howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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.

Cullen gives him a quick, bright grin.

"It'll do until I find a companion for Geoffrey."

Alistair beams. Serenely: "I'd also accept finding Geoffrey a tiny felt sword to assist on his travels."

Cullen laughs softly. "Noted. I could make one if I had to."

"Still my favorite," Alistair declares, before giving Cullen another quick kiss on the cheek. Setting the whetstone aside, he scraps a thumbnail over one of the small rust patches near the tip of the blade; maybe he ought to pass that off to a professional, he thinks. No use removing the rust if he accidentally removes some of the etching with it.

"I wonder why Queen Anora thought it was appropriate." That's only a little dry. "Passing this along to the Inquisitor instead of keeping it at the palace. I suppose with Cailan being gone, and me plugging my ears and going 'la la la can't hear you' every time Maric's name came up...still, though."

He looks up.

"Did it happen while I was in the Fade?"

Cullen rubs the back of his neck. "Maybe? I can't quite remember. I found it somewhat... vexing."

Cullen is very good at understatement.

"So I'm afraid I was more focused on wondering how she dared."

"Understandably." He nudges Cullen in the side, gently. "Not saying she should have sought me out first -- I think I might've dove into a lake to hide if she had -- but if she'd at least hung it up in the palace somewhere, that'd be more understandable than saying 'would you like this priceless heirloom from the very first king of Ferelden? Take it, by all means!'"

Cullen laughs quietly. "Precisely. I'd no idea I felt quite so strongly about it all until it happened."

"Did you ever say anything to Lavellan about it?"