Chapter Text
Dear Mia
Dear Cruel Elder Brother Who Shall Someday Pay for His Snark,
Don’t imagine you’re safe from my wrath just because there is a large mountain range between us brother dear. Mock my cooking again and you shall live to regret it. Consequently, my mother- in-law greatly enjoyed the Nug Pie (apparently Gavriel had been forewarned by Father, traitor)… that is until several hours later when she could not even pull herself from the water closet long enough to go to bed. I kindly provided her with a cushion and blanket. She was too ill to even insult me. It was a miracle, though I’m sure it will be a short lived one. Which is just as well, this third babe of mine is a restless one and I can barely handle the awful woman on my best days. You men folk truly don’t appreciate how good you have it. Being pregnant is akin to pure torture.
Gavriel is convinced he’s finally got the son he’s dying for. Poor man, his house is overrun by women. Found him hiding in the shed the other day, our youngest daughter, Briela, had been hounding him to play dolls. He behaved as though a band of Darkspawn were after him.
I wish they knew you better. The girls that is. Amantha is nearly nine and Briela just turned four, they’re insane and a handful, but Maker they are smart. A few more years and they’ll be running mental circles around me –which means they surpassed you ages ago. I have this sense you would be the best Uncle Cul Cul in all of Thedas. As it is I fill their heads with tall tales of your shining glory, just to ensure they’re properly disappointed if you ever do manage to show your face around here. You’re welcome.
You did not answer my questions about leaving the Templars, but you also didn’t say not to ask you about it. Besides, I can tell it bother’s father. He doesn’t talk about it of course, you know how he is (a lot like you in case you were confused: solemn, brooding, and rarely open about his feelings. He also hates milk, which I’m convinced points to something unnatural about the both of you). I don’t mean to pressure you, but well, okay, I’m totally pressuring you. But –surprise, surprise- I worry about you. We all do.
If the Inquisitor is even half as lovely as the stories claim, I bet you’re a giant bundle of ridiculous nerves and get tongue tied every time she looks at you. You’re not fooling me big brother, that’s not the sort of awkwardness you can just grow out of. Mother often wonders when you’re going to settle down and start producing more grand children for her. As it is I’m on my own over here and I can only pick up the slack for so long.
Did you say Seeker Pentaghast? As in the Seeker Pentaghast? Maker, she’s a legend! What’s she like? Is she as wonderful as all the tales as well? My, you’ve certainly moved up in the world. You went from babysitting mages to surrounding yourself with all these famous heroes. Who else do you have holed up there in the ice? The Hero of Ferelden? Andraste herself maybe? Despite my sarcasm, I am actually quite impressed. Your whole life makes mine feel very small… and rather insignificant. Today I went to the market and cleaned the pantry; I’m sure you’ll hear tell of it in bard song any day now.
All joking and jesting aside, is this Inquisition worth it? What is it about this woman that makes you follow her so loyally? I don’t mean to worry you, but we’ve felt the touches of this rift in the sky even here in South Reach. It’s got a lot of people scared, and with the Chantry in shambles, the Templars gone rouge, they’re looking for something to believe in.
Ugh, I hate being all serious. Makes me emotional, and there is nothing worse than being very pregnant and very emotional. Better to quit while I’m ahead.
Your fat emotional sister,
Mia
P.S. Briela has included a bracelet for her Uncle Cul Cul. She says, and I quote, ‘To protect him from demons!’ Damn, now I’m officially crying. Be safe out there Cullen and may the Maker watch over you.
-
-
Cullen,
It’s been a month. I know you’re not dead. I nearly tackled one of the Inquisitions’ men in the square yesterday just to make sure. Poor man nearly cut my head clean off. When I told him I was your sister he almost shit his pants. It was deeply hilarious, though Gavriel didn’t quite think so. I made the man carry my basket back from the market; he practically groveled his way out the door. You must be one spectacular Commander, big brother, to demand that kind of respect. But you’re still an awful letter writer. Write back or face the consequences.
