he’d nearly gone arse over tit in the short time he’d been here, he’d have been able to build his own cabin instead of bunking with Harritt.
Not that it was much of an inconvenience. The man was blunt as an old sword and about as talkative, which that meant evenings not spent in Haven’s only inn generally involved plenty of peace and quiet. Time to ponder on the great rent in the sky that hovered just beyond the village, to wonder what the twisted bastard behind it all could have gained from murdering the Divine. Time to think about fiery red hair and grass-green eyes.
He scrubbed the picture from his mind with a low groan, rubbing a cold glove over his face to aid the mountain breeze in its quest to freeze him solid. That way lay dragons.
Seriane Lavellan had seemed fairly straightforward when they’d first met. An ‘agent of the Inquisition’, she’d introduced herself as – but the more he’d looked, the more he’d seen that she was nothing as simple as a face amongst the masses. He probably should have been thinking about the way even Cassandra deferred to her in the field, or maybe picturing the single-minded determination with which she went about anything and everything, but it wasn’t what came to mind.
“Is this what I think it is?” she had asked with an uncertainly that didn’t suit her, proffering a feather the length of his forearm. It might have been streaked with dirt, but beneath it all was a distinctive soot-banded charcoal hue – and the thing didn’t have a single warped barb. Finding a fossilised Old God would have been more likely.
“A Griffon feather,” he had replied, his eyes on her face as she stared at it in wonder. Strands of her hair had escaped its braid to frame her freckled cheekbones, and the sheer curiosity written all over her expression had him speaking before he realised he’d done it. “Steeds of the Grey Wardens, in another Age. They’re all gone now, but memories like this remain.”
She’d pressed it into his hand in the next moment with the grace that Elves sometimes seemed to have, chin lifting stubbornly when he opened his mouth to protest. “You should keep it. It’s your memory too.”
At the time her words had turned his veins to ice, leaving him without anything sensible to say. He’d nodded his thanks, she’d smiled back, and off they went. The feather might not have been of as much intrinsic value as the maps of the Deep Roads that they'd recovered a few days later – but it had meant more, and lived happily on the stand alongside his bed.
Ever since that day, though, he’d noticed her. The way her feet seemed to instinctively find sure footing in a way that he supposed came naturally to the Dalish, and the determined half-growl on her face when she threw fire or lightning. The poppy-pink flush that touched her lips and cheeks when the temperature dropped... and the husky note to her laughter that was more alluring than it had any right to be. The fact that she was an Elf didn’t even factor into it. She was beautiful, and he wanted her.
Much like anyone might hoard something unique, he thought uncharitably. A selfish man in his waning years, looking back at his mistakes and finding himself lonely – and willing to crush the soul of another for a taste of what it was to live. His bed had been cold for years, and he'd thought he was at peace with that. Penance for his sins.
Footsteps crunching on snow dragged him out of the pit, and he blinked the last of its fog away. The sound of metal being beaten senseless was normally soothing for him – a long-lost memory of Markham – but not today. Particularly not when he saw who was picking their way inevitably towards him.
The midday sun had turned copper into fire, and he couldn't imagine that anyone would miss her even in a crowd. She walked with the slightest sway to her hips, a postural self-confidence that was instantly attractive. Seriane – she'd asked him to call her Seri, but it was a step too informal for comfort – smiled at him when she got closer, and he found himself returning it even while his fingers twisted against each other. He'd never been much of a hand-wringer, but then he'd never been attracted to an Elf before either. Maker, he had it bad.
“I've been meaning to thank you. There are a hundred things that need your attention... you didn't have to take the time to help me, and yet you did.” It hadn't escaped him that she was the one who decided the objectives, chose who to aid and who to harm. Yet he'd mentioned the Relics of the Wardens once and she'd gone out of her way to help.
She smiled, inclining her head in acceptance even as a faint blush rose on her cheeks. “If the history you pursue benefits the Wardens, then it was worth it.”
Was she not used to being thanked? Or did she simply not believe that she deserved it? The thought didn't sit well with him, and he sought to pacify his sudden urge to reassure her otherwise. “You've proven yourself to be an honourable woman. Principled. I've great admiration for you, and I've never been more certain in my decision to join you.”
“I would never have guessed that you admire me.” The blush deepened, and he found that he liked it on her.
“Of course I do. You have the world at your feet, myself included.” It was said lightly and words never sounded pretty or sophisticated when they left his tongue – but her lips lifted again, crooked with a humour that shone in her eyes, and he couldn't help but mirror it.
“So you take your cue from everyone else? What if they despised me?”
Andraste's ass, was she flirting with him? There was a mischievous little smirk caressing her mouth, head tilted to tip a cascade of red down one shoulder and eyes for him and him alone. She was... Twenty years back, he wouldn't have thought twice about it. Now was another matter.
The young man he'd once been reached through and took control before he could sabotage whatever there was between them. “If that were to happen, I would reject the world for lacking in good taste. Then perhaps we could continue as we are, us against them.”
Her chin lifted, smile broadening, and he forced down the urge to clear his throat of the thick mixture of embarrassment and elation. “Now, we should return to our duties before I get too carried away.” Too late for that.
There was a little flash of teeth: a quick, fierce grin that raised his pulse. “You're oddly charming, for a man I found wandering the forest.”
“I'd always thought myself more 'odd', than 'charming', but I'll take a compliment from a lady. They're hard to come by these days.” Keep it flippant, Gordon. Maker, but she looked barely over half his age – how could she be here talking to him with all of the choice she had within the camp? Even Cullen watched her walk away when she went to speak to him, and more than once he'd recognised the look on the Commander's face as his own. Why was she here?
“Compliments, or ladies?”
The question - and the sweet, slightly mocking expression that accompanied it - startled a chuckle from him and derailed his mind's attempt at subversion. “Both! So, is there something large and heavy you need moving?”
“That would be a waste of your particular talents.” Sultry now, eyelids dropped just a fraction to hide her spring-hued stare with a sweep of brown lashes.
He couldn't help but respond to it, eagerness replacing guilt in his gut. “Oh really?”
The smirk became a grin, the trap sprung. “You're much better suited to standing in front of Dragons while they try to eat you.”
Playful, brave, headstrong, stubborn as a Druffalo... Seriane appealed on all sorts of levels. Maybe he'd have had the courage to pull away - to warn her off - if it wasn't for the heat in his veins. Warmth that he hadn't felt in a long enough time that he'd all but forgotten its allure.
What harm could a little flirting do, anyway? “I have to say, my lady, you are unlike any woman I've ever met. I'm flattered you'd spend any time with me. I... enjoy your company.”
Anything she might have said then was lost in a shout from behind. An Inquisition runner, board in hand, waved at her from a distance when she turned. He almost thought he'd imagined the soft sigh that escaped her, but her rueful shrug at him removed the doubt.
“Let's continue this at another time,” she offered softly. Her long fingers clenched suddenly as if a thought had struck her – or a temptation to touch – and then she was walking away. Light, graceful steps and that damnable sway that caught the eye.
Later on, in the dark, he'd remember their talk and tell himself he wasn't worth it. That she could do better, needed better than him – and he would shoot down any flight of fancy that could bring the pair of them together. Still, for now he could imagine what it would be like to hold a woman like that in his arms and call her his.
Sometimes the sweetest dreams were the most bitter punishment.