howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"Yes." He leans against Alistair -- more for comfort than out of exhaustion or anything like that.

More quietly:

"The operative has people in the Inquisition. We've been thoroughly infiltrated. And -- the Anchor has caught up with Lavellan. It's consuming her. She doesn't have much time."

"Oh, no."

Barely audible.

Alistair lets go of Cullen's hand, but only to put an arm around him, drawing him closer.

Eventually his thoughts will circle back to the first bit -- we've been thoroughly infiltrated -- but he's too struck by the news about Lavellan. He never thought of the Anchor like the Joining, granting you a way to fight the darkness until it destroys you from the inside out. He's seen more than one Warden-Commander off to the Deep Roads. It never gets easier, watching your leaders die one by one from the very thing that keeps Thedas safe.

And Lavellan, what she means to Cullen, everything she gave him --

He shuts his eyes, leaning his forehead against the side of Cullen's.

"Who knows what will happen now."

No louder. He's finally allowing himself to sound nearly as exhausted as he feels.

"Both factions are aware of the Qunari threat. They don't know about -- about the Inquisitor. Nobody's put the pieces together about the missing servants, but -- " Cullen presses the heel of one hand into his eye. "They'll try to carve us apart for their own purposes. Pick over the carcass before she's cold."

Hand drops. "At least she took Sera with her, this last time."

Alistair breathes out; nods.

(Maker. Sera. Did she know the Anchor was eating Lavellan alive? Is that why -- ?

Andraste's ass, can't any of them get a moment's peace?)

"There's no way to contain the Anchor?"

"The only one who knew anything about it was Solas." Cullen sounds a little bewildered. "Lavellan hasn't -- who was she supposed to ask? She never talked about it. Never brought it up."

"I don't know." A little helplessly. "Maybe someone -- I don't know."

Maybe if she'd talked about it. Maybe if Solas were still here. Unconsciously, Alistair tightens his embrace.

"Can't believe I actually want Solas around right now. Maker."

Low: "The other option was sending to Tevinter for someone who might know something. Like throwing a deer to the wolves. Out of the question."

"Completely," he agrees, no louder.

And then, fervent, but still quiet: "Damn it."

Under other circumstances, Cullen might try to say something sardonic. Might try to put on a stiff upper lip.

Nobody's watching except Orlesian gossips, and it's not as though they can do any more harm than what's assuredly coming.

"The miracles had to run out some time." He leans in against Alistair. "And the other thing she's uncovered -- she doesn't even have her gods with her. The Qunari say they're blaming the whole thing on agents of Fen'Harel -- who was real. With the rest of them. Elven magisters, who turned tyrant, before Tevinter ever existed. She's going to her death knowing everything her people taught her is a lie."

That's --

Barely audible: "Oh Maker."

It's a cruelty beyond comprehension; a betrayal too deep to fathom. The mere idea of it settles over Alistair like a weight and drags his gut lower. And to have it happen right when Lavellan might be trying to seek comfort in the face of her impending death?

There has to be some way to fix this, he thinks blindly, knowing very damn well there isn't. Won't ever be.

"With all luck she'll be too busy knifing the Ben-Hassrath to feel it," Cullen mutters.

A comfort so cold it isn't any comfort at all.

Alistair can't say anything. There's nothing to be said. Eyes burning, he leans his head atop Cullen's, watching the landscape below without seeing much.

"I suppose." His voice is thick. "There's little point in... staying on call. Like I've been all day."

She could still come back, protests a weak voice. (It sounds very young.)

"I suppose." His own voice isn't faring much better; he swallows, trying to clear it. "Should we go in?"

"We can. I don't -- it might be better. To be in private."

Alistair nods. Squeezes Cullen, gently, before unwinding his arm from around his shoulders.

"Come on, then," he whispers as he reaches for Cullen's hand.

Cullen seems something close to adrift as he lets Alistair pull him inside. A plain jacket, now; he starts to struggle out of it.

"At Haven." Slow. Careful. "At the end -- I told her. The only choice left was how spitefully we ended it." He closes his eyes for a moment. "I hope she listened."

Alistair helps Cullen out of the jacket; when it's done, he takes Cullen's face in both hands, touching their foreheads together.

(It's an anchor point. It helps, a little.)

"I'm sure she did," he whispers. "She's -- " She was? No. Not yet. "The sort to take that advice."

Cullen swallows a despairing laugh. "Yes, dropping a mountain on her enemies certainly points in that direction."

Alistair cracks a tiny, humorless smile. It fades quickly.

"Wish dropping something heavy on the Anchor would work as well as that."

Cullen pulls away -- he's tired, he doesn't want to stay on his feet. He goes to the chaise instead, dropping down, giving Alistair a look somewhere between despairing and pleading.

His mouth twists into a wince. "Sorry," he says, low and bleak, and moves to join Cullen. "I don't -- I don't have anything to say."

He leans his shoulder against Cullen's.

"Except the obvious. This is horrid."

"I can't think." His shoulders are slumped, head down. "And I can't stop thinking."

Alistair nods, helpless. He curls an arm around Cullen's waist.

"Can I -- help you think about anything else? If you're going to think?"

He leans, heavy, against Alistair, turning in toward him.

"I don't know." Barely audible. "I -- what would you -- do you have a plan?"