Chapter Text
Inquisitor Adaar,
The Inquisition has grown from a bumbling force of heretics into a formidable power to be feared. We have seen your influence spread across Thedas, and we would hope you carry the Chant of Light with it. We in the Anderfels feels the loss of Divine Justinia more than most. Although the Anders would proudly give their support to such a righteous cause, we will not make any alliances until we have spoken in person. Only with a high-ranking member of the Inquisition will we discuss these terms. We cannot offer more than words at this time.Maker guide you,
King Grivaud V
Varric assumes he’s standing at the war table because every time the word “Anders” is mentioned, he’s the first person everyone turns to. The alternative is that he is a very important member of the Inquisition with valuable input and opinions, but that’s not a theory he’s willing to stand behind. He’s waiting for them to suggest that he be sent to the Anderfels, which he will politely but very forcefully decline, when the Inquisitor says “Alright, let’s send Cassandra to represent the Inquisition,” and everyone seems perfectly content with that.
“Hold on,” he says, “that’s the worst idea you people have ever come up with. You want to send Cassandra, of all people, to make this deal?"
Inquisitor Adaar looks at him as though she can imagine an ending to this where the King’s face is not caved in and they actually achieve an alliance with the Anders. He does see Josephine looking a little worried behind her, and decides she’s the most likely to see reason.
“Josephine, you know she can’t handle a business deal like this. Imagine the political ramifications of her fist through the wall when they try to arrange terms."
“No, the King asked for the highest ranking Inquisition agent we could send, and Cassandra is just that. She’ll do fine,” Josephine says, but doesn’t look entirely convinced of what she’s saying. Leliana has already waved over and sent away a scout to inform Cassandra.
“There has to be someone else you can send,” he insists.
Adaar looks like she could be considering Vivienne, or her advisors, or anyone better suited to the task, but Leliana steps in and says, “Alright, Varric, you can go with her.”
Everyone looks at Varric and nods approvingly, except for Cullen, who is looking away so no one will notice him laughing under his breath. Varric isn’t quite sure what he did to deserve this.
“That’s…” he exhales loudly. “You took the worst idea you’ve ever had and you made it worse. I can’t believe it.”
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about, you gave us advice and Leliana took it. I think it’s a great idea,” Adaar smiles at Leliana, then at Varric. “You can keep each other in check. Go tell Cassandra.”
Cullen makes a vague attempt to disguise his laughter as coughing and turns away completely.
-
Having put together his supplies as slowly as physically possible, Varric finally stops by Cassandra’s loft in the smithy and gives her the unfortunate news. Cassandra stares blankly into the distance, seeking sympathy from some unseen third party. “Have I done something wrong?”
Varric clutches his chest and staggers back a little. “Maker, right through the heart,” he chuckles, but Cassandra just shakes her head and returns to packing her things.
“I don’t want this any more than you do, believe me. I think the Inquisitor thought we looked like we were having too much fun and decided to give us some busy work.”
“Hm,” says Cassandra, folding a pair of socks.
“Valid point, but I have to ask. Of all the places to request an alliance with the Inquisition, why did the Anderfels have to speak up? And Nightingale actually agreed to send a cranky Nevarran royal and a very, very weather-sensitive dwarf to seal the deal?”
“I have no idea why Leliana wanted you to come along.” Cassandra slings her bag over her shoulder and starts toward the door. “I could do this on my own.”
Varric follows after her, “No, see, I told them you wouldn’t make the greatest negotiator, and they took that to mean I was volunteering.”
Cassandra glares back at him as she walks but without any real heat. “Oh? Such little faith in me?”
“What would you do without me, Seeker?” he tries.
“Probably have a better time."
-
They make the final leg of the long journey into Hossberg on horseback, and Varric makes sure Cassandra knows just how much he hates it every step of the way. Occasionally she acknowledges him or banters back, but for the most part she stays focused on the mission, which makes Varric feel like the useless half of their pair, and he tones it down until they reach the outskirts of the city.
