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Cassandra finds the poem pinned to her training dummy at dawn.
It’s not easy; she nearly decapitates it, stopping mid-swing. It’s dim this early, and her eye caught almost too late on the red seal, the wax used only for official business. But this wasn’t official business; she took her post after breakfast, at her table above the armory, and even the newest page (what was his name? James? Jack?) wouldn’t be so reckless as to leave intelligence out in the open. This is a surprise, and Cassandra loathes surprises.
The wax bears the Inquisition’s seal, and the outside is signed dearest Cassandra in exquisite cursive. If she traces the words a few times before cracking it open, there’s no one to judge but the dawn.
She reads the letter once, then twice, then three and four times. She drops her sword, collapses onto a hay bale, and reads it again. Skyhold is starting to awaken; she can smell the cooks baking morning bread, hear the blacksmith clanging. It’s only the realization that she no longer has privacy that makes her tuck the letter into her pocket, on her tenth read, and hurry upstairs.
It’s a love poem.
It’s a love poem. Someone at Skyhold admires her, and they picked up a quill and crafted a beautiful, exquisite love poem, and signed it your secret admirer and pinned it to her training dummy for only her to find. Cassandra is far too old for butterflies in her stomach, but she’s also far too pragmatic to blame this feeling on a lack of breakfast.
Still, Cassandra is above all, a practical woman. By her fifteenth read, she nearly has the poem memorized, and she pulls out her own quill with an enthusiasm she hasn’t felt in years. She is a Seeker of Truth, after all; whoever this admirer is cannot remain secret for long.
It has to be someone at Skyhold, and not a visitor. The letter was sealed with the inner circle’s red wax from the library, and the poem speaks fondly of her morning rituals of training and practice, of her grace in the field, of her laugh over an evening campfire. With that, there are many she can rule out. Vivienne and Dorian are both uninterested in women, and even if Bull were the type to write love poetry, he’s far too too busy forgetting to lock the door with the Inquisitor to look elsewhere. Leliana and her Warden still write each other, Leliana’s cheeks blushing with devotion when the post comes in; it’s not her. And Sera, loud as she is about finding Cassandra “right fit”, would rather fill her own bed with lizards than do anything so romantic.
Cole could be the sort to write love poetry, but even if she wasn’t twice his age (what is his age, exactly?), she’s seen him blush crimson when he talks to Maryden. And she’s not sure if Solas even has these sorts of feelings, but if he did, Cassandra is pretty sure her humanity would disqualify her.
Still, even when she’s made a list (a Maker-damned list) and crossed them all off, there are a few candidates that stick out. Specifically, one candidate. And as she crosses the Great Hall with long, measured strides, Cassandra knows exactly what to do about it, no matter how embarrassing it might be.
“Varric,” she says, “I believe Cullen is in love with me.”
i.
“Stop laughing. You are laughing at me.”
Varric is bent over shaking. “I’m not laughing.”
“I am glad you are amused.”
Varric sits up, trying to get his chuckling under control. He has a very pleasant smile, she realizes; she’s rarely seen him happy since Bianca Davri left. Maker knows why she’s noticing now, in the midst of this nonsense.
She shakes it off and presses on.
“If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will banish you to the Deep Roads with three day’s supply of nug.”
“Death would be kinder,” Varric snickers, finally composing himself. “But I have to admit, Seeker, you’ve got me intrigued. What set this off?”
Cassandra casts a furtive look over her shoulder, but the only others in the hall are a trio of mages playing “enhanced” Wicked Grace, and they’re too busy putting out fires from a small explosion to care.
“I received this,” she says, slapping the letter down in front of Varric, “pinned to my training dummy this morning.”
Varric is silent for far too long. “…huh.”
“That is all you have to say?”
“Well, shit.”
“Thank you for your contribution,” she mutters, because of course. What did she expect?
“Relax, I’ll help,” Varric says, waving a hand. He leans over the paper and squints. “But I"ll tell you this, that doesn’t look like Curly’s penmanship.”
“Whose does it look like?”
Varric rubs a hand through his hair. “You really want me to answer that?”
