#her crumble in on herself as her entire perception of herself warps around her and you can’t do anything about it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

grim-faux · 3 years

Text

2 _ 33 _ Anomaly

First

The window was open, which invited them in. It was possible this was a trap, but behind the window was a long deteriorated corridor and a few open doors. Down some of the walls, rain sleeted in glossy waves. The storms of late had been intense, and it was always best to seek uncertain shelter before getting herded into somewhere with no visible escape. That was why exploration was forefront; know the place and see the dangers before they see you.

Mug was always first, she preferred that. She was twice over more cautious than her friends, and more perceptive to the shadows or sounds. Nothing in the hall was right off alarming upon glance, it was even quiet. The building creaked under the weight of the weather, but the plaster and floor appeared sturdy despite more water being in the walls rather the streets below.

She huddled by the wall and gave a soft twitter. It was near indiscernible from the wind cutting through the window, except that it held a distinct warble.

Clear.

Two faces peered from the edges of the toothy frame. Then, a third. The three children barely restrained themselves from clambering off the sill, airless as they dropped to the drenched floorboards. Mug moved ahead, ignoring them. Seeking forward.

At the utterance of a board creak, she stopped and crouched down.

Rye was behind her, setting his hand on her back and leaning forward. She glanced his way, before tiptoeing further ahead. One of the other two – it would be Lope or Wisp – would catch up. In short time, the clan reached an intersection of the hall and huddled down on one side, where Mug positioned herself.

Wisp, kind of a scruffy boy and the best with new environments, pressed down on a floorboard. He imitated the noise, and pointed off across a carpet, to a jagged dip in the floor.

The scrawny kid at her shoulder, Lope, nudged at Rye. The older boy ignored him, still peering one way then the other of the open corridor. He wasn’t much older than Wisp, the Rye. But she and him collected the other two. Rye was what they might consider a leader, though they didn’t look to him for decisions or guidance. Rye was just good at avoiding dangers, more lucky than useful. One time there was a fifth in their group, she supposed. Mug didn’t remember what they called him, but he didn’t stay long. When they stopped for shelter, he was gone for a while and never came back. Whatever happened to him wasn't important – if he didn’t want to stick around or was not good at avoiding danger - no one bothered with it. The trope had to move on.

One after the other, the quartet scurried down the hall, avoiding rubbish piled about or the toothy maws in the floor. At the second door they came upon, Wisp gave Lope a lift and the kid snagged the door handle. When the latch didn’t immediately tip, Lope pressed his heels to the grainy panel and heaved - while Wisp pushed the door below. No go.

Mug crept up to the door and gave the panel a listen. No noises. Just a locked room. Lope dropped beside her, and hand in hand the two scurried to catch up with the others.

Further down the corridor, it was just Rye on his chest and trying to peer under a door crease. Lope went over and patted him on the head. Without rising, Rye waved him off.

Lope made the cricket noses. Wisp? Where?

From the opposite wall and a little higher up, the cricket noise replied. Wisp poked his upper half out from a crack and gestured.

Mug crossed her arms and glared. That was not enough time for a full explore.

On the other hand, Lope didn’t care. He hurried over reaching up to Wisp, but the distance from the opening to floor was too far. Mug grabbed Lope by the shoulders and spun him around; with rehearsed ease the boy didn’t hesitate to give her a boost to the opening - in the process falling backwards to his butt. Mug made the leap and shouldered Wisp aside, squeezing roughly into the crevice.

Rye took Lope and hefted him up to the break. Dangling over the edge of the crack, Wisp looked like he was quite done with being everyone’s ‘Welcome Matt’. Hung out like laundry, he extended his hand down to Rye.

The other kid backed up to the opposite door and then—

Through the corridor, the lights flashed and nearly dimmed entirely. Rye loosened his shoulders and looked up as the bulbs pulsed, before reviving with sparkling clarity. That… didn’t seem right. It was the storm, it had to be! Regardless if the walls and floor surrounding him felt stable, all visible surfaces lay in tatters. The building debated its collapse as an appropriate greeting to its new occupants. Lights blinking so intensely often did so with reason, and usually as a precursor to destruction or other such dangers.

