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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There's a lot to get through. It takes a few days.

Ivette's a methodical researcher, collecting every scrap she can that might lead to a cure: tales told first- and second-hand, passages copied from books ages old, all of it separated out into different sections of her journal. They're interspersed with copious notes of her own linking thoughts, ideas, and story together. Some of it splays out like a tree; other sections cross-reference numbered pages and a few of the unnumbered loose sheets tucked into the back of the book.

(Alistair learns to be very, very careful about those loose pages. Early on, he unfolded one, caught sight of the name Nathaniel and a few choice words not typically spoken outside the bedroom, and, his whole face aflame, scrambled to shove it far away from the rest of Ivette's notes.

After that: if it's folded, he will not touch it, thank you.)

Cullen -- when he's not too exhausted to hear it -- gets a brief recap of each day's work when he returns home. Otherwise, Alistair tries to be...present, more than anything. Quiet when Cullen needs it, aimless chatter when he doesn't; a hot meal on the table; the usual attempts to look after his husband without tipping over into fussing.

Maybe he's domesticated. Alistair doesn't care a whit.

These might be some of the last days he has with Cullen, and Alistair will do everything he can to make those days a little easier.

Just before sunset, a handful of days after Ivette's arrival, another figure walks the path to Cullen and Alistair's home. She travels on foot, with a hood drawn over her head; the staff strapped to her back gets more than one wary look from passerby, as they try to determine just how wide a berth to give her. (It could be a perfectly mundane weapon. Not a mage's staff. But -- )

Inside, beneath the kitchen table, Gru cocks an ear. He lifts his head -- then the rest of himself, padding to the front door with an inquisitive rumble in his chest.

All the same, Alistair nearly jumps out of his seat when the knock finally comes.

Ivette looks up from where she's poking at a pot of some leafy vegetable at the fire, and claps Alistair on the shoulder as she passes. "That's what comes of being domesticated," she says, cheerfully enough. "Awareness is the first thing to go. Shall I answer it?"

Alistair scowls, mostly good-natured; the corner of his mouth twitches up before too long. "By all means," he says, waving a hand toward the door. "I'll be over here staring obliviously at the wall should you need me."

Gru takes a seat by the door, whuffs, and waits expectantly for the person with opposable thumbs to help him out here.

Ivette ruffles Gru's ears briefly and reaches for the latch.

The figure on the other side is her own height, which comes as a small surprise. The hood obscures the face, but the staff poking over one shoulder is obvious enough.

Ivette does manage to resist the urge to fold her arms, but she also doesn't move out of the doorway. It's definitely to keep Gru from being overly enthusiastic at strangers. Definitely.

She does let a small smile escape, though it doesn't linger. "Grand Enchanter, I presume?"

If it's not Fiona... well. This was going to be interesting no matter what.

Alistair's back stiffens, despite himself.

"Not any longer," says the mage, wryly, as she takes down her hood, revealing pointed ears and close-cropped dark hair. "But yes. And you must be Warden Cousland."

Slowly, Alistair breathes out. Pushes himself up from the table.

"Is Alistair -- " begins Fiona, only to stop when Alistair leans into view above Ivette's shoulder. Something flickers in her eyes, too quick to catch, but she holds his gaze.

"Hello," says Alistair, with all the calm he can force into those two syllables.

Ivette, approximately five foot nothing, stands in the doorway like one of the very best of the Hundred Pillars.

She glances over her shoulder briefly at Alistair, and makes a decision: time to take command.

"You must have had a long journey. Can we offer you refreshment?"

Some lessons her mother was able to instill. Some. Hospitality is vital is one; when you choose a side, make it clear all the way to Tevinter is another.

Even Alistair, clueless as he often is in things like diplomacy, catches the meaning of that we. Fiona -- having lived a life that necessitates the Game -- spots it a mile off: there's a subtle change to the quality of her smile as she nods acquiescence.

"That would be very welcome," she says. "Thank you."

