Another story in which Varric talks about his feelings for Cassandra with everyone but Cassandra. Blackwall and Josey are also there.

"Tell me, Blackwall. Will it ever be more than flowers?"

The dwarven writer and the would-be Warden were seated in the Herald's Rest, unwinding after another harrowing mission away from Skyhold. Tonight, the tavern's atmosphere was being carried by the Chargers who were on the third chorus of a rather confusing drinking song about a group of lost sailors. Dalish didn't appear to know any of the words, but she was belting along with gusto.

Blackwall had found a relatively undisturbed corner where he could observe their antics from a distance. Sometimes that was a cue to leave the man alone, but his manner was more inviting tonight, so Varic had joined him with a pint of ale that would put the Hanged Man's to shame.

Of course, the question he'd just asked might put an end to Ranier's companionable air. But there was a story here, and that was a chance worth taking.

The bearded man grunted and drank from his mug. "Flowers are bold enough as is." It was no secret that every morning Blackwall trekked up the mountain to above the snowline. It was equally well known that this trip resulted in a bouquet of glacier lilies that found its way to the Ambassador's desk. Blackwall shook his head, decisive. "I won't overstep unless she invites me to."

Varric gave the taller man a slight smile. "I don't think she minds."

Blackwall's reply was swift. And characteristically deprecating. "She should. I'm not good enough for her. The true Blackwall was better off keeping his distance." His tone, already morose, became more acrid. "She should spit on Thom Ranier."

"Spitting seems more an Orlesian predilection."

This snarky comment was rewarded with another grunt. "Our resident spymaster looks ready to do more than merely spit on me."

Varric couldn't really argue that one. Leliana was known for her deep friendships. And her inventive ways to inflict pain. "She's protective," he allowed. Ruffles could make her own decisions, but anyone who had met Nightingale knew better than to hurt her friend.

The tavern door opened then, and Blackwall turned as if expecting the spymaster to enter with an arrow aimed at his chest. But the new guest was decidedly more Nevarran than Orlesian. The Seeker looked around, taking stock of the drinking patrons and the singing Chargers. She looked uncomfortable for a moment, unsure. Then Trevelyan was at her side, pulling her to the bar, and Cassandra's expression lightened.

The Warden impersonator nodded then turned a curious eye to his companion. "Do you receive the same treatment?"

The remark took Varric by surprise. He briefly considered ignoring its implications and covering with another joke. He even had one ready. But something about the evening - the drink, the company, the sight of her across the room - made him reconsider.

"I see you want to talk about more than just your own love life."

Blackwall shrugged, as if he wasn't at all surprised by the admission Varric had practically made. "I've noticed your attention to our warrior queen."

"Princess, actually," Varric corrected him, reaching again for his drink. "And she'd punch me for saying it." His gaze wandered across the room where the Inquisitor was regaling a small group with some story and where Cassandra now looked content and amused. "Let's put it this way: I'm not even brave enough for the flowers."

The big man followed his gaze. "Does she still intimidate you?"

Varric shook his head. "No. Not in the way you mean. The threats, the lies - that's all behind us. But I can't let myself imagine anything ahead."

"Why is that?"

The dwarf brushed a hand across his stubbly jaw. Where to start with that one? "I don't exactly have the best track record with relationships. I spent my whole adult life in one, and it fizzled out after fifteen years. With a dramatic final note just a few months ago."

Blackwall nodded understandingly. "Is that why you hesitate?"

"Not solely." It would be an easy excuse to give, but there was more to it than that. "Cassandra's not Bianca. I'm not the same person I was fifteen years ago. It could work."

Acknowledging it out loud prompted a strange constricting in his chest. Yearning at the prospect or grief at obstacles not so easily overcome.

Blackwall regarded him thoughtfully. "But you don't send the flowers."

He didn't. She'd love them, Varric knew. For all her tough exterior, the Seeker appreciated a romantic gesture better than most. She read his books for Maker's sake. She saw the flowers on Josephine's desk every time she visited the Ambassador, and he took a moment to picture her reaction if she found a bouquet delivered to the smithy loft. Or maybe a single flower, stem pressed in a new chapter of Swords and Shields.

When his mind wandered in this direction, it reminded him quickly just how deep he'd fallen for her.

