Chapter Text
Cassandra felt unentitled to her grief. All of Skyhold was in mourning. Their soldiers, for the woman who’d saved so many of them out on the battlements during the siege. Their mage allies, for the hero who’d championed their cause in Kirkwall and helped start their revolution. The Grey Wardens, whom Stroud had informed of her sacrifice as well as her belief that their order could be rebuilt. And then, of course, The Champion’s dearest friend, who sat at his worktable in the Main Hall, writing and rewriting letters, before balling them up each and discarding them to the fireplace behind him.
And where did she fit into any of this? Where did a slight case of hero worship and a few civil conversations rank her amongst those infinitely more deserving of their sorrow?
Cassandra stood, leaning over the railing of the loft where Madame de Fer most often spent her time, and tried not to stare. Below her, she’d already watched half a dozen dignitaries of various political rank and relevance make little attempt to hide their gawking of the famed pulp fiction author. All of Thedas would soon be aware of his heartache, and it seemed some had a voyeuristic desire to watch him suffer it firsthand. How he carried on, resigned and resilient in his agony, feigning naiveté to the whole room’s gaping, showed a strength of character Cassandra rarely gave him credit for.
“How are you, my dear?” said Vivienne, tone pleasant and poised as ever as she came up the stairs. If she was surprised to have a guest in her space, she hid it as she did all else that any might deem an exploitable weakness.
Cassandra stood for a few beats in silence, before straightening up from her position on her forearms. “I have no right to feel as I do,” she said, surprising herself that she would admit to something so raw in current company. She and the Imperial Enchantress had never been close, and while Cassandra respected her immensely, she also would have been about the last person in Skyhold whom the Seeker would have sought out for comfort. “And these… vultures,” Cassandra considered, weakly motioning to the small horde of noble gawkers who were doing a poor job of pretending not to notice either Varric or the two high members of the Inquisition who stood above, “It sickens me to see how they watch him. Ogling a wounded man, as if he might amuse them in his misery.”
“Vultures will always leer, darling,” the enchantress replied, “It’s in their nature.”
“That does not make it right,” she gripped the handrail so tight she felt a piece of the dilapidated wood begin to break off in her fist. “And Varric! Why does he make it so easy for them? Sitting out in the open, when he could be conducting himself privately? I saw to his quarters myself when we arrived here. This time of day he should have plenty of light to do his work in peace and solitude.”
“I see…” said Vivienne, who had about her the look of one who’d just solved a moderately difficult puzzle, “I take it you responded rather differently when similarly eyed following you parents’ and brother’s passing?”
The shrewd deduction — a comparison that at the time Cassandra herself had yet to conclude — matched with the ease with which the Madame de Fer had arrived at it left the Seeker momentarily confounded. It was clear how the enchantress was such an accomplished player of the Game. But before Cassandra could respond in any meaningful way, Vivienne, in a rare moment of physicality, reached out and placed a hand on the Seeker’s shoulder, squeezed it gently, and said, “Mr. Tethras, as I understand it, has always been a man of the people. Perhaps he needs this just as much as they do.” She then retired from sight.
Below, Cassandra watched the Inquisitor approach and wrap Varric in her arms. She saw the way the dwarf leaned into the embrace. At the sight, a fire burned in Cassandra’s stomach the cause of which she could not quite name. She turned away, as to not intrude, and looked down at her hand to brush the bits of splintering wood from between her fingers. For a moment, she thought she felt the prolonged stare of another on her, but when she looked up, fully intending to glare down whatever low-level aristocrat had dared try to make her pain into his afternoon’s divertissement, she saw only that the Inquisitor had gone and that Varric was returning to his desk by the fire.
“A moment, my lady.”
Cassandra turned to look over her shoulder from her training in the yard at the sound of a voice she recognized. “Warden Stroud,” she answered, dropping her stance.
“I will be brief,” he said, “I know you were displeased by your Inquisitor’s decision to make the Grey Wardens your allies in your fight against Corypheus—”
“If you fear that I will go behind the Herald’s back to sabotage our alliance,” Cassandra began, feeling herself sneer as the rage within her began bubbling to a boiling point. But before she could continue, Stroud raised his hands and shook his head.
“Not at all,” he said, “I simply wished to thank you for your personal actions during the siege at Adamant Fortress, and give you my report on the affair before I leave for Weisshaupt.” In his hands were a tightly bound stack of papers.