The sky has been an ominous mess of green and orange and black since they entered the Ander borders, but there’s no mistaking the trails of smoke from old fires all throughout the city. What first stands out are the random houses missing entire walls and the castle sitting in the distance above it all, looking as though it’d been chewed on by a dragon.
Cassandra dismounts and leads her horse cautiously along the beaten-up cobblestone roads, and Varric follows suit.
“There are still lights in some of these houses,” Cassandra says quietly.
“Do you think they were attacked before we got here?” Varric replies just as quietly, not sure why they’re whispering.
“Perhaps, but by what?”
Varric shrugs a bit and shouts, “Hello?”
The lights in the windows around them go out immediately and in the distance he can hear a few doors slam shut.
“Venatori? Red templars?” Cassandra picks up her pace. “Corypheus? Would Corypheus have a reason to attack here?”
“He’d probably be at Weisshaupt for the Wardens, not at the capital.”
As they enter further into the city, into the marketplace which in stark contrast to the rest of Hossberg has been much better cared for, they start to see people milling about, heads down and bodies rigid. There are stands with haggard shopkeepers selling fine sculptures, spices, luxuries, and…
Varric stops walking. “…Rotten fruit?”
Cassandra stops as well, and he nudges her to point out the stand. “That woman is selling rotten fruit.” They watch as a mother and son walk up to the vendor, silently hand her some coin, and take a handful of molding plums.
“Well,” Cassandra tries, but can’t think up an excuse for these clearly troubled people. They’re trudge around, aimless and from the look of it, working to see who can make the least amount of sound in the entire kingdom.
Varric tries to speak to the mother and son as they pass by, but “What happened here?” is all he manages before the woman gasps, tugs her cloak further over her head and drags her son along.
“Nice tact—“
Varric cuts her off, “I said three words.”
They take another look around at the people, hoods down, gazes turned, and avoiding them like they’re somehow more appalling than the smell coming from the food stands.
“Let’s just head to the castle,” Cassandra says and he nods and follows after her.
“I knew this place was supposed to be a shithole, but this…”
“Hossberg is supposed to be the only well maintained part of this country. How could it have fallen apart in a matter of days?”
Varric sighs louder than is entirely necessary. “This makes me miss Kirkwall."
-
The massive statues of Andraste on either side of the castle doors stare down at Varric and Cassandra as though they’re the ones doing something wrong. There are bits chipped out of the marble, and when the only thing Varric knows about the Anderfels is their dedication to faith and incredible craftsmanship, it adds to his feeling that something is more than a little wrong here. No one comes to greet them and there are no guards posted on either side of the door.
“We’re not gonna get smited if we knock, right?” he asks, almost half serious, while Cassandra goes right ahead to slam the knockers shaped like Andraste’s face.
“In this weather, it’d be a blessing,” Cassandra grumbles, repeatedly slamming the handle, and for the first time on their trip Varric feels like he’s made a connection with her. A squirrely elf with an unfortunate mullet opens the door, hunched and avoiding eye contact. More of the same. He doesn’t speak but stands back and gestures for them to enter.
The inside of the castle is only slightly presentable, with guards lined against each wall, stiff as statues, and servants sneaking between rooms like they’re afraid to be seen. Everyone seems to be ignoring the gaping hole in the ceiling, so Varric decides to do the same and steps over bits of rubble as politely as he can. Cassandra is kicking the rocks aside and glaring at each guard individually, but she manages to keep up with the elf leading them to the throne room.
“Inquisition!” the King roars as soon as the doors are opened. The roar devolves into a booming laugh as Varric gets a good look at him. His hair is a frazzled blonde mess, but his clothes are neatly tailored and a group of richly-dressed nobles surround him, waving brightly decorated paper fans and smiling behind them. The throne room itself has even floors, decorated rugs, and a glimmering chandelier, as though whatever was eating away at the rest of the castle decided to leave the room alone.
