#dad!wall

Blackwall remained silent as he walked, and then she heard the sound of rushing water and knew they were some distance from camp. With a quiet groan, he sunk down onto a large flat rock, her still in his arms. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, and knowing they were alone and that he wouldn’t judge her, she cracked. A strangled sob escaped Cerridwyn’s lips and she pressed her face into his throat as she wept.

All the while he offered quiet words that soothed her, not empty promises that everything was okay, but realistic ones. That they had survived, they had done good and saved lives, and that he was there for her. 

It was a long time later that she shifted off his lap and onto the rock beside him. “How bad is it?” she asked, turning her face up to him. His gaze searched her face and then he jerked his head toward the running river a short distance away.

“Go splash some water on your face and they’ll never know.” Cerridwyn obeyed the directive and when she returned Blackwall held a glass vial out to her. “Drink up.” She opened her mouth to insist he do the same, but he waggled an empty one at her. “Already did,” he said and she smiled, then popped off the cork and downed the contents, and tucked the now empty vial into her own hip pouch before they began walking up the path and away from the river.

“Thank you,” she told him. “I…” glancing over she laughed slightly with a shake of her head. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you,” Cerridwyn told him and saw his cheeks go red as Blackwall ducked his head down. Leaning over she bumped him with her shoulder. Blackwall had been there for her after her first kill. He’d found her sick in the bushes, barely able to breathe, because she had killed another living, breathing person. 

In the beginning of her time with the Inquisition it had been all demons and monsters. But going to the Hinterlands, that had changed everything, and while she’d been surrounded by so many Inquisition troops, she’d had no other options finally. They’d only just met Blackwall a few hours earlier, but he’d seen it and he’d comforted her, and from that moment on he was the only one she wasn’t afraid to show vulnerability to. “You’re my best friend,” she told him and bumped his shoulder again, this time he let out a snort of laughter and bumped her back.

They arrived back in camp and found The Iron Bull celebrating their successful slaughter of the dragon with the others. Drinks were passed around, and loud stories were told, recounting the experience for those who hadn’t been there. The hour grew later, and everyone began heading off to tents and bedrolls, but Cerridwyn still sat there, now alone, staring into the fire. She still felt as if that dragon’s electricity was in her veins. 

Blackwall appeared at her side and held out a flask. “You need rest,” he said and Cerridwyn looked up at him, and eyed the flask before taking it and downing a quick swig. It burned a warm trail all the way down her throat and into her belly. “Everyone is alive, just some bruises and minor cuts, and we head back to Skyhold in the morning.” 

Perhaps that was part of her reluctance, going back meant all eyes were on her, more than when they were out and about. She’d had to make difficult decisions and lead a massive group of people who didn’t even believe in her Gods. Who believed she was chosen by a God she’d barely even heard of before going to the Conclave. “Yeah,” she said softly.

Blackwall shifted his weight from one foot to the other and then cleared his throat and when she looked up he was looking out past her, his cheeks beginning to turn pink. “And I’m sure there is at least one person waiting for you that will be happier than any of the others for your return,” he coughed again and she felt her own cheeks burn hot and laughed quietly. 

At least once a week when they were in Skyhold, Cerridwyn would insist on going hunting - it was what she’d done for her clan, she’d do it for the Inquisition as well. She’d done the same at Haven, and Lady Montilyet had fretted and insisted that the Herald have an escort. Blackwall was always honored when she chose him to accompany her. 

Rams tied up to make transporting them back to Skyhold easier, they began the trek back to the castle. The gates were open when they arrived, and there seemed to be a cluster of soldiers, the Commander and even Josephine standing there with one lone woman.

Red hair streaked with silver fell down her back to her waist. Hands on her hips, even from behind Blackwall could sense the anger coming off her in waves. Cullen, who held up placating hands, inclined his head, said something, and the woman whirled around.

“Mamae!” Cerridwyn cried out, dropping her burden, she ran the last distance and threw herself into the arms of the woman who stood a whole head shorter than her. 

