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She returned to Skyhold late that night, exhausted from the days she’d spent ferrying some masked noble with too much power and influence back to Val Royeaux. As the conflict with Corypheus felt like it was drawing to a head, Cassandra could feel the weight of her years more and she was grateful to be back at the fortress.
She was also (if she were being honest with herself) looking forward to seeing Varric again.
She’d last looked at him, lounging in his bed, blond hair tousled around his head.
He’d not woken up before her that morning. She had known him for over a year prior to letting his hands skim up her thighs and pull her leather breeches down. Varric did not greet the sun so much as swear at it. When the Inquisitor requested (often in a tone that demanded obedience rather than requesting it arrive in a time best suited to it) Varric’s presence in the field, he did not exit his tent so much as resentfully slouch out of it, squinting into the (by then) mid-morning light and holding out his hand for the strongest cup of tea (or mug of ale on the extremely difficult mornings which were frequently proceeded by raucous nights) that someone could shove into it.
She recalled there last morning together. Laying in his bed, his bedding falling down close to her hip (pushed down, most likely, by the large hand that warmed her skin instead). He slept on, unaware of her quiet observation.
She’d told the Inquisitor that she had not the grace required for poetry, but she’d found a kind of grace under his hands. They were so fluid across her body, taking her in from head to toe, exposing each part of her to him and she thought it might be a kind of stone sense for him. The feel of her body under his, and she wondered what the Stone might say about her, about them, about this moment this feeling this overwhelming connection to another living thing. She wondered if he’d be able to shape it after. After this.
These thoughts she let herself think about him were the closest she’d ever come to poetry and she mouthed them gently across his chest, whispering those secrets into his (glorious, though she’d die before ever admitting it) chest hair.
And she let herself hope.
It was the kind of hope she’d been feeling lately, it came in sudden bursts, crashing into her and making her believe again. Believe that there was a tomorrow beyond today and it was a tomorrow that she could fight for.
She helped stable her horse and debated taking the time to stop by her quarters above the smithy to wash her face and get her armor off before making the trek up to Varric’s tower quarters (she appreciated how the muscles in his legs stood out after he’d make the climb, how they’d tremble a little with the strain of the stairs and the strain of thrusting into her after she walked ahead of him the whole way, could still feel the teeth marks he’d left in her arse with her wholehearted approval). She decided against her quarters first when she remembered the large tub In Varric’s tower that was easily filled and heated with some luxury runes he’d paid a mage handsomely for.
The climb wasn’t so bad that she was completely out of breath once she’d reached his door, but she was panting a little and took a moment to calm her breathing. His door was slightly ajar, which was unusual. Varric wasn’t secretive, per se, but he was more protective of his property after the Harder in Hightown fiasco. She could see through the crack and that his fire had burnt low, but wasn’t quite embers yet. He’d likely be asleep, she reasoned, and quietly pushed the door open a little more to confirm her suspicion.
Not asleep.
No, not asleep at all.
“Bianca,” he gasped, like he’d gasped “Cassandra” in her ear and she’d blushed to hear her name said in such an intimate fashion from him.
“Bianca!”
And in that name, a life was laid bare.
How silly she’d been, to hang her hopes on a romantic when she herself was one.
She dared not try to close the door back to where it had been, knowing it had a slight squeak at the end.
Instead, she went to make her to report to the Inquisitor in person and immediately volunteer for the Inquisitor’s more dedicated effort to shard recovery in the Exalted Planes and Emerald Graves. Cassandra knew the Inquisitor could not only spare her, she’d most likely planned to have Cassandra lead a majority of the effort in the Approach as well (given her familiarity with the territory). Granted, she probably wasn’t expecting Cassandra to be at her door in the early hours of the morning requesting to leave that instant for the Exalted Plains so as to be part of the initial scouting mission with Harding and then onto the Graves as well.
“Cassandra, you’ve not even given yourself a chance to rest. I can’t, in good conscience, send you back out from Skyhold for at least a few days,” the Inquisitor argued tiredly, wiping at the sleep in her eyes. Her bed was warm beneath her (except for the parts where it wasn’t because it was large and she couldn’t bring herself to occupy the whole of it because what if he changed his mind?) and Cassandra wasn’t making sense.
