Chapter Text
The night they meet she is sixteen and awkward, arms too long for her frame and her legs longer still, gangly and vastly uncomfortable in the dress picked out for the occasion.
Her uncle's estate is teeming with visitors, foreign delegates, merchants and Nevarran nobility, and tucked away at the top of the staircase leading to the servants quarters, Cassandra hears the laughter of the guests as they arrive – the noise interrupted at steady intervals by the clink of glasses and dishes from the kitchens as assorted members of the household staff scurry back and forth. No one pays her any mind where she sits, trying to catch her breath between running from her governess who's been on her back about her hair all day, and the knowledge of what awaits her behind the doors to the grand ballroom.
Suitors. The word sticks to the back of her throat like the bitter bite of an unripe fruit, and her fingers tighten in the fabric of her skirt as she considers her uncle's unexpected betrayal – that however much his attention is supposedly claimed by the dead, he could still find the time to marry her off.
“Not tonight,” she says to the air, and finds her determination a hard, cold thing within her heart.
One of the servants – Calliope, with her kind, dark eyes and soft hands, always there to wipe away bitter tears, in the way Cassandra sometimes wonders if her mother would have done – angles her head to offer her a single look as she passes by, and a soft but sternly uttered – “You may wish to move on, My Lady – your presence has been requested in the ballroom, and your uncle is looking for you.”
Then she is gone, as though she'd never stopped to speak at all, but it's all Cassandra needs to lift her skirts and make a swift retreat. Picking her way along the corridors, weaving between passing staff in fine livery and with silver trays balanced on practised hands, she's about to duck into the library when a voice stops her.
“Ah, there she is.”
She closes her eyes, and regret at her own carelessness wells with bitter grief in her chest – she'd been so close. When she turns, it is with a stiffness only further aided by the tightly laced bodice that makes it hard to breathe, and she tries to rein in her expression of juvenile exasperation to something neutral.
“Uncle,” she greets, with a brusque curtsy.
Vestalus Pentaghast cuts an imposing figure in his pale vest and breeches against the blood red of the carpets. With his dark hair greying at the temples, it is said he looks much like her father – or what her father would have looked like, anyhow; Cassandra cannot remember his face clearly enough to say if there's any truth to it. But for all his intimidating air and manner, her uncle's eyes have always been too kind for his face, and there's no malice in his expression as he looks at her, but rather a detachment that speaks of a man never fully rooted in the land of the living.
“Cassandra - you remember Laurence Van Markham?”
The young man at her uncle's side bows with an almost exaggerated flair, and she has to bite down to stifle her grimace. A long-suffering sigh lurks at the bottom of her throat when he reaches out a hand, and she offers her own with a forced smile.
“My Lady,” he greets smoothly, and – she remembers the boy who would come running into the foyer with her brother, boots drenched in mud and a string of rabbits tied at their waists. That boy had never called her 'Lady' in his life, but there's no mud on his boots now, polished to near perfection as they are, and his hair is combed back with what she can only assume is more effort than has been made on her own, for all that her style is far more elaborate (too many braids, she wonders if her governess will scream if she cuts it all off one of these days).
She does not respond, for fear that something condemning will spill past her careful smile, and allows him to kiss it.
“Well, I must take my leave. We have dignitaries from the Free Marches arriving. I trust you will take care of my niece in my absence, Laurence?” Then he smiles – the same, almost vacant smile that makes Cassandra want to yell, just to see if it will chase the ghosts from his eyes, from his heart – and turns to walk away. And he's gone before she can plead with him to stay, swallowed by the crowd and leaving Cassandra at the mercy of a rabbit hunter in a fancy silk vest.
“So,” Laurence says, conversationally. “May I say you look lovely this evening?”
“You may.”
His grin is a quick, charming thing. “Well, I am glad of your gracious approval, Lady Cassandra. Is it alright if I call you that?”
"It is my name," she says, and holds back from wincing at the clear dismissal in her tone.
But if he hears it, Laurence does not take it to heart. "Ha. Quite right. Oh," he says then, and appears to have thought of something. "What was it Anthony used to call you, when we were younger? It used to drive you up the wall, if I recall correctly. Dragonling? No, that's not right."
Little Dragon, she thinks, tasting the name on her tongue, sharp like a cut.
"Ah - Little Dragon! That's what it was." His small triumph makes him chuckle, and he appears pleased with himself. There is a scream building in her throat, and she cannot breathe.
Not making note of her discomfort, Laurence steps a little closer, and she wants to step back, but – holds her ground. She doesn't know what her uncle expects – if he expects anything at all, save her polite company and the occasional remark – but the need to get away (anywhere, anywhere else) sits like an itch, made worse by the clinging fabric of her dress.
A servant passes them by, carrying a tray of decanters, and a thought reaches towards her through the sea of desperation – the hope of an escape, and Cassandra grabs it with both hands.
“I am so terribly thirsty,” she hears herself say.
If he suspects an ulterior motive, he does not show it. “Ah, of course - where are my manners?" He laughs, and she wonders idly what part of that he finds even remotely humorous. "Wine or water?”
