howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Cullen lowers his forehead to Alistair's shoulder, letting out a long, shaky sigh.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," he murmurs. "This isn't your doing."

One hand rises to cradle the back of Cullen's head, fingers gently working through his hair.

"We'll figure it out. And we'll make it through together."

Cullen's shoulders slump at Alistair's touch; he clings more tightly.

"Every. Time."

"I know," he whispers again. The hand on Cullen's back rubs a slow, gentle circle. "It's absurd. It isn't fair. This entire trend can drop straight into the Void."

He kisses Cullen's temple.

"But you don't have to endure it alone." Striving for lightness, "And this gives us even more reason to get a mabari or two: should it happen again, we can yell, 'Barkspawn! Attack!' and know the situation's in good hands. Or paws, I suppose."

Mumbled: "Two. Less of a chance one will prefer us to the other one."

A quiet chuckle; it rumbles his chest. "No argument here."

Good. That's a good sound.

He relaxes further, leaning against Alistair. Softer, he says, "I'll be all right in a minute."

"Take your time."

He keeps up the slow circles between Cullen's shoulder blades.

"As much as you need."

"If I did that I'd stay here forever," he mumbles. "Not feasible, Theirin."

Alistair's smile skews closer to a wince.

"As much as is feasible, then," he murmurs.

It's tempting -- too tempting -- to curl up with Alistair on the chaise. To wait for whatever horrific chaos is about to ensue. To make someone come find him and bring him away.

Instead Cullen lifts his head and kisses Alistair -- soft and sweet, as though it could be the last time, as though the love is what he most wants to remember.

And then he turns away, starting to do up the buttons of his tunic. Brusque, hoarse: "Get your arms and come with me?"

A quick, sharp nod, as one soldier to another. "Right."

Alistair keeps his gear in their bedroom; he still finds it easiest to stash a weapon within reasonably easy reach during the night. A brief departure, then; when he returns, sword and shield are firmly buckled in place.

Being safe trumps being inconspicuous right now, until and unless he hears otherwise.

Cullen's retrieved his own sword; he looks up when Alistair returns, and nods approval.

Quietly: "Charter's been monitoring our operations from an outbuilding since we arrived. We should go there first."

And if the circumstances warrant Cullen needing a shield, he can get a standard issue shield there.

(It doesn't, Josephine pointed out, match the tunic, and should thus be avoided except in direst emergency. Whether this is a dire emergency... well. Charter will know better than Cullen.)

"All right," says Alistair, no louder. "Lead on."

It'd be too much to hope that Charter will say oh, it's all been a big misunderstanding, stand down. Idle daydreams, really; not even true hope. Alistair's grown to rather like the post-Corypheus quiet...and now.

Every damn time, as Cullen said.

Nothing's on fire that shouldn't be. That's encouraging.

(Everything that should be on fire -- cooking fires, forges and the like -- is also just as it should be.)

Charter reports that Lavellan appeared long enough to confirm that the eluvian doesn't lead to the Fade (and can't say for certain where it does lead -- Orlais, Ferelden, Nevarra, and southern Tevinter are all possibilities), and to grab Dorian, Varric, and Bull for a further foray to track the Qunari.

"She said it looked sort of like the place Lady Morrigan took her the first time they went through. Mists. Islands. Other mirrors." Charter looks faintly disapproving of all of this; Cullen figures she doesn't like not having better information.

You and me both, Cullen thinks, disgruntled. "And the other delegations?"

"Have not yet been informed. The Inquisitor and Ambassador Montilyet agreed that it would not do to tip our hand too early when we don't yet have much of a hand at all."

Cullen nods. In the corner of his eye, he spies a chest: it's the one where Lavellan keeps all the rare weapons she acquires, whether by serendipity, by gift to the Inquisition, or by war trophy. Lavellan's policy regarding those items is -- liberal. If she can't use them herself, the advisors are welcome to make use of them, as long as the items stay within the Inquisition and she's informed of the movement at some point.

"Do you have to hand the inventory for...?" He points to the chest, and Charter immediately turns to sift through her files.