“Inquisitor. Please, I beg you. Give me leave to go. I beg you.” Cassandra’s voice broke a little
The Inquisitor’s eyes widened then, taking in her friend and valiant Seeker of truth, and saw her shivering slightly next to the warm, if low, fire.
“Oh. Oh, Cassandra, I— “
“Don’t. Don’t ask it of me yet, Evelyn, please.”
The Inquisitor nodded, “I’ll want weekly reports on…everything.”
“Of course, Inquisitor. Please let me know if anything urgent requires my presence and I shall return.” Cassandra saluted and began to turn but paused and said, “Tell Leliana…tell her she was right.” And with that, she practically fled back towards the stables, rushing through the kitchens on her way to grab one of the ready bags Cook kept for the outgoing Inquisition Scouts.
………………..
“Maker, Seeker, I could die happy with your legs wrapped around me, love how long they are.” His last few words were a little smothered as he paused to lave his tongue over the tops of her thighs. “Love that you’re taller than me because like this I can feel you everywhere around me and it’s like I’m covered in you. Just you, Seeker.”
That first night he’d marveled at her body like she was some sacred text he’d discovered. He’d given her confessions, fantasies he’d had about her, about them. Told her none of them compared to the reality.
And Cassandra did the bravest thing she could recall doing in her recollection.She decided to believe him.
She bent to him that night, let him mold her to him, let him tie them to each other (his trembling legs against her own as he held himself still inside her, a look almost like disbelief on his face and he kissed her then and apologized for not pulling out and she said she was safe and truly she wanted to feel him inside her later and then he was hard against and gasping filthy things against her lips as his hips thrust into her below.
He’d gasped, “Cassandra!”
………………..
After two months spent between the Plains and the Graves and so much Orlesian spoken, Cassandra was ready to admit she was tired. Becoming tired hadn’t been her goal when she’d begged the Inquisitor to send her on this potentially months-long detail; however, being tired meant she slept hard and didn’t dream of him and then she worked from Dawn until dusk each day, doing her part to expand the grasp of the Inquisition and she didn’t think of him.
Except in those moments when she did and she’d moved past cursing him, he who was ever a creature of habit and vice and carried a physical reminder with her name wherever he went. Yes, she’d left him behind and instead cursed herself for allowing herself to be blinded by his want, which was real enough, she’d concluded; his desire for her was a real and heady thing, but the same could not be said of his devotion.
And so, she cursed herself a fool for thinking those nights and days she’d spent with him (they amounted to less than a wreck, a week scattered across weeks because the Inquisition was always on the move) meant anything when compared to history. Hope, she concluded, was for the ignorant.
“Report, ser!” a Scout cried as she ran into the camp.
Cassandra motioned her forward.
“The Inquisitor is in the Graves and is making her way towards the camp. She requests to hear your report of the nearby Elvish ruins in person.”
“Thank you.”
(Truly, she didn’t think of him at all, except when Bess sang. And Bess sang almost every night.)
………………..
“I feel like I should warn you about him.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
“Well?” Cassandra prompted.
“Oh, I merely said that I feel as though I should, not that I shall. You are, after all, a woman grown,” Leliana said, smiling a little.
“Ah, so you’ve nothing concrete then, merely rumors you are waiting to see gain weight or float away?”
“Just so. But you did not play the Game, Cassandra, so you wear your heart on your sleeve. Varric plays the Game, oh yes, they call it the Carta, but jeu reconnaître le jeu. He doesn’t wear a mask but he hides; hides behind his stories and his honesty.”
Cassandra didn’t answer right away. There is some merit to what Leliana is saying: Varric lies, above all else, Varric lies.
But he had not been lying earlier that same morning as he watched her don her clothes (the same clothes he’d taken off of her last night). He’d not been lying when she had leaned down to give him a kiss in farewell (a kiss that held the promise of more, if only she could have stayed a bit longer but she had to meet with Leliana before she departed the fortress).
