Work Text:
Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper
Like draggled fly's legs,
What can you tell of the flaring moon
Through the oak leaves?
—The Letter, Amy Lowell
—
2 Justinian
Dear Dorian,
I’m glad to hear you’ve arrived safely in Minrathous. Leliana’s scouts informed us some of the caravans north had been waylaid by bandits, but I should have known with Bull and the Chargers along, nothing could delay you. Everyone sends their love except Sera, who’s instead defaced every page in this sheaf and then run laughing up to the roof. The rude gesture in the corner is from her.
Varric has asked twice now in his offhanded way if the Inquisition might be traveling along the Imperial Highway in the next few weeks. He’s eager to return to Kirkwall, even if he’s allergic to saying it straight out, and Vivienne has wished to speak with a band of Aequitarian mages in Val Royeaux for some time, so I expect we’ll bivouac our own way north shortly. Please post your next reply to Halamshiral and we’ll pick it up on the way.
As regards your last letter: I appreciate your concern, but I’m quite all right. I know I was unlike myself on our recent adventure into the Deep Roads, but your forbearance with me (and my uncharacteristic impetuousness) was very generous. I’m fully recovered now, I assure you, and have put all distractions behind me. My solemn oath to stop jumping off ledges without looking is inscribed here for your approval.
Speaking of approval, please look over the changes I’ve made to the Ameridan paper (enclosed). The green ink is addition, the red revision, and the blue strikethroughs have been cut. In particular, please review the section on Ameridan’s known—and most incontrovertible—history, especially the citations from Renaures and Bescond. There’s a Genitivi monograph I’m trying to track down which would do a great deal to preempt Chantry objections, but I’m having difficulty laying hands on an unaltered original. I have high hopes one might be hiding in a University of Orlais library, but until I can coax the librarian to pack it in goosedown and ship it east, Renaures is our strongest advocate.
I know you were unsure about it even to the moment the ship left, so I won’t ask if you met with your father. I’ll only ask: are you all right?
I hope you’re well and staying exactly as warm as you like.
Yours, etc.
An unfinished manuscript on Inquisitor Ameridan is enclosed, each page heavily marked in ink of multiple colors. The first page is titled “AMERIDAN: A FORMAL INQUISITION” with a question mark after it.
—
27 Ferventis (why must you people come up with such different names for everything?)
My dear Inquisitor,
Thank you, as always, for the well wishes. I remember too many nights with you in soggy tents and vast, awful, chilly deserts to trust them completely, but I’ll thank you all the same. More pertinently, I’ll thank you for the restraint you’ve shown with your curiosity. I know how little you enjoy unanswered questions, and to see you so silent on a subject I know worries you is practically anathema. (I appreciate it, my friend.)
Yes, we’ve met. It was a short conference, relatively speaking, and while it might have gone better, it certainly could have gone worse. The Iron Bull had intended to come, all appearances and gossip-mongers be damned, but one of his Chargers had gotten into a rather sticky situation regarding some lingering Venatori, and of course I told him I could get along without him very well. Which isn’t to say I didn’t miss you both, even if you’d have marched in like you were squaring up for war rather than a six-course dinner. Regardless, we ended on quite a civil note (how novel!) and we intend to meet again next month. Perhaps a trifle soon, all things considered, but time waits for no magister. Or Inquisitor, as it happens.
But enough of that. I’ve a gift for you, and my only regret is not being able to see your face when you read it. On my journey here I paid a visit to the d’Ameride family, who were all too eager to lend the dearest friend of the Herald of Andraste access to their personal library. In those hallowed halls I discovered a collection of magisterial letters speaking (in the most derisive terms) of the Inquisitor Ameridan and his friendship with Drakon. More pertinently, they include a number of scornful but detailed descriptions of Ameridan’s traveling companions, including many references to his elven lover Telana.
