Chapter Text
They are in the Forbidden Oasis the first time Cassandra sees the scar on Vivienne's leg.
It is a hot day and they have been walking through the desert long enough that every item in her bags and every piece of clothing on her body is covered by sand. There is a little lake in the Oasis, shallow and warm. Cadash and Sera dive into the water without preamble, splashing water all around themselves like the children they are.
Vivienne, in her wisdom, chooses the opposite side of the lake. Cassandra may not have Vivienne's wits, but she does possess enough common sense to follow.
There is a little waterfall there. Discarding her armor, Cassandra stands under it, clothes and all, letting them soak through before she peels them off, layer by layer. Vivienne removes her clothes with somewhat more care, but then Cassandra does not make a habit of wearing silk. Why anyone would wear such things on a journey through a desert, she cannot say.
Since arriving in Haven, Vivienne has spent her time in the Chantry. Since Redcliffe, Cadash has made no secret of her preference for Dorian, should a mage be needed; crowded together in Haven, it is impossible not to notice when people do not get along. What reasons Cadash may have for inviting Vivienne along this time are her own, and Cassandra has not asked.
There is a thin layer of fine sand covering the back of Vivienne's head. It gets everywhere, the blasted sand, which is why Cassandra had wasted no time rinsing it off. It takes Vivienne a while to divest herself of her corset, shift, and the delicate boots and leggings she wears under her robes. They made camp early and there is no reason to rush, but Cassandra is done and ready to go by the time Vivienne steps her first foot into the water.
On the other side of the lake, Cadash and Sera laugh and giggle uproariously, and Cassandra sits down on a rock, letting the sun dry her skin. It is hard to imagine that the snow still lies thick on the Frostback Mountains. In the water, Vivienne follows Cassandra's example and steps under the waterfall.
The air is fresh here, by the water; warm rather than the oppressive heat of the dunes. Under the waterfall, Vivienne turns her face up towards the falling water, letting the sand be rinsed away. Although they have shared a tent on their journey through the desert, Cassandra has not taken note before of the scar that begins under Vivienne's right knee and runs up along the outside of her thigh, long and curved.
Cassandra's own body is covered by a multitude of marks, criss-crossing much of her skin; a patchwork of imperfectly healed injuries. They are reminders of days she has lived through, too many for each to hold a separate memory. It all blends together, and what remains on her skin matters little, in the end.
Vivienne has only the one scar of such severity as far as Cassandra can see, the rest of her dark skin unmarked and smooth. She is a mage, and Circles are never without capable healers.
The long muscle in Vivienne's thigh that runs under the scar tightens ever so slightly under Cassandra's gaze: a stiffening of her stance. Looking up, Cassandra finds Vivienne's eyes on her.
"Seeker Pentaghast," Vivienne starts, pausing for a breath, one eyebrow raised in question. "Is there something on your mind?"
Caught staring, Cassandra averts her eyes, embarrassment heating her cheeks. "No."
In the corner of her eye, she can see Vivienne's fingers linger on her leg, resting on the top of the scar with familiar ease, gaze unwavering and as tangible as if it were a solid thread connecting them. Cassandra does not squirm, though the impulse is there. No doubt that is the point.
"You may ask," Vivienne says, "if you are curious."
Her words are spoken with casual indifference, but there is an unspoken challenge in them, as if she wants to know what sort of mettle Cassandra is made of — as if asking a simple question could possibly tell her that.
Cassandra hates these games of words. Turning her head away, tracking the movement of a little bird circling the crown of a tree, she asks anyway. "Was there no one in your Circle who could heal a wound without leaving a mark?"
"Of course there was," Vivienne replies. "A Circle cannot function without healers."
With her head turned, Cassandra can only glimpse the outline of her, under the waterfall, but it is enough to see that her stance has relaxed once more. She does not need to use her eyes at all to know that Vivienne gaze is still firmly placed on her.
"Children and magic make for a somewhat combustive combination," Vivienne continues, and in the corner of her eye, Cassandra sees her run a small piece of soap over her arms, "as I'm sure you know. Scarcely a week goes by in most Circles without someone setting themselves on fire. Why else do you suppose the walls of every Circle are covered with such tacky tapestries, if not to put these fires out swiftly and without the need for magic?"
Her words are absurd. There is no one close enough to hear their conversation, so Vivienne must be ridiculing her only for her own enjoyment. "Foolishly," she says, voice as stiff as her back, "I believed it stemmed from an interest in historical art."
Standing up, her gaze is pulled to Vivienne once more — the water splashes about her shoulders, and her head is slightly tilted as she watches Cassandra. "What I meant to say, Seeker," Vivienne says, "is that I was young once, too, and young people are wont to make foolish decisions."
"Certainly such statements could not possibly apply to you," Cassandra replies, words muttered to match her frown. It is petty, but she does not enjoy being the punchline of anyone's joke.
"You are very kind," Vivienne says sharply, and despite herself, Cassandra has to swallow down a pang of guilt.
The pause is long, and this time, Cassandra cannot stand to stay still under Vivienne's hard gaze. She turns, snatching up her clothes from the rock and wades through the water, aiming her steps for their camp. Behind her, the sound of the water indicates that Vivienne has resumed her washing regiment under the waterfall.
"Whatever you think of me," Vivienne says, with all the calm in the world, words nearly drowned by the water, "not even I can claim to have escaped childhood without my share of folly."
Cassandra does not stop to acknowledge her words.
*
After Haven, they share a tent on their journey through the mountains — the four of them, Cadash, Sera, Vivienne and Cassandra, in a tent that would be small for two — but some do not have a shield from the wind at all.
The walking is done at a hard pace, Cadash taking the lead and scouting ahead, striving forward with the same bull-headed enthusiasm she employs in all stubborn, ill-advised tasks. One of Leliana's scouts — the dwarven archer from Redcliffe — accompanies her most days. The Herald of Andraste is blessed, of course, but it would be to all of their benefit if some of the scout's common sense would rub off on her.
Keeping close to the front, Cassandra watches Sera skip from rock to rock with boundless energy. Vivienne walks with Dorian most of the time, their heads close together as if they are discussing things of unimaginable importance that no one else could possibly understand. Once or twice, the wind has carried past Cassandra fragments of heated words concerning magical theory, and what she presumes are discussions of various items of clothes.
In Haven, Vivienne told Cadash to run to the Chantry, told her she was wasting her time on people who could not be saved, huffed when Cadash said no, and be quiet in no uncertain terms. They had butted heads since the start. It was inevitable. But once they did reach the Chantry, having been delayed at every turn so that Cadash could pluck from their fate the poor souls who had been left behind, Vivienne clasped Cadash's shoulder with unusual fervor, and thanked her.
Perhaps no one heard but Cadash and Cassandra. Perhaps Cadash found it less confounding than she did.
At night, the four of them are squeezed together like peas in a very small pod. By unspoken agreement, Sera and Vivienne sleep furthest from each other, with Cassandra and Cadash in the middle. It is frigidly cold, even with the four of them, limbs tangled together. The rough material of Cadash's wool jacket on one side, contrasting Vivienne on the other side, with her soft leggings and the shift worn under her corset — it is the epitome of pointless impracticality: woven from the finest, sheerest samite, every part of it embroidered with intricate patterns, and meant to be seen by no one.
("She'd blow her nose in a silk handkerchief and toss it by the side of the road," Blackwall had muttered under his breath, once, on the Storm Coast, Vivienne marching ahead of them, chin held high in the rain.
Cadash had been coughing badly, there had been a sheen to Blackwall's eyes that had betrayed his fever, and Cassandra's nose would not stop running.
"Nah, Madame Fancy-Arse don't blow her nose," Sera had replied, high-spirited and untouchable by the gloom that had infected most everyone else. "Any sickness wanting inside that would get frostbite. And if it wants inside me, I got arrows.")
Sometimes, Cassandra finds herself considering the Forbidden Oasis.
Vivienne's legs are long, graceful, and always covered. The leggings she favors under her robes are tight, and when Cassandra has found herself gracelessly pressed up against her at night, Cadash's limbs pushing at her back, they have been remarkably soft. Cassandra cannot see the scar through them, but she can picture it running up her leg; she remembers the precise curve of the scar, where it starts and stops, diverts and meanders like a stream in a forest.
There are enough scars on her own body that she knows how it must feel to the touch.
Sera slips on the ice one day, despite her sure feet, slicing up her arm in a wound that will not stop bleeding through the snow Cassandra packs on top of it. A predictable argument occurs: Vivienne informs her she will heal it with her magic, Sera refuses (at the top of her lungs), Dorian conjures up bandages in a valiant and futile attempt to keep the peace, Cadash tells her she is a spoiled child, Sera stomps her foot (on top of Cadash's foot), Dorian sighs, Vivienne crosses her arms, doom is certain. An affair that might have been over in mere moments stretches out into a never-ending, stubborn battle of wills.
There is only one solution to the dilemma, of course, and it is spelled Josephine.
Their Lady Ambassador weaves a magic no less real than those who draw theirs from the Fade, and her brand of spellcraft is equally inexplicable to Cassandra. She fetches Josephine to wield her word magic, and in the meanwhile she scouts ahead, finding paths that will support the footsteps of a limping Inquisition.
When darkness starts to fall, she retraces her steps until she finds where the others have made camp, and everything is back to normal. Sera is laughing, jumping, running, stopping only occasionally to shoot Vivienne a dirty look — hardly a new occurrence — and the wound on her arm is nothing but a thin, scabbed line that will heal on its own.
Someone has saved her a meal, and Cassandra eats it cold, on her feet. Their tent is already pitched, and when Cassandra enters it to put down her bedroll, Vivienne is there.
No one was able to bring much in the rush when they left Haven. Their belongings are buried under an avalanche now, and though perhaps they might be able to go back, at some point, it seems likely there are few things of value to be found in the wreckage. There is not much Cassandra would miss; a few books of which she is fond, perhaps, but there are bigger concerns.
They are all running ragged in these mountains, boiling snow for water and rationing their food. Vivienne's hair has grown longer than Cassandra has seen it before, enough that there are little waves of curls along her scalp.
"Our Ambassador is a woman of many skills," she says. "I did not realize taming feral urchins was one of them."
Cassandra cannot blame her for that lapse. Leliana had claimed many more or less outrageous things about her Antivan friend over the years — Cassandra had doubted, and subsequently been proven entirely wrong.
"I have come to understand that there are few things she cannot do," she says, rolling her blankets out and sitting down next to Vivienne. "Sera is not as young as she acts. We do not have the time to deal with her childishness."
"She has a healthy fear of magic," Vivienne replies. "Considering the state of the world, she is hardly to blame for holding onto such qualms."
Busy as she is preparing her bedding, Cassandra says nothing at first. Sera and Vivienne seem to bring out the worst in each other, exchanging words only in the shape of sniping and insults. Words in Sera's defense are not what Cassandra expects. "Healing magic is nothing to be feared," she says, in the end.
Vivienne's smile is sardonic. "Of course not. Demons are far too courteous to attempt to influence those using magic in an attempt to heal. They are ever so polite that way."
Straightening her back, Cassandra cannot stop herself from scowling. "That is not what I meant."
"At any rate," Vivienne says, face softening a touch, "I am not a healer. Suspicions are natural."
"I have seen you heal wounds."
"The basic principle is simple. A Knight-Enchanter is expected to know how to repair a wound one might acquire in the heat of battle, if only well enough that one might finish the fight on one's feet."
Cassandra considers that, turns the statement over in her mind, and makes a decision. "Is that where your scar is from?" she asks, words measured and weighed with care. "Your training as a Knight-Enchanter?"
