#vireth lavellan

As if sensing his presence, she turned, and her eyes met his. A glorious smile spread across her face. She spoke quickly to her current companion, who nodded and went into the gallery.

Blackwall’s mouth was dry. He wasn’t sure he could speak. Not trusting his voice, he stepped toward her, unable to tear his eyes away.

“Blackwall.” She ducked her head. “It’s good to see you.”

He reached for her hand, and she gave him her own. “It is an immense pleasure to accompany you, my lady.”

In a moment of courage, he bent his head to kiss her delicate fingers. Her skin was warm against his lips.

Mirevas blushed, and his heart beat faster.

“You’re very...chivalrous. Well, you are a knight. I suppose that’s part of the job description.”

“Perhaps.” Blackwall’s chest swelled at the compliment. Most people saw him as rough, unpolished. With Mirevas, though…

It would be a disgrace to treat Mirevas with anything less than the highest respect.

He released her hand, and she drew it back. Suddenly, something behind him caught her eye, and she froze. “Blackwall.”

Her face was so shocked that for a brief moment, Blackwall wondered if she’d seen a spider. “What is it?”

“That--is that your car?”

“Oh.” Blackwall glanced back over his shoulder at his beloved Charger. “It is, yes.”

Mirevas gaped at him. “And you let me drive my beat-up old Rover last time instead of offering me a ride?”

That stopped Blackwall in his tracks. He’d been so distracted by the visage of the Dalish goddess before him that he hadn’t given a thought to transportation at the time. Which was pretty shocking, actually, given his passion for cars. “I--er--”

She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Next time, we are taking that.”

Next time? There would be a next time? He suddenly felt light as a feather -- a very unfamiliar feeling for a man his size.

Mirevas bit her lip and gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

Blackwall offered her his arm. “It is my honor.”

---------

Blackwall wasn’t usually such an idiot. At forty years old, he’d known lots of women over the years. But he couldn’t remember ever being so utterly dumbstruck by a lady as he was by Mirevas.

Which was probably why he didn’t realize exactly what he was walking into until he, well, walked into it.

Blackwall was carefully not staring at Mirevas, which was not easy, given how stunning she looked. He was a knight; he had to be courteous and polite. And he would kill himself if he chased off the most incredible woman he’d ever met. That meant not being pervy, which meant not staring. So instead of watching her, he surveyed the gallery they were standing in.

That was when he realized.

The June Gallery. He hadn’t given much thought to the name of the place, too distracted by the idea of seeing Mirevas again. Now he looked across the room at the few people in attendance, taking in their facial tattoos and intricately embroidered clothing, and a vague memory surfaced, something he’d heard years ago, about a Dalish god called June.

This was a Dalish art gallery. It was right there in the name, and he hadn’t realized it.

Well, that was all right. Mirevas was Dalish. He wanted to know more about her, which meant he wanted to know more about her culture. This was a great opportunity for that.

It was just… well. It had been a matter of seconds since they’d stepped through the door, and he was already receiving strange glances. And the gallery hadn’t even opened yet.

Mirevas’s hand tightened on his arm.

It didn’t matter. He was here for Mirevas. He would serve her in any way he could, and everything else was superfluous.

His eyes swept the gallery again, this time seeking out the artwork on the walls. Mirevas had crafted each piece, and each of them held a promise -- to reveal a glimpse into the heart and mind of their creator. Blackwall had been anticipating this opportunity since the day she’d called to hire him. He focused on the nearest painting, eager to see what her hands had wrought.

It was exquisite. The sharp lines, vibrant colors, and distinct shading marked it clearly as the work of a tattoo artist, which appealed to him immediately. A white halla with intricately entwined silver antlers gazed out of the painting at him, set against a field of blue and framed by waving lines of green reminiscent of elegant vines.

Every time Blackwall thought his admiration for Mirevas couldn’t grow any larger, she proved him wrong. Her physical loveliness had been obvious from the moment he laid eyes on her, but within a few hours of knowing her, she’d shown herself to be both deeply intelligent and incredibly kind. As if that weren’t enough, her talent as an artist was incomparable. Well, he’d known it must be -- people paid her to practice her craft on their own bodies -- but seeing her artwork in person…

It overwhelmed him. Blackwall felt incredibly privileged just to look at it.