The provenance of these letters is unquestioned. The magisters who authored them have clear lines to several modern houses of great power, and they have traded enough on their ancestors’ names that they will not be able to discount these letters as raving. Moreover, they were kept in a Neromenian house for generations until Quintinus Aricula died in a duel a hundred years ago and his estate was sold to pay his debts. Some hobbyist historian son of the d’Amerides bought the letters at auction, conveniently left the receipt tucked into the front of the satchel, and set them all mouldering away on a shelf until I came to rescue them at last.
I’ve taken the liberty of having copies made before sending the originals on to you. Even with all efforts at preservation, the pages are a breath away from collapsing into dust. If the courier didn’t hand them to you with the care of a babe in arms, you mustn’t give him a copper. I don’t care what Josephine says; I paid the d’Amerides handsomely for those letters, and I won’t let their errand-boy dip into our coffers twice.
I’ve also made several comments on the paper; see the enclosed. Your voice is quite clear at the start of the fourth section, but the moment you move into the process of field discovery, everything becomes terribly muddled. You’re writing so widely around him it’s made a great new hole in the middle of the narrative. My suggested revisions are included at the end; I hope reading his name in someone else’s hand stings a little less severely.
I’m sorry, my dear friend. I know it still hurts. I wish I had any comfort for you save my certainty that time will help, and a promise to scorch him to cinders should he ever show his face in public again. Perhaps we can misspell his name all the way through; Andraste knows how I adore such petty spite.
Affectionately,
Dorian
Enclosed is the same manuscript with extensive notes appended to each page, along with a thick packet of ancient letters. Each occurrence of the name “Solas” has been marked through and replaced with “Solis,” and his name has been removed entirely from the list of authors. The first page has had the previous title crossed out; beneath it is written OF DRAKON AND AMERIDAN: A DEFINITIVE EXPLORATION AND SUMMATION OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OF THE INQUISITOR OF THE SECOND AGE.
—
16 Solace (because we simply must, Dorian!)
Dear Dorian,
You’re the most wonderful research partner a woman could have. While I can’t speak to any expression I may have had on opening your package, Sera has kindly included a sketch of her own on the subject. I’m told she could have fit a “whole fistful of spy-ravens” in my open mouth and still had room to spare; the likeness she’s sending you certainly agrees.
Thank you for the notes on the fourth section, and I’m more grateful yet for your revisions. Every word you said is right, of course. I’d like to say it’s getting better (to ease your mind if nothing else), but somehow every mention still aches as fiercely as it did the first time. There are some nights I feel quite pathetic indeed. Those are the nights I’m determined to strike him from the authorship credit altogether as you suggested, though I quail every morning at the idea of such scholarly elision.
Thankfully, Dirthamen provides distractions at every turn, and I’ve had great luck throwing myself into all sorts of new mysteries instead. For example: Blackwall and Vivienne had a perfectly friendly conversation over dinner tonight, and at one point she outright smiled at something he said. Smiled, Dorian! It was positively friendly! Oh, how I wish you could have seen it; you’ll never believe me from this letter alone.
(Less interesting to you: we came across a small ruin north of Halamshiral that combined elven and Tevinter architectural elements in one of the towers. I’ve replicated the tower stylings here; what do you think of the gargoyle on the north face? The etchings on the wings suggest Razikale, but the face is elven and not unlike the statues of Mythal we saw in her temple. I know this is hardly your bailiwick, but I’ve no one else to ask anymore.)
We’re to reach Val Royeaux tomorrow morning. I expect we’ll be there three days, then take a ship to Kirkwall directly. Varric goes green at the gills every time it comes up, but it’s near a week faster than traveling on foot, and the call of his city is even stronger than his dislike of open water. He keeps saying his guard-captain friend is going to kill him for being away so long, and he looks happier every time he thinks of it.
Regardless, while Vivienne is at her council, I intend to visit the University of Orlais. Professor Kenric is there—from the Basin, you remember?—and he’d like to compare notes on our work to make sure we’re not overlapping our lines of inquiry. In exchange he’s promised unfettered access to both the University library and the editor of Vérité, and I’ve taken him up on the offer. Even my clan’s porous-at-best interest in historical scholarship while I was growing up—prompted mostly by me after my first brush with one of Genitivi’s books—had copies of articles from that journal. To you alone I can confess a childish excitement at even the possibility of someday publishing there. The Inquisitor, of course, considers them honored to merely exist within her presence.
