howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

The gossip would be of use in the right hands. Leliana and Josephine would know exactly what to do with it. Cullen knows that much.

"Krem can do better." Cullen wrinkles his nose. "And isn't my entertainment a good use for intelligence?"

Gravely: "I suppose."

He winds one of Cullen's curls around his finger.

"Well...some months into the Blight, we went back to Ostagar. Found what was left of Cailan's body, gave him a proper funeral. And we also found some letters. One from Eamon, one from Celene."

Alistair's mouth twists slightly.

"She addressed Cailan...very familiarly. Talking of an alliance. And in Eamon's letter he said Cailan ought to put Anora aside because she hadn't borne him an heir yet." A small sigh. "Not difficult to add it all up."

"...Celene's older, isn't she?" Brow furrowed. "By at least five years. Has to be.'

"I've no idea," he says. "But it's not as if Anora was particularly ancient when Cailan married her, and they still never had children. Maybe he really did think he'd have better odds with Celene, age be damned."

Reluctantly:

"Does Leliana know about this?"

"She came along to Ostagar."

Quiet, as he continues his absent fiddling with Cullen's hair.

"So yes, she knows."

Means he doesn't have to tell her, in case they need -- leverage.

Cullen relaxes, and nods a little.

One day, he thinks, one day I won't have to think like this.

It's possible that occurred to Alistair. It might account for the next kiss he presses to Cullen's hair, and the way he lingers there a moment.

"I know those sorts of marriages aren't usually done for love," he says eventually, no louder. "But the idea of casting someone aside like that, someone you've known for years, because you don't think they're useful anymore..."

Alistair exhales.

"I can't fathom it."

(There's also the small, niggling matter of the way it would be used against Celene: the thought of the Empress of Orlais marrying the King of Ferelden would be too much to bear for the Orlesian court. Remarks about dogs and fleas, and 'barbaric splendor,' would follow. And Cullen would go about his business, because that would be his duty, and would have to keep a sharp eye out for disgruntlement in the ranks -- and would have to ignore the accusing and betrayed looks from his own people. It's exhausting to think about.)

"No?"

His eyes are still closed.

"Consider Maferath's betrayal of Andraste to the Archon."

"Well, yes, I know it happens." His mouth quirks: not so happy, any longer. "Obviously. It's more -- I can't understand what would go through someone's mind, to make that decision."

"Maferath was rooted in jealousy."

Absent.

"But I wonder if at least part of it wasn't about the desire to save more lives. Or at least that's what he told himself, to excuse it. That the Alamarri and their allies could go home to live their lives with some degree of autonomy, with fewer lives lost than if the siege at the gates continued. He could tell himself he was doing it for the good of his people, because his wife was a fanatic, and there had been enough death. A divorce isn't much, compared to that."

"Maybe."

Alistair's turn to close his eyes. Another moment passes before he huffs out a wry laugh.

"This is terrible pillow talk, isn't it. Some couples talk about -- I don't know. Kittens. Baby nugs. We talk about betrayals and divorces. Next time I'll throw in that Celene wanted to feed a nest of abandoned baby birds instead."

Cullen cracks open an eye.

With a great deal of prurient interest:

"How do you know what other couples talk about?"

Alistair musters up all the dignity he can, and says, "It's an assumption, Cullen. I did say I didn't know."

(His smile's firmed up again.)

"Assumptions are very dangerous, Alistair."

"Are they?" With mock surprise. "I thought it was an exceptionally useful skill that never led to any problems whatsoever."

"I think you just want to get out of discussing the Chant in bed."

"You've known me most of my life, Cullen." Back to the dignity of before. "I always want to get out of discussing the Chant."

"And what if I told you I thought the sisters did it wrong, when we were young?"

Alistair lifts an eyebrow.

"I'd be curious about what you think is the right way to do it," he says.

A huff of breath; Cullen doesn't quite meet Alistair's eyes.

"In case you hadn't noticed," he says, "the Inquisition's advisors are a fine bunch of heretics in the eyes of the Chantry."

He sobers a bit at that.

"And they're in fine company," he says, before giving Cullen another light squeeze.

There's more Cullen could say about that. A lot more.

But he'll start thinking too much, again. Better to be still, let the statement go unacknowledged, pretend it isn't there hanging in the air.

Alistair's happy to let the subject drop. (Not just because of his disinclination to talk about the Chant, either.)

He rests his head against Cullen's, sighing quietly. He doesn't want to sleep yet; the sooner he sleeps, the sooner tomorrow comes, the sooner they have to go back to work. But he's entering that boneless state of relaxation that means sleep probably isn't far off.

For Cullen, it's either sleep or get up and do laundry.

And it was a long day. A long ride, a long meeting, and -- much as he doesn't like to admit it -- a long evening. He could have used the time to get settled, to get ready for what's to come tomorrow.

If he sleeps now, he can get up early and do those things, and Alistair won't have grounds to complain.

Cullen makes himself slow down his breathing. That's the first step.