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“Will I disturb you if I sit here?”
Solas looked up to see Cassandra, book in hand, opposite him at the wooden dining table. He was surprised to have missed her approach, with the great hall all but empty after the lunch crowd had trickled away. He glanced to either side of him and found, as suspected, that he was the only one remaining at the table.
“Please do. I would be glad of the company.” A small bowl of firm pears sat on the table next to his own book, and he shifted it to the side to make room for her.
“Thank you, Solas.”
For a time they read together, the turn of a page or the lift of his wine glass the only conversation between them, the sound of archery drills muffled through the nearby wooden doors.
Occasionally an advisor passed through on their way to the war room, and once a raven flew in from the rotunda, clearly lost, but it soon settled itself in the rafters and seemed content to nap away from the cacophony of the rookery.
The archery drills had long since died down, the courtyard peaceful again when Cassandra made a sound of protest, bordering on disgust.
He lifted his gaze from his book, a poorly researched account of a famous Orlesian general in the war against Fereldan. In truth, he might’ve said the same of his own reading material.
“Is the book not to your tastes?”
“It is not.” Cassandra paused, her lips a thin line. “Never tell him I said so, but Varric’s book was much better. This book is far too…” she turned the book over in her hands, scrutinizing the lurid cover. “Ridiculous.”
“Was it not meant to be humorous?”
“It was meant to be romantic! The woman at the centre of the story is content to let everything happen to her, but makes no move herself. She waits on everything. Women are not like that. Or if they are, I suppose have no interest in reading about them.”
"Ah. How would you change it, if you could?” He slid the bowl of pears closer and helped himself to the nearest piece of fruit - a bright, sunny yellow.
“It is not worth changing. I would leave it to molder and find another if I thought the library contained more.”
"It seems to be mostly reference,” he agreed, rubbing his modest lunch against the nap of his sleeve. “Forgive a foolish question - have you ever considered writing one of your own?”
“I am capable of a great many things, but that is surely not one of them. Have you ever written anything romantic? It would not surprise me if you had.”
“Poetry, but that was some time ago.”
“I imagine she enjoyed it a great deal.” Before he could reply, Cassandra lifted her book, scanning the prose for something to illustrate her indignation.
“Oh! Listen to this! ‘When it became clear he wasn’t coming to the ball, Alma threw herself onto the bed. I suppose I will just lock myself inside and refuse to eat. When he finds me, I shall have wasted away terribly. I hope he feels wretched!’”
“She has resigned herself to a rather preventable fate,” Solas said, before taking a small bite. It was no wonder the pears were untouched - it was still alarmingly bitter. His nose wrinkled, but the unpleasant bite was swallowed all the same.
“Is it terrible. And the man himself is far less charming than he supposes. He is hardly worth waiting for.” She sighed and set the book on the table top, arms folded just under it, the buckles at her wrists scraping along the wood.
He waited a moment for her to continue, but when it became clear that she’d resumed her reading in earnest, his own gaze returned to an account of a nameless battle on the Bannorn, the bitter little fruit placed next to his forgotten wine glass.