Chapter Text
In hindsight, it really had been only a matter of time.
Numerous peoples from all walks of life, all coming to live in a cold, confined space; it was a damn miracle it hadn’t happened during the war with Corypheus.
But now the other shoe had dropped, and everybody was vomiting in it.
Varric scrunched his nose.
Even the Inquisitor had fallen victim to the virile stomach sickness, and the Commander was seen less and less in at his desk as he attended his beloved. Maybe it was the ex-Templar’s sheer willpower that kept him from catching the small plague, but he was one of the few humans whom hadn’t succumbed in Skyhold.
Him, and…
Varric smirked, catching her moving form as he wandered out into the sharp morning air after a long night of writing. His plans to return to Kirkwall weren’t dead per se, but it had been made clear he was still needed by the Inquisition by its leader herself, and he had been planning to chronicle all the ridiculous feats they’d managed to pull out of their asses, so there he stood on stairs leading to the great hall, taking in the visibly empty courtyard with exception to the Seeker.
It still was the wee small hours yet, but the lack of merchants and Skyhold staff usually bustling about morning chores was not lost on him. The illness was survivable, the healers had quickly assured, but it wasn’t easy to dispatch either, and between the fever and aches and losing every meal you just ate, full recovery took time.
Not for the first time he thanked his dwarven constitution and its resistance to most disease. He wasn’t surprised that Cassandra hadn’t succumbed either, she barely broke a sweat taking down dragons, something as silly as becoming sick to her stomach was well beneath her–
“Her muscles strain under the ache, breathing too hard. Nothing stays down, but must train, be ready–”
He might have jumped and swore before, but now Cole’s entrances garnered a mere jolt of his shoulders and a quick snap of his head.
“Cole, we’ve talked about looking in on other people’s heads, it’s not–”
“But she’s not well. She won’t let me help. She listens to you.”
Varric snorted.
“Since when has Seeker Cassandra ‘Disgusted-Noise’ Pentaghast ever–”
He’d turned back to watch the woman in question as he reprimanded Cole, and the rest of the spirit’s words sunk in.
What at first glance had only seemed to be her morning training as usual now seemed strained. Every slash of her sword and bash with her shield was stilted, as if holding the weapons up was struggle enough, much less using them. Even from a distance he could see how her chest rose and fell irregularly, just breathing under her armor a chore. Something was wrong, and his feet were moving down the steps before he realized it, Cole forgotten.
Stopping just short of sword-range, however, Varric sucked in a breath.
“Maker’s breath, Seeker, you look like shit.”
He wasn’t joking, either. Her normally striking features were taunt and a telling shade of green, crown-braid off center as she whirled on him, armor haphazard like she’d barely managed to strap it on.
Her mouth opened to give what he was sure was a scathing retort, but then her eyes widened as she lurched forward, weapons dropped, and she promptly threw up all over his shoes.