Work Text:
“So,” Hawke said conversationally.
Varric glanced up from the letter he’d been reading. “So?” But Hawke wasn’t looking at him. He followed Hawke’s gaze. When he saw that the object of Hawke’s attention was Cassandra Pentaghast, striding purposefully across the throne room, his expression shifted in a way that Hawke recognized. She gave him her best shit-eating smile when he looked back to her, her eyebrows waggling. “Hawke. No. Definitely not.”
“Why ever not?” she asked, all faux innocence.
“Trust me,” Varric muttered, looking back down at his letter.
“Look, I get that you’re still upset about everything — ”
“What, being interrogated and press-ganged?” Varric did not look up from his letter.
“Oh come, Varric. ‘Press-ganged’?” Hawke waved her hand dismissively. “You wouldn’t still be here if you didn’t believe in what they’re doing. But stop changing the subject. The circumstances of your meeting her notwithstanding, what’s not to like?” Varric was shaking his head. Hawke watched as the Seeker passed by, on her way out the keep’s main doors, unashamedly watching the woman’s shapely ass as she left the building. “She’s gorgeous, of course. And when she talks to most people, she’s so sure of herself. Confident. Righteous.” Hawke grinned at Varric, who was still ignoring her. “Then she gets all flustered when she talks to me. It’s adorable.”
“There is nothing adorable about Cassandra Pentaghast,” Varric said, pointedly looking at his letter. “And you have that effect on people, Hawke. Most folks get a little giddy when they meet the Champion of Kirkwall.”
Hawke laughed. “Even the Hero of Orlais? Even the Right Hand of the Divine? Well, if I have that much power, shouldn’t I be using it for something fun?”
Varric sighed, finally looking up. “Hawke. Drop it.”
“But — ”
“Let it go.”
Hawke shook her head. “You’re no fun, Varric.” She pushed herself up from her chair and walked toward one of the side doors, Varric shaking his head at her departing form.
* * *
Hawke had no intention of letting it go, of course. But if Varric wasn’t going to cooperate, she would just have to find someone more supportive of her amorous shenanigans.
Inquisitor Adaar was certainly… memorable. It had taken a bit of getting used to, speaking civilly to a towering Qunari. Of course, this one was a Vashoth, Hawke reminded herself. Her personality and general demeanour was as different from the Arishok as was possible. If anything, Adaar reminded Hawke of Merrill, insofar as a seven-foot-tall, muscle-bound warrior could ever remind anyone of a diminutive Dalish elven mage: a little loopy, unexpectedly kind-natured, frequently baffled by human behaviour.
So… possibly not the best person to be asking about the object of Hawke’s interest. But Adaar was the only person at Skyhold (aside from the stubborn and fun-averse Varric) with whom Hawke had more than a nodding acquaintance.
She found the Inquisitor in the training yard with some of the recruits and Knight-Captain Cullen — wait, no, Commander Cullen. She sidled up to the pair of them. “Hullo, Inquisitor, Commander,” she said, receiving a nod from each before they both turned back to watching the recruits. Hawke cleared her throat; Cullen glanced at her, but Adaar didn’t appear to react. Hawke tried again. “Er, Inquisitor… Adaar. Might I have a word?”
Adaar looked at her. “You need to speak with me?”
“Yes. I mean, it isn’t urgent. I wanted to ask you about… something.”
Adaar glanced at Cullen, who said, “I have this lot well in hand, Inquisitor. Go ahead.”
“Thanks, Commander,” Adaar said, nodding, and followed Hawke to a more secluded spot by the curtain wall. Turning to Adaar, Hawke offered a smile; the Vashoth returned the smile after a second or two, as though belated remembering that this was the appropriate response. Damn. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Still, some of the best things in Hawke’s life had come about from her worst ideas, so.
“So,” Hawke began. “About the Seeker.”
Adaar merely looked at Hawke impassively.
“She’s… impressive. Isn’t she?”
Adaar blinked. “I suppose so. Cassandra is sort of a force of nature,” she said.
Hawke nodded, smiling. “To say the least. So, is she seeing anyone?”
“Seeing… anyone?” Adaar’s brows furrowed. “I do not believe her eyesight is at all deficient, so — ”
“No, no, I mean, is she… ah, well, I’m not sure if you even have this among the Tal-Vashoth. Is she involved in a, a liaison with anyone? A romantic liaison,” she clarified.
Adaar continued to look perplexed. “I… do not believe so?”
Hawke rubbed her hands together. “Great! Good. I’m glad to hear that, very glad.” She glanced sidelong at Adaar. “So… you know the Seeker pretty well, yes?”
“Oh! Yes,” Adaar said nodding. “She is a strong fighter. She sometimes leaves her flank open to attack when she slams her opponent with her shield. She favours heavy greaves so that she can fight with her shield raised — ”
“Right, yes, but what about off the battlefield?” Hawke interrupted. “What does she like when she’s not bashing things with her shield?”