Mia
-
-
Dear beautiful and merciful sister,
I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write, we’ve experienced a number of… troubling developments over the past few weeks. I don’t wish to go into detail, partially because I can’t (our liaison would murder me and I wish that were a joke. She’s terrifying), but also because I am damn tired of thinking and talking about it all the time. I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather lately, likely due to the stress, but it’s put me out of sorts. I don’t wish to complain… but, well, there have been dark days of late.
Your last letter made me sad, through no fault of your own of course. Though you have always been a bully, I feel for Gavriel (please don’t kill me). I wish I knew my nieces better. Amantha was barely older than a babe last time I saw her. She was a chubby, happy little thing; I regret not being able to see her grow up. And I’ve never even met sweet little Briela, you can tell her I’ve had to make her bracelet into a sort of pendant, demon fighters can’t have beads hanging from their wrists, after all. Though, I of course appreciate you creating an impossible standard for me to live up to. Terribly thoughtful of you little sister.
I was reading through your previous letters as well and felt a terrible wave of guilt. You told me of Robin Heth’s death and it barely registered to me when I read it the first time. As though he were a complete stranger. I hate how detached I feel from my old life. My life before the Blight and all that happened during and after feels like little more than a dream. I hope that can change. I need it to change.
I won’t go into detail about the Templars, I can’t, not yet, but Father needn’t worry.
The Order has lost its way. I wish I could put it another way, but it is the truth. It is not the force for good that it once was, and I can no longer ally myself with its cause or actions. Things happened during the Blight that I cannot forgive nor forget. The Templars have nothing left to offer me and I’ve nothing left to offer them. There’s little else to say on the matter.
But what to say of the Inquisition that hasn’t already been said? Albeit in a much more entertaining fashion I’m sure. It was created to be a lever of change, a means of uniting fractured people’s and countries. Even I am astounded by its far reaching ripples.
I blame our Inquisitor, she is certainly an enigma and she keeps just about everyone at Skyhold on their toes, wondering what mad thing she’ll do next. It would be less exhausting if all of her harebrained plans didn’t always somehow manage to work. She’s become so smug it’s nearly impossible to deal with her. Josephine, our Ambassador, insists I’m over exaggerating but I think she’s too wrapped up in her dealings with nobility to recognize insanity when she sees it. Maker, I just wish something would go as planned for once.
I can’t understand her Mia, the Inquisitor that is, and I wonder if all women are this way. In one moment she is this pillar of strength and moral justice, and in the next I find her beyond drunk at the tavern with some of the mercenary men she hired (for reasons beyond my understanding. Their leader, Iron Bull is the biggest Qunari I have ever seen). She spends most of her free time, though she has precious little in all fairness, with Varric and Dorian –a Tevinter mage I don’t trust further than I can throw him- playing cards and swapping stories.
And Maker does she drive me mad sometimes! Tramping off to hunt dragons instead of focusing on the task at hand. And no issue, no matter how inconsequential, is too small for her! Here she is, the leader of nearly ten thousand, and she’s off in the wilderness rescuing town’s people from bandits and scouting out quarries and collecting herbs of all things. Well, that all sounds terribly magnanimous of her on paper, I’ll admit, but this business with the Fade and what’s sticking it’s ugly head out of it, demands our full attention.
Perhaps I just don’t appreciate her spontaneity, this whole business is complicated enough as it is without it. I shouldn’t complain of course, the Inquisitor works twice as hard as the rest of us and she has to do it out in the field. Maker, just last week she managed to almost single-handedly capture a keep in Crestwood and then yesterday she and her elven friend –who is easily the strangest person I have ever met- are caught pulling pranks.
Enough, I am done whining about the Inquisitor like a nagging fish wife.
You’ll have to inform mother that I have no immediate plans to settle down… or have children. Sorry little sister, you’ll have to hold the fort a while longer.
Cassandra Pentaghast is an… interesting woman. I would consider her a friend, actually. It was she who contracted me for the Inquisition. She’s perhaps less personable than the tales might indicate, but she is one of the best people I have ever known. She is driven and passionate toward ourcause, and is often at the Inquisitor’s side in the thick of things. This, consequently, makes me rather jealous of her. I knew leadership required me to command from a distance, I just didn’t realize how hard that would be.