“Yes.”
Varric gives her a strange look. “I just don’t understand why you’re asking me, Seeker. Surely there are others who’d like to play detective.”
“Because you clearly inspired whatever fool did this. It is exactly like something out of your tales.”
“…well, you’re not wrong. And considering how much you like my work, you must be enjoying this.”
“I -“ Cassandra sputters. “No. This is a nuisance. An inconvenience.”
The truth is, although she has no feelings for Cullen other than friendly respect, Varric is right; she’s been giddy all afternoon.
Because she’d accepted long ago that romance was behind her. She is nearly forty, a muscled warrior covered in scars, and she prefers armor to ballgowns. She is no one’s ideal bride, and she’d chosen to put such fantasies behind her when she joined the Seekers. The resolution had morphed into grudging acceptance as she aged. Still, she’d wept bitterly two summers ago when she’d stopped bleeding - not because she’d ever wanted a child, but because no man wanted a woman who couldn’t give him an heir. She was too old for men to do more than look through her.
And then, this. Even if she does not desire him back, she is wanted. And perhaps that can be enough.
“You have a secret admirer! Come on, you’re practically a romance heroine. You should tie some flowers in your hair, practice swooning.”
“You are ridiculous,” she snaps, grabbing the note back from Varric. “I don’t know why I asked for your advice."
“Is it because you missed my face, Seeker?”
Truth is, that’s the second time Varric has been right in nigh on a few minutes, but Cassandra refuses to give him the satisfaction.
“I like being near your face, Varric,” she says. “It motivates me to punch things.”
His laugh echoes across the flagstones as she leaves.
“I - Maker, no.”
“You did not write this?”
“Cassandra, you are a cherished friend and a lovely woman. But I don’t have that kind of affection for -“ Cullen goes pale. “Excuse me.”
He darts to the bucket in the corner to wretch, and Cassandra winces. Stoic as Cullen might be, lyrium withdrawal is not easy.
“Truth is,” he wipes his mouth, “I’m far too busy feeling awful these days to court anyone.”
So, she’s back at square one. Varric will be unbearably smug. But no matter; she has a few more candidates to go. She’ll find the one.
“Besides,” Cullen adds, with a joking air he only has because she’s seen him toss up more meals than he’s kept down, “you think I would write such rubbish? Apologies to your admirer, but it’s atrocious.”
“It’s romantic.”
“Half the couplets don’t rhyme.”
“It shows creativity.”
“To each their own.” Cullen goes pale again. “Cassandra, I -“
She sighs. “Would you like me to hold your hair again?”
He rushes to the bin. “Please.”
ii.
“It is obvious. My admirer is Josephine.”
Varric looks up from buffing a scratch out of Bianca. “Really.”
“She trained to be a bard, Varric. The poem is obviously from a skilled writer.”
Varric snorts. “Well, that is…something to keep in mind.”
“You are not being very supportive.”
“I’m the picture of support, Seeker. But…alright. I think there are flaws in your theory.”
Cassandra crosses her arms and lets out a sound she refuses to admit is huffing. (Bull says she huffs like a dragon, but Bull compares everyone to dragons.) “Enlighten me.”
“Well, first off. Is Ruffles even interested in women?”
“I believe so.”
“That’s not a great start.”
“Brown hair, brown eyes, a smile that stretches her freckles like stars -“
Cassandra jumps. “Maker, Cole!”
“- looking at her feels brighter than starlight. But Armand cares for her, so you shut out the sky.”
Cassandra tries to get her heartbeat under control. “Cole. Did the Inquisitor not talk to you about cloaking outside of battle?”
Varric pinches the bridge of his nose. “Kid, we had this talk. People who like you want to see you.”
Cole points to the forrest just outside of camp. “She doesn’t like me.”
Cassandra follows Cole’s finger, where a nug is staring with an expression she can only describe as hateful.
“…well,” Cassandra mutters, because sometimes she wonders how on earth she got here from the Conclave. “I’m sure it will pass.”
Cole’s eyes shimmer with tears. “She won’t. I stepped on her.”