“Your majesty,” Cassandra starts, stepping forward and beginning to bow, but the King keeps speaking.
“Inquisition! Did you not receive the second letter we sent?” Every word is almost a laugh and he waves to the elf, who scurries to stand beside him. “We don’t need you here! There is to be no deal, but we love guests, oh,” he turns with arms outstretched to the nobles around him. They nod eagerly and smile even brighter. “Oh, we love guests, so we would be honored to have you stay.”
“Your majesty, the state of the city,” Cassandra tries again.
“Our honored guests! Fensen!” The elf beside him snaps to attention. “Won’t you show our honored guests their room?” Fensen nods and hurries back to them, gesturing vaguely to his left.
“Your majesty?” Varric says, as if it’s worth trying a third time, but the elf shakes his head urgently and Varric shuts up. He looks over at Cassandra, who is staring at him like he has the answers, somehow. He can only give her a half-assed shrug as Fensen drives them out of the throne room and into the guest wing.
“Oh, we love guests…” he hears the king saying as they leave, every noble around him cooing and fanning and giggling, “yes, we love guests.”
The halls are drafty and cobwebs droop down low enough that Cassandra has to push them aside as they walk. The elf is twitchy, wringing his hands together and trying to even out his breathing. Varric sees no point in questioning him, it’d only scare him even more, and none of the servants he’s seen thus far seem likely to talk.
“Is the king on lyrium, are we on lyrium, or is this blood magic?” he asks Cassandra, and notes that Fensen jumps slightly.
“I cannot tell what caused this,” Cassandra says, at this point leaning down to keep the spiderwebs out of her hair, “but how could the rest of Hossberg be so largely affected?”
“Powerful blood magic?”
“There would be a lot of blood involved in something like this. We should see if any of the—“
Fensen stops abruptly to unlock a door on their right, then he thrusts the key in Cassandra’s hands, and runs off. It would have been exciting, Varric thinks, if the elf had led them to some sort of clue, but it's just the guest suite. Disappointing. There’s a common room and two bedrooms on either side of it; they step into one to see the ceiling completely caved in. Whatever remnants of the bed that was there stick sadly out of the cobblestone.
Cassandra continues slowly, “As I was saying, we should see if there are any villagers missing around Hossberg. Someone in the castle is most likely—“
“Cassandra,” Varric stops her, and she looks at him innocently. “I know what you’re thinking, but I am not sleeping in here.”
She drops the act immediately and walks out.
-
“This is hilarious. I feel so bad for these people, but this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Cassandra stops staring long enough to punch him in the shoulder, but he still doesn’t feel that bad.
“See? You can’t even come up with anything to say. There’s nothing that can be said about this. This is the most bizarre shit you’ve ever gotten me involved in.”
“I’m…” Cassandra closes her eyes. “I’m really trying to think.”
“Okay,” Varric laughs, “but try not to smell. Maker’s breath, this is amazing.”
Cassandra finally builds up the courage to step out of the doorway and into the dining hall, where there are two seats open on the King’s left waiting for them. It’s a good thing they’re the guests of honor. The food by the King looks incredible, large slabs of meat and bread and cheeses. At the center of the table are tired looking fruits and something that vaguely resembles a spit-roasted boar. At the far end of the table, where a very sad group of nobles is sitting and Varric and Cassandra are not, are heaping plates of rotten vegetables, a cornish hen that is attracting flies, and several unidentifiable quiches that are varying degrees of grey or burnt. Varric is prepared for a night to remember and it absolutely delivers.
They get through the appetizer just fine, a strawberry salad that Varric pointedly does not eat the strawberries out of. Cassandra doesn’t touch hers.
