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It all started with the letters.
He could even still remember the day the first one arrived. It hadn’t been addressed to him, but young Noe brought it to him anyway, wandering aimlessly into the room as he inspected the blood red wax sealed onto the opening. Added, no doubt, to keep curiosity like Noe's at bay.
There was nothing remarkable about the letter that he should remember it so clearly. The words “Senior Grey Warden” were written across the front in a firm hand; the high-quality parchment was neatly folded and sturdy in his hands; and when he cracked the seal and opened it, it was as perfunctory as all the other letters Noe brought him. That letter had been no more than a business transaction: the Wardens had information, she needed it.
Loghain penned a quick response, sent Noe on his way with the freshly sealed letter, and put the matter out of his mind.
The next letter arrived a few weeks later. The third, fourth, and fifth somehow followed him across Orlais, finding him at various stops along his journey. It was the sixth when Loghain knew he was well and truly intrigued by the woman at the other end: Hawke.
She was Ferelden, he knew that. Everything else he’d heard he believed to be stories, as all of Thedas knew Orlesians were nothing if not prone to hyperbole. It was inevitable though that there’d be some truths buried deep in the sensationalized tales of defeating darkspawn and abominations in her staunch protection of the city she loved.
Loghain himself knew how some of those truths could still manage their way into a story, even if the hero had been warped into something unrecognizable with each retelling.
He’d caught glimpses of those truths in their exchanges. As the letters increased in frequency and in length, they’d gone from business to personal. She had more, increasingly difficult questions and for those he did not always have answers. Though he may have lacked eloquence in his responses, he did not lack interest and the desire to continue the conversation. The questions of his own he sent back sparked discussions that spanned letter after letter, giving Loghain a rare glimpse at the truth of the woman on the other side.
And Loghain liked what he saw.
He admired her sheer determination and uncompromising nature to fight for what she believed in. He admired that she’d never asked for any of it, but had stepped up anyway for the greater good of Kirkwall, even at great personal cost to herself. In its defense, she’d lost everything and everyone she held most dear.
Yes, she was lauded as a hero by some, lifted to near legendary status in book and song, as he’d once been. Still others despised her, holding her up at the example of the perils of magic. She was a mage who’d stood against her own. With Kirkwall crumbling around her, she’d made a decision when no one else would, and now she bore the consequences alone.
Even Loghain’s dice hadn't fallen quite that poorly. He still had Anora and she still led Ferelden as its queen. He’d been willing to make whatever sacrifice necessary for Ferelden—and had—but still he’d been given a chance to make restitution for his crimes. And now, just when he’d become comfortable with the obscurity the Grey Wardens offered an old man like him, that letter arrived and changed everything. And now, for the first time since the rebellion, he found that he wanted... more.
There had been no overt flirtation in the missives. He’d simply taken an interest in her, and her in him, and the confines of their communications grew naturally, fostering a strange intimacy between the two of them. He’d discovered that beyond the hardness and the efficiency, there was a softness to her. Even giants such as they held a soul within. He wondered how many people had ever glimpsed that side of her she’d so carefully hidden from the world. He hoped, perhaps selfishly, that it was not many.
In the words they exchanged, he learned how much she loved the night sky. Every night she looked up at the stars and reminded herself that for all that had happened, it was small in comparison to the vastness of the world around them and the skies above them. That for all the turmoil, the stars remained steady. Her favorite color was green, like the new life that blossomed from the soil beneath them after a long winter. Despite what the stories said, he learned she never had more than two drinks. She had a penchant for a good spiced wine and one of her uncle’s neighbors made a particularly good blend that included cardamom, just like back home in Ferelden. Her mabari was named Dog, because that’s what her siblings called him and she never had the heart to change it.
Dog was gone now, along with her parents, her siblings, and most of her friends. He’d learned for the longest time, the dwarf Varric had been the only one she could call a friend in the city that she'd fought for, but even he too left Kirkwall eventually. Now Varric had involved Hawke, drawing her out of hiding and to the Inquisition he'd joined. Loghain wanted to be angry on her behalf, he really did, but her last letter… well, the emotion it stirred in him was not anger, because the Inquisition was leading her to him.
And more, she wanted it to.
Since he’d learned that, he’d been riddled with doubt. Left to his own devices here in this cave, there was little to take his mind off what might be to come when he finally met Hawke.
He’d immediately sent back a response—he'd have been a fool not to. But it should have reached her last week, and yet he’d still received no response. There hadn't been anything particularly wrong with it either. He’d merely said that he looked forward to conversing in person instead of by letter. All he'd gotten in return was the near deafening silence of a woman he’d never heard speak. Perhaps he hadn’t been clear enough about how much he looked forward to finally meeting her.
He paced to his table and makeshift desk where he’d spent hours writing word after word for the woman who’d inspired something in him, something he’d thought long dead and gone. He picked up her most recent letter and traced the firm lines of her penmanship with his eyes.
My friend,
I am certain you are correct that it is better than your old cave, though you do also know I should prefer the cave myself. On your first point, your cave is in Ferelden. On your second, Skyhold is too much like that which I left behind.
To its credit, there is a wildness to these mountains that has inspired me and being here has given me hope that we are not all doomed after all. I can almost grasp that there may be a life for me beyond Kirkwall and that I may find a place where I am neither a hero nor a traitor. A place that I can simply be a person. I’ve never truly known what it means to be unburdened, but I find myself hoping that there is a place for me where I can be.
You know all of this, of course, as it is not only the mountains that have been a balm for me, but also your encouragement. Had I known who I would reach on the other end of that letter all those months ago, perhaps I might have written it differently. Though truly, I find no fault in where it led.
But enough of my ruminations as I do have important news for you. The inquisitor would like to meet you. I do hope you know he is not the only one.
For all that I do not care for his stronghold and do not envy him in his role, he is a pleasant enough person to spend time with. I am certain you will agree with me on that. He is a brother in a way, for his situation is not so far removed from ours. I pity him that he has not yet found someone to share that burden, as we have in each other.
Stay safe, Loghain. Don’t you dare disappear on me, for I cannot bear the thought of losing you.
She never signed them. He knew the hand that penned the letters, and that was enough. She’d written that she could not bear the thought of losing him. He didn’t know how else to read it, especially combined with his name—the only time she’d ever used it without his “honorific” in front.
He dropped the letter back on the table and ran a hand through his hair. What was he doing pining after her like a lovesick boy? He’d done enough of that over the years. After Rowan, he focused on his daughter and on Ferelden. He’d neither needed nor wanted more.
Until he’d met her. Someone else who knew what it was like to be once loved, now reviled. She understood him in a way he thought he’d never be again. And somewhere along the way, he’d fallen in love through words on pages. How could he not when those words were the deepest truth of her?
Amid the ever constant drip of water into the cavern, a soft footfall reached his ears, echoing along the cavern walls. He grabbed his sword and sprung toward his hiding place. The fools Clarel had sent after him had come close once or twice, but they’d never ventured this far before.
The door creaked open, and Loghain held his breath. A woman slid through the door and took stock of the room. She wasn’t wearing Grey Warden armor and she was unarmed. No, there was a small staff. The edge of a blood red tattoo on her left arm was barely visible under her armor.
Hawke had come.
He stepped out from his hiding place, still clutching the scabbard of his sword. If he dropped it, that might scare her, and if he didn’t, she might think—
His foot slipped on the stone and she spun around, immediately on the defensive. But when her eyes met his, she stilled.
“It’s you.” He could have kicked himself as the words slipped unbidden through his lips. He’d spent countless nights perfecting how he’d greet her when he saw her, how she might react, and how he might respond in turn, and “it’s you” was never one of the options. How she must think him an old fool that the words from his mouth did not match the words from his hand.
But then she smiled, and it brought light to even the darkest, most neglected parts of his heart. Her eyes shimmered in the low light of the torches, mirroring the hope and relief that swelled within him. “It’s me.”