“Nugs have the memory of a dwarf’s fart, Cole, it’ll be fine. Who were you talking about before that? The freckle thing?”
“Lady Josephine,” Cole says, spooning himself a bowl of stew. “The woman who made her feel like the sky.”
Cassandra gives Varric a triumphant look. “I knew it.”
He sighs. “Fine, point taken. But kid,” Varric says firmly, turning to Cole, “don’t do that again. You can’t go and share people’s feelings like that, that’s private.”
“Is it private like your sky?”
Varric clenches his jaw. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“Right. Secrets.” Cole puts a finger to his lips and disappears before Cassandra can blink.
“You have to admit,” Varric says, “the kid’s getting better.”
“Not fast enough.”
“And much as I hate to admit it, you win,” Varric finishes. “Josephine could be interested, but I don’t think she is.”
“I almost hope you are right.” Cassandra sighs. “I am not interested in other women, Varric, and Josephine is a friend. Even if I am kind, it will hurt her.”
Varric puts Bianca down. The scratch doesn’t look smoothed, but perhaps he doesn’t care anymore. “It’s sweet that you worry, Seeker.”
“A friend is difficult to find. I do not seek to lose one to an unrequited fancy.”
“I don’t know,” Varric says, looking nowhere in particular. “You miss every shot you don’t fire.”
Cassandra snorts. “As if you have friends to lose, besides your crossbow.”
That seems to snap Varric out of his strange daze. “Of course I do, Seeker. I have you, my closest friend.”
“In your dreams, dwarf. We are acquaintances at best.”
“Dwarves don’t dream.”
“Acquaintances.”
He smiles. “Just keep telling yourself that.”
There’s no venom in her words, not anymore. For all her and Varric fought, few people would’ve written a book for an audience of one, much less written a sequel just to resolve the Knight-Captain’s sham trial. (Which reminds her, she has to proof the new chapter when they get back to Skyhold.)
Cassandra isn’t sure how they got here, but somehow, Varric has become a steady presence in her life. She’d loathe to lose him; in a world gone mad, their bickering kept her head straight, no matter what they were fighting or fighting about.
Varric goes back to polishing Bianca, and as she watches Cole feed stew to the glaring nug, she debates how she’s going to let Josephine down. The woman has a tender heart; she cannot imagine how it must hurt to bare your soul and be turned down. Perhaps if she brought her a gift, to ease the blow. Or would that only be cruel?
“The arrow fired. The arrow flies. It is flying, flying, you watch, you wait, will she catch it, will she -“
“Cole,” Varric snaps, as he de-cloaks next to them holding the now-purring nug. “Privacy.”
Cole nods. “Sorry. Quiet thoughts.”
He carries the nug towards the stew, and as it makes grabby hands towards the simmering pot, Cassandra wonders if he’s created a monster.
“What was he on about?”
Varric looks down at Bianca. “Who fucking knows.”
“Cassandra,” Josephine says, eyebrows creasing as she scans the page. “I am flattered. But no.”
“I - I am sorry. I thought -“
“I am sure your admirer wrote these words with true feeling, but such prose would get me ejected from the Bard’s College in minutes.”
“I think it is creative. And romantic.”
“A conservative reader would call it ‘unconventional’. I do not know what to call it.” Josephine"s gestures are getting increasingly frantic, eyes wide and fingers stained with ink. “There is no sense of meter, I do not think it fits into any pentameter, although I will admit I have not studied love odes from Tevinter -“
“I’m sorry, Josephine.” Cassandra swallows. “I did not mean to presume that you were interested. In women, or me.”
“Oh, I am interested in women. And men, and anyone who can write a love poem that fits any sort of lyrical structure - who is your admirer? A wyvern?”
“Lady Josephine?” A messenger stands in the corner - he must have been here this whole time, waiting to report. “I have a report from the Wardens. The Darkspawn have invaded-“
“Not now, Jim,” Josephine snaps. The poor page skitters away.
“Cassandra.” Josephine hands the poem back. “I am not your admirer. But you must find them so I can assign a book of sonnets. You are an extraordinary woman, and you deserve extraordinary love odes."
