howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"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."

He cracks a helpless smile; exhales a breath of laughter, just as helpless.

"I've no idea what I'll to do with it," he confesses as he draws the scabbard to his chest.

Cullen glances over his shoulder, as though he could see anything beyond the wall of the outbuilding, and says, nodding in that direction, "We could start by getting a decent whetstone from the nearest shop and going to the forge to give it a good going-over."

That's a little lighter -- because it's something manageable, isn't it? One of the first things they learned about swords. How to properly care for them.

"It'll be far easier to stick them with the pointy end if it's treated well."

"I don't -- "

He casts a bewildered glance to the hilt of the sword.

"I don't even know if I'll use it."

"Well, you certainly won't if it's rusted beyond use," Cullen says, just a little crisply. Just a little drill sergeant-y. "And you won't know if it's rusted beyond use if you never take it out of the scabbard."

At last, the spell breaks -- or cracks a bit, at least. Alistair huffs a more fully-formed laugh, and shifts the sword in his grip so he can tap a fist to his chest.

"Ser yes ser." Smiling. "Let's see, then -- "

He draws the scabbard away: cautious, still, but less like the sword's going to spring from his grip and stab him for his audacity to hold it. Lightly, Alistair skims his finger over a patch of scrollwork near the hilt. He touches the same fingertip to the side of the blade; when it comes back with little more than a dent in his skin, he mutters, "Definitely needs a whetstone."

But hardly any rust. Cailan was likely the last to hold it, and being as vainglorious as he was, Alistair's brother seems to have taken pains to keep his great-great-however-many-greats-grandfather's sword looking well. If it's not quite functional...well. On principle, Alistair should take care of that, even if it just ends up mounted over the fireplace in his and Cullen's theoretical home.

Good. Much better.

(It's a minor miracle, he thinks, that Alistair isn't angry with him.)

"Shall we take care of that, then?" Brisk.

"Let's."

He looks up, smiling anew, then steps close enough to kiss Cullen on the cheek. "Come on, love."

He's -- admittedly still an uncomfortable knot of feelings over this, yet to be fully untangled. But it's a sword that needs sharpening, an important sword, and if Alistair just doesn't think too hard about who said sword belonged to a couple dozen ages ago, it'll be fine.

(If anyone but Cullen had tried to give it to him, he would've thrown himself in the nearest lake.)

That's the thing. At the end of the day, it's a sword. That's all it has to be. If it's more than that -- well. It doesn't have to be.

He squeezes Alistair's arm. "Follow you anywhere, Theirin." His smile is crooked, warm.

It's the beautiful sort of smile that warms Alistair all the way to his toes. The giddy thought, I married this man, breaks through the tangle in his chest, turning his own smile rather goofy for a moment.

Right. Whetstone. Sharpening a very old sword. A little distraction from THIS ONCE BELONGED TO CALENHAD may be necessary, but not so much that he fails to get anything done at all.

Procuring that whetstone comes easily enough; soon they're at the forge, Alistair carefully unsheathing the sword again to get to work.

(It really is an exceptionally well-made weapon.)

Cullen eyes it curiously -- but it's not his sword. Instead he unsheathes his own and reaches for a cloth to give it a cleaning it doesn't need.

But the routine is meditative, and he's sitting next to Alistair. It's the kind of task that's easy to focus on, so his mind doesn't wander into what-ifs.

Some moments in, Alistair begins to hum, softly.

There's not much of a tune attached to it; if anything, it sounds like what you'd get if one of Maryden's songs crashed headlong into a more obscure portion of the Chant. The tune's not the point. Alistair's content enough to be humming: that's the point.

He only pauses for as long as it takes to check the blade, then resumes again.

Some of the tension in Cullen's shoulders loosens. A bit.

"Does this count as a wedding present," he asks his blade. He is not smirking.

Alistair breaks into snickers.

"It can," he says, cheerfully, as he looks up from the sword.