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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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.

Cullen's head lifts in surprise; the look he gives her is bewildered.

"We're in the forest," he says.

That... is not quite what he means to say.

At all.

(Bread and cheese, some part of him thinks, with the ghosts from your past.

Both are part of his trail rations, in his pack.)

She doesn't laugh, but is distantly surprised that part of her wants to.

"Yes. But there's forage for your horse, and -- a copse not all that far from here."

Call it a peace offering.

"Or even here, if you don't want -- I can see why you wouldn't want -- "

Well.

"It's a better way to leave than you came."

He glances at the horse. At the tree.

It would, Cullen thinks, be rude to refuse. Or -- if not rude, exactly, it would break this... whatever it is that they've got.

Says, slowly, "If you'll give me a moment -- I'll secure my arms to the saddle, and you can lead the horse and direct me? I'll walk in front."

No matter the whatever-it-is -- he's not going to assume she's extended him that much trust.

A small smile flits across her mouth but doesn't stay.

"Take two moments," she says, instead. "To make sure everything is secure."

There really is a copse close by, and she has her own trail rations to share. And fresh water, too.

"There's no need," he says, turning toward the horse.

He is not enamored of the idea of leaving the path, especially when she knows the territory and he doesn't.

But the worst that could happen... isn't actually that bad, Cullen thinks, and doesn't question that thought any more. He's preoccupied with securing sword and shield to the horse, and then backing off.

Quiet: "Whenever you're ready."

She moves to take the horse's reins, resting her hand gently on its nose for a few moments, then scratching some of the unreachable places on its neck.

Then --

"Two paces to your left and straight ahead. You can follow the sound of the stream, if you like."

If he can hear it. Yet.

He's out of practice. Among many other things, Kirkwall suffers from a lack of bucolic creeks burbling through the trees.

But he can do two paces to your left and straight ahead. Cullen sets forth without looking back.

She watches his shoulders, and occasionally lifts one hand to give signs to those waiting in the shadows.

She's their First, and it's worth it to keep her alive.

"Another two paces left, Cullen, if you please. We're almost there."

And there is the sound of the stream, and the smell of fresh water (and ferns) in the air. It's a pleasant little clearing they come to, with a stump, a small bank of water-smoothed stones near the creek, and a firepit. Temporary, but it's still seen use in the last few days.

Just because no one's visible doesn't mean no one's there.

Cullen crosses most of the clearing before turning around.

(He wonders, briefly, how he looks to her -- and then dismisses the question from his mind just as quickly. The question is pointless. He'll be lucky to escape this place with his life, and he knows it.)

"You can refill your waterskins here. The water is clean."

Ysalwen leads the horse to somewhere a little downstream, near some very nice clover and grass. Then she crouches by the stream, cupping her hand and taking a drink.

Perhaps to demonstrate.

"And I have trail rations to share. So you might save your own for your trip back. To -- wherever it was you came here from."

Edited 2015-11-22 06:22 (UTC)

"I'll have to stop in Wildervale," Cullen says quietly, not yet moving. "I'd intended to pick up a few things there."

The thing is: if he goes for his waterskins, or his pack for his own rations, that's where his weapons are.

"Please don't -- go to any trouble."

She hovers her hands over his pack, turning to look at him.

"Shall I?"

This Ysalwen, it must be noted, has no way of knowing how to use a sword.

"The straps are simple enough."

It's strange, how light he felt after giving her the phylactery, and how... frozen... he feels now.

"If you'd like."

Awkward. Stiff.

"I... think it would be for the best if we acknowledged that you give instructions, and I follow them, for the duration."

The duration of what, he does not say.

"That would be easiest," she acknowledges, inclining her head very slightly.

"Because I do want you getting back alive."

If only to see what the Chantry will actually do. Sometimes it's best not to have a lot of time to wonder, honestly.

She unhooks his waterskins but not his trail rations, and tosses them to him. Underhand.

Edited 2015-11-22 17:30 (UTC)

Cullen raises his eyebrows, catching the skins. "That's... quite an admission."

And doesn't move.

"Thank you, I suppose?"

Again that quick, flickering smile.

"I thought you might find it comforting."

She pulls out her own trail rations from a pouch at her waist, stepping close enough to Cullen to hand over jerky, hard crackers, and a handful of dried berries.

Cullen looks at the rations. Up at Ysalwen.

Takes two steps back.

Says, honestly, "I find it discomfiting, actually. I can't imagine you'd want me alive for my own sake, which makes me wonder why."

She tucks her food back into her pouch, then steps back to his horse -- never taking her eyes off him -- and unhooks his own ration-pack.

She tosses this at him, less underhanded than a short, sharp throw.

"I don't think you'd be so blind as to not let anyone know where you were going."

Not to come among the Dalish. Not with her phylactery. Not --

"And I don't want any more hunters on my tail, not here. Not coming for my Clan. We have enough of that without someone looking for you, too, and with suspicion in their minds."

Cullen doesn't move. "Then why invite me here at all?"

If not for an ambush, he doesn't say.

"So you don't get killed by nervous hands on your way back out again."

She doesn't shrug.

"You share food with me, good will is established with the Clan First, and then you leave, and tensions are as low as they can be, given the circumstances."

Cullen is not a fan of pointless, meaningless diplomatic bureaucratic... things. He feels a surge of irritation. Does his best to quash it.

Instead, he sits on the ground, and doesn't touch the food.

"I wanted to know," he says to her feet, "if you were safe, well, and happy. How you lived. I don't have the right to any of that information. And I understand that you don't wish to give it. Would you take my word that I mean you no harm so that I can ride out without any of this... mess?"

(If they can't speak less formally, he doesn't want to be there. He's been a burden, a threat, to her long enough without prolonging it further.)

Well. That's --

"You're staring at my toes."

She's barefoot. And she may, at the moment, be fighting the urge to dig her toes into the dirt to hide them from view.

For some reason.

"It's -- not actually me you have to worry about. You do know that, right? My Clan is -- protective. I can't say they don't have reason to be, given. Well."

Well, indeed.

"Nightmares. But those are mostly gone. I'm as safe as any Dalish could be, and safer by far than a mage alone. I'm well. I'm happy. I have respect, and I have learning, and I have the opportunity to live unbounded by walls and with a new view every fortnight or so. I might hope you have the same, but it seems you're going back to -- well. If it makes you happy, that's as best as can be hoped for."

Her tongue flicks out to moisten her lips, and she swallows, clearing any dryness in her throat.

"Honestly. By the Dread Wolf, Cullen, just eat a damned piece of jerky and then be on your way. It's safest."

(He diverts his gaze as soon as she calls him on it.)

After a long moment, Cullen picks up a piece of dried meat.

"I'd understand," he says, slowly, "if I did have something to fear from you. I'm surprised to hear you say I don't. But that's no matter. I'm -- glad. And grateful. That your life is good. I pray it remains that way, always."