Adaar appeared to give this some thought. “Blueberry tarts,” she said after a moment. “She does not often partake of sweets, but she always does when there are blueberry tarts.”
“Perfect!” Hawke smiled encouragingly. “What else?”
“She enjoys reading novels,” Adaar offered.
“Novels — like, books of stories?”
“Yes.”
“Huh! I would not have expected that,” Hawke mused.
“She is especially fond of Varric’s work,” Adaar added.
“What?” Hawke exclaimed, laughing. “She actually likes his boilerplate garbage?”
“I… I think so, yes. She was impatient for the latest chapter of a series called Swords and Shields.” Adaar paused while Hawke was again overcome by mirth. When she recovered Adaar continued, “I asked Varric to provide her with an advance copy of the most recent instalment, which we gave to Cassandra. She appeared very happy to have it, and I have seen her reading it, and other books from the series, from time to time.”
Hawke let out a low whistle. “I’ll be buggered,” she said quietly. “She’s a closet romantic. That is adorable.” She clapped the Inquisitor on her shoulder — well, more like her solidly-defined bicep, Hawke couldn’t quite reach her shoulder — saying, “Thanks so much for your help!”
“You’re welcome,” Adaar said automatically, though she looked a little baffled as Hawke strode off.
* * *
“Varric, you lying little pustule,” Hawke said amicably as she approached where Varric sat by the one of the fireplaces in the throne room. He apparently hadn’t moved since Hawke had left earlier, though he was now writing something instead of reading.
She seated herself across from him. “You didn’t tell me that the Seeker likes your books!”
“Hawke…” Varric said warningly, though he looked resigned, and was setting aside his writing tools.
“And Swords and Shields no less! What terrible taste she has! Although that just works in my favour, eh?” She quirked an eyebrow at Varric.
“I didn’t lie about that,” Varric said.
“You didn’t tell me!”
“You didn’t ask.”
“Well I’m asking now. Come on, a famous wordsmith such as yourself must have another chapter up his sleeve….”
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Hawke. The last one was rushed out as a favour to the Inquisitor, and I never intended to write even that much more in the series.”
“Please, Varric?” Hawke asked. “Come on, I need something to get her attention!”
“She pays you plenty of attention, Hawke,” Varric said, a small smile fighting its way onto his features. “When she spots you, she can’t take her eyes off you. When you speak, she’s rapt. You don’t need any gimmicks, just go talk to her.”
Hawke preened a little at the implication that she’d already caught Cassandra’s eye. But no — it wasn’t enough. “That’s not enough, Varric,” she said out loud. “She’s a woman of refinement. Full of romantic sensibility. That’s your strong suit, not mine. Look, it doesn’t have to be a new book. Just write me something I can read to her that will sweep her off her feet. Something sweet and sentimental and all those other things The Randy Dowager calls your books.”
“I’m not sure The Randy Dowager has ever used language that delicate,” Varric said.
“You know what I mean,” Hawke said, waving her hand. “Come on, Varric. Do it for me, your dear and cherished friend.” Hawke reached across the table and took both of Varric’s hands in her own. “Please?”
Varric sighed. “All right, fine. Only because I know you’ll be completely insufferable until you get your way. Give me a day or two, and I’ll write you something that’ll melt even the stone-cold heart of Cassandra Pentaghast.”
Hawke got up from her chair, and leaned across the table to kiss Varric’s forehead. “Thank you! I’m sorry I called you a lying little pustule.”
“No you’re not,” Varric said, amused.
Hawke shot him one last grin before walking off. She had to go see the kitchen about some blueberry tarts….
* * *
Early that evening, Hawke lingered in the gloaming-shadows of the chantry-yard. Cassandra came out from the chantry right on time. Hawke emerged from where she’d been standing, half in the shrubbery, on a path that would intersect with Cassandra’s. She tried to walk casually.
“Ah! Champion! Good evening,” Cassandra said, catching sight of Hawke. She looked so flustered and adorable that Hawke’s heart actually skipped a fucking beat.
“Uh, yes, good evening,” Hawke said. “I said you should call me ‘Hawke’, remember?”
“Yes, of course, I apologize,” Cassandra said, sounding horrified.
“Oh, no, no need to be sorry! I mean, you can call me whatever you want,” she said, raising an eyebrow and trying to sound flirtatious… and failing miserably, judging by Cassandra’s mortified expression. She cleared her throat. “If you like, you could call me ‘Marian,’ I suppose,” she went on, trying to salvage her dignity. “But only my mother calls me that, really.”
“I see,” Cassandra said uncertainly.
Maker’s breath! Why was her charm failing her now? “I was… just heading to the tavern,” Hawke said, after casting about for something clever to say and failing. “Would you care to join me?”
Cassandra flushed crimson across her cheekbones. “Thank you… Hawke. I… thank you, I… yes. Thank you,” she said again.
Well, at least Hawke wasn’t faring appreciably worse than Cassandra herself. She and Cassandra fell into step. “Nice evening,” Hawke remarked.
