Chapter Text
It was the smell that woke Blackwell; cloying and foul. He couldn’t help but let out a disgusted grunt as he sat up from the cold floor, for a moment forgetting where he was and why. The footsteps came to him next; they thudded back and forth and back again against the well-trodden ground. He rubbed his eyes weakly. It was cold in the barn, and the morning light had just begun to lift the night sky.
He watched the baby shriek and wail in Niamh’s arms as she whispered sweet nothings and bounced them against her chest while she paced. The cause of the babe’s distress was no doubt the strong odor radiating from its backside. As Blackwall stood unsteadily, he recalled that the poor things only really owned the clothes on their backs. He cursed himself for not thinking ahead—or thinking at all really. They were in desperate need of a warm bath and unsullied clothing.
He crossed over to them, but the girl froze and went rigid when he approached, like a soldier to the gallows. Her eyes welled up with tears and she cried out over the wailing baby, “Tá brón orm! Ní raibh sé i gceist agam tú a dhúiseacht!”
“It’s okay,” Blackwall said softly, trying to ease whatever worries she had. He had lived on the run enough to become accustomed to the indignities of owning little. While he could not ever fully relate to her situation, he would not blame her for it. Especially when they had been put in his charge, and he’d neglected to provide for them properly.
“It’s not your fault. It’s mine. Here, come with me, it’ll be alright,” he said as he stepped past her, out of the barn, and motioned for her to follow.
But Niamh only cried harder, “Ní hea, le do thoil ná cas isteach mé! Le do thoil, tá brón orm!”
Blackwall floundered. He wasn’t very good with people; he’d been on his own for so long that he sometimes felt he had lost his ability to function socially. And consoling strange crying girls who fell from fade rifts was far beyond his capabilities. He had never been good with crying girls ever, for that matter. And the one before him then was so vulnerable, so scared, and could not understand a single word he said.
“Nieve,” he tried. “Nieve!”
Niamh snapped her mouth shut as he raised his voice. Her face darkened and her muscles tensed like a coil. He had only made things worse.
“Nieve,” he tried again, low and soft. “Breathe,” he said, demonstrating a deep breath. She watched him skeptically but followed the movements of his chest, rubbing the baby’s back soothingly as she breathed with him. The babe’s cries lulled some.
“Okay?” He asked.
“Ohkay,” she repeated.
“Good. Come with me. You will be safe, I promise.”
Though she couldn’t have gotten most of what he said, she nodded slowly and took shaky steps towards him. He guided her out of the barn and towards the lower level of the castle. Luckily, it was early enough that there was no one out and about, besides a few stray messengers and servants. She shivered in her tattered dress as they stepped out into the morning chill.
He held the heavy wooden castle door open for Niamh and she glanced around, looking worried but curious. She took a step inside and ran a hand along the cool stone walls wistfully. Blackwall followed and shut the door behind them. Slipping past the scrawny thing, he led the way to the baths.
Most people opted to use the large, public, open-air springs. But there were a handful of private ones set aside for the few small families that occupied Skyhold, women that were on their monthlies, or really, anyone who required the extra seclusion. The water was pulled up from naturally occurring hot springs within the mountains into hand-carved stone pools; he had always longed for them after long stretches of travel, and hoped they would soothe the pair.
Blackwall guided Niamh to the furthest door down the long hall and ushered her inside. She looked around curiously and entered without issue. Yet when he tried to close the door behind her, she startled and tried desperately to turn back.
“Cad atá á dhéanamh agat!” She cried out as she stuck her foot in the doorway.
“It’s alright, you’re okay. Look,” he pointed to the small stone pool, “You can bathe and change the baby. I am going to be right here the whole time, okay?”
Niamh huffed as anxiety pulled her muscles tight. Her chest shook and stuttered as her breathing quickened and tears prickled in her eyes. Eager to keep the little thing from bursting into tears in the middle of the castle, Blackwall placed a hand delicately on her shoulder.
“I will stay here, okay? Thom,” he placed his spare hand flat on his chest, “Here,” he pointed to the spot where he stood. “Nieve,” he nodded at her and then to the bath before pantomiming rubbing soap along his arms, “Bathe. Wash the baby. Okay?”
Defeatedly, she whispered, “Ohkay,” and let him shut the door behind her. Not long after, Blackwall could hear splashing water from beyond the wall, and a relieved sigh bubbled up his chest. He shouldn’t have promised to stay. He needed to get them both some soap and a change of clothes, which he could not do if he was to stand guard. But he could not betray his word either. Niamh had decided—for whatever reason—to trust him, and he would not break that trust. The poor thing needed at least one friend in this world, and if that was to be him, then that was it.
Resigned, Blackwall settled into his spot by the door. Minutes crept by slowly, and his early awakening was beginning to catch up to him; he felt his body grow heavy as he leaned against the stone passagewayin wait. He was so out of it that he almost didn’t notice the messenger approaching until they were turning down the hall. “Ser,” the boy greeted as he went to pass and continue down to the lower levels of the castle. The spry young elven messenger seemed to be coping with the early morning far better than Blackwall himself.