Mirevas shifted her weight, drawing his attention back to her. One corner of her mouth quirked up, but her eyes remained fixed on the painting before them. “My uncle raises halla.” She glanced up at him, then quickly away. “You could say he inspired this.”

Blackwall was momentarily jealous of the uncle who inspired this extraordinary creation. He wondered what it would be like to stir that kind of feeling in her, to instill such passion in her that she had to express it, that such beauty would come from her hands all because of--

He couldn’t think like that. She was a client. An exceptionally talented, brilliant, gorgeous...client. An old knight like himself -- there was nothing he could offer her. She’d have no kind of life with him.

“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful,” Blackwall said, and hoped she didn’t know that it wasn’t really the painting he was talking about.

Mirevas looked back up at him in surprise, and a pleased grin spread across her face. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”

“Mirevas!” The voice came from across the room, and they both turned to look. An elf with a clipboard was frowning at her, looking distinctly nervous. “Elanas ma halani, sathan?”

Blackwall had no idea what he’d said, but apparently it wasn’t good, because Mirevas sighed and shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She pulled her hand from his arm reluctantly. “The downside of being the guest of honor -- I have to deal with every little wrinkle in the plans. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Blackwall didn’t really want to be alone here, but of course that was ridiculous. So he smiled. “I’ll take this opportunity to look around before the doors open to the public.”

She grinned shyly. “All right, then.”

The elf across the room spoke in Elvish once again, and Mirevas rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, I’m coming!”

With one last look at Blackwall, Mirevas turned and hurried off.

----------

Mirevas’s work focused on nature, Blackwall observed. Soaring trees, delicate flowers, stately animals. And yet there was an edge to her art. He couldn’t explain it, but there was something very rock-and-roll in her portrayal, in her style, that set her paintings apart from any other nature scenes he’d ever seen.

Every piece was magnificent. But the most intriguing, the most arresting pictures, the ones that truly fascinated him, were the ones with “Not for Sale” signs posted beneath them. The ones that could only be renderings of Dalish legends and folklore. In these paintings, every brushstroke was so lovingly executed that he knew instinctively she had poured her soul into them. And despite his best intentions, Blackwall felt a surge of dismay. Because--

--well. If the soul she’d poured into her art was so very elven, what could she possibly think of Blackwall? What need could she ever have for a large, lumbering human?

The revelation of just how ill-suited to her he was made him realize -- he’d still been holding out hope. Hope that this incredible goddess might somehow, someway find something in him to...to…

...care about.

He was a bloody fool.

“Blackwall?”

Mirevas’s voice behind him made him start. He turned to see her smiling up at him.

“Problem solved. And Creators willing, I won’t be interrupted again. The artist is supposed to mingle, after all. Can’t be called away to deal with every missing hang tag that turns up. Or rather, doesn’t turn up.” She rolled her eyes and shot him a grin.

“It would indeed be a shame to deprive the people of your presence.”

She chuckled and looked at the floor. “If I’d known knights were so kind and gallant, I’d have started hiring them years ago.”

Her compliment went straight to his heart. Ah, there was that hope again. Would nothing teach him not to wish for the moon?

“I’m really glad you’re here.” Her voice was quiet, and Blackwall realized that no, nothing would.

----------

Well, it was official. Blackwall did not belong here.

He wasn’t the only human. Others wandered in and out, mostly young hipster couples. But Blackwall was the only one who didn’t leave after about ten minutes, and he was at all times the largest person in the room. He almost wished for Gal to be there, just so he wouldn’t be the only giant among elves -- but no, a pair of large men would most certainly be worse.

