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Well, the Herald’s an odd one. One moment it’s scowling and frightening the neighbours, the next it’s sprinting up the steps like some sort of oversized mabari to ask me questions about the Imperium and the architecture and Dorian, just how far ahead in thaumaturgy is Tevinter? It’s almost endearing. Certainly, it makes me think he’d be fun to have a drink with.
I think he’s smuggling me books. I found On Marches Spirit Magic had somehow ended up on my desk the other day. It’s a kind thought. I thanked him and he denied it. But he’s a truly dreadful liar. And when he smiles, even broken-nosed and with those startling tattoos, he’s… almost handsome. An odd thought, and one I ought to dismiss, really, if I know what’s good for me.
My father would be asking me why I’m keeping a diary like some simpering adolescent, but with all the oddities I’ve found so far, I thought it might be useful to document them. Especially if I can make notes for letters to Felix, find a few things to make him laugh. He deserves that.
And now I’m getting morose. Time to end this before I think too much.
Herald, though I know you’d protest to being addressed as such,
I’d forgotten what it was like, the anger. Usually it’s something in the pit of my stomach, heavy and uncomfortable and there, but ignorable. I thought I’d spent enough anger on my disaster of a family that I didn’t have any to spare. Apparently I was wrong.
I shouldn’t have got you drunk, and I shouldn’t have asked about Ostwick. Perhaps if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here wanting to immolate your mother and every one of your Chantry instructors, slowly and painfully.
Odd. Usually I’m more sanguine about the myriad ways the world disappoints us. I suppose, with Felix and Mae across an ocean and everyone else probably donning Venatori hoods as I write, it’s been too long since I’ve had a friend. Is that what we are? Friends? We’ve sort of drifted into it. You have the only decent book collection in this backwater of a village.
Once again, I wonder why I’m writing what can be barely described as a letter; a glorified note. And it will certainly never be sent. I’ve heard of worse ways to cope with it all, I suppose. In fact, I’m currently looking at an excellent vintage and wondering how much worse it will be, exactly. The fun sort of worse, I think.
You’re not dead. Oh, thank the Maker. For a moment I thought I’d we’d lost you.
Why am I writing this?
Ser No-Longer-Trevelyan,
I doubt you know this, but you have some fascinating nightmares. When we shared a tent, I picked up various mumblings about the Divine and about lyrium, red or otherwise. I wasn’t about to disturb you, even if I did want to take notes, but you reached out as if you were in pain, and -
I took your hand. I don’t know why I did. Dangerous and stupid, probably, even if it wasn’t the one that likes to crackle.
It seemed to soothe you somewhat. I don’t know why I lingered and kept my hand around yours, even for a little time after you quieted.
I don’t know.
(That’s a lie.)
To The Inquisitor, He of the Glowing Hand, Saviour From Rifts and Batterer of Templars:
You honestly have no idea, do you? It’s almost absurd - no, there’s no almost about it. You casually throw troops around the battlefield, carry an Inquisition on your frighteningly broad shoulders with nary a complaint, come back from the bloody dead, and then you act as though you have less right to be here than any of us.
You have this terrible habit, or more precisely, both of us do: you shed your shirt with no ceremony - ridiculous, frankly, you should receive all the fanfare any other piece of art gets upon its unveiling - and then I do something foolish like look (and believe me, I know how to be subtle, but I’ve begun to think I could probably bring a telescope and you wouldn’t notice). The desire demons have gone from hinting at ideas of scars and soporati to outright laughing at me. Thank you for that.
If only it were just that. But then you go and help villagers; you aid elderly women with collecting water; you spend hours hunting for meat for people you’ve never met and you put yourself and your shield in front of everyone from scowling templar recruits to lowly scouts. You read Chantry tomes and you frown at perceived injustices and I’ve realised that if I ask you about some trivial point of history in the Exalted Age I’m likely to get that smile and the most words anyone has ever heard from you. Perhaps with those small gestures that from anyone else - oh, I mean from me - would be undignified arm-waving. And I find myself smiling at unexpected moments, too. Not just in the way that means I’m trying not to laugh at you, either.
