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[howtoactfereldan]

You'll have to make a decision quickly. Either don't come home and meet me in Halamshiral, or come home and have a day or two before turning for Orlais. They've called an Exalted Council. Josephine, Lavellan, and I must speak for the Inquisition in front of Orlais, Ferelden, and Divine Victoria. Two of those parties appear to be hostile to our continued existence. I will leave it to you to contemplate which two.

Be safe, Alistair, and go with my love.

Cullen doesn't bother signing it.

The library is silent. No one is in the rotunda -- Solas's rotunda, he thinks, even after all this time. There are always people in the yard, but many fewer than before.

(It's downright lonely, when Alistair travels. Cullen will never complain to him. Not after the last few years.)

Comments

[bringspeopletogether]

Over the years, they've developed a precise dance for these visits. Morrigan, by necessity, will make the offer, coded among one of Kieran's chess games or a deliberately bland discussion of the weather. Alistair will respond. Being more able to linger, he'll arrive at the designated place first; the two will follow in a day's time, at most.

Then, for a handful of days, they're nearly a family.

Skyhold or Halamshiral: either way, he'll have to cut this visit short. The difference between his options could be measured in hours. Morrigan purses her lips when he tells her why he needs to go; Kieran's forehead wrinkles in worry once they explain exactly what an Exalted Council means. Alistair hugs him...perhaps a little harder than necessary before he sets off.

(The top of Kieran's head nearly brushes Alistair's chin by now. He's considered chiseling a tiny growth chart into his armor just for these visits: they're so rare that his son easily gains an inch or two every time.)

Above Alistair, a raven wings ahead.

Coming home. K says hello; M makes one of those very M-ish noises and insists no one do anything foolish in her continued absence.

See you soon, my love.

--A.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen reads this late at night, seated at his desk (more out of habit than from some great pile of work to do). His fingers clench; his eyes close.

He's fiercely, selfishly glad. Things are going to change. They'll have to. There's no outcome looming where Orlais and Ferelden will tolerate a standing army straddling their border.

They need --

They need to talk.

Cullen needs Alistair in their bed at the top of the battlements, open to the air and closed off against the world all at once. If they're very lucky, they'll return from the Winter Palace and be able to maintain their quarters just so.

Cullen does not care to trust to luck.






He picks up another report on lingering Venatori activity from the Western Approach. The candle should last through the middle of the night.

[bringspeopletogether]

On the ride back, Alistair rests only as long as his mount needs to recover. Trail rations, hastily eaten on horseback, serve as his meals -- hunting would take too much time.

The end result: some thirty-six hours after Cullen receives his letter, Alistair rides through the sally port of Skyhold, hungry enough to stuff an entire chicken in his mouth and completely ignoring that in favor of jogging straight up to their tower.

He slips inside, quietly closing the door behind him.

[howtoactfereldan]

It's late enough that no messenger will come. Cullen works in his shirtsleeves. He didn't shave, today, and idly scratches his stubble as he reads.

-- but that's not a messenger. Cullen looks up -- and scrambles to his feet.

(There's a relatively untouched tray to the side of his desk.)

"Alistair," he breathes, and just like that he's closed the distance between them to wind his arms tightly around Alistair. "I didn't expect you so soon -- "

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair folds his arms around Cullen just as tight, their heads pressed temple to temple. "Would've come back sooner if I could," he mumbles. "How are you?"

Tired. Not good. All easy enough to infer; it's why Alistair came home so quickly.

[howtoactfereldan]

"Fine," he says, near absent; it's not important, irrelevant. "Alistair, tell me you didn't leave sooner than you intended."

[bringspeopletogether]

"Not by more than an hour or two."

He pulls back enough to meet Cullen's eyes.

"It would've been no different if I'd gone straight to Halamshiral."

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen searches his face for a moment.



And then nods, tired, and hides his own in the crook of Alistair's neck with a soft sigh.

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair draws him close, one hand cradling the back of Cullen's head, and simply holds him for a few quiet moments.







"I'm a little peckish," he says eventually. "Would you like to take dinner with me upstairs?"

[howtoactfereldan]

The Inquisition's quarters are not in the Winter Palace proper. Lavellan, at least, put her foot down about that, despite Josephine's stringent opposition: I will not be treated as an unwelcome guest on land stolen from the Dalish, she declared in the war room with her hands clasped behind her back at parade rest. You may do as you like, and I will secure my own lodgings if it comes to it.