“…Yes,” Cassandra agreed.
“It looked like it might rain earlier,” Hawke went on, “but then it cleared up.”
“Yes.”
“Might still rain tomorrow, though.”
“…Indeed.”
Hawke felt like ripping out her own tongue and then beating herself about the head with it. She took a careful breath, then said, “Well, if it doesn’t rain tomorrow morning… perhaps you would spar with me a little?”
“Spar? With you, Ch — Hawke?” Cassandra looked scandalized.
“Yes!” Hawke said, grasping at straws. “I’m a bit out of practice. Haven’t unsheathed my daggers in weeks. It’d do me some good! That is, if you don’t have anything else — ”
“Yes!” Cassandra blurted out. “That is — no, I do not have any other engagements.”
“Splendid!” said Hawke. “I hope you’ll go easy on me,” she said, flashing what she hoped was a charming smile at the Seeker. “Though I must say, it will be an honour to be bested by the Hero of Orlais.”
“Oh!” Cassandra flushed again. Hawke’s smile widened. “I’m sure that you will be more than a match for me… Hawke.”
“Oh, I hope so,” Hawke said, laying on the innuendo. Cassandra, if possible, blushed even harder, her eyes firmly on the path in front of her.
At the tavern (far too clean and well-lit to be a proper tavern, Hawke thought, but it would do) she became rapidly separated from Cassandra. Any number of people, some of whom she’d already been introduced to, others new, wanted to talk to the Champion of Kirkwall. It was hard to deny that Hawke enjoyed the attention, enjoyed the banter and camaraderie. She had assumed that it would be easy to find Cassandra again after a few drinks and a few conversations, but when she started looking around the tavern in earnest, the Seeker was nowhere to be found.
Well, damn. Still, Hawke thought with a smile, she had the sparring engagement tomorrow. And the blueberry tarts that a giggling cook had promised her in exchange for signing his copy of The Tale of the Champion. And Varric’s purple-prose speech that he was writing for her. Tomorrow, Hawke thought, was going to be so much fun.
Hawke was about to buy another round for the table she was sitting at when she felt a gauntleted hand grasp her forearm. Hawke immediately recognized Sister Nightingale, despite the cowl she had drawn up over her head.
“Champion,” Leliana said, her soft voice somehow permeating the general racket of the tavern. “If I might have a word.”
Hawke didn’t know Leliana well, but she certainly had quite a reputation — the Left Hand of the Divine was not a woman to be dismissed. She nodded, then followed the woman out of the tavern. She was walking quickly, not checking to see if Hawke was following.
Leliana led them into the main keep, then up several staircases into what Hawke guessed had to be Skyhold’s rookery. It was dim and smelled of bird. Ominous squawks and flapping wings sounded from the shadows. Hawke involuntarily hunched her shoulders — you never knew when some feathery arsehole might take a dive at you.
Leliana turned to face Hawke, her expression unreadable under the shadows of her cowl. Whatever buzz Hawke had built up over the course of the evening’s drinking and merrymaking was, by now, thoroughly doused. She waited for whatever it was Sister Nightingale had brought her here to say to her.
“The Inquisitor tells me that you had some questions about Seeker Cassandra,” Leliana said conversationally.
“…Yes?” Hawke said uncertainly. She knew that Leliana and Cassandra had worked together for years, Left and Right Hands of the Divine. Was Sister Nightingale being protective of Cassandra? Jealous? Or just curious about Hawke’s curiosity?
Leliana tilted her head and peered at Hawke. After a moment, she said, “Cassandra is a friend. And I value my friends greatly.”
“Friendship is important,” Hawke agreed, still unsure about what Leliana was getting at.
Leliana let the uncomfortable silence linger for a moment. Hawke fought the urge to fidget. “Cassandra is formidable and resilient. But she can be hurt, particularly when she allows her heart to be moved.” Leliana’s gaze pierced into Hawke. “If you are going to pursue her, you must do well by her.”
Hawke offered a disarming smile and shrugged. “You’ve found me out, then.”
“Hmm.” Leliana walked over to where one of her enormous damned birds sat perched on the back of a chair, and ran a gentle finger over the crest of feathers on its head. “I would not wish to see Cassandra toyed with. If you are serious about this, you must be prepared to follow through, earnestly.”
“I — ” Hawke hesitated. “I actually am very fond of her,” she admitted, surprising even herself. “She’s really lovely to be around. And one can’t help but admire her. Even before I came here, I knew all the stories about the Hero of Orlais. Did she really ride a dragon into another dragon?”
Leliana favoured Hawke with a small smile. “You will have to ask Cassandra about that,” she demurred. “Be kind to her,” she said, her voice taking on a note of command. “Respect that her desire for romance defines her as much as her skill in battle, or her faith in the Maker. Treat her badly, and I will hear about it,” she added with the edge of a threat.
“Right. I suppose you would know about everything that goes on here,” Hawke mused. “You’re the Inquisition’s spymaster, aren’t you? All that cloak-and-dagger business. ‘The queasy crow flies at midnight,’ and such.”
Leliana raised an eyebrow. “I am the Inquisition’s seneschal,” she said. “That is… my official title. But you are correct — I do always know what goes on at Skyhold, and elsewhere. And, as I said, I will know if you do not behave yourself with Cassandra.”
Hawke grinned. “So this is a case where the Left Hand does know what the Right Hand is doing?” Leliana cast a withering look at her. “Oh, come on! That was funny!”
Leliana rolled her eyes. “And original, too.”
“All right, all right.” Hawke raised her hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I understand. I’ll do well by Cassandra, I swear.” She couldn’t quite suppress another smile, despite Leliana’s disapproving glare. “So does this mean you think I’ve got a shot?”
“Cassandra… does not usually consider women as potential romantic partners,” Leliana said. “However, she was already half enamoured with you before she even met you. I think that, unless you do something truly stupid, her heart is yours to lose.” Her gaze became pointed. “See that you don’t lose it, Champion.”
“Oh, I’m always careful with my favourite things,” Hawke said, smiling.
“I hope so… for your sake as well as hers.” This was said in a tone that indicated that Hawke was dismissed. She turned to leave. “Oh, and Hawke?” Hawke glanced back to where Sister Nightingale stood, shrouded in shadows. “She likes roses.”
Hawke grinned, nodded, and started back down the winding staircase.
* * *
Hawke grunted as she deflected yet another blow. She generally preferred to dodge rather than parry with her twin daggers, but Cassandra was fast despite her large shield and heavy sword. They were both using blunted practice weapons, of course, but Hawke knew from experience that she did not want to take a full hit even from a blunted sword. Her arms already smarted from her thus-far successful defence.
Cassandra pulled back, watching Hawke from behind her shield. Hawke danced away, keeping her feet moving, her stance limber. She observed the way Cassandra moved, how she held her body during attacks and parries; Hawke was looking for a way to get past her defences and land a hit, but Cassandra was very good, and presented almost no openings.
Well, Hawke was also very good, she thought with a grin. Without altering her movements, she watched for the right moment to unleash a whirling flanking attack that would (if it worked) cause Cassandra to position both her shield and her weapon in a way that would allow Hawke to get in a major, bout-ending blow to her exposed side.
Two minutes later, Hawke was on her back, coughing from having the wind knocked out of her, with the blunt tip of Cassandra’s sword inches from her nose. She closed her eyes and groaned. The crowd that had gathered to watch the Hero of Orlais spar with the Champion of Kirkwall broke into a smattering of applause.
“Champion! Are you all right?” she heard Cassandra ask.
She opened her eyes, and grinned up at the Seeker’s worried face. “Never better,” she croaked. “Getting knocked on my arse every so often is good for me,” she went on, pushing herself up on her elbows, “or so my first army Commander always told me.”
Cassandra let her practice sword drop to the ground and held out her hand, which Hawke accepted. She found herself rapidly hauled to her feet in an uncalculated show of the warrior’s strength.
“I apologize,” Cassandra told her. “That last blow was… rather harder than called for in a casual match between associates.”
“No, that was mostly me,” Hawke replied, not letting go of Cassandra’s hand. “Not really my brightest idea, trying that spinning attack. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s a brilliant move,” she said, smiling crookedly, “and it works like a charm against most shield-and-pointy-weapon types. Opens them right up for a nice stab or two to the flank. But you.” Hawke shook her head in frank admiration. “You are fast. And, well, my own momentum probably knocked me down as much as your shield did.”
“If you say so,” Cassandra said dubiously. “I still should have maintained more control of the strike.”
“Well, if you want to make it up to me,” Hawke said cheerfully, placing Cassandra’s hand into the crook of her elbow, you can come join me for a bit of a picnic.”
“A… picnic?” Cassandra repeated hesitantly. She was still wearing her shield on her left arm.
“Yes! Nothing grand, just a bit of a sit-down, a bite to eat,” Hawke said. “Ought to keep taking advantage of the nice weather, right? Besides, you and I haven’t had a chance to really talk, have we? It feels like it’s been nothing but business since I arrived. And you did disappear on me the other night at the Herald’s Rest. You owe me a real conversation!”
“I…” Cassandra looked uncertain. She glanced around, but the crowd had dispersed by then and they were mostly alone in that section of the yard.
“I want to know all about you,” Hawke said, tugging Cassandra’s practice shield off her arm to let it drop unceremoniously to the ground with the sword and Hawke’s discarded daggers. She took Cassandra’s unresisting hand back into the crook of her arm and began leading the woman to a different section of the yard where Hawke had stashed an old blanket and the blueberry tarts she had collected from the cook earlier that morning. “I’m dying to know — did you really ride a dragon into another dragon?”
Cassandra looked pained. “Dragons are not… ugh. No, not as such. The story has been grossly exaggerated.”
