rivain | you need to hear this

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you need to hear this

WHO: Ginevra Trevelyan, Blackwall
WHERE: Haven | Stables
WHEN: Post-Champions of the Just
WARNINGS: Post attempted possession/mindfuckery

Envy had twisted her cabin. Twisted the perspective, scattered skulls and sinister foliage and Fade-green light. She had stood on the ceiling which was the floor and peered up at the floor which was the ceiling, and none of this is new. She's been to the Fade before. She's has spirits try and possess her before. But this...

I touched so much of you, but you are selfish with your glory. Now I'm no one, Envy had hiss-yelled and everyone had heard it.

And it had twisted her cabin.

It's one reason why she's out here, walking the streets of Haven at night. There's snow in the air (isn't there always, here?) and it's cold, but she'd been stupidly, childishly grateful for her cabin. A generous space to which she could retreat, but currently when she closes her eyes it all becomes tainted with green. Ginevra needs air. She didn't need an excuse, but Blackwall had provided her with one. Blackwall, who had been there. Had heard Envy. Had fought Envy, with her.

He'd asked – no, that was the wrong word. He offered her the stables, offered his company in a roundabout way. No expectation, no pressure. No, you should talk about this, no shouting about how she made the wrong call about offering the Templars a true alliance and a chance to rebuild themselves. Just an offer.

So Ginevra is here, at the stables. She knows where he is, can see his large, solid form out of the corner of her eye. She will walk over to him in a moment, or he will to her. But at this moment, this exact moment, she's stroking one of Dennet's horses, leaning in close to breathe in the horsey, alive smell, feel the warmth of the mare's breath in the cold, and be reminded that she's not caught in her own mind.

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Blackwall is not the type to force anything, especially not with her. With every huff of the Maker's breath, Blackwall finds that he loves her more. Loves her, yes. He's falling for her more and more every day, much though he wishes he were not and pushes back against it every day. Even if he weren't, even if his feelings were entirely friendly, he would still have made the offer. He can tell that the Envy demon is still eating her up inside. If he can help that fade, then he damn well will.

So he notices when she walks in, lets her have her time with the horses for a while, lets her get some of that energy out. He knows he would want the same were he in her position. It gives him the creeps, the idea of a demon taking on someone else's form. Thank the Maker the Herald stopped it.

The idea of loving someone who was a demon had crossed his mind, but he had shoved it aside. That needs no quarter here.

Eventually, he approaches, slowly, to give her a chance to run if she wants, to let her choose if she wants him there or not. Like always, he will respect her wishes. She has more than earned that from him.

"Nothing like a good horse, is there?"

Ginevra's life is filled now with people who want things from her. A justification of their faith, an ability to fix the world, to repair the hole in the sky, to tell them the Maker's will, to give them a purpose. A lot of the time, for most people, it seems a lot of what they want is for her to be... somewhere else. Distant, so they can project what they will on her without the awkwardness of her actual self.

She longs, not for the first time, for her friends. But the ones who didn't perish in at the conclave are still in hiding, and she has no idea if they'd even trust her now.

So this, this quietness, this just letting her be, is something she needed and she didn't know to ask for it. It's enough that when he finally approaches, she looks at him and smiles. At him, at Blackwall, who looked at her and didn't talk about the Mark on her hand or how she survived the Fade, but that he found her honourable, principled. As if he looked at her, and not at the Mark.

"Maybe a good dog," is what Ginevra says, and there's a trace of a laugh in her voice. Then she shakes her head, a little. Not a negative, not a disagreement with what she just said, just a physical sign she was about to add something. "When... When I was sent to the Ostwick Circle, I spent a lot of time at the stables. Reminded me of home."

Blackwall doesn't see marks or coin or objects any longer. After what he's seen and been through and become, he knows better than to look at the tangible signs of wealth or poverty. Instead he looks for the people, looks at the people, who they are and what they do. The people mean so much more than any labels pressed upon them, roles they might have otherwise never taken on.

And he knows what a boon silence can be. Time can be a great healer. It can also be a terrible nightmare. But he knows for her it is what she needs. No one else would give it to her, leaving it up to him. Maker's balls if he isn't falling for her more and more each day. It isn't right, but he could no more stop it than he could an avalanche. Or the Breach.

That is for another day. A day when he could no longer resist her wily charms. Her good heart is too pure for his darkness, his past, and so he pushes all of that away, leaning on the need to help her. The need to do good.

