Cole has been watching Varric while he writes. And, Maker, does Varric write. Notes left for Josephine to be discussed at the War Table, memos to himself scribbled in quiet moments at camp, scattered pages of manuscripts stuffed into his pack. Varric writes enough for the entire Inquisition, always effortlessly and without a second thought, and Cole has seen it all. He has seen the way that Varric's letters have served to calm people down, just like his spoken words, causing the fear to fade even in the darkest of times. All without even the air of trying. Without any indication of a concentrated effort to maintain the peace.

But after Varric speaks with the Inquisitor, Cole feels the shift, subtle as it may be. Something is different. He watches as the Dwarf sits at one of the few quiet tables in the Herald's Rest, smoothing out the parchment in front of him. For a moment, Varric stares down at the blank sheets, as though he is waiting for some sort of signal as to what he should say. When no such sign appears, he sets to work, moving slower than Cole has ever seen him move before. The strokes of his pen are careful, deliberate, as he writes, and his eyebrows furrow slightly as he pauses to blow on the drying ink, his eyes skimming over the first few lines.

"You don't want her to worry."

Though he should be accustomed to it by now, Varric jumps slightly at the intrusion. Cole stands over him, his pale blue eyes as wide and unblinking as ever. It is only when Varric motions to the empty chair on the other side of the table, does he sit. "Worrying is what she does best, Kid." He replies, taking another look at what he's written. "I'm just providing a little perspective."

Cole stares at him, the shadow from the wide brim of his hat making him appear more gaunt and ghost-like in the dim light of the tavern. Finally, he speaks. "A fistful of letters. Breathless, jumping onto the bed. 'Feynriel made it to the Dalish! And Lia wants to be a guardsman!' Her eyes so bright, full of sunshine. 'Varric, read them!' Papers shoved into my hands. Warm from her touch." Cole frowns, cocking his head slightly to the side. "But she was happy about the letters when she opened them. Why did talking about them make her sad?"

Varric finds himself taken back to that morning at the Hanged Man, his body yearning for the familiar pressure of Hawke's weight thrown on top of him. He can almost feel it - her legs threaded through his, chin resting on his chest as she reads him the letters again and again, wandering fingers combing absently through his hair. He can see the spark in her eyes that had gone out when they had been forced to hand Sunshine over to the Wardens, see the moment that it flickers as she sits up suddenly, clutching the letters to her chest. "Varric, if Feynriel is having these nightmares - what if the Dalish send him away? He said that they're afraid of him. What if the Templars find him? You don't think the Dalish would turn him in to the Templars, do you?" Her voice is high with panic, and he hears himself fumbling for answers that he doesn't have. He hears her voice, the small one reserved for early-mornings, broken with sobs. "I thought I was helping, Varric. What do I do?"

He hears Cole's voice from somewhere far from Kirkwall. "Light fading. Maker, bring it back. 'Come on, Io, don't cry. You know I can't stand to see a human cry.'"

Varric clears his throat, waving his hand as though the motion would wave the memory away. "Like I said, Kid," He reminds himself that the world as they know it is at stake. "I'm putting things in perspective. Sometimes Hawke gets carried away. I mean, you heard what we did to Kirkwall." He chuckles to himself, shaking his head. "She just needs a," he thinks about it. "A gentle start."

But as the thought leaves his mouth, he knows that it doesn't sound quite right. Hawke's introduction to Kirkwall had been anything but gentle. Every mess they had gotten themselves into had barged in like Isabella after too many drinks down at the tavern - loud and taking no prisoners. He had watched Hawke lose what little family she had left, had watched as she did her damndest to defend a city that had only served to replace the home she left behind. He just couldn't see the point in throwing her into this whole mess without any warning. Not if he could do something to soften the blow.

Rubbing his head, Varric picks up his pen, twisting it in his hand as he decides that the first few sentences are fine how they are. He can feel Cole's stare as he resumes his writing, the boy's eyes following every curve of every letter. "She doesn't like it when you try to protect her." He says, his voice floating through the scent of Kirkwall nights and the sound of Hawke's voice in Varric's ears.

"I know, Kid." He mutters, crumpling the half-finished letter. "I know."