Hawke laughed, delighted. “Tell me about it!” she said sympathetically. After a shrewd glance at Hawke, Cassandra gave a brief account of the events during the attempted assassination of Divine Beatrix III. Hawke thought Cassandra’s account hewed more closely to the actual reality of high dragons, to say nothing of the natural laws of motion, and she said as much to Cassandra, who gave a low laugh.
“But all of that was long enough ago, it doesn’t matter,” Cassandra said. “Your exploits in Kirkwall are much more recent. I have mostly heard — and read — about them from Varric, and I do not trust that dwarf any further than I can throw him.”
“You’d be surprised how far you can throw him” Hawke quipped. “He’s surprisingly tossable, at least according to the proprietor of the Hanged Man.”
“I will have to take your word for that,” Cassandra said, looking both amused and appalled.
“Oh, please do!” Hawke said brightly. “Why, the stories I could tell you about him. I — ” Hawke cut herself off as they were approaching the little stand of trees where she had earlier stashed her picnic supplies. Something there was moving. With a sudden shout, Hawke let go of Cassandra’s hand and ran toward the trees.
A squirrel had gotten into the linen-wrapped bundle of blueberry tarts and the little arsehole was shoving one into its gob as fast as it could. As Hawke approached, it dropped the half-eaten tart, grabbed another in its jaws, and scampered up to the upper branches of the tree. Hawke scooped up the dropped partial-tart as she approached, and threw it as hard as she could at the squirrel. Her aim was good, but the damned rodent was too quick; it quickly jumped up onto a nearby roof and was gone. The tart hit the wall behind the tree with a wet splat.
Hawke stood hurling invectives at the vanished squirrel until a touch on her arm interrupted her. Cassandra was looking at her hesitantly. Hawke heaved an aggravated sigh. “Fucking squirrel stole my tarts,” she said irritably, pushing her hair out of her eyes. The Seeker’s eyes widened, her expression becoming unsettled. “What?” Hawke asked.
“I — I think you have some…” Cassandra trailed off, reaching a hand out to Hawke’s face. Hawke stood rooted to the spot and Cassandra’s fingers stroked her forehead… and came away with blueberry filling smeared on their tips.
Hawke stared for an instant, then burst into laughter. Cassandra did not join in, but gave an amused smile. “Well, that’s not so bad,” Hawke said. “Good thing it’s not my brains leaking out. My siblings always told me I didn’t have any to spare.” She did her best to wipe the blueberry filling from her forehead with her clean hand, then licked her stained fingertips. She tried and failed to avoid staring avidly as the Seeker brought her own fingers to her lips, cleaning off the filling with a few swipes of her pink tongue.
Hawke took a breath to recover her composure, then said, “Not to worry,” kneeling down to inspect the bundle beneath the tree. “Looks like the little bastard only got a couple, and I had a dozen of them from the cook this morning.” She shook out the folded blanket and spread it on the ground, then laid the remaining tarts out on the linen wrapping. “There! You’d never know we were pillaged by a fuzzy little monster.” She rose and performed an exaggerated bow, making a leg and holding out her hand. “A spread fit for a Nevarran princess!” she said, raising her eyebrows at Cassandra.
The Seeker snorted and rolled her eyes a little, and ignored Hawke’s hand. She seated herself cross-legged on the blanket. Grinning, Hawke joined her, offering her the tarts before partaking herself.
All in all, it was a pleasant way to spend part of the morning. They were tucked against the interior wall of the keep, under a few trees that provided shade when the sun emerged from behind the scudding clouds; since there was no real reason for anyone to pass by anywhere near them, they were not bothered. Hawke regaled Cassandra with tales (only slightly exaggerated) from her days in Kirkwall. The Seeker was a wonderful audience, always gratifyingly impressed by Hawke’s exploits, and able to converse intelligently about battles. Hawke flirted with Cassandra here and there, causing the Seeker to become flustered, which never failed to be unbelievably adorable.
They finished off all the tarts in short order — Hawke’s appetite had always been robust, and Cassandra apparently favoured blueberry tarts as much as Adaar had indicated.
“I didn’t know the kitchen had blueberry tarts today,” Cassandra remarked as they refolded the blanket. “They’re my favourite, you know.”
“What a stroke of luck!” Hawke said happily.
“Indeed.” Cassandra straightened and faced Hawke. “It was very pleasant spending time with you, Hawke, but I must see to my other responsibilities.”
“Of course!” Hawke said. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you. But…” Hawke smiled. “Perhaps we could have a rematch, at some point? A chance to regain my honour?”
Cassandra returned the smile. “Certainly, my friend. I look forward to it.”
Hawke’s smile widened. They started walking toward the keep’s main doors. “I won’t make the same mistake again, you know,” Hawke said. “I’ve been watching you train, watching you spar with the recruits. I’ve got your pattern almost figured out.”
“Oh?” Cassandra said, raising an eyebrow. “Perhaps I only wish you to think you have me ‘figured out.’”