No, he had been a completely honest dwarf for once: because he had said nothing. And she, fool that she was, thought his silence was contentment; that he, like she, was savoring the last of their time together as it would be at least a tenday before they would see each other again.
………………..
Soon after Cassandra’s arrival in the Exalted Plains, a detachment of twenty Inquisitions soldiers arrived. Added to the group of remaining scouts, their party numbered just under forty strong. Cassandra had not been personally in charge of such a large group since before Haven. Though she was grateful the larger burdens of command rested on shoulders other than hers, she found that she had missed certain elements of leadership. She was content to follow, always, but there was nothing quite like the rush of executing a successful strikes and maneuvers against the enemy with her soldiers beside her. Each blow they struck furthered the Inquisition’s goals and her small force reclaimed the Plains from the grasp of the Venatori (with the occasional hand of the occupying Orlesian forces).
Before they left the Plains for the Emerald Graves, Cassandra knew the name of every member of her company. She knew their strengths and weaknesses; she knew the things they delighted in and the things that brought them grief. All the things she learned were almost enough to distract her from how she’d come to be in the field in the first place. Almost, but not quite.
Most evenings, especially once they’d cleared the last of the ramparts, the Inquisition’s campfires would blaze bright and those not too tired from the day’s work would gather together. They’d swap stories, tell tall tales (though none were as well-told or as outlandish as his), and, once they’d discovered a few among them could sing passingly well, they’d sing. There was a mix of chantry songs, bawdy tavern ballads, and folk music. She liked the folk music the best.
Bess, a young woman from Denerim, sang the sweetest and saddest love songs.
“Down in the Dales
I did dwell
I found a boy
I loved so well
He courted me
All my life away
And then with me
He would not stay”
Cassandra would have thought, heart-sore and weary as she was, that Bess’ songs would drive her mad. But strangely, she found in them a kind of peace. She was not the first woman in Thedas, nor would she be the last, to experience such a profound rejection.
So, Bess would sing and Cassandra, sore down to her soul, would work on absolving herself of Varric Tethras.
By the time they reached the Graves, she told herself she’d mostly put it behind her. He was practically a stranger, she reasoned, and having any expectations of him was, frankly, asking to be disappointed.
(These were circuitous pathways in her mind now; arguments trod and retraced as she grappled with herself and questioned why she’d felt so betrayed at seeing another woman in his bed when they’d made no promises to each other. And it was true: neither of them had uttered a word of a promise to each other. He’d broken nothing when he moaned ‘Bianca.’ And yet, part of her refused to let go of the bit she had between her teeth.)
“Andraste’s mercy,” she muttered quietly, massaging her temples as her almost daily headache arrived. Why could she not be free of this?
………………..
Oh.
“Oh, Maker, please no!”
When she saw him again, for the first time in months, she realized why she hadn’t been able to let it go. Her heart was beating hard in her chest, as if it were trying to break free and make itself known to him.
She loved him.
She, Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast, was in love with Varric Tethras.
Maker, she was going to be sick.
………………..
“Cassandra!” the Inquisitor called out, “How goes your conquering of the Emerald Graves?”
Cassandra straightened and fixed her eyes on the Inquisitor, not daring to look at him again, for fear that she might give something away. The feeling of illness persisted in her belly and she swallowed against an urge to retch.
“Hardly conquering, Inquisitor,” she finally managed to reply. Maybe it wasn’t just seeing him again; maybe Harding’s ‘special’ breakfast wasn’t sitting well with her. “But we have secured the entrance to some Elvish ruins, liberated an estate of its resident demon, cut off the Freemen threat, and nearly collected all the shards in this area.”
When said aloud, it did rather sound like she’d brought the Graves to heel with nought but forty soldiers and her will alone. She rushed to lower the Inquisitor’s brow, which had suddenly shot up at her list of accomplishments. “That has been the work of the better part of a month, Inquisitor. What ground we have taken we have taken slowly, to preserve what advantages we have. There are yet giants and dragons to slay here. I’d rather thought to save them for you.”
