[sandbox]

[bringspeopletogether]

Skyhold gets quieter and quieter as the days move on. It's not a complete stand-down; there's cleanup to do, stragglers to round up, the same sort of business Alistair remembers from the months after the Blight. The Thaw, as Wardens call it. Thedas is thawing again, but the fortress only grows colder for it.

He won't lie: he'd feel warmer if Kieran and Morrigan were still there.

When Cullen suggests a vacation, Alistair lights up, only to deflate slightly when he realizes they'll be "vacationing" in Orlais. There's business to attend in Val Royeaux -- not the sort of business that'll keep Cullen occupied from sunup to sundown, but enough to require an in-person visit for a week or so. On the one hand: Orlais. On the other: he can't argue that time away from Skyhold, especially in Cullen's company, will help.

...So will the cheese, probably.

(Look, as Alistair has said many a time, he is a very predictable man.)

They room at a small place in the university quarter that's downright plain for Val Royeaux. Libraries for Cullen, a cafe around the corner for both of them, limited contact with people trilling about whatever stupid, petty scandal's hit the court this week -- it could be far worse. Alistair takes to writing his letters at the cafe, usually accompanied by some flaky pastry or another.

Today, they're cheese-filled. It's hard to descend too far into a personal funk when you've got a cheese-filled pastry.

Comments

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair shakes his head. "No. It wouldn't."

He drags a hand through his hair.

"He deserves to hang, but at the very least he deserves to be made an example of."

[howtoactfereldan]

Lavellan takes a moment to square her shoulders.

Her gaze is calm and steady, and never wavers from Alistair's eyes.

"He wants death, Alistair. I think death is too easy. I think he wants death and I think he wants to be pitied."

[bringspeopletogether]

A muscle cords at Alistair's jaw again.

Evenly: "Then what do you propose?"

[howtoactfereldan]

"Let him go through with the Joining."

Something guarded in her eyes, now. "Would you still speak to me?"

(She is, after all, still -- young. And Alistair was kind. Steady.)

[bringspeopletogether]

In a flash: "No."

Alistair's on his feet. "I mean, yes, I'll still speak with you -- " (She's the Inquisitor. He still serves the Inquisition. Not much choice in the matter.) "But no. No, he had his chance, he doesn't get to, to belatedly -- "

He's starting to pace.

" -- he's sullied the Wardens enough, he doesn't get that too -- "

[howtoactfereldan]

"If he lived through it -- "

Lavellan holds very still, now that Alistair is moving.

"It would be up to them to decide what to do with him. They could put him on latrine duty for the rest of his life for all I know. But they -- they'd get to have the say. And everyone would see that we back them. And that we think they deserve a say."

[bringspeopletogether]

It's Loghain all over again, he thinks wildly. Except Cousland had the good sense to be as horrified as Alistair when Riordan suggested it.

"The Joining isn't a punishment," he spits. "It's not a way to pawn off judgment onto someone else."

He needs to be somewhere else. He can feel the pressure building at his temples; next will come the shadows at the edges of his line of sight. If he's going to lapse into a blackout rage and take a swing at someone, he will be damned if it's Lavellan.

[howtoactfereldan]

Lavellan is watching him closely; Lavellan takes a step to the left -- putting her closer to the door. And she can't quite keep the wariness from her voice.

"Then how do we make an example of him, given that death is what he wants?"

[bringspeopletogether]

"I don't know." Still pacing; his hands clench and unclench at his sides. "Exile him. Strip him to his smalls and dump him in the Wastes, I don't know -- "

If Rainier wants to die, that's more than fine by Alistair. He doesn't care.

His next line of pacing takes him closer to the door: he swerves that way, pointedly not looking at Lavellan. Muttered half to her, half to himself: "I need to be -- not here."

[howtoactfereldan]

Lavellan takes a sizable step away, and doesn't say anything else. It appears she's done quite enough.

[bringspeopletogether]

Through the door, still not looking at Lavellan. Alistair digs one hand into his hair.

Cullen's always been the one to get claustrophobic, not him -- but right now the house feels entirely too small, every corner visible from any vantage point, nowhere he can go and hide. 'Somewhere not here' has to be entirely not here. He has to get out.

[howtoactfereldan]

At the shifting of footsteps, Cullen sticks his head out of the kitchen -- and spies Alistair.

The door hasn't opened or closed; Lavellan's still here.

Cullen isn't a stupid man. "Hold on for two minutes," he says, low. "Please."