Cassandra smiles. “I don’t think you can assign work like a schoolmaster, Josephine.”
Josephine dips her quill and starts scribbling away. “Several books. Untranslated.”
iii.
“Varric!” she yells, plunging her sword into a desire demon with a sickening crunch, “I have figured it out! It is Blackwall!”
“It’s who?”
“I just said! Are you deaf?”
“It’s VERY LOUD!” Varric screams over the Pride Demon’s roar. “Is now really the time, Seeker?”
“It has just hit me!”
Varric sends an arrow flying into a hag’s eye socket. Impressive. “What hit you? You need a potion?”
“No! I am - Varric! Straight ahead!”
Cassandra can only watch in awe as Varric grabs his grappling hook, flies over to the charging demon, then backflips as he impales the beast with a hail of arrows. It’s a remarkable display of athleticism, a move so bold it would make any trainer proud.
It’s…quite pleasant to watch, actually. And for that matter, since when did it get so hot in the Dales?
“Cassandra!” Dorian yells behind her. “Take your eyes off his rear and attack the demons, please!”
Cassandra shoots him a glare. “I am analyzing his fighting style, Dorian.”
Dorian cackles. “Is that what they call it in Nevarra?”
Dorian’s fireball finishes off the last demon. As the Inquisitor reaches up to close the Rift, Varric backflips over to her.
“You alright?”
“Yes. I was trying to tell you that I have discovered my admirer. It is Blackwall.”
Varric laughs again, but this one sounds a bit…strained. He isn’t looking her in the eye, either. Perhaps he’s been injured?
“I…you know what, I’m not even going to tell you you’re wrong here. You can dig your own grave with this one.”
Cassandra puffs her chest out. Gossip spread fast among soldiers, and the fact that Blackwall was writing courtly letters to “the lady of Skyhold” had taken barely a day to reach her. “I know I am right.”
“Dare I ask what you two are on about?”, Dorian swaggers over. (He’s casually removing the blood from his robes with a hand wave. Mages.)
“Cassandra,” Varric says, voice dripping with irritation, “thinks her admirer is Warden Blackwall.”
Dorian snickers, and Cassandra feels her temper flare. What in the world was so amusing about someone courting her? Was it truly so impossible to fathom?
“Well, Cassandra,” Dorian replies, “if you’re right, I wish you luck. I hear his fighting style is quite…unpracticed, but you’re welcome to observe it yourself.”
“You have any interest in Reavers, Dorian?”
Dorian gives Varric an odd look. “I beg your pardon?”
“Because you’ve been observing Bull quite a bit lately.”
Dorian clenches his fist, and a nearby stalk of embrium bursts into flame. “It"s an interesting combat technique.”
“Sure,” Varric replies breezily, “and I’m six foot three.”
When Dorian turns to huff, she mouths Varric a thank you. His smile is more friendly than usual, and she ignores the way it makes her stomach churn.
“Blackwall. What do you know about writing love poems?”
Blackwall, who’s putting the final details on a wooden horse, drops his tools with a clatter. “Cassandra. I - fuck. Don’t tell Josephine.”
“…what should I not be telling Josephine?”
Blackwall casts a furtive look over his shoulder. “Maker’s balls. I’ve been trying to write Lady Josephine something - courtly. But the words aren’t coming.”
Cassandra blinks. “You are trying to court Josephine?”
“Yes. I ask Sera for advice once, and now half of Skyhold knows. Rhyming isn’t my strong suit.”
…well. “I would advise you to research iambic pentameter.”
Blackwall looks befuddled. “What’s that? An infection?”
Cassandra sighs. “Never mind. Just carve her something.”
She leaves the barn with a black cloud of dread hanging over her.
That was three down, and very few to go.
iv.
“The only choice left is Krem.”
Varric spits out his drink. “Chargers Krem?”
“Is there another Kremisius in the Inquisition, Varric?”
“The guy standing on the chair in the corner.”
“You keep repeating yourself.”