The Inquisitor’s eyes fairly sparkled but there was a snort from behind her (a noise she knew all too well), and a sarcastic voice followed, “Thanks, Seeker, we missed you, too.”
Harding’s breakfast was on its way up.
“Excuse me, Inquisitor.”
She didn’t waste time on an explanation, simply turned and made her way into the nearby tree line, held herself together until she was sure that she was out of earshot, and vomited up her breakfast behind a tree.
Harding had successfully gotten out of food duties. Again.
When she returned, she found that the process of breaking camp had begun, and the Inquisitor was speaking with Taven. Cassandra’s people had done what they could to open the tomb, but progress had been slow due to persistent interruptions from various sources (Venatori, local wildlife, Rift activity, sleep). She walked toward the pair, steadfastly ignoring the eyes that she knew were on her (was he glaring at her?). “Cassandra,” Taven greeted her warmly. She gotten to know the young elf quite well; he reminded her a little of herself, when she’d been leaving Nevarra. He’d not left his people for the same reasons as she, but he’d largely isolated himself for something he believed in. He was a person of such strong principles that he might die of them one day. She understood him as she understood herself. She’d miss him, and the reminder of her youth (which did not lament, except for Anthony), or rather, the better parts of her youth. She’d discovered herself in that past, after all, and had become the Right Hand of two Divines. Taven would be a great Keeper one day, which is why, no doubt, his own Keeper wanted him back.
“Inquisitor, Taven, forgive me, Harding’s breakfast sat ill on my stomach.”
Taven laughed a little at the regret in her voice and gently touched her arm, sending a flicker of soothing magic into her. An intimacy she’d not permitted since Regalyan. She nodded at him in thanks and turned to the Inquisitor, “Shall we lead you to the tomb? I confess, we have not been able to ascertain why the Venatori need whatever it contains so badly. What we’ve recovered around the entrance suggests no great treasure or power lies within. Merely some artifacts of historical import.”
“Well, at least Solas will be happy with something today,” the Inquisitor said, smiling at the elf who’d been standing close behind her so quietly that Cassandra had not noticed he was there. (Had she similarly lost track of Varric? She did not want to be surprised by him again.)
“Awfully chummy out here in the Graves, huh, Seeker? Must be the air out here, practically bucolic.”
Like that. Surprised like that.
………………..
It was like the world was ending but so far, he was the only one who noticed.
The Seeker, who had once looked at him so directly he thought she’d pinned his soul to the spot along with the rest of him, was looking right through him. He was naught but air to her, if he were anything and though he saw her flinch every time he spoke, she acted as if the voice itself did not exist, finding some way to respond (or run away to do Maker knows what before coming back and being all smiles and touches with some young elf who looked like his balls hadn’t even dropped yet and he couldn’t believe this was even beginning to make him jealous because how could he be after what he’d done?).
He’d known the next morning when she didn’t appear. She never had to see that morning after shame that draped itself around him as he displayed himself in the main hall for all to see, really, but specifically waiting for her to come in (still slightly sweaty from the morning workout he knew she would take no matter how late her arrival last night) and see him and know in an instant what he’d done. He knew it was wrong; at every step along the way he knew it was wrong. For the first time since she’d married Whatshisname, it felt wrong. It had never felt anything other than right before, like they’d been shaped for each other, with only circumstances and family keeping them apart. Varric knew the instant she kissed him that it didn’t feel like that anymore; instead, it felt like he was kissing another dwarf’s wife.
He pressed onward because her being another dwarf’s wife had never bothered him before, but as his tongue met her lips he remembered another pair of lips gasping under his and shorter hair under his fingers (and one long braid that she’d let him twine around his fist to pull her back into a kiss as he’d thrust into her from behind). And it occurred to him that Bianca might be kissing someone who also belonged elsewhere.
The thought chilled him to his core and his cock, which had been fully interested moments ago, was rapidly shrinking.
“What’s wrong, Varric?”
He could hear that slight whine in her voice, the one she used when she wasn’t getting her way as quickly as she liked. That whine used to drive him wild, especially when she’d let it out while he was fucking her. Always let him know when she needed it harder, deeper.
