Chapter Text
It's been 24 - no, 25 - years.
25 years since he's seen Dorian. Bael still remembers how they both felt that morning, the crushing weight on his chest, how Dorian had begged and begged for just one more day, please, just a few more hours.
Bael had agreed, and then left in the morning before Dorian woke up. Just like they knew he would.
At the thought of all he'd lost, the Anchor begins to thrum. Bael clenches his fist to force the tingling to stop, rolls over on his little sleeping pad. He thinks of those nights in Skyhold, of leading the Inquisition, of how it felt to wake up one day and realize everyone was just...going. The glory days were gone. The crinkles around Blackwall's eyes became deeper. Cassandra's jowls began to sag. The hairs on Vivienne's head, always so closely shaved, would come in more and more grey as time went on.
But not everyone got to grow old. Baelfire still remembers Solas disappearing, and the aftermath of his return. He doesn't know where the Dread Wolf is now, though they've crossed paths a few times since then. Those days are always stormy.
They'd lost Sera during Solas' first "return", too. Split nearly in two, from her shoulder to her hip. It wasn't right, the way she went out. It wasn't right how Cullen went out. But at least he got to choose how he went out. Choice was always important to Cullen, even choices made in the dark of the night during an anxiety attack so intense that the only way to clear your head was to pitch yourself off the battlements. Cullen's last, gasping breaths, his pained smile, his wheezing "Thank the Maker" as he clutched Barris' face in his bloody hands, still haunted Bael's nightmares.
It wasn't right.
People like Sera and Cullen didn't deserve to die. People like Sera and Cullen deserved to live forever.
People like Bael didn't.
And now he was losing one of the people who did...though, truth be told, he'd lost Dorian 24 - no, 25 - years ago, when they both decided this was for the best.
The howling winds outside seemed to mock his anger. The elf pushed himself up off his bedroll and decided to start getting dressed; he was almost upon Skyhold. He pulled on his pants, and his loose tunic, then the boots he was still loathe to wear but accepted because of the snow that always piled around the keep. Next came his cloak, heavy and dark green - useful for blending into the heavy forests he typically frequented, and a shade picked almost specifically because it contrasted heavily with his marked hand.
As for that, well, next was to wrap up his hands, to cover it up. It still throbbed, and some days it hurt so much worse than others - hurt mirroring his own internal anguish. Solas had told him once before, during one of their post-Breach meetings, that it would get easier. Bael didn't want it to get easier. He didn't want to forget his friends.
Thinking about the blasted Dread Wolf, how this was all his fault, Bael growled. He put his bow and quiver on his back, threw his hood on, and packed as quick as he could. Fucking Dread Wolf. Bael had been devout, once, a long time ago. Patient. He'd built alters to gods. He still proudly bore his blood writing. But this was the fault of the gods, stupid gods, who weren't ever actually gods.
Next time he saw Solas, he'd probably try to kill him. Again.
But for now, he swallowed his anger. It wouldn't do to send Dorian off to the Beyond while he was still raging inside, no matter how unfair all of this was.
Bael kept his hood up, and followed a group of pilgrims into Skyhold. He hadn't been back here in so long, and though cosmetically not much had changed it was...different.
Maybe it was because he wasn't seeing it from an Inquisitior's perspective. He was seeing it from a visitor's perspective. Pilgrims typically followed a path through Skyhold: in through the gates, to stand in the front courtyard, to hear a brief recount of the Inquisitor's victory.
Asha'bellanar's laugh echoed in his head. One day someone will sum up the events of your life so quickly. It was true, but he didn't think it would be so soon. And most of it was wrong. That was Cassandra's prophecy. Bael hung back from the group as their guide spoke, towards what had once been Cullen's tower; remembering the former commander, he couldn't help but smile fondly as he laid a hand on the stone. Then, an idea struck him.
The guide began to lead the group of pilgrims up a set of stone steps. Bael waited till they'd neared the Herald's Rest - another source of fond memories for him - and hung back as they all piled in...then turned, and immediately began dashing up to the battlements.
He was quick, a blur of movement that rendered him practically invisible. He crept through the first tower, now an office or a study or something for someone, and stopped short just outside of the door to the former commander's tower. Cullen had staked his claim for it specifically because he wanted to watch the forward approach. It was the only way anyone could attack them unless a dragon swooped in from one of the sides. He wanted to be prepared.
A profound sorrow bled into Bael's soul at the memory of what once. At Cullen's sheer determination during Haven, at Roderick's last minute change of loyalties, at the workers who'd thrown themselves between the Red Templars and Haven. Who had told him that, anyway? Josephine, of course. Josephine had always reminded him of the important role he played. He missed Josephine, so much.
She'd been the first to notice his unchanging features, anyway. Always so perceptive, their Josephine. He'd be seeing her soon, too, he reckoned, provided her almost supernatural ability to find him was still present.
Bael pushed the door to the old office open, and stepped inside.
Just like Skyhold, it was different, but for all the wrong reasons. The warm, red hue that seemed to permeate the whole room was still present. The shelves, the desk, all decor was in the same places; there was even an added bonus of a small portrait of Cullen - one Bael remembered having commissioned, one Cullen hated sitting still for - by the window. Beside it was one of Barris, looking just as impressive. He smiled fondly, touched the frame of Barris' painting. "Hello, old friends," He whispered, voice trembling.
