howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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It begins with a letter.

So chances are good that if I -- she -- Ysalwen, you know -- is still alive, she's getting along fine, she'd said.

What Cullen is about to do -- he knows it's wrong. It's supposed to be wrong, anyhow. His training says it's wrong. But Cullen isn't convinced of that, not at all. Not any more.

The letter he sends care of the Knight-Commander at the Ferelden Circle says that there are rumors of elven escapees from Kinloch living in the Free Marches, rumors that these same elven escapees assisted the apostate Anders -- himself a former resident of the Ferelden Circle -- in blowing up the Kirkwall Chantry and its Grand Cleric, and could the Knight-Commander consider releasing the phylacteries of all escaped elven apostates so that Kirkwall's templars can pursue justice?

The name at the bottom of this letter is not Cullen's, but one of his Knight-Lieutenants.

If he gets caught, Cullen reflects as he watches the ship carrying his letter leave the Kirkwall harbor, and they remove him from duty, expel him from the Order -- because that's the risk he's running -- he is pretty sure he will be grateful for the rest between the day he walks out and the day he gives in to the lyrium withdrawal.

***

Cullen does not get caught.

The response from Ferelden is that they have five phylacteries left that fit this description, and as they have a knight transferring to Ostwick, perhaps Kirkwall could send a messenger there to retrieve them?

Cullen writes back that this is acceptable.

Cullen does not write back that it's pretty great that the Spire is bolstering the Order's power in Ostwick rather than helping out in Kirkwall.

But it does contribute to what happens then: with each day that passes, Cullen feels less and less conflicted over what he's about to do.

***

The handoff in Ostwick occurs quietly, with no fuss: the transferee isn't someone he knew, and Cullen doesn't ask about those he did know.

(Not like there are many of them left, anyway, after Uldred's rebellion.)

He declines the offer to stay the night at the barracks, and only when he cannot see Ostwick's walls any longer does Cullen halt his horse, pull out the small, lacquered box, and -- with trepidation and fear, not hope -- opens the lid.

The second vial from the left is the one labeled Ysalwen Surana.

When Cullen closes his hand around it, and, focusing inward, reaches --

-- the blood within flares to life, bright red, glowing.

"She's close," Cullen says, barely audible. "She's here."

The horse snorts, stamps a hoof.

***

Four phylacteries are in the box that gets locked up with the others of the Kirkwall Circle.

Number five stays on Cullen at all times.

***

He contemplates destroying it. That would take care of the problem.

So, he thinks, would taking it to Milliways; even if Warden-Commander Surana refused it (as he suspects she might), it would be a good place to hide it.

When Cullen eventually decides that the plan of finding her -- Enchanter Surana -- should go forward, he tells himself that it's because she deserves to know that it still exists, and that she can destroy it herself, so that its shadow might not hang over her for the rest of her days.

And that's part of it. But only part.

***

Aveline tells him that yes, they can get along without him for two weeks; no, it's not ideal, but urgent business in Tantervale is urgent business in Tantervale.

Cullen rides out from Kirkwall at dawn one morning, headed west.

When he's safe across the Vimmark Mountains, when he arrives in Wildervale, he slips five sovereigns to the innkeeper, tells him that if she keeps his armor hidden and safe, and her mouth shut, there will be five more upon his return, and turns west again, toward the Planasene Forest.

He's still armored, but there is no Sword of Mercy on his breastplate. The only options available to him in shields were unacceptable, but he knows that civilians carrying Templar shields isn't really that remarkable. Especially when they're so clearly used.

When he enters the forest, his helm comes off. He's not entirely sure why... but he hasn't done very well for himself ignoring instinct thus far.

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He's watched, as he makes his way further into the trees. His shield is noted, and at least one scout leaves her position and returns to the aravels.

Because if shems are coming -- if shems who may be Templars are coming, well.

Their First has sworn to take care of them.

Which is why Ysalwen picks her way through the forest, calculating a path that will intersect with this shem far enough away from the Clan to let them escape, if it comes to that.

But once she notices who it is -- who it must be --

She finds it hard to catch her breath. History is a bitch, indeed. Elgar'nan be with her in this. She's going to need the help.

