rivain | 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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"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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