It was a long moment before he answered, but Blackwall was a man comfortable with stretches of silence. He waited patiently until Varric had taken a drink of his ale and grown a rueful smile. "You know she's up for appointment as the Divine? Not just the adjective, the whole position. The Maker's chosen, Andraste's representative."

"I had heard that rumor."

Varric's eyes again found the woman in question across the room. "She'd be good at it."

Blackwall watched him instead. "Maybe so."

"I can't come between her and that opportunity."

Becoming Divine would mean a tremendous responsibility, and there was no doubt in his mind that the Seeker would shoulder it well. But the obligations of the job weren't entirely about paperwork and governance. There was the whole moral example attached.

The Divine was a holy figure, devoted to the service of the Maker in every way. There was no such thing as a married Divine. Varric wasn't sure yet what kind of relationship he and Cassandra could achieve, but he'd just come from a romance where that kind of permanent commitment was an impossibility. The issue of marriage wasn't why he'd ended things with Bianca, but he wasn't eager to give it up again so soon.

And if Cassandra truly did become the Divine, it wasn't just marriage that was off the table. Another person might be willing to bend the rules, to keep a secret lover or two. Varric was certain that some had. But that wasn't like his Seeker. She'd do the job the way she felt it should be done, even if it cost her something dear in the process.

He had no right to make her choose.

And if he was a little more honest, it was better to live without the confirmation that she wouldn't choose him.

After another long silence, his drinking companion nodded solemnly. "I can understand that feeling." A look at the man's face told Varric that he probably did. "Josephine has the whole world ahead of her. She has responsibilities and obligations - including the responsibility to marry well at her station. We both know this."

Now it was Varric's turn to nod, sympathetic to that plight. "There's a lot of similarities between our situations."

"Some. And one more I think you're missing." Blackwall eyed him seriously. "Do you trust Cassandra?"

It wasn't a question he'd anticipated, but the answer was immediate and certain. "I do. There's not a more trustworthy person."

The warrior nodded again, as if he'd been expecting that answer. "Then you don't need to be afraid of showing her your heart." Though Blackwall's face appeared customarily grim, his words held deep emotion of another kind. "When I bring the flowers, I show my trust. Whatever she decides, I will honor. But I let it be her decision because I respect and trust the woman I love."

It was a beautiful picture. Varric was sure he'd never written its equivalent. "You've given me something to think about, Blackwall," he said, honestly.

Blackwall's conviction was apparent. It held characteristic forcefulness, but there was a new tenderness to it. "Even if it can never be, I must show her somehow that she is loved. She deserves to know." His gaze was wistful, transported beyond the raucous tavern and to the dream of his beloved. "And if that fact can lend her strength, I will do all in my power to show it."

Varric had convinced himself that the feelings springing up for Cassandra Pentaghast would only cause her pain. He'd elected to keep the pain of unrequited love entirely to himself.

But Blackwall held a different perspective. He, too, would accept any outcome, but he let his love be visible. Ruffles knew about his feelings, and if he had to guess, Varric would say she returned them. Even if it could never be, there was honesty and trust. A real chance for love, even for a moment.

And maybe that was worth whatever pain came with it.

Hero was studying him again with a look that suggested Cole's ability to read minds. "I think you understand. That's why you write those books, isn't it?"

"Yeah." He wrote the first chapter as a gesture of apology. He kept writing because it brought her joy, fun, and because he had grown addicted to her smile. If the small gesture of love could bring her some strength in these difficult days, he'd write that terrible serial for the rest of his life.

Blackwall took a deep drink of his ale then wiped the liquid from his beard. "The love is there," he said, succinctly. "In every word from the pen and every step up the mountain."

Varric raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're not the writer around here? That was pretty romantic."

The warrior barked out a laugh, but the crinkling around his eyes showed reflection. "She makes me what I couldn't be on my own. Even a poet."

The truly awful drinking song had come to an end, and now Iron Bull was badgering Cassandra for the story of her first dragon slaying. The Seeker rolled her eyes, but acquiesced to the cheers of the crowd. Varric smiled and stood to join them.

Blackwall caught his eye again before he left the table. "Trust her, Varric. It might surprise you both how brave you can yet be."

Varric raised his mug in salute, feeling braver already as he walked to Cassandra's side.

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