She puts on the smile she usually reserves for getting out of dress fittings, and hopes he is easier to fool than her handmaid. She is not coy by any stretch of the imagination, but – she can manage this, surely. “Surprise me?”
The boyish grin she receives in answer is proof enough that she can, but she contains her sigh of relief until he's moved out of earshot, sparing occasional glances back, as though he can't quite take his eyes off her. It's supposed to be a charming gesture, she thinks, but it makes her itch, even more than the dress.
When he finally turns, she bolts.
She's careful not to be seen running where there are people who may or may not report back to her uncle (her reputation as "Vestalus Pentaghast's ornery niece” has begun to gain ground, which may explain his recent and rather persistent attempts at finding her a husband), but the minute she escapes the tumult of the estate proper, she takes off at a sprint. A few servants appear in her path, but they move out of the way with practised ease, hiding knowing smiles in the corners of their mouths as they go about their business, as though she is but a shadow amongst many, playing hide-and-seek with the ghosts.
She knows this wing and its rooms by heart, this not being the first time she's slipped off to hide from her duties, and she selects one she knows is not in use by any of the visitors. It's a grand study sitting adjacent to a bedroom, and when she closes the door behind her the silence that greets her is nearly staggering. The glass door to the chamber's accompanying balcony is slightly ajar, and the soft summer breeze drifting in from outside is a dearly welcome thing.
There's a new determination in her step as she makes for the balcony now, and her joy is a bright thing indeed when she leans over, to find the gardens below silent in the soft evening shadows. A thick bush of climbing roses reach with welcoming hands towards her, and it takes only a moment to make up her mind before her hands are busy with the hem of her dress, tying the fabric around her legs in her best attempt at a pair of breeches. It's her only option outside of chucking the whole thing, and though the thought is tempting, Cassandra is not so unruly she will risk being caught running across the grounds in her smallclothes.
Her shoes discarded, she takes a deep breath for courage, and she's about to hoist herself over the railing when a voice stops her –
“Coming or going?”
–and she loses her footing, a shout pulling free of her lips as she topples, but there's a hand on her arm then, steadying her, and as she clings to the balustrade with her heart in her throat a face peers up at her from the balcony below, kind, honey-coloured eyes above a clever grin. He's young, wearing an open-necked shirt exposing far more than is the current fashion, and even without a hint of stubble on his chin there's no denying what he is.
“You're a – dwarf,” she says, as he helps ease her back down onto the balcony, and she tries to compose herself. Her hair has come loose from its rigid arrangement, one of the many braids slipping down to fall across her forehead, and she tries to tuck it behind her ear in the vain attempt at regaining some of her lost dignity.
Seeing her struggle, the dwarf grins. “And you're a human," he counters wryly. "And now that we've cleared that up,” he bows, with an odd flourish that strikes her as not very dwarf-ish, although she's not met many dwarves in her life. “Varric Tethras,” he declares. “Of House Tethras. And you would be...what? Burglar or illicit lover?”
She supposes she should feel scandalized by either assumption, but all she feels is - curiosity. His response was not what she'd expected. “Are those my only options?”
He shrugs. “I'd give you more, but I can't say I know enough about human customs to make any better guesses. Tell me, is it normal in Nevarra for girls to tie up their skirts and climb down balconies at fêtes?”
She tries not to sound too droll when she responds, arms crossed over her chest with a sudden, bold defiance, “Only if they're trying to escape.”
That makes him smile. “Which leads us back to the burglar versus illicit lover question.”
Cassandra tries to hide her own smile, and – fails. “Well, you'll be disappointed to find that I am neither.”
He tilts his head at that, and seems to consider her – her hair come undone, the dress still tied around her ankles and her bare feet. “Ah,” he says then, and she can see the realization as it settles in his grinning eyes. “Daughter of the house, and I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that you're the youngest? Speaking from experience, you see – I know that restless look.”
Cassandra purses her lips, but doesn't bother to correct him – if he doesn't recognize her on sight, he can't know much about her family, or her current situation. And it gives her some leverage, she finds (or at the very least, the opportunity to make an impression without the added title of “Vestalus' niece – you know, the one whose fool parents thought they could overthrow the King”).
“Do you,” she says instead.
The dwarf grins, and gestures to himself. “You're looking at a youngest son, in the flesh. A kindred spirit, if you will. I know how it can be.”
She thinks of Anthony then, a never-healing wound that seems to sit in her very soul, and his words, though uttered lightly, sting like a slap. “Is your brother alive?” she asks.
He nods, and if he hears more than simple curiosity in her voice (like grief, anger, so much anger, always anger), he doesn't mention it. “Alive and kicking, and if I know Bartrand, he's busy trying to sweet-talk the ballroom at present,” he adds with a snort.
“Then I sincerely doubt you know very much.”
His brows furrow at that, and though he appears taken aback by her cold response, he doesn't pry, and Cassandra is – grateful. She clears her throat, hoping it will chase away any lingering remnants of grief from her voice when she continues, “What is your business here, dwarf? Why are you not in the ballroom with your brother? This is a private wing.”