I wish my life were calmer, simpler. You should know it brings me a great deal of comfort knowing that you and everyone else are safe and provided for. Maybe your deeds seem inconsequential to you, but I envy them, and, in many ways, it’s what I’m fighting so damn hard to protect. Maybe, Maker willing, I’ll have a pantry to clean and little brats running around wanting me to play dolls with them someday. But I’m not sure I was meant for that sort of life.
Ah, ignore me. I’m doing what you’ve already accused me of doing; brooding. Maybe very pregnant women aren’t the only ones who get overly emotional.
Which reminds me, you’ve not mentioned Isabel in any of your letters (I checked). I assume she, her husband, and children are well?
Your loving brother,
Cullen
(If you ever call me Uncle Cul Cul to my face I’ll throw you in the lake like that one summer. You know what I’m talking about.)
P.S. One of our men, a Warden, carved these dragons. I thought the girls might like them. As you can see, a third was included for your unborn child. Here’s hoping it’s a boy, even if just for Gavriel’s sake, poor bastard.
-
-
Dear Uncle Cul Cul,
You are sincerely not helping me with this whole ‘overly emotional ‘thing. Gavriel caught me weeping like a fool all over your letter and thought I was in labor and ran out of the house before I could stop him. The mid wife, I kid you not, hit him upside the head. Kind of made it worth it. The babe should be here any day now, maybe even before you receive this letter. I had thought to write to you after the child was born but, well, childbirth can be a tricky thing. I don’t wish to get all… sappy and depressing on you, but all women fear dying when their time comes and, as stupid as it might sound , I wanted to be sure and write you… just in case.
It’s a strange feeling though, as you near the end of a pregnancy; your body is sort of at peace, the calm before the storm perhaps. I wonder if men experience anything similar, perhaps before a battle or fight? You’d likely know better than most. Maker, I sound like such a dolt. Ignore me.
I would tell you not to work yourself to death but I have a feeling it wouldn’t make any difference. Just please consider that you’re no good to anyone dead in a corner somewhere from lack of sleep. I hope someone up there is looking out for the Great Commander Cullen, because you probably need it. Preferably a woman.
I’m sorry if I upset you over the girls. I know how important this Inquisition and your duties are to you Cullen, truly, and I am so very proud of you. We all are. The girls will know of your bravery and sacrifice and someday, they’ll get to know you in person as well; terrible jokes and all.
They loved their presents! Amantha has been obsessed with the story of the Inquisitor’s slaying of the dragon in the Hinterlands, she asks me to retell it (I’m no bard, I butcher it terribly) nearly every night.I sense another warrior in the family someday. She’s claimed the biggest of the three of course, and it sit’s by her bed, watching over her while she sleeps. Briela named hers Mittens and made it lord of the tea party last night, poor thing. The third I put on my night stand, where he can more successful guard his yet unborn charge.
Do not torture yourself over Robin, Cullen. He was a good man, though I suppose he was still more a boy than man when the Blight took him, and he remembered you fondly. We can’t carry the dead with us and still live in the present. Robin is at peace, and so should you be.
You’ve only confirmed everyone’s worst fears about the Templars, I’m afraid. Maker, that is terrible to hear, and just when the people needed them most. I can see now why you joined this Inquisition. They’ve done good work even in our area (one of your Captains, Harrow I think was his name, it probably sick to death of me asking after you), which has certainly seen less of the mayhem then many other parts of Thedas. They’ve made people feel safer, and that is near priceless. Though we’d all feel a bit better if the creepy green hole in the sky was gone. I’m assuming you lot have a plan for that?
Which brings me to your dear Inquisitor; I’m sorry to say this, Cullen, but she sounds like a gem. Even as a child you were always so… in control all the time, you need someone around to shake things up a bit for you. You need to be kept on your toes. You, dear brother, have a terrible habit of taking everything far too seriously. Though, all things considered, I can’t say I blame you. Is it truly her spontaneity that drives you ‘mad’ or perhaps something else? Something deeper? Either way, she sounds like a remarkable woman, no one can be a pillar of moral perfection all the time Cullen, anyone who claims they can is either a complete fraud or a deluded fool. Probably both.
