By the time Isabelle made it to the dining hall, most of the plates at the table had been cleaned. Zevran sat down at and began to nosh on the simple breakfast before him. Isabelle took a seat across from Wynne, but made no attempt to eat, not yet trusting her stomach. Cullen took up guard nearby.
"Nice of you to join us." Wynne said wryly. Isabelle was unsure but she seemed even more aged than she had been the last time she saw her.
"Ah.." The headache in her head was still a dull reminder of how she got to the tower, "I didn't realize I was expected..."
"We've been expecting you for almost a year." Wynne said curtly. "Your room has been waiting for you. We just didn't realize how long it would take you to drink your way across Ferelden."
Cullen made a mental note of when his guard duty of the long boring hallway had started. At least part of this had started to make sense. He could see Isabelle shifting uncomfortably in her chair. He was reminded of the times, before the Harrowing, that he'd seen her like this. In trouble with the First Enchanter. He was amused at how young she looked.
"To be fair, there is a lot of alcohol in Ferelden." Zevran said with a mouth full of biscuit.
"You're impossible, Zevran." Wynne's eyes cut sharply at the elf.
"I had a lot to think about...." Isabelle sighed.
"...AND you seem to think that drowning your sorrows in barrels of ale...making scenes...The Hero of Ferelden...stumbling out of taverns, starting fights....and doing WHO knows what else." Wynne was getting snarky, hardly speaking above a whisper.
Zevran was laughing by this point. "Wynne, my beauty, if she was not going to bed me, I was certainly not going to let some stranger take advantage of her. Be reasonable. Oghren and I were with her the entire time. She needed this and you know it."
The wrinkles on Wynne's face faded some as she relaxed. She reached out and hand and placed it over Isabelle's. "You're always welcome to come home. I am relieved you are here. I am sorry for...everything. He had no right, in front of your friends, to..."
Isabelle could feel her eyes starting to well up with tears, but she willed them back to her chest. "Don't, Wynne. Not here. Not now."
"Later then," she said, and patted Isabelle's hand affectionately. "You should eat, you look pickled from a diet of ale." Isabelle bit into a biscuit as Wynne got up from the table.
"...I don't look pickled..." Isabelle said under her breath as Wynne walked away. She still looked at her arms just to make sure.
Zevran was gazing around the dining hall. A fox like smile splayed across his face. "How do they do it?" He said with a gesture towards Cullen, standing nearby.
"Do what?" Isabelle said. Wynne had left a book at the table. She recognized it as one of the one's she'd given to her on their adventure: "The Rose of Orlais." It seemed a little tattered but loved. Isabelle began sifting through it, absentmindedly.
"Resist all of this!" Zevran said, holding his hands out as if to grasp the room of young mages. "There are so many...beautiful things to choose from!"
Isabelle bit off another bite of biscuit. "Training...years and years of training..." Her eyebrows raised, but her eyes stayed in the book "Oh yes, and being pummeled with the idea that mages are not real people, the only potential they have is to become evil and take over the world, and one day you may have to slaughter mages while they sleep if you suspect they might be an abomination..." she looked up, thoughtfully, from her book but not really staring at anything "I suppose intimate relationships could complicate the whole slaughter thing." She shrugged slightly. Her nose went back in the book.
"Ah, I see a flaw in your plan, I am not a Templar!" He put his hands behind his head and interlaced his fingers, his face full of fantasy and plan.
"Yes, but you see, the Templar vow in and of itself causes and enforces a mages 'vow' as it were - Maker forbid we might all go off starting little mageling families. Those things are strictly forbidden - which would cause your life to become significantly shorter." She turned a page in the book as she spoke.
"But it's not much of a deterrent if its afterwards." He mused, not seeing the crease appear on her forehead.
Isabelle had heard something similar, worlds away, she felt a tiny stab at her heart. She shook off the feeling, because there was no way Zevran would know. She hadn't spoken to anyone about it. "Yes" she said deliberately "but unless you want to also cause my untimely demise, I'd encourage you not too."
Zevran's face danced with a few thoughts but shook his head somewhat confused. "I do not see how my trysts would cause your demise. I know for a fact you are not that kind of woman."
"Because, Zev," She swallowed the bite of biscuit. "After the Templars killed you, I would kill them. At least some of them..." She heard Cullen shift nervously in his armor. "...starting with that one." She pointed up towards Cullen but never looked away from the book. "Eventually they would get me in a rush...and well...untimely demise."
"Awww...You would do that for me?" Zevran smiled widely.
"Yep." Isabelle said shortly, her face stayed without expression, just intent on reading. "I'd give up a kingdom for you, Zev."
"...And I would never dump you in front of your friends the morning after you helped me become king." He placed an affectionate hand on her shoulder and squeezed - Isabelle grimaced slightly but not because of the squeeze. Zevran patted her shoulder. "With all these...glorious temptations in front of me....I think I need to take a walk. I am going to ferry across to The Spoiled Princess and see if Oghren needs to be scraped up off the floor. I'll be back shortly."
With that he stood up and faced Cullen. "Ser Templar..." giving a mock bow, "I leave her in your capable hands." He watched for the Templar's face to flush, which it did. "See no harm comes to her." As he walked away, passing a group of young mages, Isabelle could hear him saying "Maker's Mercy! This place will be the death of me."
Cullen stood there for a moment, silent. Carefully he started to choose his words. "Did he really....?"
"Who, Cullen? Did who really?" Isabelle responded, lost in the book.
"Uh, Alistair...the King...Did he...?" Cullen stammered.
Before he was able to finish his sentence, Isabelle closed the book, probably harder than she needed to and she was staring him in the eyes. He could feel as well as see her face darken. "Did he what, Cullen? Did he, in front of all of my friends, call into question my femininity, my ability to bear children - lowering his opinion of me to a glorified failure of a baby maker....or do you mean did he throw back at me the very curse of magic I was learning again to treat as a gift. Thinking, mistakenly, that somehow he understood me, saw ME, not the robes or the magic or the ridiculous paranoia and prejudices that this place breeds??"
Cullen was unsure whether or not he should answer those questions. He opened his mouth but no words escaped. She held up a finger telling him to stop.
"Yes, Cullen." She sighed. "He did all of those things and more." She closed her eyes and gave her head a tiny shake to rid her mind of the memories that had broken through the flood gates she was building in her mind. She opened her eyes and the book again and started thumbing for the page she'd left.
"Then he is the fool, Isa. I am sorry." Cullen stood strait and looked out across the dining hall.
"Thank you, Cullen." She said sincerely, somewhat softly. "But I am the one who feels like the fool. At least I am the one who he left slack jawed and looking like the fool. Your sympathy, however, is appreciated and warms this bitter, bitter heart."
The silence that surrounded them was comfortable. It spoke volumes of who they were, here in this place. A mage and templar, actually enjoying each other's company.
"SMUT!" Isabelle exclaimed, holding up the book with a fantastic grin on her face. A few mages turned from their tables to look at her.
Cullen again stammered and flushed, "W-w-what?"
"This book it total smut. That sly Wynne." Isabelle felt warm and happy. She tucked the book in the pocket of her robes.