"You could always ask around to find a mabari breeder," he suggests, leaning against one of the posts in the stable. "We are in Ferelden. They're hardly in short supply."

He doesn't press her about Ostwick. If she wants to tell him more, she will. It isn't his place to force her.

She blinks. Not one of her slow, feline blinks of pleasure, but a quick flutter of lashes in surprise. Then she smiles. It's not a full grin, but she rarely does those. This smile is more a suggestion, hard to capture in stillness but visible if one watches the way her mouth moves, dimples at the corners even as her pale, mostly-green eyes lighten.

"Ser Blackwall, are you suggesting I get a puppy?"

Ginevra is delighted. A puppy. She's never had a dog before, never wanted to push her Circle's allowances to that extent. She'd only lavished affection on her family's when she went to visit. They are, she feels, such good animals. Animals who wouldn't care about Andraste's marking of her. Which probably is a blasphemous sentiment, but one she feels that Andraste would understand, what with her own loyal mabari.

"I... I suppose it would be unfair to the animal, with the amount I have to travel putting out fires. But it's a sweet thought."

Blackwall watches her quietly, letting her come to the idea on her own. It wouldn't do for him to push her on anything, let alone on the idea of getting a dog. Maybe it's more a Ferelden thing than a Marcher one, but he doesn't see why she shouldn't have one if she wants one. It might do her some good.

"Why shouldn't it be more than a thought?" he questions evenly. "A mabari would be a loyal animal and they travel as well as any horse. Better in some places. Besides, he can help you scout and fight. Protect the locals. All good reasons to have one."

Really, having another creature to look after might help her deal with the trauma that being the Herald seems to have dropped onto her shoulders. He doesn't envy her this weight, but he does want to try to lift it. If he can.

"Scouting would be useful," she admits, thinking back to Hafters Woods in the Hinterlands. Bandits and bears and all of those damn hills. "And there'd be no shortage of those willing to help me train it."

Which, still, is an unsettling thought. It's different from a willingness pulled from the good quality of her clothes, the education in her voice, for there the expectation is for coin. Here, now, it's not kindness but reverence. It can be a known quality to navigate around, and she's becoming more adapt at it, but the more she turns the idea over the more it seems likely she'd have to go through an intermediary to avoid a crowd, or crushing disappointment. Or renditions of Andraste's Mabari.

The Herald of Andraste, looking for a dog - no, she won't go down that path. Self-pity doesn't help, and neither does wallowing in whatever the Maker has planned for her.

Besides which, it'd spoil the effort Blackwall is going to, to allow her this space to breath and gain some normalcy. She appreciates this, and him, too much for that. As dangerous as it is. She's not taken lovers before, but she knows the tug and pull of affection, fondness, romance as much as any other. A dangerous thing, to indulge here.

And yet...

"Do you know much about dogs trained for such purposes?" Ginevra asks, because she wants to be around people, and him, too much to cut herself off.

Who says she has to be the one asking? Blackwall could ask around for her and there's no shortage of people who would bring animals up to Haven just for the chance to see the Herald, even if she isn't directly involved. He could choose the hardy ones and then bring some options to her before they see which one bonds with her. The last thing Blackwall would do would be give her some time away and then throw her straight back into the light again. No, this is something else he can do for her.

"No," he admits. "I've... seen some fighting for Ferelden warriors--" Against him when he was in the Orlesian army, but he doesn't say that. "--but never had much cause to see one trained. I'm sure someone here knows or Leliana can find someone through her network. But if I hear of any while we travel, you'll be the first to know."

Leliana might be the spymaster and have more contacts and connections that way, but sometimes simple word of mouth is the best way. At this point, Blackwall would do anything for Lady Trevelyan. Anything at all.

Because of that no shortage, because of not wanting to put people out more than they are already, because of not wanting to cause deep, deep religious disappointment. And, because, as Envy has so chillingly reminded her, she does not want to get used to this. She could ask for anything, and all she has is herself to hold her back.

Not for the first time, Ginevra finds herself grateful for the self-discipline Ostwick Circle instilled in her. She has to choose her whims.

But Blackwall, Blackwall she trusts.

"Thank you. I'd, uh. I'd like that."

She doesn't mean to stumble over her words. She's put in years to building her confidence, her self-possession. But he does set off butterflies in her belly, sometimes. Particularly when he looks at her like that.