As Gru does his level best to squeeze past everyone to get a better whiff of this stranger, Alistair shoots Ivette a brief, grateful look. (If a little embarrassed as well. It's his home, he should be able to hold it together enough to be a good host, and yet --

Well. He's still grateful.)

"Water? Wine? Tea would take a moment, but we can certainly manage. -- Gru, my darling, let her come inside before you sniff her to death. -- and might I ask what title you'd prefer us to use?"

Because they'll be keeping things on a formal level, if Ivette has anything to say about it. Formality is a shield; it's one Alistair can use as well, with -- just a little guidance, maybe. She gently nudges Alistair's shoulder as she leans down to restrain Gru, and then shuffles them out of the doorway. Out of Fiona's way.

(Of course she thinks of her parents. Of course she does. But when one's been in the west, living rough for a long time, the life of a teyrn's daughter, or sister, seems like a tale someone else made up.

And yet she can't help but feel the specter of her mother settling on her shoulders like a cloak. A welcome one.)

Gru whines a little, but allows himself to be dragged. He supposes it's easier to sniff someone once they're inside the house.

Fiona suppresses an indulgent smile; it fades at Cousland's next question. "Simply 'Enchanter,' I suppose," she says as she steps inside. "It will do. -- And water for now, thank you. I'm afraid tea will keep me awake far too long."

(And wine is out of the question.)

"There's, er -- " Alistair finally finds his voice, though he's lost the ability to look at Fiona in exchange. Instead, he addresses the fireplace. "Some food as well. Of a sort. If you'd like."

He wishes, rather desperately, that Cullen was back from the farm. It wouldn't really make this better -- rather the opposite, in fact -- but it would make Alistair feel better.

"'Of a sort?" Ivette says, deeply indignant, mouth twitching. "That's the last time I try to feed us, then. Of a sort. Enchanter, as one might expect -- "

She releases Gru, right on time. Let Fiona have her hands full for a few seconds, to give Alistair some time.

" -- the fare is plain, but perfectly acceptable."

Miracle of miracles, that actually gets a huff of laughter out of Alistair.

"Then -- oh." Fiona sounds as if she's about to laugh, too, before suddenly finding herself the focus of all of Gru's attentions. While she clearly doesn't have the same affinity for dogs as Ivette or Alistair, she ably dodges a few face licks and gives him a gentle scratch behind the ears. "Yes, hello. Gru, was it? I wouldn't dare to presume you have a master, but I wonder if you make your home with Warden Cousland or with Alistair."

Gru boofs and begins investigating her shoes.

"Well," says Alistair, with dry (if faint) amusement, "it's short for Gruyere, so I've a feeling you can guess."

Ivette, occupied getting water from the jerry-rigged pump, lets her gaze flick between Fiona and Alistair. He's talking. He's trying. She can back off just a little, let him do what he's comfortable with doing.

In the meantime, she places a cup and a small ewer on a tray, and carries them over to the chairs by the fire. "Water whenever you'd like, Enchanter."

"Thank you, Warden Cousland." She frees herself from Gru's affections long enough to pour herself a glass. "I believe I'll take you up on the food as well. It has been a rather long journey."

Gru thumps his tail, manages to squeeze one last scratch out of Fiona, then pads back to Alistair's side. The stranger who smells like magic doesn't seem too bad, but one of his people is really tense for some reason. Best to stick close to him, just in case.

Fiona goes on, "I hope my delay hasn't inconvenienced you too terribly?"

"Not at all," Ivette says, carefree.

Another day closer to death, she thinks. None of it makes its way to her face.

(And it's remarkably uncharitable of her, anyway, given her pause for a dalliance with Nathaniel before she came to South Reach.)

She moves back to the kitchen, produces a bowl, and begins to ladle the vegetables (and soup) into it. "I expect you'd prefer to wait until the morning to review our findings?"

Unless Alistair says otherwise, Ivette is figuring not to give them downtime for anything remotely resembling chatting.

"Yes -- " that's accompanied by a crooked smile, " -- waiting until morning would be far more preferable for all of us, I think."

