bringspeopletogether

They have had no success finding that damn dragon.

Morrigan claims to be able to match it in battle; fine. She'd better not be exaggerating, Cullen thinks, surly, grim.

Morrigan can't match it if the Inquisition can't flush it -- and Corypheus -- out. Josephine and that clipboard of hers --

-- Cullen is well aware when his temper is getting the best of him, and it usually looks like getting irritated at Josephine's clipboard's existence --

-- are making noise about sending someone to Orzammar to formally ask if anybody's seen a dragon, after six rounds of obeisances and adequate purification rituals in dwarven ale, no doubt.

That is when the sky takes on a sickly green hue, casting the map of Thedas on the table into scum-colored shadow.

Alistair's in cheery conversation with one of the cooks, bread and cheese in hand, when a sound like thunder whipcracks against the walls.

Instantly, he's tensed, eyes on the ceiling like whatever it is will crash through the floor above. What was that? hisses another cook.

Not a storm. Can't be. It was bright and sunny all of two minutes ago, and thunderstorms rarely have cause to linger above Skyhold anyway. Too loud to be falling masonry, too omnipresent to be one of Sera's pranks or Dagna's inventions gone wrong --

-- too many voices rising outside to be innocuous --

Alistair leaves the bread and cheese behind and elbows open the kitchen door.

"No."

His face, he's sure, is nearly the same pallid green as the sky. His chest burns; he realizes he isn't breathing, gulps in a breath, keeps staring at the new rip in the sky.

Not just a rift. A full-on Breach.

Oh, Maker, he hears himself think, Maker help me, and then he's barreling toward the gardens to find Kieran.

Cullen's stomach drops into his boots, and for once -- for once -- Leliana and Josephine are silent.

It's clear enough to see through the windows that the new Breach (Cullen looked at the old one long enough to be able to identify that much) isn't quite near Skyhold. It's not a direct attack on the fortress, he thinks, feeling his cognition spin up once more like a machine set back into motion. Those windows face south. Who do we have -- ?

Immediately he turns back to the war table to track available units.

"It seems Corypheus," Morrigan is saying slowly, "is not content to wait."

Lavellan's hand sparks; she grabs it, as though she could turn it off, as though telling a recalcitrant child to behave. "He's in the Valley of Sacred Ashes."

(Dorian told Cullen once, drunk and smirking, that Lavellan observed that the only sacred ashes there, by her estimation, were those lives lost at the Conclave. Cullen rubbed at his forehead to cover the stab of anger, and then shrugged: it's not blasphemy if the blasphemer is a nonbeliever, and at any rate, Cullen finds it hard to believe that death can sanctify anything at all.)

Cullen doesn't reach out to touch the markers, instead tracking them with his eyes. Many of their units who hadn't suffered heavy losses -- what few there are -- have been diverted to the Basin. Those returning to Skyhold are moving slowly, with casualties, and need to resupply. They can send supplies from Suledin Keep, but --

"You either close the Breach once more, or it swallows the world." In this Cullen agrees entirely with Morrigan. The question is how.

"But that's madness!" Josephine exclaims. "Wouldn't it kill him as well?"

So much of what the Inquisition has done the last several months has been under Josephine's oversight, the Arbor Wilds excepted. Her job and Cullen's job are very different, and in some things Josephine is --

Hopelessly naive, Cullen thinks, and then dismisses the thought. Now isn't the time.

In Haven, at the gates, even before he was certain she could be trusted, Cullen gave his honest assessment to Lavellan without shrinking. And Lavellan, somewhat to Cullen's surprise, didn't shrink either. If anything, that was their first real moment of understanding.

So Cullen says, in that same vein of duty and calm, "Inquisitor. We have no forces to send with you. We must wait for them to return from the Arbor Wilds."

And Lavellan -- as Cullen had expected, as Cullen had hoped -- squares her shoulders. "Inform my companions we ride within the hour."

The twin doors to the war room burst open. Cullen marches past the fearful masses in the Great Hall -- Josephine can calm them, she's very good at that, and it's not Cullen's job at the moment -- to go to the armory. He calls to Varric, in the corner at his table; Vivienne in her balcony gives Cullen a regal nod and disappears through the door to the library.

"See you around, Curly," Varric says, shouldering Bianca, and there's no reason at all that Varric Tethras, of all people, casually facing certain doom alongside Cullen yet again, should make him nearly (nearly) break.

So instead Cullen merely breaks his stride, and rests a heavy hand on Varric's shoulder. "Andraste go with you."

Something flickers across Varric's face, and there's no joking in it. He squeezes Varric's shoulder, and moves out the front doors to the armory. He's got to get to Cassandra, to make sure they have what they need.

(To say goodbye.)

(To be left behind, one last time.)

