The Viscount's Final Hours
Marlowe writes haltingly, often pausing to think, the quill scratching across the surface of the paper.
My son,
How I wish you were here. Yet at the same time, I do not wish you to see any of this. I do not wish my fate upon you; the one you suffered was enough.
Even now, all I can think of are your bright blue eyes, and how you seemed to see everything around you so much more clearly than I ever did. I remember how you used to give poor Liza fits when you'd disappear out of the Keep; you terrified her, you know. She couldn't bear the thought of something happening to you.
It is a mercy that she didn't live to see the last few weeks.
Qunari warriors - karasten, I believe you called them - block my door. I hold no delusions that I will make it through this alive.
How I wish you were here to guide me. My refusal to listen to you will be my lasting regret. I can only hope I will be able to apologize to you in the life beyond.
My last thoughts will be of you, and your mother.
He closes his eyes, wondering what else to write. One of the warriors in his doorway turns. "You will come now."
Marlowe sets the quill down and rises.