Josephine had looked at Cullen for backup, to which he mildly observed that there was precedent for him to be quartered near the honor guard accompanying them, and that since his own involvement in the actual talks themselves was minimal at best, proximity to the palace halls was not of dire importance.

And then Lavellan had said, out-milding him: Of course, if you want Sera that close to the Orlesian and Fereldan delegations...

Josephine pursed her lips. Cullen carefully kept a straight face.

All of which led to the small house near the palace, but not on the grounds, where Cullen is now heading toward the quarters reserved for him and for Alistair. It's a small sitting room, and a smaller bedroom, but it's better than Cullen could have hoped for. By the time he enters, he's already undoing the top buttons on the hateful uniform tunic.

The talks start tomorrow morning, bright and early. Cullen will be twiddling his thumbs unless and until called upon. That, he figures, will give him plenty of time to speak with their comrades who've come out of the woodwork. If Alistair's out there tonight -- well. That's fine too.

[bringspeopletogether]

Maker, it is so damn good to see everyone again.

A good chunk of the Chargers, unsurprisingly, have convened at the nearest tavern. Bull slaps Alistair on the back hard enough to send him reeling, laughing all the while; Krem pulls him aside to convey some birthday plans they have for the boss, once they've got a distraction ready; even Skinner waves hello without a knife in her hand. (I'm touched, he'd say, if he didn't think it'd immediately earn him that knife she's withholding.)

Lavellan ducks in at some point when Alistair's a few tankards in. Now! hisses Dalish, yanking him by the arm.

Three minutes later, he's blinking down at an enormous skull the Chargers dug up from Andraste-knows-where. Here we are, Krem says, having loosed the Inquisitor on an unsuspecting Bull. Ready?

...How did you even get it this far? And why can't you continue moving it how...ever you moved it this far?

Dalish snorts, elbowing him in the side. C'mon, Warden, I know you're stronger than half of us.

Rank flattery, he says, affecting a prim air, will get you nowhere. I'm only doing this out of the goodness of my heart. He grabs one of the dragon skull's horns. Right then. On the count of three.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen glances down at the small table in the sitting room as he finishes unbuttoning his tunic -- and spies a sealed letter, bearing his name, in Mia's hand.

Alistair's out and about; no reason he oughtn't to take a little time for himself.

The tunic goes over a chair in their room, lying neatly as he can make it. He substitutes his old tailored jacket -- comfortable now as a second skin -- and descends to the kitchens, where he can get himself a cup of tea (with a little milk in it, even -- that much luxury he appreciates).

After that, he goes back upstairs, and out to the small balcony at the end of the hall. There he can sit, and put his feet up on the rail, and crack the seal.

Cullen,

Word has spread from Denerim about the summit the Inquisition will attend. The news is half rumors, but with the representatives they say are going, it's clearly serious -- and the details are probably not something you can put down in a letter. I will, however, look forward to more glowing descriptions about how much you love Orlesian parties.

Without realizing it, he starts laughing, softly, and takes a moment to look up at the evening sky. It's the moment of dusk where the sky is mere gradient shades of blue, minutes away from full dark, and even given the lights of Halamshiral he can see the stars.

I'm sure you and Alistair will find enough danger away from the summit. You always do. Is it worth warning either of you to be careful?

Branson's here; his son insists I add "Ello Cul" to this letter. He also insists it be "Ello" and not "Hello". Your nephew is stubborn -- how very familiar.

Love,
Mia

The postscript contains her next move in their chess game.

He has a little more tea, and puts the letter aside. With a small sigh, and a faint smile, he turns his attention back to the sky.

Maybe South Reach is possible, he thinks. That's not a letter you write to someone from duty. Maybe it will be all right.

It occurs to Cullen then that he's thinking about his sister -- his family, nephew included -- as people on whom he could rely. People who think they know him, and who... might be right. (How else would Branson's son use, or dare to insist upon, that old nickname? Meaning it's not just Mia who talks to the children about him. And he's spoken of with care, and some fondness.) If that's the case...

The credit goes to Alistair. No question in Cullen's mind about that.

[bringspeopletogether]

When they finally shove the dragon skull over the threshold of the tavern and collapse in sweaty heaps next to it, Bull says, Awww, you guys, with a note of good-natured sweetness that clearly means I knew exactly what you were doing the whole time and I wasn't dare going to ruin your surprise. The crooked smile Lavellan tries to hide just confirms it.