I can practically see the frown you’ve given the page at that. I apologize if I sound bitter; I promise it was but the briefest moment of self-pity. You know perfectly well I’m satisfied with how this has all ended up—mostly—and if I can be the smallest bit selfish after the end of the world, perhaps it isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever done. I’ve channeled your imagined reprimands as best I can here; let me know if I’ve missed the mark.
In other news, Cole has managed to befriend every bird in a thousand miles. He keeps waking up with starlings completely covering his hat, and Sera has been having the time of her life with the help of a few pounds of birdseed.
Give my love to Bull. I had a short note from Krem that the Chargers planned to meet with you this week, and I hope all is well with you both. I know the distance weighs on you. I’ve added a new section to the manuscript regarding the letters you sent; please advise.
Yours, etc.
The revised manuscript is enclosed, along with a letter of gratitude from Professor Bram Kenric and a letter of introduction from the editor of Vérité, both dated the following day. The new title on the manuscript’s first page has been crossed out in turn, replaced with A TREATISE ON INQUISITOR AMERIDAN handwritten below.
—
4 Matrinalis
My dear, foolish, impossible, infuriating Adahla,
Do you think so little of my intelligence? Have you no regard at all for my affection for you? Kindly explain to me why I had to hear from Cassandra how badly your hand has been bothering you lately, and how much you still flinch when someone brings up our raggedly-dressed apostate in polite company. Four full pages your Most Holy wrote about how worried she is for you, and I had to pretend you’d told me just as much about your visit together in my reply. Yes, of course I know sometimes the pain of the Anchor makes you stop speaking mid-word. Yes, of course I know you have one of Solas’s fresco sketches tucked into that little nature book that you always tote around with you. Why wouldn’t I? Certainly not because you’d hidden such a thing from me. Certainly not!
I don’t write to you solely for my health, you know. I write because I’d like to know about you and yours, and I won’t pretend this wasn’t a blow. However, the wound can be assuaged with a little honesty on your part. The whole truth, my friend, if you please, without obfuscation. I’ll send Leliana after you if you don’t.
Annoyance aside (for the moment), I conveyed your message to the Iron Bull, who thumped his great chest like a southern barbarian and roared something about dragons I couldn’t make out through the slur of Nevarran spirits. Suffice it to say he sends his regards in turn, though I believe he intends to stay in this region a while longer before returning south. I mean to visit my friend Maevaris soon, but I’ll be frank with you even if you aren’t with me: these stolen moments with him are immensely satisfying, if all too brief. And occasionally drunken.
He reminded me of something the other day, actually, from those months we were in the horrible empty Wastes looking for useless dwarven tombs. You and Solas (forgive me) had gone off to puzzle out something about those ancient carvings. The Bull and I were sitting by the tents—this was before I could admit my interest even to myself—and out of nowhere he had the temerity to ask me if I was having a good time in the desert. I’m ashamed to admit he got a somewhat incendiary rise out of me, and I was several minutes into a perfectly good rant before I realized he was smiling. That he’d done it only to get my temper up, because he knew I enjoyed that sort of annoyance, especially with an audience. I didn’t want to laugh, but I couldn’t help it. And then the temper was gone and he needled me about it for weeks.
The point is: none of that would have happened if you hadn’t dragged me out there with you. If you hadn’t insisted on bundling me along to every desert, cave, and haunted lake south of Tevinter. You pulled me out of myself and showed me how to enjoy the company of a friend, and you taught me keeping all my pain tucked away only hurts the ones I love instead. Kindly understand the same for yourself, will you? Tell me what’s going on, and stop trying to hide the grief between the lines.