Rye launched, running to the wall and leapt. He hit the grainy surface with his footpad, rebounding a full yard higher (for him) . He caught Wisp by the wrist, and the scruffy kid hauled him up. The two clamber and shoved at the other, until they tumbled into a more open space. Then they crashed into Lope, who had paused to peer through a gap in the back panel of a wall. They didn’t wait up and kept going. When Lope sat up, he had a footprint smudge on his cheek.

Through rotted patches in the wall, the kids managed to check their footing as they roamed through the cramped and murky crawlspace. First, slipping down a collapse of plaster behind a wall, then picking their uncertain steps across packed ruble, then climbing rungs cut into the wall by an earlier traveler. The trope always searched through the slits knocked out of the barrier which protected them from the rooms, taking in details of the areas they bypassed. Sometimes the crooning melodies cut through the silent space and the stifled breathing of the children, nullifying the calm with advertisements and how the weather is always ‘showers’, whatever that meant. The children are always quiet, but they do pinch and shove each other around, particularly when they sense a specific danger - a Viewer, sometimes another creature skulking aimlessly.

None of them are particularly fond of the Viewers. Those warped adults absorbed in the Broadcast didn’t normally pay attention to children, as long as the looney tunes played on uninterrupted.... Distract them from that, it was your funeral. But, the Viewers usually kept food. Not that these adults seemed capable of eating anything (thankfully), none of them really knew – who in their right mind was going to figure that one out? The Viewers just kept food. Maybe it was to trick children or something.

Wisp swore that sometimes a Viewer would give a kid food. There was no reason or anything to really figure out, he didn’t get it either. He couldn’t explain it well – speek aside – once or more in his wanderings, he did see a Viewer just hand over food to a kid, and absolutely not eat them. The kid did survive, only because he got out of there without a second thought. None of them actually believed him, but Wisp didn’t care. He only insisted it was bizarre and he didn’t know which was more disturbing, waiting around to watch a kid die, or witnessing a horrified kid scurry away.

From the narrow passage, the trope squeezed from a tighter crack and onto a partially crumbling section of wall. One after the other, each hopped the short stretch to the backside of a vent mounted... somewhere. The four still dripped and shivered from the rain, and the shallow puddle on the silt made Rye lose his balance. Mug was right there to snag his oversized shoulder sleeve and haul him back up.

Meanwhile, Wisp and Lope scouted ahead on the cracked spine of the vent, but found the one end extending out from the wall only emerged for the gap they now stood upon. However, a cracked flue lay in the floor of the path, and poised on either side of the warped frame, the two kids pushed and jerked at the grate. The cover popped loose, and Mug scooted past Lope to check within the interior below.

After dropping within, she looked up to Rye. The boy shrugged and indicated a direction. That way.

Vents made the best for travel. Nothing could really get inside, aside from some animals or insects, but those things didn’t always bother children. Anything that could fit into a vent wasn’t usually dangerous, unless it was another kid(s). The only worry would be the flue grates, depending if they were in the floor or in a wall. Also, don’t stand on top of a grate if it faced down.

It wasn’t a long travel after a brief slope. They had some trouble with Wisp making up the steep and sleek metal floor, since he was one of the kids that wrapped his feet in rags and dirt/dust clung to them. Mug pulled his arm while Rye pushed. After that, the vent kept leveled and snaked through a few rooms, and the group had a good vantage from the height.

When they neared the third vent, Rye creaked and made gesture with his hands. Room pieces. Kitchen.

Lope stopped and checked the vent from the high side of the wall, peering through drab atmosphere to make sense of the rooms layout below. A room with nothing, aside from furniture and a bed. The kitchen area, and foods, would be someplace else. They would know nothing, until they found a safe way into the place. For once, the lack of jovial jingles was not very encouraging.

Further along, a grate presented a stubborn obstacle in their path, but Rye and Mug shuffled ahead and pressed their shoulders into it. If it didn’t budge, it would be a whole league of backtracking to—

The entire tunnel shifted!

All the kids splayed out arms and knees to their extent, wedging into the cramped interior. In the gloom, Lope caught Mug’s face as she glimpsed back to him and Wisp. The walls dipped and rumbled, halting momentarily as the surroundings of the wall/ceiling cradled their coffin. Rye made some sort of call, it might’ve been a call or speek. Fall. Hold on. We’re going to die. Something like that.