And this was bad enough. Blackwall couldn’t miss the odd looks he kept receiving, or the way Mirevas seemed to become increasingly uncomfortable as the night went on. With good reason. Having him at her side could only be disagreeable to the throng of Dalish admirers. No doubt she regretted bringing him here. And the fact that she’d actually spent money on it…

He shouldn’t have let her pay for the job; he should have volunteered to come on his own time. But no, he’d already been committed to being on duty this evening, and more importantly, waiving the fee would make this...a date. And he couldn’t impose his affections on her, not when she’d called seeking a professional service.

Perhaps he should have refused the job altogether. But that wasn’t right, either. She’d wanted him to be here, and it would have been wrong to turn her away. He’d had no valid reason to, either, even if he’d known how awkward it would be. Sorry, don’t want to be around a lot of Dalish people. It was an awful, untrue sentiment. He was honored to be allowed to spend time within her culture. He just hated for his presence to reflect poorly on her.

And of course, he could never have risked her thinking that he was rejecting her. The idea was intolerable. No, he’d done the right thing. He just didn’t know what he could do now to improve matters for Mirevas.

At least he didn’t seem to be chasing people away. Mirevas had, unsurprisingly, been receiving a constant string of admirers all evening. None of them had looked at or acknowledged Blackwall in any way. They spoke to Mirevas mostly in Elvish and ignored the large human hovering next to her.

Blackwall did the only thing he could think of -- he refilled her drink as necessary and otherwise stood by her side.

After another trip to the punch bowl, Blackwall came back to find Mirevas hugging a Dalish man with long black hair. She beamed at him fondly, taking his hands in hers. Blackwall couldn’t stifle the sharp jolt of jealousy in his heart.

She’s not yours to be jealous over, he reminded himself sternly.

The mental admonition did nothing to make him feel better.

Mirevas didn’t seem to notice Blackwall standing there. She chattered happily in Elvish to her Dalish friend, and the man laughed in response. Blackwall watched them, holding a cup of punch in each hand and trying not to feel awkward. Was it rude to stand here looking at them? Should he clear his throat or something?

Mirevas saved him the trouble of deciding by noticing him at that moment. “Blackwall!” She sounded genuinely pleased. “Vireth, I want you to meet my--my friend, Blackwall. He’s a knight.”

Vireth’s eyebrows went up, but he held out his hand. “That’s not a profession I’m familiar with. What exactly does a knight do?”

Mirevas reached out quickly to take one of the cups, freeing Blackwall to accept Vireth’s handshake. As he took the elf’s hand, Blackwall analyzed his words, trying to figure out if there was disapproval in them, and then decided that if there was, it didn’t matter. Not everyone could understand his calling, and not everyone needed to. Those who were most important to him understood.

He hoped Mirevas understood.

“These days?” Blackwall shrugged. “Whatever a client finds useful. Protection detail. Gardening. Car repair.” He glanced at Mirevas. “Ridding a flat of spiders.”

Mirevas shuddered. “It was terrible, Vireth. My new flat was full of the things. You should have seen it. I still can’t believe Blackwall went in there. He’s my hero.”

It was the second time she’d called him that, and his chest filled with pride, just as it had the first time. He’d never get tired of those words. To have earned such praise when he hadn’t even been able to finish the job… it overwhelmed him to think of it.

Vireth’s face was unreadable as he looked at Blackwall. “Dirthas Elvehn?”

Er…

“No, he doesn’t speak Elvish.” Mirevas looked uncomfortable again. “I mean -- I’m sorry, I should ask you. Do you speak Elvish, Blackwall?”

Blackwall shook his head. His cheeks grew hot with embarrassment at his inadequacy, and he wished to the Void that he did speak her language, that he could have that to share with Mirevas. Vireth had that to share with Mirevas.

“Ah,” Vireth said. “I wasn’t sure.”

Mirevas looked up at Blackwall (she was going to hurt her neck doing that; she wouldn’t hurt her neck looking at an elven man). “Vireth is my cousin. He’s a very skilled craftsman.”

…cousin?

Blackwall almost laughed in relief. Cousin. Quickly, he pushed the feeling away. It should be nothing to Blackwall if Mirevas had a boyfriend. Blackwall was just…

...he was just…

What was he, exactly? The knight she’d hired for the evening, of course, but why? It couldn’t be more obvious that he was an ill fit for this event. So what had Mirevas been looking for when she signed that contract? What was he?

