bringspeopletogether | [milliways] au week

[milliways] au week

They've gotten most of the bodies out and given them proper funerals. The intact ones, anyway. Alistair's said a lot of prayers over a lot of corpses in the past several weeks; after the first ten or so, he couldn't bring himself to look at their faces. He's pretty sure the stink's never coming off his skin.

Tonight, when he walks into the hastily-assembled barracks on the opposite shore of Lake Calenhad, he finds himself blinking at the bright light of Milliways rather than the torchlight of his quarters. Quietly, he slips inside and makes his way to the bar. First, he strips off enough of his plate so he can move a bit more freely. Then: a candle, a small statue of Andraste, and a bottle of something dark and strong-smelling that promises to knock him flat if he doesn't respect it.

Alistair knows there's a small chapel out in the forest. It's covered in Earth iconography he doesn't understand, but it'll do. More prayers first, and then, if that doesn't work -- he already suspects it won't work -- disrespecting that bottle until it gives him the hangover he deserves.

So there he is ten minutes later, head awkwardly bowed before a makeshift altar to Andraste, running through what feels like the thousandth time he's recited the Canticle of Trials since returning to Ferelden. The bottle, unopened for now, rests at his feet.

"...I shall not fear the legion,
Should they set themselves against me.
In the long hours of the night
When hope has abandoned me,
I will see the stars and know
Your Light remains."

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"I'm alive. I think I am. That wasn't me. Warwick and Marlow and Farrell. They went first. But then they left me alone."

Cullen gets to his feet, slowly -- but doesn't move, other than that.

"It was very hard to watch."

Alistair shakes his head, just once. Just a little. On his next step backward, his heel hits the chapel wall, forcing him to stop.

"What are you?"

Stupid, stupid to come out here unarmed --

"I'm Cullen."

He blinks, once.

"He's me. I helped him, when they forgot about him. He was going to die but he didn't want to die alone. So I came. He liked you. I won't hurt you." Slowly he shakes his head. "I don't like hurting people. Most of them don't see me."

It --

"No."

Alistair's stomach twists. All the dead and dying, all the demons and abominations that tore Kinloch to shreds -- why wouldn't some of those demons try to possess anything they could find? And this one found Cullen. Cullen, of all people, Andraste preserve them. Shambling along as the empty vessel for this creature to fill.

Unsteadily, he presses the side of his hand to his mouth.

"I'm not a demon."

Cullen tilts his head, brow furrowed.

"They take and take until there's nothing left. They steal. They force. I'm not that. I'm not."

Alistair shakes his head again, eyes bright.

(It was so much easier when he didn't have to look at their faces.)

The chapel's small enough that you're never more than an arm's length or so from the closest place to sit. He can't look away from -- from Cullen, he has to call it Cullen because he doesn't know what else to call it -- he can't look away as he gropes along for one of the pews. Once his hand collides with a pew back, he grabs hold, like he's tethering himself, before he sinks into the seat.

They left him. The golden boy of the Chantry who never faltered in his dedication, and he met his end alone. And then...

"You're a spirit." Hoarse.

"I think so." Cullen stays still; Alistair is very upset, and getting closer wouldn't help.

Cullen wants to help.

"Unseen, unknown, you don't understand why you and not any of the others. Sometimes things just happen. The Chant of Light says we're the Maker's children. Please don't be afraid. I can make you forget me if that would help."

"No." His voice cracks; Alistair covers his mouth again. He leans forward, shoulders hunched.

(If he hadn't been so terrible at being a templar, they wouldn't have sent him off to the Anderfels. Good men and women died at Kinloch, and the only reason Alistair's still alive is because nobody in Ferelden could put up with him anymore.)

"Things just happen," Cullen insists. "It wasn't you. It wasn't your fault. They didn't think you fit, but you fit everywhere. You're good at it. You make things better. You make people laugh. Every one of your brothers thought so. I did."

He hasn't cried since he started the work at Kinloch. He's damn well not going to start now. Maybe -- maybe if he does a hasty little swipe across his eyes, though, Cullen won't notice.

(Yes. The mind-reading spirit riding Cullen's body -- possibly corpse -- won't notice. Completely logical, Alistair, well done.)

"You can sit if you'd like." Very small.

Cullen sways, as though he started to take a step and then thought better of it.

"Would it help?" he asks, uncertain.

Silently, without looking up, Alistair nods.

As though picking his way through a crowded room, Cullen slinks to the pew, and sits.

Not too close.

The candle next to the statue of Andraste wavers in an unfelt wind. The bottle's still there, an arm's length away. Alistair scoots to the pew's edge to grab it before returning to his earlier hunch.

He won't open it yet. He's got a feeling he'll need it soon, though.

"I'm sorry." Barely audible.

"Things just happen," he says again, cautiously. "You couldn't have fixed it. There was nothing for you to do."

"I know."

If he'd been at Kinloch, he probably would've ended up dead, too. Almost certainly, in fact. He's been a full-fledged templar for only three and a half months; realistically, what could he have ever done against an onslaught of abominations?

But maybe there could have been something, some small thing --

No.

(Maybe Cullen wouldn't have had to face death alone with only a spirit for company.)

He twists open the bottle. "Did they...please tell me most of them went quick, at least."

"Yes."

Softly, speaking to the statue of Andraste.

"Most of them fell with sword in hand. A few they saved for torture. I couldn't fight them. I wanted to. They left a few alive, but in agony. I helped them. I did what I could. I'm sorry it wasn't enough."

Alistair shakes his head. The candle's gained a few halos; he wipes his eyes again.

And extends the bottle toward Cullen.

"Want any?"

He blinks at it, as though he doesn't know what it is.

"No."

"All right."

Not surprising. Do spirits even drink? There's a joke in there if he wants to reach for it, but Alistair's not in the mood.

He takes a swig, coughs -- well done, Bar, and at the same time, Maker that is foul -- and sets the bottle down between his feet. Alistair lifts his eyes back to the statue. "Did Cullen -- you -- "

He has no idea what he wants to ask. Did it hurt? Were you afraid? They're questions the spirit's already answered pretty well, though: yes, and yes.

"He was thirsty. He wanted water. I couldn't bring it to him."

He makes himself small in the pew. "He faded out as I faded in, to hold his hand, so he wouldn't be alone. He didn't want that. Mother and Father, Mia and Bran and Rosie, they're a world away but it's not enough, I'm sorry I did this to us, I'm sorry I wasn't stronger, let me fade away so you forget and it won't hurt you, Andraste grant me mercy and grant them peace."

A lump rises hard and fast in Alistair's throat, nearly choking him. He bends his head; a moment later, he covers his face, silently berating himself for the burning in his eyes.

There's still so much to do back at Kinloch. He has to keep it together until it's done. When he closes his eyes, his imagination conjures up Cullen on the floor, surrounded by the dead and mutilated, the spirit hovering uncertainly nearby.

He didn't deserve this. None of them did.

"You did enough," he manages, and that's all he can get out.

"So did you," says Cullen, soft, in a distant monotone.

"Do you want to forget?"

Yes.

Alistair pushes the weaker parts of himself aside, and shakes his head.

"...forget which part?"

Damn his curiosity.

"Seeing me here. I can leave you alone. When you go back everybody would remind you of what happened. Otherwise you could forget more. But it wouldn't stay, and that would hurt. So just forget seeing me. Is that what you want?"

He doesn't seem bothered, crammed as he is in the corner of the pew.

More... concerned.

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