To Warden Commander Alistair Theirin,

I have been remiss in offering my thanks for the aid you and yours rendered during the unpleasantness with the Qunari two years ago. Please accept my gratitude, and that of Kirkwall, such as I may offer.

I know the Wardens do not share information about their own lightly, but I was hoping you might enlighten me as to the health and well-being of my sister, Bethany. She was in your command when we met. Any news you could provide would be most welcome.

Respectfully,

Marian Hawke,

House of Amell

It had been a good day. Bethany had never thought of herself as a teacher - how could she, when she had always had to hide what she was - but she found herself enjoying mentoring the new mage recruits. She felt especial sympathy for the Circle mages, who had no experience using their magic against enemies out in the real world. She'd spent the day drilling them on speed; it was no good being able to cast an elaborate spell if you couldn't get it off before an enemy closed on you or your allies. It was satisfying, even though she'd had to refrain from pointing out that they'd volunteered for this life when they complained.

She had just returned to her room and hadn't even gotten around to closing the door behind her when Alistair appeared in the doorway. He had a stack of mail with him, and Bethany fought down her surge of annoyance. Only one person wrote to her any more. Her feelings must have shown on her face, because Alistair gave her one of his apologetic grins that so reminded her of Carver when he'd gotten into trouble, and handed her a letter with an all-too-familiar seal.

"She's like clockwork, your sister," he said.

Bethany took the letter, then took two angry steps across the room to her dresser and stuffed the letter in the top drawer. It stuck as she tried to close it, and she muttered a few choice curses under her breath as she pushed a stack of unopened envelopes back. Alistair cleared his throat and she blew hair out of her eyes as she looked over at him.

"Uh, I should probably tell you that your sister wrote me too. She wants to know if you're well." Bethany straightened, furious, and he raised his hands. "I won't answer if you don't want me to. It's just," he raised one hand to the back of his neck, "Your sister has become pretty important politically, and we could use the connection in the Free Marches."

Oh, of course. Even the choice about to writing a family member was no longer hers. Her eyes started to sting and she turned back to the stuck drawer so Alistair wouldn't see. She always hated how easily she cried. Marian used to say it was because she did the crying for both herself and Carver.

"Maker, are you crying? Please don't. I never know what to do except make bad puns that never make anyone laugh. I really won't write if you don't want."

Bethany sniffed, once, and shook her head. "You might as well. She'll just write you again if you don't. You can see how well ignoring her worked for me."

"Ah, yes." Alistair came into the room a little. "Have you actually read any of those?"

She shook her head again and shrugged. "The first few."

Alistair looked at the letters again, "Maybe you should. Before you decide about me writing back, I mean."

She had successfully avoided doing so for the better part of two years. "Is that an order?"

Alistair looked hurt. "Just a suggestion. At least you have a sister who cares enough to write."

"Fine," Bethany snapped. Alistair took the hint and left, closing the door behind him.

Bethany gave up on closing the drawer and started pulling letters out instead. She dumped them her bed and glared at them. Then she went and took a bath. Feeling clean, if not relaxed, she folded her robes and straightened the few items she'd accumulated since she'd joined the Wardens. The floor was a little dusty, so she swept it with carefully controlled puffs of wind and blew the small pile out into the hallway. Then she pulled out the journal she wrote in once in a blue moon, and gave a very detailed account of her day. She had to light a candle halfway though.

Finished, Bethany looked around the room and sighed. There was really nothing else to do, and it was still too early to go to bed. She had to read the damn letters. She put it off a little longer by opening and sorting the letters by date, then steeled herself and started reading.

The first few were as awful as she remembered, full of forced cheerfulness and absolutely nothing of any substance. It hurt. Marian was never anything but bluntly honest. This was like she was talking to a stranger.

The next letter was different. Bethany looked again at the date and realized it was the first letter written after the one time she had given in and written back. It wasn't cheerful at all. For the first time, Marian wrote about the responsibilities that came with being Champion, and how it didn't seem to make a bit of difference in the real tensions in Kirkwall. It sounded like her. Like the way she'd confide in Bethany during that first awful year in the city.

As she read on, the tone of the letters became steadily darker. Bethany wondered if her sister even realized it. In one memorable note, which Bethany suspected was written while drunk, Marian even shared what a mess she'd made of her love life.

At least you had one, Bethany thought. And it shouldn't make her feel better, to know that her sister hadn't escaped being miserable either, but it did. She wasn't quite up to feeling sympathetic, but the cold ball of resentment had thawed a little. She folded the letters back up and put them away thoughtfully before blowing out the candle.

"You can write her back," she told Alistair the next day in his office. "And tell her I'm well. You can even tell her I said that."

Alistair looked relieved, and Bethany fought down a surge of irritation. Did he think she was going to be irrational? She'd have said yes even if Marian hadn't started talking to her like family again.

"That will help," he said. "Do you want to include a letter with the post too?"

"No," Bethany said more sharply than she intended. "I - no. She can make do with yours." Alistair looked like he wanted to argue with her, so she inclined her head and left before he could say anything. She still hadn't quite forgiven her sister, and that was one thing she was going to keep for herself. If she ever wrote again, it would be because she wanted to, not because her commanding officer told her to do it.

But at least one thing had changed. She'd read any future letters as they came.