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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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."

"Oh, well then. My deepest apologies, ser."

He makes a show of clearing his throat.

"Nothing but somber and solemn contemplation in this room for the rest of the day."

Cullen lifts his head.

Lifts his eyebrows at Alistair.

"Glad to hear it," he says, and shifts up to his usual place, where he promptly curls up even tighter and makes a great show of turning his back to Alistair.

Alistair snorts, then immediately scoots closer to drape his arm around Cullen.

He draws the blankets over them both and kisses the back of Cullen's neck.

Cullen allows himself a smile. After a moment, he leans into Alistair.

Murmured: "What happened to sober and solemn contemplation?"

"I can soberly and solemnly contemplate things while also burrowing under the covers with you." He rests his forehead against the back of Cullen's head. "What about you?"

Cullen sighs, content.

Then he remembers Alistair asked him a question. "I'm always doing that."

Warm: "I suppose you are."

He lets his eyes drift closed. (Part of the solemn contemplation, naturally.)

Cullen does the same.

He also hooks a foot around Alistair's ankle.

Soft: "All right?"