freetogoodhome | beauty and the beast au

beauty and the beast au

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a young princess lived in a shining castle. Though she was given everything she desired, she grew up harsh and unforgiving, her heart cold and hard. Nevertheless, word spread far and wide of her beauty, and attracted suitors from all corners of the kingdom. But the princess had no use for love, and spurned every one.

One day, a mage arrived at the castle, seeking the princess' hand like all the others. When she rebuked him as she had the rest, he warned her that her cold heart would betray her. When she refused him again, he raised his staff, and set on her a gift and a curse. The gift was set on her heart, that it would be filled with love, and a desire to be truly loved in return. The curse was set on her lips, that she could never confess her love aloud, or admit to her true feelings. Only if she could earn the love of another, who would see through her harsh exterior to the love within, would she be free of the curse. If he could not, she would be doomed to be alone and unloved for all time.

As the years passed, the princess fell deep into despair. For who could ever learn to love her, never knowing she was capable of love in return?

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Varric was, by most's standards, your average merchant. The eccentric human inventor he lived with, however, was something else entirely. But Hawke was his best friend, so when her faithful mabari Barkspawn had come back baying in distress Varric had known immediately that something was wrong.

When the war hound led him to a castle in the middle of the forest, dark and forboding, his hand instinctively sought the comfort of his familiar crossbow. But the castle itself seemed dark and empty, and Varric had slung his crossbow across his back again in order to run toward where (he hoped) the dungeons were. He found his friend there, trapped behind a barred door.

"Hawke!"

"Varric?" Hawke coughed feebly, reaching out to him. He dropped to his knees and took her hand.

"Maker's balls, Hawke, your hands are like ice. We've got to get you out of here-"

"Varric, you've got to get out of here!"

"I'm not leaving you," Varric said with finality, letting go of her hand to get out his lockpicks and set to work on the lock to her cell.

She hadn't even been aware of the trespasser at first. After all, Cassandra spent the majority of her time deep in the castle's west wing, brooding in dark rooms and finding bittersweet comfort only in her beloved romance novels. In the end, it had been the flurry of her servants running to and fro, lighting candles and making an unprecedented amount of noise, that had prompted her to investigate.

There had been only one thing to do. She had taken no joy in throwing the young woman into the dungeons - but, after all, what choice did she have? If she let her go, she would only spread word that the castle was all but free for the taking, that the princess who lived there was no threat at all. And besides, she had been angry - shocked and furious to find someone else in her home. It was all she had.

When she went down to the dungeons and found yet another trespasser, bent over the lock of the prisoner's cell, her anger overtook her again. She clamped a hand onto the dwarf's shoulder, yanking him back and slamming him hard against a wall. "What are you doing here?" she snarled - though the lockpick clenched in his fist made that obvious enough, and her expression twisted further in rage.

Hawke's protests going quiet should have been Varric's first clue, he thinks, when that steely hand clamps down on his shoulder and shoves him, hard, into a wall. His head cracks against the stone, but he's mad enough to ignore the throbbing pain. His assailant is partially cloaked in shadow, looming over him, but he doesn't have to see her face to tell that she's pissed. He has a split second (and a splitting headache) to calculate his options. His picks (except for the one he had in his hand) are scattered all over the floor from where she threw him into the wall, and his crossbow is useless to him pinned between his back and the stone wall.

Which means the only weapon he has is his words. And luckily enough, that happens to be his specialty.

"What are you doing, locking my friend up like this?" Well, words are his specialty when he's not blisteringly angry, anyway. "Maker's ass, can't you see she'll catch her death down here?" he asks, his fury making him defiant in the face of Hawke's captor.

In the low light, she can't see his face, but then, she doesn't need to. He's another intruder, and that's all she needs to know.

"She was trespassing," she snaps, just as angry. "If she didn't want to be imprisoned, she should have stayed away."

"If she didn't want- nobody wants to be imprisoned! She was probably attacked by something-"

"Werewolves," Hawke chimed in.

"See? Werewolves! And- shit, Hawke, really? That's pretty impressive."

"Yeah, I know, I'm the best," Hawke said. "Now's probably not the time to tell you about it, though."

"Right," Varric said. "So what can I do to get her out of here?" he asked his assailant, still irritated but his tone no longer blisteringly furious.

Edited 2016-10-27 17:17 (UTC)

Their banter doesn't improve Cassandra's mood at all. She scowls, still towering over the dwarf.

"What can you do?" She shakes her head, disbelieving. "There is nothing you can do. She is my prisoner. You can leave, and go tell everyone what happened to her - and that if they want to avoid a similar fate, they should leave this castle in peace."

She takes a step back, just enough to allow him to edge away from the wall, and points severely down the hallway.

"Go. Now."

Varric looks along her finger and then back at Hawke.

"How about we make a deal," he suggests. "Take me in her place."

