howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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Normally by this time of year there's been at least one storm coming in from the Waking Sea that breaks the humidity -- but no, Kirkwall is unseasonably humid. Because of course it is.

At any rate, that's why Cullen isn't wearing as much plate as he ought. That, and he's in the yard, out of sight of any civilians.

It helps him be faster, he tells himself. Mostly it's just miserable, and he's quite looking forward to plunging his head in a nearby rain barrel.

(It doesn't help that Cullen is currently losing handily. Though if truth be told -- and he'd never admit it -- it feels good to lose like this, winded as he is, muscles burning as they are.)

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She steps carefully onto the land, and looks around before moving a single step further.

"I suppose there are not many who come here now, after everything."

"The red stuff is everywhere."

He's already anticipating the headache he'll get tonight.

"Under the circumstances, it seemed wise to move everyone to the keep. No one ought to have legitimate business in the Gallows until it's cleared of it all."

His face, voice, are expressionless.

"Somehow."

"Since I have heard that it causes madness - or perhaps worsens it instead, I suppose no one can yet say for certain - I would agree."

Her hand rests on the hilt of her sword. Cassandra glares at the Gallows as though it has personally offended her, then gives a single sharp nod.

"Well. There is no point in delaying."

Grass grows through the cracks of the flagstones, much taller than it ever got when people lived here. Cullen ascends the stairs, rounds the corners, proceeds down the hallways. The centuries-old Tevinter statues and carved metal reliefs haven't gone anywhere: weeping slaves, pleading slaves, slaves in coffles bent nearly double as they stand in line.

In the courtyard, it's worse. Bits and pieces of huge statues -- larger slaves, as well as armored guardians -- are flung all over, some of them clearly having dropped heavily enough to crack the stone under them. Under a stone overhang it's clear that the brownish-red stains there aren't rust, and that no rain will wash it away. A pile of bones leans against a ragged crate here; a mound of rubble blocks linear passage there.

All around, stalagmites of red lyrium -- some quite tall -- pierce the ground, the walls. Cullen's aware of it, as always; it's late enough in the day that he is beginning to feel restless as his ever-smaller daily dose of regular lyrium begins to wane. His eyes feel too big for his head. He could walk up to one of the outgrowths, and --

But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion
Should they set themselves against me.

He oughtn't to be using the Chant of Light as a sigil to ward off the cravings. Cullen knows that, knows that if Cassandra knew she'd chide him for it, maybe even give up this fool's errand of trying to make him into someone fit to help lead an Inquisition. It's in this pleasant state of mind that Cullen approaches the remains of Knight-Commander Meredith.

On her knees, leaning back, mouth open in a silent scream, Meredith Stannard is no longer what she once was. Instead, she, too, is solid red lyrium, armor and all.

Cassandra wanted to see. Cullen brought her. He tries not to breathe too much, or get too close to any of the stuff. Tries not to snap at Cassandra, or say anything at all.

He can endure. He exists to serve. No more.

"A miserable place."

She approaches from behind him, her booted steps clear on the cracked stone.

"I suppose that was only to be expected."

Cassandra stops beside him, studying the statue-Stannard.

"Maker."

Cullen makes himself breathe through his nose.

Steady:

"None of the surviving mages could provide insight about... how. Or why."

"Are they still trying? To study... this?"

A wave of her hand encompasses the whole yard.

"I -- no. No. You -- it's been difficult. Changing the way things work. That we work. We have tried to find ways to work together. This -- "

Cullen's turn to wave his hand.

" -- is a low priority, compared to the immediate needs of the city. And it's... fraught, as well. Under the circumstances."

"I suppose you are right."

Her lips are pressed tightly together as she turns to take in the yard again, then returns her gaze to the thing that was once Meredith Stannard.

"If you would accept our help, however...."

"I'd -- " Hesitant. " -- prefer that you made any arrangements with Aveline. Under the circumstances."

They cannot leave Kirkwall soon enough, in Cullen's mind. Which means he's got no business initiating long-term endeavors when he won't be here to do his part.

"And I'd recommend bringing in mages from outside the Free Marches as well, for any necessary consultation."

"Very well. It may be that, as Seekers, we are able to help manage the effect of ... this."

She waves one hand at the red lyrium, then turns to him with a startled look.

