Work Text
The Inquisition is full of odd ducks.Well—some odd swans, too. There are a few too refined to be called a duck. But an odd bird is an odd bird, no matter what kind of bird it is.Blackwall doesn’t mind, not much. Mostly they’re a nice bunch. Odd birds are, in his experience. Take Sera. She’s got no social graces at all, but that just seems to make her more cheerful, and she doesn’t need social graces to be kind to friends. Or Josephine. She looks like a right swan, but Sera had found out that she still plays with dolls like a little girl when no one can see. Blackwall’s been carefully whittling Josephine a little wooden one, though he’s a bit nervous to give it to her and he’s been dawdling on the work. It’s all right that a lady like her plays with dolls. Sweet, even.If he wanted to, Blackwall could fill one of Varric’s books with a list of the strange things about the Inquisition. Solas’ lectures on things no one else understands, which he’ll only stop for a dragon landing right in front of him, and his habit of putting his foot in his mouth more often than a man has a right to do. The way that Helisma, even though she’s Tranquil and not supposed to feel anything as far as Blackwall knows, will come to the stables and help Dennett groom the horses and give them sugar. Cole could be a chapter all on his own. So could Dagna.Out of all the Inquisition’s odd birds, though, the oddest of all is the Inquisitor.Seems to Blackwall that a lot of people haven’t picked it up. They seem to get sidetracked by Adaar’s height and horns and title. Blackwall’s only noticed because he travels with her so often. She’s easier out of Skyhold, where no one can see her. Blackwall thinks it’s a bit of a privilege to have Adaar let down her guard in front of him. Trust, that’s what that is, and he doesn’t like to break it if he can help it.Sure, Blackwall knows that reaver business has given Adaar senses like a dragon, but he can’t imagine a dragon getting headaches just from sunny days or a noisy market street like she does. She stops to look at every sheep they pass, sometimes even talking to the placid beasts, even when she’s in a hurry. Even though she’s got a wardrobe bigger than any person needs, when no one makes her do otherwise Adaar wears the same three old shirts over and over. In company, Adaar acts like those lizards Blackwall’s heard live up in Rivain—chameleons, they’re called, that change their colors to look like they’re something else—changing herself to act just like Madame de Fer or Josephine. After hearing her in too many court settings for anyone’s taste, Blackwall suspects Adaar’s learned how to talk to nobles off a script like an actor might do. He could go on. But all that’s to say that she’s the oddest bird in a whole flock of odd birds.Today’s a slow sort of day. No visiting dignitaries kicking up a ruckus, no urgent reports sending everyone running out of Skyhold to fight some new enemy. It’s just a good summer day up here on the mountaintop.It’s sunny and Blackwall’s brought his woodwork out of the stable. A lap desk sized right for Iron Bull, which will have dragons on the lid, and an enchanted lock made by Dagna to keep prying eyes out. He’s not Ben-Hassrath anymore, but he still writes. And he doesn’t need any of the Nightingale’s people going through his thoughts.Seems like half the castle had the same thought Blackwall did. Cass and Cullen have got people on the training yard for calisthenics. Iron Bull dragged the Chargers out, too, and it looks like it’s turning into a friendly competition. Probably will turn into tug-of-war eventually. Dorian’s brought his reading out to the steps of the Great Hall, a stack of books half Varric’s height that have bookmarks sticking out of them at all angles. Madame de Fer is on her balcony up above, not mingling but still enjoying the sun. Sera is on the roof of the tavern, napping in full view of the entire castle on a pillow that looks like it was snatched from Adaar’s room. From the stable, Blackwall can hear the soft sound of Maryden practicing her scales in the garden. When he took a stroll to stretch his legs, he spotted Cole sitting near her, with his hat on the grass beside him. Even Varric, who claims to hate the outdoors, has brought his writing out to sit by the training ground and heckle everyone else.Adaar and Solas made it outside, too. They’re over by the well, a quieter corner of the courtyard that’s deep in the shade of the wall. Looks like they both brought work to do. Adaar’s got her own lap desk with a big stack of paper on it. Solas has one of his tomes.Neither of them are doing any work at all. Solas is leaning against Adaar’s side, with her arm around his shoulders. Small and thin as a cornhusk doll