howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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?"

Cullen shrugs a little.

"Fine. I want a conclusion. Shouldn't be much longer."

He leans in and kisses Alistair light, soft.

"Come with me to wait on the news?"

A tiny smile forms. "Of course."

He slips one arm around Cullen's waist to lead him inside.

"I'll wait with you anywhere."

Cullen breathes out -- and reaches out, snagging his usual mantle as they pass through.

A sidelong look at Alistair. "You packed the sword, yes?"

"Yes," he confirms. "Do you want it closer at hand?"

Cullen laughs quietly and shakes his head.

"I just don't want to leave it in Orlais if we can help it."

"Ah."

He smiles, a touch sheepish, as he hitches his shoulders into a shrug.

"Good, because I think it's still more useful for bonking people on the head right now. We'll need more time at the blacksmith's at...some point. Eventually. Between the completely uneventful end of the Council and the not end of the world, hopefully."

(That little itch at the back of his neck has grown stronger. Quietly, some subconscious part of Alistair continues to prod at what Cullen said earlier. About Solas. About Arlathan.)