Work Text:
Codex entry: Scholar’s Dictionary of the Elvish Language
This leather-bound dictionary, emblazoned with the sigil of the College of Enchanters’ Markham branch, has been opened to a page listing words VEN–VH. The page is marred by a scorch mark approximately the size and shape of a fingertip.
vhen noun 1. people; the essence of a person or people.
vhenadahl noun 1. vhen adhal, lit. “tree of the people.” 2. a tree serving as the central meeting place within an elven alienage.
vhen’alas noun 1. vhen alas, lit. “land of the people.” 2. poet. the world.
vhenan noun 1 a. heart, b. used as a term of endearment, as “my heart.”
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Note: From the Desk of the Viscount
Varric,
Dorian infuriatingly unsurprised, claims listening to our conversations was “nauseating.” Please don’t tell me I’m the last to know about this.
A half-written response, in a different hand:
Well, some of the junior recruits might not have caught on.
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Codex entry: Unsent Letters
Piecing together these torn scraps of parchment, a few fragments can be deciphered:
Did you think I wouldn’t remember what you said to me in the ruins? Do you actually think there’s any amount of pain that would keep me from—
—and when we stopped in Val Royeaux, you bought the orange blossom tea I like. You hate tea but you bought it anyway because I said it was good, you said you’d try it to see if I was right, and Varric got this pitiful look on his face, like he was watching a dog chase its own tail—
—two years without a word about where you’d gone or if you were safe or why you couldn’t even say goodbye, and all that time—
—how fucking dare you, how dare you call me that when you would watch my entire world burn, if you really lo—
You could have told me—
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Note: Folded Letter
Inquisitor,
Respectfully, the dissolution of the Inquisition has not affected my personal loyalties. Many of our agents feel the same. You stood for us, and we will stand with you, whatever comes.
Divine Victoria has given me leave to offer you my services directly. I can meet you in Nevarra City during the All Souls’ Day parade to discuss how to proceed in regards to our mutual acquaintance. Specifics to follow.
Yours,
Charter
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Note: Dream Journal
The many entries in this well-worn notebook speak of towers in the clouds, trees blooming crimson and gold, snow-capped mountains and great stone battlements and, lately, wolves. The last entry reads:
Stubborn bastard—
Wolf watching me in a memory of Skyhold again. Called his name and it got him rattled enough that this time he looked me in the eye before going up in smoke. Need to get more creative.
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Codex entry: Something More Creative
An attached note reads: “Given to agent Hurin in Hasmal by the former Inquisitor, who reportedly said that ‘if the Dread Wolf wants to know what I’m thinking so badly, he might as well hear it from me.’ ”
When we last spoke, I made you a promise: that I’d prove to you that you don’t have to destroy this world. By now, you should know me well enough to realize that when I make a promise, I intend to keep it. It would certainly be easier if you’d stop running from me in our dreams, but I suppose you can’t afford to play fair.
In the ruins, you called me vhenan. You called me your heart, Solas, and that is not a conversation we’re going to have in a bloody letter, but if the word means anything to you, then listen to me. This world and its people are not mistakes, and they aren’t yours to fix. If you try to mold them into what you think they ought to be, you will break them.
Friends are not so easily replaced that I’m willing to give up on one of the few I have. You know where to find me.
Yours,
M
P.S. Don’t be too disappointed in Hurin. He really did a fine job of tailing me, and I would hate to get him in trouble.
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Note: Instructions for a Fellow Agent
Encoded in a cipher used by agents of Fen’Harel:
Get in, grab the shard, and get out. I’ll draw as many of the Venatori as I can, but no promises I can clear the way out for you. Eliminate stragglers as necessary.
If you encounter the Inquisitor, do not engage.
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Note: Inquisitor’s Notes
Rough sketches of altars and elven artifacts are interwoven with haphazard notes. The final words have been underlined for emphasis.
