. . . . a piece of parchment lays on the desk, half crumpled and then carefully smoothed back out again. The fire crackles and the only other sound is quiet but dysrhythmic breathing. . . .
Kya,
A part of me did not want to write this – I admit I liked the idea that back in my beloved Ferelden I would still be, if only in your mind. But I know you and I know that once you had half the chance, you would be persistently on your way to Orlais, no matter what I had told you. The idea that you would travel so far, only to be met with this from an Orlesian stranger; it makes my blood run cold.
I should have told you, I know. But I couldn't bear the thought of those last moments being any more painful than they already were. Selfish of me, I'm sure. But some things I cannot change about myself, and I think perhaps you would be disappointed if they did.
It is time.
Once the ink has dried, once this letter is safely in the hands of the courier, I will make my way towards the inevitable. The Deep Roads are calling, and as much as I have fought it, it is to no avail.
By the time you are reading this, it is likely that I will already be dead.
I will not ask that you do not mourn for me, although the thought to write it did cross my mind. I will say instead that I have lived, far longer than I ever expected to as a young man, and have been given far more chances than perhaps I even deserved. Much of my life was bitter and cold, but despite all my mistakes, I have been given a great gift by this – and by you.
No dying feeble in a bed, no assassins blade, no poison save for the taint in my blood. Your choice gives me the chance to die as I have lived – on my feet, unafraid and facing that which so many others could never muster the courage to endure.
I will die with honor and with your name on my lips, of this you can be certain.
May the Maker watch over you always,
Loghain
. . . . still the fire crackles. A hand reaches up to the parchment, mangling the edges in uncareful fingers. She reads it again, aloud, her voice ragged and the words hardly understandable.
The death of a Grey Warden is no small thing, nor is it something that is not to be expected. We all die, someday; Grey Wardens know their own death the moment they taste darkspawn blood and lyrium.
She says the words then, words branded into her brain like they are a part of her.
"In war, victory."
Swallowing hard.
"In peace, vigilance."
A small sound. A pause, though the last words are right there at her lips. They must be said now. Yet she wonders if she refuses, if something might change and be different. A vain hope that, but still, she thinks it. And then the words tumble out because she simply cannot stop them.
"In death, sacrifice."
Silence again.
Then, after a while, the sound of heartbroken, unconsolable weeping.