Cullen (
howtoactfereldan) wrote2017-10-23 10:14 pm
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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.)
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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"But you could. If you wanted."
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A beat.
"I could be in favor of taking our new friend back to our quarters to settle in, though."
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He squeezes Cullen gently.
"And you may consider me successfully indulged. Come on, love."
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Softly, he says, "It'll be better once we're not... surrounded by people. At Skyhold. And after."
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"Can I do anything in the meantime?" he asks. "Besides chase away any callers?"
They begin the walk back to their quarters, the mabari joyfully trotting among at their heels. So what if he's not allowed into this "bedroom" place? HE'S STILL GOT NEW FRIENDS.
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"I'm fine." Still soft. "Besides -- you've got someone to look after."
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"I'm fine," he says again, helplessly. "Please."
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"All right," he says, no louder. Staying quiet the rest of the way back to their house seems prudent: Alistair doesn't say anything else, but neither does he pull away.
(He feels -- unsteady again. Unsure. Perhaps he hasn't regained as much of his balance as he thought, after the nightmare knocked him askew.)
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He needs space. Space to think. To react. Everything's changing out from under him. There's something else for Alistair's focus.
Thank the Maker for that.
"I'm -- going to lie down," Cullen says hesitantly as they enter their quarters. "I need... some time alone. Please?"
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The dog circles Alistair's feet; thumps his hindquarters against the ground, gazing up at him. Alistair stretches a hand down to scratch the mabari behind the ears.
"I'll be here." He chances another tiny, lopsided smile. "Rest well."
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"I'll try." Beat. "Let's avoid fleas on the furniture?" His turn for a tiny smile as he nods to the mabari.
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Alistair leans to peck Cullen on the cheek.
"I'll give him another to be safe." When that gets an alarmed whine from the mabari, Alistair corrects himself: "Or I'll just keep him off the furniture?"
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The mabari barks agreement.
Lifting his chin toward the bedroom, Alistair adds, "Go enjoy your lie-down. I love you."
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Boots off.
He sits at the foot of the bed with his face in his hands, silently shaking.
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"Yes. I agree," he says, putting on a deliberately cheery tone. "We should find a few good toys for you that won't shatter anything when we both start galumphing about."
OH BOY. The mabari barks again, dancing in place with anticipation.
"Come on, then," says Alistair, and leads him along to find a good stick or a length of rope somewhere in the house.
Once they've had a few good rounds of tug-of-war -- well out of earshot of the bedroom -- Alistair murmurs to the mabari, Cullen may grumble sometimes, but he means well. He's a kind man at heart. Don't hold it against him, yes?
Somehow, the mabari manages to bark sotto voce, which sounds like a localized rumble of thunder deep in his chest.
Good boy.
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Cullen could answer that question. Now he's faced with it again. If he isn't the commander of the Inquisition's forces, what is he? What does he mean?
What was it all for?
Rylen. What will Rylen do? Rylen is still on the lyrium, as is Belinda Darrow and a few dozen other former templars. The Inquisition made arrangements for them. Now what will they do? The very lack of it is what made Samson. They can't just -- take all of that away. Not without unacceptable consequences.
What about the Wardens? Did Hawke make it to the Anderfels? There's been no word from Weisshaupt. Josephine was heard to remark that King Wilhelm's court has been awfully silent, even for them. What if the Venatori sympathizers who presumably were the ones to kill Halward Pavus get Dorian too, and all the rest of his Lucerni?
What will happen when Cullen's reason -- his excuse -- to ignore all of that walks into the earth, willingly, straight to his own death?
What is Cullen supposed to do with a pack of mabari that's imprinted on Alistair?
Why can't Cullen just -- let go and enjoy sex enough to keep Alistair from pulling away from him, again?
He huddles on the bed, rocking back and forth, the side of his hand between his teeth to keep himself from keening.
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Soon enough, they've sprawled out next to the fireplace, Alistair gnawing on some bread he rescued from the pantry, the mabari snoring gently in his sleep. Mabari make fairly good pillows, Alistair decides. Not nearly as good as Cullen, but they'll do in a pinch.
...He knows better than to check on Cullen. Give the man the time apart that he needs; don't hover and fuss. But every few minutes, Alistair finds himself glancing toward the hallway that leads to the bedroom.
Maybe he'll put a kettle on in a bit. Just to have something ready.
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But he looks down at his hand, after a while, and sees the teeth marks dark and angry. He looks at the bed.
He crawls up the bed, slowly, and turns on his side, curling up tight. Maybe he can just... sleep it off. It's been a while since the time loss has hit quite like this, Cullen thinks, unutterably weary.
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Patting the mabari on the side -- he twitches, grumbles, then goes back to sleep -- Alistair hefts himself up to amble for the kitchen. Maybe a full tray, if he can find a way to elevate it off the ground? No, he decides. Too overbearing.
A kettle (wrapped in a warmer), a cup, and a few selections of tea from the cabinets, though: that seems good.
Soon enough, he's wandering to the bedroom with the tray of tea accouterments in hand. There's a little decorative table near the door, holding a vase of flowers and little else. Alistair nudges them aside to set the tray there.
And hesitates.
(Don't knock. Don't bother him. Cullen will come out when he's ready, and the first thing that greets him will be a cup of tea he can either partake of or ignore as he wishes.)
Even after he's made his decision not to knock, Alistair hovers a moment longer.
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He's got a meeting at the end of the day. He needs to be together before then.
Without troubling to be quiet, he puts on his boots. Rises. Goes to splash water on his face. It helps, even if it won't cover his red-rimmed eyes (or the faint marks on his hands).
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