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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"Mm-hm."

The things he's not feeling all right about -- they're things he can't change. Not right now; probably not ever, save that slim hope of Cousland's. Best to leave them be.

"Feeling any better?"

Cullen is silent for a moment.

"Some," he says finally. "As long as I don't think beyond the next five minutes."

Alistair nods a little. Tightens his embrace.

"...Whenever we decide to un-burrow ourselves, I'm fairly sure Josephine left me several fancy and utterly absurd outfits to wear on the trip. I could try them all on to distract you?"

It's on the tip of Cullen's tongue to refuse; he doesn't want Alistair actually making himself uncomfortable.

But then the words register.

"You... talked to Josephine?" Curious.

"I did." A crooked grin. "Figured if anyone can offer suggestions on how to dress for minimal embarrassment at fancy parties -- if maximum discomfort -- it's her."

Cullen lets out a very long breath; it feels as though a hundred pounds lift from his shoulders.

Much softer, he says, "You don't have to, Alistair. It's not your responsibility."

"I want to."

He sneaks one hand into Cullen's.

"You don't think I'd make you face the Orlesians alone, do you?"

"I just thought -- "

A little bewildered... but pleased.

"You'd prefer whatever Sera's got planned."

A soft laugh. "No reason I can't do both," he says. "That's one good thing about all those masks: one hour I'm taking tea with the Empress, the next I'm raining down porridge-y destruction and no one's the wiser."

"Ingenious," Cullen says, and squeezes Alistair's hand. "The Empress won't actually be there, however."

"Damn."

Beat.

"Wait, no, the opposite of that. Thank the Maker."

He knows Josephine doesn't think it's a good sign that neither Celene nor Anora are attending.

Still. Cullen is trying to keep it light. He has to try.

"Yes" he agrees. "Much less of a risk of any wayward porridge resulting in beheadings."

Blandly: "Yes, that would put a bit of a damper on things, wouldn't it."

He squeezes Cullen, gently.

"I might even stir myself to lodge a formal complaint."

After a moment he turns his head, stretching just enough to kiss Alistair lightly.

Alistair smiles; he leans into the kiss, just a little.

"Love you," he whispers. "And I'm deeply reassured to know you'll complain to the proper authorities."

Cullen leans his forehead against Alistair's for just a moment (the angle leaves something to be desired).

"I'm good at complaining." Low. "And I love you too."

Awkward angle be damned: Alistair does his best to sneak another kiss.

Can I do more for you? he wants to ask, but makes himself subside, makes himself return to some semblance of quiet contemplation. Burrowing first. Other things later.

Mumbled, half-dozing:

"That'd be one way to leave. Mount an eleventh-hour rescue and flee Orlais, yelling I quit over my shoulder."

"Be sure to tear off your jacket and dramatically throw it on the floor as you do," murmurs Alistair, amused. "It'll be the perfect extra touch."

"And a practical one. Easier getaway." Even softer.

He shouldn't be this tired, but if Alistair is here to watch --

"Mm-hm. Extra mobility. Less identifiable. It's a perfect solution."

He presses a soft kiss to Cullen's hair.

"Get some rest, love. I'll be here."

Cullen is pretty sure he manages one final token repetition of I'm fine.

(He doesn't.)

Instead he's pulled under quickly, going heavy and limp.

Once he's certain Cullen's asleep, Alistair lets out a long, heavy breath, tucking his face against Cullen's shoulder.

Cousland's been searching for years now. If she were going to find something beyond vague leads and ideas, he has to think she would've found it already. And some of those leads -- well. He can read between the lines. He knows some of her paths have been darker than what she usually dares to venture down.

(If she finds a solution, but it means Cullen would never be able to look at him again, Alistair doesn't know what he'll do.)

He'll write her. He'll (his gut clenches) see if she's had any luck getting ahold of Fiona. That was one lead that she claimed fizzled out, but maybe Alistair can...there's no other way to put it. Exploit that desire for connection Fiona wanted with her son. Use it to track her down. Rattle off a slightly kinder variation on you owe me this after you abandoned me.

He turns an eye to the leaves above them, and tries not to squeeze Cullen too hard.

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