Work Text:
Leliana had more experience with polite questionings than Cassandra, and she dictated: two days alone in a room (the less light and air, the better) with nothing but bread and water, to make Tethras grateful when she let him out. On the third day, place a stack of papers in front of him, riffle through it, and tell him, We already know everything. You may as well tell us your version of the story. If he proved recalcitrant, remind him on the fourth day that none of his friends were coming for him.
“And if you insist on handling this yourself, do not lose your temper, Cassandra!” Leliana had cautioned, sternly. The raven on her shoulder cawed in agreement.
Her concern was unwarranted. It would be a simple enough task. The dwarf liked to talk.
Cassandra spent those first two days wandering the Champion’s home, looking for some clue, some indication as to what could make such a woman tick. A crude carving on the bannister. An older woman’s bedroom, untouched for years. A notebook, discarded under a dusty chair, full of a child’s first scrawlings of the alphabet. A is for Andraste, burned on her pyre. B is for the Black City, stain’d by our desires–had the Champion had a child with her elven lover, the beautiful, fiery Tevinter slave, with his veins full of lyrium, and his heart full of righteousness? There was nothing in the Tale or the rumors to suggest she had.
She lost her temper with Tethras within the first ten minutes of questioning. On the fourth day, his friends did come for him.
“Excuse me, miss!” said the scrawny elf, who openly carried a mage’s staff on her back. She peered up at Cassandra. “I’m Hahren Merrill, of the Alienage, and this is the captain of the Guard. We’re looking for Varric Tethras, deshyr to the Merchant’s Guild? I was hoping you’d had some word of him.”
The far-famed Guard-Captain Aveline.
She was the tallest woman Cassandra Pentaghast had ever seen–taller than Leliana, even. Her long, thick hair was more orange than Leliana’s true red, and, haloed as she was by the evening sun, she looked like some vision of Andraste Imperat, appearing to the faithful in their dreams. She stood, resplendent in her gleaming (yet somehow humble!) armor, neither glowering nor threatening, even with her hand on the pommel of her sword. She only watched, as the elf babbled. Took Cassandra’s measure as a woman, and as a fighter. Tethras had not embellished a single detail in his account.
“–and that’s why you should let him go! Also, he has never once cheated in a game of diamondback, in his entire life, except with Isabela, because Isabela cheats even harder, I think–”
“Enough, Merrill,” Aveline said, putting a firm, gauntleted hand on the elf’s shoulder. “Seeker Pentaghast, you will release Ser Tethras into our custody immediately. If you wish to take a citizen of Kirkwall for questioning, you may apply to the Lieutenant Brennan at the office of the Guard in Viscount’s Keep between the sunrise and noon bells. Here are the forms–I’ll require the Grand Cleric’s signature, and the Knight-Commander’s, verifying that this is Chantry business.”
“I see,” Cassandra said, and tore the papers in half, letting them flutter to the ground at the Guard-Captain’s feet. “You may have him–if you can defeat me in single combat.”
“Very well,” said Aveline, and drew her sword. She led them out into the street, and the onlookers–
*
“Bullshit,” Varric said. “It didn’t happen like that at all.”
“What!” Cassandra said, acutely aware of the stares she was receiving. Cullen, who finally looked more amused than shame-faced, having lost his breastplate, underpadding, shirt, and cloak to Lady Josephine. Lady Josephine’s little smile as she adjusted Cullen’s cloak about her shoulders and dealt the next hand of Wicked Grace. The Iron Bull’s–dare she make the joke, even to herself?–horny smile, which had not abated since he’d cajoled her into describing the precise shade of the Guard-Captain’s hair. “ I'm a Seeker of Truth. When have you known me to embellish? I have not shrunk a foot and sprouted a druffalo’s worth of chest hair within the past hour.”
“First off–you’d never tear up paperwork. You love paperwork. Second, me and Merrill and Aveline let you nab me, to throw you off Hawke and Fenris’s scent for a little while longer. Third,” Varric said, “you don’t have a shot in the Void of beating Aveline.”
“I don’t know about that,” Cullen said, as he handed one sock and both of his boots across the table to Josephine. “I think they’d be evenly matched.”
“You only say that because they’ve both kicked your ass, Curly.”
With the indignant sniff she used to make upstart Knight-Lieutenants feel small, Cassandra said, “Perhaps I exaggerated, but they did come for you, Varric. They were concerned I'd kept you so long, or else they were finding it too quiet without you."
Varric's eyebrow rose. It was a good feeling, to know something someone did not already know. Working so intimately with Leliana as she had for the past seven years, she'd nearly forgotten the sensation altogether. "And you threw Chantry authority in their faces until they went away?"
"Essentially. Lady Josephine, perhaps we could find some pretext to invite the Guard-Captain to Skyhold–surely, you have some connection in the Viscount’s Keep, some errand that would require her presence?”
“I don’t think that would be a prudent use of the Inquisition’s resources,” Josephine said, and accepted Cullen’s other sock, as well. “You were telling us about your duel?”
“Yes,” said Cassandra. Josephine always knew the correct thing to say. As if they were not all quietly competing to tell the most outrageous story. As if Varric had expected them to believe his ludicrous story about Chateau Haine–Cassandra had been taken in at the time, but never again. As if the Herald's tale of Shokrakar and the donkey, or Cullen's tale of the naked recruit, were more believable than Cassandra’s own. “As I was saying: the onlookers parted to allow us our space. Her shield shone brighter the love of battle that flowed through our veins…”
“Such romance,” Josephine murmured to Varric, and dealt another hand.