Perhaps it was unbecoming, but in her anger, Cassandra scoffed and turned back to her practice, “I am not some filing clerk. Leave your reports with Leliana or one of her people.”
“I see,” said Stroud, “How very odd.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Sister Nightingale said you were who I should leave this with.”
This caused the Seeker to pause, and she once again lowered her sword. Slowly, she turned, planted her steel in the harsh mountain soil, and approached the Warden. His years as a Chevalier did him justice, for had anyone else seen the famed dragon slayer in such a mood stalking towards them, their first instinct may have been to turn and run the other way. He stood tall and handed her his documents. Cassandra afforded him one more, fleeting look of scrutiny before turning her attention to skim the brief. He had surprisingly good handwriting, and it was without too many of the ornamental flourishes she’d come to expect from an Orleasian hand. However, at first glance, she could not tell why Leliana would have instructed Stroud to give the report to her.
“I will see to this,” she said, finally, not wishing to have him stand there as she looked through the entire thing. “You are departing?”
“Yes, my lady, within the hour,” he said, “If there isn’t anything else?”
Cassandra paused briefly, before hearing herself say, “The Champion, she referred to you as a friend, yes?”
Something unreadable flashed across his eyes. Stroud looked off, “That is correct. We met some years ago, in the Deep Roads. Messere Hawke’s party had been attacked by Darkspawn, and her brother had been infected by their Corruption.”
“Her brother?” Cassandra knew the story as Varric had described it to her, but would have been lying if she said she was not curious to hear the events told from a differing perspective.
“Carver Hawke, a good man,” Stroud gave another nod, “He was made a Grey Warden, and I served with him for many years. When the other Wardens started acting strangely, it was I who helped the Champion and her friend take Carver far from Orlais. In exchange, she helped me to investigate the false Calling.”
“I did not realize,” Cassandra answered. There was little else she could think to say. For all of Hawke and Varric’s teasing, it seemed she knew less and less about The Champion’s life.
“Why would you?” Stroud answered, perhaps perplexed by Cassandra’s embarrassment, “But it is of little matter now. I suspect I will meet back with Carver on my journey to Weisshaupt. And Serah Tethras has entrusted me with a letter informing him what has happened.”
Cassandra was still. Yet another who would grieve. The burning in her stomach grew; an ache she still could not place.
“The Herald saw fit to give the Wardens a chance to redeem themselves, and The Champion sacrificed herself to see it done. I cannot say that I would have been so merciful. Perhaps they are each better women than I.” Was her own Order not without its faults? Had she not felt firsthand the sting of corruption within the ranks? “Do not waste this chance.”
There was a tiredness behind Stroud’s eyes. Likely, this had not been the first of such sentiments he had received while saying his goodbyes at Skyhold. But if her comments caused him any anger, he hid it well. He bowed his head low and then departed.
Try as she might after, Cassandra could not return her focus to her training.
From her place in the rookery, Leliana could occasionally hear the drifting fragments of conversations from those occupying themselves in the levels below. Most often these were brief, civil exchanges in the library, or occasionally the Inquisitor seeking out Solas’s counsel. Rarely did Varric’s voice drift its way up to the Nightingale’s ears.
The hour was late, and Leliana was at her desk, drafting a message to Warden-Commander Amell. At first, she could not make out what Varric had asked, only Solas’s reply:
“I know of nothing else physical to exist in the Fade. I… do not know how a body would fare. Would it decompose? Or remain preserved? Likewise, I do not know what could sustain her if she had survived her fight with The Nightmare, unlikely as that eventuality might be.” A pause. Consideration. “Even if she did live through the attack, would she be able to find food? Or water? Could she consume them, or would they be nothing more than cruel mirages, conjured up by the Fade’s nature to mimic the contents of the minds of those who wander it?”
Leliana did not need to see the exchange to know of Varric wincing at this statement. And her suspicions were confirmed by the sound Solas’s follow-up, “I am sorry. I do not mean to be so… bleak.”
“It’s part of your charm, Chuckles. Thanks, anyway. For trying.”
“Of course, Master Tethras.”
“I need your help.”
Josephine jumped in such surprise she nearly dropped her clipboard. She’d been alone in her office for hours — and, while not as opposed to his staying at Skyhold as some, was still relatively wary of the spirit’s presence and intentions — so when Cole had appeared in front of her from seemingly nowhere, it gave her a fright the likes of which might have given the House of Repose cause for jealousy.
“I-! Cole-! I…” she took a calming breath.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright, Cole. What - What was it you needed help with?”
