bringspeopletogether

Cullen laughs quietly. "A solid strategy, Theirin."

"At least I have enough of my wits about me for that."

He's starting to smile again, very small.

"You do," he agrees, running his fingers through the hair at the base of Alistair's neck.

"It might be beneficial to tell him you'd rather not be around outside light. He knows what happened. He's been there himself."

"I don't want him to worry about me on top of everything else."

Quiet, as he presses closer.

"...he already is." No louder. "He cares about you, Alistair."

His mouth twists a little.

"I don't want him to worry more," he amends.

Cullen exhales.

Do it for my sake, he doesn't say. I can't be your only support when I've got the whole of the Inquisition to worry about.

"Do you think," he asks carefully, "he'll worry more if you acknowledge what's going on, or if you pretend everything's fine when it's clearly not?"

I need you to share this burden, he doesn't say, because I can't take it alone.

"He's a child, Cullen."

Still quiet.

"And he's my son. And he's been through too much already without his father having a nervous breakdown alll over him."

Well.

Cullen could continue fencing. But if the fight against Corypheus goes poorly, not like it'll matter anyhow.

"I won't argue," he says, standing. "But if you think he hasn't noticed, you're underestimating him. And there's a difference between stating a fact and having a nervous breakdown. And I have to go."

Alistair looks up, brow furrowing.

I said something wrong, he thinks, bleaker than he expects. Well. Also business as usual, then.

"All right." Barely audible, now. "I'll see you tonight."

"I need you to be willing to fight for yourself."

He hasn't moved yet. And he's not looking at Alistair.

"I can't do it right now. I'm spread too thin."

Oh.

Oh, damn it all.

"Cullen -- " He sets his tea aside and gets to his feet. It feels like a phalanx closing ranks around the raw nerves he'd exposed: pull yourself together. "I am. I will. I'll -- fight harder."

He exhales, raking a hand through his hair.

"I don't want you running yourself into the ground on my behalf. I'm sorry. You've more than enough to deal with already, too."

You've noticed? he nearly snaps.

Cullen realizes, absently, that he's furious. That's good. As long as he can convert that into fuel, that's good.

"I'm not asking you to be fine."

Still calm. But he's not looking at Alistair.

"I'm asking you to think about what you need to keep functioning, and then do it. You're a soldier. I know you know how to do it."

Alistair nods, eyes downcast. Chastened.

"I do." Low. "I'm sorry, Cullen."

This is what Cullen needs from him: to keep it together. He can do that. He can -- well. He'll find a way.

Or a quiet room to go scream in, if it comes to that.

There's no reason Alistair apologizing should make him angrier.

At his sides, his hands curl into fists for just a moment.

"Right," Cullen says, finally, and goes for the door.

Alistair's chest clenches tighter as he watches him go.

He can't go after him. It's...almost easier, knowing that. Like another piece of the illusion has shed itself and taken a bit of his fear with it. He can stop dreading the arrival of something awful, because it's finally arrived.

Maybe Kieran will be next, he thinks with a distant curiosity. He'll bring him to Leliana, and he'll just -- vanish. But it's all right. The more pieces that fall away, the more he'll be ready to fight.

It'll be all right.

(In death -- )

As soon as the sun rises, Kieran descends the ladder. Alistair offers a faint smile before they go to the rookery.

Cullen is still in his shirtsleeves. He'll need to wait until they've left to go get his armor. So what can he do in the meantime?

If he ignores the cold, he can walk the battlements. Speak to the guards like -- like a person. Ask questions. Do what he can to boost morale. And it has the side benefit of leaving him close enough to keep an eye on his office.

Once around, and the sun's up: from the wall overlooking the garden, he spies two figures making their way from his office to the keep. Good.

Armor on, he goes to speak to Dagna, to see if she's learned anything from their prisoner that he should follow up on today.

They make their way up the rotunda. Solas's quarters: empty, obviously. In the library: a scattering of mages. There's hardly any sound but the ravens.

Fortunately, Leliana's not so busy as to turn them away. As Kieran asks his questions, all of them hold out handfuls of crumbs to the birds, leftover breakfast and breads gone stale and some seeds that wouldn't sprout. Alistair stays quiet, watching the greenish light shimmer along their feathers.

When Kieran's finished his careful note-taking, he asks Alistair if he could stay in the library a bit longer.

"If you need anything -- " Alistair starts.

" -- I'll find you," finishes Kieran with a nod, before disappearing into the stacks.

So. That's that.

Alistair weighs his options as he crosses the battlements to Cullen's tower. The yard's likely to be busy. Easy to blend in, maybe. And whacking away at a training dummy might prove helpful. Krem might even be leading exercises with the Chargers in Bull's absence, if he'd rather take a whack at a living person.

He retrieves his armor, buckles on his sword and shield...and instead of turning to the yard, heads for the sally port and the long bridge spanning the valley.

Three-quarters of the way across, he takes a seat, tips his head back, and watches the Breach.

Waiting.

Samson gets the blue stuff, not the red. He gets the same ration that any templar gets. This does not improve Samson's disposition.

Nor does it entirely address the degree to which the red has fused to him. Now that the armor's broken (and with Dagna for study), Cullen can see the crystals growing under his skin. They haven't broken through yet. But it's only a matter of time.

Cullen nods at the jailer, who retreats across the room. Cullen walks past Erimond and Servis without looking at them. Cullen kicks a stool into place in front of Samson's cell, and has a seat.

