Anders stared at the words he’d scratched out at the top of the page. Re-read them once, twice. And tore the top of the paper off, flinging it into the nearby fireplace.
He had to get them right. Hawke would understand, he could make Hawke understand. As long as he got the words exactly right.
He started again, explaining why he was doing what he was doing. No, if it sounded too much like one of his manifestos they would just roll their eyes and stop reading. Into the fire it went.
He started with how much he loved them. Maybe he could just sandwich it in between an otherwise normal love letter. Then he could say he had technically told them, it wasn’t his fault they didn’t process it.
No, that was cowardly. If he was doing this he was doing it correctly. He crumpled it up and threw it into the fire.
He was going through a lot of paper. He had to get it right before he ran out, because if he had to get more Hawke would ask questions and he’d have to lie. Again. He was tired of lying, but neither could he form the truth on his tongue.
Another, and another, and another all flung into the fireplace, and Anders buried his fingers in his hair as he stared down at the desk. That was it, then. He was even a liar in writing. He couldn’t admit to what he was doing to anyone, even an empty page.
No, “admit” implied guilt. He was doing what needed to be done, what he had to do. Hawke would see that, Hawke would know that.
Wouldn’t they?
He stayed like that until the fire burned low, casting the room in long shadows. He sat up, cleaned the ink blots from his face and fingers, and stood to leave. He would just have to trust that in the moment, Hawke would understand. Or at the very least, would forgive him in the aftermath.