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[A letter addressed only to ‘Waffles’ left in the care of a man known as Red Enzo at the Clamp and Scapula tavern, Cumberland]
H.
You can reach me at the Undercroft tavern in Starkhaven, under the name of Brennokovic. Tell me everyone’s okay.
V.
Varric,
Sorry it’s been so long, but: everyone’s okay.
According to my favourite apostate (aside from myself of course) I was ever so slightly concussed. Wouldn’t stop asking for a cheese sandwich. Unsure this differs significantly from my usual post-battle routine but will take his word for it.
Hope you made it out all right after the big fight? Running into that many rogue Templars on the road is supremely unlucky, even for us—unless it wasn’t bad luck, but somebody’s plan. The divide-and-conquer strategy worked perhaps too well—I really didn’t expect us to get separated quite so definitively.
And don’t tell me you’re in Starkhaven now? Aren’t you worried a certain blue-eyed prince will have all your chest hair slowly plucked out until you reveal my location?
Everyone (everyone left, that is) says hello. Our Dalish friend says to tell you she misses you. Camp is quieter without your stories to pass the time.
Regards,
H.
H.
Was I glad to hear from you! I was half convinced you were back there rotting in a ditch in the Vimmarks. Some way for the hero of all the mages in Thedas to go out.
And don’t worry about Choir Boy. He’s so pious he can hardly bear to find his ass with two hands, let alone find me in the stews.
Listen, I’ve got some business I’ve gotta take care of now I’m back down here in the south. Being the head of a dwarven house is a real drag sometimes.
Who am I kidding? I mean all the time.
Not to mention I’ve got to catch up with my publisher. Maybe I’ll use my time back in a place with a real bed and a real desk to actually get some writing done. All that life-on-the-road business has given me ideas. Fugitive is a romantic occupation, right?
I’ll catch up with you, H. Give Daisy a hug from me. Cheat Tevinter out of some silver at Diamondback. And I know you’ll keep an eye on Blondie.
Stay safe,
V.
Varric,
I got your letter from a dwarven merchant called Gorim who tells me he knew not only Bartrand but knows Bodahn as well. Is it impolite of me to ask if every surfacer dwarf knows every other surfacer dwarf?
This no permanent address situation makes getting letters predictably tough, but in all my many years on the road (have magic staff, can—and am often forced to—travel) I’ve never had a more tenacious correspondent. For which I’m thankful. Our little fireside circle is shrinking, Varric, and when you can’t trust anyone outside of your own party you begin to feel like a wandering spirit, drifting through the world all untethered.
Still, at the risk of sounding soppy, I can’t wait for the day I get to buy you a drink again.
A. is… better. He says leaving Kirkwall cleared his head a little.
Do you remember the night we fled the Gallows? We abandoned the ferry up the coast, and hiked up Sundermount by moonlight alone. I took first watch that night. A. didn’t sleep. He and I walked away from camp, over a ridge, to where we could see Kirkwall far below, still burning bright. And we didn’t speak. But when I looked at him there, all sharp edges and shadows under the moon, it was as if I was seeing him for the first time.
I don’t know what that means. Except, of course, that I was an idiot in Kirkwall to think everything was under control.
Too much wine. Past time to put down the pen and go to sleep.
Goodnight.
H.
[A letter addressed to ‘Champ’ at the Chevalier’s Arms, Montsimmard]
H.
Re: surfacer dwarves—it’s incredibly impolite and also true. Mostly true, anyways. I try to avoid getting too familiar or I might wake up one day as boring as Bartrand was. (Thank the Maker you took that weird lyrium shard or I might have wound up just like my brother in the end, and that would have just been depressing.)
On that vein, Hawke, I’ve had an idea. I don’t want to say too much right now and jinx it—talking about a book you haven’t written yet is a great way to ensure you never do—but I’ve got a good feeling about it. Non-fiction, would you believe?
