Approval Seeker. Pt. 4.

I don't think that shaking him like this will be any help, Seeker,' the dwarf remarks, folding his crossbow and strapping it to his back, and then squatting down next to Cassandra.

 

'I am not shaking him!' the Seeker says defensively, as she pulls off her glove and slides her hand along Lavellan's jaw line and down to his neck.

 

She feels a faint tingle caressing her fingertips as they travel over the short, bristling stubble, which the elf recently started growing, after a few friendly drinks with Bull, Varric, Dorian and Blackwall resulted in a rather inappropriately loud argument about facial hair and a subsequent dare to break the stereotypes that surround the generally beardless elven race. It does not take Cassandra too long to make the shocking discovery that she finds this sensation quite pleasant - but, mentally slapping herself for being so irresponsible, she hastens to banish all frivolity from her mind, focusing instead on the faint inkling of a pulse that thumps weakly against her fingers, appearing to grow slower and slower with every moment.

 

But, as soon as the ridiculous thoughts about the elf's stubble are gone, the Seeker suddenly feels as if someone has put out the only source of light and warmth within her soul. Without this little distraction, she finds herself lost in the cold and dark, her heart twisting into a tight knot of raw red flesh, as though it is being squeezed by the clawed, bony hands of some monstrous creature - a fear demon. This unseen, malicious entity hisses to Cassandra that the warm lifeblood will eventually stop coursing through the vein under her fingertips, that the soft rhythm of Lavellan's pulse will fade, and that the elf will never open his eyes again. And, is if that were not enough, it shows her dark, unnbearably sorrowful images of herself, in a grim, blood-curdling version of the future, akin to the one Lavellan and Dorian told them about after the battle in Redcliffe Castle.

 

First, Cassandra sees herself carrying the fallen Inquisitor back to Skyhold, her eyes cast down and her back bent under her burden, while the heavy rain keeps pounding against her armour, its large, cold drops blurring her vision, together with the other drops, hot and salty, which seep through despite all her efforts to hold them back. The most poignant, the most painful part of the vision comes when Cassandra imagines glancing down at Lavellan's face, momentarily mistaking the nature of the tiny clear streams rolling down the elf's cheeks: it seems to her that he is weeping, having succumbed to his cruel, mangled wounds, and she wants to comfort him, reassure him that the pain will be gone soon, that he will be healed, and that everything will be all right  - but then, her heart sinking into a seemingly bottomless icy pit, she realizes that these are merely raindrops, not tears, and it is too late for healing.

 

Then, in a flash, this  image is a replaced by another one, which pushes Cassandra's heart even deeper into the abyss. It seems to her that she is standing in front of Skyhold's main staircase, keeping a solemn last vigil together with Leliana next to a colossal funeral pyre. Despite the pain that creeps into their hearts like darspawn Taint every time they think of the body that has been placed on top of this sombre construct, they both remain silent and perfectly still, with with their faces upturned towards the tiny ember flakes, which soar up from the roaring flames to the velvety, diamond-dusted canopy of the heavens, in a swirl of golden dust that carries Lavellan's soul to be judged by the Maker that he did not believe in, while still spreading His light of hope across Thedas with more valour and devotion than most Chantry-bred Andrastians.

 

And as this dust melts away into the night, and its warmth is swallowed by the encroaching cold that rolls in waves down from the mountains, Cassandra ponders darkly on the new Rifts that will keep appearing in the future. Without a doubt, they will now swell and deepen and merge into huge, bleeding gaps, tearing apart the fabric of the world with a renewed force: for the hand that once held the burning Anchor to keep the horrors of the Fade at bay, now hangs limply from the pyre, and its long, sensitive mage's fingers are clasped stiffly round a patch of dead skin, which, as Sera would put it, bawling drunkenly on Josephine's shoulder, 'don't glow no more'.

 

Then, Cassandra's thoughts turn to Corypheus, and to the malicious delight that will ripple through his ranks when the Venatori learn of the Herald's fall. She also thinks of the grief that will paralyze the lands that the Inquisition once awoke with a promise of hope, and of the pain and despair that will sweep like a plague through the alienages and the wild woodland domain of the Dalish, when the elves learn that it is time to silence the gleeful songs they once sang of their kinsman, a beacaon of hope and source of great pride for their scattered, divided, unfortunate race. She thinks, briefly, of the scandals and hissing whispers in Val Royaux, should a group of faithful clerics order for the bells to toll in mourning for a godless knife-ear, as they tolled for Divine Justinia - and of the painful echo that these bells will stir in her heart once more.

 

She thinks of many things, which race through her mind like shadows of thunderclouds before an oncoming storm - but one thought keeps returning to her, eating through her heart like acid, wounding her deeper than all the musings on the loss that the Inquisitor's demise would bring to Thedas. Stupefied by dread, she keeps chanting to herself six short, simple words, which greatly outweigh the rest of her despair-filled visions,

 

I will never see him again.

