They have known each other such a little time, as these things are reckoned. Barely a year between the Breachâs cataclysmic opening and its final sealing, and Blackwall himself not recruited to her side until some little time after it all began. She has wondered, at times, if they had fallen in love too quickly; their lives for that unreal year were things of extreme emotion, everything compressed and concentrated and over-bright. Had they only loved each other because it had felt like their last chance to do so? Had they only loved each other because each day they were in danger, each day they might die? Could such a thing, a love beaten into its shape under such circumstances and quenched in blood, ever remain strong when the forgeâs heat cooled at last?
Perhaps, if they had been younger than they were, the answer to that question would have been a very different one. But they were not children and they were not inexperienced and they understood their own hearts far better than a stripling might. They were not getting any younger, and perhaps it had taken all those long years to show each of them what it was they truly wanted. Theyâd found it in each other.
     âI donât care about the dressing gown; itâs nothing, it can be cleaned andÂ
     I have others. Youâre here. Thatâs all I care about, Thom, love, beloved.â
To her own surprise, Beata found herself shuddering against his chest almost helplessly, a sudden violent reaction as all her own worries and fears and private sorrows, all those things which sheâd been unable to share with anyone in the months of their separation, began fighting for release. There was such relief in having him here, and knowing that she did not have to be strong alone anymore. She would never blame him for leaving; heâd had a mission and a calling and it had been important and needful. Sheâd not blame him⌠but she was so glad that he was back.
He was acting oddly, or so it seemed to her, but it was an odd sort of moment, this unlooked-for reunion in a strange place. The chambers sheâd been allotted in the Winter Palace were luxurious ones, to be sure, but they were not hers. Not the ones theyâd shared together so many nights, where theyâd begun to build something like a home. Not that a keep like Skyhold could ever be thought of as homey;Â but she had come to learn that home was in people, not in places.
With that in mind, perhaps these impersonal chambers were home after all, now that he was in them.
She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes and cupped his cheek with one hand, the right one, as if assuring herself he was really there. Drawing in a deep, shaky breath, Beata felt some sense of rightness click back into place. He was here, and nothing looked quite so difficult anymore, knowing he was at her back. She smiled.
     âMy champion.â
Thom inhales sharply at this, if only to ease the sudden, swelling pressure in his chest. He has forgotten how easily her words strike at him, how easily her favor proves to be the only one he has ever truly needed to fill that lingering void of validation he had spent his life plugging up and plugging up. Where there had been tension and fear, where there had been that stiffness in his back and shoulders that she might now recognize each time they passed through Orlais, there is first a warm, bubbling sensation traveling like lightning down each limb. There is second some modicum of peace.Â
Perhaps this is where he is meant to sweep her off her feet and carry her to the bed that is not their bed, but still one they could share and christen with their love. She had taught him well that it was the company that mattered far more than the locale and he would still have her in the grandest palaces as he would the most meager hovels. Pride was of no bearing in love, regardless of how much he prickles, sometimes involuntarily, at facing shades of an old life he has sought to strip himself from for nearly a decade.Â
But he is, of course, still a man--still human--and canât help the way his mouth moistens with the thought of the bowl of fresh fruit sitting on a far end table.Â
Perhaps this is where he is meant to sweep her off her feet, but he does not. They are not young, fleeting lovers facing the world, always in a hurry to love as if time is running out. It is running out, more than they could ever be aware of, but it does not hasten his steps all the same. She is there in her nightclothes, ethereal in the low light, and he stands before her like some great, hulking shadow, clad thickly in all but his plate armor. It is nothing but a matter of stripping himself of his layers, despite how numerous his buckles and laces remain, first of his belts, his padded gambeson. Belts and buckles more, to his undershirt--stained from overuse--to his trousers, fraying and patched and fraying again. He would need more than his simple linen braies to equal her flowing, silken garments, but he is more like himself, more humble.Â
Itâs late, heâs urged a million times, you need your rest. There is a line of clothing discarded from the doorway to the edge of the bed as he draws her to it alongside him. Weâll talk more in the morning, is added once or twice, but he would be foolish to believe he had any hope of sleeping. Indeed, as he folds back her bedsheets that they both might be welcomed between them, he feels his heart begin to race again as she slots ever so neatly into the crook of his arm against his chest. Is the mark on her hand brighter now than it used to be or is it merely a trick of the light? Is it only his worry distorting his memory? Yet Leliana did not much like him, so he thinks, certainly not enough to fetch him with so grave a warning. Surely she must feel how unyieldingly hot he has become as the wheels in his head start to turn, at once attempting to remain calm as at once failing miserably at doing anything close to avoiding the subject.Â
     âBeata, I canât--I canât pretend this is some convenient social call. Iâm
     not a good liar and I never was and nothingâs going to change that now.
     I think my heart might burst if I tried to keep it in. I donât know enough to
     not think the worst of it but I know. I know about your hand--the mark.
     Scouts found me out in the countryside. I came as soon as I could. I
     would have come sooner if my horse could ride any harder.â
Inhale. Exhale. A few strong breaths to steady himself. He is far softer when he speaks.Â
     âI feared I would have to bury you when I returned. I didnât know how
     dire the circumstances I would return to, only that I couldnât spare the
     time to stay to my itinerary. Please. Give me some piece of mind, however
     grave it is. Tell me whatâs wrong. Tell me what I can do.â