Speaking of lines, briefly—your latest revisions were excellent. You were quite right about the Genitivi monograph. I’ve made a few final notes to tighten up the conclusion (see page eighteen) and one missing citation (page three, paragraph six), and then you might as well send it away for review. You know the subject matter is controversial at best, so I don’t wish to get your hopes up too high, but the bones are sound and the conclusions clear, and if the editor chooses to be reasonable…well, we’ll find out together, won’t we?
As far as authorship: cut the man out, I say. He doesn’t deserve it.
With love,
Dorian
P.S. I’m sorry, I haven’t the faintest idea about the gargoyle. I wish I did. The best I can tell you is that it looks like it’s wearing a funny little hat.
The manuscript with additional revisions has been enclosed, with each instance of the word “Solis” crossed out and replaced with “Xohlas.” The title page has again been amended, this time to SPIRITS, DRAGONS, GODS: AN EXPLORATION OF THE INTERSECTION OF ANDRASTIANISM, AVVAR SPIRIT-WORSHIP, AND THE ELVEN PANTHEON IN THE LIFE AND FAITH OF INQUISITOR AMERIDAN.
—
6 Kingsway
Dear Dorian,
Thank you for the notes on the conclusion. I’ve made the changes and sent the manuscript to the editor of Vérité, and though it’s a little unusual, I’ve requested a double-blind review panel. I’ve enclosed a copy of the final document for your records. I’ll keep you apprised of any notice from the reviewers.
I hope you’re well.
Oh, Dorian, I don’t know what to say. I’ve left this page for three days trying to figure out if the anger or the gratitude were stronger after your last letter, and the truth is I still don’t know. Vivienne stayed in Val Royeaux after all and Cassandra is fully preoccupied with her new duties. Varric and Sera are having a wonderful time here in Kirkwall and don’t seem to ever want to leave. You and Bull are beyond my reach and Blackwall has started making noises about returning to Orlais, perhaps to help with the Warden efforts or begin tracking down members of his old troop.
Only dear Cole seems perfectly content to traipse about the countryside with me for now, but you and I both know he won’t linger here forever. Cullen and Leliana have been very kind, and of course a smile from Josephine would brighten the day of even the dourest demon, but it just isn’t the same. A year we all spent in each other’s pockets, and all of a sudden I’m missing you all so much I can hardly breathe.
Dorian, I still miss him.
It’s the cruelest joke I can imagine. Weeks I can go without thinking about him even once—months—and then I’ll catch myself drawing up some ancient ruin for him in my book, or beginning to transcribe some elvish script I think he might like to see, and then I remember everything all over again. I keep waiting for it all to finally soften, for the edge to start growing dull at last, and it never does. It simply refuses.
I miss him and I’d like to throttle him with my bare hands. I love him and I want to shout at him until he begs on his knees for my forgiveness. Only—I don’t want him begging, not really. I don’t even want his apologies. If you could have seen the regret—the sorrow—oh, I hated him in that moment, and so did he. The greatest injury he ever did me was keeping back the truth. Even worse, I can feel in my heart that if he were to come to me with it now, whatever it is, I’d forgive him all of it in an instant. Mythal ma ghilana, I’m as lost as a child.
How little you must think of me. I’m certainly no more impressed, I promise you. The Anchor becomes unstable when my emotions run high, and I’m ashamed to admit that night with Cassandra was full of memories I wasn’t prepared to weather. She meant so well, and so much of the night was so wonderful, and then when the drink was strongest she brought up watching us dance together at Halamshiral, and it all just slipped right out of my fingers.
I remembered how new and strange everything had been that night—how horrible the Game had been after all—how I’d been utterly lost and angry and humiliated, even if the Inquisition itself had been victorious. I’d never felt so out of place in all my life, and then he’d come up with that self-conscious smile and held out his hand to me on the balcony, and the moment he pulled me in I knew exactly who I was again. He eased the hurt rather than caused it; he was a respite rather than a bruise.
He loved me then, Dorian. I know he did.
Creators take me for a halla-brained fool. To dwell on this any longer is the stupidest thing in the world. I’m all right; I promise you I’ll be just fine. Please don’t worry another moment on my behalf.