"You think a bleeding elfroot potion is going to get me to talk?" sneers Samson.

Cullen shrugs, and doesn't reply. The longer he goes without talking, the more peeved Samson will get.

Instead, with his foot he nudges the vial within Samson's reach.

Samson sits on his cot (a concession to his status as informer, and as terminal), slumped, rubbing his temples. Three empty vials sit between him and Cullen. Cullen's promised him an extra dose of lyrium per day, and all the elfroot he wants.

"Tell me about the orb," Cullen says, softly, and tries to ignore the gentle, sweet ringing in his ears. Like delicate chimes.

In peace, vigilance. There's no telling how many hours of peace they have left.

What's interesting, Alistair thinks idly, is how he refused to let his mind bend around some of the more logical corners. Cullen might be real. That doesn't mean the coin's real, though, does it? It's not like everything Cullen touches confers reality. Or that demons can't learn to mimic better, upon being given a glimpse of the real thing.

It's interesting. Truly.

He toys absently with the chain around his neck, still watching the sky.

No matter. If it's really a Breach, they'll probably be dead in a few days. If he's been in the Fade this whole time, the demon made the fatal mistake of giving him a nice six-month vacation: long enough to put himself back together and swing harder as soon as the illusion falls. He won't struggle to get out this time, he decides. He'll treat it like the Deep Roads: fall fighting, and take as many of the bastards with him as he can on the way down.

Alistair feels quite calmer for having made that decision.

There are three people in Skyhold at the moment with any reason to be in the war room. Josephine is busy at her desk when Cullen passes by; a brief nod is all they spare each other.

One of the other two knows how to find him, if anything needs his immediate attention. Good enough.

Cullen gives himself time to sit against one of the walls, knees drawn up to his chest, head on his arms. It doesn't help his breathing, but at least it lessens his chances of vomiting.

He's shaking now, he notices. His hand didn't waver when he passed Samson a philter of blue. (He'd banked on Samson wanting the lyrium more than he wanted to try anything against Cullen. Cullen was right.) He thinks he managed to hide it from Samson -- helped along, of course, by the degree of attention Samson paid to his extra dose.

He can get the shakes now. It's fine. No one's here.

If it turns out to be the last time he has one of these episodes, Cullen thinks, the end of the world might not be so bad.

A few hours later, no one's come to find him. Cullen pulls a broom out of the corner and -- as access to the war room is strictly controlled, and there's not enough activity to warrant a regular cleaning -- begins to sweep. Once he feels less shaky, he might go get a bucket and scrub brush.

It's work that needs to be done. It's good exercise. It's a welcome opportunity to test his memory on the parts of the Chant he doesn't reference quite so often.

When Alistair's legs start to cramp, he takes to pacing the full length of the bridge, as slow and measured as if he were on an actual rotation.

When his stomach growls, he ignores it.

The Breach doesn't change; Kieran doesn't come find him; the few other people that cross the bridge don't pay any attention to him. His mind's blank except the Warden's oath. It's not peaceful, but it's a close enough facsimile. Certainly close enough to bear up as a soldier should.

If tonight --

He shakes that from his mind. Keeps a steady pace.

In war, victory, in peace, vigilance, in death, sacrifice.

He'd feel better, he thinks, if he gave in to the need to sleep it off. It doesn't have to be a lot of sleep, even.

But where -- ?

A few minutes later, Cullen climbs the stairs to Vivienne's balcony, which is of course deserted -- the Iron Lady carries a certain reputation even in her absence -- and arranges himself on one of the chaises.

Anything that would warrant his attention would cause a ruckus in the hall, thus waking him. Until then...

It feels like sinking underwater when he closes his eyes. Even though he's sleeping in his armor. Cullen feels -- relieved.

He went two months without food. (As far as he remembers, anyway.) Surely he can last the day.

The problem is that his body's gotten used to proper nourishment again, and so, a little at a time, the gnawing in his gut becomes more insistent. Alistair finally gives in and leaves the bridge. Easy enough to grab an apple and some bread, and then maybe --

His old quarters are probably taken by now. No harm in checking, though. He trudges up the familiar stairs, pushes open the door to the balcony to cross over --

He could recognize that coat from fifty paces. (So could most of Skyhold, granted.) Alistair stands rooted in the doorway, his throat tightening abominably.

(There's the problem, isn't it. He has a reason to stay alive. Though, well -- if this has been an illusion, maybe the real Cullen won't care as much if he doesn't come back from the Fade.)

Silently as he can, he retreats, closing the door behind him. He'll go eat in the tower. After that -- he'll see.

Half an hour later, the scraping of a chair in the hall wakes him. Cullen notes his head feels -- clearer. When he holds up a hand, he can barely notice the tremor.

Good enough.

To the infirmary, then, to see to the convalescing soldiers: prayers, cards, letters home. After a few hands of cards he recuses himself: his heart's not in it, and there are other things he can do to kill time.

And one thing he should do.

Was it worth it? Leliana's eyes are sharp. Sharper than usual. Cullen doesn't look away.

Any weapon can be broken, he tells her. Should the worst come to pass, knowing how to break that orb might make the difference for us.

You should have come to me.

Cullen shakes his head. There was no need.

He made you unwell, Leliana says, softer.

Cullen can't really deny that one.

Finally, Leliana sighs, and stands, walking toward her corner shrine. Come. Tell me what he said. Then we can decide what to do.

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