bringspeopletogether | [sandbox] out of the abyss

Entry tags:

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

"I don't have to self-castigate when I've merely accepted the truth of fact," Cullen says, stretching to get the folded linen clothes on the bed, and holding them out to Alistair.

"Keep talking, if you don't mind. Need to know if you fall in there."

A completely disproportionate flare of anger ignites in Alistair's expression. His jaw sets.

"You know," he says, and snatches up the clothes with more force than he intends, "if you were half as terrible as you insist you are, you would've already stabbed me twice over. Not -- done all this."

(What he can't articulate: he just managed to convince himself Cullen was on his side. Hearing otherwise, even in the language of failures versus successes, makes him feel like that fragile foundation's about to drop out from under him.)

He turns and talks -- well, staggers, more accurately -- for the bathroom.

This is the reason Cullen doesn't like to talk about his family: he knows how awful he's been for such a long time. People try to convince him otherwise. But not one of them was there for the whole thing -- from his first draught of lyrium to the last time he removed the armor of the Order.

Were this any other day, Cullen would snap at Alistair -- both because Alistair doesn't know, and because what Alistair said makes no damn sense. If Cullen stabbed Alistair, he wouldn't need to do it twice. Once would get the job done.

His expression's clouded, considerably, but he doesn't say anything. It's not any other day. And Alistair might be spoiling for a fight, but Cullen doesn't have to give him satisfaction.

Alistair might also slam the bathroom door with more force than necessary. Though considering his current state, it doesn't make nearly as satisfying a bang as he'd hoped.

For several long minutes, there's only silence. (He's leaning against the door, head tipped back, trying to kill the fury that he knows will strangle him as badly as the panic did.)

Then, finally: the sound of a faucet being turned, and a spray of water hitting the tub.

And a muffled voice: "I've no idea what you want me to say while I'm in here."

Because Cullen did tell him to keep talking.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject