bringspeopletogether

[sandbox]

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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.)

"...I was never trained in bread," Ivette points out, trailing after. "And I was raised to be domesticated."

Alistair affects a look of horror.

"Oh no. It's true then. You're right. Quick, I need a sword and at least sixteen hours of hard labor -- "

"This is my punishment," Ivette says, pained, "for coming here instead of visiting Highever."

Alistair's expression softens away from the humor, toward something quieter, more earnest.

"You know I do appreciate you coming here."

She shifts her pack on her shoulder, uncomfortable. Glancing away: "Yes, well, it's not as though Amaranthine would be a good place to do this."

He exhales a humorless laugh. "For an entire mountain's worth of reasons, yes."

Alistair rubs the back of his head.

"I'm sorry if I'm not -- entirely myself. If I talk too much or my pacing three thousand laps around the house starts to drive you mad, just yell at me and I'll go do three thousand laps around the market instead. Or something like that."

Ivette gives him a startled look -- and then covers it up by just... unslinging her pack and setting it down against the wall. If Alistair won't tell her where to put it, she'll make a place.

And then she straightens and asks him, calm:

"Is it left over from the Fade?"

Alistair's mouth twists a little. He nods.

"Nervous habits." He scratches his elbow. "I need to -- move if it gets to be too much. It's better," he adds hastily. "Much better than it was. At least I'm not pulling knives on every shadow I see?"

He tries to keep the last bit lighthearted. As lighthearted as he can.

Ivette looks thoughtful for a moment, then shrugs a shoulder.

"If you'd like company on those laps..." Half a smile. "Need to stay in condition."

She's not very good at comforting people, she knows.

Easy to see what she's trying to do all the same.

Alistair returns the smile, somewhat more fully-formed than hers. "Of course," he says. "I'd never mind company."

Then he hesitates, the smile dimming.

"There's, er. Something else you ought to know as well. It can wait until after you've slept if you'd rather, though."

"I slept last night." Staunchly, as she folds her arms. "At least a little. What is it?"

Of course.

(Maker, but he's missed her.)

"Welllll..." He's trying so hard not to fidget, with mixed success. "It's how I was able to find Fiona. When you couldn't. We met when I lived at Skyhold, that's the obvious part, she was there under Inquisition protection as part of the mage alliance and -- anyway."

He puffs out a breath.

"It's more than that. I couldn't put it down to paper or I would've told you sooner. She's, ah. She's my mother, it turns out."

Ivette stares at him.

(Her mouth has literally dropped open. Not far, but.)

"Yes."

Another crooked, rueful smile.

"That was my reaction, too. Only with a lot more furious yelling. We -- didn't part on speaking terms, to say the least."

"No," Ivette manages, faintly. "I suppose you... didn't. Alistair -- "

She tries to say something, and then fortunately engages her brain-to-mouth filter.

(Something about how there weren't ever any rumors about Maric and a mage, much less a notorious one. A notorious one!)

"Right. Yes. Well. That's -- something I know, now. What does this mean for -- " She waves a hand. "What's coming?"

"Aside from making a discussion of our possible impending deaths even more awful and awkward, somehow?"

He sighs.

"I'm worried she may try to use it to her advantage. That she won't help unless she gets something out of me. She thought she could pop back into my life some thirty years on and expect an actual relationship -- I don't know what she might do to secure that, now that she has leverage."

Ivette tilts her head in thought, eyes narrowing a little.

"What is it you think she might want to get out of you?"

"I don't know. Anything. She could ask literally anything of me knowing she has my life in her hands, and I don't want to give a drop to her."

He drags a hand through his hair, roughly.

"She doesn't deserve anything from me. Not after what she did."

"Is she truly that awful?"

Curious, more than anything else. Ivette's never met the woman, after all.

"Even Maric managed to drop by and say hello once or twice."

Low.

Ivette lifts a hand, rubs her temple.

"Maric wasn't locked in a Circle. -- but that's not the point. I meant -- more recently. Since you've known her -- at all. Is she awful?"

She wasn't locked up, he wants to snap.

Instead, Alistair folds his arms, eyes on the table, and says nothing.

(This is -- unfair to Ivette. She hasn't slept. She's going to be hurt by this as much as Alistair, should it fail. Best to take after Cullen's example and shut his damn mouth until he's sure he won't say something awful.)

After a long moment -- when it's clear she won't get an answer -- Ivette sighs. Quieter: "You know I'm on your side, Alistair. Always. If she tries anything..."

She lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I'll take the hit. If I can."

The set to Alistair's shoulders eases. He nods; looks up.

"I know." Quieter. "Thank you."

Those four little words -- I'm on your side -- calm the stewing, petulant child in his mind that's still grieving a decades-old loss, railing at the unfairness of the entire situation. It clears his head enough to turn Ivette's earlier question over in his thoughts: angry, still, but able to give it the objectivity it needs.

Slowly: "And she's...not awful. No. We had some conversations here and there before she told me who she was; she was downright kind when I decided to leave the Wardens for the Inquisition." Alistair drags a hand down his face. "But I don't know if that was just her trying to sweeten me up before she dropped that 'guess what, I'm your mother!' boulder on me."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject