howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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.)

"Yes." Dry. "Technically speaking, you know, Skyhold is between here and South Reach. You can trust either Harritt or Dagna with it."

"I could, true."

Distractedly, Alistair runs a hand through his hair.

"Harritt might faint first, but he'll treat it well. Do you think Dagna will try to talk me into turning it into a flaming sword? A flaming sword might be fun, just -- not that one. Probably."

"Smith Caste."

He squeezes Alistair, just a little.

"Innovation is good, but tradition is better. Isn't that something of how it goes?"

The squeeze seems to draw Alistair back to himself. He looks up at Cullen, shaping another small smile.

"Something like that, yes. I think. ...Of course if any dwarf were prone to ignoring tradition, it's Dagna, but still."

"She loves experimentation." Sunlight is streaming through the windows; the buttery light calms his jangled nerves, just a little bit. "But not at the cost of doing something a friend asks her not to do."

"Also true."

His smile grows a fraction; he tips his head toward the chaise in silent query.

Downstairs, he'd meant, when he suggested they go wait together for news.

But Cullen wavers.

In response, he drapes his coat over the arm and sets his back against it, pulling his legs up on the cushions. "Indulge me?" he says, quiet. "I'm not a terrible backrest."

Alistair chuckles. "Rather the opposite, I'd say."

He takes a seat, nestling close until his back is flush with Cullen's chest, and lets out a contented sigh.

"And I'm always happy to indulge you, love."

Cullen brings his arms around Alistair, and tightens his hold.

"Much better," he mumbles into Alistair's collar.