Vivienne's smile is one Cassandra can't quite decipher — it is certainly not friendly, but there is something other than politeness there, a gleam of interest in her eyes, and the weight of her gaze turns heavy on Cassandra's shoulders. "I did not realize you enjoyed guessing games," she says.
"I do not enjoy games of any sort," Cassandra says emphatically. It is bad enough that Sera consistently manages to rope her into partaking in games concerning all manner of silly things. "You offered me the opportunity to ask, before."
Vivienne's face has turned politely blank, in that particular Orlesian way that everyone who spends time there except for Cassandra seems to learn. Recognizing it does not make it any less galling.
"I said that you may ask, yes," Vivienne says, and Cassandra knows the conversion is over. "I did not say that I would answer. But you are welcome to keep guessing. You are a Seeker of Truth, after all."
*
Cassandra does not keep guessing. In fact, she puts it out of her mind almost entirely, until she gets skewered on a sword in the Emerald Graves.
Her breastplate was dented when she skidded down a mountain the previous day, and she has not had an opportunity to fix it, far from a settlement with the appropriate tools. It left an opening in her side, and that's where the sword had struck, sliding over leather and piercing it, embedding itself below her ribs. It did not seem so bad, until she could no longer stand.
It is a most unlucky turn of events, and one that ought to teach anyone a lesson about the proper upkeep of one's armor. Clutching her fingers into the grass, Cassandra breathes through the pain as Vivienne unbuckles her breastplate.
"Lie still," she says, hands gentle but voice stern, as she uncovers Cassandra's midsection.
There is a decent amount of blood involved. Cassandra can feel it pumping out of her at the speed of her heartbeat. Pushing one hand against her side with a steady pressure, Vivienne uses her other hand to pull off Cassandra's gauntlets, studying her hands for a moment. She puts her fingertips against Cassandra's neck next, scrutinizing her face. For what, Cassandra cannot tell.
"Are you alive?" Cadash asks, poking her foot against Cassandra's arm and scrunching up her freckled nose. "Most of your blood seems to be on the outside."
"I am fine," Cassandra says, making an attempt at sitting up. It is interrupted by Vivienne rather unceremoniously pushing her back down.
Vivienne's sigh conveys many things at once, not the least her impatience for Cadash's sense of humor. "Iron Bull," she says, "would you mind, my dear?"
The Iron Bull slaps a hand on Cadash's shoulder. "Hey, boss, how about we take a walk? I hear the weather's sunny on the other side of the dead bodies."
Shrugging, Cadash bends to pat Cassandra on the head. "I got arrows to find anyway. Don't die or anything."
With that, Cadash and Bull move away from Cassandra's line of vision.
Vivienne's hands find her side, fingers pushing inside. It is bad — the dull, pulsing pain turns so sharp she has to press her eyes closed, hand clutching blindly and ending up clasped around Vivienne's knee. If she had breath enough, she would howl with it. Regalyan rises unbidden in her memory: the tenderness of his hands as he healed wounds she can no longer recall, the green of his eyes containing such warmth when he was healing others. His truly abominable sense of humor.
"Breathe, darling," Vivienne says. "You are turning blue."
Cassandra breathes. Regalyan is dead and gone, and she will not join him. Opening her eyes, she focuses on the blue sky, the little clouds drifting by, the shape of Vivienne's shoulders and neck, the concentration on her face.
It is all terribly inconvenient; if not for an unblocked sword, they could be on their way, perhaps even making it back to Watcher's Reach with time to spare before dark. Worse is the stern focus Cassandra can read in Vivienne's eyes. It must be bad if Vivienne is concerned — it must be very bad if she does not bother to hide it.
One of Vivienne's hands come up to cover Cassandra's, where her fingers are still digging into Vivienne's leg. Her hand is wet and slick with Cassandra's blood, and Cassandra remembers the scar that runs along her leg. Focusing once more on the blue sky above them, she lets the memory fill her mind, pushing everything else aside.
