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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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."

"You think you aren't?"

He slips his hand along Alistair's arm.

"You're fussing, and I'm not fighting it. Because I know I need it. And I know you're safe."

Alistair cracks a smile. "I suppose when you put it like that."

Still: it doesn't fix the largest problem. It won't stop the Calling, whenever it arrives. There's no way for this to end with Cullen not being alone.

The best they can hope for is that Cullen won't be quite so adrift without Alistair.

Being adrift is an inevitability. That's what he wasn't supposed to live to see: being extraneous. Being the last one. It's not the first time it's happened to him. And that's the problem. Work is work; he can clean stables and dig ditches as long as his body will allow. But separating him from his people -- picking them off, one by one --

That's when they get you.

That's when they come for you.

After Kinloch, there was one thing he decided he wanted from his death: if at all possible, Cullen wants to die under an open sky. Or at least in full view of a window. Enough to see that there's a way out somewhere.

Quieter:

"I'm sorry for troubling you."

"Don't be."

I will do whatever it takes, he thinks. Whatever solution Cousland finds. If there's a solution to be found.

He returns to combing his fingers through Cullen's hair. "I don't regret any of this either. I won't ever."

Cullen leans his head into Alistair's hand with a soft sigh.

"I regret your stealing my breakfast."

Thoughtful. (Rallying.)

"But that's it."

Alistair chuckles. (Weakly, but...he's rallying, too.)

"There's but one solution," he says. "Sometime while we're in Halamshiral, I cook an entire pan of bacon just for you."

"I sense an ulterior motive, Theirin." He takes Alistair's hand, fingers curling around his palm. "If the uniform pops open, the velocity of the buttons will put an Orlesian's eye out."

"But," serenely, "then you wouldn't have to wear the uniform anymore."

Beat.

"Also, I'd get a nice view, but that's all secondary to making up for my grievous bacon crimes."

"A motive doesn't have to be primary to be ulterior." Cullen lifts Alistair's fingertips to his lips.

A soft hum. "Fair enough. Maybe I'll make you two pans of bacon and put two Orlesians' eyes out."

"You underestimate the number of buttons on this thing. Aim higher."

"This is going to require some careful timing," says Alistair, starting to laugh anew. "We'll only have a small window after we feed you to get you into as big a crowd of Orlesians as possible."

"We'd be better served by hiding from them without bacon." He squeezes Alistair's hand. "Can't we just do that?"

"We can," he allows. "Or hiding from them with a moderate amount of bacon. And if any buttons pop off, we'll just throw them out the window."

He returns the squeeze.

"And no more laughing."

He curls up tighter.

"I don't care for pillows that move."