He and Lavellan have a hurried, hushed conversation: Cullen agrees to let a guard posted near their door know his whereabouts, and Lavellan will go about her business.

She slips out the front door like a shadow, and pulls a hood over her head.

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair's found a convenient stretch of wall to lean against, arms folded tight against his chest. He stares fixedly at his feet, his breathing not entirely steady.

I need to not be here. It's all he can think. If he lets himself think anything else --

Well. Best just to make sure that doesn't happen.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen is close, then, but not touching.

Low: "What do you need?"

[bringspeopletogether]

"Talk her out of it."

Low; still not looking up.

[howtoactfereldan]

"She hasn't made a final decision." Cullen is still. "She won't, for a few days. She thinks Celene will hold off until she does."

[bringspeopletogether]

"So don't let that be her final decision."

He rakes his fingers through his hair again; leaves them there.

[howtoactfereldan]

His expression doesn't change.

That's -- Cullen is surprised by how abhorrent he finds Alistair's words. It's not something he's going to do. And he's very sure that if he says so, it will result in a large and unpleasant fight.

So Cullen doesn't say anything at all.

[bringspeopletogether]

Which says enough on its own.

Alistair strikes his fist against the wall behind him, hard enough to rattle the wood. "I'm going for a walk," he mutters, and stalks for the front door.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen doesn't stop him.

If Alistair's in this kind of black mood, it won't help. If Alistair gets himself arrested... well. Anything short of murdering an Orlesian general won't be the worst thing that's happened today.

[bringspeopletogether]

On his worst days after Adamant, Alistair would fantasize about leaving Skyhold and simply...walking, for as far as his legs would carry him, like a wounded dog leaving its pack so as not to slow them down.

The impulse is more selfish now: I don't want to be near any of this. Including Cullen, until he's sure he's exhausted enough of the anger to think properly.

(If he really were going to walk straight out of Val Royeaux, he'd probably make it all the way back to Skyhold before that happened.)

He's learned to compromise with that urge: those endless laps around Skyhold were good for more than one thing. Alistair strides through the city, singleminded and purposeful enough to clear a path with no trouble. Just keep walking until you reach a border, he tells himself, then turn inward and walk until you hit another. Just like the Skyhold battlements. You'll be fine.

...Unless he crosses paths with the prison. Maker knows how fine he'll be then.





Eventually, he ends up at the docks. Rather than turning inward for the thousandth time, Alistair takes a seat, watching the shimmering reflections on the water split and reform with each ripple.

The sun's lower than he realized, but he's not ready to go home. Not yet.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen is surprised by a knock at the door. He's expecting some sort of further horrible news -- Rainier's broken out and killed Briala --

But no. It's the illuminated books he bought last night.

He pages through them carefully, and thinks -- and realizes he'd rather take care of the things for his siblings by himself anyway. And it's a knotty enough problem that it'll occupy his mind. There's no chance Alistair will return before dark.

"And if he does," Cullen says under his breath, shrugging out of his armor and shrugging on his new jacket -- the better to attempt relative anonymity with -- "better I wasn't here anyhow."

It's not even noon yet, and Cullen's gone to work.

[bringspeopletogether]

The other problem with that urge to keep walking: it's so often accompanied by thoughts that sound seductive in the moment, and horrifying later.

Like: Cullen would be fine on his own.

Like: He was right to call this a burden.

He'd be happier without it. Without me.

If his mood weren't so dark, they'd merely be self-pitying nonsense, but...well. It's different, once the anger finally gutters out and leaves him exhausted and despairing.

Nobody bothers him, even when the only movement he makes for hours is a quick, fitful scrub at his cheeks. Alistair's grateful for that much.

The stars have just begun to emerge when he finally drags himself to his feet and trudges home.

[howtoactfereldan]

Textiles. Stationers. A vintner. Useful things, of good quality, none too Orlesian -- and a treat. (That would be the wine.) It takes several hours, but Cullen is well satisfied. Add some caramels and crystallized fruit for the children, and that's all done.

Except for one thing. That requires a detour further into the university district.









He's out much later than he intends. He guards the little parcel under his arm very closely, even while he's drinking brandy and playing chess in a pub. No wonder people drink to forget their problems, he thinks, as he starts the walk back to their rooms in the dark.

Cullen isn't weaving, exactly, but he's meandering. Alistair might not even come back tonight. Might as well drink. It'll make it easier to fall asleep.

[bringspeopletogether]

The lamps near the front door aren't lit -- but a few candles are, in deference to the need for some light.

There's a brighter illumination coming from the kitchen, though.