Chapter Text
Cassandra splits Lord Seeker Lucius open in the summer, with the heat heavy on her back and hungry insects eagerly picking through what remains of her fellow seekers. She burns the corpses to rid them of the red lyrium and buries the ashes. Lucius she leaves for the birds. Of her order, these things remain: Cassandra, a small urn with Daniel’s ashes and a few books with the Seeker symbol branded on their fading covers.
Fifteen days after the death of the Seeker Order, five days after returning from Caer Oswin, Cassandra emerges from the solitude of her room and heads to the chapel. It’s time. A vigil must be held for the fallen seekers, their names must be added to the funeral liturgy. It is customary to announce the names of the dead and pray for them during daily mass, but with the war, news of new dead pours in daily, so the priests have taken to holding the funeral mass only two days a week to keep up morale. Some do not care to begin their morning with a list of the dead.
The priestess has a list of names already, and a quill ready in her belt. “Please go ahead,” she says. Cassandra casts back to all the names she’s picked through in the Seeker ledgers, all the cooks, the stable-boys, the apprentices, the journeymen, those in their year of silence, those newly emerged from the ritual. So few. So many. Once Cassandra is sure she’s squeezed every last name from her memory, the priestess speaks.
“We’ll add these to Friday’s mass. Hero…” It is the title that Orlesians use, and the priestess has a strong Orlesian accent. “In the normal course of things, you come to church three or four times a week.” It is not quite an accusation. “In times of suffering, we often withdraw from our community, not wanting to share our unhappiness, but in doing so we move further from the Maker and his mercy. But our community is eager to support us, if we will only share our suffering. Lean on your community, Hero. We mourn with you.” Cassandra feels a flush of unhappiness.
“My apologies,” she says stiffly.
“There is nothing to apologize for,” the priestess says. “I was in the Cathedral when the dragons attacked. You saved us. We will be honored to read the rites for you. Will you hold the Vigil tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then we will make sure that no one disturbs you.” And indeed, when Cassandra returns that night, the Chapel of Hessarian’s Sword has been cordoned off.
A vigil is simple: you stay up the whole night, you drink a lot, you talk about the dead person, and you punch each other to stay awake. Cassandra has assembled a box of liquor for this purpose--a warden vintage from Blackwall, something Sera snuck in when she wasn’t looking, a bottle of Nevarran wine from Vivienne, some muddy Kirkwall stout from Cullen. She’s not sure how the news that she was looking for alcohol spread, but people kept coming in with bottles as she was preparing her funeral garb. The wakes and feasts were the only time she ever wore her traditional Nevarran clothes in front of the other Seekers, and she always got a lot of shit for it. She can hear the echo of Daniel’s voice, mocking the dragon-headed shoulders of her funeral dress.
The Chapel of Hessarian’s Sword is more templar than seeker. Templars in various heroic poses are plastered onto the roof in peeling paint. In the center of the chapel, a large painting depicts Hessarian running his sword through Andraste, the same mercy killing she gave Daniel. A single lamp is burning in the wall alcove, filling the chapel with flickering light and shadows. Beyond the limits of her little chapel, someone is weeping. Cassandra is glad for the company.
The Orlesian incense she bought from the merchants in the courtyard makes her cough when she lights it. She takes a swig of the warden vintage, but it only makes her cough more. In death, sacrifice, in bottles, deadly. The weeping dies away and Cassandra is left with the silence of the dead.
“I don’t know what to say,” she announces to Daniel. “So I’m going to read the Canticle of Hours, and hope that I’ve come up with something to say by the end.” That takes the first hour and the rest of the little bottle that Blackwall gave her. She rummages through the crate. Someone, probably Cole, has snuck in a huge bottle of tea. She takes a swig to soothe her throat and starts on the Nevarran summerwine.
“This isn’t bad, Daniel. You wouldn’t like it, because you’ve got no taste for wine.” It’s awful to talk to this empty chapel and hear back the echo of her voice, but it’s no worse than the little sound Daniel made when she ran him through, or the kick low in her stomach every time she remembers another one of the dead. She takes another drink of the wine in the hopes that it’ll make her more talkative. What do you say to the dead? The wakes she’s been to have been mostly shit-talking and praise of great deeds done, but she hasn’t seen Daniel in two years, not since before the war began.
“I hope the maker smuggles you watered-down beer at the feasts of all the saints so that you don’t get drunk and embarrass yourself in front of all the other seekers,” she announces to the chapel. “I’m not very good at this. I should think of something heroic to say.” She stumbles through a bad retelling of the time Daniel fought off a bunch of bandits while she was sick, drinking wine to help herself through her verbal fumbling. When she’s finished, there’s only half an inch of wine left in the bottle, so she finishes it off.