"Varric, no! Don't you dare!" Hawke cries. But Varric doesn't answer her. He just looks up at the half-shadowed woman defiantly, the way that she'd stepped aside let some of the light past her to land on him, which doesn't help him see her any better but it probably helps her see him.

"You!"

She almost laughs - but she can see his face now, in the thin light streaming in through the dungeon's narrow windows. It's a sturdy, ruddy-cheeked face, and it's all too easy to see that it's normally a cheerful one, but right now there's nothing cheerful about it at all. He's serious.

Ignoring the protests of the woman in the cell, Cassandra studies him thoughtfully.

"You must promise to stay here." A pause, as she lets that sink in. "Forever."

"You're a blistering idiot," Hawke says. "Don't do anything stupid, I'll be fine. I'm a big girl."

"Hawke, I'm not going to just go home and play Wicked Grace with your dog while you're here dying in a cell," Varric argues back with her, then looks up at his new captor. "You've got a deal," he says, and thrusts his hand out to shake on it. "Her freedom for mine."

She looks at his hand for a moment, then reaches forward to wrap her own around it. Despite her attitude, her hand isn't clawlike or terrifying - it is a princess' hand, with long, tapered fingers and. But her hand in his as nearly as cold as Hawke's must have been, when she'd reached for him from her cell.

A moment later, she pulls away, taking a key and clanging the cell door open only to yank Hawke out by the wrist and shove Varric in in her place. The door slams home, and Cassandra drags the protesting woman away, ignoring her threats and pleas.

He's not sure what he was expecting, when she reaches for his hand, but "cold yet undeniably human" wasn't it. His own hand is big and warm, but callused, and his handshake is firm but quick.

And then she pulls her hand away and seemingly in one smooth motion opens the cell, yanks Hawke out, and throws him in.

"Hey!" he yells, reaching through the bars as far as his arm can reach. "Wait! Hawke!" he cries out. But his captor doesn't heed him and Hawke is dragged away in a flurry of cussing and yelling. Varric slumps numbly against the wall of his cell, listening as her voice fades.

"...You didn't even let me say goodbye."

She carts the former prisoner outside, her struggles no match for Cassandra's strength. Once she's safely stowed away in a cart back to the village, she returns to the dungeons.

She could leave him there. Let him rot. It's no more than he deserves...but even Cassandra couldn't fail to notice just how cold the other woman's skin had been as she dragged her away, the way she shivered even as she yelled in protest. Clearly, the dungeon is no fit place even for trespassers.

You didn't even let me say goodbye.

She stills at that, at the dejection in his voice. Say goodbye? It hadn't even occurred to her. What would he have said? Surely it could not have helped. Or is she so coldhearted, so isolated that she can't even conceive of real affection anymore, or real friendship?

Wordlessly, she unlocks the door to the cell, stepping back into the shadows again.

"I'll show you to your room."

He's not even aware that she heard him, that she's back from...wherever she took Hawke. All he can do is hope she held true to her word. That... He's never going to see his best friend again, and she didn't even give him the dignity of saying goodbye. It doesn't matter what he would have said, the fact is that she pulled Hawke away from him before he could take her hands, before he could tell her it would be okay. That he'd be okay. She could take care of herself, he knew that. It was probably better like this; he could survive just about anything, but she could go on and live. She still had a lot more to give the world than he did.

So why did doing the right thing still hurt so much?

When his new captor opens the door she finds him against the wall, his knees pulled up. He sniffs and wipes at one of his eyes, before he looks up at her in confusion and shock.

"...My room?" he repeats in gruff disbelief.

He looks pathetic that way, curled up against the far wall, and for a moment she almost regrets it. She could at least have given them a moment to say goodbye...But it's too late for that now.

Frustrated, angry at the whole situation, she gestures to the cold, bare stone cell. Water drips from the ceiling in one corner, creating an eternal puddle on the floor. Freezing wind whips in through cracks in the wall. "Do you want to stay here?" Of course he doesn't. Who would? "Follow me."

Varric looks around at the dank cell. It's no wonder Hawke was so icy cold, if she had to deal with being in here for days. He gets up quickly before she decides to rescind the offer, still giving her a wide berth and a suspicious look even as he leaves the cell to follow her.

"I thought I was your prisoner," he says, carefully, knowing full well that she can still decide to shove him back in that miserable dungeon hole. He does a double-take at one of the candles that lights the hallway, sure that he saw it... watching him. But the second time it looks just like an ordinary candle, so he shakes off that thought and moves on.

She doesn't miss the way he stays well out of arm's reach, and she presses her lips together, pretending not to notice - and that it doesn't bother her. Why would it bother her? He has every reason to hate her.

Josephine's spying, of course, giving Cassandra an exaggerated, expectant eyebrow-raise as she passes, and she shoots the candle a dirty look before reluctantly addressing the dwarf again.