And... And she knows she is hiding. Hiding from what happened, what was shown to her, from her reactions. She doesn't much like hiding, either. So she strokes the horse's neck again and then pushes herself off the fence to look at Blackwall directly.

"I know that the Wardens have mages," Ginevra begins. "And deal with demons sometimes, not just darkspawn. Did anyone tell- No, let me start again. Did talking about what happened help any of your colleagues?"

It's a damn fucking good thing he's put in so much effort and time over the years to perfecting his Wicked Grace face or he would've given away everything at her next question. It catches him off guard enough that a little surprise does show, but not enough to cause any kind of undue issue. He pauses, as though to think through his memories, while he instead actually scrambles for an answer.

Shit. Fuck. What is he supposed to say? He has no idea. Can't even guess, since he's never actually met any Wardens other than the real Blackwall. Crap. Uh... He has to say something. He can't just leave her hanging. That would be more suspicious. Make something up. But what????

Maker's fuzzy balls.

"Sometimes," he says finally, making it all up as he goes. "I don't remember a lot of us congregating recently. There wasn't a Blight. Why would we? Sometimes we'd have a go at it, though, talk through whatever horrors the darkspawn or demons or whatever else threw at us. Made us feel... more human. Less like darkspawn ourselves."

He doesn't press her even now. If she wants to say something to him, she will. But he desperately hopes she will get herself off the topic of the Wardens soon.

He looks surprised and she wonders if he'd guessed the original direction of her question - did anyone discuss the Harrowing? It'd be a familiar framework with a mage, and it's a secret, but she wonders what the Wardens do with such prior secrets.

But Blackwall's answer is a vague one, seemingly designed to keep privacy. As grateful as she is for the sometimes, for the way he keeps talking, she's not sure how to start. How to explain.

Except... if anyone won't flinch at what demons can do, it'd be a Grey Warden.

"The time. Hmm. Well, you know when Envy, as the Lord Seeker, grabbed me? And hauled me forwards? Then I headbutted him, it? The moment between that, we were in my head. My mind. It was trying to trick me, to frighten me. To do so, it...

Rifled through me. Demons do that, sometimes. They look at you and take ugly things, or show you ugly things, to get what they want. It showed me what it would do as me, except all the things it showed, they are all things I could do. If I was that cruel, or if I lost my way that badly.

I believe that I am not that person, that I refuse to do those things. But so much of what I've been building feels tainted. Now."

Ginevra looks at him. She doesn't try and hold his gaze, doesn't try and demand anything from him. But she looks and she forces herself to look, until she can't. Until she blinks, and her intense, pale green eyes look out over the snow-capped rocks next to the lake.

"It'll pass," she says, softly. "Mostly, it'll pass. I've had demons do things like that before," but she can hear the note of defensiveness in her voice. I can handle it, no one has to kill me, no one has to turn me Tranquil, I'm good enough to stay me. Blackwall doesn't deserve that, although it's one of the reasons she hasn't known who to talk to.

She doesn't say, and I'm still scared. It feels like an admission, a dangerous one.

But so much of her just wants to reach out, to be told it'll all be okay. It be held.

A part of Blackwall wants to hold her, to protect her while he listens and forever after from the horrors of demons and darkspawn. But that would be too dangerous, especially now. He can't afford to get attached, wouldn't want to break her heart like that. It's wrong in so many ways. So the most he does is listen and step forward two or three paces. No more. He can give no further.

What he does do is keep his face impassive as his listens. Any anger he feels is shown towards the demon, not her. She deserves so much better than what that bastard did to her. And even if she is a mage, he believes in her. He doesn't see a demon in her, not her actions or her explanation or anything else. She is the woman he is trying so very hard not to love.

"You're still frightened," he supplies, saying it for them, even as he turns to stare up at the Breach. "We all are, in our own ways. Not just for you, but for the entirety of Thedas. We don't know what we're up against, what began the damned hole in the sky, but it's there. All we can do is fight it."

Turning back to her, he tries for his best supportive gaze. It doesn't feel very supportive, lacking a something that everything in his life has lacked up until now.

