Dried and shivering curled by the hearth, heat burning through her thin robe, the scratching of the quill across parchment brings images of her dad racing back, Freedom's price is never cheap, the wild gesticulations, the gnarled mutterings about Orlais and the Chantry. His passion, his fervour burn through him, warming him despite the frigid air as she huddles for warmth, observing, unable to reach him now. Only to watch, only to protect. The cold water blends to rivulets as his hair begins to curl under its own weight and traces down his back to collapse onto the floor. Knees pulled in tight, arms wrapped close, wanting to reach out to him, to call him over, to have him rest, to have him go back an hour when they were talking and warm in the bath. What happened?
...apprentices Tranquil... increasing price of lyrium… templars reliant on it... harrowing's...most compliant, the most obedient... source of the Imperium's power...banned when the chantry came to force... Templars use BLOOD magic to persecute mages freed from the Chantries shackles.
The words are different but the passion is the same; proud, inspired, terrified, Maker don't publish this one, the drafts he left at home leave a heavy weight in her gut as she takes in the fresh assault, the angle of his arguments unnerve her, reminiscent of talk overheard about Tevinter, I don't think I can protect you from this. She shuffles out the pieces that will bring too much attention, the pieces that will have him cast as crazy. She knows it's his passion, she knows it's his purpose, but others don't, they don't understand when they see it written down, so she removes the most damaging. The fire blazes with the influx of paper, his drafts halved, as she reorders the remains again. Does he even notice?
Parchment torn, fragments kept, stored, books slammed, she sits observing again, always excluded from this, not allowed near it, not allowed near him. For her own safety, and still, painfully, in case she gives something away. The words are nice, but the meaning is there, she recognises the pattern, her father kept his secrets close too, gentle but determined. Better to be quiet and be allowed to stay than push him to argue and to send her away. Under the covers she watches as his shoulders ripple with tension, his jaw flaring in frustration or disgust, which ever has set him into a fury with himself, his inability to communicate his cause. The books are stacked and tied, sheafs of paper tucked into his robes as he finally turns his gaze to her, and his eyes soften, she's about to smile, but the moment's passed. He's out of the door, and she's not sure when he'll be back.