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Moonlight burned the night sky with a ghastly, translucent blue as the fragrance of an early morning dew began to set in. Cassandra Pentaghast awakened from her many failed attempts at a restful night of slumber.
In the haze of being half awake and asleep, her first thought was that dawn was upon them, fooling her into thinking it was time to get back to work. Frustrated that she could no longer go back to sleep, and by Varric’s obnoxious snoring — the probable culprit of why she had awakened — she decided to go for a walk around camp.
While she was awake, she thought to herself it would be good to scout the area to make sure the perimeter was clear from any threats that might lurk the night, especially since it had been a moment since anyone was posted to keep watch.
It had already been a restless night and a rough end to a stressful day. With all that was on her and the Inquisition’s plate, a good night’s sleep was a luxury that was harder to come by these days. As she stumbled through camp, trying not to wake any of her companions, she noticed the Inquisitor’s tent open and absent of any occupants.
She has heard here say that he doesn’t sleep much or at all, which scared her that he was as high-functioning and level-headed as he is daily, if such things were true.
Was it the Mark? Does it bring him that much pain? Time since the Conclave has gone with haste, and what impact it has on him is more often ignored, even by the Inquisitor himself.
She knew Solas has helped tremendously with keeping the Mark’s power at bay, but it does seem that anything else, as of late, concerning it and its magic were kept exclusive between the two elven men. Something that irked the Seeker and invoked her innate suspicions.
Trust…
A word that popped into her head. Something, unfortunately, hard for Cassandra to have for anyone, even those in her closest inner circle.
“If we are to get out of this alive, you need to trust me,” she remembered him calmly pleading after grabbing a bow to defend himself during their first attempt to seal the Breach. To think, during that time, she was ready to execute him before he was conscious and dragged him into the fray without any means of defense.
A feeling of guilt filled her. The word trust once again crossed her mind. Something she demands so much of others to give, but gives very little of herself. Something that he, in particular, gave so freely to her and the Inquisition, even if much of it was due to survival.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of movement in the distance. With her hand lying on the hilt of her sword, she investigated the source. On the outskirts of the camp, there was a clearing sitting near the edge of a small cliff. At the heart of the view, the moon sat perfectly centered – full and bright.
She heard the sound once again, seemingly coming from inside the tree that nestled at the end.
It could be a small animal, she thought to herself. Or, a giant spider! She began to catastrophize.
The Inquisitor! She realized she was so lost in thought that she had failed to realize she still hadn’t seen him around. What if he is in trouble, and she failed her duties to protect the Herald of Andraste? She noticed a small light illuminate from the suspicious tree. She could make out a faint silhouette.
A spirit, maybe? No. She thought to herself. Even worse… A demon!
She readied herself to take on the camp’s trespasser, unsheathing her sword. A rather jesting and tired voice came from the tree. “By Andruil, the Maker, or whoever else, I hope you aren’t planning to charge me and this tree off the cliff.”
“It’s you,” she replied with some relief, pushing her sword back into the holster. “I apologize, Inquisitor. I did not mean to intrude. I was just scouting our base, making sure we were secured.”
“Of course… do you ever not work?” he teased.
The remark did give Cassandra some pause. When was the last time she took time to decompress? Not since picking up that smart-ass dwarf from Kirkwall? Does she even know how?
“Do you ever sleep?” she retorted.
He chuckled softly, “Ok, you got me.”
Her eyes now fully adjusted to the night, she could make out the elven man’s figure. His back relaxed against the trunk of the tree, one knee pulled up to his chest with an arm propped on top, and the other leg stretched out. The moonlight illuminated behind him.
The glow that had startled her was from him lighting his favorite oak pipe — a preferred leisure of his. It was filled with crushed elfroot. A weed he enjoyed picking in the wild to chew on during their travels. It was a sort of silly addiction of his that would occasionally provoke the ire of the Inquisition’s herbalists, who would prefer all of it to be only harvested for medicinal purposes. Even more so now that the Iron Bull and his band have slowly influenced the Inquisitor to pick up dragon hunting as a new, fun hobby.
“I should head back to camp. Again, I apologize for intruding, Your Worship.” Cassandra said as she began to turn back. He probably wanted privacy, she assumed.
“You’re not bothering me, Cassandra. You can stay if you want,” the Inquisitor said in a slight protest.
