So, I've heard that you guys had to deal with some kind of weird plague that nearly killed you or something? And once you stopped dying, they hauled your ass off to the Sunless Lands? The place that makes even Ferelden look like a warm, welcoming day at the beach?
You really can't go a day without me and not have something go horribly wrong, can you? I suggested to one of the other people stationed here that I ought to start drinking every time I hear that you guys are up to some bullshit, but apparently being drunk constantly is 'frowned upon' and 'a bad example'. Orlesians.
Things here are still peachy keen. The sun's too hot, the recruits are too green, the darkspawn are too gross, same old. Sometimes--
Oh, fuck it.
[ The letter resumes again, but the writing is in a Warden cipher, made slightly more difficult by the handwriting, which has suddenly become more haphazard, ink dots blossoming around the words, like the writer continually forgot she was holding the pen. ]
Okay, honesty time!! Gross, I know. I didn't write this letter to tell you that I'm glad you're alright, which I am, or to say that training is going well, which it is. I've got all these thoughts and they keep getting bigger and bigger until there's no more room in my head for anything else, and I need to get them out.
You're the one I trust them with the most. The others...wouldn't understand, I think. Or maybe I just don't want to drag them down with me. I think you can handle it. Or maybe I'm wrong, and assuming too much. Maybe I'm just forcing the burden of these thoughts on you, and now you'll be weighed down too.
If that's true, I'm sorry. I hope you'll forgive me.
The truth is...I'm afraid, Alistair. I'm so damn afraid. I sit here and I tell these recruits what awaits them, what will happen to them some day, if they don't die in battle first. I have to tell the women why they need to carry boot knives on them, so they can slit their own throats if they have to.
I still have nightmares about the Calling. The music pounds in my head so loudly that when I wake up, it's still there, echoing inside me. And for a few moments, I wonder if this is it, if it's finally come for me for real. And Alistair, I am so damn scared.
That's my confession. I'm afraid to die. Pretty lame, right? I mean, who isn't? But you know me, you know that I have never been stingy with risking my life. And it's not even death in battle that I'm afraid of. I'm afraid that I'll live too long, and I'll have to go down to the Deep Roads and stay there.
I've always believed in the Wardens. Believed we were saving the world, and believed in accepting the costs. But telling these recruits what they've lost, what's going to happen to them, I have to wonder: Is it worth it? Is it really worth it?
I've never questioned it before. The Maker has a plan, and the Grey Wardens have a place in it, and I have a place in there. But damn Alistair, I don't always have to like it, do I? It's not like it matters, does it? I'm here, questioning it or not, liking it or not.
Maker's ass, this is proably just a whole lot of stupid. Sorry about that. But I'm sending it anyway, before sober me can try to burn it. Try not to die, okay? Thedas would be an awfully depressing place without you.
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[letter]
So, I've heard that you guys had to deal with some kind of weird plague that nearly killed you or something? And once you stopped dying, they hauled your ass off to the Sunless Lands? The place that makes even Ferelden look like a warm, welcoming day at the beach?
You really can't go a day without me and not have something go horribly wrong, can you? I suggested to one of the other people stationed here that I ought to start drinking every time I hear that you guys are up to some bullshit, but apparently being drunk constantly is 'frowned upon' and 'a bad example'. Orlesians.
Things here are still peachy keen. The sun's too hot, the recruits are too green, the darkspawn are too gross, same old. Sometimes--
Oh, fuck it.
[ The letter resumes again, but the writing is in a Warden cipher, made slightly more difficult by the handwriting, which has suddenly become more haphazard, ink dots blossoming around the words, like the writer continually forgot she was holding the pen. ]
Okay, honesty time!! Gross, I know. I didn't write this letter to tell you that I'm glad you're alright, which I am, or to say that training is going well, which it is. I've got all these thoughts and they keep getting bigger and bigger until there's no more room in my head for anything else, and I need to get them out.
You're the one I trust them with the most. The others...wouldn't understand, I think. Or maybe I just don't want to drag them down with me. I think you can handle it. Or maybe I'm wrong, and assuming too much. Maybe I'm just forcing the burden of these thoughts on you, and now you'll be weighed down too.
If that's true, I'm sorry. I hope you'll forgive me.
The truth is...I'm afraid, Alistair. I'm so damn afraid. I sit here and I tell these recruits what awaits them, what will happen to them some day, if they don't die in battle first. I have to tell the women why they need to carry boot knives on them, so they can slit their own throats if they have to.
I still have nightmares about the Calling. The music pounds in my head so loudly that when I wake up, it's still there, echoing inside me. And for a few moments, I wonder if this is it, if it's finally come for me for real. And Alistair, I am so damn scared.
That's my confession. I'm afraid to die. Pretty lame, right? I mean, who isn't? But you know me, you know that I have never been stingy with risking my life. And it's not even death in battle that I'm afraid of. I'm afraid that I'll live too long, and I'll have to go down to the Deep Roads and stay there.
I've always believed in the Wardens. Believed we were saving the world, and believed in accepting the costs. But telling these recruits what they've lost, what's going to happen to them, I have to wonder: Is it worth it? Is it really worth it?
I've never questioned it before. The Maker has a plan, and the Grey Wardens have a place in it, and I have a place in there. But damn Alistair, I don't always have to like it, do I? It's not like it matters, does it? I'm here, questioning it or not, liking it or not.
Maker's ass, this is proably just a whole lot of stupid. Sorry about that. But I'm sending it anyway, before sober me can try to burn it. Try not to die, okay? Thedas would be an awfully depressing place without you.
-Your friend, for better or worse,
Kaisa