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The Maker is testing her. He must be.
Cassandra has felt this way for a while — since Lavellan was spat out from the Fade and into the waiting arms of survivor-seeking soldiers in the Temple all those months ago.
At first it was because Lavellan's an elf, one of the Dalish, even though Cassandra most certainly doesn't consider herself to be one of those violence prone individuals who go out of their way to attack the Dalish; verbally or otherwise. Those… slurs, all the derogatory terms aimed at elves, never left her lips, and her wrath only befalls those who deserved it. It's just— it's something that shook her belief, considering what the Chantry thought of elves, especially the Dalish, and Cassandra served the Chantry and worshipped the Maker with her whole heart.
However, just as wholeheartedly, she believed that He had sent Lavellan to them. She believed that Lavellan was indeed the Herald of Andraste; it was that title that she referred to the other woman as more often than not, and in that lay yet another doubt, another reason that lead her to think that the Maker's testing her. Her faith and devotion. Cassandra wasn't the only one who reacted in an admittedly uncouth manner — a Dalish elf, Andraste's Herald. Her mind wandered to Shartan then, whose canticle was removed from the Chant, whose name was taboo bordering on heresy in certain chapels, who some people wanted to erase from history entirely.
Cassandra wondered if the same would happen to Lavellan. If the world —the Chantry— would conveniently forget to mention that Thedas' salvation came to them in the form of a Dalish elf.
The very thought twisted her stomach into knots, for she saw how Lavellan threw herself into danger every single day, closing rifts and fighting whatever atrocity emerged from them despite the immense risk. She saw this elven woman fearlessly charge into battle and cut down men twice her size; bandits and sellswords and cultists and those abominable, mutated Red Templars. She also saw how the very people Lavellan fought for looked at her regardless, whispering knife-ear and Dalish savage and heretic behind her back. Lavellan was welll aware of all this herself, yet she did not retaliate. Cassandra found such two-facedness to be more blasphemous towards the Maker than the concept of a Dalish elf spearheading this movement. At least she did now. Before this whole mess, she'd never quite put much thought into anything like this, much to her embarrassment. Late is better than never, though, right? At least that's what she tells herself to ease some of that aforementioned shame.
She couldn't lie to herself and say that there wasn't an inherent sort of distrust within her own heart at first, and with a flush of shame, she often recalled the frankly insensitive question she'd thrown at Lavellan one day back at Haven; if there was space among her Elven Gods for the Maker. To this day, she can't forget the incredulous look that query had earned her, from Lavellan herself and a handful of Cullen's nearby trainees. Lavellan instead replied with a question of her own and a pointed glare— "Would that have prevented your Chantry's Exalted March?". Cassandra promptly shut her mouth, and Lavellan walked away. It took a good three days for her to speak to Cassandra in full sentences again, instead of that clipped tone that made the Seeker's heart ache.
And that was yet another reason that made Cassandra think she's being tested.
She's not sure when this started, exactly. When the first time she looked at Lavellan and found her breath caught in her throat or her heart flutter was, or when she first felt heat rise to her cheeks at the sight of this elven woman. Her beautiful figure —lean, but with just enough muscle definition to betray the fact that she's no stranger to frequent workouts and training— and the gorgeous smile that lights up the room, well taken care of hair and bright eyes that one could easily get lost into, smooth-looking skin and a deceptively cute face proudly adorned with those tattoos Dalish elves give themselves.
Catching the woman practice with her daggers one day had fully captivated Cassandra, who remained frozen on the spot and watched Lavellan move with a swiftness and a deadly accuracy that told an unspoken tale of extensive training that paid off wonderfully. More than wonderfully, if Cassandra is to be honest. As a Seeker, she too is very familiar with rigorous combat training, but there's just something to the way Lavellan moved during her daily drills that made Cassandra unable to tear her eyes away. Lavellan was a slight and lithe woman, not dissimilar to other elves, and she took full advantage of that; prioritized speed and surprise attacks and evasion, and Cassandra found herself thinking that those methods were strangely reminiscent of dancing. There was an odd elegance to it all, something that she herself could never achieve. She'd always been a hard hitting frontliner, not someone who could go unnoticed and make her fights look… Enticing, of all things.
