bringspeopletogether

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The letter he finally sends is maybe a little more impolitic than it ought to be, but if he doesn't send something now, he'll still be writing when his Calling arrives.

Fiona,

Ivette Cousland is looking for you. The name might ring a bell. Hero of Ferelden? Slayed the Archdemon some years ago?

Anyway. She's not having any luck, so I thought I'd try my hand at getting in touch.

Cousland's been searching for a cure for the Calling these past five years or so; she even retired as Warden-Commander of Vigil's Keep so she could pursue her research better. She knows your leaving the Wardens wasn't like mine. You didn't just walk away from Weisshaupt: you managed to un-Join somehow, with no ill effects. You're our last, best lead on the matter, so you can understand why she's rather eager to speak to you. It's very likely she doesn't have much time left, what with it being almost a decade and a half since her Joining and living through a Blight.

Frankly, I don't expect I have much time left, either.

Cullen and I are in South Reach these days. I'll always know where to find Cousland, if you'd rather speak with her directly. For all our sakes, I hope you'll be in touch.

--Alistair

Two weeks later, a raven knocks its beak against their window frame.

This is a matter best discussed in person, says the note attached to its leg. I can be to South Reach by the end of the month.

It's signed only with the letter F. Alistair spends the next few hours talking up a nervous storm, hands digging in his hair, half anxious, half furious. (This is exactly what he didn't want: for her to read this as an overture. For her to think she could have any claim to Alistair's time, Alistair's space, outside of giving him and Cousland the information they needed.)

Then he writes a letter to Cousland and sends the raven on its way.

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Without looking:

"It seems you've disturbed our mabari, Theirin."

"Or perhaps he heard someone discussing falling asleep and took the initiative," says Alistair with an audible smile. "He's learned well."

But that doesn't mean Gru isn't going to sulk the whole way to the bedroom door and flop down juuuuust outside it, sticking to the letter of don't sleep in the bedroom at night and nothing even close to the spirit.

That's fine by Cullen. The letter is the important part.

"If we're being specific," he still mumbles, still into Alistair's hair, "I'm the one being the pillow."

"Hmmm."

He draws it out into a deliberate rumble.

"Yes, I suppose that's true," he allows. "I trust you'll tell me to budge up if you need me to assume pillow duties for a bit?"

Alistair rumbles; Cullen sighs soft, pleased.

"Mm," he agrees, and does his best to curl himself around Alistair even more.

"All right."

He's struggling not to laugh again as he insinuates himself more comfortably in Cullen's arms. It seems likely this will end -- whether in minutes or hours -- with the two of them toppling over, but for now, Alistair's perfectly comfortable. Perfectly content.

And Cullen -- well.

It's been a while since he fell asleep this quickly, and this peacefully.

The anxiety comes and goes over the weeks that follow. Some days, Alistair's nearly his usual self; others, he paces around the house (and the surrounding village, and sometimes even the Rutherford homestead) in random fits of nervous energy. He tries to stop when he catches himself doing it. It's too much like how he acted after the Fade for his own comfort.

So there's labor around the house, and play-wrestling with Gru, and grabbing onto any distraction he can find. He just has to -- stay steady. Do his best not to make Cullen worry overmuch, futile as that might be.

(If he's being honest with himself -- and those are the nights he doesn't fall asleep until late, late, late -- it isn't just Fiona's pending arrival that's grabbed him by the chest and squeezed with all it's got. It's what she'll bring.

It's knowing that he may, at last, have to set aside all the thin hopes that buoyed him along.)

For his part, Cullen keeps his cool by working himself into exhaustion every day.

And it starts by taking a chance to level with Branson.

I'm not well, he confesses one night, out by the barn. I haven't been well for a very long time. I will be of no assistance when our guests arrive, and I need to stay out of their way, and if you have ever had any affection for me you will help me work myself into the ground every day. Give me tasks, don't ask questions, so I can fall into bed every night too tired to hold my head up.

Branson folds his arms, turning toward the far field.