“Inquisitor, I should g…” Cassandra tried to decline, but the Inquisitor jumped in, knowing what she was about to say. “Well, you can stay, but with one condition: Please call me just Milo. None of that lordship formality you all like to throw at me. I’m never going to get used to that, nor do I wish to.” Still not giving her a chance to say no, he continues, “The moon is beautiful tonight. I wouldn’t mind the company of another night owl.” The insomniac takes another puff from his pipe.
“As usual, you are rather persistent.” Her cheeks were starting to feel hot. Her stomach began to flutter with excitement. Why does he seem to always have that effect on her?
The Seeker has always been guarded, never letting others too close. To her, it’s too dangerous. Anthony…. Justinia… Regalyan…. When she has truly cared for someone deeply, it has never ended well. As bad as she wanted to turn his offer down and push him away, she couldn’t. A part of her was drawn to him.
Resting her holstered sword and shield against the tree, she reluctantly finds a place to sit on the ground under the tree, and its branch Milo resides. For a moment, they both sat in silence, listening to the natural melodies of the night. She could smell the earthy, with a hint of fruity, aroma from the smoke of his pipe.
“I’m here. Now what?” Cassandra blurted, breaking the silence
“Nothing. I was maybe planning on meditating. You know? Looking inward, relaxing, balancing the humours… Something you seem to have an incredibly hard time with since you are so tense all the time.” She felt her brow twitch at the remark. He continued, “How about this? We start with an exercise. Breathe in and breathe…. OUCH!!!”
She threw an acorn at his head. “I’m very capable of mediation. It is heavily ingrained in my training as a Seeker.”
“Point taken,” he said with some amusement, rubbing his head with his free hand where the projectile hit. “You would make a good marksman. Maybe I can teach you how to hold a bow sometime.” The thought made the blush she had been trying to ward off finally fill her whole face.
“I can hold a bow just fine. I prefer sword and shield anyway,” she said in an attempt to decline his offer or at least steer the conversation elsewhere. “I have more control over the fight up close and in person.”
“Ah, so you should teach me how to use a sword and shield instead?” he suggested.
“Absolutely not!” she said, getting annoyed but slightly amused by the idea. “You would certainly die! Remember the Venatori knight that caught you off guard? He knocked you out so quickly. Dexterity does not equal strength. You are at your best in combat afar. You are a great hunter, but you are no warrior.”
“I appreciate your brutally honest assessment of my abilities,” he said with a laugh.
“You’re welcome,” she said dryly, trying to hide that she, too, wanted to let out a giggle. Alas, the wall she puts between herself and others must stand.
A moment of silence fell over them again.
She has faced many foes. From mad mages and templars, power-hungry Seekers, demons, and now this self-proclaimed Elder One, none of them scare her more than the comfort she feels in his company. She mustn’t jeopardize the Inquisition by getting emotionally attached to him. There is a likely chance he will not survive this… or even herself. Love is a selfish trap.
”If anyone is guiding me, it is you,” she remembered him saying to her. “Oh great, the blind leading the blind,” she retorted. “I don’t think you are blind,” he said as he reached out for her hand. The memory of the warmth of his grasp, a warmth she almost feels again at this moment. This cannot happen. She pulls her hand away from his. She snapped out of the memory.
“Actually, I do have something to talk about. You made Josephine cry for almost a week,” Cassandra finally blurted out. A few days back, their ambassador spilled her heart out to the Inquisitor. Leliana had strongly advised against her doing so. He apparently had said a few sweet things to her over time and sent her head over heels. However, this isn’t the first, or even second time, Miss Josephine Montilyet has walked into her own heartbreak.
He was again silent.
“I had no idea she felt the way she did,” he finally said. “I wasn’t trying to mislead her.” She could hear the guilt in his voice.
She, too, felt bad for bringing it up. Why did she even bring it up in the first place? That was uncalled for. Was she jealous? No, of course not. She doesn’t swoon easily… like Josie does. The many kind things he has ever said to her were just that. He was an unreasonable kind man; even to the woman who once called for his death.
She had to recover from the remark. “If it makes you feel any better, she has the tendencies of a hopeless romantic. You are by far not the first person she has done this to. She even had a crush on Cullen once.”
“Cullen?” he said with a bit more life in his voice and a touch of curiosity.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, beginning to feel like a gossiping Chantry sister. “Trust me, you were much gentler in your rejection than he was. She wouldn’t make eye contact or speak a word to him for a month.” She continued, “Leliana even made up a song to soothe Josephine with when these kinds of things happen.”