I think it speaks highly of her character that she can both be above her people when necessary, and be one of them otherwise. People need that sort of leader, not these pandering noble assholes (still so refreshing) that wouldn’t know a hard day’s work if it kicked them in the gourds. It makes her feel a bit more real… more attainable and approachable. People should feel that they can come to their leaders, but they so rarely do.
I would love to hear about these pranks she played, were any of them on you? I bet they were and I bet they were hilarious. What, did she slip paint into your hair oils? You’ve always been so weird about your hair. If I had your golden curly locks I would be a happier woman. Hum, perhaps I see your dilemma now.
I can’t say I’m not relieved to hear that you’ve taken a step back from the melee, as it were. I prefer you safely behind some desk in a dusty (and knowing you, highly disorganized) office rather than off fighting dragons, but I can see why you would find it so stifling. I’m sure the Inquisitor wouldn’t mind you adventuring off with her however, she seems a reasonable woman. On second thought, just stay behind that desk. Maker preserve me, why couldn’t you have grown up to be a scholar or a cobbler or something?
Briela’s just gotten into the mud and is now tramping it through the house. Children. Aren’t they glorious? Someone remind me why I’m having another. I swear on Andraste herself, this is the last one.
I’ll write of Isabel another time. Stay safe big brother, and know our prayers are with you.
Your Sister,
Mia
P.S. You absolutely have a crush on the Inquisitor. I tried to avoid pointing it out to you, but I figure someone should. Now go forth and make me some nieces and nephews.
-
-
Dear Very Misguided Sister,
I’m afraid I haven’t the time to pen out a detailed response; we’re off to the west to lead an important campaign that, Maker willing, might bring this madness to an end. As soon as I’m finished here I must oversee the horses for our Calvary (mercy, I hate horses but don’t tell anyone else that) and then I must ensure our trebuchet are calibrated for those who are being left behind to defend Skyhold. People always forget to calibrate the damn trebuchet, I swear. A few points then, before I leave.
-Take pity on your poor husband. It can’t be easy having you for a wife. Ha. I jest. Again, please don’t kill me.
-I forbid you to die during childbirth and do not appreciate you putting such a possibility into my head. I’ll not die in my battle if you’ll not die in yours. Deal?
-I do not tell terrible jokes. I tell hilarious jokes. You’re clearly confused.
-We do in fact have a plan to close the ‘creepy’ hole in the sky. Kind of. Maybe.
-I do not need to be kept on my toes. My toes are fine, thank you. Though you may have a point about being a pillar of moral perfection. Our men are very taken with our Inquisitor, so she must be doing something right. I must admit, she’s an easy person to follow, to believe in. She makes you feel as though anything is possible, even when she’s helping Sera (the previously mentioned elf who is most certainly insane) put mice in my desk.
-I am not weird about my hair. Stop it.
-I will consider taking up cobbling after this war is over. Though I don’t have much of an eye for shoes, our liaison, Leliana does however. Perhaps I’ll ask her for pointers.
-I do not have a ‘crush’ on Irisel. I am not a twelve year old boy. My emotions toward her may be more complex than I had originally believed and that is all you’re getting out of me. Babies are out of the question.
-You said you were done having children after the first. I foresee at least two more in your future.
-Is Isabel well? Your response, though I understand its brevity, concerns me.
-My prayers are always with you and the rest of our family. Be safe.
-Again, if you ever call me Uncle Cul Cul to my face –me, you , a lake. I do not make threats. I make promises.
Love,
Cullen
On the back of the letter, drawn crudely in bright ink, is a picture. It depicts Cullen and a red haired woman with a green mark on her hand kissing against a settling sun with a gray blob that might be a castle in the background. The caption reads:
Dear Cully Wully’s Sister,
We’re working on getting you those little niece and nephew baby things. Children. Gross. But whatever. I’ve made you this masterpiece to show what I witnessed last night after putting paint in the Commander’s hair oil. The credit’s all yours, don’t worry.
Cheers,
Red Jenny
AKA The mentally unstableish elf lady