A bellowing groan vibrated through the metal hull, the tunnel plunged sideways. Blazing light cut through one end, blotted out, then blazed more intensely as the whole container flipped and spiraled without remorse. Somewhere in the thundering bite, a body collided with Lope. He locked up tighter than before, unable to do anything else, unable to stop the fall.

They were going to die like this.

At last one side of the container smashed into the floor and splint, or cracked. The children tumbled in a violent spin cycle, until the broken vent settled somewhere. Flat. Dust hissed across the hollow space while noisy chunks and brittle bits of plaster or whatever else twinkled down.

Somehow, Lope remained conscious and not dead. He lay partially inside within the splint side of the vent, stunned, his head vibrating. He saw double.

Across the room a familiar shape zipped off, through a nearly imperceptible wedge. Open door.

He reversed into the opening of the passage, smashing into a soggy body. The shape shifted and hissed, but smothered the noises. Other shifting and chatter came from within the passage, but softly. They were hurt, they might be badly hurt. But the vent made such a racket, they had to move. Get away.

It took longer for Rye to recover, he had been highest when the end of the vent crashed down. None of them were dead or broken, aside from cuts and bruising. Wisp reasoned they didn’t fall too far, something about the vent staying attached and swinging low, or whatever. No one knew what happened aside from fall.

Except that one kid.

Lope eased through the only access visible in the entire room, the ajar door. Cautious, he poked his head out. This being the only way out, the others crowded his back. The door led into more corridor, but not the big hallway that divided all the rooms. He was certain he saw a kid run off, but he didn’t mention that to the others. If the kid hung around the dwelling, they would run into him/her eventually. There was no guarantee, and he hit his head. Blood leaked down his cheek and made him itch.

Inching into one direction of the corridor, Mug didn't wait for guidance or expression. She just went on her own most of the time. Lope hurried to catch up, but glanced back to spy Rye and Wisp when the two didn't hasten along. The other two headed the opposite way - toward what looked like more rooms. Maybe he and Mug would find the kitchen and get dibs on the best foods. He snared his explore buddy by the hand and hurried her along, racing around the bend in the hallway. She didn’t protest, though they didn’t know this place. She was usually more skittish.

Of course the kitchen didn’t have much to offer, not even the aggravating garbage of ransacked foods or moldy boxes. Together, he and her gave the place a thorough dig. Somehow, Mug did manage to manifest two bites of stale puff corn from a drawer, but she scarfed that before he realized she’d gotten anything. He could tell Wisp, and they could sulk together.

Something about the floor caught his attention, but only if he shifted in the light a certain way. When he shuffled one way with the bulb above draping its radiance on the floor. He saw footprints in the dust.

Of course he and Mug ran all over the place in the kitchen… but a set of tracks went back the way they just came from. So, there was a kid around.

In case, he did another thorough rummage of the cabinets. Some had been opened when they first entered, but they were too excited about food, they didn’t notice. But Mug was giving him weird looks now, so she did notice something but didn’t say. Like him.

Once they exhausted the search of everything, he and Mug met up with the others at a door in one room left ajar. The door didn’t open any further, for them, but each of them squeezed out in single file.

This time Rye took up the lead, navigating around a broken gap in the floor and shuffling towards paralleled doors. The scratchy chorus of laughter burst above their heads, pursued by the ramble of speek with no meaning. He trilled warning. Careful. That was probably why they listened to him. Rye was the Kid always telling them what to do or what not to do. None of them had to follow or listen, but they did anyway. He always saw and paid attention to the others. The four of them didn't get into fights often; sometimes it was safer to follow someone else.

One of the rooms they sprinted by had the gurgling swill of a Viewer, rebounding from within. The creature made laps on the carpet in its living space, up until the trope stalled at the entrance to observe. It appeared the television within had died or something, but this agitated the Viewer in its aimless wandering. When it ‘spied’ the group, it made a beeline for them with a horrible squeak.

Rye and Lope shot one way, while Wisp and Mug backed up against the furthest wall. None of this was necessary, as a huge chasm was torn into the floor where the doorframe collapsed into. The Viewer did manage to snag the other side of the floor and claw at the wood, up until the toothy boards splint and the warped adult tumbled down into the murk.

That wasn’t exactly close, but it was entertaining. Wisp crouched at the hole and tossed a chunk of plaster down after the Viewer.