“And she thought, somehow, with my broken ankle and the Inquisitor’s gaping chest wound, that we would be able to take on not one, not two, but three bears,” Varric says. “Great bears. Alpha great bears. Real mean, with something to prove. Our mage was unconscious back at camp, I was about to pass out from the pain, and the Inquisitor might’ve already been dead-- we couldn’t tell.” He pats Cassandra on the shoulder. “And the Seeker here managed all three bears, by herself, alone, one hand tied behind her back. It was incredible. Later, when I woke up, she told me that never happened. It was a pain-induced hallucination. I had passed out trying to leave the camp.”
Cassandra doesn’t laugh at all, but she’d been there and he’d told the story a dozen times since. The King, on the other hand, slams the table and throws himself back with the force of his laughter, clapping loudly. It is a great story.
“Look at this dwarf!” He shouts, ecstatic, “I love this dwarf!” Most of the people at the table seem relieved someone else has taken the spotlight so they can relax and continue not eating. Varric can at least spare these people that.
“I’ve never had an easier audience than you, your majesty.”
The King has stopped breathing from laughter.
The third course is where things go downhill. Varric is running out of ideas and looks to Cassandra for help, only to see her staring at the man directly across from them. Varric recognizes this as the man who has successfully eaten everything served to him thus far. He nods to them, pulls a flask out of his coat pocket, and tips it into his soup.
“Oh,” Cassandra says, like she’s had a revelation.
“No,” Varric attempts.
Cassandra snaps at the waiter with the wine bottle, and when he goes to pour into her glass she snatches the bottle out of his hands and drinks directly from it.
“Cassandra, please,” Varric is laughing too hard to get it out in one breath, "don’t tap out now, I need you. You can do this, Seeker.”
“No,” Cassandra sighs, dumping some into her soup and then ignoring the soup completely. “You are doing fine, Varric. I’m sure you can do this on your own.”
He can, but that’s not the point, and she knows it.
-
Sleeping is awful. The giant hole in the other room is letting the heat in and Varric has to stay half-awake to keep himself from rolling into the sword Cassandra had stabbed through the bed to stake her claim.
What’s less awful is waking up to see Cassandra, hair down, limbs spread wildly across the bed, a bit of drool pooling under her cheek. He sits up to stare at the sunlight pouring through the very, very stained glass and contemplates this, because as much as he commits it to memory, no one will ever believe him.
Knowing he won’t be able to get back to sleep, he drags himself to the shattered mirror above the dresser to tie up his hair. He briefly considers finding somewhere private to change, but hears Cassandra snore gently behind him and decides she drank too much to be any danger to him. The second he pulls on his boots he hears a knock at the door.
“Breakfast,” says the servant at the door, bowing as she holds out a tray of beautiful pastries and molding fruits. The smell off the fruit reminds Varric of crushed hope, lost dreams, and maybe a little bit of death.
“Thanks,” Varric says, as earnestly as he’s physically able to. He has to force himself to take the plate.
Cassandra is still sleeping when he comes back in, hand now stuffed up her own shirt and an arm slung over her eyes, and he wonders if she normally sleeps with zero inhibitions, or if she’s just that kind of drunk. He takes a pastry off the plate for himself, and then carefully grabs a strawberry by the stem.
“Rise and shine,” Varric says sweetly, waving the rotten fruit under her nose.
She immediately swats his hand, knocking the strawberry so hard it splats against the wall. She barely opens her eyes before groaning loudly at him and rolling over.
“The sooner you get up, the sooner we leave.”
Cassandra throws an open hand out. He places a nice-looking apple tart in it and she starts eating with vigor. Her voice is muffled through the food, “If the fruit is rotten, what’s in the pastry?”
Varric stops mid-bite through his blueberry danish. “Please don’t ruin this for me, Seeker, these taste really good.”
“Sorry,” she grumbles, not even slightly sorry, and finishes it in one bite.
Varric brushes the crumbs off his hands and starts gathering his things. “So—"
Cassandra struggles to sit up, and it doesn’t have the urgent effect she was probably going for. “We can’t leave now,” she says incredulously, as if they can’t or shouldn’t leave immediately.