Blackwall stared, and stared, utterly dumbfounded. The woman, Cerridwyn’s mother, wrapped her arms tightly around her daughter, and Blackwall just stared. There was an aching tightness in his chest. Coincidence, he told himself feeling an overwhelming sense of longing as he took in the woman’s red locks, and the blue-black markings of her vallaslin on her face. Surely there were a number of Dalish women with that same coloring, those same tattoos. 

Because it was impossible that this woman who stood, clinging to the young Inquisitor, was the same girl he’d known a lifetime ago. Preposterous that Cerridwyn’s mother was the same girl, who once upon a time, had let him trace her new tattoos with fingers and lips. 

Cerridwyn and her mother drew back, and Blackwall noted the odd markings on one cheek. Not her, he told himself, because Iriel’s face had been smooth and unscarred, though her hands had borne some. Cerridwyn wrapped her arm around the woman’s shoulders and they turned away, heading into the castle, the moment of tension disrupted and the small crowd dispersed. 

But Blackwall still stood, oddly dumbfounded, because he hadn’t thought of Iriel in years. Decades maybe. He’d been infatuated with her, lusted after her the way a seventeen year old boy does. Besotted and doting, despite the fact that upon their first meeting she’d nearly killed him for being a Shemlen when they had encountered each other in the woods. 

It wasn’t her, couldn’t be her. Cerridwyn was from clan Lavellan, and Iriel had been from a clan who had made it very clear their views on humans.

“My lady, I believe you are mistaken,” he said, his voice sounding a little gruffer. And maybe he didn’t remember her. Maybe those months had meant nothing to him and were nothing but a distant blurry memory. 

Iriel made a quiet humming sound as she walked in further, peered at the rocking toy and walked up the first two steps that lead up to the loft. Putting them at an equal height. Then she looked at him again, met his gaze, held it. “I do like the beard,” she told him. “Suits you. But I’d know those eyes anywhere. I’ve stared into them nearly every day for the last twenty-five years.” 

He blinked. Blinked again. Lips parted, but no sound came out and she watched the blood drain from his face, and his hands shot out to grip the edge of the table as if to steady himself. And Iriel realized he hadn’t figured it out. Hadn’t realized that Cerridwyn was his daughter. She’d thought he must have, after Cerridwyn had spoken so fondly of the man. 

Iriel knew it was possible he wouldn’t want to claim her as his child. For a myriad of reasons, but if she was staying at Skyhold they couldn’t dance around the truth. “I haven’t told her, and I won’t. That choice I’ll leave up to you.” She stared at him for a moment, remembering the boy he’d been. How he’d charmed her. She’d shot him with an arrow, only by chance and his quick movement missing plunging it into his chest and killing him. 

Tearing her gaze away, Iriel stepped back down onto the dirt floor and headed for the doors. “Iriel,” he called, a desperate note to his voice and she looked over at him, offering a soft smile.

Swallowing hard he gave a little shake of his head, then reached up to rub his hand over his mouth, down his beard. “Just thinking,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.

“About what?” she still leaned against him, something she’d always done, with most people. Cerridwyn was open with affection for the people she trusted. Hugs and casual touches. A head resting on a shoulder while they sat beside a fire.

“You,” he cleared his throat. “All the good you’ve done as the Inquisitor already. How many people you’ve helped.” Her cheeks went pink and she ducked her head as her lips curved into a smile. “I have a great admiration for that, admiration for you.”

Cerridwyn looked up at him, eyes soft. “I admire you too, Warden Blackwall. You’ve helped so many people. I’m glad to have you at my side.”

The tightness in his chest was almost unbearable now. He couldn’t tell her. He could never tell her the truth of who he was. The thought of her looking at him with shame and disgust was more than he could bear. A part of him wished that he didn’t know who she was to him. That Iriel hadn’t shown up with a truth that would break his heart. Clearing his throat, he slapped his hands against his thighs. “Now what did you say about that game of Diamondback?”