howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Not long after, there's the thump of Cullen's door opening and closing.

Alistair makes a beeline for the chaise, retrieving the blanket he'd tossed there before leaving. He wraps it around himself with an overexaggerated shiver and eyes Cullen's desk. A few hours, he thinks, and it'll be done. Then he can...start figuring out how in Andraste's name he'll get everything to their families when, in more cases than not, he doesn't know where their families are.

Letters first, though. Absently rubbing his cheek (the ink's completely gone by now), he takes a seat at the desk.

...That is not his handwriting. (That letter was not on the desk when he left.)

Under the terse letter:

~~Assuming you haven't burned my letters by now~~ I recall writing to you with news of my leaving Kirkwall to join the Inquisition, with something about how I cannot give the Order anything more, nor it to me. ~~That was a lie. They showed up in~~

You have heard strange things about the Order. By now I trust you have heard more details, but if you have not: they use a form of lyrium that makes them monstrous. It grows from their bodies as crops from the ground. ~~The regular stuff is blue. This lyrium is red.~~ Much of our work in southern Orlais has revolved around stopping the spread of the stuff. The Elder One, this Corypheus, feeds what remains of the order this red lyrium to make them ~~unstoppable~~ -- no, not unstoppable. But it was the red templars who attacked Haven.

We intercepted their communications, as we've been doing for months, and I saw names from my past. It's been going on for months, now. Someone I knew at the Ferelden Circle. The commander of the red templars is -- was -- I don't know -- someone I believed I knew well in Kirkwall. Some of my recruits from Kirkwall are now his trusted captains and lieutenants. And those were the men I cut down. They still knew me. I could even recognize a few of them, a little.

This is what awaited me if I stayed in the Order. I made the right decision. I have doubted that decision, sometimes. No longer. But did they have a choice? Truly? ~~I could h~~ I should have done more. That's what I heard, when they spoke to me. I should have done more. The Inquisition's forces won the day and I could not be prouder of them.

Every scrap of victory serves to further underline failures. My failures. I need our forces back. ~~I need something to shut down my mind~~ If I cannot serve, there is nothing to me. I failed them. I did not argue strongly enough for their recruitment to the Inquisition, back when there was still a chance. There were things I could have done.

I almost wish I could send this so you could understand what manner of monster your brother's become. You asked to know if I lived. I live. Do not give me any further thought.

Oh.

The twinge of guilt Alistair feels when he realizes what he's reading fades within moments. He presses his knuckles to his mouth, reading it again, then once more.

With care, he sets it aside and looks up at the loft.

(Do you know how difficult it's been, Cullen said. Bad enough that Alistair had to fight his former brothers and sisters at Adamant; if he'd had to fight them like that -- no. He didn't know how difficult it had been. He can't; not truly.

Andraste preserve them.)

He sheds the blanket. Drapes it over the back of the chair.

With the same care, he starts up the ladder.

Genitivi lies open, with a few crumbs along the page.

Some of the ache soaked out of him, and he's still -- much as he hates to admit it -- exhausted. His boots are lined up neatly on the floor. The wool blanket is draped over his legs. Cullen himself is curled on his side, facing the middle of the bed. One hand, palm up, fingers curled, rests by the book.

Clearing his mind, he'd say, if asked what he was doing. Old templar training exercise.

(One mastered by every toddler in Thedas.)

A quiet sigh. Alistair takes a seat on the other side of the bed, unlaces his boots, and sets them aside with much less precision than Cullen. Gently, he pulls the book closer so he can brush the crumbs off it; that done, he closes it and transfers it to the nightstand.

He hesitates a bit longer before reaching for the blanket, hoping to tug it higher so it's covering Cullen's shoulders.

Cullen starts awake before that can happen, drawing away fast, blanket tangling around his legs --

Oh. It's him.

"Oh," he says. Wary. "It's you."

Alistair jerks away in kind, both hands raised to show he's not carrying any weapons. It takes an extra beat or two for him to relax.

"Just me," he says, wry. His hands settle back on the mattress. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

Cullen sits up, looks away. "It's fine. Did you need something?"