“Words,” he answered. “People are hurting. I can’t make it better or take it away. But I’ve seen it, the way other people sometimes can say things and make a person feel better. And no one says things better than you do.”
While a somewhat crudely constructed compliment, the diplomat could not help but feel flattered by the sentiment. “That’s very kind of you, Cole. Who exactly are you trying to make feel better?”
“Varric. And Cassandra.”
“Ah, I see…”
“Varric’s usually the one saying things that help people. But he can’t say them to himself. He tries, but it’s not the same. And Cassandra, everyone’s either too scared of her, or can’t see her hurt behind who they think they see she is.”
“Yes. Very… astute.”
“You aren’t going to help me, either,” he said. It wasn’t a question; he’d simply plucked the knowledge straight from her head.
While attempting to not be too disquieted by this fact, Josephine sat back in her chair and idly tinkered for a moment with the cuff of one of her ornate sleeves. She worked to construct an argument the young man, or whatever exactly he was, might understand, “There are some things, Cole — some pains — that no one can help.”
“Not if no one even lets me try.”
And he was gone.
Cassandra’s bedroll lay beneath a strange painting, likely a remnant of Skyhold’s previous occupants. She rarely gave it much thought, but that evening she found herself staring up at it and the unrecognizable, Herne-like creature it depicted. Her mind kept wandering to the dizzying imagery that she’d seen in the Fade. Unable to find sleep, and long after she’d heard the blacksmiths in the forge below retire to their own bedchambers, Cassandra crawled out from beneath her sleeping bag, lit a candle, and set about once again trying to record her experiences from the ordeal. She had not kept a journal since she was very young and found it exceptionally awkward trying to depict the events that she had seen. While she considered the task important, she found herself growing exceedingly agitated by its difficulty.
She let out a vexed growl and slammed down her quill before rubbing her eyes against the palm of her hand.
“Yeah, that’s not as easy as it looks,” said a voice, causing her to startle.
“Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
With the hour so late and the forges long since put out, the Seeker could not see into the darkness, but she recognized the voice.
“Varric?” she called, and he stepped forward into the small pool of light. The candle flickered, casting a ghoulish play of light against his face. “What are you doing here?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” he told her, then thumbed towards her window, “Saw your light and figured you couldn’t, either.” But that didn’t really answer her question, which he seemed aware of as he pulled from behind his back first a small bottle and then two, small glasses. He set them on the table in front of her.
“Care to join me for a drink, Seeker?”
There’d been a particularly viscous despair demon up on the battlements once the Inquisition had broken through the gates of Adamant Fortress. Each time Cassandra neared it, ready to strike at it with her sword or shield, it would teleport just beyond her reach. Even when she’d tried charging the creature like a mad bull, she only succeeded in accidentally slamming into a pack of Warden warriors fighting on their side. The party’s ranged fighters, Varric and the Inquisitor, were busying themselves with a pack of shades that had converged on one of the siege points, preventing the Inquisition’s troops on ladders from breaking through the fortress’s defenses. Out of the corner of her eye, Cassandra could see a group of Warden spellcasters, bound to Corypheus’s will, bolstering the demon, and she felt herself struck from behind by a bolt of electricity and fell to her knees.
As the demon raised itself up over her, an incantation of ice building in its grasp, Cassandra raised up her shield and quickly prayed to the Maker. Suddenly, a blast of flame struck the beast and it cried out in pain before retreating. She saw the flourish of a mage staff above her, following the demon’s flight. A few moments more, and it let out an anguished roar and was no more. The next Cassandra knew, Hawke was pulling her to her feet and shouting over her shoulder, “Inquisitor! Always a pleasure!”
The young Trevelyan, out of breath but persisting, stepped up beside them as she set off a flare to alert their forces one of the siege points had been cleared. “Good work,” she told the Champion, “Stay with my forces and see that they survive this.”
Hawke gave a nod, “I’ll keep the demons off them as best I can.” As she passed, The Champion afforded Cassandra a quick wink, and the Seeker was unsure if it was Hawke or simply the thrill of battle that caused her heartbeat to quicken.
Varric moved to refill his glass and top off Cassandra’s. He’d emptied his own twice now, and each time he reached for the bottle he added some more to the Seeker’s cup as well. Ever the gentlemen. Whatever was in the bottle had a strong flavor, and though it went down with surprising ease, Cassandra could not identify for certain what kind of liquor it was they were sharing.
“She had a bit of a thing for you, you know?”
“A what?”