Her fingers are cold despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, little tingles traveling up her arms, and her legs seem numb and far away. "Was it a sword?" she asks, and the words become clumsy on her lips.
Vivienne hesitates only briefly. "Only one person know this story," she says lightly. "And he is no longer among us. If you lie still, I might tell you."
"Your Duke?"
"Yes." Vivienne removes the hand covering Cassandra's. "Drink this."
Pushing a flask into Cassandra's hand and directing it to her mouth, Vivienne puts both her hands back on Cassandra's side. The flask contains a potion of elfroot, and it tastes as horrible as always, but it also makes her heart beat harder and stronger, air flowing more easily into her lungs.
"So you will have to kill me," — Cassandra takes a breath, and another — "if you tell me."
"If you keep fidgeting I may not have to."
"So be it, then."
Vivienne sighs, and her knee brushes against Cassandra's hip. "Maker preserve me from self-sacrificing fools."
Cassandra means to protest, but her thoughts have turned slippery and the words seem difficult to shape. She is sweating. Maker, she is soaked in blood and sweat, and she cannot catch her breath.
Pausing for a moment, Vivienne's hands press down harder against her side. "Picture this, if you will: a young mage causing quite the scandal with her choices regarding affairs of the heart. There might be unspoken rules for how the nobility handle their affairs, but that is nothing compared to the limits a mage must conduct herself within."
Vivienne is quiet for some time, then, warmth flowing from her hands into Cassandra's side, while the picture she painted with her words blossom in Cassandra's mind. Her head is spinning with it, vertigo turning the sky into a swirling prism.
Possibly it is the blood loss.
"What happened?"
"You have worked for a long time with our dear Spymaster. I'm sure you're familiar with how Orlesian Bards occupy their time."
Something settles in Cassandra's gut, under the pressure of Vivienne's hands, and suddenly her breathing comes easier. "An assassination attempt," she exhales, a giddy sense of relief rising in her chest. "You were not in your Circle."
"After I came of age, I divided my time between my Circle, the Ghislain mansion, and, of course, Celene's Court."
The pressure in her side eases off. Vivienne's hands come up to cup her jaw, sending warm pulses of magic through her face. It clears her head of the dizzying fog, allowing her to focus. Her body is still dull and heavy, but when she puts her hands on her midsection, there is no wound, only blood and and uncomfortable soreness.
"You stopped the bleeding."
"Of course I did. If I had not, you would be dead."
"Thank you." Sitting up, Cassandra tries to regain her bearings. Cadash and the Iron Bull have sat down at some distance from them, enjoying the early spring sun.
"If you are fit to walk, we shouldn't dawdle." With a tug on her arm, Vivienne hauls Cassandra to her feet. "I've put your insides back in place, but you'll want to see a proper healer when we get back to Watcher's Reach."
Vivienne's robes are stained with Cassandra's blood, and the handkerchief she carefully wipes her hands on is ruined.
There is little reason for Cassandra to clean herself up — she will need to remove every layer of clothing she's wearing to get the blood out, but she uses the shredded remains of her undershirt to wipe away enough drying blood to get a good look at her side. The deep wound looks like nothing but a shallow cut now; sore and strained, tugging as she moves.
Vivienne may claim not to be a healer, but from what Cassandra can tell, her skills are more than sufficient. Gaze falling to Vivienne's leg, leggings stained with Cassandra's dark red fingerprints, she wonders how she had not managed to heal the wound there herself without leaving a scar. As evidenced by the lack of stab wound in Cassandra's side, Vivienne is more than capable of healing such injuries. But then, she had claimed to have been young at the time, and perhaps it was much later that she chose to learn such things.
There is something else, though, a thing regarding the shape and structure of scars.
"Your leg was not stitched," she observes. "It would have scarred differently then. There might not have been a healer close by, but if you were at the Ghislain mansion or at Court, how is it possible a surgeon was not called on to stitch the wound together?"
