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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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."

A low, warm laugh. Cullen tightens his hold on Alistair for a moment. "Thank you for saying so."

A twitch of a smile, as Alistair tries to snuggle even closer.

"You say smart things and I compliment you on the smart things. That's how this works."

He presses a kiss to Alistair's forehead. "Good to know."

"I may not sleep particularly well during the honeymoon."

Low; resigned.

"I'm sorry, love."

"You're worse than I am." Lightly. "Apologizing where none's needed, and before the thing even happens? Impressive."

Despite himself, Alistair huffs out an amused breath.

"I'm a man of many talents, I suppose."

Cullen lets his hand drift down to Alistair's rear end again. "I'd agree with that."

"...My arse isn't a talent, Cullen."

Starting to snicker outright, now.

"Have you never seen a bad one, then?" Cullen inquires, deeply innocent. "Are you trying to say you haven't cultivated yours?"

"I could argue," says Alistair, "that it's the act of cultivation that's a talent, not the end result. You can say someone's a talented sculptor, but not that they made a talented sculpture."

Edited 2018-02-12 03:34 (UTC)