Chapter Text
Cassandra swirled the dregs in the bottom of her coffee mug, wishing it was her brain. If only she could think straight, and her thoughts could move, they could come to a decision about the remaining Hasmal Templars and declare the War Council meeting over.
Leliana had been staring at the flicker of light from Josephine's clip board indefinitely, as though asleep with her eyes open.
No doubt, this room was once used to store crates and books, for how unwelcoming it was. Perhaps the candlelight stifled their thoughts.
Cullen traced a crack of his mug with a thumb.
The Herald crossed her arms the other way. Lips pouted, she was the most alert.
"How about…" Ellana began.
"Yes?" Cullen said, hopefully, like she was considering the alternative to burning him alive.
"No…" she changed her mind. "That won't work either."
Cullen sighed.
"What is it, Herald?" Josephine quipped.
With such youthful exuberance, Ellana looked very much a child. She slouched. "Do you think you could help with the relief efforts, Cullen? And… maybe we can divert some of the lyrium."
"Excellent idea, your Grace," Josephine said. She wrote rapidly, "I will write to the Chantry in Hershel and with the Commander's assistance. I am certain their loyalties shall…t-turn to us."
"I hope so, Ambassador," Cullen remarked.
"I had another idea," Ellana said brightly.
"Oh. Yes?"
Josephine appeared afraid, perhaps dreading that the meeting was not yet over.
"Let's go to the tavern," she declared, "We've been cleaning non-stop for a week, and before I lose all my coin on something to repair my armour, I'd like to waste it on a drink or two."
"I think five drinks would be more suitable for you, Herald," Leliana said with a smile.
Why was celebration on the forefront of the Herald's mind? Surely having a glowing, green hand didn't mean her brain had somehow been affected? The elf didn't seem the type of person to regal. It seemed feckless.
It must be a joke.
"What?" Cassandra said, unamused.
All eyes turned on her.
Cullen laughed, "Cassandra… I can't believe you're making that face now. Your attitude is even worse than this morning, and I assure you, that was not a fair sight either."
"Thank you," she noted, hatred in her voice. If the decision was hers, she'd practice drills or write letters. Alcohol reminded her of the streets late at night in Grand Necropolis, where she'd spent her childhood, memories she'd rather elude. While she enjoyed wine from time to time, she had no desire for its bouquet tonight.
"I'll be very disappointed if you can't make it, Cassandra," Ellana posed with a knowing smile.
Disgust, contempt, feelings she knew all too well. The look in Leliana's eyes was unmistakable. The Spymaster wouldn't allow Cassandra to evade this social opportunity.
The table rattled as she slammed her mug down.
"Urg…"
Why do you never wear these dresses, Cassandra?" Leliana demanded, looking over one shoulder, then the other, like the mirror was playing a game with them. Her friend had adorned herself in a light blue dress. The carefree innocence the style radiated was a carefully placed lie.
Upon request (actually, pestering), Cassandra had hesitantly retrieved five such dresses from her tent, cramped at the very bottom of her belongings.
At least from the interior of Chantry quarters they could get changed without bumping their heads on the ceiling of a tent.
"So I do not have to listen to you, nor ruin the expensive fabrics while I train," Cassadra said.
It was only mildly serious, and she knew Leliana would interpret it that way.
"Oh yes, they are very expensive," she agreed. "Only a fool would sully them like that."
"Yes."
Was she that fool?
Silk cost a week's coin to repair if it was damaged, and she preferred to spend the currency on books.
Silence fell, where Cassandra couldn't decide if she felt more emotionally or physically uncomfortable in the violet gown.
"What about the black shoes? Cassandra, they are so beautiful!"
"I do not look forward to explaining to my uncle why they are putrid with alcohol and vomit the next I visit him - if he has not done something equally foolish in the past months."
"Ah." Leliana grinned. "You will not look pretty for the Commander, nor anyone, but your dear uncle? You lack a sense of pride about your appearance. I am so disappointed."
"You should be," Cassandra advised, "It is not like I will slice down a maleficar wearing such rare fabrics."
"Why do you keep these lovely clothes, if you do not wear them?"
Bustle - the scraping of chairs and voices - crossed the outside of the door. She looked down at the shoes delicately held between her friend's fingers, like they were made of gold.
There was only one type of person she was keeping these clothes for, a sole justification dust collected on the thread, and why she refused to part with them, even when she had limited space in her tent.
Cassandra desired to put on a dress, and subsequently, eventually, take it off, in the presence of a charming man who knew how to make her laugh.
The voices from the Chantry hall became louder.
They'd be an evening service soon. It was wise to leave.
"I do not know," Cassandra lied, and she pried them from Leliana's grasp, "though I will wear them tonight, for you alone, and no one else."
Leliana seemed pleased at the idea. She smiled smugly and assisted with closing the buckle on the black heels when Cassandra spent too long on them.
"Who knows? There might be a nice soldier in the tavern who thinks you are worth a conversation or his time."
Cassandra smiled, but she couldn't help but hold back a groan of indignation. If that miracle occurred, she had no doubt Leliana would squeal loud enough to rattle the ceiling.