Varric takes a swig of ale. “Only until what you’re saying makes sense.”
Cassandra sighs. “I am sitting in a tavern trying to find out who compared my eyes to ‘deepest silverite’. And most of all, I am sitting here discussing this with you. Nothing makes sense.” She takes a swig herself - since when was her cup empty? Odd.
“You don’t seem happy about the prospect, Seeker.”
“Krem is a good man and a capable fighter. Why should I not be?”
“Cassandra.”
“Do not call me that,” Cassandra mutters, grabbing his ale and finishing it off for good measure. He’s shorter than her, so she needs it more. It’s facts. “You can call me my name if the world is ending. Otherwise, it hurts my ears.”
The truth is that Varric saying her name made her feel strange. Still, she wasn’t so far gone to say that aloud.
“Alright.” Varric looks oddly concerned. “I know Krem is a good man. But I also know you don’t have feelings for him. Or anyone else you’ve brought up so far in this… venture.”
“I picked a logical set of candidates.”
“Okay, but who do you want it to be? Because I’m not sure you know.”
Varric sounds - oddly intent. Sort of sad? Cassandra decides she doesn’t like that.
“Fetch me another drink,” she says, shoving the glasses at him.
“Are you sure that’s the best idea, Seeker?”
“No. It is a terrible one. But I am here with you, so clearly I have already made several terrible decisions.”
Varric groans and picks her mug up.
Krem throws his hands up the moment he sees her approaching. “It wasn’t me.”
“Blast,” Cassandra spits. She must be drunker than she imagined. Why is the room spinning? “Does all of Skyhold know of this…this…charade?”
Krem shoots a panicked look over Cassandra’s shoulder. “We know. But - ”
“Because you were the last on the list,” Cassandra pouts, sliding onto the floor next to him. “So if it was not you -“
“Okay, Lady Seeker, maybe we should get you home for the night -“
“Then it was a jest.” Cassandra swats Krem’s hand away and stands up with minimal effort. Well, the wall helps. “A joke. A joke at my expense. I hope you enjoyed your laugh.”
“Varric,” Krem says, as Cassandra realizes that those are Varric’s hands steadying her, “maybe you should -“
“Come on,” Varric says forcefully. “Let’s get you home.”
“I am home. I live in Skyhold.”
Varric sighs, pushing the tavern door open. “Let’s get you to bed.”
Cassandra follows him, breathing in the night air. She stumbles, but catches herself; she might be the laughingstock of Skyhold, but she’s not about to lose any more of her dignity. “You are the only man to say that to me in years. And you wonder why I asked for more mead.”
Varric’s expression goes blank. “Let’s not go there.”
“Of course not. Who would? Apparently I am so undesirable that someone decided this prank was - what?”
Varric stops dead in front of her, nearly making her trip. If she were any more sober, she’d be embarrassed by the noise she’d just made, which could only be described as a squawk. Because Cassandra Pentaghast does not trip.
“Cass - Seeker. Listen to me.”
“Get out of my way.”
“I’m not doing that. Mostly because I don’t think you can make it inside on your own.” Varric rubs his face and stares at the night sky. “Look. I haven’t been honest with you.”
“Varric Tethras? Lie? I am appalled.”
“I’m serious.” He does look serious. Far too serious. His frown isn’t nearly as handsome as his smile. “There are plenty of people in this castle who find you attractive, Seeker.”
Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Name one.”
“Half the scout corp. More than half the soldiers. The quartermaster. Two of the cook’s assistants, in case you’ve ever wondered why you get served first at breakfast. And then there’s Jim.”
“Who?”
“You know, Jim.”
“I do not know a Jim.”
“Josephine’s messenger page. You know, stupid haircut, six foot three, the one who’s always making mooney eyes at you. And that’s not even counting the Inquisitor -“
“The Inquisitor is not attracted to me. She is with Bull.”
Varric looks ready to pull his hair out. “She flirted with you for weeks before they met.”
Cassandra blinks. “I thought she was being friendly.”
“Well,” Varric sighs, “that explains a lot.”
“Like what?”
