howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"Cullen -- "

He straightens up. Alistair doesn't move closer to Cullen, but he does hold out a hand, entreating, as concern wrinkles his brow.

"What is it?"

He ignores Alistair's hand in favor of rubbing his own forehead. "I don't know." Softly. "I don't want to be -- trouble."

(He nearly said noticed.)

"You're not." Still soft; still bewildered. He lets his hand drop to the chaise. "You never are. It's all right."

Oh, he thinks, distant. I never am. So that's what this is.

"I'm frightened again." Soft, soft. "The kind that just -- comes. Don't worry."

Alistair nods, silent for a moment.

No louder, then: "Will it help if I stay?"

He glances up then, swiftly. (He can't quite hide the fear.) "If you have something you need to do -- "

"I don't."

Carefully, he scoots an inch closer, ready to retreat to his side of the chaise if Cullen flinches.

"Nothing but staying here with you."

It's rare that Cullen's atavistic fear of abandonment in the face of peril kicks in quite like this, but when it does --

(Well. When it does, it's strategically inadvisable to do anything that might make someone abandon you. It's strategically inadvisable to be any trouble at all.)

"You're sure?"

"Very."

He chances a small smile, and moves another inch closer.

Cullen looks away. Does his best to repress a shiver. "It's cold," he mumbles. "It's fine."

That -- does not do much to alleviate Alistair's worry. With effort, he pushes away the frown threatening to form.

Instead: closer, by a few more inches, so he can reach to touch Cullen's elbow. "I can fetch us a blanket off the bed," he murmurs. "It's no trouble."

He doesn't quite meet Alistair's eyes. "If -- if it isn't. If you're sure."

"I'm sure." Gently, he squeezes Cullen's elbow. "Be right back."

It only takes a moment to grab one of the blankets off their bed; he's back quickly, settling shoulder-to-shoulder with Cullen and draping the blanket over both of them. "There."

He sits like a piece of furniture. Quietly, Cullen thanks Alistair, and hunches further into himself.

"You're welcome." No louder.

He drapes an arm around Cullen's shoulders, loose enough that he can pull away if he wants.

He doesn't. But Cullen doesn't lean into Alistair, either.

"They had slaves." Still small. "That's what the markings were for. To show which one they belonged to. The elven magisters."

Alistair can't follow Cullen's train of thought at first. He listens -- that's all he can do right now: listen -- but then it clicks, and his eyes widen.

"You mean the -- ?" (He can't remember what it's called. Valla-something. The elegant tattoos all the Dalish wear.) "Oh, Maker."

(The tattoos they wear with such pride. The way they set themselves apart; honor their ancestors; touch a history they lost ages ago.

And it's all a lie too.)

"What else did we get wrong?" Hollow.

His embrace tightens a fraction. "I don't know."

Maybe She had buck teeth, he remembers joking to Warden Cousland years and years ago. It doesn't seem too funny anymore.

A steadying breath. "But all we can do is the best we can with what we know. And if we learn we were wrong...we fix it."

Cullen shakes his head a little.

After a long moment:

"In times like this... I'd turn to the Chant. But -- why bother?"

His heart cracks.

Tears well in Alistair's eyes. He shifts beneath the blanket, turns to put both arms around Cullen and rest his head atop his.

He can't do anything else.

If this is something Alistair needs --

Well. At least Cullen is good for that much. At least this way he knows he hasn't been left alone.

He doesn't protest or pull away.

Thinned to breaking: "I'm so sorry."

For -- everything. For the cicumstances; for not being able to help; for not having enough faith of his own to lend Cullen a little.

(For not being able to fix this.)

Careful, tentative, Cullen presses his palm to Alistair's chest. He's not sure what to say; he's very sure anything he'd try to say would come out wrong.

Alistair breathes out, shakily, his body curving over Cullen's hand like it's holding him upright.

He unwinds one arm from around Cullen; covers his hand where it rests on his chest.