And worst of all, the way you look at me when I summon a wisp or I throw together some spell to clean off blood splatter, as if there’s something wondrous about me. Of course there is, I’d say. I’m the most worthy of admiration here. But sometimes you look at me, and I realise that you would know how hollow the words sound inside my head. After all, so many would disagree, and with good reason. Or when I say something and it startles a laugh out of you and you look at me with that terrible fondness, the way you do with all our merry little band of misfits. As if we’ve blessed you simply by being your friends.
I wish that simply being your friend was all I wanted to do. It would make my life far easier.
This will pass. It always does, in the end. I’ll nod and smile and make light conversation and try not to think about the way you look thoughtful when no-one’s watching you, or the pattern of scars under your ribs. Or the way it seems that the world has so often mistreated you, and I’d like to be the exception. Someone needs to show you how marvellous and unusual you are, especially when the world is ending and there might be few chances. Someone needs to show you that body is made for beauty, not just to be a battering ram. For once in this bloody world, someone needs to be gentle with you, because you deserve so much better. We all do, but you especially, because you seem determined to carry us all through this, on your back if necessary.
I’m far from frightened about wanting to sleep with you. It’s the wanting to wake up with you that worries me.
And now I thank everything that’s holy you’ll never find these. They’re my odd little way of making sure certain things stay unsaid, I suppose. They should probably stay unthought, too, but I’ve always been contrary.
I could sign this, but I suppose in some other timeline, if you were reading this, you’d recognise my handwriting by now.
Gal,
You need to stop. Please.
Brave, you called me. I don’t think anyone has ever called me that before. However, it’s untrue, because bravery isn’t swallowing every other sentence, afraid that it might give you away. Bravery isn’t using your frightening intelligence to contemplate what you can’t have, scratching at it like an old wound.
You need to stop with the patience and the finding me in between all your duties and the kindness. If I were a better man I could appreciate that kindness for what it is, but I’ve never been a better man. Instead I find myself wondering if there’s something more to it; if perhaps, when I look, you’re looking back.
Foolish, I know. Even if by some chance I was right, it’s not as if I have anything to offer you: you’re the Inquisitor, saviour of nations and leader of armies, and I’m a Tevinter reject who couldn’t even make a decent thaumaturgical discovery without it being ripped out from under him and being used to tear the world apart. You’re the Herald of Andraste, and I’m the magister just waiting to get at your blood and begin pulling your strings. Myself, I find the irony of that accusation amusing, but for all you seem to have a badly-hidden sense of humour, I doubt you would. I’ve seen the way you look at people who dare say such things. I remember it from when we’d only just met and I could have been a Venatori spy, for all you knew - and yet you thanked me for saving your life, made anyone who said otherwise cower in their boots. You have an impressive glare; I’ve almost come to miss it, these past few months. It might be that you’re happier now. I hope it is. A man like you deserves happiness. The man that warned off idiot farmer’s sons who wanted to start a tussle with the Tevinter menace, spent hours trying to bake because Sera asked, watched the entire mess with my father and then called me brave - that man is entirely worthy of fair treatment. Better than fair.
I’d like to make you happy. And there, rank stupidity; I sound like some swooning maiden in one of Cassandra’s rags.
I know you’re only being kind. I know. Even if sometimes you say things and I wonder… Well. There are ways of holding a gaze, ways that say all one needs to know. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what I’m seeing, but that’s just wishful thinking. And even if it is, that doesn’t mean you want anything more than a quick diversion and to get some decent use out of that grand bed. I quite understand. If I had hand-carved Orlesian posts and that many furs, I, too, would want to show off.
We’re both adults; I’m not about to waste away pining. There’s a world to save, after all. Even if I do wonder, sometimes.
But you need to stop drinking with me - I know for a fact you hate the dwarven ale, you’re a truly underwhelming liar - and giving me that soft smile. You need to stop saying I’m a good man and coming to me with staff blades found in the arse-end of caves. You need to stop asking for recommendations on magical theory and reading with me as if there’s no place you’d rather be. You’re making time specially; I can tell, you know. You hurry about to speak to us all, to be with us in between saving Wardens and wooing courts, as if we matter. As if I matter.
You need to stop this, all of it, because I might start to hope. Surely you can see how that might be a problem.
Please.