“My point is,” Varric says, “you are a beautiful woman, Seeker. You’re very likable.”
“You are being obtuse.”
“I know who wrote the letter.”
Blast.
Cassandra wants to reach down and grab Varric by the collar. To throw him down and - get some answers out of him. Of course. That’s where that mental image has to end, an interrogation. In reality, the anger swirls in her chest, muted by mead but no less potent. But it’s dueling with something stronger, a bitterness that edges close to hurt.
She’d trusted Varric, a trust harder-earned than any other. And for weeks, he’d let her flail about, making a fool of herself.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I - “ Varric stammers. “Your admirer wanted you to figure it out. So I kept quiet.”
“So they sought to humiliate me.” There’s something in Cassandra’s eye, and she forcefully wipes it away.
“They were trying to be sweet, Seeker,” Varric says. His eyes are shining. “Where’s the romance if I tell you everything?”
He’s more sincere than Cassandra’s ever seen. Maybe she’ll forgive him.
“Tell me who it is.”
Varric takes a deep breath. “Alright. But not tonight. You’re drunk.”
“And you,” Cassandra snaps as he finally moves out of the way, “are cruel.” She nearly trips on her next step, so perhaps Varric has a point.
“Sober up and find me tomorrow, alright, Seeker? I’ll tell you everything.”
She loses track of the night after that. But when she wakes up tangled in her bedroll to a glass of water only Varric could have left, she thanks the Maker for him.
v.
“It is alright, Varric,” Cassandra says, sitting across from him with a weary sigh. “Jim confessed to being my admirer this morning.”
“What.”
“It was a shock to me as well.” Cassandra pours herself a cup of mead and snatches a roll from Varric’s plate, because the man’s barely touched his dinner and her head is pounding like a blacksmith’s forge. “Although I suppose that explains the seal.”
Varric’s knuckles are white around the stem of his goblet. “And he told you it was him.”
“He approached me in the training yard. Said, well I see your hunt has been unsuccessful - Varric?”
Varric is already pushing past her, Bianca in hand. “Fucking son of a bitch.”
He’s not quiet, and Cassandra gives the onlookers a few sheepish glances before she abandons her (their) roll to chase after him.
“Hey! Hey!”
The shot pins Jim to the wall by his sleeve - a clean rip of fabric and not a lick of blood.
“Mr. Tethras! Sir - ah, Varric!” Jim tries to sound nonchalant, frantically yanking at his sleeve. “How can I help you? Do you need - “
“You sick bastard. You know damn well why I’m here.” Varric growls, and it leaves her flushed and frightened.
“Sir, I’m sorry if I offended -“
“I’m not the one you need to apologize to.” Varric cocks Bianca and aims it straight ahead.
Jim gulps.
They’re gathering a crowd. On the sidelines, Bull is holding his arm out, stopping Krem and Dalish from intervening; upstairs, Sera leans upside-down out her window, sloppily eating a pastry as she takes in the spectacle.
“Say it. Or next one goes straight through your eye.”
Cassandra doesn’t doubt him. She doesn’t think she could doubt anything Varric says right now.
“Lady Cassandra,” Jim gulps. “I’m sorry for lying. I didn’t write the poem.”
It shouldn’t feel like a punch to the gut, but it is. After all, even an answer that left her cold was an answer. And now, with the audience they’ve collected, she’ll be the gossip of Skyhold again by dinnertime.
She truly has no one.
“Not sure she heard that, kid.” Varric takes his time reloading Bianca, slow and theatrical. “Talk louder.”
She has no one. Except, in his own strange way, Varric.
“Lady Cassandra,” Jim starts again. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t write the poem. I deceived you and made you a fool and please don’t shoot me!”
“And you lied and stole another man’s confession,” Varric continues, “because you’re a dirty, cheating coward. Am I right?”
Jim yanks his arm hard enough that his sleeve tears, the rip jagged and ugly. The arrow quivers, still stuck in the wall.
“Well,” Jim huffs, staring Varric straight in the eye. “I’d say the man who wrote it is a bit of a coward, himself.”