He held out a hand to halt him, and said, “I don’t suppose you could deliver a message for me?”
“That is what I’m here for, ser,” the boy teased.
“Let either the Inquisitor or Josephine know that…” he paused to consider his words carefully, “Our new guests require some supplies. Urgently, if possible.”
“Of course, ser. Right away,” the elf said before jogging back in the direction he came. Blackwall hoped he hadn’t pulled the kid away from anything too important.
Once he was certain he was alone again, he placed his left ear against the door. Distantly, he could hear the water swirling around and the baby babbling almost as incoherently as its mother did. Content that they were fine, Blackwall returned to his spot against the wall.
It didn’t take but about fifteen minutes for the boy to return. He came jogging down the hall with a leather shoulder bag in his hands. He pressed it into Blackwall’s arms and ran off deeper into the castle before he could be thanked.
Alone again, Blackwall muttered to himself as he opened the bag. There was a toiletry set inside, containing a bar of soap wrapped in cloth, a comb, some hair ties, and a few chewable elfroot sticks. The bag also contained two simple Ferelden style dresses, three pairs of smallclothes and breast bands, simple leather shoes, some cloths, shifts, and creams for the babe, as well as a laundering bag. Satisfied they had everything they might need; Blackwall reassembled the items and rapped mildly on the door.
“Nieve? I have some things for you. I’m coming in, okay?”
Though she could not have known what she was consenting to, Niamh answered him with a soft, “Ohkay,” that barely traveled through the door. After placing a precautionary hand over his already closed eyes, Blackwall pulled the door open slowly and set the leather bag on the floor inside, leaving quickly afterwards.
He was alarmed, sometime later, by the door creaking open behind him. He must have drifted off some while waiting. Reining his expression in, as not to convey that he’d betrayed her trust by falling asleep when he said he’d stand guard, Blackwall glanced casually at Nieve, then paused.
Stripped of all grime, dirt, and blood, the girl was beautiful. The mess of dark matted curls atop her head had been tamed into gentle waves that hung low on her back. Her brown face still had a sickly paleness to it, and the gaunt cheeks that gave way to the high slope of her cheekbones and angular jutting of her jaw was no doubt due to long periods of hunger, but she was all the more stunning for it.
Her dress was simple; the black bodice was trimmed by hardy brown laces and ties, and her chemise and skirt were dyed a dark teal. The stormy earthen tones suited her well, though the cut of the fabric made her problematic skinniness more than apparent. Blackwall might have complimented the dress, if Niamh were any other woman. Instead, he turned his attention to the child swaddled against her back.
All cleaned up, the babe looked much happier. They squirmed in their swaddle and cooed up at him softly. Blackwall smiled lightly at the babe and lookedback over them both. Niamh held the leather bag over one of the shoulders and the laundering bag with their dirty clothing in one of her hands. Noticing that she kept the babe wrapped in the dirty fabric and fur swaddle instead of putting it with the rest of the soiled clothing, Blackwall glanced back over at her and gestured to it.
“Would you like that washed, my lady?” He asked, gesturing to the swaddle and the laundering bag.
Niamh narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously and titled her head, as if gauging his intentions. Noting the odd reaction, Black supposed she had misunderstood his gesture. He reached down and slowly took the bag from her hand. Her fingers were flushed and warm against his own, presumably from the hot spring. She let him take the laundering bag, but when he reached up for the swaddle, she slid two steps back and growled.
Startled, Blackwall held up his hands in surrender, “Okay. That’s alright. I won’t take it.”
Niamh watched him warily but relaxed her shoulders some after a minute had passed and he’d made no further move towards it. When it seemed she was calm enough, Blackwall beckoned her to follow him. They made their way through the waking castle with little trouble. It wasn’t until the three of them had reached the courtyard, and Niamh paused to dig her toes into the grass, that he realized she had chosen to forgo the leather shoes left for her.
The sunrise had all but melted into full daylight, and the soldiers beginning their morning routines could be heard from a ways away. It was neither safe, proper, nor warm enough for the young woman to be going without shoes. Blackwall was debating stopping right there to put them on her himself when a voice called out to them.
“Blackwall!” The commander announced as he approached. He stood tall and stately, dressed in his usual armor. “Or should I call you Thom?”
He knew Cullen hadn’t any ill intent in asking. But rumor had it that he and the Inquisitor had been cozying up since she broke things off with Blackwall. And Blackwall, despite his respect for the commander, had not been handling it well. He knew that Cullen was a good man, and probably better for Lavellan than he could ever have been, but the wound was still raw. And to have the commander remind him of it, intentionally or not, inspired a dark and twisting feeling in his chest.
Blackwall felt the warm hand on his shoulder before he heard her voice. And for a moment he flinched, having nearly forgotten that she was there.