And stepping out of the trees --

"Cullen. I never thought they would send you after me."

Mostly because she thought he was dead, like all the rest of the Templars inside Kinloch.

On her face, hiding the old battlemage tattoo, is the vallaslin of Elgar'nan, half her face black with un-colored branches, the other half her usual pallor, with the branches and vines inked in.

So many things are different, these days.

Edited 2015-11-22 03:35 (UTC)

The horse is well-trained, and doesn't shy at her sudden appearance.

Cullen, on the other hand, cannot hide how startled he is.

His hands tense, clench --

-- what is on her face --

-- until he makes himself release his breath, relax.

"They didn't, Ysalwen." At least his voice is steady. "May I dismount?"

Dalish elves don't like humans. There are many stories, even some true ones, about the torture and murder of humans who cross paths with the Dalish. Cullen is well aware of this, and has placed one of those in the event of my death letters at the very bottom of his foot locker.

(For Aveline's sake, so she knows what to do. And for his siblings' sake, because they deserve to know. Not for the Order.)

"Does it really matter if I say 'yes'?"

"Of course it matters."

Still steady, still calm. He came expecting something like this -- this is pretty close to the best-case scenario.

"I came hoping to speak with you. That's all. I'm not -- "

If you approach as Cullen, who is looking for a lost -- someone important -- who wants to make sure she's all right after going through hell, and because you miss her, she'd said, that might be better than a Templar seeking a lost mage.

"I wanted to know if you were well," he says, realizing how fundamentally stupid that sounds as it comes out of his mouth. "As -- as myself. Not as a templar. No one knows I'm here."

"Well, that was stupid."

Her face twists in a scowl, the same scowl she wore when working on intransigent spells. See: anything to do with healing.

"To survive -- all that -- and then to come here -- "

Dammit, Cullen.

"Well. You've -- seen me, if that's what you came for."

She holds out her arms to her sides, as if to say 'look, all limbs accounted for'.

"If that's not all, feel free to dismount and send your horse a bit away. I'd hate for the poor beast to come to harm."

Cullen presses his lips together; he feels the urge to rub the back of his neck -- but that would be a bad idea. No sudden movements, especially when they could be misread as him retrieving a weapon.

"I came to speak with you. And -- give you something." He lets out a breath. "I know it's foolish of me, but I didn't want anything -- I won't harm you. And words mean little, so that's... an action I could take."

Nodding at a low-jutting branch about thirty feet away, he says, "I'll tether there, and disarm, if you'd like."

She weighs that for a few moments, face inscrutable behind her vallaslin.

And at last --

"Yes. Do that."

She doesn't ask about the something. This isn't the time. (There probably never is a time to be oddly vulnerable like that. Not with shemlen.)

Cullen nudges the horse into a slow walk. There's no rush, now; he's here. And his life is no doubt in danger. It would be very foolish indeed to think that they're alone, and that they're not being watched.

Slowly, he dismounts. Slowly, he ties the reins to the branch. Slowly -- very slowly -- he unbuckles his sword, and leans it against the tree. His shield goes next to it.

And then he turns, and faces her. Even, calm: "May I approach?"

"Stay three staff-lengths away."

She can get a spell off in that time. If he comes at her. And an arrow can certainly reach him before he can reach her, even if he smites. Or cuts off her mana.

So.

Cullen nods, and begins to walk -- keeping his eyes on the ground. On the one hand, it's more useful in terms of measuring distance; on the other, he has no desire to suggest, even vaguely, that he has any interest in a test of wills.

"I'm going to reach inside my jacket," he says, holding up his right hand. "For a pouch. It's very light, so I'll put it on the ground, and then back up three more lengths."

"All right."

This comes out more slowly, less brisk, though still wary.

What is he leaving? Some elaborate dwarven death device? She wouldn't put it past the Chantry, honestly.

The pouch is plain white muslin, translucent; if it's a dwarven death device, it looks remarkably... simple.

It is by no means the most difficult thing Cullen has ever done to bend in front of her, then turn his back on her to retreat. That does not make it easy.

She darts in while his back is turned, hand hovering over the bag for a second before snatching it up and dancing back.

She will stay no closer than she must at all times.

It isn't -- safe.

But when the bag is opened --

"Andraste's ass, Cullen. This is -- "

Her phylactery. She can feel it. What --

"Will you survive going back there, after this?"

Cullen breaks into a remarkably bright smile, just for a moment.

(But he stays put, with his hands at his sides, visible, unthreatening.)

"Well," he says, lighter than he expects and, strangely, exactly as light as he feels, "they haven't managed to kill me yet, so the chances are good, I think."

She never thought to see that smile, perhaps again, perhaps at all.

"Well, that's -- good."

Surprisingly good, actually. The thought of him dead does not appeal. At all.

(The thought of both of them getting one over the Chantry is even better, as it happens.)

"Why did you even bring this?"

How to even begin to answer?

I know another version of you who became the Hero of Ferelden, and she suggested I look you up?

I've done a lot of bad things in Kirkwall so I thought I might as well use my power to be corrupt in the other direction?

The more detail he gives, the harder it is to explain, so in the end Cullen simply says, "I had the opportunity to do the right thing. So I took it."

"To free me from always having to look quite so hard over my shoulder. That's what you're calling the right thing."

How strange, to hear a Templar say so. It shows in her tone, though not in her expression. Dazed and dubious, those should cover it. How very unexpected.

"Huh."

She would shatter the phylactery right now, if it were possible to do so. But dropping it alone won't do, which means -- later. Soon, but. Later.

"I thank you on behalf of both myself and my Clan, for what that's worth to you."

Ysalwen does mean it. And perhaps it's a signal to the watchers, too, because the tension in the air eases, just the littlest bit.

Edited 2015-11-22 04:46 (UTC)

Again his mouth tightens a little -- of course it's the right thing, of course, and he's not prepared for it to hurt that she doubts it of him --

But she's right to doubt. He cannot, will not, blame her.

"It's worth a great deal," he says quietly. And that's all.

She studies him in silence, foot kept from tapping by a sheer effort of will.

"Did anyone else -- do you know of anyone else that survived? I -- left very quickly, afterward. There wasn't time -- "

Now -- he can't stop himself -- his hand does rub at his face. He can't do this and look at her. Not this part.

Low:

"Anyone -- they locked the doors on the first floor. I don't know -- I don't know where you were. But I was up by the -- "

He stops. Closes his eyes. Takes in a breath.

And recites.

"First Enchanter Irving. Senior Enchanter Wynne. Enchanters Petra, Kinnon, Kelli, Godwin. Three apprentices -- I'm not sure of their names. And three of the children. Two boys and a girl. Owain the Tranquil."

His right hand moves as though he's got Branson's coin in it. He wishes he did. But he's still not making any sudden movements.

"And seven templars." She won't want to know the names, he thinks. He doesn't want to think about them, either, so there's that.

"More than I thought, given -- "

Well. Given everything.

"I was -- down. In the -- basement. It seemed -- there were guardian spells in place, enchantments to -- there are worse ways to die. And then I didn't. So."

Anyway.

"I'm glad at least a few of the children lived. I'd rather there had been more."

(He's grateful she's not asking about him. He's not sure if he could -- even now -- )

"Yes," Cullen says, a little hoarse. "You made the right decision. I'm glad."

"I hated it there."

She says it flat out, arms folding in over themselves, as if holding herself together for a moment.

(Memory has a long hold, it seems.)

"But I wish -- "

Well.

"There were better ways to have gotten free. Impossible ones, but -- better nonetheless."

It's the most regret she can give, these days.

Impossible ones. Such as being recruited into the Grey Wardens, becoming the Hero of Ferelden, and feeding bread and cheese to ghosts from the past somewhere between worlds.

Cullen nods.

And says, quietly, "No one else will find you, now. I -- it cannot make up for what was done to you, I know that. But at the very least -- "

He trails off, shakes his head, looks away.

"I'm sorry." Much, much quieter. "I'll -- I don't want to trouble you. I'll go."

"Eat something, first."

She doesn't quite mean to say it, but she doesn't take it back, either.

It --

Something feels settled, now, that had long been uncertain.

Ysalwen is fairly sure it will be a relief, later. Right now it's just --

Numb. But that's better than pain, by a large margin.

So.