I’m sorry, I don’t know how to end this letter. I wish I hadn’t written any of it, but I can’t stand the thought of writing anything else.
Yours, etc.
A small pencil drawing of the Skyhold rotunda, clearly a copy of another original, has been included. The walls are covered in idle sketches and variations on ideas; in one corner of the page an elven woman has been drawn with her hands behind her back, her smile turned away from the viewer. Her face in particular has been rendered in much greater detail than the rest, though the copyist apparently struggled with the lines.
Also enclosed is a press-printed version of the finalized manuscript. Solas’s name has been reverted to the correct spelling throughout, and the title on the first page now simply reads INQUISITOR AMERIDAN: FAITH.
—
30 Kingsway
Dearest Dorian,
Thank you for coming. I know I’ve thanked you a hundred times already—I remember at least twice yesterday even as you were leaving—but once more for the road: thank you. I thought Viscount Bran (sorry, Provisional Viscount Bran) was going to have a fit of apoplexy when you all disembarked from the ship. A Tevinter politician, a Tal-Vashoth the size of a mountain, a powerful mage with a sneer to rival Empress Celene’s, and the Divine Herself with her great wimple towering over all of us. You might have been the most dangerous ship on the ocean at that moment, and my heart nearly burst to see all of you there together.
(Please find enclosed two of your silk scarves, on that note. You probably don’t remember the evening Varric took us all to that Lowtown bar with his Captain Aveline and her family, but I certainly do. My dear Dorian, who knew you could be so pliable [and flexible!] when coaxed by terrible ale and a little encouragement?)
How wonderful you all are. How generous you are with me. I’m truly grateful, my friend, and I’ll never forget this kindness. Thank you.
All right. Lest it lose its meaning with repetition, I’ll move on. Blackwall and I will be heading back to Skyhold within a day or two, and based on the increasingly anxious missives Josephine’s been sending, I expect to be there for some time. Blackwall intends to stay just long enough to rest and recoup, and then he’ll continue west to Halamshiral and perhaps Weisshaupt. I’ll be all right, I promise. I feel quite myself again after these few days, and anyway, I’ve had a half-thought pricking at me of our adventure into the Fade at Adamant. It’s certainly enough for a paper or two (or five), but maybe I should wait to see how big the Ameridan beehive we’ve kicked over will be first.
Actually, perhaps we should start with Avvar cultivation of spirit-bound ideals before anything else. I’ve remained in touch with Professor Kenric, as well as that old researcher we met in the Western Approach—Frederic of Serault—and I think there might be something we can tackle regarding the spirit bound to the dragon we met in the Basin. That would be politely heretical without traipsing headlong into outright blasphemy, and we’re still near enough to Corypheus that the Herald of Andraste has some heft left to her. (I do, every now and then, send up a little prayer in hopes the Bride doesn’t mind my trading on her name. No smiting yet, thank her Maker, but I can’t pretend the tacit permission doesn’t provide a smidgeon of comfort.)
Ah, Dorian—since penning the above I’ve had a missive from the University of Orlais with our reviews. Your copy is enclosed. I don’t know if I should laugh or cry, but I’ll get to work on this right away. I don’t expect I’ll need to send it to you for a second pass; I’ll write if I do.
Yours, etc.
Two black silk scarves are included with the letter, along with a packet of papers on University of Orlais letterhead. The first review (acceptance with major revisions) is six pages long and includes line-by-line edits of the entire manuscript, as well as detailed suggestions for three additional source examinations and a request for a re-translation of the Renaures papers. The second review (rejection) fills most of one page and acidly describes Genitivi as a populist Fereldan “scholar” more suited for beachside fiction than historical literature, and recommends the uninformed, absurdly anonymous authors review the body of work by Ghisbert Duguay, seminal expert on the period in question.
The third review (acceptance with minor revisions) simply says, “First-page footnotes are a touch long. Excellent paper. Should shake things up quite a lot. Good.”
