Varric wondered why soldiers and military types always wanted to leave at the crack of dawn. Why not the crack of noon, for example? He and Hawke had done a lot of hero-type shit in Kirkwall. Did it ever require them to roll out of bed before the sun was up? No, no it did not.

He shivered in the pre-dawn cold as he wondered if he ought to emphasize that fact more in subsequent editions of Tale of the Champion. He could contact his editor, rework a few sentences…

His reverie was cut short by the appearance of Hawke, who was hauling her gear in a bulging pack that she thumped on the ground with a grunt. He grinned as he saw her appearance. A morning person she was not. Her hair was standing in loosely collected tufts about her head, her boots were unlaced, and unless he missed his guess, she was still in the same clothes she was wearing last night.

She nodded at Loghain and greeted Varric in her usual inimitable style. "Andraste's left ass cheek, Varric, I was even late so I wouldn't have to wait out here in the cold. I don't suppose the Inquisitor and the Seeker have gone to get the horses?"

"No," Loghain answered for him. "Neither of them has yet made an appearance."

Hawke groaned.

Loghain replied to her unspoken appeal. "I'll see to the horses. They can't be much longer."

When Loghain had passed out of earshot, Varric addressed Hawke. "You never did tell me how you became friends with a dry old stick like him."

"Well," Hawke said, with a note of suggestion in her voice, "Let's just say he's less dry and old and more…stick."

"You didn't," Varric said, aghast.

"Of course I didn't!" she said, laughing. "You know I don't even like men, for Maker's sake. You're getting more and more credulous in your old age, Varric. A few more years and you may have to get Merrill to explain jokes to you."

Varric snorted. "You still didn't answer my question."

"That's because the truth is boring. We both met on the road and happened to be travelling in the same direction for a few days. No sticks, dry or otherwise, were involved."

"I suspect there's a better story there than 'we both happened to be travelling in the same direction'."

"There is," she agreed. "But it's not really my story to tell."

Varric grunted, and still smarting from being taken in by Hawke, decided silence was his best course of action—at least until he was more fully awake. As the minutes slowly dragged by, though, without the appearance of either Trevelyan or Cassandra, Varric's slight irritation began to morph into a touch of concern. A touch. People were late all the time, and usually it was nothing more than oversleeping or maybe things just taking longer than anticipated. To claim he was worried would be to exaggerate the case. It was ridiculous to get worried when not only their leader, but also the most punctual, duty-driven, I-rise-before-dawn-even-when-I-don't-have-to woman he had ever seen was late.

He was worried.

When Loghain came back with the horses, and neither one of them had made an appearance, Varric felt the first vague pricklings of alarm.

"Getting a little cold out here," Varric said, attempting to be casual. "I think I'll go find out what's keeping the others."

He was saved his journey, though, by the appearance of Leliana, walking down the stairs from Skyhold, dark cloak billowing behind her. They all waited, following her with their eyes, as she drew close to their little group.

"I am sorry no one was sent earlier," Leliana said, slightly breathless. "It was overlooked in the…confusion. The Inquisitor had some matters that came up at the last minute that he had to personally attend to. You'll now depart at midday, to give Bull time to pack."

The Spymaster nodded at them, and having said what she came to say, left the way she had come.

Varric's alarm had now turned to fear.

It took his legs a moment to obey his mind, paralyzed as they were with what Leliana's news had implied. Bull would be coming, not Cassandra. Cassandra was hurt, or she was sick, or...or worse. He ran after the Spymaster, finally catching her halfway up the steps, grabbing her elbow, not caring how it looked, or what she thought.

"Leliana, is she…is she all right?" he asked, afraid of the answer. "Can I see her?"

"Who?" Leliana said, her face changing from irritation at Varric's interruption to puzzlement at his question.

"Cassandra," he said urgently.

"Cassandra," she said, her brows knitting together, as if she were trying to solve a puzzle. Then a flash of understanding lit her face. "Of course you can see her. Follow me."

She strode off, and Varric was hard-pressed to keep up with her, as they went up another flight of stairs, then two, then up to the battlements, where the swirling wind whipped at his clothes, freezing him with icy knives, knives he hardly noticed with the chill of fear that gripped his heart.

They walked along, making a right turn, then up another flight of steps, toward a room almost at the very top of the walls—Cullen's office.

"Here she is," the Nightingale said. "Now if you'll excuse me…"

"But—" Varric started.

"She'll explain," Leliana said, her words already becoming fainter, as she strode away without a glance behind her.

Varric stared at her retreating back before turning to face the door, more confused now than fearful. Surely Leliana wouldn't act like that if Cassandra was hurt. Would she?