Whatever he was, he couldn’t just stand there wondering about it while they stared at him. Blackwall addressed Vireth. “A craftsman. What sort of work do you do?”

“I work with wood. Not purchased or planed, found. Every piece is a fragment of a life. I seek to uncover and enhance the beauty inherent in that life, not to alter its structure by imposing my desires upon it. I also strive to advance in traditional arts, crafting items with purpose as the people have always done, but those remain among our own people.”

“A noble trade.” Blackwall meant it. “I’ve done some woodworking. Not comparable to what you do, of course,” he said quickly at Vireth’s frown, “but there’s something very soothing about working with your hands. I admire what you do.”

Vireth’s frown softened. “What sort of woodworking did you do?”

“Children’s toys, mostly. I made a griffon rocking-horse for a friend’s daughter, once. I was rather proud of that one. But I’m afraid I don’t have the skill for creating genuine art.”

Mirevas gazed at him, and Blackwall thought she looked proud. “Do you still do it?”

“Not for years, I’m afraid.” He wished his answer was different -- they might be more impressed with him.

“So you gave it up to become a knight?” Vireth’s tone was polite, but once again, Blackwall thought he detected a note of disapproval at his chosen profession.

“Woodworking was always more of a hobby for me. Something that let me unwind. I usually gave away what I made. Making a profession of it never seemed realistic, not with my limited skill.”

Mirevas spoke again. “Were you always a knight, then?” Blackwall could have been imagining it, but he thought she sounded intensely interested.

“Only the last ten years.”

“What did you do before?”

The conversation was heading into dangerous territory, but Blackwall wouldn’t lie. “Competitive fencing.”

There was no mistaking the awe on Mirevas’s face, and guilt shot through him. There was nothing to admire in what he’d used to be.

Vireth scrutinized him. “Why change?”

It was too much to go into now, not at this time, not in this setting, so Blackwall gave a partial answer. “It’s...complicated. But I couldn’t have done it forever, and I wanted to be honorable. A knight in shining armor. May sound silly, but we help people at the Knight Shop. Each of us has a code to follow and can’t be asked to violate it. I find it a noble calling.”

Mirevas ducked her head, smiling. Vireth squinted at her. In a stoic sort of way.

“Mirevas, Vireth! An’eth’ara!”

Blackwall turned his head to see a Dalish woman resembling Mirevas approach. Mirevas squealed and jumped forward, throwing her arms around the newcomer. “Sulevin!”

The woman laughed and hugged her back, then spoke in Elvish again.

Mirevas pulled back and gestured to Blackwall. “Sulevin, this is Blackwall. Blackwall, my cousin, Sulevin. Sulevin is Vireth’s sister.”

“Andaran atish’an,” Sulevin said to Blackwall. That seemed to be some kind of greeting; he had picked up on that much over the course of the evening, at least.

So he responded in kind, doing his best not to stumble over the words. “Andaran atish’an.”

Mirevas reached for his hand, wrapping her fingers around it. He closed his hand over hers. The expression on her face -- it made Blackwall’s heart skip a beat. Maker, she undid him without even trying.

He’d almost forgotten where he was until Vireth cleared his throat. “Mirevas, lethallan. Nuvan dirtha ma?”

Mirevas blinked and squinted at her cousin. “Sorry, what?”

“Can I speak with you a moment?”

“Yes.” Mirevas bit her lip and turned to Blackwall. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Blackwall ducked his head in a small bow. “As my lady wishes.”

Vireth gave Blackwall a long look before stepping away with Mirevas on his heels. Blackwall tried not to feel abandoned, but without Mirevas at his side, the feeling that he had no right to be here intensified. He looked at Sulevin to find her watching him carefully, and that did nothing to increase his comfort level.

“Have you had a chance to look around?” she asked him.

Blackwall nodded. “I did. Mirevas...she’s extremely talented.”

“She is. What did you think of the scene with Andruil? The one with the Forgotten Ones, not with Ghilan’nain.”