 

This is what frightens her the most. Not the demon invasion, not Corypheus' triumph, not the profound mourning across the kingdoms - but the horrible, undeniable truth that the Inquisitor's passing will mean no more rapid-fire exchanges of snide remarks; no more confrontations in the war room, with Cullen and Leliana having to pull the two of them apart; no more of the elf's sly, Varric-like jokes that inevitably make Cassandra blush; no more stolen glances across the dinner table at Skyhold, beside the campfire  in the evening, or even in the heat of battle, when she suddenly finds herself struck by the realization that the Inquisitor is actually quite handsome, with his high, sharply outlined cheekbones and thin lips, with the steep curve of his nose, and the way the light shines within his eyes, light-hazel, almost yellow in colour, at times cold and intent like those of a bird of prey, and at other times full of soft warmth that always brings a smile to Cassandra's lips if she allows herself to bask in it a little. Will she be able to bear it if this warmth is gone forever?..

 

Vivid and heart-breaking as these images are, it does not take too long for them to rip their way through Cassandra's mind, and after a few moments of stupefied silence she comes to her senses. Gripping the Inquisitor's shoulders a little tighter, the Seeker reminds herself that in the real world, there has been no funeral yet; in the real world, Lavellan is still fighting for his life - and finally, in the real world, there is a bothersome dwarf who is still waiting for her to finish her reply. Which she promptly does.

 

'I am checking for life signs. There is a vein in the neck lets one feel the heartbeat. It is weak, but it is still there, and...'

 

'I know that, Seeker,' Varric persists, 'But feeling for a pulse is not supposed to include petting his face. Let's just find a potion and stop wasting time on your suppressed desires'.

 

With that, he dives into one of the many satchels and pouches that are attached to almost every inch of free space on his jacket (hand-crafted by the Inquisitor himself, following proprietary Carta schematics). Cassandra should have helped the dwarf, she knows she should - but instead, she just follows his nimble movements with one of her most intense glares. Varric's casual, off-hand remark, his crude hint at something so... so private - it is just too much to bear. In an instant, the void that was left by the visions of the dead Inquisitor is filled up by choking anger, which closes its grip around Cassandra's throat like tightly wound vice, refusing to let go, making each breath impossibly difficult, as if she were struggling with a long climb uphill, somewhere high in the mountains, where the air is thin and scrapingly crisp.

 

Only when Varric finally finds what he was looking for - a tiny phial, lit up from within by a soft red glow - does the Seeker finally scavenge enough air to squeeze out an outraged question,

 

'What did you say, dwarf?'

 

Varric shrugs carelessly, opening the phial with his teeth and spitting out the cork over his shoulder.

 

'I always thought it was garbage,' he says as soon as he is able to talk again. 'You know, the crap I wrote about people trying to tear each other apart when all they want is to kiss. But after watching you and Goldielocks here for a while, I just don't know any more. Now, will you maybe stop stewing and hold the poor blighter's head so I can try to squeeze this stuff in?'

 

The Seeker purses her lips into a thin, thread-like line; if her hands were free, she could have easily picked up the nearest heavy object and plastered it into Varric's face - but fortunately for the hairy-chested storyteller, right now the unconscious elf in Cassandra's arms demands more attention. Grumbling incoherently to herself, she does as the dwarf has told her, sliding her hand underneath the back of Lavellan's head and lifting it into a more comfortable position. As she does so, her pupils dilate momentarily, and then shrink to tiny pinpoints, while her face is flooded by two waves of colour, swiftly following one another: first white, and then, a deep crimson. For once again, her mind is invaded by a torrent of abhorrently frivolous thoughts.

 

When they had just started travelling together, the former First of the Dalish clan proudly wore a long, flowing mane of blonde hair, which prompted Varric to nickname him Goldielocks. As the dwarf explained one night at the campfire, 'I was seriously considering calling you Blondie the Second, but you did not blow up the Conclave - plus, I suspect you would not like to be called Second anyway, am I right?'; to which Lavellan nodded meaningfully and, with a single snap of his fingers, made a little twig float into the air, off the ground at his feet and directly into the flames - perhaps as a demonstration of what he would do to Varric if he dared to call him Second.

 

However, shortly after they settled in at Skyhold - perhaps feeling that a change of appearance was in order as a symbol of his new station - the Inquisitor marched straight to the barber and had his locks shorn off, save for a few strands at the very top of his head, which Cassandra now weaves around her fingers, praying in desperation that Varric will not notice.

 

Really, what in the Maker's name is going on with her?! The Inquisitor is wounded, dying perhaps, and instead of doing something useful, she keeps getting torn between agonizing what-if scenarios and these stupid, girlish fancies about his hair and stubble. The latter unsettle her especially, as they keep sneaking into her head like rude, mannerless youngsters who shift around and whisper and giggle, disrupting the solemnity of a Chantry service. This - this is wrong! This is so wrong! No matter how potent, the liquid in Varric's phial will definitely not be enough to completely revive Lavellan, and then they will have to strip him and inspect his wounds - what will she do then? Let the Inquisitor die in her arms, while she blushes and fawns over the outlines of his chest and stomach? She cannot allow this! This is not a book - this is real! She has to snap out of it!

