bringspeopletogether

I'm going to kill him, he thinks, with a chilling calmness. Nearly says it aloud until he pictures how Cullen might react. It'd likely be by telling Alistair that no, he can't do that, and Alistair's pretty certain that if he hears that the rage might explode like it hasn't in months, and --

And he needs to keep it together enough to take care of himself. He promised.

He's breathing harshly, a little unsteady, but that's all. Alistair links his fingers with Cullen's in a deliberate effort to stop crushing his knuckles.

"There's little enough reason for anyone to be aware of the internecine buffoonery in the civil war." He keeps his hold steady on Alistair's hand.

"So I'll summarize. His real name is Thom Rainier. He was an officer in the Orlesian army. He took money to order his squad to kill another officer, one Vincent Callier, as part of the Game. Callier was with his family, including his children. Rainier and his men killed them all, then he let his men take the fall for it. He revealed himself on the gallows in the Summer Bazaar early this morning and was taken into custody. We're not yet sure what happened to the real Gordon Blackwall, but there's no indication we should believe he still lives."

Yes, he decides. He's definitely going to kill the man.

Alistair digs the fingers of his other hand into the mattress.

"He told me," he says, low and tightly leashed, "that he knew Duncan."

This is precisely why, Cullen thinks, he wanted to tell Alistair himself, in private.

"I can suggest to the Inquisitor that she speak with you before she renders any decision." Only a little calmer. "If you want."

Alistair nods, short and sharp.

Then, abruptly: "I want to speak to him too."

Cullen's lips tighten.

"I can't promise that." More slowly. "But I'll try. You have my word."

That's -- probably the best Alistair could've hoped for, given everything.

Another nod, not quite as sharp. After a few tries, Alistair loosens his grip on Cullen's hand; doesn't let go entirely yet.

Even promising he'd try -- it's not anything Cullen would do if he weren't furious himself.

As it is, Cullen doesn't let go, either.

Softly, now, and concerned: "Will you be all right for a few hours?"

"Yes."

In all honesty, he's not sure he will, but he can't very well ask Cullen to stay. He'll just -- find something softer to punch than the walls. Or some paper to rip up. Maybe there's some half-broken crockery somewhere he can hurl against a fence.

Alistair forces himself to take a deep breath, then another. He meets Cullen's eyes. "I'll be all right."

(...Maybe he'll write out the most inventive ways he can think up to kill Blackwall -- Rainier -- and shred the paper once he's done. Setting it on fire might work too. Hm.)

"If -- if she brought Cassandra or Varric with her -- do you want me to direct either of them here to wait with you?"

He shakes his head. "I'll be all right," he says again, quieter now.

Kind as Cassandra and Varric may be, he doesn't want to be around either of them when he inevitably loses his temper.

Alistair squeezes Cullen's hand in a feeble attempt at reassurance. "I promise."

"Find a soldier if you need me." He covers Alistair's hand with his gloved hand, for good measure. "I'll come as soon as I can. I -- honestly, whatever's going to happen today is between the Inquisitor and Celene, it shouldn't take long."

"All right."

His ears are still ringing, but he's breathing more steadily. A few hours. That's all. Less, if they're lucky.

"I will."

Cullen's throat tightens for a moment.

Softly:

"I'm sorry."

Alistair lifts his free hand as if to ward off the apology. He shakes his head again, very slightly.

Apologies aren't going to help anything, especially when Alistair's main job for the next couple of hours is keeping himself together.

He reaches up to clasp Cullen's shoulder, tugging him down just far enough to kiss him on the forehead. "I'll see you soon," he whispers.

Cullen breathes, nods, lets go. He picks up his glove and his gauntlets and -- and goes.

Outside a small enclosed coach waits. An adjutant, waiting inside, has a copy of Leliana's report. Cullen doesn't say anything -- just starts reading. Lavellan will have questions. Cullen would like to have at least a few answers.

Alistair puts his feet on the floor. Puts his elbows on his knees; his head in his hands.

"Fuck," he says, low -- and then louder, "Fuck. Fuck!"

He lashes out to slam his fist into the headboard. Remembering himself -- if only just -- the next few punches land on the mattress and pillows before he lunges to his feet and storms for the kitchen.

All those years of Black -- Rainier playacting, like it was a Maker-damned game, while the real Blackwall lay dead somewhere, while Alistair sacrificed himself for the futile redemption of the Wardens, while he's sitting around waiting for his Calling to come. I don't fear the Calling, he remembers the man say -- yes, well, of course he wouldn't, wouldn't he, because he has nothing at all to fear. It won't ever happen to him!

(Dimly, Alistair's aware that he's spitting those words aloud as he digs through the cabinets for something old and smashable.)

By the time the coach arrives at the prison near the Summer Bazaar, the Inquisitor has already arrived (according to the guard) and is questioning Rainier now.

Cullen nods sharply -- and catches the guard's expression. Not smug, not condescending, not amused. Sympathetic, even. Not what Cullen was expecting. Then again, perhaps it's not a surprise when you've just defeated the eldritch darkspawn magister who was trying to collapse the sky.

He can read the device on the guard's collar. Corporal -- what can we expect?

