Disclaimer: All the beautiful dramas belong to Bioware.
Inquisitor Lavellan walks around as if she's carrying pieces of glass inside her chest, rather than a heart.
Everyone of the companions know what caused the break. Maker and Andraste be damned if anyone knows what to do about it though.
Cole tries first, of course. He's Compassion and more spirit now than ever, after they showed him the way. He comes up to her during her blackest moment, brooding on top of the wall, and tries to ease her pain. But she says no, it is better to have the pain and the memories. Sometimes what passes as pain is better than feeling nothing at all. He doesn't understand but he sits with her. They watch the crimson sun set together.
Cassandra ignores the cuts from the broken glass. She charges right through it because that is how she is. She takes the Inquisitor to the training grounds, to inspect camps, to visit refugees. There is always something to do, some task to perform. Maybe she will forget it all, with time. She's thankful for the distraction, and for her friend.
Bull knows of pain. He knows how to deal it and deal with it. And he knows exactly how much it hurts to lose your direction in life. It can be liberating, but often it just leaves you with a hollow nothing can fill. He pushes a drink into her hand and sits there, letting her lean on his bulk. She weighs almost nothing and the strong alcohol goes straight to her head. She falls asleep in front of the warm hearth and doesn't dream for once.
Sera invites her onto the roof again, and doesn't mind when she says no, not yet.
Madam Vivienne hands her a beautiful handkerchief in the middle of their conversation. She's a little confuse, then realizes she's leaking tears. How embarrassing. But the Grand Enchanter only looks at her with an expression she's never seen before, soft and sad and wistful, and tell her to rest.
Blackwall had started another carving, this time a dragon that looks exactly like the first one they fought. She sits perfectly balanced on the rickety stool and watch the delicate shavings fall softly to the floor, one by one by one. She likes the quiet noises the horses make when they're dreaming. Sometimes the mist turns into drizzly rain, dripping from the eaves, playing counterpoint to the taps of the hammer. It's a peaceful kind of music she rarely hears anymore.
Dorian lets her use his favorite reading chair when she's again in one of her darker moods. He encourages her to roam far and wide in her quest for distraction. Stacks of books she may find interesting keep growing every time she looks up from her reading. Useful codexes and helpful scrolls, legends and stories, research papers and obscure theories, she devours everything, to his surprise. She soaks up facts like leaves in sunlight, but the one she would like best to discuss these new ideas with isn't here anymore. Dorian just sighs and gives her more books.
Varric writes in the great hall, letters and stories and sometimes blackmail. She pulls up a chair and rests her head on the books and notes she'd carried down with her, because Dorian would like to get his research done too if you please. Varric doesn't acknowledge her right away, absorbed in his writing. She tries to form a question about Bianca without actually saying her name. How does he go on, knowing she belongs to someone else? Will lost love always feel like this, shards of glass splintering and spearing her insides with every step?
Varric looks up and smiles 'the smile' at her. The one that says I know what you're thinking, but I'm not going to say it for you, and even if you say it, I may or may not answer you seriously.
She pouts. She doesn't care if the expression makes her look her age. Varric chuckles and goes back to his writing.
Is it about the Inquisition, the book that needs a better and less truthful working title? She asks.
No, this one is a little...different, he replies. He pauses, possibly even embarrassed. She stares at him, stunned at the unexpected reaction.
Varric glances around and leans closer to her, whispers conspiratorially. Keep this between us, but this one is about Bianca.
The crossbow? She whispers back, trying not to be overwhelmed by the confession.
He laughs. No. Not the crossbow. He sits back and looks at her. I keep forgetting how young you are. You're dressed up in that Inquisitorial mode every time you emerge from your den. People start to forget you're just a mortal when they don't see you laugh or cry.
I just want my friends to treat me the same, other people's opinion don't really matter, she says while eyeing the upside down manuscript.
Varric notices the look. He covers the paper with blank ones.
She feels a little down. Well, it is private. Maybe she should go, and starts to gather her own papers up.
If you're good, I'll let you read the first draft, he says out of nowhere. Deal?
She drops her books. Really? But isn't it- She stammers, still not quite believing what she just heard.
He reaches out, takes her hand and shake it once. No going back now, he smirks.
She winces. I'm going to regret this, aren't I.
Now, that would be telling. He flaps a hand at her. Go to bed. It's late.
They bid each other good night. She feels a bit lighter as she goes up the steps to her quarters. Not so broken.
She still misses him. Even now she can't think his name without forgetting where she was, what she was doing.
It aches almost constantly, this collection of shards inside her. But there's work to do, and so much to see in the world. Maybe...maybe she'll find a place he's been, a place he has stopped at for a moment to think of her, somewhere in his beloved Fade. If she can go there of her own will...just maybe...
There's time yet to temper a glass heart.