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My lover's got humour; he's the giggle at a funeral.
Haven was a devastating blow for the entire Inquisition.
Standing shoulder to rib, looking up at the Herald, Varric Tethras and Cassandra Pentaghast stood in silent contemplation for the reading of names of those lost to blades and flames.
They were silent until one Corporal Bonner’s name was called, and a slip of the tongue had them both desperately trying to contain themselves.
It shouldn’t have been funny.
It wasn’t funny.
That damnable dwarf had a way of breaching her containment. Bastard.
Knows everybody's disapproval.
After a long day of dodging complaints from the mages, the templars, the cooking staff, the dignitaries, Cassandra would collapse into bed, hoping her pillow would produce the crinkle of parchment.
Varric would leave her little notes about the goings-on at Haven. She was sick to death of the impression that she was the one to gripe at, but his notes were always a treat. The outside of the humourously wax sealed parchment scroll was always labelled the same way: you didn’t hear this from me. He made a point of sealing it with a stamp he picked up at a pawn shop in Kirkwall because, and she could hear him say it in her head, “ It belonged to some noble with the initials O.O. It looks like tits, Seeker. See! You can laugh! You’re allowed! ”
In truth, those notes got her through the long days of doing work she wished she could delegate to Ambassador Montilyet.
If the heavens ever did speak, he's the last true mouthpiece.
He was always a talker. Flowery stories, bald-faced lies. Cassandra assumed that was the reason he stayed clean-shaven. She would huff, groan, loathe to give him the satisfaction, but she would catch herself turning his words in her brain like meat on a spit.
As much as they bickered, he never made her sound a fool. He described her as “an absolute wall of woman, cutting down everything in her path like it was nothing, ” or something about how “I’ve seen her covered in blood plenty of times, none of it’s ever been hers though -” with a tone of such jovial reverence that even she could appreciate her own heroism. She would roll her eyes and keep walking, but a little slower, to maybe hear the end of the tale. He could snatch the attention of anyone. He may be dwarven, but that was magic .
She thought about the dining hall, with his hair catching the gold firelight as he regaled young recruits with stories of their exploits, speaking about her like she was the Bride of the Maker herself. Bastard.
It is a complex thing to separate worship in one area from detestation in another. The artist from the art, Josephine said. But it was not possible for Cassandra to split the two when the art lived on her bedside table and the artist across the dining hall. Long before Divine Justinia sent her to Kirkwall to find him, she had devoured his stories. Her most stalwart companion on long treks. She could kill Varric the man, but she could kiss Varric the storyteller.
Dashing swordswomen, tantalizing lovers, courtly intrigue that would make your head spin - Varric Tethras had a command of the common tongue like she had never seen.
In the daylight, she would scoff, roll her eyes, make a show of how much she disliked him, but the Varric she deflected blows for and the Varric that effortlessly pulled her along the threads of his tales was a different man entirely.
In her tent, late in the evening, lit only by candles, she would carefully remove her worn copy of Swords and Shields, and imagine herself the Knight Captain. She would never admit to imagining the handsome Guardsman as a dwarf.
I should've worshipped him sooner.
Thousands of hours over eight years. That was how long she put up with Varric. Through sandstorms in the Wastes to tossing him out of the paths of giant’s boulders in the Graves, she put up with him.
But every night over campfire dinners, he would regale them with his adventures with the Hawke that never made print because his editor thought they were unimportant. He would see her roll her eyes and continue a flowery description, somehow knowing she was eating out of his hand. She could not help herself.
She owned every edition of every published work he’d created. She also had her prized possession - a leatherbound book, the last volume of Swords and Shields. The only print.
He had made a show of how much it was the Inquisitor’s idea, lobbing insults as he presented it. At the end of the day she had to wonder if he hated her so, why write such a beautiful and terrible story, just for her?
Perhaps Varric the man and Varric the storyteller were not so unalike.
Every Sunday's getting more bleak, a fresh poison each week; we were born sick, you heard them say it.
Varric sat alone on a pew in the Chantry, listening to the Chant in a moment of quiet contemplation. Sunbeams cascaded through impossibly tall stained glass windows, bathing the Sister in magnificent golden light. The Canticle of Erudition rang through the marble hall. “The first of the Maker's children watched across the Veil,” she sang, “And grew jealous of the life they could not feel, could not touch. In blackest envy were the demons born.”
My church offers no absolutes.
Heavy footsteps fell on the stone floor. He looked up to see Cassandra Pentaghast out of armor; a rarity. She wore the usual fair, a linen shirt buttoned to the neck and light wool breeches tucked into her boots.
She took the seat beside him, her knee gently grazing his. She bowed her head in prayer, steeling herself against the heat creeping up her neck.
He bowed his head as well, eyes closed in reverence, but not to the Maker.
She tells me, "Worship in the bedroom."
It happened exactly once. Drunk on whiskey and victory, they stumbled up the stairs to Cassandra's quarters, a mess of laughter and jokes and hands. Cassandra could have sworn that Josephine had selected the particular wine in the fountains for her, specifically. She was always telling her that she needed to let loose.
Cassandra took his hand, guided him towards her room above the quartermaster. “Morris was dancing on a table, last I saw,” she said, cheeks flushed. The liquor on Varric’s breath set her aflame.
“He’s a terrible dancer. Should be there at least another hour,” he laughed, taking the lead. A couple of steps was all it took to put them face to face. “Listen, Seeker, I -”
She closed the distance in a moment of incredible bravery, leaning her forehead against his collarbone.
“We shouldn't,” she whispered into his neck.
“We really shouldn't,” he whispered into hers.
They shouldn’t. But they did.
The only heaven I'll be sent to is when I'm alone with you.
The next morning came, and he stealthily made his way out her window to the battlements, movements clumsy and laboured - surely just from the hangover.
She laid in bed an extra hour, counting the planks in the ceiling, her head pounding.
He watched the sun rise brighter than ever before.
I was born sick, but I love it.
It is a curious thing, to believe in the Golden City and believe even more that you do not deserve to see it.
Command me to be well.