A set of stairs led to an upper floor, one that was entirely caved in. The entrance was more likely barricaded with decayed ruin, since jingles and television music rebounded from within the decimated mixture wood and plaster. The curled wallpaper flapped as the children hurried through, the floor and walls and ceiling - the everything creaked warning. Perhaps the whole floor caved in, but anyone left still alive didn’t care. Better that they were locked away than roaming. Though, it did keep them from exploring through for more rooms.

They would likely need to stop soon, Lope suspected. He knew, without really bugging anyone about that. Each of them struggled with empty stomachs – always – but they hadn’t recovered from the crash, and his head ached something awful. The way Rye kept glancing them over as each and all climbed the steps, was all he needed to really know they were not rooting for a food place. Then a nest place. He was looking forward to that.

The upper floor was in worst condition, but likely wasn’t the most appalling space in all this building. None of them would complain, if the worn floors trapped Viewers, it would be worthwhile to settle down. Still though, it was drafty, and rain leaked in from somewhere (the way out?).

Some of the walls between the rooms and corridor were not whole, and a lot of the plaster or wood littered the patchy floor. No wonder the level below was flattened. The few lights fitted in the ceiling still worked, but the power was iffy, and the glow dimmed or flared at random spikes. The storm persisted to buffet the building, and the hollowed frames of the structure moaned. Through one of the skeletal remains of a room, Rye and Mug picked their way down a packed section of floor. He and Wisp followed the leading duo, soon reaching a section of packed ruble that creaked and shifted suspiciously under their pathetic weight. After poking through the slanted wood beams of the walls (or floor), they found an opening in easy reach, only if they balanced precariously on a crooked plank extending from the questionable patch of compacted debris. After some ways, Mug jumped from the wobblily makeshift bridge, to another segment of board that appeared more secure. Rye jumped next, and Lope with Wisp leapt simultaneously.

Lope glanced back and down, when the plank of wood gave and curdled shriek and plunged. Close. He needed to be more careful, a fall like that would make dead. On that note, he scooted after the others, before he could lose his way. Should Mug or someone decide on a different course, and the break away. That would not be good.

Then, someone flapped their sleeve, like clothing whipping in the gale, like the discarded garments whipping in the gutted wood above. Warning! Why the warning? What danger? He didn’t utter a sound, but held steady and peered around and into the gaping walls encircling them. The lights dulled and nearly went out completely, but blazed vibrant once more with renewed purpose. He nearly lost his balance on the beam of wood, confused, and trying to focus through the dull pressure in his head. Below, all the way ay the end of the hallway, a door swept open.

He suspected a Viewer, or some other creature to crawl out. He did not expect that shape to amble through and begin to uncoil. The higher the hat rose beneath their perch, the lower Lope huddled down with Wisp. The lights winked minutely and for one horrifying moment, he feared the dark would establish itself completely and they would be plunged into a nightmare. The veil of gloom does not take root in their eyes, but he almost wished it had. His steely gaze tracked the slow stride of the adult, the sharp clack of its steps gutted the cavernous walls around them. It was so tall, the hat could’ve nearly brushed the bottom of the wood plank he and Wisp perched upon. He couldn’t look away. Was it that terrifying, or did the creature have some other power?

It seemed to take forever for the tall-tall figure to traverse across the lower floor and reach a corner of the hall. In a flash, it’s distorted shape faded within a gloss of shadows and by the time the bulbs reasserted themselves, the figure had vanished entirely.

For several minutes he’s frozen, uncertain what he saw. It’s only when Wisp titled beneath his gaze and motioned - very carefully so as not to spook - that he snapped his face up. Again, Wisp chittered and tugged his wrist.

Go. We leave.

He nodded. That sounded good. He was still shaken and his balance unsteady, but he managed to keep up with the others.

They reached a mostly together portion of floor from the bridge. Rye looked them each over in turn, face whiter than normal, eyes glassy. Thoughts amess. They knew. They all knew what that was, no one had to utter a sound.

