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 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.

"My thoughts exactly."

He resumes running his thumb along Cullen's hand -- away from the marks, this time.

"Maybe 'Carinus.' He's been dead for ages and I didn't know the man personally. Carinus is a rather fancy name, though; he's endured a lot of fanciness already."

Fidgeting, he kicks off his boots so he can bring his feet up on the chaise. That job done, he rests his head against Alistair's shoulder.

"Who's that, then?" Soft.

"He founded the Wardens."

Alistair adjusts his arm more securely around Cullen.

"Lots of songs and stories about him up in Weisshaupt, talking of how he was the first one to figure out that darkspawn caused the Blight. First one to figure out how to fight them best, too. Him and the knights he led renounced their allegiances, formed the Grey Wardens, and traveled all over Thedas recruiting for the battle."

Cullen furrows his brow -- but it's not his dog.

So he nods a little.

"He's not very serious." Mumbled. "That's a serious name."

"Yes," he agrees. "Goes hand-in-hand with the fanciness."

(He doesn't miss the furrowed brow. He doesn't blame Cullen: it's -- difficult, even now, for Alistair to sort out all his feelings about the Wardens. What they were, what they meant to him, versus what they became; what they might yet become.)

"...I could just call him 'Tiny.' Or 'Fluffball.' What about 'Dogface'?"

"Tiny's the least awful of those." He closes his eyes again. "If you must."

A soft laugh. "I'll keep thinking on it," he promises, gentle and fond. "I won't subject either of you to anything too terrible."

He squeezes Cullen's hand, just as gentle.

Cullen nods a little. He slumps a little more heavily against Alistair.

As long as Alistair can keep prattling about the dog, Cullen doesn't have to try to think up anything to keep the conversation away from himself.

Alas, Cullen's luck has to run out sometime.

"You don't have to talk about it now." Very quiet. "Or ever, if you'd prefer. But if you do...I'm here."

Another small nod.

"It wouldn't help." No louder. Blank. "Let it alone."

The last thing Cullen needs is Alistair trying to fix things. Or trying to convince him that things can be fixed. They can't. And Cullen doesn't care to put a good face on any of it.

For Cullen's sake, he can swallow down the sharp, acute worry that bubbles up.

For Cullen, he can stay strong, and calm, and present.

"All right," he whispers, and all is silent for a moment.

"I could name him Gru." Thoughtful. (Still calm; still holding him close.) "Short for Gruyere. Nobody but you, me, and him has to know that's his full name."

Silence.

"Like you wouldn't tell anyone who asked." That's even a little amused. "I'm ashamed to say I like it."

Alistair chuckles; presses a kiss to Cullen's brow.

Fond: "You know me so well, love. And I'm glad it meets with your approval."

"Grudging," Cullen clarifies, snuggling closer. (Not that he'd admit that's what he was doing.) "Grudging approval."

"That's more approval than 'Barkspawn' got," says Alistair, serenely, "so I'll take it."

He rests his head atop Cullen's.

"It's the most approval you'll get," he mumbles, and lets out a long breath.

"Your generosity knows no bounds."

Cullen's hand gets one more squeeze before Alistair lets go, wrapping both arms around him.

Cullen sinks against him, boneless, and hides his face.

After a moment, his arms creep around Alistair.

Without quite being aware of it, Alistair begins to rock Cullen, slow and gentle.

"Always my favorite," he whispers to him. "I love you."

Cullen lets out a slow, shaky breath. For just a moment he tightens his hold on Alistair.

"I'd ask something of you." Small. "I have no right. But I have to ask."

His brow knits.

"What is it?"

"When it's time."

He swallows.

"Don't go to the Deep Roads."