All his weapons are up in his and Cullen's quarters. The Breach didn't open right above their heads, so maybe -- maybe he'll have time. No telling how much, though, whether it'll be enough, and damned if he'll leave his son alone in the chaos for any longer than necessary.

Kieran's watching the sky, wide-eyed as the rest -- and yet calmer than the rest, too, more awestruck than truly afraid. He's seen this before, Alistair thinks. Not like everyone else who saw the first Breach; he's been in the Fade, however briefly, he knows what the Old Gods knew, and he lived with Morrigan in some bizarre in-between space (Alistair's never quite grasped where). Of course this wouldn't worry him like it worries the rest of Skyhold.

Like it worries Alistair.

(Scares him.)

"Is it Corypheus?" Kieran asks him as Alistair urges him back to Morrigan's quarters. The question nearly makes Alistair trip over his own feet.

"I don't know," he says. Firming up his voice, "But it's best to wait inside until we find out."

At least the walls will offer protection for a few minutes longer should all the demons of the Fade crash down on them.

They're only in Morrigan's quarters for a few minutes before the woman herself bursts through the door. Instantly, Alistair's back on his feet; Kieran runs to her side, and Morrigan sweeps him close.

"I must ride to Haven," she says, low, more for Kieran's ears than Alistair's. When she catches Alistair's quizzical look from the corner of her eye, though, the's quick to add: "'Twould seem our final stand against this darkspawn magister will be back where it all began."

"So it is Corypheus."

"Indeed." She shapes a thin smile. "And there are few reinforcements to spare. Fortunately, I shall serve as our battalion against his dragon."

There, then: the fear that'd been absent from Kieran's face emerges. Alistair's heart wrenches.

Morrigan wraps her arms more snugly around her son, touching her lips to his forehead in a moment so unguarded that Alistair almost has to look away. "Your father will look after you until I return," she tells Kieran, softly, and cuts a quick glance Alistair's way that's less asking than ordering.

Luckily, they're in agreement. Alistair nods. "Of course."

She whispers something in Kieran's ear. Kieran echoes it, just loud enough for Alistair to hear: "I love you too."

One more embrace -- and then Morrigan is gone, and Kieran and Alistair are alone.

Cullen folds his arms while Cassandra, in full armor, bends over the whetstone to sharpen her blade one last time. He regards her bedroll, tossed on a bench. The armorers are currently huddled in an emergency meeting with Morris, to make sure they can send anything that needs to be sent with the Inquisitor. Outside in the yard he can hear Bull roaring something, and Krem barking orders to the Chargers.

But Cullen folds his arms. And Cassandra sharpens her blade.

(You give yourself too little credit, she told him in this place, not too long ago.)

He hears the fires, the whine of the blade on stone. Sees the sparks.

Says, softly: "And in your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame."

Cassandra examines her blade, and glances at him. Her voice is more even than his. "The one who repents, who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker's law and creations: she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction."

Where would Cullen be without her? Where would any of them be without her?

He rubs at his eyes with the heel of a hand, and helplessly continues: "The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next."

They finish it together, heads bowed. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.
As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,
She should see fire and go towards Light.
The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,
And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.

"But not today," Cassandra says, fierce, and grips Cullen's forearm as warriors do.

He doesn't know what to do.

It's one thing, to make jokes and read stories (performing all the voices therein) and ask questions of one another over chess games, trying to fill a gap ten years wide. It's quite another when his heart pounds in his ears too loud to think, and Kieran stares at the door as if willing it to transmogrify into his mother. When Alistair's mouth is too dry with encroaching panic for him to say anything.

What kind of father could he ever possibly be, if he can't comfort his own child in the midst of the world's end?

(Cullen's -- off being the Commander. Has to be. Alistair would never be so selfish as to interrupt that. But Maker, he wants him here, he wants a steadying presence to lean against until he can get his bearings, he wants -- )

"Did your mother ever tell you about the time we fought werewolves?" he blurts out.

Kieran shakes his head, silent...but after another moment, he turns to look at Alistair.

Distraction can be its own comfort. And it's a distraction for them both.

Lavellan and the rest ride out with no fanfare, in silence. The advisors watch them from the stairs to the great hall. Once the gate to the sally port closes behind them, Cullen says, quiet:

"I shall order our soldiers in the valley into the fortress. I trust there's room?"

"There is," Leliana confirms, no louder. Between the dead and their forces in the Basin, in Orlais -- there's room.

"We will increase our patrols on the battlements. Leliana, your people -- "

"Will do what they do best." Cullen gives her a small smile, which she returns. "We should meet this evening, once they have their orders. I'll share that with you then."

"And in the meantime, I shall speak with our guests, and explain to them that circumstances have changed. Our strategic reserves will allow us to last for at least three months." Josephine is checking her clipboard. "Likely more. But I must advise that rationing at this point will start a panic."

