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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"Good."

Quiet, for a beat, before Alistair lifts his hand and points toward Cullen.

"If I do fall asleep, though. Purely hypothetically. Wake me up if it gets bad."

No need to elaborate on what he means by gets bad.

Another small, fleeting smile.

"If it gets bad."

He shifts, grabs Alistair's hand, squeezes.

"You have my word."

"Thank you."

He is absolutely not falling asleep, dammit. That last little reassurance from Cullen is -- is -- reassuring, that's all. Enough to get a little more tension out of his shoulders. Make it easier to sink into the bed.

Alistair opens his eyes, just to check that Cullen's still there, and closes them again.

It only takes a few minutes after that for his grip on Cullen's hand to slacken.

Cullen gives it a few minutes before he carefully puts down Alistair's hand and eases off the bed. The spare blanket's in the closet; it's a moment's work to drape it over Alistair.

A soft sigh; he retrieves his book, opens it, glances at the chumproll --

No. He won't tell anyone. Not yet.

Cullen leans back against the wall for balance to remove his boots. His jacket goes over the chair not holding Alistair's mail. Then it's back to the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard. Until he knows he can focus enough to read, he can play chess.

At certain levels of profound exhaustion, it's like the creatures of the Fade take one look at you and go yeah, let's leave that one alone tonight. No dreams -- nothing that leaves an imprint on the mind, anyway. Just blank, black rest.

Alistair would be grateful, if he were...well. Not in the middle of that utterly insensate level of sleep.

Occasionally, he shifts: a roll onto his side, or a moment to pull the blanket tighter. Once or twice, he snores. Otherwise, for a couple of hours, it's downright peaceful.

Then his breath begins to shift, too, from the slow rhythm of sleep to harsh, hissing gasps.

Cullen has dozed off, in the manner of soldiers who can catnap sitting up. As such, when Alistair's breathing changes, Cullen comes fully awake and alert very quickly.

He won't let Alistair have to sit with it longer than he must. Cullen snaps his book shut and puts it on the nightstand, and rests his hand on Alistair's forehead.

(Which leaves him another hand to use if Alistair tries to strike at him. Cullen's got experience.)

"Alistair. Wake up. Now, please. You're safe. You're dreaming."

Alistair bolts awake, wild-eyed, a shout half-caught in his throat. There's someone -- something -- it's got a hand on him and he can't get to his sword in time, there's nothing he can --

He instantly lashes out a fist straight for Cullen's jaw.

Cullen was expecting that.

Doesn't mean he's able to keep Alistair from making contact, especially at this short a distance, but he's able to push off a little of the blow, at least.

"Alistair. It's Cullen. You're safe, remember? Wake up. It's all right."

Alistair freezes. He's still gasping like a drowned man, staring at Cullen with no focus to his gaze.

Slowly, his fingers uncurl from their fist. A blink, two: his expression finally clears.

"Shit," he whispers, and sags, squeezing his eyes shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

Yes, well.

As long as Alistair's eyes are closed, Cullen takes a moment to feel around his jaw; maybe it'll bruise, maybe it won't. He can get a poultice later. Not important.

Instead he shifts off the bed just long enough to grab the jar of water off the table before returning to his former position next to Alistair. "Here."

"Thank you," he mutters, unable to look Cullen in the eye as he accepts the jar. Carefully, he unscrews the lid.

(His hands aren't shaking. Good.)

"I'm sorry. I -- " No, he decides; he doesn't need to clarify why he punched Cullen in the face. "Are you all right?"

Mild:

"I'm only sorry you didn't get a really clear shot. I assume you must have wanted to do that more than once, over the years."

Smiling, very small.

That gets a tiny snort out of him. "If you're volunteering for another round, well."

Alistair ventures a sip of water. Concentrates on the smooth, solid feel of the jar as he cradles it in both palms. "No, honestly, I think I only ever wanted to trip you. Or get a good smack across the back of the head."

