At first Varric wrote all the time, every two weeks at least–wrote of Haven and bears and snow and red lyrium, a wild tangle of words half-serious and half-sardonic. Merrill saved every one, wrote back in response to every one (”Have you considered bringing the Seeker flowers? She might yell at you less”), and treasured them.
But of course they spaced out farther and farther, weeks turning into months before the next letter (”You wouldn’t believe where the Inquisitor had me dragging my ass out to this time–the Emerald Graves, Daisy, I wish I could’ve brought you”). They were still not as rare as Isabela’s letters, which totaled exactly one scrap of parchment with “Darling kitten” scrawled on it and a pressed flower tucked into its fold, but they were becoming a scarce commodity.
She stacked them carefully, wrote back every time, and did not tell Varric that she had lit a carved candle in the kitchen window to petition Mythal the Protector for his safe return to Kirkwall.