bringspeopletogether

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.

An accurate assessment. Alistair's holding on to a smile of his own, but only just. If Cullen's all right, and Kieran isn't awake to witness him fall apart, that removes a lot of the motivation to keep it together.

He's still trying, though. He brings Cullen's hand up so he can kiss his knuckles; lingers there, eyes closed, once he's done.

(The light in the tower isn't all moonlight. The Breach is bright enough to cast a sickly green shimmer here and there, glimpsed from the corner of his eye, like the illusion of the past half-a-year has finally begun to crumble.)

A quiet sigh.

Whispered: "Can I help get him up? Without waking him?"

"Not sure how," Alistair admits, no louder, as he looks down at Kieran. "If one of us can get him into one arm..."

It'd require an awful lot of jostling, though.

Cullen thinks a moment. Then, with a last squeeze of Alistair's hand, he lets go so he can pick up a folded fur draped over a nearby chair.

"Hold this." Still whispered. "I'll lift him; you stand, and provide the substitute."

Alistair nods. Carefully, he accepts the fur; a little jostling ensues as they trade one pillow for another, allowing Alistair to get up, but Kieran only shifts a bit as if to get more comfortable.

Alistair glances to the ladder. It's a simple enough task, isn't it? It shouldn't feel like he's trying to figure out a chess move with a blindfold and thirty differently-colored pieces on the board -- and yet.

Hold it together.

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