bringspeopletogether

"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.

A fun side effect of barely eating, barely sleeping, and then spending hours keeping your own private watch on the bridge: it makes you tired. Far more tired than Alistair expected.

Kieran's up in their quarters, quietly reading something he found in the library. He's doing as fine as anyoe might expect. Alistair doesn't have the wherewithal to chat for more than a few minutes, but it's better than nothing, he supposes. He leaves him to it and retreats to the chaise.

Stiffly, he sheds his armor. Heaps it at the foot of the chaise, too worn out to put it back on its stand yet. Not the best way to care for it, but it's not like it'll have to last much longer. How long did Cullen say? A few days to reach Haven? So the Breach will change in a few days, they'll have a few days more before Corypheus's forces arrive, if they're lucky --

Either way. Less than a week.

He curls up to sleep.

He's not entirely sure how it happens, but they wind up back on Vivienne's balcony, joined by Josephine, with two bottles of wine and some sort of Antivan smoked fish and dried fruit that Josephine had been saving for a special occasion.

Cullen doesn't drink much -- just tilts his head back against the arm of the chaise and listens to Leliana and Josephine trading stories, tossing verses of songs back and forth until Leliana provides a different set of lyrics to each one in Orlesian, and every subsequent iteration gets filthier and filthier until he's positive he's bright red and Josephine says, We should have had Cullen helping with our translation work ages ago, if his vocabulary is this well-rounded and Cullen blurts, I'd rather be pickled and fed to the Avvar, and Leliana laughs in a way Cullen's never heard from her and reaches for the lute Vivienne has had leaning artfully against a pile of books for months.

She tsks softly as she tunes it, and then tries a few chords.

Not Andraste's Mabari, you fiend, Cullen says without opening his eyes, pointing in the direction of the lute noise. You absolute -- villain.

Leliana laughs again, and then picks out the melody line to one of the first hymns children learn in the Chantry. Satisfied, then, she begins to sing.

Even as the sun goes down, the light from the new Breach remains, casting through the stained glass, making the rose window above them glow. It's -- not unpleasant.

He glances down, and sees that Leliana has an audience: people with their faces turned up, cautious faces, fearful faces, hopeful faces.

There was another night like this one, somewhere near Haven.

Cullen finishes the contents of his glass as Leliana finishes the first verse, and picks up with her on the second.

When Alistair bolts awake, everything's tinged green. No torches, no light, nothing but --

(If Kieran's still awake, he can't see him like this.)

He barely hesitates before sprinting through the door and out into the cool night air, stumbling to a wavery halt against one of the walls. Alistair braces against it with both hands, gasping for air; the backs of his hands look dead, half-rotted in the light.

This is it, he thinks.

Except...it's too quiet. Nothing but the wind and the sound of one of the torches spitting against the wall.

And -- singing?

It's not Maryden. He doesn't think it is, at any rate; it's too faint to be sure. Alistair breathes, trying to pick out the melody. After a moment, he's able to straighten up.

A few moments after that, he has enough of his bearings to pinpoint the sound: it's coming from the great hall.

Maker knows he could use the distraction. He heads that way.

Leliana picks simple songs -- not the Chant itself, but adjacent songs, songs written by people. The Orlesian ones Cullen doesn't know, Josephine takes. He'd known she, too, was a bard, but had forgotten until she winds harmonies along Leliana's voice that, strangely, make him think of Kirkwall. But Kirkwall was closer to Antiva, he thinks; it wasn't out of the ordinary, there.

We should go downstairs, he says, softly. To let them join with us.

Leliana nods, tuning again. One more, and we shall. One you should know. Join me.

It's her business to know things. Cullen knows that. But there's no reason for her to know he has a very clear and sharp memory of his mother singing it the night before he was to leave for the Chantry. A good memory, still. After everything.

So Leliana takes the first line of the old parting song on her own, before Cullen lets out a long breath and picks up the harmony, to provide the benediction.

Ten paces from the door, he recognizes one voice: Leliana. Unsurprising.

Five paces out, the second voice joins it, and Alistair stops in his tracks.

He hasn't heard Cullen sing very often; not since they were young. Age has roughened his voice, but it still carries clear and sweet. He rests a hand on the door frame, debating -- and then silently slips inside to lean against a wall near the back.

...And all I've done for want of wit
To memory now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all

After some silent communication, Cullen drops out to let Leliana take the last repeated line on her own.

He stretches, feeling -- calmer. He'll be a little unsteady on his feet, he thinks, but nothing that a few more hours of sleep won't fix.

Leliana sings the last line without the lute, and as soon as her voice fades, there's silence in the hall.

"Isn't there any more?" asks a plaintive voice from the floor.

Josephine immediately gets to her feet, leaning over the balcony. "Yes, but we're coming down to join you, and you simply must sing with us." This is met with a cheer.

Orlesian bards are good for something, Cullen muses. Like morale.

Josephine goes down the stairs first. Then Leliana. Cullen lets them make landing in the hall before he goes through the door, starts down the stairs.

That could leave him with time to escape before Cullen sees him, if he wanted.

He doesn't move.

Leliana catches his eye; he smiles, faintly, and tips his head in a nod, but doesn't approach. It's reasonable that everyone else will mistake him for part of the wall, right?

There's Alistair.

Without Kieran, Cullen notes, and -- not visibly cringing, or pacing, or anything else that might give away panic.

So there's warmth in Cullen's smile, and a little relief, too.

That's --

All right. That's good. Cullen's actually pleased to see him.

Alistair's smile stays small as he pushes away from the wall, picking his way through the crowd to reach Cullen's side.

Edited 2017-06-09 02:10 (UTC)

There are shadows under his eyes, but Cullen is calm.

"All right?" Quiet.

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