He breathed in deeply, knocked to announce his presence, and entered the room to find Cassandra seated at Cullen's desk, frowning over some documents.

"Inquisitor—" she said, and then looked up.

"Varric?" she said in another tone, less business-like, more confused. "What are you doing here?"

He searched her face and found no signs of distress except, perhaps, for some physical tiredness and tension, and the unmistakable appearance of someone who had awakened in a hurry. She had dark circles under her eyes that weren't concealed by her usual makeup, her hair was mussed, and instead of her usual armor, she had on regular clothes. But other than that, she looked absolutely fine.

"Making an idiot out of myself, apparently," he said, embarrassed. "Leliana said something, and I thought you were sick, which you're obviously not, of course…" his voice trailed off.

And I panicked and thought something bad had happened to you, and I wanted to come rushing to your aid. As if I could do anything about it anyway. Smart, Varric. Really smart.

"I'll just be going and leave you to…whatever you're working on," he said, and turned to leave.

"No!" she said, sharply.

He turned around and she bit her lip. "I mean, it would be nice if you would stay for a few minutes." She indicated a chair across the desk. "I'd like to talk." She rubbed her temples wearily.

He sat, and she immediately surprised him by stretching her hand out across the table, seeking his. When he responded, wrapping his hand around hers, she sighed, and laid her forehead down on top of their conjoined fingers, unmoving for a few moments, as if she were seeking solace there.

"It hasn't been a good night," she said, finally picking her head up. "Everyone will know soon enough, so I don't think I'm betraying a confidence by telling you…Cullen isn't well. You know he was trying to stop taking lyrium?"

Varric nodded. He hadn't known for a fact, but he had heard rumors to that effect, whispered amongst the Templars.

"Well, Leliana had went to discuss something with him late last night. When she found him, he was shaking, and apparently hallucinating. He was screaming at demons to stop touching him. Apparently all kinds of other things, too. I don't know." She shook her head.

"By the time I got here, he had calmed down, but he was still…not in a good way." She paused, and he waited as she stared off into the distance, as if replaying the scene in her head. Finally, she continued.

"We've taken him to the infirmary, and they've given him medicine to get him to sleep, but," she shrugged, "there's no telling what may happen now."

Varric was never particularly close to the Commander, but still felt shocked by what he had heard. "Will he be all right?"

Cassandra nodded. "Ultimately, yes. It's just a matter of whether he will be able to quit the lyrium or not. Some of the healers believe his health will not improve until he re-takes the lyrium. Others say it's a crisis point, and after he gets through this, his addiction will be mostly cured. Thankfully, it's not my decision, but Cullen's and the Inquisitor's. "

"What do you think?" Varric asked softly.

"I think he's tried so hard to quit, he should be allowed to try to continue, if that is his wish, until it is absolutely certain he cannot. But…as I said, it is not my decision."

"They will both listen to you."

"Perhaps," Cassandra said. "But perhaps they should not. I do not know," she said, squeezing his hand once more.

"All I know is, all this responsibility," she gestured around the room, "is mine now, as the Inquisition's temporary commander."

"You?" he blurted, surprised. Not that she was unsuitable as a choice; in fact, she was probably the best candidate, but somehow he never saw her doing anything but placing her shield in front of the Inquisitor, or him, absolutely fearless, charging their enemies, drawing their attacks…

She misunderstood him and gave him a crooked smile. "Unbelievable, is it not? I told the Inquisitor not to blame me if his forces mutiny within the week. I can fight, but Seekers aren't exactly trained to lead armies, and I'm not exactly the sort of person people want to follow." She gave a depreciating laugh and looked away.

He stared at her. She was serious. "Cassandra," he said, leaning forward, placing his free hand gently under her jaw, and tilting her head to meet his eyes. "Even when I hated you, I would have followed you. Everyone sees how hard you drive yourself, how much you care about them, about doing the right thing. They might not like you, but they'll follow you to the ends of the earth just because you ask them to."

She gave him a brief nod, and a tight smile. "Thank you. Even if it is flattery, it means something that you would say it."

"It isn't flattery," he said fiercely, willing her to believe it.

"I suppose I should just be glad you do not hate me anymore," she said, with a small upward twist of her lips.

"I don't hate you," he said softly.

It really wasn't the right time to do what he was about to do. In fact, it was probably a very bad time. He should probably let go of her hand, take his fingertips off her jaw from where they cradled her face lightly, make a dumb joke, wish her luck, and leave.