"Not really." Quiet. "I just..."

Wanted to see how he was doing, because he just read an intensely personal letter Cullen left on his desk? Yes. That will go over great.

So Alistair leaves it there. No brief never mind follows, though, no dismissal, no stupid jokes. Instead -- bracing himself for another jolt of adrenaline at best, or a push away at the worst -- he touches Cullen's shoulder.

Cullen looks from Alistair's hand to Alistair with confusion, which circles back around to wariness.

The worst that happens, he thinks: Cullen gets upset, or angry, and refuses to speak to him. Which -- Cullen's already upset and barely speaking to him. What difference will it make.

"I saw the letter." Low.

Ah.

And he doesn't even have that was private as a complaint to fall back on; Alistair has unrestricted access to his office and quarters. That's what he told every guard rotation. That's policy.

"I'm not sending it," he says instead, as though that invalidates its contents.

"I know."

Even if it weren't for that line near the end...he can't see a letter like that, in Cullen's hand, going anywhere but straight into the fire.

"Look -- " He squeezes Cullen's shoulder, gently. "I know you've very likely got no desire to talk about it. I won't press. But you know you can ask if you need anything from me, right?"

Now Cullen does pull away, face twisting, jaw setting. He sets about untangling his legs from the blanket. "You're angry with me." Bitter. Brittle. "I'll pass."

"Oh, for Andraste's -- "

Alistair rubs his forehead.

"Would you like to know what's higher on that list than your command decision at the moment?" He starts ticking items off on his fingers. "Corypheus. Clarel. Weisshaupt. Having to do all that." (He punctuates that with a jab toward Cullen's office.) "Myself. Not having any idea what I'm doing with Kieran. The fact that it's so cold today that I have to waddle around with three or four blankets over my shoulders. The lack of good cheese in the latest shipment the kitchens got. That there isn't a hot spring under your desk so I can keep soaking my feet while I'm working on those letters. Then, maybe, that you chose keeping me safe over letting me try to stab Corypheus in the eye. All right?"

"You can work on the bleeding letters at the spring if it's that important to you," he mutters. "Did that ever occur to you?"

"That wasn't the point of any of -- "

He makes a frustrated noise and looks away.

"Maker's breath."

Cullen snaps, "Given that list, what reason would I possibly have to discuss my inconsequential problems with you? I refuse to be a burden to you or anyone. I don't expect your thanks, but understanding would be appreciated."

"Inconsequential -- "

And that cuts off into a strangled noise of disbelief as Alistair stares at Cullen.

"Inconsequential. That you went through all that? That you recognized them? Cullen, that's very consequential, that's -- awful, you're not burdening anyone by saying as much!"

Cullen gets to his feet (the floor is cold), folds his arms across his chest. Glares.

"Problems have solutions. If one cannot find the solution, then that becomes a problem worthy of focus. This one had a solution, which I -- enacted."

He didn't mean to pause. He heard himself. He can't let Alistair notice. (Much of this flickers across his face.)

"It is of no consequence."

That I killed them, he doesn't finish. That they tried to kill me. That putting them down like a horse with a broken leg was the kindest thing left for the templars I knew. That I rode back to Skyhold with no rest and nearly ruined three mounts only to find that I'm of no use to anyone.

Quiet: "And that solution was killing your comrades."

Or what remained of them.

"If I came to you upset because I had to kill my fellow Wardens, you wouldn't dismiss it as inconsequential. Allow yourself the same kindness, for Andraste's sake."

His arms tighten around himself, like he's holding something in.

Stiff: "I don't see what the problem is with -- with naming what I did for what it is, and then putting it aside. There's work to be done. I shouldn't -- I can't second-guess myself."

"It's not a matter of second-guessing," says Alistair, still soft. "You can know it was the right thing -- the only thing -- to do and still be upset by it."

Beat.

"You can grieve."

The pile of snow-covered rubble in the corner is awfully interesting.

"That's not -- something I do."

Never has been. Not Kinloch, not Kirkwall, not when Alistair vanished into the Fade and didn't come out with the others.

"Why not?"