I write letters.
I write letters to old friends and old enemies. I write letters to family and to those who know me only as a name and tale. I write letters to empresses and magisters and to farmers and thieves. I write open letters and private letters. I write letters on matters weighty and matters trivial. Sometimes it is hard to know which are which.
Most of all I write letters to you. Sometimes, there is poetry. At times even some grace and finesse. Yet even when I have no words to say what is in my heart, I write. Even when I have no ink and no paper I am writing. For everything that happens to me, no matter how small and unimportant, is a line in a letter that I might write to you. It is a way to share that which we must experience apart; a way to reclaim memories of moments we might have had. The days lengthen, and still we are apart.
At times it is difficult not to resent the duty that means it must be so. Yet I could not claim to love you if I did not love your duty. Nor could I claim to be a man worthy of you if I did not love my own. So take these letters from me, my love. They are my life, and they will be, always and forever, yours.
The thin pale line of a dawn soon to come was tinting the skyline when I finally admitted to myself that I would not get any sleep. Fine resolutions made in moments of foresight, such as facing an important day well rested, are always left to a future self to fulfil. I have always found that man a little untrustworthy. The basket by my desk is filled with screwed up sheets of paper. Despite the waste I have a small pile of letters that I can deem worthy of being delivered to their recipients. Tasks always take at least twice as long once the sun has gone down. The mind wanders like a wayward steed, its rider tired and powerless to command it. The last letter, the longest, consumed the greatest portion of my night and my lamp oil. Completing it left me poured out and empty; relieved; able to to rest but unable to sleep. I have been been staring at my last sheet of paper for what must have been more than an hour, just watching my hand scratch out sketch after sketch of woman's face with short hair and a scar down her left cheek. None of them are truly her, no matter how many times I try.
Now morning is almost upon me, and sleep will not come in time to do me any good. It is futile to shut the stable door after the horse has bolted. So I go down to the stables. Brandel, the chestnut courser who has been my stalwart companion ever since I first put him through his paces on Dennet's farm, had not bolted. Brandel never bolted. So I throw on one of the stableman's coats and saddle him up. Then we ride out beyond the university gates. The pre-dawn air is crisp enough to chase away my weariness, and the motions between Brandel and I so natural that I can let my conscious mind rest. We pass the city gates and are perhaps two miles along the imperial highway before I notice the sun climbing the sky.
We need a brisker pace, but we reach the university in time. The simple peace of the ride is blown away in moments by the frantic bustle in the stables. Yet it still feels strangely serene to glide between the stable hands rushing to and fro. I carefully untack Brandel and take some time to brush him down and put out some fresh hay for him.
"You there!" someone shouts. Gradually it dawns on me that they are speaking to me. By the stable doors a dwarven lady with a long brown coat and short, black, braided hair is pointing at me. In the other hand she is firmly gripping a coiled bullwhip. "Have you got dung in your ears?" she barks, "We aren't taking that one, you sodding nughumper! That's the bloody chancellor's horse. Maker! You wouldn't last a day on my wagons…" she stomps over and hands me the reins of a big piebald dray. "Here. Walk this one around and yoke it to the big unsprung cart. That's a nice, simple job. Think you can do that right?"
I fight down the urge to smile. "Yes ma'am." I reply and take the reins. Leading the dray away I can hear the wagonmaster growling under her breath. "Sodding Orlesians. If they didn't keep changing their plans I could have brought enough bronto for the job."
The courtyard is even busier. Gone are the usual wandering students, replaced by a dozen large wagons, most of them hitched to hulking, horned bronto. Gaggles of people mill around them. They are supervising the loading of crates, boxes and bags, or arguing about the loading. A few are even doing some loading. The piebald dray, a beast named Sabina if I am not mistaken, lets it all wash over her and good naturedly allows me to fix her to the yoke of a wagon behind a team of three other horses. The horses are faster than the bronto, but the stamina of the big beasts meant that it would be them who would be stopping to wait for the tired horses over long distances. I can understand why the wagonmaster is unhappy.
"I suppose you aren't completely useless." she says, appearing behind as though summoned by my thoughts. "Thank you ma'am." I reply.
"How ya' doin', Boss?" says another voice, one that rumbles like a gently rolling boulder. The wagonmaster clicks her tongue. "We'll do. We can switch the horses for proper draught animals when we reach Jader."
"That's great, but I was talking to him." The big horned man grins at me a winks with his one eye. "New job, Boss?" he asks.
"I'm in disguise. How am I doing?"