Erm. Blackwall tried to think of a way to explain that he didn’t know what she was talking about -- without looking like a sodding idiot.

“Did you not see that one? It’s one of my favorites.” Sulevin inclined her head toward a corner of the gallery, and Blackwall followed her over obediently.

The painting was large. He’d seen it already, but the subject matter was a mystery to him. The title was in Elvish, so that was no help, and he hadn’t had time to read the long explanation on the tag. But the painting itself was captivating. In Mirevas’s unmistakeable tattoo style, a beautiful, fierce elvish woman held a spear aloft, wearing an expression so fiery it could melt steel. Menacing shadows with glowing red eyes surrounded her, making Blackwall shiver.

“Andruil is invading the abyss here. Can’t you just feel the fury in her?” Sulevin chuckled. “I almost pity the Forgotten Ones.”

Andruil, abyss, Forgotten Ones. Maker, he wished he had even the slightest idea what that meant. “It’s a very moving piece,” he said simply. “Like there’s a fire in her eyes. I hope I’m never on the receiving end of a look like that.”

Sulevin tilted her head infinitesimally. “Then I’d suggest you never, ever hurt Mirevas.”

Startled, he met her eyes to see them burning dangerously. Not as terrifying as Andruil in Mirevas’s painting, but frightening enough to know that he never wanted to cross Sulevin.

“It’s not like that,” Blackwall murmured. Ah, how he wished it was. “But I give you my word as a knight that I’ll do everything in my power to guard Mirevas from any pain.”

Sulevin nodded slightly, and Blackwall knew she didn’t trust him, but at the same time he thought that perhaps she was...appeased. Somewhat.

Mirevas had been gone for too long. Well. Not that long, but it felt like ages to Blackwall. He glanced across the room, looking for her, and found her standing with her back to him, nodding at Vireth’s words. As if she could sense Blackwall’s eyes on her, she looked back over her shoulder. Their gazes met, Mirevas smiled, and for a moment, he felt that the two of them were sharing an intimate secret.

“I’m not sure this scene is something to applaud.”

Blackwall started. Once again, he’d been so enraptured by Mirevas that he’d lost all sense of his surroundings. A bald elf -- not Dalish, judging by his plain clothing and lack of facial tattoos -- had joined them, and was now examining the beautiful painting critically. It made Blackwall bristle without even knowing what the man meant.

But he wasn’t the only one disturbed by the newcomer’s statement. Sulevin glowered at him, disdain all over her face. “You think you know better than Mirevas how Andruil should be portrayed?”

“It’s a matter of perspective,” the bald elf said smoothly. “This hunt drove Andruil mad, after all.”

“A tragedy. Her passion turned against her.”

The man turned to Blackwall. “Dirthas Elvehn, shemlen? Mar sil?”

Without thinking, Blackwall turned to Sulevin for help. Not that Mirevas’s protective cousin had any reason to come to his aid. But she replied harshly in Elvish, and it felt like a rescue, even if it hadn’t been meant as such. Maker, it made a man feel powerless, being excluded from so much understanding.

But of course, that was his own weakness. The man that Mirevas deserved, the man he wished he could be, would understand her language -- or at least be comfortable enough with her culture not to feel as helpless as Blackwall did right now.

The bald elf shook his head and looked to Blackwall. “The problem with being too close to a legend is that objectivity becomes difficult.” He spoke as if certain that Blackwall would share his opinion, and Blackwall seethed at the man’s rudeness.

“I defer to the lady on this one.” He nodded at Sulevin, who lifted her chin. “I certainly wouldn’t presume to contradict her on her own heritage.”

“I see.” The male elf regarded Blackwall, coldly assessing him. “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.”

“Blackwall.”

“Blackwall. What brings you here, shemlen? Are you elf-blooded?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“An academic interest in elven history, then?”

Blackwall glanced away again, looking for Mirevas, and found her approaching, her brow furrowed in concern.

“No.”

“Hmm.” Solas looked unimpressed. “What does bring you here, then?”

“He’s here because I asked him to be, Solas.” Mirevas stepped up next to Blackwall and put a hand on his arm, then looked to Sulevin. “Is everything all right here?”