—
12 Frumentum
My dear Adahla,
Thank you for the fresh copy of the final manuscript; I received it just this morning. I must say, after so many years of leaving projects half-finished and abandoning all sorts of dreams, reading the official letter of acceptance from your editor friend was really quite a shock. It’s one thing to be told “yes, pending revisions;” it seems it’s quite another to have it actually come true.
I suppose I should have realized they’d guess our identities eventually, though I’m glad it only came after we’d already shimmied our way through the door. The Inquisition has never been exactly subtle, and even as remote as the Frostback Basin is, slaying a great god-dragon on a newly frozen lake in the middle of autumn does tend to attract attention. Once it became clear how few people could have seen these events and survived, the pool of possible authors shrank tremendously.
Well, I won’t pretend it isn’t nice to receive a little recognition after all our hard work. Feasts and banquets for the slayers of Corypheus are all well and good, but a man’s first research publication! In Vérité, no less! What’s mending a Fade-torn sky and saving every soul in the world in the face of this scholastic triumph?
(Forgive me: I’m only partly teasing. To be proud of something I’ve done is still a bit novel and surprisingly terrifying. It’ll sink in eventually, I’m sure. And remind me to tell you someday soon about the work Mae and I are doing.)
Regardless, I’m pleased they cleared the edits and had sent the paper on before realizing, even if that one reviewer’s reversal into grotesque obsequiousness leaves behind a rather sour taste. I never fancied myself a true scholar, not in your line of genuinely enjoying the work, but oh, what fun I’ll have rubbing this in the face of some of my old professors. Perhaps I’ll request a few extra copies once the publication’s out, just in case. My father, incredibly, has heard of the impending release, and we had a perfectly awful conversation where he expressed his pride with great difficulty and circuitous talk, and I pretended very badly not to care.
The Bull is to be here next week; I’ll pass on your love. Oh, and I’ve had a letter from the Champion of Kirkwall of all things; it seems she and her frightening magister-killing husband intend to pass through northern Nevarra soon and she’s invited me to lunch. She says she’s quite sure she can persuade her Fenris not to murder me, which means I’ll be safer than usual given some of these senatorial dinners I keep attending. Regardless, I know how much you liked her, so if you find yourself near Caimen Brea, come along and join us.
Now, before I finish, I must know: how are you doing? Really, how? Your last letter sounded much better, and of course you were in quite high spirits in Kirkwall, but I’d like to hear it from your own pen. Don’t lie to me; I’ll know straightaway.
I’ll add this, too, now that I suspect you’re strong enough to hear it: he’s a fool. The greatest fool Thedas has ever seen. To hold the gleaming jewel of you in his hand and not understand the prize of it—sweet Andraste, I’ll take off his eyebrows the moment I set eyes on him.
Your friend,
Dorian
Enclosed is an old leather-bound journal, the bindings frayed and pages stained. It purports to be the personal record of Tyrdda Bright-Axe despite using materials and language constructions not contemporary with the early Alamarri. A note tucked into the cover says, “The claim is preposterous, naturally, but for all its invention the prose is occasionally quite moving. See the Hendir chapters for those evenings when one simply craves some proper melancholy.”
—
1 Firstfall
Dear Dorian,
Thank you for the invitation to Caimen Brea. I’m afraid it’s impossible to get away from Skyhold at the moment—Josephine has me bound and leashed to the meeting hall these days—but I’ve sent along a letter for Hawke I’d like you to deliver. If you can, please remind her that her single-line replies of jokes and aggravating wordplay are hardly the stuff of a fulfilling correspondence. Also, please pass along that “Looks like there’ll be another Hawke arriving in a few months; hope I don’t forget it somewhere” is not the appropriate way to announce an impending birth for any civilized culture on the continent. I checked with Josephine twice to be sure.
(My letter to her contains all my congratulations; I’m sending the reprimands via you. At least this way she can’t pretend she didn’t notice them.)