Hearing it now had his teeth clenched and he was in the verge of turning her away with some crafted but plausible excuse. Then her hand grasped his cock through the front of his trousers and he found himself more willing to set aside whatever conflict he was feeling (to be re-examined never because he’d be damned if he changed now) and give himself over to her. Maker knew it had been years since the last time.
But that next morning when she didn’t appear and didn’t see him, he knew she didn’t need to. She’d seen it all the night before. Bianca told him when she found him in the hall later that she’d seen a figure at the door but that she figured it for some sentry trying to quickly pass by to or from their watch. Varric knew better.
The Inquisitor only mentioned it in passing with a kind of forced nonchalance that he was suspicious of. She was gone again, for months this time, but they’d rendezvous in the Western Approach, or earlier in the Plains or the Graves. (They’d ended up going to the Plains first, missing Cassandra by a few days and then they’d spent almost a month in the plains between the Dalish, the ramparts across the river and beyond, and the swamp dragon.) Varric knew from personal experience. He was sure the Inquisitor was punishing him for Bianca or Cassandra, or Maker fuck him probably both. After the complete disaster that was the Valammar Thaig, Bianca’s neglectful treachery, and the definite end of their decades-long relationship, the Inquisitor continued to reinforce the message that he was in deep shit by dragging him along with her wherever she went. He’d been in so many caves, he was starting to have dreams about them (not just nightmares).
He was actually quite glad that someone was punishing him, though. He lacked the discipline to do it himself (his self-inflicted punishments tended to require a great deal of time brooding over the most appropriate method only to abandon the endeavor when life chose to punish him again instead) but he wanted to be punished for what he did to Cassandra.
And at first, he’d thought that the Inquisitor was punishing Solas, too. Generally, the Inquisitor tried to keep a fairly brisk rotation of companions (to make sure none of them [a] got too bored or [b] made too much mischief), so it was rare for her to make one, let alone two companions be on permanent retainer. Solas, however, made no complaint, and when he eventually gave up on pretense and started sleeping in the Inquisitor’s tent, he understood why.
This, too, was a punishment.
He could have convinced Cassandra to share his tent out here, he was sure of it. He’d tell her that the Inquisitor’s open boldness would distract everyone from the two of them and they could fuck mostly free from speculation. Except that he didn’t think about fucking Cassandra in the tent that he’d convince her to share with him. No, he thought about making love to her in their tent. Thought about teaching her the pleasures of lying in and letting the world wake up around you while you cling to sleep.
Yet another future he’d thrown away due to his carelessness.
………………..
He watched her get ready to leave that morning. He didn’t speak, kept quiet as she rustled amongst their clothes, mixed with each other on the floor. He’d wanted to speak; to let her know he’d miss her even if it wasn’t the whole truth. The whole truth was that lately when she wasn’t around, he’d been having difficulty breathing and he’d very much like to keep his full lung capacity. But she’d take that too seriously and might have a healer come prod at him and hover over him with concern.
He also wanted to tell her that she was beautiful. He doesn’t think he said it enough last night.
Varric had written this story before, the arguing, the tension, the rise, the climax, the fall. He’d laughed off the jokes he heard around the Inquisition, sure, and maybe he wondered a little (okay, maybe he fantasized a lot, but her ass was glory made physical and someone should be worshipping it at all times), but there was a reason relationships built on aggravated sexual tension didn’t last. So, he thought maybe they could capitalize on that spark, work out the tension, and be better coworkers for it.
The first time she’d moaned his same into his ear, he knew that this wasn’t something he could ‘work out’. She seeped into him, eased herself into his veins and set his blood on fire.
That first morning after, he’d fucked her twice before letting her out his bed and as she wobbled, he promised himself he’d be doing it again as soon as she got back from wherever it was the Inquisition was dragging them.
He’d thought to do the same again this morning, but sleep wouldn’t let him go until he felt her leave the bed. She’d left it late and he wanted to ask her why, wanted the answer to be him, but he said nothing.
When she kissed him goodbye, he didn’t think it would be the last time his lips ever touched hers.