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Varric told her to go right.
If he’s being honest with himself, a thing he rarely tries to do, he’s not shocked she went left. Frankly, he should have told her to go left. Then she’d have done the exact opposite, just to spite him.
Not that Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast would ever do something so stupid as ignore him out of pique. She’s never overreacted to a minor spat or white lie in her life. Any stab marks in his books or other evidence to the contrary is met with only a disgusted sound of disdain.
Normally he’d merely chuckle under his breath and swagger off to continue his day while waiting to see how she bulldozed through the newest obstacle he tried to warn her about.
The towering red templar behemoth roaring it’s fury coming up on Cassandra’s unguarded flank, however, puts a damper in his plans. Much like this whole endeavor has ruined any remaining appeal of snow, the urge to romanticize breeding dragons, or any future plans to visit the Emprise du Lion ever again.
“Cass!” the Inquisitor snaps. “Be-”
Whatever Cadash meant to say, it’s whipped away in the icy wind and clash of steel as the Seeker rams right into the shield of a templar, lips twisted into a ferocious snarl. She brings her blade down against another and the behemoth lumbers forward towards her back.
Varric’s got several options. None of them good.
But fucking Andraste, he’s gotta do something. If the Seeker goes down, he’s never gonna get the payoff for all the work he just put into finishing up the latest chapter of Swords and Shields. He didn’t write that shit for nothing.
“Bianca, baby,” he murmurs under his breath, listening to a bolt rattle into place. “Time to dance.”
Then Varric does something completely stupid. Definitely Hawke levels of stupid, at least. He can almost hear his friend cheering him on as he rolls down the snow covered hill and comes to a stop in front of the approaching behemoth.
If Varric survives to tell this story, he’ll make sure to point out how utterly dashing and heroic he looks as he sets his feet and fires a perfect shot into the behemoth’s eye.
He won’t write in the inevitable story that his shot veers a smidge to the left, wounding but not incapacitating the behemoth. He certainly won’t admit that it’s because he’s been meaning to take a look at Bianca’s cocking ring, and just hasn’t found the time. And he probably won’t include the very sharp crunching sound his ribs make when the behemoth’s giant fist catches him right in the chest and sends him flying through the air.
Varric has the briefest opportunity to hope it hasn’t sent him right off the cliff and into the abyss below. If he’s got to die, he’d rather do it up here than land wherever that pit bottoms out.
The Maker answers his prayer, but it’s hard to be grateful when he’s stopped by solid stone. His shoulders hit first, causing him to finally release his deathgrip on Bianca, before his head slams into the stone hard enough that, for a moment, the entire scene swims before him in inky blackness.
Then he drops into the blissfully cold snow below.
“Varric!” Cassandra shouts. “VARRIC!”
The Seeker’s panic would be flattering. He tries to summon some retort to the tip of his tongue, something about how now she’s paying attention, but all that comes out is an undignified gurgle and bright red blood.
Ancestors help him. If he dies in this frozen wasteland, he’s haunting every last member of the Inquisition, starting with Cassandra.
Somehow, though, it still doesn’t hurt. And, perhaps, that’s the most worrying bit.
Unfortunately, that’s the last coherent thought Varric has before darkness claims him.
Varric wakes up to someone trying to drown him, which seems a bit much considering his whole body feels like he’s gone three rounds with the Arishok. His bruises must have bruises, his ribs ache, his head throbs. Every breath is agony.
“You need to drink this,” Cadash states firmly. “Come on, Varric. You’ve had worse things, I’ve been to the Hanged Man.”
“Way to kick a man’s favorite tavern when he’s dying,” he rasps through cracked, dry lips. His body protests the effort required to speak, blood pounding in his ears.
It doesn’t quite drown out the derisive noise the Seeker makes.
“You are not dying,” Cassandra states firmly, in that very particular tone she has. The one she uses when something is so absolutely fact, it’s pointless to even attempt to argue it.
Varric sorta wishes he had that kind of certainty in anything. Especially in the whole ‘not dying’ part.
“You need a hearing test, Seeker,” he growls, opening his eyes to glare up at her.
Just in time to see that proud, noble face of hers flush a delightful and interesting shade of crimson. She takes a swift step back, eyes widening.
“I do not need a hairy chest!” she sputters, clearly scandalized.
