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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"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?"

"Oh, I suppose." A crooked smile. "I'd rather like to touch you at some point, after all."

"You could still touch me."

As if to demonstrate, he draws his hands up Cullen's sides, smoothing the wet fabric of his shirt. A few more drops patter to the floor. "It'd just be...damper than usual."

He takes Cullen's hands, gently tugging him in the direction of the linens.

"But I'd feel guilty," he says, following.

(Unfortunately, he's got Alistair's hands, or he'd just remove his shirt and have done with it. Warden Cousland seems to have retired, after all.)

"I suppose I might shriek rather terribly if you put a cold hand on the back of my neck," allows Alistair, thoughtful.

Once they're near the linens, he tugs on Cullen's shirt -- with a little effort -- to help peel it off, the better to replace it with something drier. (After the requisite bit of ogling, anyway.)

Cullen rolls his eyes just a little, tossing the shirt over his shoulder. "I don't suppose I could convince you to appreciate this once I'm ready for bed?"

He tries softening it with a weak smile. It's just -- he's tired.

"You could." He meets it with a lopsided smile of his own, faintly apologetic. "I'll behave myself."

He needs to tell him. It's just -- easier to pretend for a moment that everything's normal. (Always easier to pretend, he thinks, tiredly.)

"Should you get the urge to saunter out to the stables without a shirt, though, I'd advise against it." He rubs the back of his neck. "Fiona's here."

She's seen worse, Cullen almost says, before the content of what Alistair says hits him.

"...right." He exhales, slowly. "Are you all right?"

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