Authors notes: Managed to squeeze one chapter in! And off to bed! *collapses*
Warnings: Game spoilers!
"'I'm dying", she tells him, and in a heartbeat he embraces her in his strong arms." Cassandra paused for effect, and curled her hands around her waist as if trying to replicate the vivid image in her head. Her eyes were light and distant, half-lidded as she peered into the nothingness above Varric's head.
Framed by the soft morning light that filtered in through Skyhold's tall, tinted windows, even the dwarf could admit Cassandra had a romantic beauty about her. The faded white scars and stern glower were for a moment, forgotten, supplanted by a coy simper and indistinct, faraway look. He shuffled in his seat and glanced across the upper-floor of the tavern where they sat.
This early in the day it was devoid of most company, save the serving girl, a barmaid, and a quiet lute player who nursed his apparent hangover with a mug of warm milk. Robbed of its usual noise and busyness, empty morning taverns gave Varric the opportunity to write outside the four walls of his room, without having to suffer prying eyes or societal clamour. His eyes wandered over the half-finished glass of ale, mapping the froth that clung unevenly to the walls of its container. Writing in an empty tavern sure makes getting pissed a hell'a lot easier, too, he thought, and smiled absentmindedly.
"So, what do you think?" came Cassandra's sharp tones biting through his pleasant thoughts. Gone were her fleeting affectionate expressions and, dare he say it, feminine charms. Varric continued to grin, but gave his undivided attention to avoid encouraging an argument.
"A little dramatic—worthy of a Dalish tragedy in fact, but who doesn't love a bit of extremism in romance? The Orlesians readers would love it." He scratched his chin and considered the glass for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "I think it could work. Reminds me of a piece I did way back—story between a peasant girl and a Fereldan knight—I'm sure you've read it, it's one of my poorly executed smut-novels—ah, ah, don't beat me, woman! Anyway, illicit romances are always big sellers."
Varric nursed the arm Cassandra batted with an indignant sigh. Despite her earlier outburst, Pentagast's mood improved instantly.
"Yes, I think it would be splendid—you must write it, Varric."
"Whoa, wait! Me? Why me?" He shot her a pained look and returned to his ale, which at this point had become warm and unpleasant. "This is your idea, isn't it?"
"Yes, but it needs to be written by—" she paused and considered her words, her hand whisking the air as she scanned her brain for options; encouraging words that wouldn't inflate his ego too much, Varric assumed.
"It's needs to be written by someone who's familiar with this kind of fiction. A person who can capture the misfortune of these star-crossed lovers and do the genre justice." Cassandra shrugged and looked out over the landing towards the few shuffling occupants below in hopes of appearing nonchalant. She wrinkled her nose and watched him from the corner of her eye, tracking his expression.
Varric sighed, cupped his jaw in one hand and reclined against the table, aloof.
"You really want me to write it, Seeker?"
"Yes, it would… be wonderful if you did."
He pursed his lips, attempted to hold her gaze and gave another heavy sigh when he failed. Praise from Cassandra always won him over in the end.
"Alright, alright, I'll write your bleeding book," he grumbled, and hopped off the high chair with a grunt. The silverware and mug shuddered and rang with a dull murmur. Cassandra clasped him eagerly on the shoulder, a gesture that nearly forced the dwarf to double-over. The warrior gave no notice and over his groan and grumble came her lucid peals of laughter.
"Marvelous! I cannot wait to read it, Varric. As soon as you've written the first chapter, I demand to see it!" she called to him as he trotted down the winding stairscase, desperate to evade Cassandra's overbearing enthusiasm.
"No previews, sister." As he yelled back his reply, Varric stopped, and lumbered up the steps again, stopping when the tip of Cassandra's head reappeared behind the banister.
"Seeker?"
"Yes, Varric?" she practically sing-songed.
"Where'd you get the idea? I mean, Templars and mages I understand given your background—but why throw in a King in there? That's rather outlandish stuff."
Varric saw Cassandra turn her head towards the windows. The tuffs of her cropped hair flickered in the breeze and gleamed silver in the light. Her voice was strained and quiet, barely audible over the creaking wooden tavern and whispering wind.
"I don't know. It came to me in a dream."