The Iron Bull chuckles, "Don't give up your day job. The arm is a dead giveaway. Even if you weren't famous most stable hands would bother to wear their prosthetic when they were working. The beard is a nice touch, though. Changes the whole shape of your face. You going to pretend to be a grey warden next?"
"I'm saving that for when I'm really desperate." I reply.
The wagonmaster looks from one of us to the other and her brow knits together like two tectonic plates colliding. Then she looks at the empty sleeve flapping where my left arm should be and she knows me. I didn't think that it was possible for her to look more annoyed. "You're him!" That definitely sounds like an accusation. Does that make me paranoid?
"Guilty as charged. I also respond to 'You' or 'Sodding Nughumper'."
"Why didn't you say something?"
"You never asked. Besides, if we are saying goodbye to Sabine here I'd like to do it myself." I pat her side. I have always hated selling horses. I extend my hand to the wagonmaster. "You must be Bratha Feriden. It is a pleasure to meet you." Bratha glares at my hand before slowly taking it in a strong grip and shaking it firmly. "You've added two more wagons to the train?" I observe.
"Last minute changes." she grunts and spits in reply. "Bad start. I thought this was your show?"
I shrug. "I'm just the backer, but I do have one request. I want you to make sure that Sabine and her friends go to good homes in Jader." I take out my notebook and kohl stick and scratch out a name on a page, tearing it out for her. "Talk to this merchant in the city and tell them I sent you. He'll give you a fair deal."
Bratha takes the paper and nods. "I'll do that." Then she spots something across the courtyard that arouses her scowl again. "Not like that!" she yells, then nods to me "Please excuse me, Inquisitor." then she strides off like a storm before I can correct her.
"A taskmaster. Good choice." Bull comments.
"She comes highly recommended. It's good to see you again, Bull." I hold out my hand and he takes my whole forearm in his grip and pulls me in for a bear hug that I can only return in half measure. "Good to see you too, Boss. Come on. There's some people eager to see you." He leads me over to a wagon. The Chargers are sitting in the back, playing wicked grace on a barrell top. We all greet each other, they pour me a drink a deal me in. We talk about old times and ignore the strange looks we get from people who probably think they are watching a stable hand gambling with mercenaries instead of working. The Chargers make a few good natured jokes about my coat or my beard, and share stories about some of their new scars.
"You're keeping busy in the Dales, I hear." I comment.
"Yeah." Krem replies, "There's plenty of work over there at the moment."
"Is it bad?" It has been years since I saw the Dales. Am I actually nostalgic about it? It seems that most of my memories of the place are of war and death.
Bull shrugs, "Not so bad as it could be." he says, but his grin fades a little. He should know exactly what 'bad' can mean. Seheron isn't a comforting comparison to be making. "There are some groups making trouble that are proving harder to squash than we thought," he continues, "but they are disorganised, and the Marquise makes sure that they stay that way. Briala isn't quite a Ben Hasserath, but she's damn close." the grin comes back. "Don't worry, Boss. It's in good hands."
Not my hands. Hand. Not any more. That horse has bolted, and I am the one who let it out. "I'm not your boss any more, Bull." I remind him.
His one eye twinkles as he shrugs his mountainous shoulders. "Hey, aren't I taking your coin again? That makes you the boss, Boss."
I shake my head. "Not me. I spend my days sitting behind desks now. Come with me and I'll introduce you to the real boss."
We find Colette directing a pair of carters and three students as they lift a large, folded tripod onto a wagon. "How are things proceeding, Professor?" I ask.
"Oh. Your Worship… I mean, my Lord Chancellor." she greets me. She is wearing a long coat and a feathered hat that marks her as a professor. "We are a little delayed, but we are almost ready to depart. We have several hours before high tide and the extra supplies will be worth it."
"The extra wagons?"
"Yes, my Lord. The College of Enchanters sent us extra funding along with their equipment, so I quickly bought up some more grain, winter clothes and herbs while I still could."
I nudge The Iron Bull. "This is Colette. She's the Boss. Colette, this is the Iron Bull."
Bull extends a massive hand. "Hey I remember you. Didn't we find you in that swamp, fighting your way alone through giant spiders and Avvar, looking for some 'Vint ruin?"
Colette shakes his hand back. "Yes. That's me."
"I like your style. Good to meet you, Boss."
"The Iron Bull and the Chargers will keep you safe," I am aware that I have given Colette this talk at least three times before. It doesn't stop me from continuing. "...but don't take any unnecessary risks. Use the guides from Stone Bear Hold and for the Maker's sake make sure your research assistants don't wander."
"Like I did?" she asks.
"Exactly." I look over at the young men and women, children really, joking and laughing in the wagon.