(The writing is smudged and illegible in several places, and the parchment appears to have had wine spilt on it)
You bastard. I should never have come here, I don’t know what I expected to find but it certainly wasn’t something like you -
Venhedis. Festis bei umo canavarum. Te amo, te amo, te amo.
Gal,
My last “letter” was rather a wobble and should be ignored entirely - not that you’ll read any of these, but it’s the thought that counts. I’m never going near elven wine again, for my own good and that of Thedas.
I’ll live. This is hardly life-threatening. And, as I said after that last fight in the Graves, you won’t even see me bleed. As much as it pains me to confess, you’re possibly the best friend I’ve ever had, and that will be more than enough.
As I also said after that fight: you need to reach for potions sooner and not just hoard them to throw them at us while you stagger towards the nearest mage. I say that as the nearest mage. Bloody idiot.
Gal,
STOP RUNNING AT PRIDE DEMONS. I don’t care if Vivienne and I have triple-barriered you and you’ve finally found some decent armour, STOP. Do you want House Pavus’ last hope dead of a heart attack at thirty? No, I thought not.
Dorian,
I didn’t mean to find these. I promise. I was looking through the Geology section and they just fell out; I thought they were ordinary Inquisition correspondence. I think Leliana saw me scrabbling to try and pick up pieces of parchment, because it looked like she was trying not to laugh. I was going to put them back and then I saw my title. I suppose things spiralled from there. The dates are all recent, so I think you check this pile; you must add to it sometimes.
You’re going to see this and then you’re going to panic. You might well go off to get very drunk. Just read this first. Please.
I don’t know when it began. I was waiting for death from a demon or from a Chantry sword; I wasn’t sure which. No-one could meet my eye but Josephine, and that first week, I wanted to fall to my knees and thank her. I wish I was exaggerating.
Redcliffe was nothing like I’d expected, and as you said, Alexius sounded exactly like the worst stories I’d grown up hearing about the Imperium. I knew there had to be something else, better people. It made as much sense to me as calling every Marcher a Kirkwall templar. I thought Felix might be a decent man. I was right, and I’m glad for that. (I keep meaning to say something about that. It must have hurt, losing your friend one day at a time. I can never find the words; it isn’t like I’d understand.)
When I walked into the Chantry, the first thing I thought was Not another bloody rift, and the second was, He’s too handsome to be on our side. I could have lived with that, until you looked at me - not the Mark and not the Inquisition, me - and you did it like I was interesting, without flinching or hesitating. Then you saved my life. So perhaps you made an impression. I’d never expected to meet someone Tevene, but when I did, you were everything I hadn’t known to hope for. I wasn’t used to bright funny free mages who could run circles around me. Those first few weeks, I felt clumsy around you all the time; I was out of practice at talking, and even more out of practice at talking to men who made me feel like I’d been bashed around the head with a shield, and who could quote pretty much the entirety of Horatius’ Theorem, and whose arse made me want to believe in the Maker.
Maybe I should try this again.
My mother would be appalled; she always tried to made sure I could write a decent letter. Back then, it was expected they’d have the Trevelyan seal, so I had to wear the family name decently. Afterwards, there was the Chantry, and you had to be able to structure a sentence if you ever wanted to even look at Knight-Commander. My mother and my old superiors would all be horrified at me using those skills to write something like this, especially to a man. Not that it matters; it doesn’t matter to me.
I meant to say that I was a miserable Chantry reject with a death sentence waiting, and you were brilliant. I didn’t know what to do with that. I still don’t. I’ve never met anyone else like you and I doubt I ever will. You’d put it better. When I tried saying something honest about that, I thought I was making a fool of myself. I didn’t think you’d be interested. After the Conclave, I wasn’t much good at parties. When you were flirting with me, I assumed you were just being polite and laughing at me for saying something stupid. Later, I thought you were just being kind (you are, even if you pretend not to be) and humouring me. You deserved better. You’d become my best friend here, and I didn’t want to jeopardise that.
I thought it was just me, too. I would have said something. I didn’t mean to leave you on the hook. I swear, I didn’t know.
So it’s not just you. I have to say that: it’s not just you. You were right. Every time you were looking, I was looking back.
I know what te amo means. Me too. If you read this, find me and I’ll say it in person, as often as you need to hear it. I promise.
- G