Well, Alistair thinks. Bull was a spy before he left the Qun.

Another tankard to formally celebrate Bull's birthday; Alistair's whistling, and only a little unsteady on his feet, as he wanders back toward his and Cullen's quarters. En route, he passes Dorian -- excuse him, Ambassador Pavus -- enjoying the night air. Alistair stops. Backtracks a step.

Hang on, how come they didn't get you to haul in that enormous bloody birthday present? he demands.

Why would they? asks Dorian, airily. He tips his head to indicate the state of Alistair's -- everything. You all seem to have gotten along fine without me.

Alistair snorts. He's drunk enough to think it's a good idea to shove a newly-minuted Tevinter ambassador in the shoulder, albeit lightly. Go celebrate with him, he says. Maker knows how much time you'll have tomorrow.

Dorian rolls his eyes. (He's smiling, though. A little.) Oh, we'll have plenty, he assures him. Goodnight, Alistair. Give my regards to the Commander, will you?

Alistair laughs, taps a fist to his chest, and meanders on.

Some minutes later, the door of their quarters swings open.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen hears footsteps approach from the balcony, and begins a process. First one boot comes down from the rail, then the other. He sits up. Tea secure in his right hand, he finds the folded letter with his left.

Then he wanders back through the door, and sticks his head into their rooms. "Alistair?"

(On the off chance it's not Alistair, he figures, he could always try to regain the element of surprise by smashing the teacup in the intruder's face.)

[bringspeopletogether]

"There you are!"

Alistair looks up, beaming, from where he's trying to wrestle off his boots. "Yes, hello. Just me. I'm back."

[howtoactfereldan]

Well. That's quite a picture.

"I can see that," Cullen says, mouth twitching. He steps inside and closes the door. "It appears you've had a pleasant evening?"

[bringspeopletogether]

"Mm-hm." Cheerful. His left boot pops off; he moves on to the right. "Did you know it was Bull's birthday? The Chargers got him a dragon skull. Very heavy. Very impressive. -- Oh, and Dorian says hello by the way."

There we go! The right boot joins the left.

[bringspeopletogether]

Eventually, they get out of bed for real, and all trousers stay put once they're free of the blankets.

The day's clear enough to see the old mark from the Breach with no trouble. Alistair can't help but keep an eye on it as they leave their quarters. Nothing happens, though; nothing shifts. The sky remains a deep blue. Everything has the gentle sun-warmed smell of an early summer day.

Alistair fills his lungs as they walk through Halamshiral hand-in-hand.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen, for his part, is dressed so informally it's nigh scandalous. Just a light jacket, that he didn't even bother to do up.

There's no Inquisition for him to be a visible part of. Nobody he's representing but himself.

This doesn't stop his eyes flicking about warily at anyone who shows the slightest sign of approaching their direction.

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair notices, once he's settled down somewhat. He leans in and murmurs to Cullen:

"If you need me to distract anyone while you run into the nearest bookshop to escape, squeeze my hand twice."

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen half-shrugs, glancing down at the ground. "It doesn't matter. I'd just refer anything to Josephine."

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair's faint, crooked smile fades away. Pressing the point would do more harm than good; he settles for pecking Cullen on the temple.

In the interest of perhaps not passing too close to the spa where Alistair and Sera wreaked mild havoc, their route toward the water has taken a more circuitous path. They emerge into one of the squares littered around the city: shops on all sides, a fountain at its center.

...And something splashing in the fountain.

Loudly.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen stops in his tracks, blinking.

"And they haven't shot it yet?" Wonderment.

[bringspeopletogether]

"Is that...?"

Indeed, the dog -- its stub of a tail wriggling madly as it tries to catch an arc of water in its mouth -- doesn't seem to be earning much more than horrified stares and tiny affronted gasps at this point. It romps a full circle through the fountain, barking joyously; it's the kind of bark that could shake walls.

It's the kind of bark any Fereldan would recognize.

"You're not serious." Reverently, Alistair steps closer to the fountain. "Cullen, it's a mabari."

[howtoactfereldan]

"I can see that," Cullen says. He's trying to sound dry; mostly he just sounds amused. "A few of the nobility tried to raise them. For the novelty. As far as I've heard they mostly found it... difficult."