Evanuris trapped in the Fade but he “has a plan”
— Leave part of the Veil intact or kill them when they emerge??
Ritual location? Elven ruins where Veil is thin, Skyhold (his?), Arbor Wilds, Arlathan, Tirashan…
“I will treasure the chance to be wrong again”
Lacks conviction.
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Note: A Mysterious Shipment
A quill and inkpot were left on the desk beside this sheet of parchment. In a line of neat script:
Cole— Were the raspberry tarts that arrived today your handiwork?
Below, a scrawled reply:
Red berries and orange blossoms. Candlelight quavering like his pulse at the touch of her hand. It changes everything, but it can’t. I’m glad you stayed. He remembers.
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Note: Coded Message
This cipher bears a passing resemblance to the encryption used by Leliana in her prior role as spymaster for the Inquisition.
Inquisitor,
Latest tips from our agents in Solas’ network point to the Silent Plains. Harding reports Venatori gathering in a ruin outside Perivantium. Suspect it used to be a temple of June. If you can look past the ghouls, the wyverns, and the never-ending dust storms, you might find it worth a visit.
—Charter
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Codex entry: A Letter to the Inquisitor
Unsigned, but written in a familiar hand.
I beg you to abandon this pursuit. What must be done will be done, but I give you my word that I will limit the damage as best I can. I cannot ask your forgiveness. I can only hope that, in time, you come to see the necessity of my actions.
The path I now walk is one that I would keep you from. I am—
Several blotted-out attempts at another sentence, then:
The world would be far poorer for losing you.
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Codex entry: A Message for the Wolf
The ink is smudged in several places throughout this letter. Its pages are heavily creased, as if they’ve been folded and reopened many times.
This is hardly the first time someone’s brought a building down on top of me, Solas; I can handle it. What I cannot and will not do is stop trying to turn you from this foolish, futile path you’re walking, and you ought to know why.
When I was six years old, the crops failed in Ansburg, and the Wycome alienage went hungry. That winter we ate rats, and the cabbages we grew in the garden beside the vhenadahl, but everything we could scrounge together still wasn’t enough to go around. The elders, who looked after the children while our parents toiled at the docks or in the lords’ houses, grew gaunt and grey and tired. And yet they scooped the meat into our bowls and made do with broth, every time.
My first friend in the Circle was one of the Tranquil— Ossian. He maintained the archives. In my first months at Ostwick, I often hid in the library, among the rows of books whose contents I could hardly read. Ossian taught me how. He was a more patient teacher than any of the enchanters. To most of the Circle, he may as well have been a piece of furniture, but furniture doesn’t study history and herbalism. Furniture doesn’t thank you for keeping its tea warm. He did.
When the Ostwick Circle dissolved, a contingent of us took refuge in the Vimmark Mountains. We set up camp in an abandoned Grey Warden outpost with stragglers from the Markham Circle. In the winter, several of the apprentices fell ill; I set out to gather elfroot and ended up caught in a blizzard. Probably wouldn’t have survived the night if I hadn’t stumbled upon a cottage with a candle in the window. The dwarven couple who lived there took one look at the frozen apostate at their door and whisked me inside. They must have guessed who I was and where I’d come from, but they wrapped me in wool blankets and made a bed for me beside their fireplace.
I told you, when the Inquisition drove the Venatori out of Wycome, that my mother was elven. I told you that Leliana’s agents asked about her, and that hahren Mariel told them she’d left the city years ago. But I’ve never told you who she was, not really.
My mother’s name is Denna. The last time I saw her, I was nine years old. I don’t know if she would recognize me now.
She worked in the kitchens of one of the city’s grand estates, serving a lord whose family tree had branches throughout the Free Marches. She’d wake early to put the stew over the fire before she left for the manor, and I would add to the pot throughout the day, plucking dandelion greens from the alienage garden the way she’d shown me once I was old enough to walk. I remember sitting in the dirt with her, rubbing the flowers on our noses and laughing at the smudges of pollen. I remember leaving offerings at the vhenadahl and tying our best hair ribbons around its branches.
