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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Cullen lifts his hand long enough to tap Alistair's chest. "Swear on a wheel of cheese."

With great gravitas:

"I swear on a wheel of the best Orlesian cheese ever made that I will not test my newfound drinking talents any time soon."

He pats Alistair's chest. "Excellent."

Another brief snicker.

After a moment, more seriously (if a bit hesitant as well), "Feeling any better?"

Cullen nods a little, the movement ruffling Alistair's hair.

"I'm sorry."

Barely audible.

"I shouldn't -- I ought to be better. I will be. I'm sorry."

"It's all right." Soft. He takes up the careful rubbing of Cullen's back again. "I know you're carrying a lot. More than usual lately. And -- if you need quiet, you can ask."

"Need peace, not quiet."

No louder. He's gone boneless against Alistair.

"Still sorry."

"You're forgiven." He smiles, faintly; it fades soon enough. "I'll...do what I can to help. I'm sorry if it doesn't."

Alistair isn't particularly good at peace or quiet. But he'll find a way to get better at it. He has to.

"This is good."

(He'll mention Josephine's office later. If he remembers.)

"All right."

Alistair isn't quite conscious of it, but he relaxes another fraction. His hand keeps up its slow, steady path along Cullen's back.

"You don't mind?"

"No," he murmurs. "Of course not."

A long beat.

"It's...easier here."

Cullen stiffens.

"You know -- you don't think -- you can be here without, without whatever this is."

"I know."

His hand's paused; the anxiety stirs, an echo of don't keep running to him. Alistair draws a long breath, and lets it out.

"It's easier because you're here."

Cullen lets out a long sigh. A relieved sigh.

"I didn't mention," he says after a moment, "how glad I am that you're not leaving. I don't want you to leave."

"...Really?"

He lifts his head just enough to look down at Cullen. His smile returns: small, a little uncertain still, but genuine.

Cullen nods, meeting his eyes for a moment before settling back down. Nearly everything he can think of to say is excessively mawkish, so --

"You belong here."

Maybe it's the perpetual lack of sleep; maybe it's because last night was a little worse than usual; maybe it's just the talk of Weisshaupt. Who knows.

But Alistair's completely caught off guard by the stinging in his eyes; hastily, he squeezes them shut, and tightens his hold on Cullen.

One more day to get through, and then he can go back to work. The thought drifts into focus, and then out again: where he is now is good, and he doesn't care to let it go just yet.

He leans his forehead against Alistair's temple. "So don't leave."

Alistair nods, a little, too overcome for a moment to say anything.

It's too much to articulate, anyway. And Cullen knows half of it already: the home he never found in the Chantry, then the place -- the belonging -- he had for a decade with the Wardens. How remarkable that felt, after nearly twenty years of...well. Everything. Not always bad, just.

Everything.

"You say that now," he mumbles at last, with halfhearted lightness.

"Would've said it earlier. And louder.

"Wanted it to be your choice."

Which is --

(Even Duncan didn't technically give him a choice. Alistair doubts he would've conscripted him unwillingly, but he was still conscripted, in the end.)

Yeah, it's enough to make Alistair's throat tighten up again. He swallows, trying to clear it enough to say something. Anything, at this point.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"Means you can change your mind later, too."

He squeezes Alistair, just a little. "But I hope you don't."

"No, you're stuck with me now." He tries for a smile. "You opened the gate, let me track mud in the house, fed me, gave me a bed -- you let a dog do that and they'll never leave."

"We're Fereldan, Theirin."

Low, warm, smiling.

"I knew what I was doing."