The smile that grows on Vivienne's face is sly, and perhaps a bit surprised. "Very good, my dear."
It dawns on Cassandra quite suddenly, the truth of it. "Every word of that story was a lie," she says, jaw tensing, eyebrows drawing into a scowl.
Vivienne pours water from her canteen over her hands, rinsing off more of Cassandra's blood. "Of course it was," she says, as if such things mean nothing. "Even in my youth, I would hardly let a Bard mark me in such a way. But it kept you distracted, did it not?"
"Does dishonesty come so easily to you?"
Straightening, Vivienne tilts her head, eyes narrowing, assessing. "My task was made easier by you lying still," she says. "And I thought perhaps a touch of romance would make the experience less uncomfortable for you."
The insinuation brings an angry flush to Cassandra's neck. "Mockery does not make me less uncomfortable," she grits out, and she does not wait for Vivienne to reply.
Turning around, she stiffly bends to grab her bloodied breastplate and gauntlets from the ground, and stalks off.
*
It is an easy walk to Watcher's Reach — at least for those who did not get intimately acquainted with a sword that day. For Cassandra, it is a task requiring all of her concentration.
Sore, sticky and exhausted, she trudges along. Cadash walks with the Iron Bull ahead of her, indulging in a series of increasingly puerile jokes about swords, most of them at Cassandra's expense. Vivienne walks somewhere behind, but Cassandra is not about to turn around to look. By the time they get back to Watcher's Reach, the exhaustion is enough to make her fall into a pile in one of the small huts Fairbanks lets them use.
"Is her face usually that color?" Cadash wonders, leaning over her and scrunching up her nose. "You're paler than Harding and you don't even have any of her pretty freckles."
"Looks a bit pasty," the Iron Bull agrees, casually leaning against the wall of the hut with his arms crossed.
Cassandra rolls over on her side, away from them. "Stop talking about me."
"There's this great soup you make out of nug blood," Cadash supplies. "My brother used to serve it for all major holidays, because there was always some cousin or other getting a finger or ear cut off and needed to get some fresh blood in themselves."
"You were an only child," Cassandra mutters.
"Well, he wasn't my brother, so much as a distant relative to someone a friend of mine met once. She swore it was a true story, though. Anyway, how hard is it to make soup? I'll go and find some nugs."
"Fascinating," Vivienne says, in a tone that conveys everything but. "Leave now."
"Yes," Cassandra says, curling her legs to get more comfortable. "All of you."
Cassandra means to include Vivienne in that, but she does not go with the others.
"You've lost a certain amount of blood," she says instead, sitting down on her knees next to Cassandra. "I would advise water, as much as you can manage, and rest."
There is a hand on her neck, fingers finding the spot where her pulse beats under her skin. Shoulders stiffening, she huffs out a derisive noise. "It is not the first time I have suffered an injury. I do not require anyone to fret over me."
"I had no intention of doing so," Vivienne says, voice turning harder as she removes her hand. The warm imprint of her fingers does not immediately fade.
"Good."
"I will make sure there is warm water and soap ready for you when you wake. You reek like a slaughter-house."
"I wish to rest now. On my own."
"My intention was not to mock," Vivienne says, and the tone of her voice conveys loud and clear that she does not consider herself to be the slightest bit in the wrong.
Scowling against the wall, Cassandra deliberately does not turn around. "If you wish to make up stories to distract me, do not make me think you are sharing a precious confidence."
"Very well."
Cassandra stares at the wall, listening to Vivienne as she stands, as graceful and smooth as ever. "You need not tell me,"she says, rolling over on her back to make sure her words are received. "I am not a child besieged by curiosity. I will not ask again."
Vivienne stands over her, arms crossed, not bothering to hide the irritation plainly visible in the way she holds herself. Her clothes have not been changed yet, and Cassandra's bloody hand-prints still stain her leggings.
"How disappointing," she says.