"Don't worry, Boss. I know just what to do." Bull nods towards a handsome young man with a rake of dark hair and a whiff of a moustache telling a story to the others. "See that one? He's the reckless one that thinks nothing can touch him, and makes the others think the same. I'll make sure that he gets gets into just enough trouble to learn that there is plenty out there that can touch him."
I fix him with a look. "They all have to come back, Bull."
"They will."
"In one piece."
"You got it."
"We all know the risks, my lord. We won't let you down." Colette says in great earnestness, trying to reassure me. It only makes me worry more. I cannot help but dwell upon how young she looks. The professor's coat does not hide her slight frame, though it is well cut and emphasises her upright posture. Her steady gaze gives her an air of confidence. You made sure she knew exactly what she is walking into, I tell myself. Yet I add; you also encouraged her. You wanted her to accept. Now you will not be there to help; could not, even if you were. I can feel the fingers of my left hand flexing where there is only air.
"Besides," Colette adds, "everyone will feel a lot safer to have the Lady Seeker with us."
I step back on my heel as if she has struck me. "The… what?"
Colette looks confused, "I thought that you had arranged it, my lord. She was asking for you. I told her that you might be in your office."
My head is up and I am scanning the courtyard, looking for her. It was not the plan for her to be here. There is so much for her to attend to elsewhere. Yet plans change. My heart is beating faster and I wind my way through the wagons and into the building. I take the stairway two or three steps at a time, weaving between the throngs of students. At the top of the landing I see her. She is wearing the black armour. Her posture is upright, her movements fluid, graceful, deliberate, disciplined. Her hair is dark. She turns and raises her hand in greeting. Her smile is bright with genuine delight. It is the greeting that I have always had in my imagination, just below every thought, since I parted from her. It is a perfect moment.
It is not her.
Rhys steps into my view and approaches Evangeline slowly while the whirl of activity seems to orbit them, unable to touch them in their reunion. I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding and lean on the bannister beside me as I watch them embrace. I can only watch for a moment as they look into one another's eyes and talk in excited bursts between smiles that spring back onto their faces as though it was their natural state. Then I look away, feeling like an intruder, despite the crowds. I shake my head and laugh to myself at my own foolishness.
A woman's voice hails me. "Inquisitor?" I keep looking down the grand staircase and pretend that I have not heard. "Inquisitor?" she calls again.
"I am afraid the Inquisitor is no longer available, but we do have one chancellor. Well, most of one, anyway." I turn to Evangeline and put my smile back on to greet her with a handshake. "It's good to see you. I believe you were making your way to my office?" I gesture along the landing and they both follow on alongside me. It gives me a moment to shake my thoughts back to the present. "It's been some time. I take it that your training is complete?"
Evangeline shrugs, "I don't think that it ever will be, but I have learned much." Her record, both with the templars and in the Inquisition, amply demonstrates that Evangeline de Brassard needs no further training. Yet I, along with a few others, knew that she was unique in ways that meant the usual Seeker initiation would never be possible for her. The abilities of all Seekers were remarkable, but Evangeline would be breaking new ground for them. "I wasn't expecting you." I say as I open my office door and take off the stableman's coat, throwing it over my camp cot in the corner. The room is much as it was on my first night here, though Thibaut has arranged for it to be dusted and basin of fresh water to be provided every morning.
"Seeker Pentaghast made it clear to me how dangerous and important your expedition could be. She felt that I was uniquely qualified to assist."
I smile. I had suggested as much to Cassandra months ago, and she had been resistant. In fact, it had taken time and persuasion to convince her that Evangeline was suitable for the Seekers at all. In the end her skills, experiences and integrity made her too much of an asset to exclude from an already limited pool of candidates and the two women had developed a deep mutual respect. Evangeline de Brassard only lived due to circumstances that would have made her a walking affront to Cassandra's beliefs only a few years ago. Many things, not least the Lord Seeker's tome, had shaken and changed those beliefs. Nevertheless, sending Seeker de Brassard on this of all missions was a big step.
As I watch Evangeline and Rhys standing together in my doorway I cannot help but smile and wonder whether Cassandra had allowed considerations beyond the merely practical influence her decision. I had long felt guilty for my part in finding roles for them so far apart from one another. "I am glad." Then I add a little awkwardly, "How are things with the Seekers?"
"There are too few of us and too many matters which require our attention, as always." She hesitates for a moment and the adds, "We lost contact with two Seekers that we sent to investigate strange rumours on the fringes of the Tirashan Forest. When I left Seeker Pentaghast was preparing to set out to search for them."