"You fought that fight and you're still here. You're..." He pauses, hesitating, wondering if he should continue. In the end, he presses on, hoping that no one knew the real Blackwall well enough to know whether or not he was in the military prior to becoming a Warden. "You've won that part of the battle, but it doesn't just stop with one part. Some battles continue on several different fronts, beginning in one place and ending in another. Your forces must be strong enough to withstand all of it. As you must be now. As you are. The largest fight has been won. It proves that this is a war you can win. The demon will not take you. Nor anything else."

He moves closer. Two steps, three. No more, although she longs suddenly and sharply for him to move closer, to take her in his arms. She wishes she were brave enough, confident enough in this area, to do it herself. But she's not, so she just wants.

Wants, and is so grateful for the way he says what she couldn't bring herself to. That she's still frightened. It's less damning in his mouth, seemingly more just an acknowledgement of humanity rather than the precursor to demon possession. Like he sees her, not the Herald of Andraste. As honoured as Ginevra is that the Maker so clearly has a reason for her, she's still a living, breathing, moral woman. She's still herself, despite the Mark.

Despite what Envy tried to do.

"Thank you," Ginevra says, looking at him again. Sincerity rings from her, tired and worn but true. "I think I needed to hear that."

It feels real, coming from him. He, who was so clearly fought battles and wars, who isn't offering her platitudes of what he thinks she might want to hear. Just reassurance, from one warrior to another.

Strange, to think of herself as such. But she supposes she is, now.

She's killed enough now. Fought with her body and magic for enough, now.

"Is it... normal, though, to feel hollowed out by it all? Even surviving, even triumphing?"

Edited 2017-02-25 22:58 (UTC)

Something inside him breathes a little deeper at her spoken gratitude, as though it's normal, right, to hear from her lips as opposed to bragging from his. That and he's glad she took his advice well. Sometimes he doesn't feel qualified to give anything, though he still tries. What else does he have but attempts to be better?

"It is. Battle is never easy, especially when it's within your own mind." Not that he has experience with demons fucking with him, exactly. But fighting the voices in his head telling him that he's a terrible person who should be put to death? That he knows intimately. "I suppose that's part of the fight. You get to the end and it's exhausting. All you have left is this feeling of... numbness. Like your reward for winning is to have to fight to care."

And maybe he's saying too much or not enough or not the right thing, but he hopes. He tries and he hopes that it'll be right.

"If I don't care, then I'm like the mad apostates."

It's not what she meant to say, and she worries it might spoil their moment. If they were having one: Andraste, she doesn't know. But Blackwall sees her, he's fought beside her, he knows battle and fighting and the ugliness of it, so maybe she can say these things. Maybe she can say them and he'll still look at her like this, like her dark thoughts and mortal failing aren't a disappointment to an image.

"That's..." Ginevra huffs a breath. "That's what I've been telling myself, since the rebellion began. I have to care. Even if it's hard, or maybe especially because it's hard. It's so easy to feel rage and hatred, and." And let it consume you, let it build and build until you do awful things, all the things you justify to yourself no matter who is screaming.

Except she can't think about Ostwick. She can't think about what happened there, which isn't the same as not caring, it is about not falling into a sobbing heap on the poor man beside her.

"Maybe it's all some test. If we can make ourselves care through being numb, we're still... Us."

There's very little she could say at this point that would ruin the moment. And they are having one, for better or worse, for all that it'll make the heartbreak worse later on. But he takes another ill-advised step closer and prays to the Maker himself that he's not about to make a mistake with her.

"You're different from all of them. You do care. It's easy to see in everything you are, ever action you take. You hear about the plights of the other people and you do something about them. You don't just stand there and wave your finger or your weapon at whatever is going on. You are the solution; you're not the problem."

And maybe he's projecting a little bit here, but he truly does think the best of her and he wants the best for her. If that means he has to risk a little more than he might otherwise, then he will. For her sake.

"We all have to be the solution, to care about what happens outside our own feelings and actions. Those who don't are the problem."

"Am I different?" There's an honesty in her voice, a tired but searching tone that has nothing to do with an insecurity. There's no pleading to be reassured either way, nothing that speaks to a trembling pride. She's had Envy crawling through her and is pulling herself back together, is cleaning out the dirt and tangles.

"I don't mean... I know this makes me different," and Ginevra lifts her left hand, lets the Mark glow through her glove for a moment. "But there are so many people who do care. Just, as Sera says, they are the little people so the big people ignore all the individual kindnesses and bravery. It's not just me. Maybe I let more people do that, because I can get up there and be the Herald and take the heat for it. But I..."

