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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"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."

"You're doing no such thing." Still gentle, as he wraps the bearskin around Cullen.

A beat.

"...You only have to wear the bearskin for ten seconds if you'd like."

"Oh no," Cullen says, clutching it close. "It's mine now. You can't have it back."

Alistair dissolves into laughter.

"I'll nobly sacrifice it for you, then," he says, and kisses Cullen's cheek. "Let's go upstairs?"

Cullen leans against him for just a moment -- then nods, and moves.

He's not certain it'll be better if it's quieter, but he likes the idea of shutting themselves in their quarters, and keeping the rest of it out.

Another reason Alistair came home to Skyhold instead of going straight to Halamshiral: they can shut out the rest of the world for a little while before plunging into whatever the Council brings.

There's a neatly-folded stack of clothes on the chaise -- Josephine's doing, maybe? They don't belong to Alistair, that's for certain. (Or...perhaps they do now.) Something to worry about later: right now, he's intent on scaling the ladder and clearing a space for them to burrow properly.

Out of habit, Cullen glances at his desk: nothing new on it.

Of course not.

He nods at it as if in greeting anyway, and trails after Alistair toward the ladder.

Clearing a space involves hastily migrating his pack to somewhere not in the middle of the bed. (Look, sometimes it's easier to prepare for a long trip when you can fling your things over as wide a space as possible.)

Alistair commences burrowing, leaving plenty of space for Cullen to join him.

He doesn't bother shedding the bearskin -- just shucks off his boots, and makes his way toward the Alistair-shaped lump.

Cullen curls alongside him, but at an angle: it lets him use Alistair's belly as a pillow.

Mumbled: "When you're hungry, I'll know it."

Alistair huffs out a small laugh. He settles his hand on Cullen's hair; runs his fingers through, slow and methodical.

Quietly, after several moments:

"Can I ask -- did something new bring this on? Or is it..." He waves his free hand vaguely, indicating the entire approaching mess in Halamshiral.

Cullen breathes out, eyes closing.

"I've always been... needed. Even when things were at their worst. I was a templar, who served the Maker by protecting people. I had an army looking to me for direction. And now, for the first time... there's no clear task. No one needs anything from me. I don't -- " Bewildered. "How do normal people live? And the trouble is -- "

His fingers tighten on the bearskin.

"I don't want to know. I don't want to face it alone. And I don't want to wear that stupid uniform. If they're going to issue a formal declaration of my uselessness, I at least ought to be able to wear something that isn't too tight. And doesn't pinch."

Alistair closes his eyes. His fingers continue their work through Cullen's hair.

"It does add a certain injury to the insult of it all," he says, not much louder. There's another beat of silence. "I have to believe we can find other ways for you to serve, after all this. We'll have time together. It's not as if I'll go up in a puff of smoke after the Council ends, even if -- we can't truly know how much time we have left."

He exhales.

"And I hate to hinge so much on blind hope, but there's still Cousland's work. I'll write her. See how that's been going."

Cullen nods a little bit. He doesn't speak for a moment -- long enough for the lump in his throat to shrink to something manageable.

"I don't want you thinking I regret any of this." Still husky, though. "It's just -- how improbable it was. That I'd live to see this become a problem. This wasn't supposed to happen."

"I know," he whispers. His eyes squeeze tighter, briefly; he cradles Cullen's head. "I wish I could make this easier on you."