The nightmare omen of the Pale City. Somewhere at one point or another, they each saw speek of the creature. None of them ever paid mind to it, no one brought it up. It was bad. Taboo. The Broadcaster. He haunted the city through and through, lurking in the televisions, snatching careless children, driving others to craze. It was not like other creatures, reacting to sounds, light, or movement. As far as they knew, it was an ominous thing that could not be tricked. In some speek it was shown to lurk in the static - if someone was brave (or dumb) enough, the shape of a too-tall man would sometimes appear, but only briefly. It was warning speek, so, no one in his group ever tried that. But now? Now the Broadcaster was in this building, prowling. No rhyme or reason. It operated in solitude, took whatever it wanted, and answered to no other creature.

They had to get out of here.

To say they were on edge was an understatement. This place was a wreck, more than the other building they crawled out of to reach the window. Lope was still soaked, same as the others. Not one of them cared if they had to swim out of this place, it was too dangerous. The Broadcaster was here, then he must be searching for them.

This was bad. And he was suspicious of Wisp.

Not for any particular reason. He kept an eye on his friend, while he crouched and waddled beneath a break in the wall. They searched for passages, open doors, avoided the rooms with jolly chimes and gurgling Viewers. It was important to stay off radar. Stray away from the 'one-eyed-monster', as much as possible. Sometimes... that was impossible, the building didn't stop being broken for their convenience.

Wisp was smart. And he joined after him. It’s not like he thought the kid abandoned his friends, but he seemed to know a lot of different things. He had a pack before, and before them. Where were those other kids now? They all came from somewhere, but Wisp? He was the newest.

The lower windows might be close enough to a building, and if they could get enough clothing or bedsheets gathered. A potential rope. Preparation would take time, and some of them had to sit in one place to braid the rope, so it would be strong and not break to make dead. But they had to find a window in a vacant room, that faced another building, or find how high they were. Until the Broadcaster, a means of away was not important. Food first. This place was danger, they needed a window to see how high they were.

Rye was stressing. When they scurried through a corridor, he kept glancing at the lights. This Lope noticed, and he remembered the bulbs flashed when the Broadcaster appeared. The lights flickered anyway, but not like for the tall man in the hat. They are safe to search, but the flutter of lights spiked Lope's unease. The Viewers did not stop being a threat, and if the pack isn't alert, the morbid things chase. They want to avoid televisions anyway.

The clutch breaks apart for some time, to root out rooms in pairs, seeking out the windows and diverting paths to reach rooms which might share windows. Someone is to lift, while the other catches the sill. They reach out at each other with suppressed speek. Can't get lost, don't get separated. Nothing here. Here I am. Where are you? They must make sure no one is caught, the pack needs numbers to find an out.

When they regroup in the corridor, Mug admitted first. She tugged the edge of her poncho, clicking and gesturing. On this side, the windows are too high. There is no reach for ground.

They are so tired, but Lope doesn’t bring attention to that. Either a rope, or they’ll take their chances with a window. He chittered, quieter.

Check windows. Still?

Rye nodded, but didn’t look at him. The place was coming undone, but it was unlikely they would find a shattered wall that led elsewhere. Paths were seldom direct.

None of the rooms on this level had anymore doorways that the quartet could get open. All the windows, either shut or broken, did not open near enough a ledge or other surface they could scale along. But it was Wisp who located an opening under a rotted bed, which made it possible to drop down safely into the lower floor.

Silently, they plopped onto a hill built of clothing and perhaps bodies (the flies swarmed when they fell in). The room was cluttered with murk and great swabs of dust, each of them choked on dry swallows and wheezed as they rooted around. It was then Mug making the creaky floor noise, indicating a break hidden in the wall. If not for dull radiance clamoring from the televisions, the opening might've gone missed. The narrow tunnel led into a brighter room, where the Viewer stood plastered to its suspended television screen. The next room lay dark around them, but enough light from the television flashing through the background afforded some clarity. Enough to see that the entire next room had collapsed, among other rooms and more floors caved downward.

Upon finding a mostly together sequence of ledges and planks, the quartet descended. Going down was good, Lope reflected. Out maybe. When he checked out the windows, he couldn't decide how high they were. Mist covered much of the below. None of them knew how high they really were, or how long down could take, even if they had the privilege of a stairway.

Among the ruble, melodies played from a television. The body of a Viewer, or what was left of it, was crammed among the splintered timber. The further the trope descended, the more the ruble and chaos of their surroundings retreated. A corridor creaked around them, pieces of the building loomed or lay jammed into the cracked walls. Of the light that remained in the ceiling, few still sparked with shy radiance. When they came onto a door, Rye hoisted the nearest - Lope - up to the latch. It was unlocked, but the warped panel required three children to force it inward. Barely.