He shakes his head, laughing. “Are you suggesting we take the fate of the capital into our own hands? The Inquisition can send in experts. Everyone’d be better off that way.”
“These people are in immediate—“ Cassandra yawns, and starts pulling up her hair. She works quickly and without mistakes, and if her eyes weren’t shut so tightly against the sunlight Varric wouldn’t even know she was hungover. “These people are in immediate danger, and we can handle it before the Inquisition can send anyone else. If we investigate efficiently we can find the source and eliminate it.”
“That easy, huh.”
“Why not?” Cassandra still hasn’t opened her eyes. She winds the braid into a halo and pins it, and when she throws her hands back down into her lap Varric realizes he’d been staring with more interest than he’s proud of.
“The whole thing just seems tiring and crazy and, I don’t know. Malnourishing?”
“Hm,” Cassandra says, holding her hand out again, and Varric gives her another pastry. “It will be fine. I want to know what’s going on.”
-
They split up to cover more ground, which leaves Varric searching the servants quarters, where most of the servants either actively avoid him or pretend he doesn’t exist. In comparison to the guest suite, their quarters aren’t much better. The stone roof is caving in, the foundation is cracking, and the wood floors are dotted with termite holes and what looks like water damage. Though there are fewer cobwebs, which is nice. He watches door after door slam shut and lock as he walks down the corridor. The locks would be easy enough to break, let alone pick, but he’s not here to scare them. At least, he doesn’t have to just yet.
He catches the kitchen staff by surprise when he creaks open the door and they have nowhere to run, and so they’re forced to act casual and focus very hard on the food they don’t need to be preparing in the middle of the afternoon.
“Anybody here that actually wants to talk to me?” he says into the room. A few cooks shuffle around the stove, setting out pans and re-stoking the fire. The servants sorting the ingredients work diligently, but there’s one elven girl stuck without a bag of vegetables and she accidentally looks at Varric, then quickly at the ground, but it’s too late.
He steps up to her and she grabs a broom out of the corner to wring her hands around. “Hey, what’s your name?” he says gently. She shakes her head, so slightly he almost misses it, and turns away to sweep. When Varric looks away from her he catches the cooks staring before they can turn back to the fire.
He inspects the food the nervous servants are sorting, some bags fresh, others rotten. “No one objects to the food quality, here?” No one even looks at him, so. He peeks into the larder, and finds a disappointing lack of suspicious apostates or demons.
Varric sighs for a very long time, trying to make his exit as theatrical as possible. “Yeah, well, if anyone has anything they want to tell me privately, I’m stuck here ’til I get to the bottom of this."
On his way out he sees the woman who had brought breakfast standing all alone in the corridor inspecting her nails, and he sneaks up to her. She notices him at the last second and the look on her face turns into abject horror.
Varric manages to get a syllable in. “I—“
“Stop,” she whispers, desperate, backing away. “Stop asking questions. I can’t be seen speaking to you.”
Varric follows after her, careful not to get too close. “Just tell me why, I can help you. I promise I won’t hurt you.”
She backs into one of the bedrooms and slams the door in his face. The investigation, he thinks, could not be going any better than this.
Meeting back at the suite with Cassandra proves that things are going even better than he thought when she tells him, “I couldn’t find the king.”
“Why?”
“He must have gone out?” She crosses her arms and leans against the dresser. He realizes he’s imitating her stance halfway through doing it but it’s too late to stop. “None of the guards would speak to me, and the nobles are all missing, as well.”
“So, they’ve either been kidnapped, or they’re off hunting…” What do people hunt in the Anderfels? He can’t imagine anything surviving the climate. “…fish,” he finishes.
She snorts at that, as if she could do any better. “We should investigate the city, see if there are any other missing people."
“Alright,” he says. With the determination and hardworking spirit Cassandra normally displays, it’s not like he has any choice.