I remember her stories of Shartan, who raised an army against Tevinter and stood beside Andraste even when Maferath betrayed her, and Garahel, who slew Andoral at the Battle of Ayesleigh. And I remember that she saw beauty, or the promise of it, everywhere she looked. Weeds and chipped cups and ragged old street dogs became beautiful under the light of her attention. When the world was dark, her love was a lantern.
I honor my mother, Dread Wolf, and I believe in the world she saw. Tearing down the Veil won’t save it, and I think you know that. So in my mother’s name, in the name of the people that yours have become, and in the name of every kindness I have given and received in this world, I am asking you to stop. It isn’t too late to choose a different path.
Come back.
Yours as ever,
M
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Note: Report from the Amaranthine Coast
A report regarding the harassment of merchant ships by Venatori-funded corsairs off the coast of Wycome. Attached is a scrap of parchment, which reads:
Inquisitor,
Aid from Kirkwall greatly appreciated by the Wycome council. Haven’t confirmed who tipped us off about the planned blockade, but the section of Jester’s report concerning documents recovered from the mercenary ships may be of interest. Particularly the bit about a missing elven scout.
—Charter
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Note: Letter from the Inquisitor in Hasmal
Cassandra,
The Venatori are no cleverer now than they were under Corypheus, and skirmishes with the Qunari are whittling down their numbers. As for Solas… if he truly believed there was no way I could sway him, he wouldn’t have spent the last four years avoiding us as best he can. If he were prepared to kill me, he would have done it already. We’ve saved the world with far less leverage than that. I won’t ask you not to worry, only to trust that I’m stubborn enough to pull this off.
Give Leliana my love.
—M
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Note: Regarding Hunter Fell
A preliminary report from Charter on a deadly meeting at a Nevarran teahouse, an encounter with the Dread Wolf, and the whereabouts of an infamous lyrium idol. Beside it, the Inquisitor’s drafted response:
Charter,
I doubt the Executors will be negotiating with us any further after the loss of their agent, but what’s important is that you’re safe. I suspect, as you do, that our old friend revealed rather more about the idol than he meant to.
As for his apology, I would ask that he deliver it himself.
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Note: Message from Marnas Pell
Greetings from Marnas Pell, where the roads are deep, the darkspawn are ugly, and I’m getting too old for this shit. On the bright side, Harding’s lead was good. Solas might still be one step ahead of us, but we’re on his trail.
One thing I can’t help noticing… his agents have gone real quiet. A year ago, we’d never have gotten this far without some crazy elf blowing up the hideout to cover their tracks. Now? No sign of them. Maybe Solas is cleaning house. Or maybe he just thinks he has to do everything alone.
We’ll find him, Inquisitor. I’m not giving up yet.
—Varric
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Codex entry: Shelved Memory (Lighthouse Library)
One book, an anthropological treatise on the theory and practice of Avvar spirit augury, stands crooked on the shelf, out of lockstep with its neighbors. Tucked between its pages, a sprig of dried embrium serves as a makeshift bookmark. From its worn spine, an impression surfaces: a wry aside, a peal of laughter. A warm flush of pride at calling it forth. A gloved hand marks her place with a fallen flower.
The memory fades.
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Note: Regrets of the Dread Wolf
Varric,
The Arbor Wilds lead was a dead end, but not a total loss. He left something here. A statue— well, a statuette, like a miniature of the wolf figures in Mythal’s temple. Not an artifact like the orb or the lyrium idol, exactly, but I can feel his magic around it. No, more than that. It feels like a piece of him. Hard to explain— you’ll see.
Morrigan will meet me in Halamshiral, and from there I’ll follow you to Minrathous. I look forward to finally meeting your new recruits. Knowing you, I’m sure they’re quite something.
Yrs.,
Manon