The area they filed into was a large chamber, and they could see a staircase ascending into sinister depths. Obscure debris and a few pieces of furniture decorated the floor, but of a way out they couldn’t spy. Wisp and Mug began one way, while Lope followed Rye around the wall in the opposite direction. On the further side of the room, a dangling lamp flashed within the grate cage of an elevator. The contour of light revealed an archway of a corridor across the wall, as with so much potential. Lope was getting excited -

Without warning Rye snatched his hand and tugged him to the side, toward a flat cart loaded with cages. The metal smelled horrendous, but not as terrible as the contents. Somewhere across the room, Wisp or Mug snapped their sleeve. A danger.

If the chamber was soundless as when the group was present, it was even more vacant and still with the pairs sheltered away. Elsewhere, water trickled through the corridors and rooms within the building. The craft of concealment is hardwired into all children - if they kept still and didn’t think, the danger would not suspect.

Inside the elevator, the bulb glittered and waned. This went dismissed, when a dark shape flashed at the furthest edge of the room, nearer to a pile of mattresses. A rat, or some other creature?

The shape detached from the gloom and skittered along the outer layer of shaded veils, examining the furniture and then twisting around, then looking skyward to check the ceiling above. Along with the stairwell knotted high, fading into the wreckage. The figure spun around, tail flashing.

Another child. Rye cooed and uncoiled a bit, but wouldn’t emerge entirely. He checked the flicking light in the elevator, and the bulbs spared around the room. More importantly, the other child bolted and scurried up beneath a crushed desk.

All of them, five now, hiding in a room. Waiting for the threat to pass.

The faint radiance in the elevator doused and a bent silhouette emerged from the adjacent corridor, as if it had been punched out from a deep, dark pit. It slipped into the room, the shoes clacking across the worn floorboards in their sinister way, ticking down the seconds they had remaining in their life.

Being this close was so much worse. Lope resisted the urge to cower down further, the strange buzzing wafted off the creature like a fire. The noise bounced within his skull, expanded on his aching head. And the thing was huge, like a skyscraper out for a stroll! When it bypassed him and Rye completely, he didn’t have sense left in him to feel relief. That grinding hum was too much, his whole frame vibrated into submission.

He did manage to shift closer beside Rye, only for a better view of where the monster was going. To his horror, the tall thin man strolled right over to where the fifth kid stashed away. Creeping further around the cage, he tried to see where Wisp and Mug went, if they were watching. He couldn’t figure out where they went. Good. Hidden.

That kid. He picked the worst hide spot! No! NOO!

No.... Something weird happened. The monster actually bypassed the kid, barely a glance. Maybe. He’s certain there was a downward tilt of its head, but nothing else. It kept going.

This crazy yo-yo kid scrambled out from under the desk and started chasing the monster. He made a few noises, but the monster didn’t react. What was going on?

Lope shifted and checked Rye, and Rye returned the look. Concern and panic. Something was wrong here, but they didn’t know what. It was too soon to run, but when would it be too late? Did this kid… no. He must’ve seen them. Why was that kid doing this?

Rather twist around and seize the child, kick him, step on him, tear him out of reality, anything. The monster casually shifted and had to have seen the kid, but from the distance and its height, Lope can’t be certain. It did nothing, aside from crackle with a vibrating wail. The den was overwhelming. That didn’t seem to bother the nutty kid, and he might’ve… made a sound back. It was impossible to tell, the vibrations and distortions rebounding muddled everything. The monster continued walking at its leisure gait.

And the crazy kid followed.

When the Broadcaster reached the ascending steps it flashed, winking out of existence only to reappear on the upper level. It dissolved into the shadows, taking the grating disruption and clamor with it. The strange kind hiked up the steps, winding around collapsed plaster and vanishing momentarily. Where the kid went, Lope couldn’t say, he must have reached the upper level.

The silence reasserted itself, but did not restore completely or comfortably. It was like the static interference saturated the shadows curling across the floor, forming an inky web stretched thin and ready to detect the slightest breath. It is forever or near long enough, before Rye even dared move.

