In short: Some brooding, and unexpected friendship (or not). And then more brooding.

Hawke still wants to become a dragon. She's got a pretty long to-do list, but it's on there.

She calls her son "little bee" because of a birthmark on his shoulder.

Hawke,

It's late. Marcus has been asleep for hours. I tried reading but the words sat dully on the page. Then I swore I heard your laughter, faintly. I imagined you waving good night to Varric and the others and walking back from the campfire to your tent, then shaking the sand out of your boots. In every part of our room I saw phantoms of you. I saw you tuck Marcus' foot under his blanket, fold your clothes on top of the dresser, and braid your hair as you crossed from the mirror to our bed. You beckoned to me. As I stood to join you, a cold gust of wind blew out the candle on the desk. When I looked back you were gone and the room was filled with shadows. I had to leave. I could not bear it.

I ended up in the wine cellar. The selection is still pathetic, but I found a few acceptable vintages in the last supply shipment. I chose a smoky Serault red and climbed back up, thinking at first that I would go to the stone gazebo in the garden. In the Great Hall I saw a sliver of light coming from the door to the Ambassador's office. I had rarely spoken with her before, but something made me knock and ask if she cared to share the bottle. She did. I had not expected that.

We drank in silence at first. I would have been content to continue that way, but after the first glass she commented that the wine was well-chosen. Her family owns several vineyards in Antiva, the names of which I recognized. She keeps a selection in the Inquisitor's private stash. I had wondered about that locked box in the cellar. She suggested that when you and Lady Cadash return, we should open a bottle or two to celebrate, perhaps the Finca Herrera reserve from 9:07 and one of the Abadia de la Rosas. I laughed and told her you prefer the kind of liquor made in bathtubs. That only made her more determined to convert you. The decanter of brandy in her side cabinet might be to your tastes.

It was a pleasant conversation, and much-needed for both of us. I'm looking forward to the chess match Lady Josephine has fit into her schedule tomorrow afternoon.

In other news, I have begun to avoid Solas. Yesterday he approached me as I was chopping wood and asked about my life and my lyrium markings. I was unsettled - it was as if he were looking for further information to build on what he already knew, or to contradict it, although he didn't offer a clear indication of what that might be. As of now, I don't intend to put such questions to him in return and learn why he's taken an interest in me. His manner was patronizing, and he stirred painful memories. I will not be pitied, and I will not be used. I answered him as calmly as I could until he decided he had heard enough and let me be.

This afternoon I helped organize the infirmary, now that it's been moved to a permanent building. It was a challenge for the medics and me to find tasks suited to Marcus so he wouldn't be underfoot. At first he was eager to carry the linens I'd folded over to the shelf, but he became bored with it after a time and decided to follow us around while disguised as a very small ghost. Once we'd finished, he and I worked on a puzzle together. We found it in the Great Hall, in a recent pile of gifts from an overeager Orlesian nobleman. His mask was in poor taste, but the puzzle is good. A village scene from the Ylenn Basin. I should like to see the walnut groves for myself someday, if you would come with me.

The candle is burning low and I've reached the end of my last sheet of paper. Be safe, and slay some Venatori for me.

Fenris

[The paper is worn thin from frequent folding and is splattered in a few spots. A small note in the margins reads: "Sorry about the stew."]

Dear Fenris,

Well, here we are in the Western Approach, and as you guessed, my boots are full of sand. Give Marcus a big hug and a kiss for me. I miss our little bee. I don't have too much news that would be appropriate for him to hear about, so just mention that I saw a high dragon the other day. You can add some bits about how she swooped majestically and knocked our hats and scarves off with her wingbeats. Both of which are true! We also ran for cover and spent about an hour crouching beneath a rock ledge.

I'm sitting in my tent right now with my lunch. The others are being more sociable and have crowded together in the other tents. The sun is too harsh for us to go out, so we've time to doze, play cards, spread gossip, and the like. After that, we pack up and continue on to Adamant Fortress. I'm told it sits right on the edge of the Abyssal Rift. Quite the view.

By the time you get this letter, word will have reached Skyhold about what happened yesterday at the Tevinter ritual tower. My version of it would involve a few well-placed expletives. In fact, that is more or less my entire vocabulary these days, at least inside my head. I know you've told me to stop blaming myself for everything, but what else am I supposed to do, prance about like I didn't accidentally unleash an ancient magister who wants to rip the sky to tiny pieces? I can barely sleep at night. Whenever I do get some rest, there's hardly any time between when I wake up and when the nausea hits me.

We're just days away from a major battle and I need to prepare, I've been doing nothing but preparing, but Fenris love, I'm exhausted, and whenever I stop to think for too long I just start slicing myself to bits again. That's not doing anyone any good. I can't afford to be like I was in Kirkwall ever again. And even if I did want to sink into a good long wallow, I don't have the time or space for it.

Maybe I'll just go join the others for now. Plaster on a smile and boost morale a little. Some of the soldiers are younger than we were when we first met. Can you believe how long ago that was? Eleven years. At this point I can't imagine life without you. What if one of the scouts or medics here has met someone like that through the Inquisition? Given the massive, well, army of people involved, it's bound to have happened at least once. Might end up being fodder for Varric's next book series. Speaking of which, did you know I once spotted Cassandra reading Varric's absolute bottom of the barrel. Swords & Shields, that was the one. You used the first volume for reading practice when we were staying in Ostwick, didn't you. You'd sigh with disgust after the most badly written parts, and then you'd turn the page and keep going to learn what happened. Varric's storytelling plus your tireless dedication! A formidable match.

This isn't working. I'm still shoveling stew into my mouth and thinking about all my failures, and about two people who are conspicuously absent from this grit-covered tent in the middle of nowhere. I hope that you are plagued with Orlesian noblemen bringing gifts that can keep Marcus entertained and give you more ideas for travel plans. Chess with Ambassador Montilyet sounds lovely - and yes, I cannot wait for the Antivan wine party when we return. Shocking! But in the meantime, Fen, please keep finding people like that. I don't like the thought of you drinking alone again.

There are about a hundred more things I'd like to talk about with you, but that will be much easier to do in person. I almost wish you'd come to fight alongside me and the Inquisitor, like you wanted, but ultimately I'm glad you changed your mind.

After we deal with this nonsense at Adamant I'm looking forward to heading straight back to Skyhold and thoroughly enjoying your company. Maybe we can stay on, if we're still needed. I certainly feel like we have more to offer. The longer I'm out here, the more I feel that our previous efforts weren't anywhere close to enough. Will they ever be?

Questions without answers. Well, now that we're out of the shadows, we might as well stand united with the rest of the Inquisition. That'll show Coryphy-tit. Somehow. If that makes any sense. Maker, I'm tired.

Love, as always,

Hawke

[Several weeks pass without correspondence. A stack of paper sits on the desk in a second-storey guest room at Skyhold, next to a box of writing supplies and weighted by a rock painted with wobbly strokes of yellow, red, and green. When the narrow windows are opened, a light breeze ruffles the papers. The only other sounds are birdsong and a conversation in two voices.]