"You are," she tells him shortly. And she says nothing more until they make their way out of the dungeons and into the castle proper, passing through long hallways and up twisting staircases. Josephine is dashing along ahead of them, still staring pointedly at Cassandra from every sconce they pass, and Cassandra heaves an exasperated sigh.

"But...you cannot stay in the dungeon forever. This is your home now. You may go wherever you wish." A pause, and she whips around to glare down at him. "Except the West Wing."

His head is still pounding from where she slammed him into the wall, so he stays well out of reach to prevent a repeat incident. But thanks to the flickering light from the one-candle sconces (...ok now that he's thinking about it why is it not getting any lighter behind them, but they keep passing these candles), he can better make out the sharp, cold features of her face.

She's probably pretty, for a human, or she would be if she didn't look like she'd sucked on so many lemons that her face had stuck that way.

To his credit, he does a good job at trailing along behind her, taking in the immense castle with restrained awe. Sure, he'd been to the city, but he'd never been in a castle before. Her sigh makes him turn his attention back to her, and now curiosity starts to take hold.

He knows a good story when he hears one.

"Why?" he asks. "What's in the West Wing?"

Edited 2016-10-27 20:24 (UTC)

But Cassandra is in no mood to tell stories. Her expression twists even further, becoming more furious still, if such a thing is possible.

"It's forbidden!" she snaps, rounding on him. Josephine lets out a startled "Oh!" and goes out, and Cassandra sighs, pressing forward into the dark. Luckily for both of them, they're nearly there, and soon she pulls a door open to reveal a luxurious, if somewhat neglected, bedroom.

"Here it is," she announces unnecessarily. Cullen peeks out from behind a curtain, his handle barely visible, and she stifles another sigh. "If you need anything, the servants will attend you."

He stops walking when she snaps at him, stunned that such a simple question got a vehement enough response to blow out a candle, for Andraste's sake.

"I get it," he says, almost under his breath. "Touchy subject."

The room that he's shown to is almost the same size as his and Hawke's whole house, but decorated way, way more opulently. As far as prisons went, this wasn't so bad. Not as long as he didn't think about why he was here, anyway. He enters the room and looks around, taking off his crossbow and setting her against the wall. He misses the hilt of the sword peeking around the curtain, because he's turned back to face his captor, waiting to see if she has anything else to say.

As the dwarf - Varric, the woman had called him - turns away to take in the room, Josephine appears again in a sconce on the wall next to Cassandra.

"Invite him to dinner!" she hisses in excitement. "This is your only chance."

"Ugh." She rolls her eyes, turning away from the candle only to see Cullen nodding energetically from across the room. Fine.

"You will - you will join me for dinner," she says stiffly, awkwardly. And then, fearful that he'll refuse, or worse, laugh in her face, she adds, "That's not a request!"

This is a disaster already. She can practically feel Josephine's disapproval, and she slams the door, locking it firmly before storming off, away to the West Wing where she can be herself in solitude for a while.

Varric wasn't quite expecting that. He was expecting something to do with meals, but... not, whatever that was.

And then before he can even reply (of course, his reply doesn't matter, he is after all a prisoner and she did say that it wasn't a request), she's gone, and the door is slammed shut behind her, and Varric proceeds to dramatically throw himself onto the bed, arms spread wide out to his sides.

"Well, shit," he says eloquently, to no one in particular.

"Oh, don't mind her."

Apparently, he's not alone. There's a creak, and the door to a tall, stately wardrobe opens slightly and then closes again. Someone with a very, very good imagination might almost compare it to a person waving a hand in the air dismissively. "She's not so bad, once you get to know her."

Varric's eyes snap open when he hears a voice in the room with him, and he sits up quickly. If it was one of the servants she'd spoken of, he had a funny way of talking about his mistress.

"Who's there?" he asks, hand reaching for his crossbow when he sees the wardrobe door ajar, waiting to get confirmation before he drew.

"Well, now you've done it."

It's a different voice this time, coming from the direction of the window. "Don't blame me if you get crossbolts stuck in your varnish."

And then, impossibly, a sword appears from behind the curtain, hopping along the floor on its point. "Please, don't shoot Dorian. He got chipped last year and we didn't hear the end of it for months."

"I resemble that remark!" says the wardrobe, injured. "Anyway, you neglected to mention just who chipped me - "

"Oh, don't start that again - "

"Gentlemen, please." This is yet another voice, soothing and accented. It appears to be coming from the candle sconce on the wall. "Our guest - "

Varric stares dumbly for a long, long moment. Then he reaches back and runs his hair along the back of his head.

"Andraste's tits," he swears, but quieter than he probably should when a wardrobe, an animate sword, and a wall sconce are talking to you. Still, to the objects' benefit, his crossbow stays where it is.

"Leave it to Hawke to pull me into some crazy demon shit. Could she see you guys, too? Like, I didn't just hit my head a lot harder than I thought, right?"

Edited 2016-10-27 22:58 (UTC)

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