Varric lowers Bianca, and an icy quiet settles over the crowd. Cassandra’s brain spins.
Someone wrote the poem. And if Varric knows who it is, and hasn’t told her all this time, and all of her guesses have been wrong, then…
Oh.
Oh.
Jim scurries away like a bug, and when Varric turns around, his expression is unreadable. Pain. Regret. Relief?
“Cassandra -”
Cassandra is a Seeker of Truth. She has stared archdemons and abominations in the eye without fear. She has slain three dragons. She has walked in the Fade. The Inquisitor, three bottles deep, once called her the bravest woman she’d ever known.
Which is why she promptly turns around, flees across the courtyard, and slams the door behind her without once looking back.
“You’re bluffing.”
“I’m not. He’s proportional.”
“How does that even - “
“Inquisitor!” Cassandra huffs, slamming the door behind her. “We need to talk.”
The Inquisitor jumps so hard she rolls off the bed, and Dorian cracks up in peels of tipsy laugher.
Cassandra surveys the three empty bottles on the table, and realizes she might have picked the wrong time to interrupt. Still, fortune favored the bold. Or at least, the boldly running from their problems.
“Sorry. Cassandra. I was - we were - discussing -“
“Measurements,” Dorian snickers. “Whether a certain member of our inner circle, shall we say -“
The Inquisitor giggles. “Member.”
“You can finish later. When I am out of the room.”
(Not as if she hasn’t seen the thing they’re discussing. Twice. Because Bull cannot lock the door.)
“Sorry, Cassandra,” the Inquisitor hiccups, straightening up and patting her hair. “Sorry. This is -“ hic - “this is an emergency?”
Dorian flops back on the bed with a dramatic sigh. “Blasted archdemons. Can’t give us one wine night in peace.”
Cassandra feels a flash of guilt. Lavellan has the burden of command so often, it’s rare that she simply gets to be Lavellan, gossiping with her best friend over wine more expensive than Varric’s crossbow.
Right. Varric’s crossbow. A reminder of why she was here.
“Inquisitor,” Cassandra says, trying to sound as formal as possible. “I need to venture with you to the Emerald Graves tomorrow.” The Graves was nearly a week’s journey, and they had significant business to wrap up there; the Inquisitor and her party would be gone at least a month. If Cassandra couldn’t get her thoughts straight by then, she didn’t deserve her title, or anything else.
“Do you have business there?”
“No. But I cannot be in Skyhold.”
Lavellan sighs. “Alright. I can’t spare Vivienne, we need a mage, but perhaps I can swap out Varric for -“
“Varric is coming?”
There’s something knowing in the Inquisitor’s eyes, despite the wine. “He asked to come along this morning. I assumed you knew.”
“Never mind,” Cassandra says, straightening up. “I will remain here and -“
“Blast,” Dorian swears. “She’s figured it out.”
Cassandra gulps.
“Dorian,” the Inquisitor says, not unkindly, “please pour Cassandra a glass. And make it generous.”
vi.
Cassandra wakes up in the Inquisitor’s bed with a crease on her cheek, a pounding headache, and the Iron Bull sitting in a chair across from her, engrossed in a history of Orlesian fashion trends.
“Morning,” Bull says, like it’s any other morning. “Boss wanted me to make sure you didn’t choke to death.”
“I’ve seen her neck, she’s more at risk than I am.” Cassandra sits up, groaning. Maker, if drinking one night in a row was a mistake, two should be blasphemy.
“Hey,” Bull smirks, “I’m very safe when we do that. Benefits of Ben-Hassrath training.”
“I do not need to know the details.” Maker, she aches. “Where is everyone?”
“Dorian swooned off to the library after midnight. Something about the blankets being cashmere there, he’s still sleeping it off. The Inquisitor left for the Vale.”
Maker. Of course - the Inquisitor and her companions always leave at dawn.
Cassandra squints at the morning sun, breaking bright over Skyhold.
“But you know,” Bull continues, turning the page, “things can happen. Wheels break, horses get skittish.”
She sits bolt upright. “I need to get dressed.”
