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 --

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Airily: "Look, I just come up with the ideas, it's up to the people in charge to figure out how to implement them."

Physics. Pfft.

"In case you forgot, I'm banned from work," he announces to the ceiling, and turns over on his side with his back to Alistair.

Cheerful, Alistair says, "Aren't you glad you woke me up," and claps a hand on Cullen's shoulder.

A gust of wind buffets some of the snow their way. Alistair suppresses a shiver, watching the snowflakes drift in lazy circles.

"Will you...be all right if I go downstairs to finish those letters? I can stay longer if you'd like," he's quick to add.

"Yes." Quiet. "I might join you, in a little while. If that's all right. To read."

"Of course," he murmurs.

Cullen's shoulder gets a quick squeeze before Alistair swings his legs out of bed. After a bit of rummaging, he locates his boots and heads for the ladder.

Whereupon he pauses to reconsider, returns to the bed, steals a fur, and then climbs down into Cullen's office.

As long as it isn't Cullen's fur, Alistair can take whatever he likes.

He waits until Alistair's off the ladder before he sits up: still stiff, a little achy, Cullen knows he ought to stretch.

He also doesn't want Alistair to hover and fuss.

Ten minutes later, he descends the ladder into the office. Because Cullen is a masochist, his feet are bare. But he tossed down his fur and his book first.

Alistair's got his forehead propped in both hands, staring down at his paper. The falling fur and book offered a brief distraction -- well, let's be honest: a brief check to make sure they weren't something worse -- but he went back to the letters pretty soon after.

He's put names to maybe half of the effects Cullen brought back. Six Wardens in all, out of Maker knows how many. He got three of the letters done last night and can salvage the language he used in the badly-smudged fourth letter, if not the paper itself. So: two and a half to go, or thereabouts.

It should not take this long to write six letters.

Warden Lucas would often carve while things were quiet on patrol. I suspect this was the last thing he worked on. In the absence of knowing what he planned to do with it, I'm sending it along in the hope it may be a comfort.

Andraste watch over you.

No, that sounds terrible. Everything he's written in all the letters sounds awful. Roughly, he drags a hand through his hair, glaring at the text -- and then Alistair signs and scribbles his signature on it anyway, pushing the paper aside.

It's work that Cullen has done for... years, now. The danger is letting it grow too easy: the sincere condolences become platitudes, the handwriting becomes rushed instead of deliberate. And that's a problem, for some families, in far-flung places. It is the height of callous disregard to send a letter difficult for the bereaved to decipher.

The book and the fur arrive at the chaise. Cullen arranges himself under the latter -- feet covered and stretched out -- and opens the former.

Midway through the fifth letter, it occurs to Alistair: he could have just sent the effects to Weisshaupt. With their records, they would've had an easier time matching everything. They'd know where their families lived, if they even had families to be found.

Why didn't he?

You know why you didn't, comes that thought right on the heels of the first one. You know.

He keeps writing.

Eventually, he cracks his neck, stands, and fetches more scrap paper to bundle the effects for delivery. In the heap of trinkets, two amulets remain; they're both Oath amulets, their single drop of darkspawn blood glimmering faintly at their center, a red so deep as to nearly be black. They're one of the most important things a Warden will carry.

And he can't carry them home for whichever two Wardens died out there in the Wilds.

He realizes he's paused midway through wrapping Warden Lucas's half-carved mabari, gaze frozen on the amulets. I don't know what to do.

The absence of sound is frequently as important as its presence. Cullen's gaze flicked up from the page, when Alistair stood; it takes him a moment to realize that he hasn't heard the chair scrape against the floor as Alistair reseats himself.

He closes the book, finger marking his place, and balances his arms on his knees. Very quiet: "All right?"

Very quiet, but it jars Alistair like he's been yanked out of a dream. He twitches; shakes his head a couple times to try and clear it; looks back at the carving in his hands. Slowly, he resumes wrapping it.

