howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"You know why I -- haven't." He presses the heel of his hand against his forehead. "None of this was supposed to happen. We weren't to seek wealth or acknowledgment." It has the steady rhythm of catechism. "Our lives don't belong to us. We serve. We sacrifice."

"I know."

Alistair heard the same lessons. Not just in the Chantry; in the Wardens as well.

"But you're not part of the Order anymore. And forgoing wealth and acknowledgment -- that's not the same as forgoing everything."

A quick breath, too bitter to be a laugh. "Isn't it? We learned -- there are different kinds of wealth. Not just gold. And acknowledgment -- Maker's breath, that isn't even an accolade. It's just acknowledgment. I'm sorry if I can't just -- get over years of training designed to make us ambulatory suits of armor. Unless you'd like to snap your fingers, give it a try?"

"That isn't what I meant."

Steady; still quiet.

"I know it'll take time. I know it's not easy."

"You think I want the Order to still have this kind of power over me?"

"No," says Alistair, maintaining the same calm. "I know you don't."

(He pushed too hard. Maker, he should've just left it at I know and not said any of that wealth-and-acknowledgment nonsense.)

He sits up, draws his knees up, rests his arms on them. "You think I like realizing I've been trained out of any possibility of a normal life? I don't. I might be a monster -- "

Cullen rubs the back of his neck.

Muttered: "But at least I've some notion of what I gave up. And why."

Alistair exhales.

He pushes himself upright; folds his legs, hands in his lap.

Hell with it. If he's already pushed --

"You're not a monster, Cullen."

"There are several dozen dead mages who would disagree with you."

The corners of his mouth tighten.

He doesn't say anything.

"At least a few of them had families. That doesn't even start to touch the innocents after the Chantry explosion. Alistair, you always want to make me out as something better than I am, but you need to realize that I'm a much better judge of my own behavior. Especially when it's about things that you weren't there to witness."

"It doesn't occur to you," says Alistair, very quiet, "that I'm not ignoring what you did in Kirkwall, just choosing to forgive you for it?"

He rubs a hand over his hair. Doesn't look up.

"I'm not some lovesick -- well, I am," he amends, a touch rueful, "but I'm not blind for it. I'm well aware you did terrible things in Kirkwall, even if I don't know all the details. I just happen to think that in the years since, you've proven yourself better than who you were in Kirkwall."

Flat:

"That might hold water if, and only if, we manage to destroy Corypheus."

Silence, again.

(Alistair is so tired. There's nothing he can say that Cullen will bother listening to. Just the same old arguments that've never worked before.

If you could see yourself the way I see you --

And Cullen clearly thinks that only an idiot would see him with any kind of grace.)

With a flash of latent temper, like a cat lashing its tail:

"Have you anything else to impart about my nature, regardless of the facts or your awareness thereof?"

He closes his eyes.

"No." Toneless.

"Excellent," he says, acerbic. Then, in a single, fluid movement, he launches himself forward and out of the tent, leaving his boots behind.

He needs some air.

Alistair doesn't bother to pursue.

He leans his forehead into his palm, throat working. Well done, remarks a sour voice. You ruined it again. The one night you'll have alone in weeks, too.

By virtue of -- what? Being too kind? Fuck that. This isn't his fault. Not this time.

(Not that that makes Alistair feel any less sick.)

What he needs, he thinks as he storms along the shore, is some -- sudden shock. Something to slap him into feeling less raw. Into acting right. A walk isn't going to get it. Not when every place he looks conjures a memory of Before. But how?

Should Alistair stick his head out of the tent at the sound of the large splash and ensuing cursing, he will spy Cullen's clothes on the dock -- crumpled, not folded.

The splash jolts Alistair out of his thoughts. He's out of the tent, dagger in hand, before the cursing registers.

...At least something didn't sneak up behind Cullen and shove him in, if the clothes are any indication? He thinks?

(Cullen, what the hell.)

Tensed, uncertain, he creeps toward the dock.

He surfaces, water dripping into his eyes, and shoves his hair back.

When Cullen spies Alistair, he looks a little sheepish.

Gasping a little -- it's cold! -- he manages, "Needed a distraction. To calm down. This -- seemed like it'd do."

Unwillingly, one corner of Alistair's mouth twitches. "Ah."

He relaxes his hold on the dagger; doesn't set it down, though.

"It's cold," he says.

Helpfully.

Cullen keeps treading water.

"You were right to put your socks back on and stay out of it."

"And exactly how long to you plan to stay in there freezing your bits off?"

Rueful:

"Until I'm reasonably certain I won't take whatever this is out on you."

He gestures up at his hair. "It'll dry awfully, and then you can make fun of me."