What to drink next? She lines up Leliana’s orlesian absinthe, Cullen’s muddy stout and Josphine’s Antivan brandy. They can advise her. The empty bottle of wine knocks against her foot as she gets up and stretches. She picks it up. It’s heavy, good quality glass. A simple overhand throw would shatter it. It would be so satisfying to shatter all of the bottles in her crate and fill the chapel with broken glass, get through all the liquor that should have been drunk by all the people who should be here instead of rotting in dungeons.
Instead of throwing the bottle, she drops it on the ground, where it shatters quite satisfyingly. “Fuck Lord Seeker Lucius,” she announces. That seems like it should be a toast, so she pops the cap on the absinthe and takes a drink. “Fuck him to the abyss. I hope he gets flayed alive.” She’s never been great at graphic depictions of torture, so she steals from one of the scenes in Varric’s books. She can just picture all of her barracks-mates laughing at her recital and lifting their drinks.“Fuck this recent round of bad Seeker leadership!” She’s drunk enough that the absinthe barely even burns. “In fact, fuck the entire Seeker order!”
The last announcement echoes through the whole church and she wonders what time it is. “O maker, why do we have to suffer through this bullshit?” There’s no answer. “In that case, let’s go to the Canticle of Threnodies! The Canticle of Threnodies takes her through to the time when dawn is starting to filter into the chantry. She thinks she hears the sound of a door opening somewhere behind her, but when she peers out into the chantry, no one’s there. Maybe it’s the maker, come to eavesdrop.
“Seekers!” she says grandly to the empty chapel. “All of the order is assembled here before you! Be merry and drink, for we are all going to die! Look at the illust-illest-illustrious people who went before you! So when you go, you’ll be in good company! Let’s get smashed at the Maker’s side!” That had been the rallying cry of her knight-captain, and he’d said it at every wake he’d ever been to, and after he died his first apprentice had said it for him at all the other wakes.
The absinthe is just about done, which makes it time for Cullen’s beer. “I told you not to stay with the templars, Daniel. You should have joined the Inquisition with me. Fucking templars, can’t do their job correctly. Even Cullen, and the best thing about him is that he knows he’s not a very good templar.” She hiccups. “Disrespectful, I know, but I’ll be gone soon. How’s the Maker’s side? Are you there yet? Can you bring me with you?”
She’s out of things to read aloud, so she starts listing the names of the dead in the order she met them in, with a little blessing afterwards. She repeats a few names and she’s sure she forgets a few others, but that’s fine. There’s no one alive to know the difference. “Oh, and fuck Corepheus. And the Divine! Not as an insult, Most Holy, but you should be here, at the end of the list of the dead. And Regalyan. Regalyan should be on this list. Anthony! Anthony wasn’t a seeker, but he can come too. That’s everyone.” She hears the distinct scraping of someone unbarring the front door to the Chantry.
“At last we are done here. Draw your last breath, my friends, cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker’s right hand, and forgive me.” She stumbles out of the Chapel, broken glass crunching underneath her boots.
Varric is standing a few steps outside of the chapel, a flickering candle in his hand.
“Varric! Come to join the wake? It’s over now.” She laughs and steadies herself on a pew.
“Just coming in for morning prayers, Seeker.” The candle does more to hide his face than show it, but she thinks she sees him wince. There’s some kind of verse about liars, but she can’t remember it.
“I forget that you’re a believer,” she says absently. “Oh, I remembered the verse! There is but one Truth. All things are known to our Maker and He will judge their lies. Those who bear false witness and work to deceive others know this.”
“Still on about that, Seeker?” Cassandra thinks about this.
“No, not really. I thought that maybe Hawke could have saved the most holy, but now I think that none of them could have been saved, or maybe I just can’t save anyone.” Her knee wobbles unexpectedly, and she has to grab the pew with a second hand to keep herself upright . Varric moves to steady her.
“You probably shouldn't throw up in the cathedral,” he says, and grabs her with one hand. Cassandra stares at him.
“There’s nothing else here to throw up on.”
“Let’s get you back to your room.” Cassandra lets him keep her arm and steer her, concentrating on taking one step after the other. They reach a door, and Cassandra stands and wobbles for a while before the noise in her ears resolves into Varric asking her for her keys. She fishes them out of her pocket and lets Varric open the door before she staggers into the room, and passes out on her bed.