Sulevin opened her mouth to speak, but Solas answered first. “A difference of opinion, that’s all.”

“Solas eolas banal o isa av,” Sulevin said, then addressed Blackwall. “It was very nice to meet you. Perhaps we’ll speak later.”

“I would like that.” As awkward as Blackwall may feel, he had a great deal of respect for this woman that he’d only just met, and he believed Mirevas was lucky to have such a cousin.

Sulevin nodded. “Dareth shiral.”

That sounded like goodbye, so Blackwall repeated, “Dareth shiral,” and hoped he hadn’t put his foot in his mouth.

He thought, as Sulevin turned away, that she looked just the tiniest bit pleased.

Solas didn’t acknowledge Sulevin’s departure. He was gazing at Mirevas in a way that Blackwall recognized as, well, enamored was the only word for it.

For the briefest of instants, Blackwall imagined himself punching the man.

“It seems your show is a great success,” Solas said. “I expected nothing less.”

“That’s very kind of you to say. Thank you.”

“I speak only the truth. May I get you a drink?”

Yes, Blackwall definitely wanted to hurt this man.

“No, thank you. But I appreciate the offer.” Mirevas tilted her neck to look up at Blackwall again. “We should probably circulate, don’t you think?”

Before he could answer, she was tugging on his arm, pulling him away. “Dareth shiral, Solas!”

Blackwall didn’t bother to say goodbye. He kept his eyes on Mirevas as she led him to the other side of the room, into a corner with a partition that partially hid them from the eyes of the others.

Exhaling, Mirevas turned to look at him. “I’m sorry. We haven’t had a moment to ourselves.”

She wanted to be alone with him?

“I’m flattered you’d spend any time with me. I enjoy talking with you.”

And he truly did. Lunch with her last week had been a wonderful experience. Mirevas was not only exceptionally clever, she’d proven herself to be a kind and considerate woman with a sweet sense of humor. Everything new he discovered about her only made him fall harder.

She fiddled with a bracelet on her wrist. “There’s something I wanted to say to you--”

A voice speaking Elvish made them both turn. Another patron, it seemed. The person gestured to a painting, the lilt of her voice making it clear she was asking a question.

She probably didn’t notice the brief, miniscule grimace that crossed Mirevas’s face, but Blackwall did.

Well. He should probably get her another drink. All that talking had to be thirsty work.

----------

It seemed like ages -- and yet only minutes -- before the doors to the gallery closed, with not a few paintings marked SOLD on their tags. Gallery staff descended on Mirevas immediately, but she spoke in Elvish, giving what could only be a command, and they walked away, albeit somewhat resentfully.

“Step outside with me?” she asked Blackwall.

“As you wish.” He could never refuse an opportunity to be alone with her.

They walked silently to the door. Blackwall held it open for her, and they stepped out into the night air. As soon as the breeze hit them, Mirevas began to shiver.

Immediately, Blackwall removed his blazer and held it out. She allowed him to help her into it, then faced him.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

Blackwall blinked, her words taking him by complete surprise. “For what, my lady?”

She gestured at the space around them. “For--this. For bringing you here. For the way you were treated. I didn’t think -- Creators, it’s all so Dalish, isn’t it?”

He didn’t follow. “That’s not something to be sorry for. You’re rightfully proud of your heritage.”

“But you--” She shook her head.

He didn’t belong. He was an intrusion. Yes, he knew.

“You should have been welcomed. Included. This -- it’s not just about us. Certainly I never intended it to be. It’s an art show, not some sort of private cultural ceremony. I want to foster understanding, create bridges. The way people ignored you, the way they looked at you -- it’s unacceptable. And I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how that feels. No, that’s wrong, I know exactly how it feels. And I should never have put you in that situation.”

She was apologizing...for him not fitting in. It was utterly incongruous. That any of this could be her fault--

“You’ve done nothing wrong, my lady. Your culture is a part of you, and I’m honored that you chose to share this with me. My only wish is that my shortcomings had not inflicted any unpleasantness on you.”

