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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Cullen squeezes Alistair's hand. "Seems far more possible." A little amused, even. "And now you've got some leverage."

"Precisely." Laughing a little. "Our training's well under way."

The mabari barks agreement.

Lifting his chin toward the bedroom, Alistair adds, "Go enjoy your lie-down. I love you."

Cullen murmurs it in return, gives the mabari a brief scratch behind the ears, and retreats into the bedroom behind a closed door.

Boots off.

He sits at the foot of the bed with his face in his hands, silently shaking.

Alistair runs his hand through his hair and lets out a long, long sigh. He exchanges glances with the mabari; the dog wags his tail hopefully.

"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.

It's the same sort of sick yawing feeling that used to accompany the bad withdrawal nightmares. The feeling of being completely unmoored from everything and everyone. If he isn't a templar, what is he?

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.

A good meal and some vigorous playtime would wear anybody out, especially a mabari who's probably had to sit all prim and proper far away from his master's table for Maker knows how long. (...Oh, no, what if his master made him wear a mask? The thought's too horrifying for Alistair to contemplate for long.)

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.

He's worn out soon enough. Or -- well. He can't fairly say he knows how long it is.

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.

Yes. A kettle seems wise.

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.

Cullen drowses a little. Or perhaps he just loses time. It's hard to say. But at some point -- one he can't name; he hasn't been tracking the sun's progress across the sky through the shifting light -- he makes himself sit up.

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).

Huh. It sounds like Cullen's awake? Maybe?

Still, that "maybe" is just enough to keep Alistair hesitating. Being awake doesn't necessarily mean you want company, besides.

He nudges the table a little closer to the door, to make sure Cullen sees the tray when he exits, and tiptoes away.

Keep it together, he tells himself, firmly, and opens the door.

And looks at the tray like he's never seen one before. "What...?"

Alistair -- only halfway down the hall by that point -- stops, shoulders hunching, and throws a sheepish look back Cullen's way.

"I, er." He scratches the back of his head. "Thought it might be nice if you had something when you woke up. Didn't want to interrupt the lie-down, though."

"You could have knocked," Cullen says automatically, with half a smile. It's a little fragile.

(Eyes still red. Hand still marked.)

"You're not going to have any?"

Alistair returns the smile, readily.

(Noting the fragility. Noting the redness to Cullen's eyes.)

"If you're ready for company, I'll go fetch another cup," he says.

Cullen nods, and raises his hand to rub the back of his neck. "Yes. Please."

"All right." His smile warms. "I'll be right back, then."

(And give Cullen another minute to finish collecting himself in the meantime.)

He vanishes around the corner; returns a moment later, as promised, with a cup in hand.

Cullen took the intervening time to look at the marks on his hand -- and flush, and try scrubbing them off. As one might expect, this strategy is not very good.

It does mean that when Alistair returns, Cullen is... well. Looking guilty about something.

If Alistair didn't notice the marks on Cullen's hand, he definitely notices the guilty look.

He keeps his voice casual as he picks up the tray. "All right?"

Aggressive denial seems like a reasonable strategy. "Yes." He drops himself on the chaise. "Just... needed a bit."

Not even a lie. Mostly.

Which is about the response Alistair expected to get. He nods, settling in next to Cullen as he puts the tray within easy reach.

He slips an arm around him.

Cullen huddles against Alistair on the grounds that it's not lying if he never actually says anything.

As fictions go, he quite likes this one.

Alistair takes Cullen's hand after a moment -- and frowns, a little, as he feels the dents along its side. With great care, he runs his thumb along them, silently acknowledging their existence.

Not so much of a lie-down at all, then. Maker.

(I should have been here, he thinks, and brushes the thought aside. Being here would've meant going against Cullen's explicitly stated wishes. His absence wasn't a failure.)

Cullen winces: he's been found out.

Better to move to distract Alistair than wait for him to say something, he thinks.

"Where's your new friend?" Voice is rustier than he'd like, but he'll take it.

If Cullen wants a distraction, far be it for Alistair to deny him.

"Having a lie-down of his own," he murmurs. "He fell asleep in front of the fire. I didn't have the heart to wake him either."

He curls his fingers lightly around Cullen's.

"Still thinking of a good name for him. Maybe 'Duncan,' but I'm not sure if the real Duncan would've approved."

His fingers tighten on Alistair's, just for a moment.

"He might not like a namesake so opposed to baths." Eyes closing.