Hawke laughed. “Not a chance, Seeker. You aren’t even remotely devious enough to pull that off. You’re like an open book to me.”
Cassandra made a derisive noise, but she was smiling.
“Just you wait,” Hawke said as they approached the main stairs. “Next time, Cassandra, I’ll be the one to have you on your back!” She couldn’t help but laugh again as the Seeker sputtered and flushed crimson. “Count on it!” she said, grinning, before dashing up the stairs.
Varric was in his customary spot by the fireplace in the throne room. Hawke tossed the folded blanket onto the table he was writing on, then collapsed into a chair across from him, still grinning helplessly. Varric glanced up. “You look entirely too pleased with yourself for my liking, Hawke,” he remarked genially.
Hawke theatrically clutched her chest. “I’m in love!” she exclaimed.
Varric rolled his eyes, setting his writing aside. “Uh-huh. I heard the object of your affections knocked you flat on your ass this morning.”
Hawke sighed. “She’s amazing.”
Varric gave a low laugh. “Unbelievable. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this smitten.” He paused. “Well, there was that one barmaid. The one who always had her tits pushed up under her chin.”
“As I recall, she always got good tips from you,” Hawke retorted. “And everyone else, really. It was a sound financial strategy.”
“The ‘tits-up’ financial strategy. I’ll keep that one in mind in future next time I get called to task by the Dwarven Merchants’ Guild.”
“It won’t work for you, I’m afraid. No one likes a set of hairy tits.”
Varric shook his head. “I can see why you need my help sweet-talking the Seeker. You’re way too crude to appeal to her if left to your own devices.”
“I am not!” Hawke protested. “I believe she found me downright charming today.”
“That’s because she loves hitting things,” Varric retorted. “Keep letting her knock you around, you’ll have her eating out of the palm of your hand.”
Hawke smiled and gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’d let her knock me around any day.”
“Well, you two certainly deserve each other. I hope I warrant an invitation to the wedding.”
“Of course, my dear friend,” Hawke said. “Especially since it’s your gilded words that will ultimately win me my bride. How’s it coming along, anyway?” Hawke asked, reaching for the page Varric had been writing out.
He snatched it out of her reach. “This isn’t that!” he said. “Besides, I can’t just crank these things out in a day. A love letter requires finesse — something you wouldn’t be familiar with.” Hawke gave an unladylike snort.
“Well don’t take too long,” said Hawke. “The only other thing I’ve got going for me is my availability as a practice dummy,” she said, jokingly, “and I’m not sure how much more of that I can take.” She stood to leave, grabbing the folded blanket as she did.
“Getting knocked on your ass every so often is good for you, Hawke!” Varric called after her.
“Why do people always say that to me?” she muttered as she left. Some days, a Champion just couldn’t get any respect.
* * *
Over the next week, Hawke sought out Cassandra several times each day. Usually it was just to say hello and spend a few minutes chatting while they were both en route to some task. But she managed most days to finagle some kind of special rendezvous: sharing tools as they both sharpened their weapons at the same table; snagging one of the few smaller, secluded tables in the Herald’s Rest and chatting over several pints of ale; conversing while ostensibly observing the recruits; standing in companionable quiet while watching the sun rise over the peaks of the Frostbacks from the curtain wall.
Hawke found she enjoyed Cassandra’s company more and more. Although at first the Seeker was still, apparently, a bit awestruck by the Champion of Kirkwall, she became more at ease in Hawke’s presence fairly rapidly each time they spoke, until there was almost no awkwardness between them at all (though Cassandra still became predictably flustered whenever Hawke became overtly flirtatious — this was still almost impossibly adorable, but even Hawke knew better than to push Cassandra too far by deliberately disconcerting her too often). They spoke mostly of practical matters, of their travels, of battles and strategy and fighting. But, more and more each day, Hawke learned about Cassandra, about the little things she liked or disliked, her opinions of her associates in the Inquisition, the importance of her Andrastian faith, her experience as a Seeker of Truth.
Early on, Hawke had been smitten, struck by the Seeker’s physical beauty and amused by her self-seriousness. But by the end of a week of paying concerted attention to Cassandra, she was very sincerely infatuated. She had not been able to procure any more blueberry tarts for love nor money, but she did manage to get treats from the kitchen almost every day to share with Cassandra at some point. And she had located a flowering rose bush tucked away in a sheltered and overgrown alcove in the chantry-yard, though she was holding off on actually presenting the Seeker with flowers. Hawke had begun to take this romance, such as it was, quite seriously (at least for her), and she found she wished to wait for the right moment for such an obvious gesture.
Late one afternoon, Hawke had finished washing up for the evening meal in the rooms they had quartered her in (the Champion of Kirkwall apparently warranted private chambers, and Hawke was nowhere near self-sacrificing enough to protest). She opened her door, thinking to head straight to the tavern to eat with whoever was around — and if Cassandra happened to be there, well, all the better!