“A thing, you know, a crush.”
Cassandra stared, blankly.
“You do know what a ‘crush’ is, don’t you, Seeker?”
“Of course I know what a ‘crush’ is, Varric! I simply do not believe that— you must have been—”
“She told me so, herself.”
“I—” she felt a rising heat creep up her neck and glanced away, “… No, I did not know.”
“You mean you didn’t notice all the flirting?”
“She flirted with everyone.”
Varric shrugged. “I’m just saying. You’re quite the lady killer.” Cassandra visibly recoiled at the phrase. In light of recent circumstances, the dwarf added, “Sorry. Poor choice of words.”
“I’ll be sure not to tell your publisher.”
He let out a breathy laugh and raised the glass back to his lips. “I appreciate that.”
“Did you think you mattered, Hawke? Did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn’t even save your city; how could you expect to strike down a god? You’re a failure, and your family died knowing it.”
Cassandra watched the way the Champion’s eyes narrowed and jaw tightened. “Well,” she muttered, “that’s going to grow tiresome, quickly.”
The voice was penetrating, as were its remarks. Cassandra would have been lying if she said she was not afraid. She was a Seeker. Fighting demons was exactly what she’d been trained for. Despite this, she was terrified. Almost beyond reason. And there was something deeply unsettling about know that, try as she may to hide these feelings, the demon saw right through her.
“And you, Cassandra,” spoke the beast as if on cue, “Your Inquisitor is a fraud. Yet more evidence there is no Maker, that all your ‘faith’ has been for naught.”
The Seeker grit her teeth, “Die in the void, Demon.”
Beside her, she felt a hand on her shoulder as the Inquisitor stepped past to guide the way. Their eyes met, briefly, and Trevelyan gave her a brief nod. Cassandra returned the gesture. A brief, silent assurance between the two that they were alright. That they would not let this creature get inside their heads.
“Of course a fear demon would know how to hurt us most. We must ignore it,” Hawke added at one point as they went about slaying some of the smaller fears that haunted the darker corners of the realm. However, that advice proved hard to follow as the group continued to press on through their swamp-like surroundings.
“Once again, Hawke is in danger because of you, Varric. You found the red lyrium, you brought Hawke here...”
“Keep talking, Smiley,” came the dwarf’s surly reply, and the ground shook with the Nightmare’s scornful laugh.
“In my experience,” Hawke said from behind where she was walking with Varric, the two of them watching the group’s flank, “People only trash talk when they’re worried they’re going to lose.”
“Ah, perhaps I should be afraid,” came The Nightmare’s reply, “facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition.”
When it laughed again, Cassandra felt her teeth chatter. She bit her cheek and pressed on.
“You know something I don’t quite understand?”
“Tell me.”
“You always called her ‘The Champion.’ Never just ‘Hawke.’”
“It was her title. ‘The Champion of Kirkwall.’ You even used it in your book.”
“Well, sure, but I’m pretty certain you’d just about snap someone’s neck if they even tried calling you ‘The Hero of Orlais’ in casual conversation.”
“That is different. I never liked that title.”
“She didn’t really, either. Not since… well, everything.”
“Varric, I’m—”
“Don’t, Seeker.”
“— I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“What The Nightmare said to us — in the Fade,” Cassandra pressed on, “True, it was said only to rattle us, to feed its hunger for our fears, but… the things it said… they were not lies, were they?”
“No. I don’t think they were.”
“Then what it said about you blaming yourself for putting the Champion in danger—”
“Seeker, please.”
“You must blame yourself, in part, for her entrapment in the Fade. Even if the Herald tells us she stayed behind willingly.”
The candle was nearly burnt out. She could no longer make out his face in the darkness.
“And I know a part of you must blame me, as well. And perhaps you are right to. It was my job to bring the Champion into the Inquisition. You did not make that possible initially, but…”
“Seeker, if my mother had wheels, she’d be a trolly car.”
“She… what?”
He sighed. Cassandra watched his silhouette shift in the darkness. He raised his tumbler to his lips and emptied its contents. “What I mean is, there’s no use dwelling on ‘what-ifs.’”
“And yet, we each do.”
Another long pause. “… Yeah.”
There was a lull in the conversation, during which time Cassandra began to feel the lateness of the hour as a dull ache behind her eyes. All the while the simmers of a fire burned deep in her stomach, the cause of which had little to do with the alcohol in her veins. Her grief was unwarranted, it told her. Unjustified. How could she sit next to a man who’d known the Champion ten-odd years and act even one-tenth as sorry for her passing?
