Work Text:
It has been a long time since she has put yarn to needle, and it is maddeningly difficult. Unlike writing, an experience she resigned to being like fighting uphill in a blizzard, everything about what she is doing feels like searching for something she knows is right there, but just eludes her grasp.
She hears steps on the stairs up to the second floor of the armory. It is the Inquisitor. She stops where she is and smiles, like the sight in front of her is the most amusingly unexpected thing.
"Do you require something of me, Inquisitor?" Cassandra asks. Adaar shakes her head, the light from the window glinting against her horns.
"I was... wandering." The Inquisitor's habit of making the rounds at Skyhold was viewed as strange by many at first, but soon grew expected and perhaps even anticipated. It is something she does to assure herself everything is running as it should, and it allows the troops and workers to see her as a person. While she cannot act on every concern herself, she passes them on to her advisors, sometimes in great quantity. (Josephine is much more cheerful about it than Cullen. Leliana remains silent, and bends over her desk with great intensity.)
"If you have the time to spare, I would welcome the company." Cassandra did not expect to get a friend out of this... endeavor, and it has been a fortuitous but needed balm in trying times. Adaar has a keen sense for when to gently question, wrench things open, or leave well enough alone. It is an astonishment and a privilege to watch her work, and it is still a wonder to Cassandra sometimes that she is considered a valued friend and counsellor by someone such as the Inquisitor.
Adaar watches her knit for a while, the only noise the quiet clicking of the needles. She is deliberately slow, because she needs to get this right.
"Forgive me for saying so, but--"
"I don't seem like the type?" Cassandra smirks and Adaar ducks her head, embarrassed. "A princess of Nevarra is expected to know many... traditionally womanly arts, whether she wants to or not. I acknowledge there was a great deal of not. But one must learn how to be self sufficient as a Seeker, and part of the training is practical. We would never survive the Vigil otherwise. Many of the young men learned how to sew and spin and knit, and the women to repair and build and dig. All labor for the greater good is holy in the eyes of the Maker, and it is something that was impressed upon us, at the end of a shovel or a needle." Cassandra takes a breath. "Forgive me. I doubt you came here for a history lesson." Adaar's expression is thoughtful, considering.
"No, this is interesting! Truly. As different as Tal-Vashoth are from other Qunari, there are... vestiges of the old order." Her expression changes, the way people do when they remember well-trod arguments with people they love that inevitably go nowhere. "I shouldn't have assumed, and I'm sorry."
"I am used to it. It is no matter." Adaar looks at the sock more closely. Cassandra is done with the heel, and it should go more quickly now.
"That's a pretty small sock for a human or elf foot, Cassandra. And it's red." Adaar gives her a Look, the kind that makes dignitaries and Reverend Mothers know they're going to be doing things they don't want to do, even though they should. It is not comfortable to be on the receiving end of it.
"I doubt this is something he wants to talk to me about. You saw what happened." It is mortifying to even think about, the way she lost control. She should have been better, risen above the memories of helplessness and desperation that were brought back at Varric’s revelation. But she was not, and it was embarrassing and regrettable. Adaar sighs.
“I could order you to patch things up with Varric, spin this as a tactical or logistic matter. I can’t take you out in the field together if I’m not absolutely certain you’ll have each other’s backs.” She leans forward and fishes the other sock out of Cassandra’s knitting basket. It is tiny in her hand. “But I think we both know what you have to do.” It is Cassandra’s turn to sigh.
“Yes, Inquisitor.” She gets up to leave, but stops at the top of the stairs.
“It’s all a matter of pushing people in the right direction, Cassandra. Sometimes it requires armies, but most of the time a nudge is sufficient.” She smiles, pleased at her work, and walks down.
--
Varric is sitting in his chair by the fireplace, writing something on a clipboard propped on his knee. When he sees her walk up his expression is wary, but not fearful. It is a start.
“You don’t have your sword with you, so I’m guessing you’re not going to kill me. I suppose you could do that with your bare hands if you chose, so that doesn’t help. I don’t think you’d do it in the main hall though, too many witnesses.” She remains silent at the needling. He makes a face.
“Come on, Seeker. I know you’re not exactly great with words, but that doesn’t mean you can’t speak at all.” She takes a deep breath.
“I apologize, Varric. For my appalling behavior the other day, and the things I said. They were uncalled for. I let my emotions get the better of me, and you were a very convenient target. You are a true friend to the Inquisition, and we are grateful to have you.” His expression changes from irritated to surprised to something else she can’t quite place.
“Thank you, Seek--Cassandra.” There is a roughness in his voice, astonishment. “I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you on purpose.” He scrubs his hand over his face, suddenly looking weighed-down.
“You didn’t see her after we came back from Adamant. She was so tired.” His voice gets soft. “I just wanted to protect my friend. Can you understand that?” Impulsively, she reaches out and touches his hand for a moment.
“I can, and I do. Hawke is lucky to have you as one.” He grins, and she feels a great weight lifted. She pulls the socks out from her belt pouch and hands them to him. He unwraps the package and laughs, the sound echoing across the stone.
“Did--you made these?” She nods.
“Out of the finest august ram wool. Light, strong, and warm, perfect for adventuring.” Varric touches the socks, a look of respect crossing his face. “I was going to have someone leave them on your dresser, but the Inquisitor, ah, suggested that I give them to you in person.” He shakes his head, amused.
“I’m glad she’s on our side. Sometimes I think she could sell rocks to golems through sheer force of will.” Cassandra is not inclined to disagree. He looks at the socks again. “How did you know red was my favorite color?”
“It was completely random, I assure you.” Varric smirks.
“Random or not, I’m glad they’re red. Thank you.”