Her mind wandered, planting a question in itself, of whether Lavellan could dance dance instead of battle dance. Cassandra could, due to her noble upbringing back in art-loving Nevarra. Though, it'd been a while. Should she ever muster up the courage to ask Lavellan to dance, perhaps when they went to that ball in the Winter Palace, she might make a fool of herself and—
As if it would get rid of such thoughts, Cassandra shook her head rapidly and went to turn around, to look away from the elf just as she stopped to catch her breath, wiping sweat off her brow. The Seeker stole a last glimpse, then proceeded to suppress any and all vulgar fantasies that flashed in her mind's eye; of her and Lavellan sharing a bed and pressing their bodies together, desperate and panting as they find pleasure—
Cassandra's blush is so deep that her cheeks burn, and she finally departs.
The Chantry doesn't exactly preach or enforce abstinence and celibacy, but Cassandra feels that all too familiar guilt creep up on her regardless. It'd been there within her for a very long time, likely since she first started with her Seeker training as a young woman, and she doubted it'd ever truly go away. Everything about her —her life, her mind, her heart and soul and her body— should belong to to her faith; to the Maker. That faith of hers is supposed to be unwavering, and she mustn't be tempted by these… desires of the flesh. She fantasizes anyway, she can't help it, and because of that she seeks solace in the one constant thing in her life.
It wouldn't be the first time, nor the last, that she kneels before a statue of Andraste until her legs are sore and tingly, with her shaking hands clasped in prayer so tightly that she almost fears she'll break her own fingers. Cassandra is no stranger to praying for mercy and guidance. For forgiveness.
Going to Mother Giselle crossed her mind, but the way she treated Dorian not too long ago lingers at the back of her head. Part of the Revered Mother's frankly unfair and somewhat cruel behaviour towards the man was because he was of Tevinter, that much Cassandra knows; however, a none too insignificant part was his admittance of preferring men over women.
When Cassandra learned of this, of Dorian's preference, she felt… Relief, oddly enough. He's certainly not alone in same-gender preferences among the 'inner circle', as Sera never bothered to hide that side of herself, and Iron Bull's just as open about enjoying the company of anyone who's willing. But that's exactly the thing — Dorian had been rather secretive about it at first, kept his attraction to men close to his chest, unlike the others.
Cassandra relates to that. Always has, and maybe always will.
She's known this about herself for a while, and although Nevarrans tended to be more open minded about this type of attraction, Cassandra's a noble. Nobles are expected to marry and have children to 'carry on the family legacy' —a ridiculous thought in general, especially in the case of the Pentaghasts, she thinks— and the thought of that had always made her sick. Figuratively, and sometimes literally; the mere idea of one day being wed to a man, having to… To lay with him and carry his children, was a thought that filled her with dread unlike any other and made her nauseous.
Thus, when she became Seeker Cassandra instead of being stuck as Cassandra Pentaghast, she felt like a massive weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Although guilt ate away at her, she used her newly acquired status as an excuse to turn down any and all marriage proposals, no matter the insistence of certain family members that it'd be 'highly beneficial'. For them, perhaps, but what of her? What of her happiness? Why must they put their benefit above what she wants for herself? Cassandra, more often than not, isn't the biggest fan of the surname attached to her for life.
(She would not mind being Cassandra Lavellan. It sounds better, nicer, she thinks when she's alone with her thoughts, whether that's in her room or once again lost in the way Lavellan's body moves and how she yearns to hear her melodic captivating laughter. This does not help with the near constant guilt within her; if anything, it only feeds it, exacerbates it even further.)
Briefly, Cassandra considered approaching Dorian about this. To admit her own internal struggle out loud would perhaps put her more at ease, lift yet another burden that she's been exhausted by hauling around for decades, but that idea of hers is a struggle in itself; how could she possibly justify her thought process to him? Maybe it'd come off as insensitive and he'd be upset about it, rightfully so. Upsetting people is the last thing she wants right now. What's she supposed to tell him anyway? Hey Dorian, I am also a noble who prefers the company of her own gender and could never be open about it, and the Inquisitor is the object of my desire. Any advice?
Dorian, Sera, and Bull are unapologetically themselves now. Cassandra's caught wind of Dorian and Bull indulging in… Certain activities together. Sera has taken a shine to one of the new soldier recruits, who seems to be receptive to it.
