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MOD PLOT ↠ NONE TO RETURN

WHO: All characters signed up to participate in the Battle of Ghislain
WHAT: The Inquisition regroups and heads home
WHEN: Covers the period immediately post-battle (11.28) through the journey back to Kirkwall (11.29-12.1)
WHERE: North of Montfort, Orlais, and on the road to Val Chevin
NOTES: This is Post #2, covering the immediate aftermath of the battle and the journey back to Kirkwall. It's a free-for-all. Post #1 covers the battle itself. More info on the OOC post.

The Inquisition and Orlesian armies eventually limp to a halt along the Imperial Highway north of Montfort, where wide fields and gentle hills offer clear lines of sight and a sparsely equipped fortress provides some shelter and fortification. It's a soundly strategic location—if Ghislain is lost, Montfort is the last major city between the invaders and Val Royeaux—but among the rank and file there may be too much chaos to appreciate it.

For the remainder of the day and well into the night, the fortress and surrounding land are a frenzy of activity. The wounded who were not left on the field must be triaged and tended to with limited supplies, while many healers and surgeons out of commission themselves and the remainder worked to the bone. Scouts, soldiers, and even support staff in sturdy enough condition to keep working may be tasked with assembling camp from the few remaining supplies, taking reports on known casualties or acquired intelligence, or further fortifying the new location. The Orlesian army sends one of its battered cavalry units toward Ghislain to attempt to provide some warning, and from the Inquisition's number a few patrols are sent back toward the battlefield or toward Ghislain, with stern orders not to re-engage, only to watch for signs of pursuit, and to direct any stragglers.

Those who remain in the fortress are in for a long, miserable night, with meager rations and makeshift bedding, if any of either, while the wind shifts directions and grows colder. By morning a number of the wounded have died, but attempts to build a pyre are hampered by the sudden swell of a storm that starts with freezing rain and then transitions to early and unpredicted thick, heavy snow.

For a few hours that morning the two armies attempt business as normal, but it soon becomes clear that the storm is getting stronger, and they risk being snowed in with more people than they can feed. Many, including the Inquisition's Gallows contingent, are ordered to disperse. Many crowd into wagons, with any transportable wounded receiving further attention en route and neighbors hunching close to preserve heat whether they like one another or not, while those able to do so follow on foot or horseback over the rough, flash-frozen highway toward Montfort and then west toward Val Chevin. The storm doesn't abate until they've nearly reached the city, but once there they're able to stop, eat, and spend a few hours indoors thawing out before proceeding home.

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He closes his eyes once Iorveth's hand is in his own, the closest he will get to peace. His type of elves do not pray by that name, and on top of that there are no Valar who might be listening, no intercession possible. Still, he is thankful, and sits with that feeling for lack of a better tribute to give.

"May this ward off more death," he says. "May everyone in Thedas see Corypheus for what he is, and shake the sloth from their limbs."

It is the only way forward. War is bitter, death is bitter, but he and Iorveth, at least, were dropped into this with no choices whatsoever. Gwenaelle has her shard. There were never any other options.

Gwenaëlle looks away, that Thranduil might not have to see doubt in her face.

She says, “It's been a really long fucking day,” and that's all.

"It won't."

Iorveth answers, expression a distant, enigmatic thing. He's never been one to avoid the obvious downward angle of a thing, or wish for a miracle when it's entirely impossible.

"Some, perhaps. But most won't lend aid until it's on their own doorstep."

Much as he hates to admit it, elves and human both are guilty of that. That kind of division is what topples civilizations, what made the Northern Realms easy prey, and what gives Corypheus such a great advantage now. It's no time for fucking around with social ties, and letting them bleed onto the battlefield.

"I was negligent."

“Iorveth,” he says, tired. “How many commanders eat themselves alive to the thought of ‘I could have done more’? Neither of us had a hand in planning this fight. We are both only soldiers, not what we once were.”

And part of Thranduil is glad for it. He would not relish playing tactics with an unknown army, on unknown ground. He had done what he had been ordered to do, and done it as well as he was able, until injury took him off the field.

“It has been a long day,” he agrees. But it’s over, and time marches on, heedless of their losses.

“It sounds as if you have something particular in mind,” Gwenaëlle says, quietly.

He appreciates the sentiment from Thranduil, and Iorveth knows plenty well enough what guilt plagues a commander after a defeat, especially one that's paid for in lives lost. This is not that, he's telling himself.

"I know the difference between guilt and negligence."