Fiona looks to Alistair, then. A bit more hesitant, perhaps a little more gentle, she asks, "Will Commander Cullen be joining us as well?"

It's a good thing Gru's right there: Alistair busies himself with giving the mabari a thorough rub behind the ears. "Not Commander any more," he says, in a wry mirror of Fiona's earlier statement. "He'll, ah. He'll be back late tonight. And possibly gone by early morning."

He could ask Cullen to stay tomorrow. Just for this. Just for this much. But if he asks, Cullen will almost certainly feel obligated to stay despite his own discomfort, and --

I don't want to face this alone, he thinks.

"We'll see."

"With all respect to his considerable talents," Ivette says, bringing the bowl to Fiona, "this isn't one of his areas of expertise. Which I'm sure he'd be the first to tell you."

She stands upright, hands on her hips. "Besides -- I'm not sure how familiar you are with the lay of the land here in Ferelden, but this is farm country, and he's got quite a task helping his brother in setting new fence on land they've acquired." This said cheerfully. "Now. Have you a place to stay? I've set my bedroll in the stable and find it quite comfortable."

Meaning either go to the tavern or come with me, but when you've eaten we're getting out of Alistair's hair.

Fiona murmurs another thank you as she accepts the bowl. "I don't yet." Drier: "And I expect I may cause a fuss if I stay at the inn."

(Leaving aside her existence as a lone elven mage: technically, Fiona may still be banished from Ferelden. It would be -- unfortunate to find out for certain tonight.)

Alistair nods, making himself look up at Fiona again. "Then you're welcome to the stable," he says. "Or a tent if it proves too crowded."

"No, the stable will be fine." She inclines her head, encompassing both of them in the gesture. "You've been very generous in your hospitality."

"You've come to our assistance," Ivette says mildly, leaning back against a wall, arms loosely folded. "We're grateful for it."

If this isn't how it's going to go... best to find out now.

Alistair nods in silent agreement.

"I hope some of what I can tell you will help." That's a little quieter, as Fiona busies herself with the bowl of soup. "It was a -- unique circumstance."

She squares her shoulders.

"But," she goes on, "that will be for tomorrow."

And right now there's a bowl of soup to finish. (It is, indeed, perfectly acceptable. More than acceptable, after several weeks on the road.)

Ivette relaxes slightly, and doesn't much care if Fiona notices.

(She figures Alistair won't.)

"In which case, you'll be happy to know that despite being a stable, it smells of sweet grass far more than horse -- "

She can keep the chatter up as long as she needs to, so Fiona can eat, and so Alistair doesn't have to look up.

Alistair is speaking to her, stilted and awkward though it may be. It's a fair sight better than how they left things at Skyhold; Fiona will take those scraps as a gift, and settle into the polite professionalism Warden Cousland established without expectation of more.

Perhaps she'd hoped, in the intervening years --

Well. It was the foolish hope of an old woman. Nothing more.

Soon enough her bowl is empty, and she makes her way to the stables with Ivette's guidance.

Soon enough, Alistair is alone.

Still: it's only about ten minutes after the stables have gone quiet before there's a splash outside.

Cullen has, in a fit of exhausted pique, upended a (small) rain barrel over his head in lieu of a bath. It was hot work today, but he just... doesn't have the patience.

At least he takes his boots off before coming inside, so he doesn't squelch that much. His weariness bleeds into his voice as he sets his boots by the door. "Alistair?"

(His shirt sticks to his skin. He probably should've taken it off first. Ah well.)

Well. Hello.

Alistair can't keep the smile off his face. It may be tired, but it's more than he's smiled all night.

"Caught in a very small rainstorm?" he asks, as both he and Gru walk to meet Cullen.

"One I caused," he says, wry, and dripping a little. "Just... seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Well," innocently, "it does provide a nice view."

Once he's close enough, he sets his hands at Cullen's waist, dripping be damned.

More soberly, he murmurs, "Come dry yourself off?"

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