Chapter Text
Untitled, written on a stained, curling paper in a hurried hand
He was hard at the mere sound of her commanding voice. The shadows concealed her form, but he knew the shape of her. Solid yet curved planes, smooth lips, sharp teeth, poison tongue. On their own each of these features would have left a strong man weakened, but all together they destroyed any hope of resistance. He was in trouble from the start.
Cassandra dropped the shocking piece of paper, unsure whether to be offended, pleased or just ashamed that she assumed the woman so lasciviously described was modeled after her. The author of the striking words was without a doubt, Varric. She recognized his thick, confident penmanship, albeit more shaken than usual. And of course she was sitting in his room.
The Seeker hadn’t meant to snoop. She’d originally gone to confront Varric about another Swords & Shields book, already having finished the copy he’d given her thanks to the “help” of the Inquisitor. Cassandra had been a touch annoyed with them both at first. It gave that irritating dwarf one more thing to mercilessly tease her about. And oh, what an opposing image, the no-nonsense warrior sighing over romantic tales like a little girl. He’d enjoyed it far too much. But then she’d read the story, got carried away in the life of a woman she could only imagine herself being, caught up in love and duty and not having to divide oneself for the advent of one over the other. It was the very definition of romantic -- an idealized world she would never have. Though there was nothing to do for her own tale, she could have more of the story. The man who knew the next part was within her reach and now he was well aware of her ardor for his words. She could appeal to his profound vanity. Maybe the Inquisitor had done her a favor after all.
When she’d stormed up to his room in the inner courtyard, the dwarf was not to be found. His door was ajar though. Against her better judgement, she searched for a manuscript in plain sight. Opening drawers or peeking under the bed was beneath her. Or, it should have been. He did ridicule her for sport, so perhaps a closer look was what she was deserved. After carefully sifting through the piles of papers on his desk, mostly letters she would not dare to read for it was an utter abuse of privacy even he was due, Cassandra checked the trunk next to his bed.
Amazingly, it was not locked. There were a few items inside for which she could only guess their meaning -- a bottle of red wine, an ostentatious ring, coins from all over the world, a dried flower chain pressed in the pages of a book as if it marked a loved passage. Guilt crept from the pit of her stomach and was spreading through the rest of her. This was revealing, even if she did not know exactly how. Before closing the chest of mysterious items, gilded letters caught her eye. Entranced, she pulled out a fine leather folder. It was dark blue with gold pressed letters, VOT, inscribed with a flourish underneath. She looked to the still open door. She was not without sense, shutting it would have dampened the sound of any approaching footsteps, but now she yearned to see what was inside in true privacy. She knew what it contained without even glancing. Groaning in disgust at her own weakness, she opened it.
Now having read the first item, she was conflicted. These were abandoned drafts, an assortment of papers of different styles and types laid carefully inside fine wrapping. It had been hidden inside a trunk full of meaning, and perhaps these word had as much weight as everything else he kept out of sight. It wasn’t the next Swords & Shields, so surely she should put it back straightaway and never let him know what she’d seen.
Before she could place it back under the treasures, footsteps sounded off the stone walkway. The strides seemed short, footfalls quicker than of someone her stature. With her pulse beating wildly, she closed the lid of the trunk and slipped the folder in the waistband at her back. She walked closer to the door, so it would appear as if she’d been just inside it, and tugged her jacket over the item.
Sure enough, a short blond man appeared in the doorway. His face transformed from a thoughtful expression to one of shock, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. It was quickly masked though to something she was quite accustomed to: annoyance.
“Seeker.” He put an arm up on the frame of the door, as if to prevent her escape.
“Varric.” Her brain scrambled for an excuse. She couldn’t say the real reason, it would clue him in to the fact that she’d been looking for his work. “Hello.”
As she stood rigid and dour-faced, he began to relax. “Right, we’re already past the awkward first meeting. Remember? A dark room, vicious threats against my manhood, chairs thrown at my head. Though you keep doing that.” Cassandra willed a blush to not spread to her cheeks, thinking of the scrap of paper at her back. “What I expected for you to say was a reason for you being here.”
“I have a report to write.” She wanted to roll her eyes at the awful sounding lie.
“And you needed some help embellishing what happened?”
She scoffed in disgust, as she usually would. “I have ran out of ink.”
Varric laughed. “And you thought to look in my room? Why not check with Ruffles?” He had her at that. Cassandra threw her hands up and was about to speak when he continued. “I think you just wanted to know if I had started on a sequel to Swords & Shields.”
She sputtered, and the blush that was confined to her chest spilled over her face. “I would not presume to bother even you with such a thing, Varric.”
He stepped through the door, walking past her to the desk and began rummaging in a drawer where she’d seen a few bottles of the liquid before. He grabbed one then held it out to her as if it was a test. She took the other end, but he didn’t immediately relinquish it. “Don’t say I never did anything for you, Seeker.” He let the ink go.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Thank you, Varric.” With the one unnecessary item and the stolen one, she marched out of the room.
“Anytime,” he snarked back.
Her steps across the courtyard were hurried, and she expected him to burst out at any moment calling her a thief. By the time she reached her room above the Smith’s workshop, she knew she’d gotten away with it. Her heart was still pounding, a rush of blood in her ears. Now she only had to figure how to put the Maker-forsaken thing back without him knowing.