howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

(no subject)

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.)

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Even before the salutation comes Mia's chess move; Cullen rises and goes straight to the shelf where the miniature chess board lives. The pieces have pegs in the bottom, so it's hard to knock them over. Cullen isn't anybody's fool.

He makes Mia's move, considers the board, blows out a breath. He'll have to think about it. In the meantime, he retreats to his desk to finish reading.

Would Alistair even want to go to South Reach? He'd certainly encourage Cullen to do it -- but would he want to?

Does Cullen want to?

There's a significant part of him that believes he wouldn't find a welcome there. Or worse -- that he would, but once they realize he's not what they expect, they turn their backs on him.

Meaning that when the time arrives, and Alistair's gone, Cullen will be completely alone, with no kind of anchor.

He can't breathe. He folds the letter, tucks it under the chess board, and storms out onto the battlements toward the lower courtyard. He'll stay there until the world stops spinning.

Alistair hums under his breath as he washes his laundry -- though once he realizes he's humming a Warden marching cadence, he trails off, rueful. He slings the damp (and considerably less smelly, thank the Maker) clothes over one of the benches. The clothes he's wearing join them in short order.

...Oh, that hot water feels nice.

Alistair sinks in up to his neck and closes his eyes.

He'd made straight for the broken tower, where he paced, breathed, and finally -- when that didn't do the trick -- found something to punch. Wood, not stone. That helped.

Exiting the tower, Cullen looks up at the sky. It's after noon.

With a curse, he strides toward the cellars.

"Sorry," he announces, and then immediately regrets it; if there was peace and quiet, he's broken it. More quietly, steps slower: "Got held up."

Alistair opens his eyes, pushing himself up an extra inch or so to get a better look at Cullen.

"It's all right." He smiles, warm, and holds out a hand. "Come here."

Edited 2017-11-07 00:19 (UTC)

It takes him a moment to orient himself: the vision in front of him is so clearly the opposite of what drove him to stalk the battlements that it can't be real.

If you doubt, Cullen reminds himself.

"Here as in the edge, or here as in the water?" Either way, he's already tugging off his gloves.

"The water," he says.

Cullen looks -- a little off. A long morning, Alistair decides. The stress of what's to come. It's no surprise; it also means Cullen would do well to soak for a bit.

"We ought to be equally wrinkly, and you've got some catching up to do."

Gloves off, boots next. Cullen sits down for that. The knuckles of his right hand, if Alistair is looking, are red, with a scrape or two.

"You're older, and therefore wrinklier," he shoots back, shucking the rest of his clothes off. "It's not my fault you're jealous."

"It's an ugly emotion, I admit." Deadpan, but still smiling. "Just like my wrinkly, ugly face that's existed for an entire year longer than yours."

His eyes land on Cullen's knuckles; the barest crease forms along his forehead before he draws his attention away.

"Fishing for compliments, are we?"

Cullen slips into the water next to Alistair.

"All right. Your wrinkles are still arranged in a pleasing form."

"Thank you, love." He drapes an arm around Cullen without hesitation, pulling him close. "I can always count on you to say the most romantic things."

He's not so far gone as to fall apart, but it's so much the opposite of the feeling that set Cullen off this morning that it takes him a moment to try to come up with a reply.

In the end, he just leans his head against Alistair's and does his best to listen to his own breathing.

Yes. This seems worse than just a run-of-the-mill long morning.

In silence, he hugs Cullen closer. His free hand seeks out Cullen's under the water; very carefully, he runs his thumb over Cullen's reddened knuckles.

No demands for him to talk about it. Not even a request. Just an acknowledgment: I see you're hurting; I'm sorry you are.

For once, he can't bear the silence.

Abrupt, before he can think better of it:

"You didn't suggest South Reach when we talked of the future."

His thumb pauses.

"I assumed you wouldn't want to move there," he says. More hesitant: "Was I -- wrong about that?"

"I don't know."

Cullen rubs his forehead with his free hand.

"What happens when the -- novelty of another sibling wears off? I'm not sure it would be -- bearable."

There's a bit of unevenness on that last.

"When you go it'll be bad enough. If it turns out they can't stand me..."

"Oh, Cullen," Alistair breathes without thinking.

He lets go of Cullen's hand, turning in his seat so he can wrap both arms around him.

There's a prickling heat behind his eyes that he can't stand.

Much shakier: "I can't do this alone. I can't."

"You won't."

He rests his head atop Cullen's; shuts his eyes.

(Alistair's been waiting to die since he was nineteen years old. Yet the closer they come to that inevitable ending, the more he tries to scramble backward, pushing against the acceptance he was so sure he'd maintain until he walked into the Deep Roads. I don't want to go.

I don't want to leave him.)

"Cullen, it's not mere novelty that's kept Mia writing to you for so long. She loves you. You may have to...get to know each other again, a bit, but everyone has to do that after they've been apart a while. And she knows at least some of who you are now from your own letters. And mine."

That's what troubles me.

A shudder goes through him, and he doesn't reply.

Softer, then:

"The worst that could happen if we settled in South Reach is the worst that could happen anywhere we settled. You'd -- be alone, once I'm gone." (He has to stop there for a beat; his voice has begun to thicken.) "I don't think that'll happen, I think you've enough people besides me that you can call on, but -- anyway. Worst possible case."

He draws a breath.

"But the best that could happen if we lived in South Reach is that you'd have your family nearby for the rest of your days."

When Alistair pauses, Cullen tightens his hold on him.

And doesn't contradict Alistair, but --

Cassandra is occupied rebuilding the Seekers. Cullen doesn't want to be a Seeker.

Leliana is the Divine, and Cullen is fine working alongside her, but something in him balks at working for her. Something about having to follow bad orders.

Dorian is in Tevinter. Rainier isn't to be thought of. Nor is joining up with the Red Jennies. (Cole is just a big banner unfurled over the mouth of a cave that reads 'NO'.) Varric is in Kirkwall. (Also NO.) And he likes Bull and the Chargers well enough, but if Cullen is going to fight, he needs a better reason than gold.

Everyone else he can think of is in Kirkwall, a Red Templar, or dead.

He nods against Alistair's shoulder. It's a valid enough point: the worst will happen no matter what.

(Cullen's interpretation skills could use some work.)

"Think on it some more." He turns his head just enough to kiss Cullen's temple; resettles, once that's done. "If you decide you might like to -- we could go for a visit to start. If you decide you'd rather not, then we don't have to go. And either way we don't have to figure it all out right this instant."

A tiny smile.

"We can sit and soak a while instead."

Voice clogged:

"You just want me to get wrinkly."

"A side benefit to all the nice relaxing bits," he says. Cullen gets a soft squeeze. "And being in your company."

He mutters, "I'm terrible company right now and you know it."