#cass is droppin eaves

[rosella-writes]

Ok returning to simp for Solas/Cassandra. Would love to see "Malapert - Clever in manners of speech." from the Words prompts :3

THANK YOUUUU this one is just a study in banter, again. For @dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Solas x Cassandra Rating: Gen Words: 777

~~~

Solas is entirely too clever, and that is dangerous in an apostate. 

Cassandra allows him to remain, at Leliana’s urging. The Left Hand always did have a soft heart for mages, and Cassandra practises caution where before she had wielded prejudice. She owes Regalyan that, at least. 

As she questions him about what they have both come to call the Breach, his words are slippery. He lives in the realm of ‘perhaps’ and ‘one presumes’ — nothing he suggests has finality besides his confidence in his own intelligence. She wrinkles her nose and grits her teeth and bears it. 

Mages. 

~~~

Cassandra passes between homes in Haven, her boots crunching in the snow, when she hears the Herald’s disgruntled tones paired with Solas’s infuriatingly calm one. She had meant to attend to Adan’s missive in person — why he sends them when the chantry is a few steps away, she will never know — but something in Solas’s voice halts her in her steps. As she leans against the wood of the cabin, she hears indignation in his words. 

“I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

Water drips from the eaves above her into Cassandra’s hair, but she does not move. She is as frozen as the snow beneath her feet. 

“Cassandra trusts you,” the Herald says. “She wouldn’t let anyone put you into a Circle against your will.”

Wouldn’t she? Cassandra is a Seeker of Truth, an overseer of Templars, a bastion against corruption — it is her duty to stand against the dangers of unfettered magic, like what scars the sky. She allowed Avexis to be taken back to the White Spire, who now haunts the grounds at Haven, a Tranquil brand scarring her face. A brief imagining of such a sunburst brand on Solas’s forehead flashes behind Cassandra’s eyelids until she blinks it away. 

Solas sounds unimpressed when he drawls, “Thank you. I appreciate the thought.”

Cassandra rolls her shoulders, discomfited, then turns on her heel to return to the Chantry. Adan’s request can wait. 

~~~

The Herald and Solas argue, and their voices carry on the wind. Cassandra catches parts of it as she leaves Flissa’s pub — something to do with spirits. She hears most clearly Solas’s strident voice, then the undercurrent of the Herald’s low prodding. 

“When I asked if you were with anyone, I meant other people,” the Herald pushes.

Solas snorts. “Ah. People, as opposed to spirits. We are flesh and blood, so we are real.”

Cassandra shrugs within her gambeson, settling her armour more comfortably on her shoulders. She should move on, towards more pressing matters. But instead she leans against the low fence nearby, pretending to stare up at the Breach, but really sees only unfocused green light. Falling snow, dry with cold, peppers her cheeks. She tells herself that Solas’s answers to the Herald’s questions, no matter his assistance thus far, could determine possible guilt. 

“Is Cassandra defined by her cheekbones and not her faith?” Solas asks. Cassandra flushes at the mention of her name, and raises a hand to her cheek. They are not so sharp. “Varric by his chest hair and not his wit?”

The Herald scoffs. “They’re not defined by their bodies, but they do have bodies. You need one to be a person.”

“A demon possessing a corpse has a body,” Solas retorts.

“A living body.”

“A demon possesses a living mage to become an abomination.”

The Herald has become angry, from the sound of the response. “They didn’t make that body. They just took it over.”

Cassandra can hear the sneer in Solas’s voice. “Technically your mother created your body, with some help from your father, one assumes.”

Cassandra leans forward on the fence, her fingers laced together as she braces her elbows, and hangs her head with an embarrassed ahem given to no one but herself. 

“You’ve thought about this.”

The sneer in Solas’s voice has deepened. “On occasion, yes.”

She cannot tell if he is foolish, clever, sly, or all at once. It is foolish to so openly argue this, especially as Templars gather. Solas must be feeling cornered, pinned into a prey animal’s trap on all sides. And yet he argues. 

She does not hear what they argue over next, as the direction of the wind changes — all she catches is Solas chuckling, “It’s fortunate Cassandra is not within earshot.”

With a huff, she pushes away from the fence. The snow creaks beneath her boots as she strides towards the gates — there’s a training dummy with her name on it, and her sword itches to cut into it.