And Cassandra is… Jealous. She wishes she could do that too, wishes she could just— get over herself and these insecurities, go to Inquisitor Lavellan with the same confidence she's seen the others display, and tell her how she feels. Tell her all about how she yearns for her so deeply that she almost feels incomplete. In her wildest dreams, Lavellan reciprocates and runs into her arms, and all her worries melt away as she realizes she had nothing to worry about.
Cassandra once again buries those fantasies as deep down as they'll go. The Inquisitor has much more important matters to attend to anyway — as does the Inquisition itself, by extension. This… Foolish and childish crush of hers is insignificant in comparison, and highly unlikely to yield favourable results anyway. For all Cassandra knows, Lavellan doesn't even like women this way; besides, the Seeker's minimal knowledge of the Dalish isn't helpful whatsoever in this situation, as for all she knows a same-sex relationship might be something they frown upon at best, condemn or disown people over at worst. It's hopeless all around. She's hopeless.
The knot in her throat makes it hard to swallow, and the stinging in her eyes isn't exactly a great sign either. Her knees are starting to ache from the position she has adopted before Andraste's statue, and she's at least thankful for the fact that this is a very small room; just big enough for one person at a time to come in and pray or pay their respects. The door is closed behind her, which will deter anyone from entering and seeing her in this pathetic state.
It's unbecoming for someone like her to not only be seen this way, but to be reduced to it in the first place. Cassandra Pentaghast, belonging to the selective order that is the Seekers of Truth, Right Hand of the Divine, a silently weeping mess knelt before a statue of Andraste; all because of Her Herald. Somehow, that worsens her guilt and shame that burn as hot as the flames that claimed Andraste, makes Cassandra's tears come quicker. She feels like a lost child, confused and scared, not knowing what to do next or how to move on. Can she even move on?
She thinks it's way more likely that she'll have to keep this to herself forevermore, take her secret to the grave. She feels envy, even anger, towards her very own friends and comrades for being able to… Be. Yet another sin upon her head, that of dreadful jealousy, unjust and undeserved even though her wounded, perhaps misguided, heart tells her otherwise — tells her that it is justified, that those three have something she wants so badly but does not have and likely never will. Is such a strong desire sinful too, especially when it's aimed at another individual? Probably. If nothing else, it's lust, which the Maker would hardly approve of, she's sure. Not from her of all people, one of the Seekers, one who served Divine Justinia and Beatrix before her. There's a despicable little part of her that doesn't even care; that says she's sinned many times already, so what's another?
She prays that the Maker just takes all of this away, all her doubts and the fear of her own heart. She's afraid indeed, and although fear is nothing new to her —she's a warrior who's faced death countless times, both before and during the Inquisition—, this kind certainly is. It's deep rooted and all consuming, though not like the bone chilling and adrenaline inducing one that comes with battle. Cassandra is afraid of herself this time, of the thoughts she keeps having for someone who's so close and yet so far, who she wishes she could touch and hold and kiss and call her own.
She tries to rationalize in her head that even if she had enough courage to live her truth, if Lavellan liked the company of women too, if she reciprocated Cassandra's feelings, it wouldn't be appropriate. The Inquisitor and the Seeker? No, it would be unwise to pursue a romantic relationship. It is an added hurt to the already painful situation she has found herself in.
Cassandra takes in a deep breath and opens her eyes, wiping at them messily with her now unclasped hands. Prayer usually works wonders with putting her at ease, soothing her heart and offering much needed comfort. She has always felt safe in her faith, secure and certain, and now all of that is gone. It has been for a while — lately, her prayers feel pointless, like screaming into a void until her throat is raw and expecting answers that will never come.
What good is praying if it no longer does anything? What kind of God is the Maker if He turns a blind eye to her in a time so desperate that it tears her apart? Why has He forsaken someone who has dedicated every fraction of her being to Him?
Blasphemer. Heretic. Sacrilegious miscreant.
With her hands on her aching knees, Cassandra stands up and suppresses a whine as she does so. She doesn't know how long she's been in here, but if this pain is anything to go by, it has been a good while. She takes a moment to compose herself, and looks at her reflection on the impeccably taken care of gauntlets she wears, sighing at her puffy red rimmed eyes. She can only hope that she won't run into anyone on the way out, lest she be subjected to unwelcome —although well meaning— questioning.
Her friends care for her, she knows that. They'd offer comfort and counsel should she ask, some have done so before, but this is something that she cannot bring herself to share. Still, she entertains the thought of opening up them about herself and being met with the same kindness and support Dorian had. She includes Varric in this hypothetical, of course; despite their tumultuous past and occasional antagonistic encounters, they do care for each other. In a way, their little jabs and spats have become a unique —if a bit odd— love language. A brief smile crosses her features as she remembers how he got to working on Swords and Shields just for her, after Lavellan caught her reading it and told him about it, but it disappears just as quickly. The memory is bittersweet.
Sweet, because Lavellan didn't mock her about this guilty pleasure of hers, even went as far as to persuade Varric to continue the book for Cassandra. Bitter, because even though it had the Seeker a sputtering and blushing mess, it was a gesture of friendship; and she cherishes Lavellan's friendship, truly, but she can't help wishing for more.
(She sometimes pictures herself and Lavellan in the situations of the protagonists in Swords and Shields. Right after, she slams the book closed and wallows in her shame as always.)
It's a miserable situation to be in, especially considering their current circumstances. A Magister-turned-darkspawn, one of those responsible for the Maker turning away from His children, now commands a massive army in his continued pursuit of Godhood, threatening the entirety Thedas. Their only hope is the very same woman Cassandra hopelessly yearns for, who has lead her to begging the Maker and Andraste for guidance and deliverance, and yet she cannot put the blame on Lavellan. Not even in her weakest moments. This problem is hers to deal with; and maybe, just maybe, the Maker will look upon her and offer that much needed guidance.
If I pray enough, if I repent, if I beg for His help and forgiveness, I will surely not be alone in this anymore. Maker, I beg of you, guide me.
As she walks out of the room, their makeshift humble little cathedral, she nearly jumps out of her skin at the sight of a familiar figure — the wide brimmed hat and shaggy blond hair hide Cole's face, but she sees his lips move, hears his strangely soothing voice just fine.
"You're hurting," he says, quiet as though afraid to be overheard even though nobody's in the area other than them, "Your heart hurts, hopes against hope and yearns for something it thinks unachievable. The shame leaves it shattered, little broken pieces that you fear will cut deep and cause more hurt."
Cassandra remains silent for a moment, not trusting her own voice. She doesn't look at Cole, whose presence she has warmed up to by now, having recognized that he's born of Compassion. He wants to help, and originally her faith made her hesitate and fear him, treat him as a demon, but the Inquisition has exposed her to so many new perspectives that have challenged her own and caused them to slowly but surely begin changing — some in more significant ways than others.
"Cole—"
He interrupts her before she can say anything, his speech picking up speed and becoming almost frantic; "Wavering faith, frightening, who am I if not a Seeker? Lying, hiding, suppressing the sin but she's so beautiful and brave, salvation and damnation, her smile makes the hurt better and then worse—"
"Cole!"
Cassandra hadn't meant to raise her voice, and she feels a pang of guilt when he flinches. Sometimes, Cole reminds her of a scared and skittish animal, innocent yet troubled. Complex just like a regular human, and that brings forth the memory of what Solas had said when Cole first showed up; that for all intents and purposes, he's just a young man. A highly empathetic one who's proven quite likeable, but at times like this Cassandra wishes he lacked this particular ability. It's a blessing and a curse.
"I… Apologize for shouting," she says with a sigh and crosses her arms over her chest, "I am hurting, yes. That, I cannot lie about to you of all people, but…"
She hesitates and gnaws on her lip, sniffling quietly. Her eyes sting again and she tries her best to prevent any tears from falling, oddly embarrassed about the possibility of crying in front of someone. She knows Cole won't judge, but Cassandra is not used to showing this side of her, the vulnerability, to anyone. She hesitates to do so even with her closest friends.
"This is not a hurt you can help with, I'm afraid. And I would ask that you not tell anyone, especially the Inquisitor. Please?"
Cole knows of her preference of women by now, that she's certain of. With this ability of his, something she had never seen before he turned up and elected to stay with the Inquisition, he can discover people's deepest secrets without even trying to do so. He simply knows as soon as he lays eyes on any person. Should he approach someone, their most closely guarded secrets would not be out of his reach for long, and he's not the most socially apt individual out there so he tends to say everything he discovers out loud — but he's clever enough to stop and hold back when asked.
