howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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."

That gets the disgusted noise it so roundly deserves. Cullen yanks back the blankets and shoves himself in them, burrowing under them (and under the couch blanket, tossed on top) like a bear ready for hibernation.

Alistair flops alongside and pulls back a corner of the blanket pile.

"Room for another under here?"

"Try it and find out," Cullen mutters. Ominously.

Well, with an offer like that!

Another soft laugh, and Alistair squirms his way under the blankets, immediately hooking an arm around Cullen's waist once he's settled.

Cullen responds in kind, resting his head against Alistair's chest with a sigh.

When they knock, he'll answer. He'll be ready. But he doesn't have to be ready yet.

Alistair drops a light kiss onto the top of Cullen's head.

"Get some rest," he whispers. "I'll be here."

Cullen slips his hand up to finger a stray lock of Alistair's hair.

Mumbled: "What about you?"

"I promise I'll get some rest as well." He quirks a tiny smile. "Won't keep watch for longer than we need."

Cullen shakes his head a little.

"Have to be ready to run." Even softer. "Promise me you'll rest enough."

The smile fades.

"I promise." No louder.

The anxieties of years feel like they're weighing on him, all at once. And they'll all be brought to light in the morning.

The thought is exhausting.

Cullen sleeps. Fitfully, but he sleeps.

So does Alistair, in time. He wakes every time Cullen stirs; waits until his husband has settled back into sleep before joining him there. If they have to move quickly, Alistair knows he can do it on limited sleep. Look at those months in the Fade.

...All right, that's a terrible comparison, but the point stands: he can safely stay awake a little longer than strictly necessary and still be ready to run.

(They will not chain him. Alistair will fight back the combined forces of Ferelden and Orlais all on his own, if it keeps Cullen free.)

The knock comes just as the sky begins to go gray.

"Commander!" The voice is urgent, the knocking loud. "The Inquisitor's returned! They need you downstairs immediately!"

Cullen's eyes spring open.

Alistair's awake by the first knock. He lifts his head; when the person on the other side of the door speaks, he stops breathing for a beat.

They wouldn't say the Inquisitor's back if it were just a body. They'd say the Inquisitor's party is back. Or list them by name. Or any number of things that didn't imply --

Already pulling away from Cullen, already sitting up, he breathes almost too soft to be heard: "She's alive?"

Cullen hears it.

He shoves a hand through his hair, turns away from Alistair, and picks up his boots. He doesn't bother putting them on before going to the door. It's not Charter on the other side -- it's Fletcher, and there's a hard gleam in her eyes.

"She lives?" he asks her, low and urgent.

No louder: "Yes, Commander. Qunari threat's ended as well. They've got more for you downstairs."

Cullen leans against the door frame and starts pulling on his boots. He chances a look at Alistair -- and there: something that's not quite a smile, but could lead to one, given enough time to grow.

"Be ready, Theirin." Softly, as he straightens. "Don't forget Geoffrey."

One corner of his mouth lifts fractionally, as if answering Cullen's not-quite-a-smile. "I would never."

She's alive. That doesn't mean they're wholly in the clear, but -- the worst probably won't come to pass. Alistair's gone a little weak-kneed with relief.

"We'll be here."

Not even the blatant display of intense magic occurring in front of her will pry Sera from Lavellan's side. Vivienne, it seems, can be trusted with something so singular and precious as Lavellan's life, so Sera has consented not to touch her while Vivienne works. Cullen can hear Sera muttering to her, though none of the specifics are clear.

(For her part, Vivienne doesn't shoo Sera away, even though Cullen's seen enough healers at work to know Sera's hovering is a distraction at best. Thank the Maker for the focus of the Knight-Enchanters.)

Leliana looks up from where she's huddled with Dorian and Bull, and nods; the Divine's miter is on a side table, and just that simple shift makes her more Sister Nightingale than Divine Stabbity. He knows that nod: there's news, but no emergency.

Cullen waits until Dorian slips next to him -- Leliana and Bull continue talking, likely about the Qunari's response or something like that -- to say, softly, She'll live?

Dorian looks profoundly ruffled. The points of his mustache are fraying, could use more wax. It's not a productive thing to tell him, Cullen figures. Fasta vass, it was close. She stumbled back through that last eluvian after ten minutes, having lost the Mark somewhere along the way. Before Cullen can ask for more detail, Dorian continues. Along with the rest of her forearm. Just before she lost consciousness, she told us -- Solas. It was Solas.

What?

It gets better, Dorian says, hushing his voice even further. The drop in volume doesn't do anything to disguise the acid in his tone, nor the faint horror underlying it. He's the original elven trickster, you see. The one they called Fen'Harel. The Dread Wolf. The one who built the Fade -- and the one who plans to tear it down and restore the old elven empire of Arlathan.

Cullen stares at Dorian.

Dorian's gaze slides to Bull, just for a moment. The Qunari were after Solas the whole time -- and the Inquisition, for aiding him. You see? He folds his arms -- as though to hold warmth in, not project stoic ire out. That's... nearly all we could get from her, after. We'd just fought a small horde, you see, including a Qunari saarebas who'd taken too much lyrium and fought far better than Corypheus himself. The best I could do... He presses his lips together. Well. She returned alive. I expect I shan't find lizards in my bed, at the very least. Vivienne's much better at this sort of thing. Who knows? Sera might exempt her from lizards for at least
the next month.

Alistair and I said vows, Cullen finds himself saying after a long moment, and he found a bottle of brandy afterward, and if I'd been thinking at all I'd have brought it down.

No one is perfect, my dear Commander. At least there's a touch of insouciance back in Dorian's manner. But find me before I depart. We'll drink to your vows -- as long as you buy.

The worst probably won't come to pass, but there's still a chance. Even if the best comes to pass -- well. Considering the best is we get out of Orlais and settle into a nice quiet life in the Fereldan countryside, it behooves Alistair to get their packs ready anyway.

He gathers their things. Tidies the house. Ducks into the kitchen to grab some provisions. (One of those is a small jar of jam; creature comforts won't hurt if things angle toward the 'worse' side.) Not much to do but wait once all that's done: Alistair goes onto the balcony, rests his elbows on the rail, and watches the sunlight spread over the horizon.

The stables aren't too far. Three minutes at a sprint with a heavy pack, he figures. Alistair closes his eyes, mentally plotting a course in his head.