The moment Hawke stepped through her door, she was pushed ungently back through it by Sister Nightingale, who pulled the door shut behind her. She turned and pierced Hawke with her icy stare. “Ser Hawke,” Leliana said, her voice low and deadly.
Hawke looked at the other woman nervously. “Sister Leliana…?”
Leliana narrowed her eyes at Hawke. “I thought we were in agreement that, if you were to pursue Cassandra, you would treat her well.”
“I — yes, of course.”
“And yet,” the spymaster went on imperiously, “when I spoke to her today, I found that she is distressed and hurt by your treatment of her.”
Hawke’s jaw dropped. “What?” she exclaimed. “She’s hurt? By me?” Hawke, having no reason to disbelieve Leliana, was genuinely horrified.
Hawke’s mortification seemed to mollify Leliana somewhat. “Admittedly, some of her distress is self-imposed,” she said, softening a little. “She is… shall we say, intimidated by your status.”
Hawke snorted. “The Seeker is intimidated? By me?”
Leliana inclined her head. “She is also under the impression that her feelings are entirely one-sided.”
Hawke stared at Leliana in confusion.
Leliana added, “Apparently, you’re being too subtle.” Hawke could only make a strangled noise at that. Even Leliana looked amused, offering a small smile. “It really is rather affecting to see her like this. ‘She is the Champion of Kirkwall, Leliana!’” the spymaster said, adopting what Hawke could only surmise was meant to be an imitation of the Seeker’s Nevarran accent, in a stricken tone. “‘Why would she even look twice at me? She does not mean her attentions, she is merely being comradely.’”
“…I don’t think I have ever met a spy so bad at doing impressions.”
Leliana’s expression turned stony. “Perhaps I am hiding my true abilities in that area, Champion,” she said icily, then sighed. “At any rate, this is easily resolved, I think. You just need to be more direct.”
“More direct? Any more direct and the Commander would have me clapped in irons for public indecency!”
“I suggest you find a way,” Leliana said, turning back to the door. “The Inquisitor is planning a mission, which will depart in the next day or two. Cassandra will be of the party. You are running out of time.” With that, Leliana opened the door and stepped through it before closing it again.
Hawke felt a sense of urgent panic rise up. “Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered, running her hands through her hair and pacing. More direct, she had to be more direct, make a bold move that even Cassandra couldn’t mistake. Sweep her off her feet.
That was it! Varric’s damned writing. Hawke had almost forgotten about it, she’d been so engaged with just talking with Cassandra on her own this last little while. It had seemed like it would be enough, just connecting naturally like that. But no, she needed something grander, bolder, more direct. Whatever florid drivel Varric had come up with for her was bound to work.
Glancing in the mirror, she smoothed down her hair with her hands, then dug in her trunk to find her nicest jacket, which she pulled on. She dashed out her door and down the hallway, jogging into the throne room. Thank the Maker, Varric was at his usual spot. She slapped both hands down on his table, drawing his attention from the book he had been perusing.
“Hawke?” Varric asked, sounding concerned.
A little out of breath, Hawke said, “Varric, the — the thing, that thing you were writing for me, for Cassandra — I need it. Now!”
“Hawke, what in the world is the matter?”
Hawke glared. “I need. The thing. Now.” She leaned forward, looming over Varric. “Now, Varric! The thing!”
A look of understanding came over Varric’s face. “You mean the bit of oration I penned for you, to woo the Seeker. Right. I finished that days ago. I thought you probably didn’t need it by then — I see the two of you together everywhere. Why do you need it so badly now? Did you mess things up with her?” Varric got up and moved to where he had a few drawers full of his papers and began rummaging.
Hawke collapsed into his vacated chair and moaned. “No! There’s no ‘things’ to mess up! I mean, I thought there was — were? — ‘things,’ but apparently she didn’t, and now there’s going to be a mission and I was told I need to be more ‘direct’ and so I need the thing, the thing you wrote, now. Yes!” she exclaimed, jumping up and grabbing the sheet of paper Varric was proffering. She kissed the top of his head. “Thank you thank you thank you!” she said, jogging out the main doors.
By then it was nearly dusk, and Skyhold’s yard was full of shadows. Hawke hopefully scanned the faces of the passersby, but Cassandra was nowhere to be seen. Wait… wait, of course, it was almost the usual time for Cassandra to finish up her devotions in the chantry! If she ran, Hawke was sure to catch her as she was leaving….
The chantry-yard was deserted, though Hawke could see the lights of candle-flames within the chantry. She huffed out a relieved breath. Yes, this was perfect. She had Varric’s little speech in her hand; the light of the evening was pink and soft with the torches giving everything a romantic air; the scent of flowers filled the air….
A sudden thought occurred to Hawke, and she quickly dashed to the overgrown alcove, finding the rose-bush. She selected several of the biggest, prettiest blooms, and carefully cut them with her belt-knife and trimmed off the thorns. She had nothing to tie the bouquet with, but that was a minor detail.