Dryly, Leliana observes, "And they're close enough to it already."

"For good reason," Cullen mutters. "Josephine -- would you mind asking Fiona to provide a list of those mages who can assist in Skyhold's defense, should that become necessary? Barriers and the like."

Josephine inclines her head. "Of course. Shall we reconvene in the war room at sunset?"

It's something very like a plan. At the very least, it's something to do. Cullen heads for his office, realizing as he goes up the stairs that Alistair might be there.

For just an instant -- and it's something he immediately feels horribly guilty about -- the thought of having to tell Alistair it'll be fine is too much to consider.

But Alistair isn't in his office, or in their room. So he summons Briony and a few lieutenants, and gives the order. Soon he hears the horns. When he looks out his window, he can see tiny figures in the valley scrambling to dismantle their camp, and a line of soldiers headed up the mountain.

"They'll muster," he says to Briony, "we'll have roll call, we'll assign quarters, and that should give us enough time to draw up new rotations. Eat something while you can."

He doesn't have much time. And if Alistair isn't here -- well. Morrigan went. Cullen can guess where Alistair is.

Five minutes later, there's a knock on the door to Morrigan's quarters.

And five seconds later, the door opens.

Alistair's too pale for his own good, though he doesn't look like he's about to sick up his lunch, at least. Small favors. Unfettered relief sweeps across his face at the sight of Cullen; he steps back to allow him inside.

"Morrigan caught us up on the important bits." Very quiet. "Are you...?"

Okay, he means to finish, but the relief, unfortunately, has the belated side effect of making his throat close up.

Cullen closes the door and, without a word, takes Alistair into his arms.

...Ah. Right. Yes, that -- that works much better.

Alistair wraps his arms around Cullen in kind, clinging tight. He's still mindful of Kieran some feet away; it means he doesn't sniffle. Not yet.

But the way he's holding on to Cullen is rather like that day Alistair ran into the eluvian.

It is. So Cullen lets it go a beat or two longer than he'd planned -- and doesn't pull away right away. Instead, he loosens his hold, and says, quietly, "I don't have much time. We're pulling our forces in the valley back into the fortress. Lots to do in the next several hours."

Now he's got his hands on Alistair's shoulders. "I'll be in meetings until late. We've no cause to think he's sending troops to Skyhold. It's safe in our quarters. We'll have adequate warning if any hostile forces approach. Kieran is -- "

Cullen looks up and over at Kieran. "You're welcome to stay with us, if you'd like. Or I imagine Alistair can stay here. Either way -- now's not the time to idle in my office, I'm afraid." He squeezes Alistair's arm.

Alistair musters up a halfhearted smile. "I'll stay here for now," he says. "Until your office isn't crammed to bursting with all the meetings. After that -- "

He looks to Kieran. "What do you think about spending the night in Cullen's tower?"

Kieran hesitates. His gaze darts to his own bed; Alistair's smile, weak to begin with, fades to nothing. Gentler, he says, "Safest place in Skyhold, as he's fond of telling me. Lots of people all around with sharp pointy weapons. And we'll bring as many of your things as you'd like." Beat. "...Hauling your bed up so many stairs may be a bit tricky, but I think I can carry it on my own, don't you? Slung up on one shoulder?"

That garners a tiny smile out of Kieran, but not much else.

"Or you could use both our bedrolls, stacked on one another." Thoughtful. "More comfortable than most of the beds in Skyhold. Of course, if Alistair's heart is set on hauling furniture around, far be it from me to crush his dreams."

He gives Kieran a crooked smile. "Or staying here. That's good, too. Whatever you'd like."

Kieran gnaws his lip. This is the most unsure Alistair's ever seen him; it makes his chest ache even worse.

Finally, barely above a whisper: "The tower's fine," Kieran says.

Alistair nods. (Only Cullen will notice the way he sags a little: he doesn't have to choose between looking out for Kieran and staying close to Cullen tonight. Thank the Maker.) "All right," he murmurs. "If you change your mind at any point, we can always come back here. All right?"

Kieran's turn to nod.

Cullen turns toward Kieran and kneels, so they're eye to eye. "Anything you need," he says, quiet, serious, "anything that will help you, if it's within my power -- tell me, and we'll make it happen."

Morrigan is the only one of the group that rode out to have dependents. This hasn't escaped Cullen.

"I don't make promises I can't keep. So I won't tell you it'll be all right. But I'll do my best to make sure it turns out all right. So will your mother and father. So will everyone in the Inquisition. Can that be enough for now?"

"Yes," says Kieran, his voice a measure stronger.

(Alistair closes his eyes, a different sort of relief sweeping over him: that Cullen can maintain his calm when Alistair cannot, that he can convey that to Kieran without the words ringing hollow.