“You know,” said the rogue, with a sudden, certain liveliness in his voice, “If you hate telling that story of yours so much, have you ever considered having someone, oh, I don’t know, write it down? In some sort of … novelization?”
She grunted in reply. “Do not even think of it, dwarf.”
She couldn’t see it, but she knew he was smiling, “I’m just saying. Might save you some trouble. And be a chance for you to set the record straight on a couple of those details that always get blown out of proportion. If only you knew someone with a modestly good track record for that sort of thing. A writer of some kind or other…”
“And I’m sure this idea is entirely altruistic, and has nothing to do with lining that certain writer’s pockets?”
Following a chuckle, Varric answered, “No crime in making a little profit, Seeker. You could donate your part of the royalties to starving orphans or something.”
“Hm.”
“Just think on it.”
“Very well.”
The night around them had softly begun to lift, thawing the thick black-purple of the sky into dull blue-greys and ashen pinks. Distantly, they heard the mountain birds — the wren, the thrush, the warbler — beginning their dawn chorus. Soon, the most devout of the Inquisition’s Andrastians would begin gathering in the Chantry, and the cooks and other staff around the fortress would rise and start their day. Beside her, the candle had burnt out, and the bottle of whatever Varric had brought them to drink seemed to be following closely behind. Her eyelids had begun to grow heavy.
“Did I ever tell you about the time Hawke was on a merchant guild hitlist?” asked the silhouette beside her. “Hawke’s uncle got into an investment scheme with a couple of merchant caste businessmen...”
He stumbled through the story. Cassandra had never seen Varric drunk to the point of unreliable narratorship, but she got the impression this was a story he may have told a few times recently, and the details of who’d heard what may have been lost to him between the lateness of the hour and the singing of the liquor in his blood. The Seeker gathered from his slurred mumblings that a few enforcers had arrived at the Hawke estate one night to collect on one of her uncle’s debts.
“Five of them! Armed to the teeth,” he went on, “They’re about to kick in the door, when Hawke just opens it and invited them all inside! Her mother made them all tea! For the next two hours, they made small talk, then wandered out of the house in a daze. No idea what’d just happened. Never came back.” He was beginning to slump in his chair. “Hawke just... had that effect...”
Cassandra waited, but Varric had fallen silent, and after a few minutes more she heard from him the steady breathing of a man lost to dreamless sleep. She considered returning to her bedroll, but ultimately decided to go instead to the chapel and start her day early. She’d worked on nights of no sleep before, and while she hardly wished to make a habit of it, she saw little harm in the idea now. Before leaving her room, she walked over to her bedroll and took from it one of the softer blankets and, carefully, so as not to disturb him, draped it over the dwarf. She took Varric’s glass from his hand, set it on the table next to her own, and corked the bottle. As she moved to exit, Varric stirred.
“Seeker—”
“Rest, dwarf.”
“I want you to promise me something.”
Taken by surprise, Cassandra looked back. The sky, though still dim, was growing lighter, and its cold blue glow gently fell through her window. The Seeker, who could only vaguely make out Varric’s face, saw his eyes remained closed. For a moment, she thought he may simply have been talking in his sleep.
“Dwarfs don’t dream,” he said, “Did you know that?”
“I did.”
“We don’t slip into the Fade.”
Of course. His experience physically in the Fade must have shaken him even more than it had Cassandra or the others. He’d lacked any frame of reference for the bizarrities of the place even on the best of days. “It’s alright. You’ll never have to go back there.”
“That’s not it,” he said. “I need you to promise me that when you dream, you’ll look for her.”
Cassandra, startled by the request, was briefly speechless. “Varric, I...”
“I asked Chuckles, but he’s...” He sighed. For once in his life, it seemed, words failed him. “I need to hear it from somebody I trust. Somebody who knows how special Hawke was. Is.”
“Very well.”
“You have to promise.”
Cassandra had to bite back the scoff that was halfway up her throat. She felt as though she were speaking to a child afraid of a monster lurking under the bed. But, instead, she sighed, and said, “I promise you: when I dream, I will look for the Champ— I will look for Hawke.”
“Thank you.”
She waited until his breaths once again became drawn out and steady before slipping off to begin her duties for the day. In her stomach, the embers still glowed hot from that unplaceable feeling, but the whispered promise she’d made set beside it a strange sense of purpose. A candle in the window; a beacon to guide home the lost, the weak, and the weary.