Mirevas looked astonished -- and appalled. “Shortcomings? What shortcomings?”

“I wasn’t able to respond appropriately. I didn’t understand the intricacies of your culture. You deserve better than an escort so culturally inept.”

She looked no less horrified. “You responded beautifully. And I never prepared you. Honestly, anyone who would judge me for bringing a man who is so obviously trying, who treats our culture with respect despite not fully understanding it -- a person who would judge me for that? I don’t want their approval.”

Blackwall had thought her smile was the most beautiful thing in the world. But the fierce strength that filled her eyes now was almost as overpowering.

“The only regard I care about is yours,” he said softly.

Her anger seemed to melt at his words, and she gazed up at him with intense emotion.

Before he could think, he asked the question that had plagued him all evening. “Why did you want me here, my lady?”

She blinked, startled. “I--”

Maker’s breath. He wished he could take back the words. “Forgive me. That was inappropriate. I should not have asked.”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, I’m glad you did. I--I was so nervous about the show, and you -- well, you were so brave the last time. I felt like--if you were here to support me--I could get through it.”

The admission astounded him. He’d had no idea she was nervous, not with the easy way she’d greeted every admirer. And that she could view him in such a way--that his mere presence could give her strength--

“Besides, I--well, I--” she hesitated “--I just wanted to see you again.”

Her words hit him straight in the heart. She’d wanted to see him. Wanted it enough that she’d risked the censure of her peers to be with him tonight.

She looked away, focusing her gaze out at the parking lot.

Blackwall gathered all his courage.

“May I see you again, my lady?

Mirevas’s head jerked back towards him, her eyes wide. But--not in a good way, he realized. Like a halla caught in headlights.

Fuck. He’d misunderstood. He thought she meant--but she didn’t--

“I’d like that, but--” Maker, she looked uncomfortable “--it’ll be a while before I can afford to hire you again.”

Her smile was nervous, apologetic.

It took him a second to understand what she was saying, and when he did, he was alarmed. Andraste’s arse, could he bugger this any more?

“No,” he said, scrambling for words, “I mean--”

Impulsively, he took her hand, and her lips parted.

“Not as a job. I want to take you out. Dinner. On me.”

She stared at him, mouth agog. Silent.

Maker, his heart was pounding.

“You can ride in my car?” he offered.

Suddenly, Mirevas laughed. “Oh, well, if I get to ride in the car…”

The tension deflated, and Blackwall could breathe again.

“Yes,” she said, smiling that glorious smile. “Even without the car. I’d really, really like to see you again.”

She was so beautiful. He wanted to kiss her. Maker’s breath, he wanted it. But he couldn’t. This was still a job. A professional obligation. And it would not reflect well on the Knight Shop if the knights went around snogging their clients.

Instead, he lifted her hand and kissed her fingers again, never taking his eyes off her lovely face.

The change in her face was unmistakable. Her eyes darkened and her breathing quickened. Blackwall’s pulse sped up in matching desire. He couldn’t kiss her; it wouldn’t be right. But…

...if she kissed him…

Maker, please let her kiss me.

Mirevas withdrew her hand, and her breathing evened out. “Dinner then? Erm--tomorrow?”

She seemed just as impatient as he was to be together again, and a laugh escaped him, not of humour, but of pure joy. “Six o’clock?”

“Perfect.” She beamed. “That’ll be...perfect.”

Perfect, indeed. Blackwall couldn’t agree more.

The Elvish comes from this online translator using the Project Elvhen conlang. Many thanks to the creators of those tools and apologies for any butchering I may have done to their work.

Elanas ma halani, sathan? - Can you help me, please?

Dirthas Elvehn? - Do you speak Elvish?

An’eth’ara! - casual greeting

Andaran atish’an - Welcome to this place of peace, more formal greeting

Mirevas, lethallan. Nuvan dirtha ma? - Mirevas, cousin. May I speak to you?

Dirthas Elvehn, shemlen? Mar sil? - Do you speak Elvish, human? Your thoughts?

Solas eolas banal o isa av - Solas knows nothing about what he speaks of