howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

That's one way to make Cullen's throat go tight.

He makes himself let out a slow breath, and does his damndest to nestle even closer.

"All right?" asks Alistair, softly.

There it is.

"We -- " Another breath. "Oughtn't let too much of the day get away from us. A little more, perhaps, but..."

Alistair sighs, no louder. "I suppose."

Cullen gets another kiss on the forehead before Alistair loosens his hold.

"If only the laundry could do itself."

Alistair loosens his hold; Cullen tightens his.

"It's not the laundry I'm worried about," he mumbles.

Alistair pauses; draws his arm more snugly around Cullen again.

Gently: "What is it?"

"An Inquisition without forces has no need for a commander."

Alistair breathes out. He nods, once, before tucking his head against Cullen's.

"I know," he whispers.

"Even presuming they're merely reduced in size... Alistair, I don't -- "

He makes himself stop. Take a breath. Let it out.

More carefully:

"They won't need me any more."

Which is... devastating. In a way he can't fathom trying to account for.

"So we ought to talk. About the future."

What they have of one.

"Yes."

He traces his hand up Cullen's back, slow, and down again.

(It may have been Alistair's choice to leave the Wardens, but after ten years of shaping his identity around their jobs and their oaths, the hole left by their departure still isn't entirely filled. He hears the care in Cullen's voice; he understands why.)

"There are...ways to do good works outside the Inquisition. We wouldn't have to spend all our lives in idleness."

"I should hope not." His exasperation is aimed only at himself. "You know what happens if I go more than a day without work."

"Precisely." He cracks a smile. "I promise, no matter what happens, we'll have no cause to stare up at the ceiling and whine, 'I'm boooooored.'"

Utterly deadpan:

"Yes, that sounds like me."

Alistair snorts, and gives Cullen another squeeze.

Quieter, then, and more serious: "And you'll always be needed. By me, if no one else, but -- by others as well, when we find those who might need help."

He has to say it.

"And when you're gone?"

There's...

There's nothing Alistair can say to that.

(Fifteen years now since his Joining, give or take a few months. Every time a letter arrives from Cousland, his heart seizes as he imagines what it might say: I couldn't find a cure in time. I'm headed for the Deep Roads.)

He closes his eyes; unconsciously hugs Cullen a little harder.

"I can't sustain a farm on my own." Very nearly matter-of-fact. "And... I don't know that we should talk about what so much as where."

"Somewhere in Ferelden," says Alistair. "I'd hope."

He exhales a breath, considering.

"Cousland might know someone willing to part with a parcel of land. Or...no, that wouldn't work."

Wynne's gone; Zevran and Morrigan aren't the sort to have those kind of connections; Sten and Shale would be of no help (and Maker knows where Shale is anyway); Oghren would be of even less help if he hadn't gone on his own Calling some years back. And Leliana -- Divine Victoria -- well, asking her to do that sort of favor would be improper at the very best.

"Thank you for not saying the Free Marches," he mutters.

Then: "Could start with Denerim."

He carefully does not say South Reach.

"Figure things out from there."

"I'd suggest living on a single plank of wood bobbing in the middle of the ocean before I'd suggest living in the Free Marches," Alistair reassures him, peaceably.

His hand keeps up its slow track along Cullen's spine.

"Denerim might work. Redcliffe's not terrible, from what I remember of it."

Awkward, maybe, living so close to Redcliffe Castle, but only marginally more awkward than living close to the royal palace in Denerim.

Cullen huffs in dark amusement.

"Well. Not now."

The more Alistair's hand moves, the more Cullen relaxes.

"Inquisition's reputation is better in Redcliffe. Whoever Ferelden's sending will bring their instructions from Denerim. Redcliffe's the smarter choice."

"Mm."

Back to absent musing.

"Wonder what Queen Anora's relationship with the Guerrins is like these days. It's entirely possible she might send one of them."

The selfsame Guerrins who left the arling the minute the Vints showed up, Cullen thinks, sour.

"Gwaren, then." He can't quite keep himself from sounding disgruntled. "That's sufficiently out of the way."

Alistair wrinkles his nose slightly.

(Loghain may be dead for almost a decade and a half, but...ugh.)

Despite that, his tone's light. "And only people who really want to see us will bother visiting. No need for giant 'go away' signs."

"...if that's what we were after, the Storm Coast would work just as well."