Work Text:
Cassandra was not a poet, not even remotely. She found it difficult to put words to feelings and actions. but when she thinks of Maraas, it clicks.
She will not stray too close to the sun for this, therefore it will be simply put. The facts will be said and that is all.
(If anyone reads this, I will kill you. Then promptly myself).
—
The hearth — The heart
She liked the way he looked at her.
She liked the way he was kind, to everyone — to anyone.
She liked the kisses he placed upon her head when they were alone.
She liked it when he smiled, boyish and gleeful.
She liked his strength — not just in battle, but in mind.
She…loved him. He was her heart and soul.
When their bodies met it was like fire. But not a burning, lustful union. It was warm, like falling asleep next to the campfire.
It was like home. He was her home.
He was the hearth in her wooden home.
Fated to destroy what it protects.
She didn’t care.
She’d gladly burn if it meant feeling his warmth.
—
Later, while Cassandra sleeps, Maraas finds a sheet of paper. The words were written with care, indenting it with how much pressure the author put into the pen.
Maraas knows this handwriting — however different the words are from the usual factual and brief ones that the author writes, he knows.
Oh , how he knows.
He wonders how anyone could have let her believe that she was not a poet.
Maraas gently lays down the paper and turns his head toward the woman in his bed. Cassandra is the best damn poet he’s ever known. Better than Varric, even. He wants to laugh — that could be considered blasphemy.
The light shines through his windows in an array of red and yellow. And it hits…it hits Cassandra in a way that makes her look heavenly. Like the Andraste she so believes in.
Looking at her like this, he can believe in it too.
He makes his way to the bed, sitting down on it carefully so as to not wake her. Maraas takes his hand — grey, scarred and glowing a slight green. He pushes Cassandra’s short black hair away from her eyes, getting a good look at her sleeping face.
In this moment, he is not the Inquisitor, he’s not the Herald of Andraste. He’s not even sure that he’s Maraas. He is just a man. A man who is deeply in love with the woman in front of him.
When her eyes open, squinting at the light that shines through the room brightly, he smiles.
It’s gentle and soft. And the feeling that fills his chest is unlike anything he has ever felt.
While his hand is still cupping her face, he speaks quietly into the morning, “I guess you’ll have to kill me, my love.”
At that, Cassandra’s brows shoot up and furrow in confusion and alarm.
“What…” She whispers, rising from her sleeping position slowly. The heavy blanket droops around her, drowning her in it.
Maraas is smitten. Utterly — irrevocably , smitten.
He chuckles softly, “I read your poem about me. I was going through the papers on my desk and I just happened upon it.”
A look of horror crosses her face before she predictably slams the walls closed and her look turns to stone.
It’s cute, Marass thinks. He smiles wider.
“It was beautiful, Cassandra.”
If at all possible, she gets stonier. She’s embarrassed, he knows. But it doesn’t hurt to tease her a bit. If only he could get a blush to grace her cheeks.
He tilts his head, a glint in his eyes.
“Just like you.”
Sure enough, the apples of her cheeks turn red and a flustered look replaces her earlier hard one. It makes Maraas want to get on his hands and knees and worship her. She’s just so…
“Beautiful…” He whispers, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them. It only makes Cassandra blush harder, her red face splotchy and hot.
She makes a noise in the back of her throat, like she wants to whine.
(When he watches her like that — with such intense focus and love, it startles her. It makes her heart race and she wants to both run away and leap into his arms. It is like looking into the eyes of a predator).
Maraas lowers his hand to cup her jaw, making her look at him. Their gazes lock, and the moment that they are sharing is suspended in time.
“I love you, Cassandra.”
She takes a deep breath, controlling her heart before gifting it to him so vulnerably;
“And I you, Maraas. I love you.”
They kiss, and sparks don’t fly. Doves do not take flight outside the windows. There is no sunrise or sunset to make this moment sweeter.
There is just warmth.
A fire that heats their love — their devotion.
It is so hot that it burns. To Maraas, the feeling is akin to the way the anchor splits his skin and forces itself into his very being.
Like Maraas and the anchor, he and Cassandra are tied together. He’s not sure he will ever be able to part from her and her fire.
He pulls away from her, reluctant and all-of-the-sudden weary. He wants a life with her, he wants mundane tasks and boredom with her. He wants this moment to never end. He wants the fire to never dim.
He wants, he wants, he wants …but what does she want?
“Cassandra…” Maraas trails off, unsure.
The woman takes his hand, hers rough and calloused over from the years of wielding a sword and knowing battle. His large yet soft, his only knowing staves and the polished wood or metal of one. The dichotomy fascinates him, and he looks down at their entangled hands with something like awe.
She prods him to continue, “Yes, Maraas?” Cassandra says it so gentle. Like she was afraid to disturb the peace they had created.
He inhales, his heart fluttering in his chest.
“Would you…That is, if you were willing…” He flushes a dark purple color from his neck to his horns. His eyes are closed tightly.
Cassandra is patient, waiting for him to collect his thoughts. She grips his hand tighter.
“Would you like to…marry me, Cassandra?” Maraas asks.
When he is met with silence, he opens his eyes to find her mouth open in shock, tears in her eyes. He startles, rushing to amend this apparent mistake.
“I know…I know that this isn’t really the best time to get married. And I know that this probably isn’t the way you would want me to ask you, but…”
He steels himself, his shoulders rising in defense, “But we don’t have to do anything soon. After this is all over. After Corypheus is dealt with. After Thedas is safe. Then…then I would like to marry you. I love you…I’m in love with you. There won’t ever be a time in which that is not the case. I want—”
Maraas is cut off by a body flying into him, strong arms wrapping around his neck, lips on his. His eyes widen in shock at Cassandra's boldness (not that he would ever complain). She pulls away quickly, and he can see that the tears have spilled over onto her red cheeks.
“Shut up!” She exclaims, a furiously adorable look on her face. Cassandra presses her lips to his once more in a rush.
“You Idiot…” Her body racks with a sob and he holds her body tighter to his on instinct. He is very alarmed, to say the least.
“H-how could I ever say no?”
Maraas smiles, bright as the sun that shines in their room. His heart is full. His fire is burning ablaze, “Is that a yes?”
Cassandra huffs, pulling one arm away from his neck to punch him in the chest lightly.
(Lightly for her , Maraas chokes and brings his anchored hand to the spot, rubbing it with a soft mutter of “ Ow… ”)
“Of course that’s a yes, you buffoon!”
Even at her punch and her name calling, he laughs and hugs her. Tight yet gentle at the same time. Their fires mingle and dance together, burning brightly with joy and love.
He holds her, knowing that he is home.