howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

But he's still on Alistair's list.

Just once, he thinks, it would be nice to keep someone safe and not have them get angry with him for it.

Cullen eases his shoulders under the water again. It doesn't matter. Alistair's safe. That's all he can ask for.

"He's behaving like an archdemon."

Alistair swirls his feet through the water.

"Corypheus. The way he -- jumped into someone tainted when he died. Archdemons do that, not darkspawn, no matter how old and powerful they might be."

"So his dragon isn't an archdemon, but he is."

Cullen heaves a sigh in the direction of the ceiling.

"Wonderful."

"Oh, no, it's much worse than that," says Alistair with brittle cheer. "At least when an archdemon jumps to a Warden, the archdemon gets annihilated too."

Cullen takes this in.

And disappears, briefly, under the water, as though when he comes back up it won't be true.

Wouldn't that be nice.

Alistair waits. Briefly, he entertains making up some good news. Maybe...they found a dog on the grounds while Cullen was gone. And they've adopted it as the new Inquisition mascot. And because it's a war dog, that means Cullen will have the care and feeding of it as Commander.

...No, that'd just make him more upset when he found out it wasn't true.

He'd get up and leave, but --

How is he supposed to take this when he isn't allowed to work?

Water drips into his eyes.

Dull: "You should bring this to the Inquisitor."

"I will."

Alistair's eyeing Cullen with a bit more concern.

Softer: "People thought archdemons were unkillable at first, too. We'll find a way."

If there is one. If there's time.

He brushes his hair back, and sits, hunched over.

"I know."

And how many died before they figured it out?

"Do you want me to go?"

"Do what you need to do." Quiet.

For a moment it looks as though he might say something else, but then -- nothing.

What he needs to do is finish the letters. What he wants to do is stay here.

The letters will keep; so long as he finishes them at some point today, it'll be all right.

He stays. Keeps swinging his feet through the water, in a slow forward-and-back.

His fingers have wrinkled. They look withered.

Cullen's brow furrows, sudden and sharp.

(How did he deal with this in Kirkwall? He had distractions. (And denial.))

Enough of this. With a loud splash, Cullen reaches for a towel, and climbs out of the spring, wrapping the towel around his waist as he goes.

Jolted out of his thoughts, Alistair looks up -- and then back down again, swiftly.

That's. Well. That's a sign he should've left, then, isn't it.

It's on the tip of his tongue to apologize, but he doesn't know for what, and while he knows neither of them are at their best, and Maker knows Alistair hasn't been an easy person to deal with since he came back from the Fade, he's trying not to apologize for -- for his existence so much anymore.

He scrubs a damp hand across his face, and rests his forehead against his palm.

Cullen pulls his shirt over his head -- and takes advantage of Alistair not looking at him to get his trousers on.

Picks up his boots. Pads back over to the other side of the spring, sits on a bench.

He rubs at his hair with a towel, and doesn't say anything for a moment.

"I know you're angry," he says, finally, sounding exhausted. His hands drop between his knees. "Just... allow me this. All right? Allow me to keep you safe. Let me be glad about it. You don't have to be around for it."

Alistair sighs, very softly. He doesn't look up.

"I'm less angry at you than you seem to believe," he says, no louder. "I'm -- you remember what I said. About being angry at you as a soldier, not as a friend. It's like that. I know you're right. I just...wish you weren't."

"But I am a soldier."

Cullen gets to his feet.

"It's all I've ever been. Forgive me for expecting too much."

It's a sincere plea. He turns to go.

"It's a part of you. It's not all you are."

He finally raises his head.

"I'm not merely a Warden either, Cullen."

Tell that to the man who can't cope with being at loose ends for three days.

(Tell that to the man who spent days with his former recruits and comrades hissing his name as they tried to kill him.)

"You should spend time with your son," he says, finally. His back is still to Alistair. "While you can."

Since Alistair is something else.

Alistair closes his eyes.

(Does his best not to flinch, as he thinks of who might be listening just out of sight. The springs are much larger than Cullen's tower, after all.)

"I will." Still quiet. "I have. While -- everyone was gone."

And now Morrigan's back, and not who entirely who she was when she left. Kieran likely has other things to worry about besides entertaining the mad Warden of Skyhold.

"Good."

He starts the path back up to the cells, back up to the yard, back to his tower, back up the ladder. If it's snowing, and no one's here, and there's nothing to do -- might as well hide upstairs, where he can't hurt anyone.

Which leaves Alistair alone in the springs.

Warmth only gets him so far: he soaks his feet for ten more minutes -- maybe fifteen, if he's generous -- before grabbing one of the towels Cullen left behind and drying them off. He doesn't know where to go. If Cullen wants to be left alone, he should leave him alone. Which means he can't work on the letters, or do -- anything else, really, that doesn't involve retreating to his quarters for a while.

Maybe he should go build those snowmen. Or start a snowball fight with someone.

Or see how Morrigan's faring, maybe, if she'll entertain him long enough to ask.

Regardless: he puts on his boots and re-wraps himself in his layers before heading out into the snow.

Provisions are necessary, if he's going to hide. Cullen borrows a basket from the kitchen, loads it up with a few hand pies and a bottle of wine, and troops back up to his office.

-- Mia. He can write Mia, like she's always asking.

The things he took off the Warden corpses are still on his desk, along with a very smudged letter to -- someone. It's not his business. Alistair left it.

He organizes the letters in a pile, then pulls Mia's last letter out of another pile. She did something rude in her salutation, so he can do it right back --

Right. She provided a template. For him to use to let her know he's still alive.

Mia --

Still alive.

-- Cullen

He lets out a breath, alternately amused and exasperated. There. He's done the bare minimum.

What if he did more? What would he say? It's not like her last letter was that long. And it's not like he'd actually have to send anything unless he wanted to.

After a moment's thought he locates another blank page and starts to write, with plenty of scratch-outs and smudges.

Morrigan's in the garden, as always She's donned a coat in grudging deference to the weather. Alistair's boots crunch in the fresh snow as he walks toward her; she regards his approach, cool as always. Alistair.

Morrigan. He stops some feet from her. Kneads his left palm with his other thumb. I...heard some of what happened. Are you all right?

She makes a light scoffing sound and looks away. T'is none of your concern. Don't trouble yourself.

Alistair heaves a sigh and drops his hands. Right, yes. My mistake. Next time I'll divert all that pesky concern to someone who deserves it.

He starts to turn. He gets three steps before Morrigan says behind him, Kieran was glad for your company while I was away.

Alistair freezes. After a moment, he looks back. Morrigan's face is unreadable; she inclines her head, very slightly.

We should talk about that, he blurts before he can lose his nerve.

Yes. I agree. Her gaze shifts, indicating the garden; empty though it may be, it's still wide open to any passerby. Another time, perhaps.

He nods. (Makes himself nod.) He retraces the path of his bootprints out of the garden, hunched against the cold.

The letter-writing is a pointless exercise. Except for the very short one. But it's not as though he has any other responsibility to see to.

(Did Lavellan do this because she knew what it would do to him? Sera is a bad influence. Maker's breath, Lavellan might be a bad influence on Sera.)

A huff of breath; he looks up at his bookshelf, spies one of Genitivi's travelogues, and decides he'd rather eat pie in bed with a book than do anything else.

The book goes in the basket. The basket goes on his arm. Cullen goes upstairs.

(A draft ruffles the papers on Cullen's desk, leaving both of his letters visible.)