howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"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.

But not to move it away.

He's not alone for now. Alistair won't leave him -- for now. He'll have to think about what that means for him, once Alistair goes -- if it's something he can stand. But it's something that'll happen more than five minutes into the future.

So Cullen can let it go. He relaxes against Alistair, finally, and lets his eyes close.

All right. That's -- good. That's a start.

Alistair sighs again, quieter, as he draws Cullen close. I love you, he whispers against his hair.

Lavellan isn't dead yet. There's still a chance. It might be a foolish hope, but Alistair's always been good at playing the fool. And like he said, all they can do is work with what they have until they know more.

What they have: their love. Each other. A room of their own that, for now, remains quiet.

He repeats the words over and over in his head. I love you. I love you.

Cullen drifts. It's not something he gets to do often, but -- as happens -- Alistair is keeping watch.

So Cullen drifts.

"You're handsome." Nearly slurred with sleep. "'N what Josephine chose."

Alistair exhales a startled laugh, more breath than sound.

"Definitely all Josephine's doing," he murmurs. He smooths his hand along Cullen's back. "But thank you, love."

A beat.

"Would you like to sleep in an actual bed?"

Silence.

"Couldn't hurt." Mumbled.

"All right." Still with that thread of laughter: fond, loving. "I'll carry you if you're too comfortable to move."

Or too concerned with looking dignified.

"'M not an invalid," he grouses, pushing himself off of Alistair and onto his feet, taking the blanket with him. "'N you'd never let me hear the end of it."

Called it. Alistair stifles another laugh.

"No cheesy songs about carrying you across the whole of Thedas, then," he says as he ambles after Cullen. "Understood."