howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

(no subject)

When Cullen comes across the body, as he hikes in from the north, he gets the message immediately: this is not a place where he can reveal himself.

In the rain, oiled hood pulled over his head, Cullen crouches by the corpse. Female. Elven, he thinks. Circle robes. No one he recognizes. Probably came to Kinloch after the Blight. Five or six arrow shafts still in her chest.

In this weather, it's hard to get anything to burn. Even with magic. The best he can do is hope a wandering demon won't decide to take possession -- undead are one thing. Arcane horrors are something else entirely.

Not for the first time, he feels the swell of frustration, followed by a wave of guilt: there's so much he doesn't know, so much he could use to protect people --

And you could have learned it. If you didn't run.

Even then, Cullen knows it's not true. Not the way things were going in Kirkwall.

He straightens and hefts his pack again. If he's to find shelter before nightfall, he's got to get a move on. There are caves, he knows, all through the country. One of them should do for the night, if it's free of spiders. He should start looking past the keep, where all the bandits are.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Cullen runs his hands over his face and lets out a shaky sigh.

"That's... awkward." Beat. "She -- doesn't know. Nobody there knew why I left."

Alistair stifles a wince, with little success.

"Do you think she'd bring you harm if she knew?"

She didn't seem particularly inclined to strike down Alistair where he stood, when he ran into her as Kirkwall was falling down around their ears. That could've just been because there were more important matters at hand, though.

Like, you know, Kirkwall falling down around their ears.

Cullen shrugs, roughly, closing in on himself even further.

"I don't know. I'd deserve it, but -- I don't know. I left before the Qunari invasion." Then, before he can stop himself: "I'd deserve it if you did it. Or anyone. It's just a matter of when it'll happen."

Alistair's quiet a moment.

(Not for too long. The music begins to swell in short order; he gives his head an irritable shake as if to dislodge it.)

"Well," he says at last, quiet once more, "it won't happen here tonight. I'd understand if you wanted to leave before Hawke turns up, but it may be a while yet. So if you need shelter for a little longer..."

He shrugs.

"It might as well be Hawke as anyone else."

Toneless. Cullen still isn't looking at him.

"Whether or not I've dry feet for the occasion is up to you."

If Cullen wants to go to the Inquisition, Alistair's of the firm belief that it's safer if the Inquisition comes to him. An apostate as concerned with staying in hiding as Cullen won't have been tested much, he suspects, and years of watching over mages can't compare to reaching for the Fade yourself. Yes, Cullen's made it this far alone, and he's still got that sword at his side --

But Thedas has rarely been kind to mages.

And Alistair's feeling -- protective, after receiving so little protection from Clarel in the end.

"It's a big cave." Gentler. "Plenty of room for two." He points to Cullen. "If you snore I reserve the right to throw half my bedroll at you, though."

"I won't," he says softly. "You don't have to worry about that."

Cullen draws back from the fire a little. "What do you want in return?"

A small smile. "Not snoring is enough for me," he says.

Now that he's certain Cullen won't go running to the village yelling aaaah, a mage!

Cullen fingers the cuff of his still-damp socks.

"No one gives something for nothing."

"It's not nothing," he protests. "Someone at the Circle in the bunk below mine, for three years he snored like a thunderclap almost every night. I'd fall asleep during my studies and wake up with a book stuck to my face from the drool."

Alistair shakes his head, mournfully.

"All those ruined books. All that time scrubbing floors in punishment."

"You know what I mean," Cullen says.

He draws his knees up closer. Wraps his arms around. Rests his head on them.

No jokes, then. Right.

The humor drains away. Alistair sighs. "All right. If you truly think that," he says softly, "then you can help me find provisions tomorrow, if that'll make you feel better."

"All right." He's relieved, and he doesn't bother hiding it. "Just -- tell me what you need. And I'll get it."

Or give Alistair some of his own meager stores. One or the other.

It hurts Alistair's heart, a little, to see that.

"Anything that'll keep well, I suppose," he says, rather than spinning out some big, fanciful request involving a whole roast pig and fine wines and cheeses. "Perhaps a little more bread. There's game around here that isn't a complete festering horrid mess -- plants, too, but they're harder to come by."

He flicks a finger at the fire, absently: the magical equivalent of nudging a log with his boot to kick the flames a bit higher.

"We can work together on it. Split up tasks, something like that."

"Whatever I've got, you're welcome to it all." Faintly, without moving. "There's bread. Bannock, nothing fancy, but it's only a day or two old."

"No need," murmurs Alistair. "I've enough of my own for tonight. And we'll have more tomorrow."

Cullen shakes his head a little and doesn't reply.

It's not -- Alistair isn't getting it. There's a price to pay for safety, Cullen is trying his best to pay it, the least Alistair can do is just shut up and take it.

If it weren't for the fact that he's been soaked through to the bone for longer than he cares to think about, Cullen would go.

As is, he reaches into an interior pocket of his coat, pulls out the small oilcloth-wrapped bundle of stale bread and dried apple and cheese, and rolls it in Alistair's direction.

Well. Apparently Cullen isn't going to be satisfied until Alistair's willingly starved him out of...not house and home, but clothes and pack. Or something.

Stifling another sigh, he stops the bundle with his palm. Gives Cullen a long look before he opens it. Alistair can't stop himself from hesitating for a beat before breaking off a small portion of cheese, murmuring a thank you as he does.

(The thing about being a Warden: it's a thankless job by design. You don't do it for glory, or praise, or payment -- and even if this isn't exactly Warden business, it makes Alistair itch uncomfortably to be rewarded for the basic decency of sharing shelter.)

Cullen's look in return is flat -- at least until Alistair takes something.

Then he settles his head back on his knees and closes his eyes. Mission accomplished.

"I've met my match." Gently wry. "I've been out-stubborned. But I'll accept my defeat and this cheese graciously."

"Just take what you're entitled to like everyone else." Muffled.

Alistair's eyebrows rise.

"Entitled?" he repeats.

Cullen doesn't answer. The exhaustion's starting to get to him; it's a struggle to keep from drowsing.

Alistair lets out a breath. "All right. If you say so."

He doesn't sound angry, or upset -- not even annoyed. Resigned, mostly; like he's humoring Cullen, except there's no actual humor to it.

He separates another piece of cheese from the main hunk, rewraps the bundle, and watches the fire as he nibbles the food.

Slowly his shoulders come down from around his ears; his breathing slows, deepens.

It's been -- too long. Since he could sleep in a dry place without having to keep an ear open. The adrenaline's left him. (And he's more stubborn than hungry.)

(no subject)

bringspeopletogether - 2018-06-19 02:23 (UTC) - Expand

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only