#timeline ii

This prompt does not actually involve kissing--just a brushing of lips--so it was perfect for my Darkest Timeline, IE ‘Timeline 2’ (technically canon) in which Vinya is a conscripted Inquisition soldier rather than the Inquisitor. So bon appetit.

They came together like blade edges: hungry, hard, heavy with the squealing of steel, and headed down a violent road.

As Blackwall thrust—his swipe parried by a quick countermove—he realized that Vinya was sporting a new bruise on her cheek, likely riling the hothead beneath the face it discoloured, but he wasn’t about to go black-kettle calling as his own whistled in frustration.

Happy harassment nearly always narrated their impromptu sparring matches, yet, today, neither wasted breath on teasing. The Grey Warden kept his head low, teeth grit, while the Inquisition soldier hissed at something she wasn’t hitting (while hitting him square and expertly).

Gaspard had been given the keys to the Empire. It had Blackwall livid, hence the need for release. He wasn’t sure what her problem was, though.

The woman put great purpose behind her blade. Yet, overcompensating strength had the sword’s weight pulling her forward when she missed, the move surprisingly sloppy. Blackwall couldn’t help but ask.

“Everything alright?”

Turning on her heel, Vinya faced him.

“It’s—yeah. It’s just that… Discovering someone isn’t who they say they are is—it’s—ugh.”

Unable to articulate, Vinya allowed her weapon to explain. As equal muscle met with their swords playing mediator, Blackwall added a mark of exclamation to her wordless anger, shoving at her, but Vinya, solid as a rock, left him stumbling backwards.

Her might—her honor—usually did.

“Is this about the Inquisitor?” asked Blackwall.

Vinya started circling while he waited, watching.

“Isn’t it always?” Her churlish grin showed no real joy. “No, it’s actually… Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.” Easing on her stance mid-shuffle, head tilting curiously, Vinya’s arms loosened as she reprioritized her concern above their skirmishing. “Why? Is that why you’re huffing and puffing?”

Blackwall would have preferred his exasperation pummeled out of him, but he could talk, too. What bad blood had once run between them was long-ago staunched, leaving her as one of the few with whom he dared share some honesty.

“Gaspard; the Game. It disgusts me. The families hurt; the good men forced to make bad decisions. And not only was the Inquisitor complicit, she... “ Head hanging, Blackwall huffed. “C’mon.” He motioned with his sword. “Another round.”

The woman didn’t move. “What actually happened? In Orlais?”

Sheathing his weapon, Blackwall explained, lessening the distance between them with a few heavy footsteps through the grass. “The assassination—Inquisitor Trevelyan allowed it to happen. And with blackmail recovered at the palace, she put the elven ambassador—or whatever she was—in jail. Servants are being slaughtered. The alienage is being torn apart. And old loyalties are putting a lot of innocent people in danger.” He still felt his back bending with the weight of it. “Might not be Trevelyan’s decisions doing most of the butchering—I won’t give her that much credit—but, mark my words, it was her doing. It’s happening because of her.”

Vinya walked closer, drawn in by this information. “So that’s what happened. Why she—” Hand running down her face, the woman frowned. “I see.”

But Blackwall didn’t.

“What is it?”

As they stood together, with hardly a foot between them, the man sought desperately for the source of her secrecy. Not one to keep it bottled up, sincerity usually spurt out of Vinya like a tapped barrel: bubbling, foaming, maybe bitter, possibly sweet, but definitely generous. Her silence was extremely surprising.

“I can’t tell you,” Vinya admitted. “You’re too damn dutiful, or responsible. You’d…” Grinning, suddenly, with the smile of the lost and the desperate, she stared hopefully into his eyes, looking from one to the other. All those walls, save that last brick of truth, she simply let crumble. “What if I left? What if we just left? And it wasn’t because we wanted out of this place, but it was to protect someone?”

He was stunned. No matter how she hated the Inquisitor, Vinya had never hinted at defection.

“Who?” Blackwall read her features. Fierce brow; soft eyes: she was after permission, but she was determined, too. She always was. “Who’s in danger?” However, when she didn’t answer, Blackwall did. “I can’t leave, Vin. You’re right: I am too damn dutiful. I have a responsibility to the men and women who have joined under the banner of the Wardens. I may not approve of the Inquisitor’s decisions, but I have a role to play, and it’s here. For all of Trevelyan’s boot-licking of the nobility, and self-serving fear mongering, she’s the only one who can stop Corypheus.”

Vinya’s shoulders fell. He could see the words repeating in her mind. “A role to play, hm? Sounds a little like the Game.” Burnishing out the edges of her insult with a grin, the woman sighed. “Alright. Consider it dropped.”

A quiet moment flowered with intensity, and spite. It wasn’t aimed at him, he was sure of it, but that’s where it hit.

Reaching for the hilt of Blackwall’s sword, she took it in her palm. Vinya leaned closer, pulling the blade a few inches from its sheath. “You want to stick around, taking crap orders that drive you either to the bar, or here, every evening? You go ahead.”

Blackwall’s hand wrapped around the wrist which held his hilt, and he clutched it tight. “Here’s not so bad,” he rumbled.

As Vinya attempted to take his weapon in some act of dismantling, Blackwall pulled at her wrist. They both attempted to get their own way, but it was short-lived—too quick to call it a tussle. As Blackwall pulled, Vinya either lost her balance or let him have it, but, either way, she jostled nearer, her lips brushing his.

Soft, and fleeting, it could have been forgotten; a mistake out of their minds within the next minute. But Vinya leaned in, her nose tip grazing his, her mouth skimming his again, causing both of them to gasp at the same bit of air.

A distant crashing of something non-specific broke the spell. Vinya tore herself away, arms up, stretching nonchalantly.

“By the Dread Wolf’s dangleberries!” she cried, laughing as though it were a joke.

She looked out over the refugees' choosing—a once-was-nowhere crossroads—yet it wasn't safety. It was sitting in the grass in groups with nothing to do but wince at one's wounds and consider your hunger, but only that. There was no food, save molding food-for-thought.