The office smelled wrong. Cullen had always smelled like...like clean. Like soap, and honey, and snow. Something pure. Something that Bael always considered the smell of "home".
He pushed away from the painting and scrubbed at his eyes furiously. Stupid, sad, weepy, that's what he felt like. He stood there for a moment, in a daze, wondering if he should just head to the castle proper or creep back in with the rest of the pilgrims, when the sound of footsteps caught his ear.
Elf ears were always sensitive, and he'd had years to develop his strengths, hearing wise. They were heading towards Cullen's office. In a panic he jumped the desk, knocking papers and books off, and scurried up the ladder to the bedroom.
It was darker, with the repaired roof. The rubble and the creeping vines in the corner had been removed, the bed was larger, there were more candles. Whoever had made these changes, Bael imagined, would have had a hell of a time convincing Cullen to do them. But there was no way the tower could go forever without a full roof, taking in snow and rain.
Bael leaned over the trap door and listened as the same door he'd used to enter was pushed open, and a familiar voice snapped out, "Whoever is in here, you are intruding and you must leave."
The voice was heavy with age, croaky, but Bael would've recognized it anywhere. He didn't bother to call out a warning before dropping back down - ignoring the ladder completely - and landing in a crouch in front of the person that had stormed in.
As he dropped, he'd heard a sword being unsheathed. The man tapped the floor in front of Bael with the blade's tip and said, "Stand up. Slowly, don't give me anymore trouble than you already have."
Bael puts his hands up and raises, slow as he can, from a crouched position. He keeps his head down and says, "I see you finally decided to leave the barn. How long did that take?"
Blackwall is caught off guard by the question. He sputters, pushes the tip of his sword blade into the floor, sputters again then says, “Only 40 bloody years. Are you really - "
The elf puts one hand down and reaches up with the other to tug his hood off. Aside from a few new scars - one on his lip not dissimilar to Cullen's famed scar, and one that went diagonal from just above his right eyebrow, across his nose, down to his left cheek - Bael's face hadn't changed much. His eyes were no longer bright blue but a dazzling green, no doubt thanks to the Anchor's magic, and he still wore the heavy red make up that had become his trademark.
Blackwall sheathed his sword and let out a soft, grandfatherly sigh. "Some things never change," he said as he stepped to the elf and touched the corner of his eye. Blackwall had; the years had aged his face, made him seem softer. He was definitely older and fully grey; his thick hair was held back by a simple black string. "I can't believe you'd..."
Blackwall put his hands on Bael's shoulders, then pulled him forward for a hug that was returned with equal force. When they pulled away, both were teary-eyed.
"Have I - did I - what all have I missed?" Bael wiped his own eyes with his hand, smearing his make up down his cheek just a little more. "I'm sorry. I should've written or - or something."
"There would've been nothing for it," Blackwall turned and shut the door to the office closed. He leaned against it for a minute before saying, "You missed Josie and Barris by a while now."
"I'm sorry." Bael played with the edge of his cloak. "How long ago? Will they be returning soon, or..."
"I shouldn't think so." Blackwall closed his eyes and leaned his head against the doorframe. "Barris stepped down a while ago."
"Barris stepped down?" Bael echoed. "Why would he - "
"Do you honestly blame him? I mean, fuck's sake kid. He watched the love of his life wither away in front of him. He saw Cullen do it, remember? You don't get to come back from that.
"And then you just up and vanish. Your "Barris, I need you" was the only thing keeping him on. Once that was gone, well. I stepped up. Leliana asked me to, though at the time we'd all assumed it'd be only temporary."
Bael put a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes. "I didn't realize..." Of course he couldn't blame him; he wouldn't have blamed any of them. "I'm so sorry."
Blackwall waited to see if Bael would say anything more. When he didn't, the commander finally, mournfully continued. "At the time, sure, I was angry with him. He just up and bloody left. But now I know how he felt." He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "It's hard, when you lose someone like that. I can't put it into words. Though, I suppose I won't have to soon enough."
The weight of Blackwall's words slammed into him full force. "To lose someone," Bael echoed weakly. Blackwall simply grunted.
Blackwall turned back to him, slowly. His expression was somehow sadder than before. Bael tried to swallow the lump in his throat, and lowered his gaze to the floor. "Oh. I...I didn't. I'm so sorry, Blackwall."
"It's been a year. I mean. I've had time. I guess."
Bael has to fight back a painful sob.
"She just got sick. Too sick. We couldn't really do much. Powders and poultices only go so far. In the end she was surrounded by people she loved, and I think that's all that mattered to her."
Bael is quiet for a few moments, then says again, "I'm sorry. I should have been here."
Blackwall reaches a hand up to wipe fresh tears out of his own eyes. "It wouldn't have mattered. She wouldn't have wanted you to have to sit through that again, not after...well." He takes, and releases, a deep breath. "But we're fine. You should, if you're staying, you should meet the kids. And the grandson."
Bael perks up. "Grandson! I didn't know you had a grandson." Blackwall beams proudly. "That's wonderful news, Blackwall. I'd love to." The reason for why Bael returned to Skyhold suddenly swings back and hits him in the head. Before he meets anyone, he realizes, he has to check on someone else. "But, before I do...is he...? Is he, I mean - " "He's still here." Blackwall turns back around and opens the door for Bael. "Come on," he says softly, "I'll take you to him."