When she turned back to the yard, Cassandra was just coming out of the chantry door. Hawke stumbled forward, out of the shadows and onto the path.
The Seeker looked a little startled at her sudden appearance. “Hawke! …Good evening.”
Hawke stood motionless for a few seconds while Cassandra looked at her in increasing consternation. Then, abruptly remembering her purpose in being there, Hawke awkwardly tucked the roses under her arm, and fumbled to un-crease the paper Varric had given her.
She cleared her throat, suddenly nervous. “I… I have something to say to you,” she said. She took a deep breath, before she could lose her nerve, then began to read from the paper:
“‘Through the ages, tales of heroes have come to us, to inspire us and to teach us. Yet, I know of no hero braver, stronger, or more steadfast than you. The Chantry tells of history’s faithful, to guide us and to stir our hearts. Yet, I can imagine no faith as bright and shining as yours. The bards sing of love and of heartbreak. Yet, I knew nothing of love until I knew you, and knew nothing of heartbreak until I thought I might lose you.’”
Hawke paused. Andraste’s tits, this was bloody awful! She looked up at Cassandra, thinking perhaps she could make a joke to smooth this over.
Cassandra’s eyes were wide. One hand was clapped over her mouth, the other was pressed over her heart. She looked absolutely enraptured. Maker, she was actually enjoying this! Hawke quickly glanced back down at the paper.
“Um… ‘Your deeds and your legend inspire the world, and I admired and respected you long before I ever met you. But the very moment I first saw you, I was lost. My heart will never fully be mine ever again, for part of it will always be with you. Although I am unworthy, an arrogant twit, a puerile and loudmouthed undeserving wretch…’” (Oh, she was going to absolutely murder that dwarf for this.) “‘…I hope that you will accept my devotion, my affection, and my love.’”
Hawke let out a breath, then chanced a look at Cassandra. She had both hands pressed to her chest now. Her eyes were shimmering, and she wore a look of incredulous delight and hope. “Hawke…” she said tentatively.
Hawke awkwardly shoved the paper into her jacket pocket, then made to proffer the roses to Cassandra. But somehow she managed to lift her arm before her hand quite got there, and the unbound flowers tumbled to the ground. Hawke bit back a curse, and knelt to pick them up. Why, in the Maker’s name, did she have to fumble so badly when she most wished to be at least a little charming, a little suave?
As she moved to pick up another rose, a hand was laid over hers. She glanced up, directly into the eyes of Cassandra Pentaghast, just a few inches from hers. The Seeker was kneeling next to her. Hawke’s breath caught in her throat. Had Cassandra’s eyes always been this warm and luminous? Had her lips always been so ripe-looking and inviting?
“Hawke,” Cassandra said again. “Do you really mean this?”
“Yes,” Hawke whispered, her voice having completely deserted her.
Cassandra took up Hawke’s hand, twining their fingers together. Her smile at that moment was the sweetest and most beautiful sight Hawke had ever encountered.
“Oh,” she said, wonderingly. Then: “I would really like to kiss you now. May I?”
Cassandra, looking as anxious and thrilled as Hawke felt, nodded.
Hawke closed the distance between them and touched her lips to Cassandra’s. It wasn’t a passionate, desperate kiss; it was soft, sweet, slow. It was perfect. The scent of roses was all around, the stars were shining, the torches were glowing, probably fireworks were going off and children were singing happy songs and small animals were frolicking, and Hawke suddenly thought that maybe all this romance business was actually very nice after all.
* * *
Varric found the note on his table, and he recognized Hawke’s chicken-scratch handwriting at a glance. Picking up the note, he read: I am going to murder you. And then buy you ALL the drinks. xoxo MH
He chuckled to himself. It wasn’t exactly a surprise — he’d provided the little bit of written “encouragement” a couple of days ago, and the Seeker and Hawke had been practically joined at the hip since yesterday. And just this morning Varrick had heard that Hawke was planning to stay on with Inquisition, indefinitely.
He filed the message away with his other correspondence. Then he pulled out fresh paper and supplies, and began to write:
Rivaini,
You owe me ten sovereigns. And you’ll never guess the reason why she’s staying. Come visit and you’ll find out. It’ll be worth your while.
Give my love to Daisy.
V. Tethras
Varric smiled to himself. Glancing up from his work, he happened to catch sight of Hawke and Cassandra walking through the throne room, arm in arm, conversing intensely about something or other. He was struck with how gallant and noble Cassandra looked, and how smitten and devoted Hawke seemed as she looked at the Seeker. A few days ago, he would have said it was out-of-character for both of them; he himself would never have written such a ridiculous hack-y plot. Seeing it play out in real life, right in front of his eyes, was surreal — like what he imagined dreaming might be like — but Hawke looked so happy that her joy seemed to be rubbing off on him.
In fact… it gave him a really excellent idea for a story.
He set out a clean sheet of paper, and began:
“So,” Kestrel said conversationally.
The ruggedly handsome dwarf, Erick, glanced up from the letter he’d been reading. “So?”