But he didn't. He thought of this woman, the hard façade she presented to the world, and the real vulnerability on the inside; she was so supremely talented, accomplished and decisive, but filled with self-doubt. And all of it, somehow, she trusted herself to express to him in this moment.

Instead, of withdrawing, he moved his hand slightly, using his fingers to skim the line of her cheekbone, as he had once done when she was asleep, but now reveling in the feeling of her soft skin, the faint blush that rose wherever his hand moved, as he gently explored the hollow of her cheek, then down to the three tiny marks, so close to her mouth, before taking his thumb and gently, with a feather-light touch, tracing the line of her lower lip, so soft and delicate in contrast to his calloused finger.

He could feel his pulse start to beat more strongly, and she looked down and swallowed, but didn't draw away.

He paused, giving her a chance to turn the moment if she wanted to—

-and Maker, he hoped she didn't—

before he leaned over the desk, drawing out of his chair, and he noticed that she leaned forward too, eyes closed, head slanted, their lips meeting gently in the middle, not in an awkward clash of teeth and tongues, as it had been that first, barely remembered, time, but a light pressure, feeling her lips, warm and giving, on his, hearing her shallow breaths, smelling the wonderful spicy smell of her skin and her soap, until somehow, by a mutual decision, they both agreed it wasn't enough. She opened her mouth to him, drawing him in, teasing and gratifying him with gentle touches of her tongue, his hand moving to tangle in her hair, knowing that having gone here, it was not enough—not nearly enough—and he felt like he was drowning and on fire at the same time. He traced the outline of her lips with his tongue, and heard a soft moan suppressed by his mouth on hers, and even though he hadn't intended it to get this out of hand, his only thought now was to get her even closer so he could touch her, feel her against him, and—

"Cassandra, do you have—" he heard a voice from behind him, and Varric froze. A shocked silence settled over the room that seemed to last for ages, but probably only lasted a second or two, and then he heard a stammered, "Excuse me," and a door slam.

"Trevelyan?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, drawing away from him, cheeks aflame, leaning back into her chair, dropping her head into her hands. "Maker's breath," she groaned.

He felt a vise start to settle over his chest, felt like he was being squeezed from the inside, like he couldn't get enough air.

"Should I apologize?" he asked, tightly.

Her eyes flew open then, as embarrassment was chased out by confusion. "What? Why?"

He could feel his throat constrict, and it was hard to form words against the lump there. "For…I mean, if you didn't want—"

"No!" she said loudly. Then more quietly, with her cheeks still flushed as she met his eye, "No. I just…it wasn't the best time, but…no. Don't apologize. Because then I'll have to, and," a small smile appeared, "I don't want to."

He felt like he could breathe again.

"I should probably go see what the Inquisitor wants," Cassandra said, without making a move to get up.

"You're not going to be able to come with us to the Western Approach, I take it." It wasn't a question.

"No," she said. "I wish I could, but…"

"You'll have it easy," he assured her. "Sleeping in a warm bed while we freeze our asses off at night and bake to death during the day. And you'll get to avoid all the snakes, and lizards, and Venatori, and whatever the fuck else they've got there."

"And I get to deal with a bunch of smart-ass recruits who think they know everything already, and a bunch of Templars who look at me cross-eyed every time I speak. I think I'd rather have the desert."

He smiled at her. "It won't be that bad."

"No," she grumbled. "It'll be worse."

She smiled at him then, the genuine smile she showed so rarely, the one that always made his heart turn over.

"Just do something for me, Varric," she finally said, suddenly serious.

"What?" he asked, filled with trepidation.

"Don't do anything brave."

He laughed then. "I never try to, Seeker. I never try to."

"I would not want to lose you," she said, and stopped and bit her lip as if afraid she had said too much, and rushed to fill the silence, talking too quickly.

"Hopefully Commander Cullen recovers soon, and I can get out of this office, but in the meantime, I had better see what the Inquisitor wants, and start looking at training schedules, and meeting with some of the squad leaders, and going over our inventory…" she trailed off.

"Of course," he said, rising from his chair. "Don't let me keep you."

He stopped at the door, though, and said, "I wouldn't want to lose you, either."

And without awaiting a response, he left.

When they gathered again that day—at a much more sensible hour—Hawke elbowed him and said in an undertone, "Work things out with the Seeker, then?"

"Who?" he asked, all innocence.

"Don't play coy with me, Varric."

"Oh, that Seeker," he clarified. "Well, I wouldn't say anything really happened. We just met in the hall for a time and happened to be travelling in the same direction."

"You're an ass," she grumbled.

"Paybacks are hell," he agreed.