His eyes raise to Gwenaelle, because she's already caught on to the fact there's more than what's being said. His hand doesn't loosen around Thranduil's, but he doesn't offer any further comfort either. Just a clenched jaw, before he ducks his head again.

"I spent more time watching your son than the field." Which is spoken softly, not any kind of blame towards anyone but himself. He's been in war for a fucking century, he should know better. "I shied from risks I should've taken regardless of orders."

Bad orders from other commanders haven't ever meant anything to him, not that they had poor orders. But he's never fought so much more defensive and aggressive.

"There were options I ignored. I was negligent. "

Thranduil’s eyes crack open. Something in Gwenaëlle’s tone, the hesitation in Iorveth’s.

“What else?” he asks.

Gwenaëlle—

This is going somewhere, and she thinks she knows the shape of it. At a certain point, there is no sense in arguing; a person can't argue feelings into or out of being. Can't unmake a decision that isn't their own, and they've teetered back and forth over this particular edge more than once before. It has always felt tenuous, and for as hopeful as she's allowed herself to be...

She is listening, but it might be better called waiting. Braced.

Iorveth sucks in a deep inhale, because gods, he loves the daylights out of them, but he can't do a war like this. Not if he's going to be the warrior he typically is, or the commander he'd famed to be.

"I am not giving these battles all that they require if I'm spending half of them trying to ensure I make it back to you."

He's hoping they understand. Gwen will be mad, will be heartbroken, and there's no real way he can explain this to her that won't sound absurd, but he's hoping Thranduil, at least, understand what a desperate war requires. He was born for this type of fight, and he's shying from it, out of want for a thing he'd already accepted he'd never have long ago.

"This war is too important. You must know that. "

Perhaps in him somewhere is the argument to make Iorveth reconsider, but thinking past the post-battle haze and pain is too much to ask of him, for him to ask of himself.

He releases Iorveth’s hand, turns his cheek, stares past Gwenaëlle’s muddy leathers.

“If you think this will win it,” he says.

Edited 2018-12-28 00:09 (UTC)

Gwenaëlle had promised—well, she'd promised not to hold Kostos Averesch personally responsible, but even if Iorveth had fucked him in front of her, he'd never have been who she was angry with, and the truth is that she's never, really, angry at anyone for leaving. Or for wanting to. And this—this time, it had always been a long shot.

They had always been trying hard to fit something that none of them really knew how to make work, Iorveth had always been in a different place to the two of them, and she had promised that if they tried and it didn't work that she'd still love him, and be glad that they'd tried, and later she'll remember that. Later she'll entangle those feelings around herself like something warm enough for cold comfort, but in the moment she hasn't even the usual truth of being angry with herself for ever thinking it would end differently. She didn't, really; she's been bracing herself for this for long enough that it's almost unkind. She'd wanted it too much to trust, and he'd always had a hand on the door.

His reasoning is sound, and she's lost so much else today. Why not this, as well?

She moves slow enough to be stopped, as much because of her wounds as any consideration, but she presses a small, sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth, and she's still close when she says, “You'll do what you have to,” instead of you can't fucking do much once you're dead.

It's one more thing to swallow. She doesn't have the energy right now for more, and she's never been the type to give it at the end.

It stings more than any wound he'd gotten today to feel Thranduil's hand slip from his, to watch him turn away, and fight back the urge to reach out and brush fingers through his hair again. They'd done what equates to marriage for this man, and Iorveth still curses himself for taking to that so freely. He should've known better than to promise that. Regardless of whether or not they feel prepared to lose him.

He lets him go silently, quiet agreement that yes, this will be the best they can do to win this war.

Gwenaelle reaches for him and Iorveth makes no move to stop her or pull away, only lifts a hand to cup the side of her face, fingertips dragging through her hair.

"The both of you will always have my loyalty and my trust." And my love, but that part goes unsaid. For the time being, it has to.

He could hold tighter to Gwenaëlle’s hand, until the bones of her wrist ground together. He could even forget himself enough to dig his nails into her skin, but he is ultimately too suddenly aware of her, all of her, in a way that is usually prologued by her being in danger. He squeezes, catches himself, and relaxes, deliberate and tight.

His jaw is set. He is both too exhausted and too aware of himself to lash out in a manner that would befit an angry youth than someone who should have the control to—

the control to—

The cold air turns the breath from his mouth to steam. Gwenaëlle is more than capable of handling the niceties. Thranduil is far too tender to.

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