Varric regrets the bark of laughter that escapes his chest almost as soon as it passes his lips and turns into a rather unflattering, hacking cough. Both Cadash and Solas swing their eyes around to give her equally incredulous looks before they share one with each other.
“Perhaps he’s right,” Solas says evenly.
“Or maybe Cass just spends a lot of time thinking ‘bout his chest,” Cadash suggests with a wicked grin that doesn’t bode well.
He’d be more concerned, except he’s too busy inhaling as much icy air as he can into his lungs while his fingers scramble in the snow beside him. Unfortunately that not-feeling has given way to the realization that his current position is exceptionally cold.
“Where’s Bianca?”
If he’s going to die, he’s gonna die holding the only lady who never left him.
“We’ve got her,” Cadash promises. “And you. You’ve gotta drink this, though, or we’re never getting you back to Suledin Keep.”
Varric kinda wants to go back to Kirkwall instead, but he allows Cadash to lift the Elfroot potion to his lips while Solas’ fingers glow with magic. When he drops his head back to the snow, exhausted even though his aches are fading, his eyes fix on the lone, silent member of their party.
Cassandra stares down at him with an unreadable scowl. And in arms, cradled like she’s carrying a child?
His crossbow.
Varric should complain, but the potion makes his tongue thick and in his haze, it brings only one thought to his mind.
She couldn’t be in better hands.
After they get back to Suledin Keep, Varric’s got nothing better to do but relax and bask in the tender attention of pretty nurses in the room they’d cleared out for him inside the keep. The best part of recovering, after all, is impressing beautiful women with tales of dashing heroics.
Unfortunately, his nurse is less than impressed with him.
“Seeker, why are you here?” he asks for what must be the tenth time.
“Cleaning up your belongings.”
He can see that. She’s got most of his dirty laundry under one arm and her hand on her hip while she glares down her nose at him like he’s the one who told her to start.
“You are a mess. Who taught you to clean up after yourself? ”
“Well, your bedside manner is horrible, but I’m not complaining.”
“Despite evidence to the contrary,” she mutters, tossing the clothing in a basket while she bustles to the other side of the room.
She gathers up all the papers on the desk and Varric nearly re-breaks his ribs trying to get up to stop her.
“Seeker, those are personal.”
“If you get up, I will tie you to the bed.”
There’s a dirty joke there, one Varric kinda wants to make, if only to see her blush again. But that urge is damped down by the way her eyes swing to the papers in her hands and the way her brows climb up her forehead.
“Is this...poetry?”
Varric wishes the behemoth would have killed him.
“A creative exercise,” he insists. “Gotta keep the writing muscles sharp, you know.”
He’s not prepared for the soft, reverent touch of her fingers to the page. The way her eyes roam his words hungrily before she, reluctantly, puts them down.
“You need to rest,” she says quietly, looking away from him.
“Cassandra…”
She looks up at him when he says her name, but for the first time in his life, Varric’s not entirely sure what to say.
Maybe, for the first time in her life life, Cassandra does.
“I should apologize. I… I did not hear your warning. In battle, I… I throw myself into the opponent I face. So little else matters in that moment. I forgot to focus. You nearly paid the cost of my mistake.”
She looks so serious, so distraught, and Varric would do anything to wipe that recrimination off her features. Anything.
“Don’t worry Seeker, I’m sure I deserved it for something.”
“You do not!” Cassandra protests, glaring at him once more.
Varric clutches his chest theatrically. “Careful, Seeker. I’ll think you changed your mind about me.”
“I have.” She looks so grim, Varric would almost think this admission pains her. “I was wrong. Hasty. I… I should apologize for that, as well.”
Varric doesn’t want her to. So he holds out his hand. “Maybe we should start over, Seeker. I’m Varric Tethras. Author. Rogue. Terrible poet.”
Cassandra looks at his proffered hand for a moment, then another, before she reaches out to take it and squeezes his hand. Varric feels it the whole way in his stomach.
“Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. And I happen to enjoy poetry.”
Interesting. Very interesting.
Maybe he can make her turn that pretty crimson color after all.
“Then maybe I should tell you that your skin glows with the light of the Ferelden dawn?” he asks, lowering his voice to a near whisper.
Cassandra snatches her hand away, sputtering indignantly and turning a pretty shade of pink.
“You are impossible.”
Yes. He is. But honestly?
At least she’s listening to him now. Maybe, if he’s lucky, she’ll never stop.