He holds out his hands, and she recognizes the disarming smile as one she is guilty of using herself. “Just having a look around – that wasn't a crime last I checked. And it's a nice house you've got. Very big, very - lively, not nearly as many corpses as I'd expected, and I - hey, did I say something?”
“What?” She looks up, only to discover that she must have drifted off into her own mind. The dwarf wears an expression of open concern now, but Cassandra cannot find the strength to so much as glare.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asks then. “No offence, but you look like you could use one.”
There's a reflexive word of rejection on the tip of her tongue, ready to fall, but – she looks at him then, this strange dwarf on the balcony of her uncle's estate, with his loose shirt and even looser manners. He's not a suitor, or even someone who knows who she really is. He's a complete stranger.
And...that might just be exactly what she needs.
“Alright,” she says then – breathes, and for a brief moment, despite the bodice pressing against her ribcage, she feels like she can.
.
.
.
“So let me get this straight – you told him you were thirsty, and the moment he turned his back you tried to climb down a balcony to get away?” He's laughing as he says it, and – despite her previous mood, and the thought of her brother still an open wound, Cassandra finds some buried mirth of her own, brought forth by the wine, probably, or something else she can't name. They're sitting on said balcony now, a decanter on the floor between them, snagged from one of the refreshment tables.
She shrugs, and takes a swig. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Varric - that is his name, she's come to learn - snorts. “Shit, but I can't help but feel bad for the guy. You couldn't have just said 'no thank you'?”
She rolls her eyes, and hands him the decanter when he reaches for it. “When you are an heiress,” and she says the words like she's swallowed something sour, “There are few things that will get you out of an unwanted marriage. 'No' does not simply cut it.”
“And throwing yourself off a balcony would?”
“I was not–“ she huffs. “I was not going to throw myself off it, I was going to climb down, and...” she trails off, and – stops, because she honestly hadn't thought that far ahead.
“Run away?” the dwarf suggests, and when she snorts, he laughs. “What?”
She looks at him, and finds honest curiosity on his face, as though the question itself is not perfectly ridiculous. “I can't just run away,” she tells him, like she'd tell him 'the sky is blue and the Maker is just'.
“Can't or won't?”
“I–”
When she can't find the words, Varric grins. “You're afraid – it's okay to admit it, Princess.”
“I'm not a princess.”
“But you're in line for the throne?”
“Ugh,” she grunts, her "most unladylike noise" according to her governess, but she could not care less in this moment. “I'd rather not be, if it were up to me.” She thinks of her parents – vague images of faces she cannot quite recall; the longing for the feel of soft hands on her cheeks. “I've no desire for the throne,” she adds at length.
“What do you want, then?” She looks up to find him smiling. “If you could have it your way.”
The word burns in her chest, forcing its way up her throat like bile. Vengeance, she wants to spit, wants to breathe it in like ashes until it fills her lungs, her entire being. She thinks of Anthony, and her hands fist in the fabric of her dress, knuckles bone-white with the cold fury that clings like a sickness. But she will not tell him this - not this stranger.
“Freedom,” is what she says instead, and – it's not a lie. The walls of her uncle's estate could be mountains for all that she cannot climb them. A cage, but a pretty cage, and she has no room to breathe.
The gong rings, then – the one signalling the end of the evening's festivities, shattering the sudden silence that has settled between them. Cassandra looks up, and feels a rush of something that almost feels like disappointment.
“Ah. My cue to leave,” Varric says, rising to his feet smoothly, and she follows – too quickly, and she nearly trips, but his hand is there to steady her again. “Easy,” he laughs, as he helps her stand. “Had a little too much to drink?”
Cassandra ignores the dizziness; the taste of wine on her tongue. “No – I am fine.”
His hand lingers on her elbow; she feels the warmth of his fingers through the sleeve of her dress, and – “You will be,” he says then, and it's with such conviction that for a moment, it floors her.
The gong rings again, the clear sound jumping between the pillars and the polished floors of the estate, and with a parting bow he turns to leave.
“Wait!”
The word is off her tongue before she can stop it, and when he looks back, there's an almost expectant lift to his brow.
Cassandra fumbles - stutters, “Will you be going back to Kirkwall?” And she wants to kick herself for sounding so perfectly pathetic.
But Varric only shrugs. “Not for some time, at least not if Bartrand has anything to say about it, anyway. Restoring a noble House doesn't happen overnight, and he's still got more nobles to talk out of their purses.”
The smile comes without resistance now. “Good.”
A raised brow. “Good?”
“I won't repeat myself.”
That makes him laugh, and when he turns to leave again it's with a flourish, like a salute and yet not. A mockery of one, almost, but it's one of the most honest gestures Cassandra has seen. There's no false cheer, no 'My Lady' for the sake of propriety, only a carefree self-assurance that she suddenly - desperately - wants for herself. “Take care, Princess."
“Likewise, dwarf,” she says, with confidence she does not feel, and as he walks away, like someone holding the world itself in the curve of his palm, Cassandra remains in the balcony shadows, unsure of her own place in it.