freedom_is_grey | You can't go home again, but you can visit the import shop

You can't go home again, but you can visit the import shop

At least Anders looked at her this time. That's -- something. And he seemed interested in news from home, particularly how the mage and templar co-educational schools are doing.

That is also something. (Perhaps even a great deal.)

And now she's helping make up aid packages in the back of the Fereldan import shop, passing time in useful work while waiting for Isabela to give her the nod that it's safe to head for the docks. Liranan lounges sleepily at her feet.

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It is becoming increasingly unpleasant to be Knight-Commander Meredith's mouthpiece in the Order's dealings with the Viscount's office -- not least because Meredith's methods have grown harsh enough that (in private) Cullen has questioned whether there might be better ways.

There never are.

Cullen sighs quietly as he trudges through Lowtown on his way down to the docks. It would be nice to be able to return to the Gallows feeling as though he didn't exist solely to be someone's problem; he should check in briefly with Lirene at the import shop, to see if there's anything a templar could (very quietly) help with. It's not the first time he's done it; Lirene and her assistant, at least, are convinced that he's not sniffing around to cause trouble.

He pushes the door open, gives Lirene a brief, tired smile, begins the exchange of greetings.

Well, shit.

Cullen's voice is instantly recognizable, and this was not something Ysalwen thought to have to deal with today. (Or ever.)

Liranan, meanwhile, perks up at the sound of this familiar voice, then darts out the door to greet Cullen! Hello Cullen! What are you doing here? Did you bring Ci? Is it time to play?

Hello!

Ysalwen stands, already wincing in anticipation of what neither Lirene nor this Cullen are likely to be able to anticipate.

Such as, for example, a very excited greeting for Cullen from a very large mabari that expects to be anticipated.

There is a dull clank as dog hits armor.

Cullen doesn't stop to greet, rather begins to pull steel --

-- but no; he's tired, and on edge; this mabari is excited. His shoulders slump, a little (meaning his pauldrons sink a few centimeters); his hands relax. "Hello," he murmurs, but doesn't bend. "Lirene, did you get a -- ?"

Edited 2016-03-12 01:49 (UTC)

Lirene doesn't quite manage to keep a horrified look off her face.

Liranan, meanwhile, whines a little because Cullen was going to pull a sword on him! What did he do, Cullen? Where is Ci? Did you lose her? Did she get kidnapped?

Ysa. Ysa! Ci is missing!

One bark is all it takes, really.

"No," Ysa says, stepping carefully out of the back room, staff nowhere in sight.

"No, he's mine."

A mage doesn't need a staff to harm.

Cullen pales --

He'd like to control his feet. He'd like that very much. He cannot.

She's wearing the blue and silver; he can see the griffon emblem. There's no question of her identity. None at all.

He's also not sure he can breathe. This will shortly become a problem. Why is she -- ?

(He's not wrong.)

"Liranan," Ysalwen says quietly, gaze fixed on Cullen. She's a little more pale than usual, as well.

Shockingly.

Liranan whines again, yipping softly. What did he do? Did Ysa break Cullen? Again?

At least he does not smell angry?

He trots back over to Ysalwen, casting confused glances over his shoulder at Cullen.

"Please don't pass out," she says, after a moment or two. "I'm still no kind of healer at all."

He can't breathe. He can't --

This can't happen here. Not in Lirene's place. It's supposed to be a safe place -- not for people like him, but for his people. Whatever this is, it can't happen in this safe place.

That's the only thing he can think as he goes through the door, stumbling on the first step or two. Outside the usual Lowtown reek hasn't gone anywhere -- but at least there's a tepid breeze, and the merchants are nearly done packing up their tables for the night in the bazaar. He plants his hands firmly on one of the empty tables -- a board thrown over a sawhorse -- and lowers his head, finally gulping in air.

"Cullen," Ysalwen says, vaulting over the counter and not-quite-running after him.

"Cullen, don't leave it like this. Please."

Liranan follows her this time, watching her back.

Lirene bites down on a small but potent profanity, and straightens some of the merchandise that Ysalwen knocked over. It gives her hands something to do.

He keeps his head down. Takes another breath in, and out.

Whatever's going to happen --

It isn't happening in Lirene's. That's what matters.

He cannot let the passing denizens of Lowtown see a templar brought down. Cullen straightens, turns, wishes he had a helmet to hide behind.

