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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"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.

"No," he whispers. "I don't think that would help."

Knowing what happened to Cullen is awful. But...at least he knows. Better to have an answer than list him under the presumed dead, alongside all the other bodies too ruined to identify.

He picks up the bottle for another gulp.

Cullen turns his head away, like a cat who's spied something otherwise unseen in a corner.

"I can go away if you want. You don't have to see me. You could still remember."

Again, Alistair shakes his head.

After a moment, there's a quiet clink as he sets the bottle aside. (Next to him, this time, rather than on the floor. Easier to grab that way.) The pew creaks and shifts as he moves closer to Cullen.

Cautiously -- like he's still half-convinced this is a dream, and anything he touches will immediately dissolve -- he reaches to clasp Cullen's shoulder.

It's definitely a shoulder. Nothing cold, clammy, or otherwise abnormal. A little bony, maybe, but not alarmingly so.

Slowly, Cullen turns his head back toward Alistair.

"I'm real," he says. "You don't have to worry about that."

Alistair breathes out. It trembles a little. "Yes."

And then he pulls Cullen to him and wraps him in a tight, desperate embrace.

-- oh. It's not an attack. Then what -- ?

It's helping, Cullen decides, whatever it is, and Alistair isn't trying to hurt him. He won't disappear, then.

He takes a moment to gauge Alistair's -- everything.

Then Cullen carefully rests his palm flat on Alistair's back. Is that helping? It's something other people do, he thinks.

That total bafflement and awkwardness in the face of being hugged is...very, very Cullen. Alistair can't stop the tiny, choked laugh that escapes him. Maybe it's just because spirits aren't big on hugs, either, but he finds he doesn't care too much. It's still more Cullen-like than anything else he's done since he showed up here.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

"It's not your fault."

His hand smooths over Alistair's back like someone testing the texture of a bolt of cloth.

"I'm glad you're alive."

Alistair nods.

Half-muffled by Cullen's shoulder, "Can I do anything for -- you?"

The dead, or not-exactly-dead, don't often get a say in how things go after they're gone. Maybe he can do that much. Rites to conduct, letters to send, something. Business that Cullen had to leave undone.

Edited 2016-08-07 23:32 (UTC)

"Would it help if you did?"

He's still holding himself stiffly in Alistair's arms.

"I -- " He draws himself away, finally; his cheeks are damp. He scrubs at them with the heel of his palm. "Yes."

I want to help.

Cullen studies him for a moment.

Carefully he reaches into his pocket and produces a silver coin, its face -- a woman's face -- worn down by a thumb, worrying away at it.

"His brother gave him this when he left for training. He kept it even though he wasn't supposed to. You take it. Give it back to Branson one day."

He presses the coin into Alistair's hand. It's warm.

Alistair pulls in another slightly unsteady breath. He closes his fingers around the coin. Without lifting his gaze, he nods.

"I will. I promise."

He doesn't feel any calmer, really, but...quieter, perhaps. It's easier to focus on one small task amid the enormity of everything else. Move this bit of rubble here instead of clear out the Tower. Give Cullen's brother the coin instead of grapple with the fact that your friend is gone.

(Mostly gone. Whatever.)

Cullen's hands drop to his lap.

He nudges his toe against the pew in front of them. Again. And again.

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