howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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.

Josephine whisks into the room, then, and says loud enough for Cullen and Leliana to hear, Orlais and Ferelden are demanding that the negotiations resume this morning, with Inquisitor Lavellan in attendance. I have tried to hold them off, but I cannot do that without telling them --

It's all right, Josephine. Lavellan sounds beyond exhausted. Vivienne tsks under her breath; Sera mutters it bleeding well isn't under hers. Get started. I'll join as soon as I'm able. Vivienne will ensure I'm put together enough for Duke Cyril and Arl Teagan.

Do you mean your toilette, my dear, or ensuring you won't bleed out all over the carpets? Vivienne inquires. Cullen can't help but snort at that. Dorian's mustache twitches.

Both. Lavellan waits for Vivienne to lower her hands before grabbing Sera's hand, and squeezing. (Cullen has to look away for a moment.) Bull? Dorian? Can one of you fetch that rotten uniform one last time?

Sure, boss, Bull says easily, and slips out of the room. He squeezes Dorian's shoulder on the way. Gives a nod to Cullen.

Inquisitor, I appreciate your resolve, but if there's a chance you will show any physical weakness in front of the Exalted Council --

For just a moment, Lavellan's arm twitches -- like she wants to hold up her other hand to stop Josephine's words. A shadow falls across her face, quickly replaced by grim determination. You have my word, Ambassador. That shall not happen.

Cullen, watching this, can tell: Lavellan has a plan.

He doesn't need to be present at the Council. Word will escape quickly anyhow. Before he returns to Alistair, Cullen figures it would be well to have a word with Varric.

If there are any plans, he says to a point somewhere over Varric's shoulder, to -- bring the Inquisition to heel by force, especially the inner circle --

We'll get you out, Curly. The name isn't serious. Varric's tone is. And anyone else they want to shove the lyrium on. Our Nightingale's got demands on her attention. I've got my ear to the ground. He can see Varric grimace. If there's any way we can get this story a happy ending, I'm on it.

Not long after, Cullen appears on the balcony. He troubles to make noise, at the least, and -- because he can, because he has the chance -- rests a hand on Alistair's hip, meaning to pull Alistair back into his arms.

Alistair turns his head just enough to spot Cullen. He smiles, small but warm, and readily sinks back into Cullen's arms.

As he covers one of Cullen's hands with his own, he asks, quietly, "Any news?"

Cullen huffs a soft breath in what's mostly genuine amusement. "You could say that."

He tightens his hold, briefly. "The Mark's gone. Along with the rest of her left forearm. Dorian kept her alive until they returned, Vivienne's doing the rest. The Exalted Council, not being privy to those details, have demanded the talks resume. They're getting Lavellan together, and then..."

He shrugs. "We'll see. I think she has something in mind, though I've no idea what."

Cullen is genuinely unsure how to approach trying to explain the part about Solas. Doing the easy part first... seems wise.

Alistair exhales a long breath; somewhere in it is a hushed Maker.

"She's alive, though," he murmurs, as if to remind himself. "...I'm sure Sera's not too pleased about putting her in front of the Council so soon."

There might be arrows in a few choice hats if they're not careful.

"Lavellan didn't give her much of a choice." Mildly. "Though I suspect it was closer than anyone's comfortable speaking of, which may have muted Sera, a little. She and Vivienne were practically courteous to each other."

Cullen turns his head long enough to kiss Alistair's cheek before resettling.

"There's more." And that's a little awkward. "I don't have a lot of the details -- not yet. All I have is what Dorian was able to tell me, and he got that from Lavellan while he was trying to keep her alive. Remember the bit about the elven gods being magisters? And how one of them is Fen'Harel, the trickster, who sealed the rest away?"

One more moment. One more. Because Cullen doesn't figure Alistair is going to react well to the part where Solas put up the Veil and is probably going to attempt to tear it back down.

"That's Solas."

Alistair's forehead wrinkles sharply. Confused, he turns around in Cullen's arms.

"Wait, what?"

Cullen meets his gaze, steady.

"Solas is the entity who became known as Fen'Harel. He lived in ancient Arlathan, and led a rebellion against the rest of what the Dalish believe to be the pantheon. This resulted in the creation of the Veil. It's no wonder he took an interest in the Inquisition, given the rifts."

Alistair's mouth opens and closes a few times.

"That," he manages at last, rather weakly, "explains much more than I expected."

A beat.

"Except for how he's not wrinkly." A slightly shorter beat. "No, wait. Elf god. Gods don't get wrinkly. I guess. They just go bald. What?"

Dry: "I agree. He's remarkably well-preserved."

Alistair barks out a laugh that's only a little shrill, then thunks his head down onto Cullen's shoulder.

"You weren't joking about there being news. Maker's breath, Cullen."

Automatically he sinks his hand into Alistair's hair. It's a protective gesture.

"There's more."

That's softer. Almost apologetic.

"Solas... was the one who took off Lavellan's hand. Not out of malice. To stop it from killing her. But apparently he intends to restore the Arlathan of old. At the cost of... everything else."

"...How do you mean?"

Alistair's gone still. There's something about Cullen's tone that itches at the back of his neck; makes his stomach drop an inch lower.

"To remake the old world, he has to destroy this one."

Cullen's words are careful.

"It will take him some time. That's what I gather. And that's why his agents got in the way of the Qunari -- something about how he'd rather the world live freely until it's destroyed."

Pause.

"He had -- has, perhaps -- several agents in the Inquisition. They're the ones who found the Qunari agents, and led us to discover the dead one."

"Well."

Quiet. Steady, albeit with effort.

"What's one more apocalypse on top of the two we've already survived?"

Slowly he strokes Alistair's hair.

"Ancient elves are far easier to kill than dragons." Softly. "If the Arbor Wilds taught us anything, it's that. And Solas did not anticipate Corypheus. Or darkspawn. We have a good chance of averting this well before it turns into an apocalypse."

Alistair nods, without lifting his head from Cullen's shoulder.

"Good thing we've had all that practice." Dryly.

"Yes." Low, and a little amused. Just a little.

"I don't think... this isn't something that can be won with an army. It may not change our plans, in the short term." Beat. "Not least because apparently the Inquisition's covered in enemy agents."

Alistair grimaces at that. He links his hands at the small of Cullen's back, settling more comfortably against him.

"I'll assume the honeymoon is still on until I hear otherwise, then," he says, not much louder, and kisses the side of Cullen's neck.

His head tilts to the side a little; he can't help it. "I certainly hope so."

"Good."

He closes his eyes.

Whispered directly into Cullen's ear: "Should we still prepare to run, if we need to?"

"Rather be prepared than not," Cullen returns, low. He gently massages Alistair's scalp with his fingertips. "Lavellan's got some kind of plan in mind for the Council. I wouldn't trust to her temper at the moment."

Oh, that feels nice.

"Mm." Another light kiss to Cullen's throat. "I've packs ready for us just in case, then. Geoffrey has a place of honor. We'll be safe."

A soft sigh. His eyelids shouldn't feel this heavy.

"Thank you." Barely audible, now.

"You're welcome," he whispers.

Alistair lifts his head, then, and touches his forehead to Cullen's.

"How are you doing?"