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“Do the qunari have poetry?” Cass asks, and Shan is pretty sure he can hear Varric cackling in delight from all the way back at Skyhold. He can also feel his face turns red, and thanks some vague deity that it’s dark out and humans also have shitty night vision.
“Qunari don’t,” he says, “but the vashothari are figuring it out.”
“Do you know any poetry?” she asks.
“I-” he pauses, considers what his options are. “I know a few poems. Most of them are children’s rhymes though. That I was taught as a child to remember things, and then relearned when i was older with different words. Usually dirty ones, because mercs like ruining your childhood with jokes about penises.”
Both of them chuckle, and Shan tucks his chin to his chest.
“Are you willing to share some of the...more appropriate poetry?” Cass asks, snuggling against his side. It’s not even that chilly of a night--just cold enough to justify cuddling.
“What, you don’t want to hear the juvenile rhymes people came up with to make each other laugh?” Shan laughs, then and elbows Cass in the ribs.
“Maybe another time,” she replies. Shan chuckles again.
“I’ll have to translate them as I go, since they’re in qunlat, but I think i can manage.”
“Thank you,” Cass murmurs, and rolls onto her side so she can rest her cheek on his shoulder.
Shan takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.
“I seek my soul in paths the prophet cannot see with his dead eyes.When I run, I hold my soul close to me; I clutch my soul to my heart until I have crossed many waters and many lands. When I have left myself behind, I leave my soul where it will not be loved.” Shan sighs and takes a deep breath before he continues. “I seek my soul in paths the prophet cannot see with his dead eyes. My soul fades into the fog; my soul sinks into the sea. My soul is fed by springs and forests. My soul is built from bamboo and scars until the water accepts my offerings.
“I seek my soul in paths the prophet cannot see with his dead eyes. I walk until my feet bleed, the sun rises, the moon rises, the sun falls, the moon falls. Time spins and does not heed our suffering. These are the ways things are true.
“I seek my soul in paths the prophet cannot see with his dead eyes. When she touches me my skin burns and I am set free. They call themselves sword but they offer a bed and a food before they offer weapons. The sword offers a love and a people I have never known before, and I find my soul in their paths.
“I seek my soul in paths the prophet cannot see with his dead eyes. I have sought my soul in death. I have sought my soul in the songs of a different people. I have sought my soul in gods that do not know my name. I seek my soul in places the prophet cannot see.
“I have sought my soul in paths the prophet cannot see with his dead eyes. I sought my soul and did not find it. I sought my soul, and was instead shown how to build it from the ashes and bones I carried in its place.” He shifts away from Cass, his movements careful and shy, when he says the last words. She follows him, rolls over so she’s half on top of him and presses her hand to his cheek.
“That was beautiful,” she whispers. She can feel the heat of his face under her fingertips.
“It’s--a personal poem. The form is the same no matter who writes the poem but that first line is the most important. ‘I seek my soul in paths the prophet cannot see with his dead eyes.’ It’s a rejection of the qun. It’s a rejection of a lot of things. I knew Andrastians who changed ‘prophet’ to ‘Maker’ when they stopped being Andrastian. Sometimes if someone’s version of the poem really resonated or they sang it a lot, everyone would learn it, and then you could all sing it around the campfire. It was as close to religion as a lot of us got. As a lot of us cared to get.” Shan rests his hands on Cass’s hips. “There are others but almost every tal-vashoth I’ve met knows that one. I think I heard it as far north as the fog warriors. I think they taught me the first words to their version, which is much shorter and much more brutal. It makes a good song for slaughtering qunari, though. You can’t argue with that.”
“Do the qunari have a version of the song?” Cass asks, removing her hands from his face and settling back on her bedroll.
“No,” Shan says, pride in his voice. “It’s a song by the tal-vashoth, for the vashothari. It’s ours and no one can take that from us. They cannot take our vitaar, they cannot take our songs, and they cannot take our ash-and-bone souls we made ourselves. It’s something for us, and us only.” Shan wraps Cass’s hand in his. “I’ll see if I can find you more poems. I bet other merc companies have them. I bet most of the villages have them too. And someone else should know them. They’re meant to be shared after all.”