he looks, next to her. She’s wearing one of her old shirts—Blackwall’s not sure what color it used to be, but now it’s a faded sort of grey. The laced collar is wide open halfway down her chest. Seems to be a qunari thing, not to believe in modesty.Solas is talking a blue streak about…something. His hands move like he’s drawing shapes in the air. His artifacts, probably. Blackwall’s not sure there’s anything new to say on the subject, but Adaar’s listening as intently as she always does. Smiling at him like she never really does at anyone else.Oh, she smiles all right, and it’s a nice one. Bright and cheerful. People smile when she does. Even Cullen does it, when he and Adaar aren’t too much at odds. The smile she gives Solas is different. Blackwall can’t put his finger on how, just that it feels like it’s not the same.Adaar glances up at Blackwall. She waves. Solas offers a brief wave, too, and Blackwall lifts a hand in greeting. But he doesn’t go join them. Lovebirds will want privacy, or as much as they can get in this castle. Which isn’t much.Looking back on it, when they’d come outside Solas had clearly meant to bring Adaar over here. She’d been tense, Blackwall could see that all the way from the stables, wincing at every shout from the training yard and looking down at the ground as if to keep away from the sun. Solas, with a hand on the small of her back, had neatly guided her over to where they are now. Quiet. Shady. It’s plain that Adaar’s happier there. Blackwall’s glad. There’s little enough happiness to be found for anyone these days, and even less of it for her, sitting on the throne and worrying herself sick over the fate of the world.Well. At least for today there’s nothing to be worried about. Blackwall returns to his work, the shape of a dragon’s neck taking shape under his knife.“Good morning, Blackwall!”Josephine. Blackwall sets down his work and stands up. “Good morning,” he says. He half bows and Josephine smiles. Even she’s dressed for the weather, in a light green dress Blackwall’s never seen her wear before. She’s got a big stack of papers in her arms, some of them letters with stamped wax seals. Official business.“Have you seen the Inquisitor today?” Josephine asks.“I have,” Blackwall says, nodding over toward Adaar and Solas, “but I don’t think you should bother them.”“This is important business,” Josephine says. She holds up the stack of papers a little. “I really need the Inquisitor’s signature.”Blackwall shakes his head. “It’s too fine a day for that.”“The needs of the Inquisition,” Josephine starts.Careful of the soft sleeve of her dress, Blackwall puts a hand on her arm. Josephine stops. “Let her be,” he says. “The mail riders aren’t leaving until tomorrow. Give the Inquisitor the morning.”With hesitation, Josephine looks at the papers in her arms, then towards Adaar. Her expression softens a bit. Blackwall looks, too, and sees Adaar laughing quietly. Solas is smiling up at her. “Perhaps you’re right,” Josephine says.On impulse, Blackwall says, “If you’d like to step in for a moment, I…have been working on something for you.”“For me?” Josephine’s eyebrows rise.“If it’s not too forward.”Her cheeks darken. “Not at all. Please, lead the way.”Blackwall offers his arm, as gentlemanly as he can. With a delighted smile Josephine takes it. He leads her into the stable, where the doll is sitting on the table, waiting to be worked on. He hopes Josephine will like it. Even in the humble stable, she looks every inch the princess from a ballad, with the light from gaps in the roof spangling her dark hair with gold. Too refined for a simple doll like this.But her delighted gasp when he places it gently in her hands, and the way her smile widens and brightens like he’s never seen before, tells Blackwall in more than words that she likes it.“You’re very unusual, Blackwall,” Josephine says, when he’s asked her opinion on how he ought to carve the doll’s hair and she’s told him about several Antivan styles, and sketched them in charcoal on the table.“I’m just a man,” he says with a shrug.“No,” Josephine says thoughtfully. “Many people don’t think highly of strange habits. They’d think me childish for the dolls. And you made me one instead.”She kisses his cheek. Blackwall stares at her. He can’t find words for that. Josephine just smiles and, picking up her stack of papers, steps out of the stable again. She doesn’t turn right, toward Adaar and Solas, but left, back toward the castle.After a moment, Blackwall shakes himself. He finds himself smiling like he hasn’t in a long while now. So Josephine thinks he’s an odd bird, too. Well. Worse things to be than that.And, he thinks as he follows her back out into the sunlight, worse places to be an odd bird than this.