This is hard. Hard to admit to, here with him. He isn't the reassuring presence of Mother Giselle, he's the reassuring presence of Blackwall. Blackwall, who isn't afraid to call out horseshit when he sees it.

"I'm not sure where the line is, between taking responsibility and letting it all go to my head."

It isn't the mark that he's talking about making her different. It's the things she says, the things she does. The way she presents herself and the honesty he can see flowing in everything that she is. He isn't falling for the Herald, some symbol of Andraste or whatever other bullshit they want to throw out. He's falling for the woman. Ginevra Trevelyan.

"The fact that you've said as much, that you've put thought to it at all, means you're leagues ahead of any of the other rebels," he says quietly. "No one really knows where that line is. The fact that you're constantly looking for it, that you haven't given in, means it'll be that much harder for you to become like the others. That much easier for you to keep yourself as you are."

That much harder for him to stop loving her.

It's more reassuring than maybe he knows, she thinks, to hear that no one knows that line. She can search for it, she can hunt and try and weigh it all, but no one knows.

It isn't something she could be realistically expected to just know, through some divine advice or innate goodness. She'll have to find. She could fail, and paradoxically, it makes it a little easier to breathe.

Or, it would, if she hadn't turned to face him fully. If she hadn't stepped closer as she did so, all without thought, and found herself suddenly just so close to him.

No, this doesn't help breathing.

"All the same," she manages, forcing her eyes up to his, "If I... I don't know. If I do something that's prideful, or for glory or vengeance... Could you tell me?"

Despite his distracting proximity, she means the question. If there is one thing, at the core of it, which Envy had shown she fears, it's this: for the first time in her life, there's no one to stop her. Her parents have no control over her, as they did when she was a girl. Templars, well, there are no circles here and she is no longer a circle mage. Leliana, she's sure, would only stop her if whatever she was doing looked like it might damage the greater good. But, too, Leliana, Cassandra, Cullen, she's the Herald first to them. If only, she thinks, because it's easier to deal with her that way.

She might be friends with them, later. But now, here, she feels alone and without much of a shield between her and herself.

Maybe it's selfish to ask. She thinks about that, once the words are out of her mouth. But she's asked and she meant the asking.

Blackwall doesn't ever see her doing anything like that, being anything less than the woman she has been so far. He can't imagine that she would suddenly change and become prideful or glorified or whatever else people in power often become. Revenge-seeking. Unworthy.

No, he sees the opposite in her. All the same, his response comes immediately.

"Of course. We all need someone to keep our feet on the ground."

And every day, she's giving him more reasons to be a good person, too. More reasons to keep trying to be better than what he was, to make up for that one mistake. Coin for a job like that never buys anything but guilt. Blood money.

He feels sick thinking about it, so he doesn't. Instead, he pulls himself back to the woman in front of him, though she's not much better. In a different way, but also related. She reminds him of what he can never have. So he clamps down on whatever it is that he might want and sticks with what he deserves.

And that is nothing.

"Thank you," she says. Quietly. Honestly. Grateful, the words are as she breathes them out, and a line of tension leaves her shoulders. Just a line; she's still wound up and tense. But he's calming to be around, and this... this helps. This is good and nice, a balm against the hurts the demon caused.

I know you, Trevelyan, it had hissed as it took her form but giant, cast in black with glowing eyes. As they sought to fight it.

"I never really understood the urge to get drunk after battle before now. Not the serious, I need to forget for a while type of thing."

Honesty is all he has right now to offer to her. It's the only thing keeping him going in some respects and he's glad that she can appreciate it at all, that it helps her even just the smallest bit. That's all he really wants to do.

"If you find yourself in the tavern, I'd be happy to keep you company," he offers easily, shifting his weight almost nervously if it wasn't something he did normally already. "It's better to drink with a friend than alone."

"And if I happened to be heading towards the tavern now?"

Possibly, it's all a terrible idea. The Herald of Andraste getting drunk. But if it comes to it, she can buy a bottle of something from Flissa and retreat back here, to the safety of the stables and Blackwall's sole company.

Then again, she knows she doesn't always make the best choices. No sense in changing pattern now.

"Then, if you wouldn't mind company, I would be happy to give it." Pause. "And ensure that neither of us has too much to drink tonight."

Not that they wouldn't have reason, but really it's better not to drink oneself in to a stupor after something like this. He would know. He's done it.

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