howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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He could not say how long he spent in the Arbor Wilds. Nor could he say how long he spent away from their forward camp, fighting his way through to the gates of the temple. Days, certainly. At least two. Perhaps three. Bolting down potions, to lessen the effect the red templars had on him and to help him stay awake. The potions didn't provide for witnessing the sight of a few of his ruined brothers and sisters, hearing the sound of more of them hissing his name, before Cullen and his men cut them down.

A few bad gashes, here and there. (More scars for the collection.) His right side feels like one giant bruise. It was not clear why Corypheus quit the field until Leliana's agents made it in, and found Samson, and discovered the empty well. And the shattered eluvian.

Cullen was already swatting away healers -- too many of his soldiers were worse off, and he was beyond not in the mood for magic -- when word came: Charter had concluded that the Inquisitor's party, likely in the company of Morrigan, went through the eluvian. Probably back to Skyhold.

Cullen, in Leliana's company, was examining the remnants of the bodies of the Grey Wardens when confirmation of Charter's theory arrived.

Less than an hour later, bruises and all, Cullen was on a horse headed north to the next available station to swap out his mount and keep riding. Corypheus fled the field; there's no reason he wouldn't go after Skyhold; and even if he didn't Cullen needs to know what happened --

Shadows are long, and the mountains reflecting blue and gold light, when the horn sounds and Cullen rides through the sally port. A stablehand is there, to lead the horse to Master Dennet. He's not sure how his legs are holding him up, but he's not going to stop to find out. The war room, first, and then if the Inquisitor isn't there --

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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?"

I don't know how.

"There are far more important things to do.

Alistair shakes his head, but doesn't say anything else for the moment.

He draws his knees up to make himself more comfortable on the bed.

In a sudden movement, Cullen scrubs at his face, hard. "Look -- just, just forget you saw it and go back to being angry with me. This didn't happen."

"No, you know what?" Calm, and light. "I've made peace with my anger in the past three minutes. I'd rather not start it all over again. Too much effort."

He's not looking at Cullen.

"I don't know why you're so -- so invested," he mutters to the floor. (His shoulders are hunched, and tight.) "Just tell me what I have to do to get this farce over with."

Alistair shoots him a frankly astonished look.

"Because I care about you," he says. "And you're miserable right now. That isn't enough?"

I care about you: Cullen's face twists at that, into something he can't control. He turns his back on Alistair, quickly.

"They're bringing Samson with them." Low.

Alistair breathes out a curse, barely audible.

He straightens his legs, swings them out of bed; miraculously, he doesn't wince when his feet hit the cold floor. Cautious, he pads around to Cullen, stopping when he's a few feet away.

(He doesn't circle to face Cullen. He can afford him that privacy.)

"I don't -- I've no idea -- "

There: a tremor.

" -- what I'm supposed to do, or say, when I face him. After what he's done." And then, painful: "And what I didn't do."

He's finally talking about it. Alistair won't interrupt.

(There's nothing to say, anyway.)

Another step closer: gently, he rests a hand on Cullen's back.