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spainkitty · 1 year

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The Night Before the Hinterlands (a.k.a. To Whatever Friendship Means)

Lanil's Pieces Masterlist

They sat around the table in The Singing Maiden Tavern. Servers ran to and fro, the minstrel sang and strummed her lute, and people talked and laughed over each other, but the three of them sat in companionable silence. It was...

Nice.

Calm.

A far cry from chasing demons and closing rifts and discussing war table operations with people whom had a hundred times her experience, but somehow waited for her decisions. It was... invigorating, having that much knowledge and control over the board, being more than a pawn in the world's game of chess, but it was also exhausting after waking up without a lifetime of memories five days ago.

Tomorrow they'd head out to the Hinterlands. At last, Lavellan would tackle her first real job as Herald of Andraste--she shuddered at the very idea of using that title with a straight face. She honestly couldn't wait to get away from that damn war table and her three advisors, get her head on straight and remember what she was good at: shooting lightning bolts at fools. She gulped at the mulled wine in her too large mug and choked slightly.

"Slow down, Shortie. The night's not going anywhere," Varric joked, patting her back with a bit too much strength. She wiped at her mouth with the back her hand and glowered at him.

"That is patently untrue, Varric. Each minute that passes means the night is, in fact, going somewhere," Solas disagreed in his most pretentious tone. It made Lavellan snicker as Varric's face contorted through too many emotions to parse.

"All right, Chuckles. Just for that, the next round's on you."

Lavellan winked at Solas. He merely rolled his eyes, so discreetly she almost missed it despite looking right at him.

"So. Chuckles." She pointed at Solas. "Shortie." She pointed at herself. "Any other nicknames for people I know? What about Josephine?"

"That one's easy. Ruffles," Varric raised his mug in a mock toast. Lavellan grinned. "And then there's Nightingale for our spymaster. Not actually my work, that was her codename the first time I met her, but anything else would probably get my tongue cut out."

"Very true."

"And of course, there's Curly."

"Curly?" Lavellan repeated thoughtfully. It definitely didn't suit Cassandra, so who-- An image of Cullen, with his barely tamed blondishreddish curls flashed in her mind and she barked a laugh. "Cullen!"

"Exactly! You should've seen him in Kirkwall. He was more ginger than blond then, and never wore his Templar helmet. I swear he couldn’t put one on over the curls!"

Lavellan's head tipped back, chair rocking slightly as she laughed.

"Doncha wanna pull one? Just a little?" she joked, holding up two fingers close together. "I'm sad it used to be more red. Where'd it go?"

"It must've gone with the beard," Varric sighed, overly doleful. "I don't know what he's doing with his face these days."

Lavellan gigglesnorted into her mug.

"But no nickname for our Seeker?" Solas asked, smirking slightly.

"Bitch."

Solas snorted out loud, his perfect composure broken. Lavellan laid down her head on the tabletop and cried her laughter into the woodgrain. She forced herself up, feeling flushed and floaty, and grinned. Wider and easier than she had in days.

"Come on, Cassandra is great! If I can forgive her for imprisoning me, then you should, too." She sighed and propped her chin on her fist. "The more she disapproves of me, the more I want her to notice me. I got her to smile once and I swear, I heard birds break out into chorus."

"Don't go chasing that dragon, Shortie. She'll turn and burn you before you can blink," Varric advised.

"She's too honest for that. She'll warn me first, then burn me. And I'll thank her for the warning. Do you think she likes women?"

"Please, no," Solas muttered, rubbing his forehead.

"So that's your type, Shortie?" Varric asked, shaking his head. "I thought Hawke's taste was bad. Well... at least the Seeker won't blow up a Chantry. She has that going for her."

Lavellen shook her head, smirking. "Not really. I don't think. It's funny watching Solas get a twitch, though," she admitted, reaching out to poke at the middle of Solas' brow. He grabbed her finger mid-reach.

"You are impossible."

She beamed at him. "Thank you."

He muttered in elvish under his breath and got to his feet.

"I believe I'm supposed to buy the next round." He left the table, shaking his head.

Lavellan watched him go, smiling dopily and chin on her fists.

"So that's your type."

She rolled her eyes and faced Varric's knowing little smirk.

"You love teasing him more than I do. Is he your type?"

"My heart belongs only to Bianca. Everyone knows that," Varric said, hand over his heart.

"And now I do, too. Isn't Bianca your crossbow?"

"She's so much more than just a crossbow."

"She is a very pretty crossbow."

He raised his mug in another toast and downed the last of the wine. Lavellan sipped at the dregs of her own and listened to the minstrel sing. Like so many other songs, this one was unfamiliar, but catchy. Fun. A few of the drunker patrons were even dancing.

"I don't think I have a type. I don't know if I ever had one, or if I just don't remember," Lavellan finally admitted.

"Is it something you think is missing?" Varric asked after a few moments.

Solas returned and handed out the mugs. "What is missing?"

Lavellan waited until he raised the mug to his mouth. "My libido."

Solas paused. Set down the mug. "Lavellan. You'll have to try harder to upset my drink than that."

She and Varric laughed out loud together.

"To answer, no. I don't feel like the urge to..." she screwed her mouth to the side trying to word it right, "to make like a rabbit in springtime is missing."

Varric laughed again. "Isabela wouldn't know what to do with you."

Lavellan ducked her head and smiled. Then, shrugged. "It's stupid to say that when huge swathes of my memory are missing, but I feel like... that's me. This, right here, with you two? That's what's been missing. Probably presumptuous of me, but what I've been missing is... friends. If you wouldn't mind being my friends..."

Lavellan's cheeks flushed amd she shifted uneasily in her seat, her eyes glued to the dark red surface of the mulled wine, her fingertip tracing the lip of the mug. Over her head, Solas and Varric's eyes met. Solas' gaze was merely contemplative, but Varric's was soft.

A large, heavy hand fell on Lavellan's shoulder.

"You don't ask for friends, Shortie." She glanced up through her fringe of messy white bangs to see Varric's crooked smile. "You just get them. And you got me, kid."

Lavellan smiled, truly smiled, nothing sarcastic or forced about it. Despite the scars, the broken nose, the white hair and brows, she looked young with that smile. Barely a toehold in her thirties and the whole world on her shoulders, but in the firelight of the tavern, with that genuine smile, she looked a decade younger.

"Thanks, Varric."

His hand squeezed once. "Yeah, well. We have a Breach to close, and I ain't going anywhere till it's done."

"Very true."

She tapped her mug to his. He tapped back, wine sloshing at the rims. To their surprise, Solas gently tapped his mug to both of theirs. They stared at him, not quite gaping. He did that smile of his, the unnerving and too knowing smile.

"To whatever friendship means."

Lavellan grinned and Varric chuckled.

And then they drank.

#Some antiCassandra but ONLY because it's early game #She is the best and i love her and so does Lanil... eventually #and i super secretly ship varricassandra and my friend hates me for it lol #Lanil's Pieces #kitty writes a thing #dai lavellan #dai fanfic #the humble beginnings of friendships that'll mold the world #imlovethemsomuch

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