Something cold grips my stomach. I lean back on my desk. "Have you had any word?" I say, slowly and carefully.
"Not yet, my lord, but it is too soon to expect anything. I have been on the road for days."
It takes some concentration to listen to her. She approaches and meets my eyes with a kindly smile. "She asked that I give you these." she holds out a bundle of neatly folded letters, all bearing a wax seal, and tied together in a red ribbon. I take them from her. A moment ago a delivery such as this would have given me a giddy, childish excitement. Even still, they make me smile. "Thank you." I reply, simply.
"It is nothing." Evangeline glances over her shoulder at Rhys. "There is much to do. Perhaps we should leave you."
I nod absently. Then I remember my manners and stand up straight to give her a small bow. "I am truly glad that you have come, Seeker, and not only for the sake of this poor fool over here." I wink at Rhys, "It will allow me to rest more easily while the expedition is away."
Rhys steps over and takes my hand. "I will expect another bottle of Antivan brandy when I get back."
"My word on it."
"Look after that garden of yours, Inquisitor."
"I'll do my best."
With that they leave me with my letters, and for a long time I simply sit looking at them. The Tirashan. The name conjures images of twisted old trees so thick that they allow no light to touch the forest floor. Orlais has numerous folktales about the Tirashan, and if our information is to be believed there is something stirring there. I have walked in such places many times. In the Arbor Wilds, further than any had gone for ages long past. I was not afraid then, because I was with her. Now I am safe in Val Royeaux while Cassandra walks in the Tirashan and I am so terrified that I can barely breathe.
I go to the window and look down at the wagons as they begin to leave. You are a fine one for sending others into harm's way, Trevelyan, but see how it feels when it is someone you care for; that you need. See how it feels when you are the one left behind. The Iron Bull, the Chargers, Rhys, Evangeline, they have all faced worse. So, too, has Colette. Yet it is her that I fear for the most. She knows what she risks with this expedition, and it is not merely giant spiders and hostile Avvar. There are many that would seize upon any mistake or mishap to disgrace the university's first elven professor. They long to click their tongues and say 'I told you so. See what happens when you raise a knife-ear above their station?' The knives are sharpened and waiting. Now I have entrusted her with the riskiest and most controversial of projects. It will make her or it will break her, perhaps both. She knows that as well as I. She drank willingly from that cup. Yet it was I that filled it for her.
The risks are great, but the rewards greater. That is what I tell myself. We must get our hands dirty and see what grows. I told myself that when I led the Inquisition to the Frostback Basin. Yet when I see those young women and men laughing as their wagon pulls away I remember the sight of my soldiers hacked apart and bleeding to death in the mud beside the Varsdotten River. Men and women who were veterans of Adamant and the Arbor Wilds, who had gone through hell and lived to see Corypheus defeated, only for the Inquisitor to lead them on a damn fool errand and get them killed further from home than they ever dreamed they would be. I got my hands dirty, alright.
"You were people, and you deserved better. Like all the rest I have used in one hopeless battle after another." There is a chill breeze as I repeat the words to myself. Or perhaps it is my imagination.
I go to my cot and reach underneath. There is a roll of canvas there, four and a half feet in length. I unroll it, and inside is a greatsword, still gleaming. Silverite does not tarnish. I take the grip in my hand and lift it, letting the light catch on the edge. The hilt is volcanic aurum, still vibrating softly to the rhythm of the Fade. The guard is delicately curved and the dragon-slaying rune there glitters green in the sunlight. The blade itself is long, straight and tapered. It is strong without being brittle, flexible enough that it never jars. It is perfectly weighted and balanced. There are fluid ripples in the metal where it has been folded and twisted over and over again. It is the work of two master craftsmen from the forges of Skyhold, which are now silent once again. I can remember the way this blade sang in my hands when I wielded it. I can remember when it first came to me. I knew its name straight away and had that name engraved on the blade. I say it aloud, "Seeker."
The phantom fingers of my left hand twitch. I gave up swordsmanship once before, when I was merely myself and not the Inquisitor or the Herald. I told myself that I never wanted to wield a sword to earnestly seek blood ever again. I had meant it. I had thought that I meant it when I did so again after the Exalted Council, when I was again merely myself. I lift Seeker with my right hand at the guard and my left arm moves naturally to place the other hand near the pommel. Never is a small word that can swallow you whole.
The courtyard below is empty and eerily quiet when I lay the sword aside and open the first letter. The handwriting inside is neat and flowing with sharp angles. The sight of it makes me smile. I take a moment to run my finger along a line to feel its contours. Then I roll up the stableman's coat, sit back on my cot, and begin to read.
