howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

And how pleasing to hear; Alistair sighs, deeply contented, as he melts against Cullen.

"Husband Commander." Dreamily. "Could hear you say that all day."

"If you say words too much, they start to lose their meaning. Can't have that." He squeezes Alistair's hand. "Won't."

With an audible smile:

"'I love you' hasn't lost its meaning yet, has it? And I say it all the time."

"Yes, but you don't just repeat it over and over for hours." Fond.

Alistair chuckles. "That's fair," he murmurs, and gives Cullen another soft squeeze. "I promise I won't repeat 'husband' for hours on end either."

He'll just say it in his head a lot. Husband. Husband. Yep, never getting old.

"Appreciated, Theirin." He lifts Alistair's hand for another kiss.

"Always the best for you, my love."

He settles more comfortably against Cullen, letting the conversation drift into silence. (The best, in this case, also includes Alistair taking his designated five minutes a day to shut up for a bit.)

Alistair has him, safe.

It's perhaps going to be the last time for a while that Cullen won't have to run on adrenaline. And he knows from experience: you sleep when you can, in a situation like this.

It doesn't take him long to slip off, all things considered.

Looks like those designated five minutes will go on for a little longer. He doesn't mind one bit.

Alistair presses one more gentle kiss to the nape of Cullen's neck. He hasn't needed to keep watch -- truly keep watch -- for a good while now; still, he feels a faint echo whenever Cullen falls asleep and Alistair finds he isn't tired at all. That same protective swell, without the fear and anxiety that used to hamper it: rest, love. I'm here.

(Funny how he fears a real threat of Qunari invasion way less than Fade monsters suddenly materializing in their room.)

He listens to Cullen's breathing. Listens to the murmurs of city life tracing back and forth outside their house.

And far too soon, there's a knock at the door.

"Commander?"

Immediately, Cullen's eyes open. If he doesn't flinch, all credit is due to Alistair: there's nothing to be frightened of in this place.

He pulls away, sits up, reaches for his tunic. "Yes." The word is calm, authoritative. "One moment."

He does make sure to kiss Alistair quite soundly before doing up the final button, and going down to hear the bad news.

It's bad.

Josephine immediately dispatches a letter to Kont-aar, in northern Rivain, as the closest settlement under the jurisdiction of Par Vollen, inquiring as to whether the Qunari had formally declared war on Orlais, the Inquisition, the south, or anyone else. Leliana's inquiries bear fruit: additional gaatlok in Val Royeaux, Denerim, Jader, any city of any consequence in Thedas.

Cullen sees Lavellan's hand spark. Sees Lavellan flinch, and try to squeeze her wrist into submission.

Their guard are on alert, minding the eluvian. The Orlesian guard has swept the Winter Palace, finding no more gaatlok.

The sun sets by the time Cullen ascends the stairs in search of -- well. He's supposed to be in search of something to eat, for a dinner break, while Lavellan is off through the mirrors again.

Sera's down by the water, chucking pebbles in one by one. Each one has a pretty impressive wind-up that telegraphs exactly how she feels about being left out of the proceedings. She doesn't look at Alistair when he takes a seat a few feet away, but she does pause mid-throw, and the pebble doesn't make quite as big a splash when she sends it winging.

Heard your bells last night. He keeps it casual. Congratulations.

Sera slants a glance over; her mouth quirks, small but real. Got her name and everything now, she says, chucking another pebble in. All official-like. Then the lopsided smile vanishes: Don't have her, not yet. Not like I want to run around in those mirrors anyway, but I want her.

Isn't that a familiar tune. Alistair's turn to smile halfheartedly, crooked with sympathy. Yes, he agrees. It'd be an awful honeymoon...but still.

Sera's next pebble hits the water with a plunk so loud it echoes off the wall. Alistair watches the ripples spread. He glances to the pile of stones next to Sera; on closer inspection, they look much smoother than ordinary gravel. Like she yanked little marble bits out of the walls of Halamshiral herself.

Alistair wouldn't be surprised if she did.

Want to take those -- he gestures to the pebbles, -- hide in the rafters of that fancy heated pool, and see how many Orlesians we can splash before anyone notices?

This time, Sera turns her full attention to him...and her smile spreads across her face, sweetly wicked.

The answer to that question: twenty-seven.

Maybe Alistair has a career as a Red Jenny if that whole relaxing-life-in-the-Fereldan-countryside thing doesn't pan out.

When Cullen returns, Alistair's curled up in their bed, dozing -- and there's a full tray of food waiting on the bedside table.

(If Cullen managed to eat anything today, Alistair will eat his hat. Or maybe one of Teagan's hats.)

Off comes the tunic. Cullen tosses it on the chaise, and steps quietly into the bedroom.

And smiles, tired, a little relieved.

Carefully he sits beside Alistair. Runs his fingers through Alistair's hair.

"Mmm."

Alistair stirs; begins to smile, without opening his eyes, as he stretches into Cullen's touch.

"Shh." Warm, quiet. "Sleep." Threading his fingers through, over and over.

"...s'okay?' he mumbles, squinting one eye open a crack.

Well. No.

"For now."

He brushes the back of his fingers down Alistair's cheek.

A soft sigh; he closes his eyes again. "M'kay."

A beat.

"Eat...things," he adds in a mumble, wiggling a finger or three in the vague direction of the tray. "Love you."

Cullen laughs softly. "Promise. I love you, husband."

At least he can have this. No idea how long it'll last, but --

Alistair beams, sleepily. "Gonna kiss you when I wake up," he says -- though how much of that is understandable may be up for debate.

Then he's out again like a candle in a sharp breeze.

Enough. That's how much.

If Alistair is sleeping that easily, he shouldn't interfere. Slowly his smile fades.

He should get something from the tray and return to the cellars. Should check in with the guard. Should do -- lots of things.

The longer he sits here, the more likely it is he'll wake Alistair. Cullen closes his eyes for a moment, then carefully eases off the bed. Bread and cheese will do. Something simple. Easy.

An indeterminate time later, a vague discomfort nudges the back of Alistair's mind. It drifts along, drawing Alistair's attention even before it coalesces into coherent thought.

Shouldn't Cullen be in bed by now?

He was here. It was dark enough that -- in theory -- the meetings should've been over. Did he get called away again? Why didn't Alistair hear it?

His brow furrows. Alistair opens his eyes.

It's safe enough to be out on the balcony again, he supposes. Given that there is no threat from the Qun. Officially, anyway.

Cullen sits in the same spot as last night -- an unfathomable gulf of time away, it feels like. Once more he's shed the hateful tunic. For good, hopefully.

When Lavellan is dead --

Cullen closes his eyes, makes himself breathe, and begins, quietly, to recite from Transfigurations.

Alistair sits up. Glances to the balcony.

(Relaxes, visibly, at the sight of the familiar shape outside.)

Cullen's murmuring doesn't become audible until Alistair's nearly to the balcony door. He slows, stopping just outside the threshold; at least it's not Trials, he thinks as he recognizes a snatch of verse.

He doesn't interrupt. He never does when Cullen prays -- wouldn't even think of it.

Alistair might well recognize this one: it's the section sung at funerals, and in remembrance of the dead.

"...And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword."

Cullen rubs at his eyes, and mutters, "Except for the part with the elven gods. -- Maker's breath, and not even them."

Alistair brought up the celebratory bottle of brandy, and Cullen knows he shouldn't touch any of it, but right now it sounds better than anything he can imagine.

Not Trials, but...not much better. And then there's the aside at the end -- and Alistair wavers, briefly, wondering if he should go back to bed and pretend he didn't hear any of this.

He stays put.

"Cullen?" Soft.