“She’ll live. Even if her world seemed like it ended for a moment.” She began to stare off into the night sky. Another moment of silence fell upon the two, and for a spell, her head was clear of thoughts. Proof that she could indeed mediate. The fragrance from the smoke of his pipe had long faded, marking the passage of time.
She looked up to check on her late-night acquaintance. He was looking at his hand, entranced by it. It was the very hand that bore the scar. “You said you believe this was for a reason?” He asked her without looking away from his palm.
“Yes. I do believe there is a purpose the Maker put you on this path. I want to believe there is some kind of reason why things happen the way they do. The moments that are cherished and the painful ones.”
It has been her conviction that has kept her going and made her stronger through her darkest times. Her faith is what kept her from falling into the pits of despair. This was not the first time she had engaged in this type of conversation with him. She knew he didn’t believe in the Maker or was saved by Andraste.
“She would have said the same thing,” he said softly as if he were only whispering to himself.
She…
When Cassandra came to Leliana to check on what had happened to Josephine to upset her so much, Leliana confided in Cassandra that she had come across in all the intel she had gathered on the Inquisitor — back when he was still just a prisoner — that he had a wife and child. All the spymaster knew was that his wife was human and that he had left his clan for a time to live with her in a small village in the Free Marches and raise their child.
Due to him being a Dalish living among humans, there was little record kept of his existence besides local Chantry records documenting a Chantry marriage, the birth of their daughter, and both the wife and child’s passing. Leliana had felt it was not necessary for the Inquisition, nor appropriate, to dig any further into the matter. In truth, Cassandra felt wrong for even knowing. Again, she thought about trust and the bridge this knowledge crossed. She decided to remain silent as her response.
“She was a very faithful woman. Similar to you, Cassandra,” his statement caught her off guard. “I wasn’t a devotee: To the Maker or to the Elven gods. The Dalish way of thinking was all I knew once, but I never liked living in the past. Even though I lacked faith in anything, something was enduring and beautiful about hers. She was certain of things.”
Cassandra continued to listen without saying anything. “I don’t want to live in the past…” he repeated. “But the past continues to haunt me. I yearn for it… for that life back now. Amelia and our little Iris. I fear I might forget their names one day. They were my world.” A brief silence followed once more.
“I went to the Conclave to die.”
“Inqui…” Cassandra stopped herself. She didn’t know what to say.
“I don’t know. Maybe Milo did die that day….” he curled his marked hand into a fist, finally looking away from it. Snapped out of his trance, he continued with some resilience, “I don’t believe I am chosen, but I do want to believe that this was all for a reason. Divine or not. At least, I want to have faith in that.”
He looked down directly at Cassandra, who was staring engrossed back at him. A warm smile came across her face, “That is all you need, my friend.” She could see his ear twitch and face relax after hearing her referring to him as a friend. Their gazes remained locked. He smiled a weak but humble smile back.
For the first time, she felt like she was truly seeing him. Though they were in the dark, the full moon gave her enough light to admire the details on his face. The worn look he tries so hard to mask, marked by his faded vallaslin of the elven god Andruil. A collection of scars that tells so many stories of a seasoned hunter. His skin was dark, and his hair pulled up in an almost mohawk braid tied into a bun in the back. His eyes were a majestic deep violet, similar to the color of dusk.
“I never spoke of any of this to anyone until now…” he said.
“Grief is a terrible burden. One you mustn’t carry all on your own. I know it too well myself,” she reflected. “I would do anything to bring back those I lost, but I continue despite. They would have wanted me to carry on. To live.”
“I’m glad you are still here, Milo,” she assured him.
She could tell by the look in his eyes the comfort that it brought him. “Thank you for listening, Cassandra. Thank you for being a dear friend,” he said sincerely.
Feeling another blush incoming, she broke her gaze from his. Looking down at the ground to hide it, she said in almost a mumble, “You’re welcome.”
She looked back at camp and then towards the moon, not wanting to leave. “Varric’s snoring is horrendous. I will not be able to sleep in my tent tonight.”
Milo chuckled, “So that is what I’ve been hearing!”
“It is horrible!” She said excitedly. And, at last, she allowed a laugh. “I want him to finish the next issue of ‘Swords & Shields.’ To ensure his well-being and, more importantly, my sanity, may I stay here for the rest of the night?”
“I would like that,” he said as he reached into his pouch to grab another pinch of elfroot to refill his pipe with.
Nothing else was spoken between the two for the rest of the night. They stared off into the moonlight, finding solace and fellowship in one another’s presence.