Which leads me to a question I’ve been trying to talk myself out of asking ever since I last wrote you. But it turns out I’ve got to know. Hawke—you and Anders. I asked you once already but that was before he went full-blown crazy and blew up a couple hundred people. Why after everything that’s happened are you still trailing around Thedas after that lunatic?
(Picture me asking you this by the fire at the Hanged Man. Imagine Norah just brought over a couple of mugs of ale. Smell the hops, the sweat, the blood and piss of the place.)
Until next time.
V.
Varric
I’ve started this letter more than once. Can’t seem to get the right words in the right order. Here we go again, I suppose.
Remember that night at the Hanged Man—late as late gets, half the patrons asleep or gone, the fire low—when I told you that A. was the best of us? You scoffed, but I always believed it. He had a conscience like a surgeon’s blade and this cold fire inside him that never went out, never let him rest.
And I know, I know. That’s Justice, you say. But I always saw the difference between them. Justice wouldn’t have found a home in him if he wasn’t already courageous, defiant, noble-hearted.
He always thought differently. I never quite managed to convince him.
When the Chantry went up, all that shattered with it.
So why did I spare him, let him come with us, agree to follow him?
While as you know I’ve never been the most self-reflective person in Thedas, you may be surprised to learn I’ve actually been asking myself the same question.
It’s a pain in the arse, this second-guessing. Can’t say I’m enjoying it so far. I don’t think I’ll do it again.
Here’s the thing. Although dispatching swift death is one of my finer skills, I am not the sort of person who can without blinking shove a knife between the ribs of the man who for the last three years has been sharing my bed. And although I somehow stumbled into pledging myself to protecting the citizens of Kirkwall and all the prestige and problems that went with the title of Champion, and although I care for all my friends—you are my family, to tell the truth—and I care for your opinions… I couldn’t let him go.
Bit of a shitter to discover on the spot, but there you go.
He has my heart, wholly and irrevocably. There’s no freeing him from Justice—they’re the same being, now. And likewise, you can’t unwind the man who can’t sing to save his life, talks to cats as if they’re babies, and will do almost anything you ask for a punnet of strawberries— from the man who killed hundreds of innocent Kirkwallers in cold blood.
When the Chantry went up, my heart broke. If I were a better person, I would have severed there and then anything there ever was between us.
But I’m not. I couldn’t kill him. And I couldn’t live and watch him leave me. Despite the death. Despite his lack of regret. A. is something more than human now. But I will follow him to the ends of Thedas, for good or ill.
No doubt one day a reckoning will find me. Maker knows just about everything else has.
Not yet though, I hope.
Andraste’s tits, pen and paper makes me a babbling penitent. I hope this wasn’t too dull. I can’t bring myself to write it over again to make it more palatable. Anyway.
We departed Montsimmard late three nights ago. We’re travelling east, toward the Frostbacks. Ferelden again, perhaps. Let me know where you are and how you’re faring. I hope we can meet again soon.
Longue vie, as they say here.
H.
[One of several duplicate letters sent to taverns in Verchiel, Lydes, Halamshiral, and other cities, this one resting in the care of landlady Ursule Poussin at the Whiskered Fish tavern in Jader]
H.
The heart wants what it wants, huh? You always said crazy was your thing. I guess I should be grateful or this book I’m writing would be significantly more dull.
Void, H., you know I don’t make a habit of judging folks. I know better than to think I can change your mind. But there’s crazy and there’s the kind of batshit they’ll be writing in the history books for ages to come.
But why should you listen to me? Maybe I’m just jealous I’m not there to chronicle your exploits any longer.
I’ve heard whispers recently I’ve attracted the gaze of someone a tad more powerful than our Choir Boy—or at least my reputation has—so I’ve finally crossed the Waking Sea to experience Ferelden for myself. I always thought they were joking when they said it smelled of wet dog!
I’ve taken a room at the Crown and Lion in Amaranthine. I’ll keep hoping to hear your boots outside my door.
V.