If left to our custody, he will not live much longer. Perhaps a few days. The corporal's voice is rough, but quiet. The hanging which was to occur this morning will be carried out in much the same manner. To do anything else is a matter for the diplomats, no?

Yes, Cullen agrees. Thank you. Has he said -- anything about the Warden he pretended to be?

Warden Blackwall found him after the business with Callier and recruited him. But they were set upon by darkspawn before Rainier could go through with it.

Cullen snorts before he can stop himself. And he lived, while a veteran Grey Warden died?

That is the man's story, the corporal says, stonily.

He'll have to do better than that, Cullen mutters. He can hear footsteps coming from the lower prison.

Everything in the damned cabinet's immaculate. Of course it is.

Fucking Orlesians.

Alistair kicks one of the chairs hard enough to upend it. Just enough of the blinding fury dispels for him to collar the rest and drag it down; he braces both hands on the table, gripping the edge tight. Let the anger burn inward, he orders himself. Don't set the whole city on fire.

(Satisfying as that would be.)

He can hear Cullen's voice in his head: You're a soldier. Alistair breathes in, breathes out, as one hand clenches into a fist atop the table. A soldier, yes, just like Blackwall, just like he pretended to be --

He gives the downed chair another kick before dropping into the upright one.

The fact that he can hear Lavellan's passing at all says volumes: she prefers to be underestimated, prefers to be silent. Not that they've ever talked about it, but Cullen suspects she believes it to be safer for her, as well as a matter of tactical advantage.

That Lavellan's footsteps, even armored as she is, are clearly audible --

Report, is all she says to Cullen by way of greeting. It's been nearly two weeks since he left Skyhold.

Cullen reports. Summarizes Leliana's information. He sees Lavellan's flash of temper -- how could Leliana have missed this? -- but she makes no comment. Instead, she asks Cullen what he would do.

What he did to his men is unforgivable, Cullen says. He doesn't need to consider that: it's true. Full stop. Yet he did work to defeat Corypheus. He helped prepare our soldiers when he wasn't in the field with you. If you are weighing whether to intervene with the empress, you may want to consider that much.

Not the kind of thing he can say around Alistair. And speaking of. There is also the matter of posing as a Grey Warden. The reputation of the Orlesian Wardens is not good... yet you chose to allow them to serve.

I did, Lavellan says, watching Cullen very carefully.

While not as grievous a crime as murdering children for coin -- Cullen nearly snarls that last. he should be punished for that as well. I broke it to Alistair before I left this morning. You might want to speak with him. He has some -- thoughts. A useful perspective. He'd like to speak to Blackw-- the prisoner himself, regardless.

Lavellan arches a brow, and says, a touch sardonic, I gather it would be best for Rainier's safety if he stayed on his side of the cell?

Something like that. Cullen resists the urge to rub the back of his neck. Regardless -- we should prepare to contact Josephine with your decision, when you make it. The guard here have been helpful --
they say Rainier doesn't have much time.

Lavellan nods. Her gaze drifts down the corridor to the steps leading to the lower cells.

I'll speak with Alistair, Commander, she says finally. Take me to him.

Cullen feels very conspicuous as they cross Val Royeaux on foot. He's no idea where the coach went, and even less of an idea why they'd send one for him and not for the Inquisitor.

The worst of the fire ebbs in time. Alistair reaches for the fallen chair, unsure until the moment he touches it whether he'll set it upright or hurl it against the wall.

The rage stays low: he sets it on its legs and pushes it in.

All right. Now what? Weapons, he decides, and heads for their bedroom. Even if he's stabbing nothing but air, going through the motions might direct the anger somewhere safe. Can't disappoint Bull by letting all that berserker training go to waste.

He pulls on a loose-fitting shirt and starts to rummage for some daggers.

Cullen does stop them very briefly on the way back at a little stand.

He shoves the bag of sugared almonds into a belt pouch, muttering, For Alistair. He --

Lavellan holds up a hand, and buys two more bags. If he doesn't need them, we'll have to step in, she says, and continues down the street. Best to be prepared.

"Alistair? Alistair, the Inquisitor would like a word -- ?"

"Just a moment."

Alistair's voice sounds only marginally less tense than when Cullen left. Drills help, but he'd probably have to drill for a week straight to get rid of all the anger.

He emerges from the hallway, kneading his palm with the pad of his thumb. His attention flicks to Cullen for a second -- just enough to quirk a tiny, halfhearted smile -- before he draws himself straighter and turns to Lavellan.

You're a soldier. Briefly, he clasps his fist at his chest. "Inquisitor."

"Brought you something," Lavellan says, cheerfully enough, and tosses one of the bags in Alistair's direction. "Let's go sit somewhere. Cullen, leave us to it?"

Cullen blinks -- and is then reminded that even if Alistair has had breakfast, or a cup of tea, he himself... has not.

"Of course," he says quickly, and wonders if he ought to try putting together something edible for the three of them.

Alistair's eyebrows fly upward. In his surprise, he fumbles the catch, the bag jostling precariously in his grip before he manages to get ahold of it.

Did they -- ? They did.

(That...probably means the news has gotten worse, but Alistair's willing to be appeased. Bribed. Whatever.)

"Right," he says. "Er, lead on, then?"

Before they depart, he glances Cullen's way again: grateful, the smile a little bigger.

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