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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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."

Alistair goes very still.

Carefully:

"Cullen, you know what will happen to me if I stay past my Calling."

"Not that." His arms tighten again, in reflex. "We'll -- ask a mage for help. A potion. Just -- just so you're not alone. In the dark."

His stomach drops. Alistair feels a cold, sick chill as the blood leaves his face.

He takes a breath in; releases it, slowly, and tightens his embrace in kind.

You can't ask me to do that, is his first thought, and one he absolutely cannot speak aloud. Not with Cullen in this state. But -- he's turned his back on so much of the Wardens. He broke his oath in countless ways since he decided to follow the Inquisition instead of Weisshaupt. The Calling will be his last chance to hold up a tiny sliver of the vow he made during his Joining: in death, sacrifice.

He's known he will die in battle for fifteen years. To die in his bed instead, by his own hand, even if he isn't alone in the dark --

"I." Helplessly. (He can't say any of this to Cullen.) "Let me -- think about it?"

Cullen nods. Miserably.

"If we have the time," is all he says. It's a little choked.

"We do."

There's far more quiet surety to those words. He rubs Cullen's back, slow.

"We will."

Cullen shakes his head --

And then stops. There's little point.

"If I could ask you something?"

He swallows.

"Not -- of you. Just a question."

"What is it?" Barely audible.

He breathes out.

"Cousland and I still talk about her work." Quiet. "Trying to find a cure for the Calling. She's...more vague about it than she used to be. But I've known her long enough to read what she isn't saying."

Chin atop Cullen's head, Alistair watches the far wall.

"She's exploring darker roads. Blood magic, possibly. Or -- not quite blood magic, but close. Older." The cold sinks deeper into his stomach as he works to get the words out. "If that were the only way to stop the Calling, and I took it, would you ever be able to look at me again?"

"Yes." Immediately. Bewildered. "Of course. Just -- don't get possessed, all right?"

Cullen lifts a hand to scrub at his face. He feels, suddenly, on the edge of hysterical laughter. "That's -- a bit too far."

Alistair breaks into a shaky laugh -- more relieved than he'd admit.

"No, no, none of that. No possession. You have my word."

He resettles his arms around Alistair. (Tighter.) "I don't -- if -- if it works, if there's a chance..."

Cullen makes himself take a breath.

"If -- it costs a life. I want to know who."

So Alistair isn't alone with it.

So Cullen can know who to thank, and pray for.

Alistair nods.

Softer, "I'll tell you. You have my word on that as well."

Hopefully it won't come to that. Hopefully whatever Cousland finds will be...well, much as Alistair hates to admit it, will be closer to Morrigan's ritual. Repugnant, but wihout any loss of life attached.