howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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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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"No," Cullen says, perking right up. "No, finish that sentence. Less a Princess Stabbity type than...?"

"Than a...how did I put it?" Snickering harder, now. "Right, an 'oooh, pretty lights!' type. Lel was trying to convince Warden Cousland to let her come along to fight the darkspawn, Cousland wasn't entirely sure about it on account of the whole 'I had a vision from the Maker that led me to you' thing, so I tried to convince her by pointing out Leliana's brand of crazy was probably pretty harmless."

Cullen breaks out laughing -- pretty hard, too. It's a few seconds before he manages to get out, "We all say things we live to regret, Alistair. It's all right."

Alistair beams. Loftily, "I'm not saying I regret it, I'm just saying I may slip up and call her Divine Stabbity someday."

“As though her former scouts aren’t already.”

"Oh, good, then I've nothing to worry about," says Alistair cheerfully, leaning his head against Cullen's.

"I'll procure a friend for Geoffrey if you call her Divine Stabbity in Cassandra's earshot."

Immediately: "Done."

Best partner ever.

Cullen lifts his hand out of the water for Alistair to shake.

(His fingers are pretty wrinkly.)

Grinning anew, Alistair clasps his hand in a firm shake.

He turns Cullen's hand over in his palm to admire the wrinkles. (They nearly match his own.) "Yes," he muses. "The pickling seems to be coming along nicely. You may be nearly done."

Alistair is working so hard to distract him that even though everything still weighs heavily on him, Cullen can't quite keep from smiling.

(Something previously unthinkable, in the time Before.)

"What happens then?"

"I wrap you in the warmest bearskin I can find."

He traces his fingertips across Cullen's palm.

"No use spending all this time warming up in the spring if you'll immediately be cold afterward. Then maybe -- hm. Haul you back up to our quarters?"

"A long way to go," Cullen observes, fighting a shiver at Alistair's touch. "It would help to move myself."

"You're not suggesting I'm incapable of carrying you the whole way there, are you?"

Laughing a little.

"No," Cullen says reasonably, leaning into him. "But you are the one who complains about all the stairs. Shouldn't I help out by not being dead weight?"

"Mm. Put it that way, I suppose it would be a kindness."

He lifts Cullen's hands so he can kiss his knuckles.

"All right. A warm bearskin, hauling you up to our quarters with your assistance, and...having a nice nap?"

If he has to feel fragile and vulnerable, thank the Maker that Alistair's the one taking charge of him.

Cullen nods; he doesn't quite stop a small sigh. "Can we?"

"Of course," he murmurs. "...You know, I even bundled one of the bearskins up with my laundry by mistake, so I really can make good on that bit."

He drops another soft kiss on the crown of Cullen's head.

"Come on."

Cullen carefully gets to his feet and starts wading toward the ledge.

"...seems like the kind of thing you'd notice."

"You'd think, wouldn't you," says Alistair with self-deprecating amusement. He clambers out of the spring. "Maybe I was planning ahead without realizing I was planning ahead."

He fetches a pair of towels. After handing off one to Cullen, he roots around for the bearskin -- thankfully, it isn't in the pile of still-damp clothes.

Cullen methodically dries himself off and reaches for his own clothes. "Admirable foresight." Light; he doesn't say the rest, which is of course something about his own predictability in being awful.

Peaceably: "Sometimes I do all right."

He adds his now-damp pile to the drying clothes; dresses, swiftly, before unfolding the bearskin and spreading it between his open arms.

Self-conscious, a little sheepish, he closes the distance between them. "You don't have to. It was a joke."

"I expect you'll be very busy at Halamshiral," says Alistair, quiet and gentle, "which means I won't have as much time to spoil you. Best to stock up on all the spoiling now."

"I feel absurd," he mutters as he shuffles into position. "Besides which -- I'm neglecting you."