Bull smirks without looking up from his book. “Your trousers are under the bed."
Cassandra knows, as she sprints through the Great Hall in last night’s pants and hair askew, that she looks a mess. She finds herself unable to care.
“Good luck, ma’am,” one of the guards says with a smile as they push open the doors for her.
“Speak one word of this and you’ll get reassigned to chamber pot cleaning.”
“Can’t!”, they yell after her as she flees towards the stables. “Jim’s already there!”
After all, she thinks as she runs, Varric has made his gesture; grand, sweeping, and beautiful, along with hundreds of smaller ones she hasn’t let herself see.
Now, it’s her turn.
When she rounds the corner, she sees the Inquisitor quibbling with Horsemaster Denet over the saddlebags, and her heart slams with relief.
“I need more room. We’ll be collecting rashvine - “
“Darling,” Vivienne cuts in, already on her mount, “are you sure we need rashvine?”
“Not right now, but we could always run out.”
“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall adds, “you’ve picked half of Thedas clean. We have three barrels.”
“He’s got a point,” Varric says. “The garden’s stocked up, this is just taking us longer to leave.”
Varric. He looks exhausted astride his horse, but he hasn’t left yet. He’s here.
“Well,” Vivienne shoots a look at Varric, “perhaps we would be more suitably packed if someone didn’t insist we leave a day early - ”
“WAIT!”
Cassandra skids to a stop in front of Vivienne’s horse, who startles and nearly throws his rider skywards. No one (except Vivienne) seems to notice.
“Seeker,” Varric starts. “I -“
A tactician’s mind is useful on more than just the battlefield. Cassandra’s eyes slide from Varric, atop his horse and too tall to reach normally, to one of the rashvine-collecting barrels, and springs into action.
“Varric,” she says, dragging the unusually-heavy barrel next to his mount (Maker, how many herbs did the Inquisitor bother collecting?), “if you do not call me Cassandra from now on, I will punch you before I do this.”
“I’m sorry, before you -“
Cassandra stands on the barrel and kisses him.
The world goes quiet, and as her heart pounds in her ears and she smiles against Varric’s mouth, all she can think is that this feels right.
When she comes to, the Inquisitor is cheering like she’s just watched the end of a fine Orlesian opera. “Bravo! Who says romance is dead?”
“Finally,” Vivienne replies, looking relieved as she tries to still her startled mount. “As amusing as your little dance has been, darling, I was starting to fear it would affect morale.”
“Blackwall,” the Inquisitor says, still smiling, “go get Sera.”
“How’d you know she owes me five soveirgns?”
“She does?” the Inquisitor asks.
“She what?” Cassandra snaps.
The Inquisitor sighs. “Go get her for the mission, Blackwall. Varric’s staying here.”
Blackwall grumbles as he hops off his horse.
“Personally,” Horsemaster Dennet says, unhitching Sera’s mount, “I thought she’d figured it out weeks ago, Varric. Was letting you down easy.”
“You know of this?” Cassandra is aware she should probably step down from the barrel, or let go of Varric’s neck, but this seems more important.
“Hard not to,” Denet says, smiling softly. “It’s the way he looks at you.”
Suddenly, staying here a moment longer seems like a foolish idea. They have truths to confess - perhaps Varric has a few more than Cassandra - novels to read, a bed in Cassandra’s room that’s felt too empty for far too long.
“Come now,” Cassandra says, yanking Varric off his horse. “We are going somewhere else.”
“Please tell us where,” the Inquisitor says, “so we know to lock the door.”
“You are one to talk, Inquisitor!”
Varric laughs as they walk away, and the sound lights up her heart. “Not going to hear me complaining.”
“What,” she says, the familiar banter giving her a little thrill, “you don’t have some clever reply?”
Varric stops and takes her hand.
“Lady Cassandra,” he says, kissing her hand, “surely you know by now. You leave me speechless.”
There’s nothing she can do but kiss him again. And again, and again, and again after that.
Varric still doesn’t have anything to say. But his smile is warm and happy, and Cassandra has the words now, tucked away safe in her heart.