“Thom,” Niamh stated, her voice edged and firm.
Both men turned to her then, a bit surprised by her demanding presence. Cullen’s face began to flush gently, and he cleared his throat.
“Thom, then. My apologies,” the commander said, inclining his head towards Blackwall. “And you must be…” he paused realizing he did not know the woman’s name. He looked at her expectantly, and with poorly disguised interest. When she did not supply her name, he realized who she was and that she did not speak common, and the redness in his cheeks crept all the way up to his ears. “Sorry—I am Commander Cullen, pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, extending a hand out to her.
Niamh eyed his outstretched hand and flicked her eyes up to Blackwall’s; whether she was looking for permission, guidance on what to do, or confirmation that he trusted the commander, Thom wasn’t sure. But he inclined his head regardless, and Niamh accepted it as a sufficient answer. Gingerly, she reached out and fluttered the tips of her slender fingers atop Cullen’s hand, eliciting a half-choked eruption from the back of the man’s throat.
Blackwall sighed and Niamh withdrew her hand. “Nieve, this is Cullen. Cullen,” he repeated, gesturing to the commander.
“Cul-len,” she sounded out, with a hesitant voice and soft, curious eyes. She swept her eyes across the man’s broad shoulders, marveling at the thick furs that lined his armor. Something about Cullen had clearly garnered her interest, and yet there was an edge to the way she stood. Blackwall guessed it was because she had caught on to his discomfort when the commander first approached them.
“It’s nice to meet you, Nieve,” the commander replied.
“Nice… meet,” she repeated awkwardly.
Cullen smiled softly at her, and then looked her over head to toe with a critical gaze. “Who is this?” He asked, nodding to the baby that was, by then, half sleeping on her back, comfortable in the dirty furs.
When Niamh did not answer, Blackwall said, “They don’t have a name.”
“No name,” she confirmed.
Cullen eyed them both oddly but nodded a slow assent. “Alright. Well, I must be on my way. But I’ll speak with you later, Thom,” he said, flashing Blackwall a weighty look. “Miss Nieve,” he addressed before taking his leave.
They both stood still and watched the man retreat for a moment, and then Thom continued leading his charges back to the barn. Before they could get even halfway there, however, Niamh's stomach rumbled out loudly. Blackwall was half-certain that if they had been in an enclosed space, the sheer volume of it would have sparked an echo. He looked back at her humorously, expecting a young woman like herself to be sheepish about such a thing, but her face was intently expressionless. Blackwall faltered a step. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, given the woman’s stature, that she was accustomed to ignoring—and perhaps denying—hunger. But it was.
He turned back and frowned to himself, wondering how long she had been in the fade, or the rift, or wherever she was before. She could not have been wholly without food for very long, or the baby would not have survived, given that she was breastfeeding them. Unless it was the kind of prolonged starving that came with things like poverty; the kind that kept you going until it didn’t.
Thom questioned his decision to bring her such a large bowl of stew the night before. Eating that much after going so long without food could be dangerous, fatal even; he’d seen children die from it in his years as a soldier. He knew he would have to take them to a healer but thought that it might do more harm than good while she still felt scared and unsafe. The last thing he needed was word getting back to Lavellan that he’d let the woman maul a healer trying to take her baby for an examination. Not to mention that such a thing would ruin any trust she’d built in him; he could only imagine how she’d behave if she felt that she was truly alone. They would have to work their way up to a healer, he decided.
In the meantime, however, he couldn’t just let them starve. So, he changed direction, leading Niamh over to the tavern instead. It was quiet inside, and mostly empty. Individuals of importance, like the Inquisitor, had meals brought to them. And those that occupied roles of duty, like the soldiers and rebel mages, received meals wherever they were stationed. Which meant that the tavern was mostly empty, at least for the morning and midday meals. He steered Niamh to sit at the secluded table in the corner that the chargers usually occupied in the evenings. She tucked herself away without complaint and sat the baby down in her lap.
Blackwall went up to the bar and ordered them some gently spiced porridge with fruit; filling but simple enough to prevent any issues, Maker willing. He returned to sit with Niamh, and when he set the steaming bowl in front of her, she studied him for a moment, and then dug into the porridge with large shoveling bites. He worked through his own bowl slowly, spending more time watching her than anything else. He was worried about the speed at which she ate but didn’t have the heart to tell her to slow down or stop, not when he couldn’t properly explain the reason why he’d be depriving her.
Blackwall hadn’t even gotten halfway through his bowl by the time Niamh finished hers. She laid her spoon down with a sigh and cuddled the baby in her lap closer to her chest. “Go raibh maith agat,” she whispered to him. He supposed she was thanking him—and if the warm, watery look in her eyes was any indication, she had really meant it too.
“You’re welcome,” Thom whispered back.
He found that he was unable to fight the heat that bubbled up in his chest when she flashed that pretty smile his way.
