howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"And then, the night before your thirteenth birthday, a light shone from the clouds..."

Yeah, that's as far as he gets before the laughter wins out.

Cullen heaves a sigh. And waits. Patiently.

Alistair manages to compose himself eventually.

Only to go on, "Was it the Maker? Torchlight? The moon? No one knows. But it was as if the Maker cleared his throat and said a very meaningful, 'Ahem,' to our young man here, and he immediately ceased his gallivanting and ran to the nearest Chantry. But! Just when he thought he'd left that life behind, who should he meet but an elf-blooded troublemaker bent on wreaking as much havoc as possible."

"Sera?" Beat. "Fenris? -- you don't know Fenris, never mind."

It's Alistair's turn for his eyebrows to rise.

Curious: "Who's that, then?"

"One of Hawke's -- compatriots. In Kirkwall. I suspect he could best Cassandra, and he'd certainly give Bull a hard time."

Half a smile; it's not particularly warm. "Given that he escaped enslavement to a magister, he was predisposed to be cordial to a templar. I understand he finally put an end to the magister in the Hanged Man. And he and Dorian never need to encounter each other."

Beat.

"Mostly because the magister did something to him, with lyrium -- " He holds up his arm, indicating a rough pattern. "Like tattoos. All over. They allowed him to pass through objects, which he primarily used to rip the hearts of his enemies from their chests. I understand he's currently occupied harassing slavers in Tevinter."

All of this sounds... quite admiring, really.

Alistair's eyebrows climb higher. His eyes have widened.

(And -- not unexpectedly -- they've gone a measure darker.)

"Good for him." His voice isn't as light as it was a moment ago, either. "May he have a long and fruitful life putting an end to plenty more magisters." Beat. "Dorian excluded, of course."

"As he frequently mentions," Cullen says, a little wry, "he's not a magister, he's an altus."

A thin smile: he's trying to push some of the darkness back. (It's not working as well as he hopes.) "That works out well, then."

Cullen eyes him; it's not to the point that he'll say something, but --

"I doubt the fine distinction would make much difference to Fenris. It doesn't for most of the Inquisition." Light. "At any rate -- with the exception of the guard-captain, Fenris was the easiest to speak with of Hawke's little cabal. Mostly because neither one of us was too fond of speaking."

A tiny snort of laughter, as Alistair relaxes another inch. "Perfunctory greetings, four hours of silence, commendations on the excellent chat, and farewells, then?"

Definitely sounds like Cullen's ideal form of conversation.

"You forgot the wine." Cheerful.

"Ah, yes, even better." He's grinning, now. "Who could want for anything more?"

"...we were in Kirkwall. When we could have been... literally anywhere else."

"True. A small raft in the middle of the ocean would be preferable to Kirkwall. Orlais might be better than Kirkwall."

A pause.

"No, wait, let's not take it that far."

Cullen snorts. "Val Royeaux is far preferable, believe me."

Alistair lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Placing Kirkwall on par with being strung upside down by your toenails for a week, at minimum. I'm glad for all our sakes the Inquisition set up camp elsewhere."

He snags Cullen's hand again.

A low laugh. "I liked the university quarter." Linking their fingers again. "Lots of book stalls and cheap food. Everybody too preoccupied with their own thoughts to interrupt mine. I did a lot of reading in those taverns between Kirkwall and the Conclave."

"Sounds perfect for you." The fond smile's come back. "Any thrilling books of interest, or was it all Kordillus Drakon?"

"Very recent treatises on engineering and mathematics, actually. Helpful in the details of establishing fortifications."

And -- soothing, to the mind. Orderly things, numbers.

"And calibrating trebuchets, I'm certain."

Serene.

"Yes." Dry. "That was the point, in fact. Since I hadn't had experience with that, and there was a reasonable expectation of siege engines ahead."

"Then I'm further glad, for your sake, that the trebuchets came to pass and let you put all your hard studies to work," says Alistair. "And should I ever need to calculate the precise arc to lob a tomato from the tower onto Solas's head, I'll know who to ask."

"You should calculate it yourself. It's good for you."

Alistair wrinkles his nose. "You know I've no head for that sort of thing."

He can't even hold his own in a chess game against a ten-year-old.