After a long moment, he points toward it. Beyond -- they're selling. We can run more stock, but we'll have to put in the fence to do it. And we can get a bargain because it's not fenced. Are you sure?

I am, Cullen says, relief washing over him.

Then we're land barons, Bran says, and claps him on the shoulder.

They're a week into it when their first guest shows up.

She showed up the night before, actually. Late enough that the innkeep told her she'd have to wait for a bath until the morning. But Ivette acquiesced with more grace than could be expected, given the week she's had. Mostly Nathaniel giving her fits after she told him he wasn't welcome to join her.

Alistair probably won't begrudge her a trip to Amaranthine first, she figures, and if he does... well. She doesn't have a problem putting men in their places. And technically she still outranks him.

It's late enough that farmers are in their fields by the time Ivette leads a skittish black horse down the main road, and up to a small cottage. She's clean, which is good; she got most of the acreage of dust from the finest Orlesian wastelands out of her belongings, which is also good. But she's also scarred and tanned in a way that speaks of repeated burning and peeling, and her squint's a little sharper, and a gaggle of children eyes her and crosses hurriedly to the other side of the road, whispering.

Better than being recognized, she thinks.

A massive dog lounges on the stoop of the cottage, half-dozing in the sun. At the sound of horse hooves, he lifts his head to blink curiously at the new arrival.

For the benefit of his humans (well, human, considering Cullen's long absences these days), he barks twice -- not too loud -- before leaving his post, padding closer to investigate. Louder barking will wait for later, if the new arrivals don't pass muster.

Inside, Alistair peeks out the window, and his whole face lights up.

Ivette tethers her horse to a post, looks at the mabari --

And grins, sudden and bright. She takes a knee, and holds out both her hands. "Hello there. Do you know Alistair?"

Just like that, the mabari's tail goes from a cautious back-and-forth to a full on windmill. He boofs again, cheerfully, before snuffling at Ivette's hands with a vengeance.

Behind him, the cottage door creaks open, and a beaming Alistair steps out.

"Ivette!"

Who looks up from ruffling the mabari's ears -- and immediately clambers to her feet.

"When did you get a mabari?"

"A few months ago." Alistair shuts the door behind him; Gru, not content to give up on pettings so easily, circles Ivette's feet. "He followed us home from the Exalted Council and Cullen let me keep him. More or less. Gru, this is Ivette -- Ivette, Gru."

Gru barks.

"A pleasure." Ivette bows to Gru -- and then moves to Alistair. "Come here."

She heard, about the whole... Fade... thing.

Gladly.

He meets her halfway, sweeping her into a fierce embrace. (It's been too long.) "Maker, it's good to see you," he murmurs. "How are you?"

"Exhausted," she mumbles. "Got in too late last night. But I'm here."

She barely restrains herself from fisting her fingers in the back of his shirt.

"Like you."

"Yes." A tiny smile. "All settled down and everything."

Ivette gets one more squeeze.

"Have you eaten? Or if you need to sleep more, we've a few extra bedrolls around -- "

"Maker, don't tempt me." Ivette pulls away, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. "Though I suppose it might give you the chance to review my notes."

"It could." He grins, crookedly. "And you'll have peace and quiet. Fiona's not here yet and Cullen's working at the Rutherford farm all day."

(Thank the Maker Fiona's not here yet.)

Ivette is far more interested in this latter piece of information.

She eyes Alistair with affection, but also amusement.

"You," she accuses, "are domesticated."

"Am not," says Alistair, with all the dignity he can muster, as he turns for the front door. "I'm retired, thank you."

"Retired and domesticated." She pulls her pack off of her horse, shoulders it, notes the convenient trough next to the post, and follows. "They're not mutually exclusive, you know."

"I'll insist that I'm not properly domesticated until I can make a decent loaf of bread." Still airy, as Gru galumphs ahead of them into the house. "And since there's no danger of that happening anytime soon..."

As evidenced by the latest minor disaster on the kitchen table. (An edible disaster! But still a disaster.)

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