"Maker's breath. I did not think. Are you ... all right, with this surrounding you?"

Without hesitation: "I can endure it."

If he says it, thinks it, enough times, it will be true.

Her first instinct is to protect, but she stops herself.

Cullen has not asked that of her, would not, and he deserves more from her than what would only be seen as believing him weak.

"Of that, I have no doubt," she says, instead. "Very well."

-- that's a surprise.

A good one, but still a surprise.

He acknowledges it with a small nod. "Is there anything else you'd like to see?"

"I have seen enough, I think. More than."

Cassandra looks around the courtyard once more. Her glance rests on Meredith Stannard for a moment or two, and real anger is clear in her expression. She stalks up to the statue and stares it in the stone eye.

"Maker forgive you for what you have done, for I cannot," she says, low and tight with fury. "But I will set myself to undoing your harms, and those that the rest of us have allowed to come to this pass."

She turns, and gives Cullen a single sharp nod.

"Let us go."

Cullen... wasn't expecting that, either. It wasn't for Meredith's benefit, certainly. Cassandra is Nevarran; perhaps it was something to do with knowing about their death mages, the Mortalitasi?

(Perhaps it was done for his benefit?)

He's only too happy to turn his back on the courtyard. They walk in silence toward the quays.

Until they pass into the shadow of a narrow colonnade.

"Now that you've seen." His voice is low. "I've -- been considering -- everything. Her choice to make me Knight-Captain... speaking solely in terms of who I was when I left Ferelden, without ever having spoken to me. Tell me as a Seeker, to whom the Order answers. She shouldn't have done it. It was -- a poor command decision. Wasn't it?"

Cullen doesn't know why he so desperately wants Cassandra to say yes. He does a poor job of hiding it.

She stops walking, and turns to face him full on.

"I will not lie to you." Cassandra's tone is grave, but steady, and her words are clear as any bell. "As a Seeker, as one who bears both the charge and the responsibility that our Order is entrusted with, I will give you the truth. It was... and yet it was not."

"The decision she made, the choice she made, to advance you in rank so because she had reason to think you had no love of mages and so would be -- be malleable, like heated steel; to calculate that you were unsettled enough and inexperienced enough that she could sway you to support her views wholly, without question, as her pawn - that was poorly done, yes. It was not fair to you, and it was not fair to those whose lives were given to your keeping."

She draws a breath, and continues without giving him more than that instant's chance to react.

"But it was also not - through no intent of hers. Because of who you are, who you have become, the seeds of which you also carried with you from Ferelden."

But she still gives him that instant -- and Cullen exhales, eyes closing in relief, like he's been holding a breath for years.

Cassandra is a Seeker of Truth, the order that began, long ago, as the original -- the first -- Inquisition. He knows as sure as water is wet: she will neither lie to spare his feelings nor coddle him. So yes -- Meredith did wrong by choosing him. Which doesn't absolve him of what he's done. But --

-- and Cullen straightens, as the second part of what Cassandra says begins to sink in --

-- he has a chance to do better, separate from the Order.

You need to get through this and out the other side, Ysa told him. Alive.

"We're going to fix this." And it finally feels more like a statement than a question. "The Inquisition will fix -- all of this."

We.

"Yes."

It's declaration and vow in one, as she meets his eyes, and said with the same clear forthrightness as before.

"We will."

"All right."

Why does it feel so final to say those words? He already told Cassandra that yes, he was in, he'd command the Inquisition's forces. But this is different.

Maybe it's the headache.

Cullen nods, and says, beginning to walk again, "I've considered how best to hand over command of those templars who won't be joining us. We should discuss it. I'd like that to happen soon." Clarify. You're in now. "As soon as possible."

"I am glad to hear it," Cassandra replies, keeping pace beside him.

"Let us make it our very first priority in the morning, then. And we can begin to move forward from there."

"I'll have a report ready, with my recommendations."

The ferry's waiting for them. Cullen wonders briefly if Jennet, the pie-maker, is at Lirene's in Lowtown; he's pretty sure that one of her savoury pies might singlehandedly dismiss his headache.

Or that's what he'll tell Cassandra, anyway, straight-faced on the ride over the harbor; that, and it's a very good place to obtain offerings to get mabari to like you. Very important, since she and Ci will be spending a great deal of time together in the days to come.

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