He saves the punches for moments of true anger. (Or moments when he's unarmed and being swarmed by demons.) Mere annoyance doesn't require something that...definitive.

Cullen grunts. "Should've tried harder to be insufferable, then."

He nudges Alistair's shoulder, gently.

Alistair looks up, at last, and shapes a halfhearted smile before returning his attention to the jar. He drinks, waits until the churning in his stomach backs down, drinks a little more.

"So," he says, wry, "as you continue building up Skyhold, would there happen to be some more isolated quarters available? I'd hate to wake up the whole Inquisition with my screaming six times a night. Terrible for morale."

"...actually, yes," Cullen says, after a moment. "You'll have to make it past Madame de Fer, which I suspect is the reason no one else has claimed them. But they look over the garden, so there's that."

Cullen realizes that the likelihood is that Alistair was trying for a poor jest. Unfortunately for Alistair, Cullen is very serious.

(On the off chance it was a serious question, then, there's a serious answer!)

"Hn." More water. "...I can tolerate Madame de Fer for the view. I think."

Still moving like he'll accidentally smash something if he moves the wrong way, Alistair rolls the jar between his palms. It may have mostly been a joke when he said it, but...honestly, where else can he go? Staying at Milliways for weeks -- months -- doesn't appeal. Everything is just a bit too off-kilter here. You go along, thinking all's normal, and then you bump into someone who looks at you funny if you mention Thedas.

The next important question (and he sounds a bit resigned when he says it): "Is Morrigan still around?"

True, she may not be as prickly as when he last knew her, but she's still Morrigan. Alistair has no idea if he'll be able to tolerate her jibes when he's...like this.

Cullen also looks... resigned.

He doesn't like that mirror.

"Yes. Keeps to herself, mostly. Fights with Dorian and Solas, every now and then. On the bright side, on that score Vivienne's the best bodyguard you have."

This time, the smile he scrounges up actually manages to stick around for a moment.

"I almost want to see that squabble," he says. "From a very great distance."

"I've got a spyglass. We can share it."

The smile grows. Solemn, as Alistair lifts the jar in a toast: "You have a deal."

Light: "Ah, but I haven't outlined my terms. -- not that they're actual terms," he says hastily. "You've a place with us as long as you want it, you know that. Just, you know, if you get bored... plenty of recruits that need training, or -- advice, or whatever."

Cullen rubs the back of his neck. "Sometimes it helps to know that... you can be of use. Later. So don't worry about that, is what I wanted to say. Whenever you're ready. If it becomes important to you."

Alistair's expression, on its gradual post-nightmare shift toward amiable, stutters at the mention of terms. But Cullen's offering clarification an instant later, and -- it's all right. It's fine. He's safe.

He rubs his thumb along the ridges circling the top of the jar, thinking. "You said something about the remaining Wardens still being around," he ventures, uncertain. "Is that right?"

He can't remember what Cullen said they were doing -- rebuilding off on their own, working with the Inquisition, or something else.

"The Orlesian Wardens, yes." Cullen stretches out his shoulder, bringing his arm across his chest. "They're pursuing a darkspawn outbreak in Val Gamord. I'd imagine you'd be well within your rights to stay put until we hear from Hawke."

That, and Cullen isn't sure the Wardens will make it out in one piece. Long way to go only to find nothing, or worse than nothing.

Alistair nods. Dry, "Definitely not suggesting I go into the field like -- " He taps his temple, illustratively. "I just...wondered. About their own training. I was the senior Warden. Technically still am, I guess. I'm just not sure..."

Get exiled by the Warden-Commander of Orlais because you object to blood magic, find out half your compatriots are in thrall to all sorts of terrible things, discover others of your compatriots killed the Divine, and it leaves a bit of a sour taste in your mouth.

(And yet. He's devoted ten years of his life in service to the Wardens. And the ones that are left, the ones that broke free -- he can still hear Hawke's words. A Warden must help them rebuild.)

"It's better I stay at Skyhold for now."

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