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It’s an old letter. From a few months back, there hadn’t been any response yet to the ones Grant had sent since. Sometimes that was the way of it. His letters piling up in Ansburg while Carver was off doing Maker knows what. He did his best not to worry, it’s what he’d want Carver to do for him as well. Worry never got him anywhere but deep in his cups.
He swirls the brandy, a vintage gifted from Aveline. Usually Grant would save it for company but an exceptionally lonely night deserved something better than cheap ale from Lowtown that tasted like piss. The parchment is well worn, folded and unfolded into his inner breast pocket. He spent too much time idly touching the paper, coveting it as if he were back living at Gamlen’s and it was a note for gold.
Another swirl of the brandy and a long sip, it burns his throat on the way down. No one is here to see it so he ventures holding the letter to his face, inhaling the smell of paper and ink for any lingering scent of Carver. There is none, of course, and it just leaves him feeling dumb.
He places it on the table and drains the rest of his glass. His eyes close and he tries to conjure his brother’s image in the darkness. Every day it seems to get harder to see Mother… Bethany... Father. But Carver is still here. Even in the absence of letters, he has to believe it. An image of dark hair and blue eyes.
He grips the glass and clings to the image, paper crumpling in his other hand as he clenches it tight. Where are you? Are you safe? Are you somewhere in the Deep Roads again?
Abruptly the vision in his eyes changes from Carver before him to Carver, sick and dying. Anders desperate pleas to the Wardens as Hawke held his brother. Another image: Bethany torn apart by an ogre. And another: Mother, horribly malformed and raised like an undead. Father, that once strong and impenetrable figure, pale and sickly on his deathbed.
Yet more images flood, Feynriel made Tranquil, the mages he’d sent to the Gallows that had never appeared again, the cries of a mother separated from her child in Lowtown as he watched silently while the Templars took the boy away.
He balls his hand into a fist, the letter crumbling with it. The burn of the brandy echoes in him, he feels it all over — the pit of his stomach, deep in his chest — and finally it spills into his hands in a fervent flame. The parchment stands no chance in the destruction. It burns into ash and tears threaten to sting his eyes.
Grant shouts through gritted teeth, a fiery frustration. The flame doesn’t stop, he wants to fling it from himself.
What have you done? He hears it in Carver’s voice. Accusatory and angry. His mind supplies Carver’s indignant anger at Grant’s hesitation to bring him on the expedition. Would he still be safe in Kirkwall if he hadn’t?
Grant shouts again and unclenches his grip. All he can do is destroy. Force magic erupts from his hand and sends the empty glass of brandy flying and shattering on the floor.
What have I done?