Relief, and a deep, abiding fondness. There are so many reasons I love you.)

"Good." With a slight smile. "This is quite literally what we've been training for. What we've been working toward."

Cullen gets to his feet. "I trust in our soldiers, and I certainly trust the Inquisitor. We are capable of defeating Corypheus." The words are simple. Calm. "And I'm afraid I must take my leave of you both."

He glances at Alistair. "If you're not in the tower at the end of the day, I'll come find you here."

(This is Cullen in his public face; this is Cullen as the man he'd wanted to be when he left home at thirteen. This is not the Cullen who ends each day with a headache, more often than not, and is often tired to the point of despair by the time he climbs into bed.

When the adrenaline crash comes, it'll be spectacular.)

Alistair breathes out. Nods. "I'll see you then."

Giving in to impulse, he grabs Cullen's hand in a quick squeeze.

"Good luck."

The corner of his mouth curls up for just a moment as he brushes his thumb over Alistair's knuckles.

"Gentlemen," he says, brisk, and walks out the door.

Alistair's next exhalation lasts a bit longer than he intends. He drags a hand down his face, then turns to Kieran. The boy has his left arm pressed to his side, right hand wrapped around his left elbow, shoulders hunched. It's the same unconscious posture Alistair adopts when he's unsure, and anxious, and trying not to bother anyone.

The knot in his throat tightens. In silence, Alistair settles a hand on Kieran's shoulder and gives it a small squeeze. Kieran looks up.

Very small, his son says, "I don't know what's going to happen."

And the way he says it...it's not like a child railing at his own confusion, or the unfairness of the world. Alistair pauses, then asks, very carefully, "Would you have known? Before...?"

Kieran hitches up his free shoulder, helplessly, as his eyes start to well up.

Not a child railing at the unfairness of the world: one railing against loss, remembering something from scant months ago and fearing he may see its far worse cousin any minute now. Alistair recognizes that, too. He drops to one knee; "Come here," he whispers.

Pretty soon he's got an armful of quietly keening ten-year-old clinging to his shirtfront. He'll follow Cullen's example. He won't say it'll be all right.

But he'll say the next best thing: I'm here. I'm here.

Cullen takes a moment to slip behind an unused door, to lean against an ancient stone wall and press the heels of his hands against his eyes.

One deep breath in. (A line of the Chant.) One deep breath out, slowly. (Another.) Repeat the process. (Finish the canticle.)

Not twenty minutes later he's down in the courtyard listening to captains barking orders, to rank and file answering as called, to hushed conversations about which squads to combine and which squads to break apart entirely.

Josephine has Fiona's list; he delivers it to Briony, with instructions to ensure that the units that will need mage backup will have it.

He has a hushed conversation with Leliana -- the kind of thing they didn't have time for in Haven. A fact they're both painfully aware of. But once they're done -- Cullen knows the lines of sight Leliana has in the surrounding mountains, and the tentative schedule for the receipt of information, and how to know something is wrong. Leliana knows what Cullen can give for support without diminishing Skyhold's defenses, and knows how best to take advantage of the supply lines into and out of the valley.

No change in the sky.

At the last, when all quarters have been assigned (and Skyhold feels full again, for the first time since they marched for the Arbor Wilds, and Cullen would be lying if he said it didn't lift his spirits), when all rosters are managed, when scribes shake out their wrists and flex their fingers --

Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen meet to discuss what will happen when -- if -- Corypheus kills the Inquisitor.

It's just after midnight when Cullen returns to the tower.

Not long after they shuttled a few armloads of Kieran's things to the tower, Alistair and Kieran took a moment to rest on the chaise.

Five minutes later, Kieran tucked his legs up and scooted over to use Alistair's leg for a pillow.

Five minutes after that, exhausted by fear and worry, he fell asleep -- and Alistair didn't have the heart to wake him, even as twilight wound down into full dark and moonlight started to creep across the floor.

So that's where they are when Cullen arrives: still on the chaise, Alistair watching the ceiling as if it'll cave in at any moment, one hand on Kieran's hair. He rouses himself when the door creaks, shaping a wan smile, and lifts his free hand in a silent hello.

Cullen takes in the scene.

He troubles to walk softly when he crosses to the chaise (leaving the doors unlocked). Quietly he removes his vambraces, his gloves, and puts them on his desk.

Then Cullen takes Alistair's hand and, slowly, leans down to kiss the top of his head: an apology, a declaration, a question.

Alistair breathes out, shakily, as he clutches Cullen's hand. Hold it together a little longer, he thinks. You can manage that.

Barely audible, so as not to wake Kieran: "How are you?"

Cullen draws his thumb back and forth over Alistair's hand.

He nods slowly, with a small, warm smile: I'm all right.

Alistair, he is guessing, is not.

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