He's Meredith's mouthpiece? He'll do his job. "The Wardens should inform the Viscount's office upon deciding to conduct maneuvers within Kirkwall." It's as blank and foreboding as he can make it.

He is also not meeting her eyes.

Don't let him see you wince.

She squares her shoulders, hands deliberately loose to keep them from toying with her armor.

"I'll take that under advisement should the situation arise again."

A great deal depends on who that Viscount is.

"Is there a similar protocol for Wardens visiting friends and family?"

"No different than that of any other visitor by land or sea. Though that might cause some to question wearing the colors on a personal endeavor."

At least the role is comfortable, with the rules.

(If she does anything, anything -- he has to be ready.)

"I was told by those in the know that some symbol of my affiliations would make it safer for me to visit at all."

Her mouth does not twist.

"Will you tell me they're wrong?"

"It is not my place to comment."

His eyes flick to her, but don't -- can't -- linger.

"Don't you live here?"

"The Order and the Circle reside in the Gallows. I'm sure you've seen it from a distance."

Stiffly.

"I haven't made a habit of looking."

She doesn't flinch. It takes a little effort.

"We don't have Circles in Ferelden anymore."

"I'm sure the Spire has an opinion about that." His eyes have narrowed; he's speaking approximately to the wall over her shoulder. "I, however, do not. Was there anything else, or might I go about my business? You have, after all, observed that I live here."

"The Spire can go hang."

What?

"You, though -- "

There's really no way to do anything right here, but still. She has to ask.

"You're well? Here."

Coldly:

"I serve the Order, as I always have."

Including the White Spire.

She exhales.

"I know. I serve my own Order, as I always will."

Now, at least. Since the Joining.

"Then we've nothing to say to each other."

That is Cullen's profound hope, at least.

"Perhaps not, just now. Except -- "

There's one important thing here.

"Will I be able to come back?"

Cullen -- scowls.

"You say that as though I had the power to stop you."

"Don't you? Or if not stop, at least make it very difficult?"

She schools her expression to stillness and keeps it there through force of will.

(Not so much habit, these days.)

"I would hate to deprive Nathaniel of the excuse to visit his kin."

He lets out an explosive breath. "What is it you want me to say? Shall I dance for your pleasure? Twist in the wind? Get it out, so you can revel in my shame and be gone."

Later he will reflect on this and observe that he should probably be speaking more quietly.

"You really don't know me."

It's almost wondering, that.

"I don't know why -- "

Except she does know why it feels like he would. Or should. Or --

"I just wish you were happy."

The only reason Cullen doesn't turn and walk away is that he has been trained never to turn his back on an apostate mage.

In the comeback of the century:

"You don't know me, either," he retorts.

Her expression doesn't fall only because she doesn't let it.

(And she's a Warden, not an apostate, thank you and good night.)

"No. I know. Just -- once I think it felt like we did."

Any mage living outside of a Circle is an apostate. Because mages are dangerous. Mages must be contained. Mages --

"That was weakness on my part," he snarls. "And manipulation on yours. Never again will I make that mistake."

"No," Ysalwen agrees, chin tilting up just slightly.

She does not look at all afraid.

Maybe she should, but --

She won't.

"I can see that. Most people do mistake kindness for weakness. It's a pity."

It happens to her all the time.

"I'll be sure to send a letter to the Viscount next time I intend to visit. Just to prevent trouble. I thank you for the advice."

"Did you get what you wanted from me? Or would you prefer to try other ways to twist the knife?"

She's baiting him. She's baiting him, and he let her. That's -- Maker's breath, if this gets back to Meredith --

The answer to both those questions is an emphatic no.

The answers to both those questions are almost entirely meaningless because they will only sound like manipulation as well.

Anything she says seems like it will sound that way, at least now. Maybe if earlier she had --

But that's pointless, too.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have kept you."

This, at least, has the virtue of being entirely true. On both counts.

Cullen folds his arms.

Waits.

He will never turn his back on an apostate again.

Ysalwen takes one step back. Then a second.

But only when Liranan steps neatly in between the two of them does she turn and make her way back inside.

(She promptly finds a chamber pot and throws up, hands weak and shaky, ears full of white noise. She is not at all used to being this terrified.)

Liranan only turns for his own retreat when she is fully inside.

Edited 2016-03-12 03:39 (UTC)

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You can't go home again, but you can visit the import shop

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