Alistair's attention sharpens when Charter describes what Lavellan found in the eluvian. Not the Fade, but still a space between. And if it's really the space Lavellan thinks it is --

He needs to write Morrigan. To warn her, if nothing else. She's told him of Kieran's early years before they joined the Orlesian court, and if a place she once thought safe enough to raise her son has been compromised, then she needs to know as soon as possible.

(If only she'd told him more about that mists-and-mirrors place besides Kieran and I lived there for a time. He hasn't missed the disgruntled look on both Cullen and Charter's faces.)

Alistair throws Cullen a briefly questioning look. "You expect we'll need better arms?"

Cullen glances up from the scroll Charter's handed him.

"Something like that," he says, and taps an entry on the list. "That one."

"Of course, Commander," Charter says. "If there's nothing else...?"

"No. We won't be far. Thank you."

Charter slips out, a few other scrolls in hand.

Cullen gives Alistair a faint, crooked smile, and goes to Lavellan's chest of wonders. "I've no idea if this is an actual upgrade for you, but that's not quite the point."

Alistair's eyebrows rise.

"Fair warning," he says, with a thread of breezy cheer, "if it's a longbow I may accidentally fire the arrow backward and give myself a black eye with the feathery end."

"Give me more credit than that," Cullen says, rummaging through the chest. "My role in the Inquisition is instructing people where the pointy ends should go, and how to get them there. And I'm not terrible at it. -- ah." Cullen stills for a moment. "All right." He seems to be bracing himself.

When he stands, it's with solemnity, a little trepidation -- and with a longsword.

Cullen turns it in his hands, holding the sword in its scabbard out to Alistair. The hilt -- and the blade, once unsheathed -- have careful, elaborate scrollwork not unfamiliar to those who grew up around Avvar and Alamarri ruins and remnants.

"Anora gave this to Lavellan after Josephine brokered talks between her and Celene." Quietly. "Properly speaking, it belongs in your hands. And your son's."

Alistair stares.

Cautiously, he reaches out, closing his fingers around the scabbard -- but he doesn't lift it from Cullen's hands yet.

His voice moves through the words just as carefully. "It's Maric's?"

"Once."

There's a queer ache in his chest -- as though he's suddenly aware that in a different time, a different place, they could be standing here like this, with Alistair playing a different role entirely, but with Cullen in the same place. At his back. At his side.

"And older than that, still." Beat. "Calenhad's sword, Alistair."

It wasn't Anora's to give. Cullen believes that as much as he believes anything.

Alistair's hand snaps open as he jerks it back, as if the sword's abruptly ignited under his fingers. For half an instant, he has the wild urge to back up a few extra steps, putting a little more distance -- a little more safety -- between himself and the blade.

He doesn't. But he's staring at Cullen now, a tumultuous clash of emotions on his face. It's not mine. I never wanted this. I don't deserve to carry this.

And: This is a gift.

And: It's not anyone else's to carry, either.

I don't know what to do.

In the end, he shifts his gaze back to the sword. Closes his hand around it again.

This time, without a word, he lifts it from Cullen's hands.

There are lots of things he could say, ranging from who else could it possibly belong to? to I mean, what the hell, Anora? to ...Theirin.

Everything he can think of at the moment seems ill-advised... at least until he can tell if Alistair is furious with him or not.

He has to say something. He can't yet.

Alistair rests the sword in both hands, gingerly testing its weight. It's...exceptional. Easy to tell it's balanced near perfectly, even with the scabbard on. No telling what sort of condition the blade's in after so many generations --

-- Maker, as if he were actually planning to swing this bloody thing instead of burying it in a closet somewhere. Is he mad?

He unsheaths it a few inches just to see; immediately sheathes it again. The uncomfortable knot in his chest hasn't abated, but he's gripping the scabbard more firmly now, and the urge to fling the sword at Cullen's feet has puffed away like smoke.

"Thank you." Barely audible.

(He sounds like he means it.)

Cullen lets out a breath.

No louder:

"It's yours, my love. Belongs with you."