bringspeopletogether | [sandbox] out of the abyss

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sandbox

[sandbox] out of the abyss

It starts as a shimmer out by the lake. Look at the water from the right angle, and the light glinting off it looks a bit...green. Sickly.

(Familiar, if you're from a certain time and place in Thedas.)

Look up some minutes later, and you can pinpoint the source: a thin, glowing ribbon uncoiling in the sky. It emerges slowly, but the more light it casts, the more momentum it gains, until it explodes outward with an enormous crack like lightning splintering the ground.

A much quieter thump follows as something hits the dirt.

Someone.

The glow vanishes; the person doesn't move for a long beat. (Get up, he's telling himself, get up -- ) He manages to drag his hands level with his shoulders, press down to bear himself upward an inch, look up at where he's landed.

Get. Up.

Another shove, and Alistair lurches to his feet, sword hauled from its scabbard and shield at the ready. His breath rattles, harsh against his throat, as he stares wild-eyed around the grounds.

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"I, um -- "

He can't get his fingers to work properly, from exhaustion, frayed nerves, malnutrition, who in Andraste's name knows anymore. All of the above, probably. And he doesn't know if he wants Cullen (or maybe not Cullen) that close to his neck, but what choice does he have? It's either that or strangle.

"Please. Yes."

Cullen takes a knee, starts working on unbuckling Alistair's breastplate, his movements careful, methodical.

"This passes," he says, softly. "Breathe through your nose, slowly as you can. I know it's hard, but it'll help it pass more quickly."

The cold seems to migrate forward until it stings his eyes. Alistair nods -- hopefully not as helplessly as he feels -- and does his best to follow Cullen's order.

It...sort of works. It works a lot better once Cullen gets the breastplate off. One less weight to fight against.

By his fourth or fifth breath, the choking sensation's died down to nervous flutter under his ribs. Alistair keeps focusing on the long, slow inhale through his nose, working to keep each exhale comparatively slow.

(He's fine. He's safe.)

"Good."

He's loosened the collar of Alistair's gambeson; he moves to the pauldrons, the vambraces, moving as quickly as he can.

"Good. Keep that up. I'm going to remove your mail, all right? Can you help me with your arms?"

Another nod. With the immediate panic on a slow retreat, his extremities have started working a little better; getting off the mail becomes more of a collaborative effort than Cullen stripping off his plate.

He tries for wry, and doesn't quite make it, when he says, "Say something stupid about my hair so I know it's you."

Yes, that strategy would never fly in the field, but Alistair will happily trade reassurance for good strategy right now.

Cullen lays out the mail on the floor, and glances up at Alistair.

Wry, as requested: "You mean something wholly accurate and entirely correct about your hair? Such as how I expect you to march right in after your bath and make yourself look like a pinhead again?"

Alistair snorts. "Exactly like that, yes, thank you."

He means for it to be deadpan; to his slight embarrassment, it comes out sincerely relieved. When he draws his next breath, the iron weight on his chest is nearly gone. "All right. That...thank you. That's better."

He rubs the back of his neck, as if trying to drive away the last of the chill.

Well.

Cullen's been there, hasn't he.

Still a little wry -- it's weird, but if it helps, Cullen's there -- he says, retaking his seat, "Hence the change of clothes on the bed. Entirely more comfortable than armor."

Entirely better for the waves of sheer panic, he means.

"I'll save them for after the bath." He's still kneading the back of his neck, not quite meeting Cullen's eye. "Or the...dumping a barrel of rainwater on myself. Quicker that way. I won't fall asleep."

The broth doesn't look as appetizing as it did a moment ago. Alistair forces himself to take another swallow of it anyway. The warmth helps ease more of the constriction in his throat.

The whole not-sleeping thing isn't sustainable.

Cullen is accustomed to picking his battles.

"There's some kind of tap high up in the tub," he says. "Makes it easy to rinse off quickly. You might find that preferable."

Well, not with that attitude it isn't, Cullen.

Alistair glances up, interest caught. "That might work," he agrees. "Easier than..."

He trails off, seeming to have forgotten where he was going with that sentence. Alistair resumes his meal after a beat; within another minute, the bowl's empty.

"So -- " What had they been talking about before? "Is everything all right? At Skyhold? Or as all right as it can be," he thinks to amend.

"It's going well," he says, firm. "The bulk of our forces returned to Skyhold from Adamant a week ago, and we've resumed our regular schedule, with a much better idea of where we need to put our attention, in our training. And we've found more sources for stone, so we're able to make more critical repairs to the towers. It's now much easier to house our people."

Alistair included, Cullen doesn't say.

(He also doesn't mention that -- curiously -- somehow his own quarters still have a good portion of the ceiling missing, as well as a few trees growing out of the walls.)

"Good." Softly.

He's afraid to ask just how many came back to Skyhold, versus how many left for Adamant. Maybe the repairs make it easier to house the Inquisition's people, but...maybe it's also because there's considerable more space.

Alistair casts an uncertain eye toward the cheese plate. Might as well; he won't know unless he tries. He selects one of the smaller bits of cheddar for a cautious nibble.

Cullen raises his eyebrows in silent query. He is very curious how this will turn out!

Oh, Maker, that tastes wonderful.

Before his stomach can attempt a revolt, Alistair pops the rest of the cube into his mouth. It's only because he's so tired that the doesn't accompany it with embarrassingly obscene noises.

Once he's swallowed: "All right." Solemn. "You've convinced me. No demon could make cheese that good."

Cullen laughs.

"Now you realize why it was one of my first tries."

"As I said," lightly, "I should listen to you more often."

Can he get away with one more cube of cheese? He's damn well going to try.

-- Cullen's family. That's what they'd been talking about. "Are the nieces and nephews well, then?"

That's -- sudden. Why would Alistair want to -- ?

"...as far as I know?" Blank. "I... don't know if she'd tell me, if the point was to shame me into writing back."

Beat.

"Also, I've never met them."

His brow knits, mirroring Cullen's confusion. "Didn't you just..."

Damn it. Alistair sighs, kneading one temple.

"Sorry. I thought -- never mind. Wasn't that what we were just talking about?"

Quickly: "No, you had it right. I just -- continue not to understand why my sister hasn't given up on me at all. It's been... at least fifteen years since I've seen any of them. Sorry. That one was me."

Oh. Alistair's expression clears, relief settling across his features.

"Probably because you're still her brother and she still loves you?" Gently wry.

Look, just because Goldanna was an awful wretch of a person doesn't mean all siblings are like that, Alistair knows.

"I rather think abandoning the family and then placing a massive target on their holdings by commanding the forces of the Inquisition would counter any sense of filial obligation," he returns, dry. "Would you find it comforting for me to tick off a list of my failures? I can do that. It's a much easier target than your hair, which is saying a great deal."

Alistair sighs, not without a little exasperation. His shoulders slump.

"I see two months wasn't enough time for you to have a change of heart about yourself," he says.

"I know myself."

Cullen rips off a small chunk of bread.

"Besides, I've been busy." And tosses it in his mouth.

"Perhaps you'd be less busy if you reduced your apparently mandated three hours of daily self-castigation."

Very dry.

Unsteadily, Alistair gets to his feet. "I think I'll investigate the bath. Or the tap above the bath."

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