-
Cassandra steps out of the hovel she’d been digging through, muttering to herself and mussing her hair. “What do we know so far?"
Varric follows her lead to the next home along the dirt road, and does an excellent job not pointing out the hair caught on the wrong side of her braid. “Nothing,” he says.
“Some sort of curse, perhaps?"
“You’re right, an evil curse. Hossberg is built on an abandoned dwarven thaig, that's common knowledge throughout all of Thedas."
“It could be spirits? The veil seems thin here. We saw enough rifts on our way across the country.” Cassandra takes a quick look through a window and keeps walking when she sees a family of four busy with chores inside.
"The spirits of all the dwarves that were betrayed he—“ he restarts when he comes up with something better. “This isn’t Hossberg, this is an illusion. We’re in the Fade."
“There are no rifts around the castle…” She stoops at a dry, struggling garden. “...the food?"
Varric knocks at a lonely wooden hut and no one replies. “The food isn’t real. Nothing is real. We aren’t even real."
“No, we’ve been eating the food, we seem to be fine…"
The door lock to the hut is broken and the half-eaten, spoiled dinner laid out on the table suggests that someone left here in a hurry. Surprisingly, it’s one of very few houses on the outskirts of town that show any sign of foul play. Plenty of people mill about now, accustomed to the warrior princess and shouty dwarf stomping around and asking everyone what’s going on, though that hasn’t made anyone more cooperative. “Fate brought us here,” he gasps. "It’s all connected— don’t you see, Cassandra?! We’re players in someone else’s game!"
“W—“ Cassandra puts down the letter she was inspecting as if she just noticed he was standing in the room with her. “Are you sure the food isn’t affecting you?”
“No,” he sighs, crossing the room and trying to read it upside-down. It’s a personal letter, nothing of importance. “Just having fun.”
“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” she says, and walks out of the house.
Despite not finding a lead, they’re both in high spirits. Thinking about it, Varric’s not sure why, because he was coerced into joining his least favorite Inquisition member to negotiate for an alliance with the Anderfels, and it turned into… this. Well, that’s not entirely fair to Cassandra, because if he’s being honest he doesn’t like Solas that much. Still, they’re walking together back towards the marketplace, and the sky has cleared from its evil orange to a pale blue, and the sun is warm on his face and it’s not a bad day.
“You know, Varric,” Cassandra says, ruining everything, “for all your bullshit you haven’t actually complained much this trip."
His fallback plan for a situation like this (the Anderfels) would be to complain about the weather. But he had just finished establishing that it’s a beautiful day, so he can’t do that.
He sighs instead. “I know, I’m really off my game today.”
Cassandra shrugs and smiles up toward the sun, basking. Her skin glows a bit, and Varric tugs her down so he can fix the hair that had fallen out of place earlier. After that she looks a little too nice, so he elects to stop looking at her and she stops looking at him and they walk in silence until they hit the noble’s district.
A tall blue villa with elaborately carved marble fixtures is practically calling to him. Not a single Andraste engraving has been chipped away, it appears to have four walls and a roof, and the front door isn’t busted in. Cassandra follows close behind as he picks the lock and steps in.
Everything inside is completely intact, with plush leather furniture, shining tile floors, a slightly terrifying statue of Mafareath in the corner, and a recently used fireplace. He couldn’t have dreamed up a better conviction than this. For a job well done he jumps back into an enormous armchair and props his feet up on the table.
“I know I said ‘don’t let me stop you,’ but this is breaking and entering.”
“The door was unlocked.”
Cassandra doesn’t look impressed. “You unlocked it.”
“Semantics,” he scoffs, and then, to get her off his case, “check out that staff on the windowsill.”
She crosses the room to pick it up and inspects it carefully. “How many restrictions are placed on mages in the Anderfels?”
Unfortunately, neither of them know the answer to that, and Cassandra forces him to get out of the nice armchair to head back to the castle, where there are no armchairs, and he won’t actually get a chance to relax.