 

'I am sorry, Inquisitor,' she whispers, gazing wistfully into Lavellan's face, while Varric lifts the healing phial to the elf's ashen lips.

 

Slowly, a wisp of sparkling pinkish smoke trails out of its vessel and enters Lavellan's mouth, as though Varric were literally breathing new life into the wounded elf.

 

'Neat, eh?' the dwarf asks, watching the soft, ethereal warmth pass from the phial into the Inquisitor's body, highlighting his veins in a pulsing pink as it travels down his throat and towards his chest. 'I won a couple of these from that Clemence guy in a game of Wicked Grace. You'd be surprised at how ridiculously easy it is to beat a Tranquil. They never bluff, but they never call your bluffs either. I would have stripped him of all his stuff, but I felt sorry for the fellow. The whole point was to try and help him unwind a little, and he ended up just staring at me with those empty eyes of his and handing over these potion thingies'.

 

'You could have just requested our alchemists to provide us with healing supplies. No need for card games,' Cassandra retorts mechanically, preoccupied with observing the subtle changes that are caused by the potion.

 

To her utmost relief, as the pink glow spreads rapidly through the elf's entire body, it returns a healthy colour his sunken cheeks and frozen lips and melts away the invisible layer of ice that has been chaining his limbs. And as soon as he is free, Lavellan lets out a tremendous gasp and throws his eyes wide open, staring straight into Cassandra's face.

 

Clenching her teeth in order not to pant (for her heart has begun beating at a wild, frenzied speed), the Seeker smiles at him with just the corners of her lips; he gasps again and, his fingers jerking suddenly, grabs her by her wrist with such force that she loses feeling in her fingers.

 

'Inquisitor?' Cassandra addresses him anxiously, ignoring the feeling that her bones are about to be ground into dust - and then adds, 'It's just as I expected: the potion helped him come to his senses but did not close his wounds. It we could get him to a proper healer...'

 

Lavellan's nostrils twitch slightly, as does his lower left eyelid. He chews at his lips for a couple of seconds, and then wheezes, his tone rather aggressive (while his fingers are still instinctively gripping Cassandra's hand),

 

'I don't... need... a... healer... I am... fine...'

 

And, bringing to life quite a few of the most high-strung scenes from Varric's books, he concludes his sentence with a loud, barking cough, which makes rusty-coloured foam appear on his lips.

 

Cassandra shakes her head and strokes the elf's hand, as a gentle hint for him to release his hold of her. The realization that he has been gripping her wrist seems to come as a complete shock to him; he starts violently and lets go of the Seeker, muttering defensively while she lays him down on the ground,

 

'I did... did not... It's not what you... think...'

 

'Hey, calm down, Goldielocks!' Varric grins. 'She'll pay you in kind for breaking her hand when she's popping out little half-elfies!'

 

Cassandra does not turn her head to incinerate him with her glare, as she is too busy struggling with loosening Lavellan's clothes, which are stiff and sticky, since they have been soaked in quite a generous helping of blood, which has now dried up in places, forming layers of hard crust round dark spots that are still wet to the touch. As predicted, Cassandra can't help but get distracted by the thoughts of the bare skin that the soggy fabric conceals, and, once again, her inner rage at herself is just as great as her annoyance with Varric. Still, she finds it in her to say brusquely,

 

'Instead of talking nonsense, you'd better get moving and seek out our scouts'.

 

'There's no need,' a new voice cuts in, somewhere from above. 'They are coming. I showed them the way; I told them the Inquisitor is hurt. I also told them to try not to stomp too much: it scares the rabbits... But they might not remember that part. They might not remember me at all; not remember me telling... But they will know that they are needed here - the Inquisitor's hurt will sing inside their hearts, and they will follow the song till they find this place. I know - I helped them slow down and listen'.

 

'Ah, there you are, kid!' Varric cries out, shielding his eyes with his hand and squinting at one of the half-ruined arches around them: Cole has materialized on its very top, sitting cross-legged with his hands cupped around his knees, and swaying slightly back and forth. 'I couldn't for the life of me remember where you'd gone!'

 

'Neither could I,' Cassandra adds. 'But - thank you for bringing help'.

 

Then, she leans closer to Lavellan and says quietly,

 

'Did you hear that? Our men are on their way; there is always a healer among our scouts, so your wounds will get treated soon. And while they are getting to us, I will stay by your side and keep you safe. You have my word, Inquisitor'.

 

'I know you will stay, Cassandra,' the elf mouths in reply. 'You always stay... That's why I... I...'

 

And then, he falls silent.