howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

(no subject)

You'll have to make a decision quickly. Either don't come home and meet me in Halamshiral, or come home and have a day or two before turning for Orlais. They've called an Exalted Council. Josephine, Lavellan, and I must speak for the Inquisition in front of Orlais, Ferelden, and Divine Victoria. Two of those parties appear to be hostile to our continued existence. I will leave it to you to contemplate which two.

Be safe, Alistair, and go with my love.

Cullen doesn't bother signing it.

The library is silent. No one is in the rotunda -- Solas's rotunda, he thinks, even after all this time. There are always people in the yard, but many fewer than before.

(It's downright lonely, when Alistair travels. Cullen will never complain to him. Not after the last few years.)

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"Which means us resting and me not talking may not be a terrible idea."

(It's only a little sheepish.)

"Why, it's almost as though the last few days haven't been restful at all."

Cullen kisses the top of Alistair's head.

"I have one very simple request."

He yawns, not even bothering to stifle it.

"No Qunari invasions on the honeymoon."

"...I have no control over that, Alistair." Amused -- despite himself.

"Damn." He heaves a sigh. "Oh well. Worth a try."

He squeezes Cullen.

"Love you anyway."

"I love you," he says into Alistair's hair. "Now shh."

He chuckles softly, mumbles, "Yes, ser," and subsides. Eventually, he slips into a light doze.

It turns out to be a less than peaceful rest.

Unencumbered by conscious thought, the vague itch he'd been feeling coheres, the pieces Cullen left unsaid finally slotting together. Solas created the Veil. The Veil didn't exist in Arlathan.

Solas wants to return the world to how it was in the time of Arlathan.

The dream hits like a blow to the head, quick, intense, and vivid: the faint scar in the sky explodes outward like ink drops in water, coloring everything a sickly green. There's no way of getting home this time. This is home. This is Thedas, swallowed by the Fade, and there will be no hope of escape as reality bends around itself and demons swarm over them like locusts.

He twitches in his sleep, struggling to breathe.

Cullen, drifting pleasantly in and out of consciousness, comes back into focus as Alistair twitches.

"Alistair." Low, careful, as he rests a hand on Alistair's head. "Alistair, wake up."

Alistair shudders.

"Please," he begs in a cracking whisper. "Please, no."

"Alistair." Sharper, but only a little. "You're safe. You're with me. Wake up." Cullen takes Alistair's hand, and squeezes it.

How much can Cullen do, though? How much can any of them do?

There's nowhere safe. Not if --

He opens his eyes, blinded by panic, laboring for each breath. Cullen's here and Cullen's holding him, but there's nothing he can do. Gripped with the utter certainty that one of those green tendrils of light will smash through the ceiling at any moment, he buries his face against Cullen, unable to say anything coherent but Maker, Maker.

(It hasn't been this bad for a while.)

And all Cullen can do is bring both arms around him. One hand smooths up and down Alistair's back.

On any other day, hearing Alistair call to the Maker might spur Cullen to murmur some of the Chant. Not today. Not after last night.

"Are you with me?" he asks instead. "Are you here?"

Alistair shakes his head, tensing further. "It's not all right," he manages, thin and desperate.

His breathing's not as erratic as it was a minute ago, however.

"No immediate threat," he returns, calm and -- official. If Alistair won't respond to his husband, he might respond to a commanding officer.

Still, he rubs Alistair's back, slow and even. "What do you see?"

It helps. The soldier part of his mind snaps to attention; too weak yet to fight off all the panic, but strong enough to hear what Cullen's saying -- and believe it.

He doesn't move, but he can answer in a marginally more steady voice. "He's torn down the Veil."

"No. He hasn't." Sunlight is still pouring in the windows. It's a lovely day. "Look out the window, Alistair. You don't need to move."

All the while, of course, Cullen is silently cursing. Of all the things to happen now --

Well.

The first step is restoring Alistair to himself.

Slowly, Alistair turns his head enough to peek at the window.

His eyes well up; he closes them again, weary, and rests his head against Cullen's chest. After a long moment, he even manages a nod.

Cullen rests a protective hand on Alistair's head, and lets the moment stretch, quiet and still. Then, slow and deliberate, he begins to stroke Alistair's hair.

More gently, he asks again, "Are you here?"

"Yes."

Very quiet. He squeezes his eyes tighter, briefly, to keep the tears at bay.

His fingers thread through Alistair's hair like a meditation. Cullen keeps his breathing even, and steady.

Softly:

"What do you need?"

Alistair doesn't answer right away.

"That's what he's going to do, isn't it."

Hollow.

"If he wants to take everything back to the time of Arlathan."

Cullen thinks about this for a moment, because he desperately does not want to say yes, that's about the size of it.

"You've spent time in old elven ruins," he says finally. "Really old ones. Not the ones from the time of the Dales. From what they've told me about what it's like in the Fade... the ruins like those in the Arbor Wilds couldn't have functioned in the Fade. They're normal buildings. Meaning that even if he should succeed -- it won't be like that."

"The Fade can work however it wants," he mutters. "Could've...saved the buildings. I don't know."

He's trying to focus on Cullen's fingers in his hair, Cullen's arms around him. Anything but what might be waiting for them outside.

Cullen breathes in. Breathes out.

"If the Fade can work however it wants," quietly, "the Veil would never have functioned as it has. It would have been impossible for Lavellan to close the rifts. Things have rules, Alistair. It's just a matter of finding them and learning to work with them."

A long beat.

Grudgingly, Alistair mumbles, "You have a point."