"The Inquisitor, so bright and proud and helpful, fears buried under the smile people love, quiet strength seems so loud when she's around them," he whispers, and it would be barely coherent if Cassandra was a step farther, "Wants to help everyone, loves their smiles too but one of them shines above the rest, makes the heart flutter. The quiet strength falters, hesitation and uncertainty rise…"
He lowers his head, to the point where his hat covers his face entirely; Cassandra says nothing, sensing that he's not quite done, all while trying to process what he just said. About the Inquisitor no less. A smile that she loves, that makes her heart flutter but also brings forth hesitation. Cassandra's own heart aches and she digs her nails into her biceps, jaw clenched so tight that she thinks her teeth might be ground to dust. It's not difficult to connect the dots — there's someone, and she seriously doubts it's her. If Cole senses her amplified emotions, which he very likely has already, he doesn't mention it and she's grateful.
"I won't tell. A secret, precious but painful, a hurt that can't go away on its own or by my hand," he says after a moment, then lifts his head to look at Cassandra, blinking slowly. Their eyes meet and she struggles to hold his gaze. He's studying her, her body language, and undoubtedly taking in whatever newly emerged negative emotions stem from her. "You should… Speak, share the pain so it gets smaller. Don't keep the secret, don't hide the hurt, the shame and the guilt, the Maker won't be salvation. Salvation lies in truth, in honesty, an open heart puts itself together. No more shattered pieces and cuts."
He disappears right after that, a breeze causing the nearby flora to gently sway in the darkness. Cassandra feels a chill run down her spine as she's left alone with her thoughts, left staring at the spot where Cole once stood. It's honestly baffling how he can sometimes drop words so impactful that one would think he overheard them from a Chantry service given by an older and significantly more experienced, wizened individual.
Cassandra forces her body to relax, taking in a deep breath. The fresh air filling her lungs combined with herbal smells from the garden is relaxing, putting her nerves at ease — if only temporarily. The feeling is more than welcome nonetheless despite the brevity. It's quite late, the sun long having set, and now the sky is dark and full of beautiful twinkling stars. She tilts her head upwards towards the sky, admiring the little speckles across it, and recalls the Dalish tale Lavellan had told her a while back about how the stars came to be.
"Elgar'nan is the first of our Gods, son of the land and the sun. He became enamored by everything that was gifted to him by his parents —all manner of beautiful animals in the sky and forests, and the forests themselves— and the sun grew jealous, so he scorched it all. Nothing was left behind but ashes. Enraged, Elgar'nan engaged in battle with the sun and threw him into the abyss. The stars are the sun's lifeblood, which was spilled during the battle."
Cassandra thought it was a beautiful tale, regardless of whether if it was true or not. Her own faith did not agree with that of the Dalish, and in much the same way theirs didn't agree with hers either, yet each time Lavellan shared something with her she gave the woman her full attention, listening to every word like it was gospel, a reciting of the Chant itself. There was something captivating about these stories, even the most mundane things such as explanations of little daily rituals, the Elvehn words Lavellan would sometimes slip into her speech or exchange with Solas. Cassandra loved those even if she didn't know what they meant, yet she was starting to remember some of them; just enough to get a vague idea of what was being said.
She was particularly fond of atish'an. Peace.
Peace sounded quite to Cassandra right about now. Peace with herself and who she is, with her truth, no matter how deep down she has buried it. One day, she wishes to have it. Atish'an.
For now, she needs to be alone. Needs to try and put her thoughts in order again, and more importantly, digest and consider what Cole had told her before vanishing. Share the pain so it gets smaller, salvation lies in honesty…
Cassandra sighs and begins to make her way to her quarters. There is much she must think about, and all of it circles back to Inquisitor Lavellan. The Seeker almost laughs at the absurdity of it all. Of falling head over heels for this brave elven woman who has dedicated herself to the Inquisition, of loving someone whose beliefs and faith go against everything Cassandra has ever known, who might not even feel the same, who dislikes being revered as Andraste's Herald… and yet. And yet. She endures.
Cassandra must endure too. That's the only thing she's certain of right now.