I should hope your father is proud of you! After all this, the very mention of your name should burst the seams of his shirt with pride. Corphyeus, the Breach, the panel of reviewers—Creators, I couldn’t have taken a single step without you some days. Please pass on how heavily the Inquisitor has relied on your friendship and your support, even if your titles lean far too much to the verbose. You’re wonderful, Dorian, and your magic is as elegant as you are. You’re the dearest friend anyone could have.
And as for me…
I’m well. Honestly, Dorian, I am. I didn’t think I would be, but…I’m surprised every day at how ready I feel to start something new. I have three manuscripts in draft: the Avvar paper I mentioned to you, a co-authorship credit on Frederic’s study of the Hakkon-dragon binding, and I’ve started outlining my first paper on the Fade. I’ll want your help with that one. Besides, Josephine keeps me so busy at Skyhold I can hardly think, and Leliana has word every day from some new corner of the world with requests for our aid. Cullen wants to take a fresh expedition back to the Frostbacks to investigate a claim of some renegade red templars in the hills, and I intend to go with him.
Yes, I still think of Solas. It hurts and it doesn’t hurt, and I no longer mind. I started jotting down part of an elven bas-relief we passed the other day on a ride out of Skyhold, but realized halfway through I’d intended the drawing for him. And, for the first time since he left, I finished it anyway. I loved him because he loved the same things I did; because he treasured what I treasured and wished to remember it. That hasn’t changed. I know it hasn’t. I know if I were to run into him tomorrow, I would be able to open my book to that page and show him what I’d done, and he would care just as much now as he did before he left. (Right after I strangled the life from him with that jawbone necklace of his, of course.)
Leliana has word, sometimes, of an apostate with his description wandering some lonely mountain or some desolate plain. I do not go to those places and avoid them where I can. I won’t pretend it hasn’t been damaged by Sera after all this time, but I do still have some pride left to me.
I’m sure I’ll see him again. Call it fancy if you want; call it delusion. He loved me when he left, and I believe he loves me still. Whether it’s a week from now, or a year, or ten years—I know he’ll come to me with the truth someday, with every speck of it, and then I’ll know at last what kind of man took my heart in his hands and stole it away from me. A thief in the night, Dorian, and I don’t even want it back. Only him. How much it hurts to admit that.
But enough—imagine me dusting off my hands and pushing up from the desk. This love won’t kill me, and neither will his. He’s gone and I can’t change that; instead I can set him aside for a little while, a polite ghost lingering behind a cupboard door. Someone I can forget until I stumble upon him every now and then, say hello, and close the cupboard up again. He’s welcome to step out again whenever he likes—whenever he thinks he’s ready—but I won’t build up an altar of regret at his feet. There may be something sacred in the love, but the remorse—despondency—grief—those are decidedly less holy. I’ve sat with them too long, and I’m ready to put them away. Ar lasan ara’lan revas, even if it took far too long.
What a beautiful day it is here. The snow is brilliant on the mountains, the sunlight shining off it so bright it hurts my eyes, and the air is crisp and cold and clear in that way that scrapes you out new every time you breathe.
How long has it been since I’ve felt like this? It’s wonderful. A hundred possibilities, a thousand things I want to do. It feels like the day I left my clan to start my journey up to Haven. I could have hardly imagined how the world would change for me then, and now that feeling’s come over me once more. No new Anchors this time if I can help it, and no new echoes of perhaps-Andraste, but if she happens to glance this way in favor, I wouldn’t object in the slightest. Lath sulevin, lath araval ena; Ghilan’nain will show me the way. I’ll follow the halla if nothing else.
I’m well, Dorian. I’m happy. I’ve set aside the sorrow and I’ll live the day for what it is, not what it might have been.
Give all my love to everyone. I’ll see you soon, whatever I must do to make that happen.
Yours, as always,
Adahla
Enclosed is a printed copy of the Bloomingtide edition of Vérité. A section of pages has been marked with a clip near the front of the thick volume; to the cover has been tacked a small card with a citation: Lavellan, A., Pavus, D., Solas, & Kenric, B. (9:41 Dragon). Inquisitor Ameridan: Faith. Vérité, 416(5), 16–35.
—
end.