"Do you remember anything about -- what they looked like?" No louder. "The ones you pulled those from."

He points to the amulets.

Most of them... weren't in a condition for easy identification.

Combine that with Cullen's personal preference not to look too long at bodies of the dead, and --

"No. I'm sorry."

He rubs the back of his neck.

"You might ask Leliana, when she returns. That's -- her kind of detail."

Alistair nods. He's not looking at Cullen, all his attention ostensibly on the carving.

"They're Oath amulets." Abrupt. "You get one after your Joining. It's got -- " He taps his chest. "It's important it makes it back to somebody who cares about them. I'm not sending them to Weisshaupt."

Cullen's brow furrows, and he draws his knees up further, closing the book all the way.

"Is there any chance -- would you be willing to let Vivienne look at them? If there's a chance they could be used like phylacteries -- "

"No." Fitfully, he scrubs a hand over his hair. "It's not -- "

He didn't explain it right. (He didn't explain at all, really.)

"It's darkspawn blood. From -- the first one you kill."

"Right. No phylacteries, then." He's not smiling when he says it. "I still think you ought to ask Leliana -- if nothing else, she can get word to the Wardens in the southwest of Orlais, ask for a roster. Annotated, if they can. She might have one already."

"All right."

His hand stays at his hair a moment longer; his eyes stay on the amulets.

"I'm not going back to Weisshaupt."

Cullen had hoped. He wasn't sure. But --

He'd hoped.

"You'll have the Inquisition's support in that."

Alistair nods; his hand falls away, and he shuts his eyes.

"I can't be the only one tasked with -- with fixing everything." Low. "Hawke tried to talk me out of staying, she said, 'a Warden must help them rebuild.' But I can't." Worse, maybe: "I don't want to help them. They won't do anything. And if I can't -- "

He gestures to the letters and the effects.

"If I don't even want to send them what's left of a bunch of traitors so they can sort it out themselves, why should I give them anything I actually cherish?"

Once upon a time, Cullen would have answered with you swore an oath. But it's different, now. Different because Cullen arrived at this question in Kirkwall, and answered the question the same way.

"You shouldn't."

Quiet.

"You're not the last one remaining. It doesn't have to be you. No one can argue that you haven't put in your fair share of strength, and then some. Hawke's gone to tell them. Let her. Let it end there."

Let it end there.

He nods again, but when he breathes out, it shakes more than he'd prefer. Quickly, Alistair turns back to the effects.

"I can still -- " (His voice starts to bend, too, before he forces it back under control.) "I mean, I was exiled before all this started and I wasn't any less of a Warden then. I can still follow my oath. Just not..."

His throat's tight. It hurts to swallow.

"Damn it."

Were it a little warmer, he'd go ahead and put his feet on the floor, preparatory to rising. As such, Cullen just sits up, watching Alistair closely.

"Making the deliberate choice to part ways," he says, letting the words hang, "is awful. Horrible. But only one choice leads to damnation -- doing nothing."

And if he continued answering to Weisshaupt, who stood by, who did nothing --

Well.

Alistair pinches the bridge of his nose. Makes himself breathe in, and breathe out. "So," he says at last, with forced lightness, "the Inquisition doesn't initiate you by making you strip naked and run through the great hall or anything like that, do they? I'd hate to do that on such a cold day."

Cullen laughs -- low, genuine.

"Not at all," he says, amused. "Mostly you give Josephine's people enough perfectly innocuous information that allows Leliana's people to construct a full dossier behind your back, and then you go see the quartermaster for your kit. But that's for raw recruits. You get the option of an evening of excessive drunken revelry, closely supervised by the commander of the Inquisition's forces. I hear he doesn't put up with backtalk, though. You might be in trouble."

Alistair's own laugh is a little choked, but at least he's laughing.

"Sounds dangerous," he says. "A true test of mettle, honor, and keeping my mouth shut. But I think I'll persevere."