No one knows where to go, but they followed Rye. He scrambled to the corridor from where the creature appeared, with Lope close behind. Wisp and Mug reappeared, safe, and badly shaken from the experience as well. They were not finding the way out. They were very lost and very confused, and only knew the danger was elsewhere. For a while. No assurance.

That was what Lope thought. He’s surprised Wisp didn’t take off, but where would he have gone?

Somewhere in the corridor, Rye found a door that was boarded up. He began prying at the bottom planks, wrenching them out inch-by-inch, the nails shrieking. Wisp got in close to Rye and helped him snap the board loose. Once more, they pried off a second plank of wood; it barely hit the floor and the kids were squeezing through the space, pawing at each other to be the first.

The room was dim, a high window cast light from the storms outside. They might be able to reach it, but how to get it open? Mug and Rye stood below gawking at it, while Wisp gave the room they now occupied a careful examination. The room was a smaller space, connected to another chamber by a tall archway. Hide spaces and potential breaks in the wall were absent, but another door in the other chamber might lead elsewhere. The passage was inky, uninviting. The monster came from there.

Watch. Lope inched closer to Wisp and nudged his elbow. Watch.

Wisp shuffled back and bobbed. Him and Lope returned the more inviting room, where Rye and Mug had already staked as nest. Wisp curled up beside the doorframe, arms wrapped around his knees while he gazed out into the corridor.

Lope didn’t like that. The monster was one thing, but that kid. This was confusing and wrong.

Gone. Lope crouched next to Wisp and snatched for attention. He made a gesture. “Gone,” he chittered. “Both gone.”

Wisp shook his head. “Ferrent,” he hissed.

Shh. Rye brought a finger to his face. He and Mug huddled together on the floor, shoulder to shoulder and whispering in each other’s ear.

“Ferrent?” Lope scooched closer. “What?”

The group rarely did voice speek, and Wisp did not have a grasp of the speek. Wisp starred at him, either trying to figure out a story or how to give it. Or both.

Wisp scurried over to a wall, his hands digging into the oversized pockets of his hoody. He pulled up a crayon and gave it a look, peeling a bit of paper back from the edge. A picture took shape on the wall, a creature with eyes and teeth. A monster. Then beside the enormous shape….

A small figure. A child.

Wisp indicated the small child. “Ferrent.” He continued sketching more of the small figures, in a cluster further from the monster. And the child. A crooked line separated the child and the monster, from the markings of some children. He pointed to the lone child, close to the monster. “Ferrent.”

The next set of picture speek had the child (Ferrent) with the cluster of children. Wisp drew a circle around them.

“Friend?” Lope cooed. Wisp scowled, and scratched out the picture of the circle and the cluster of children. Along with the one child (Ferrent).

The next speek featured the monster, in and amongst a cluster of children - a few less children in the cluster. The monster held a child in each hand, and one in its jaws. The other child, what Wisp called a Ferrent, was sketched off to the side and out of harms way. Then a circle wound around the lone child.

Lope explored the story over, the monster and the Ferrent. Another picture to add to the story, of the monster roaming elsewhere and the lone child (Ferrent) with it. He looked at Wisp, who had dropped the crayon with a biting crack, and stood with his fists pressed to the wall. His lip quivered, his dark eyes glistened in the pitiful light.

“Bad.” Wisp slipped down into a knotted huddle. He dropped the crayon and rocked.

Lope settled down beside the kid and curled his arms around his shoulders. Raising his head a bit, he checked on Mug and Rye. The two leaned on the other, dozing or in a some place beneath the terrors that had not quite reached them. This wasn’t the best place to nest, they didn’t have the chance to check the other side of the room. It couldn’t be bothered with now. He didn't want to disappear and be left.

After adjusting his footing, he set his chin on the back of Wisp’s neck and listened to the rain crash against the little window too high for them to reach. When they were able, they could find a way out. They could figure something out. It wouldn’t get them.

#little nightmares #little nightmares fanfiction #little nightmares fanfic #mono #the thin man #thin dad #children red shirts #oh my what could possibly go wrong?#fanfic #fanfiction #look at all my lil red shirts #dont you just love them?

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forthelulzy · 7 years

Text

Past, Present, Future

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition

Pairing: Cullen/F!Trevelyan; past Cullen/F!Surana

Rating: T (disturbing dream sequence)

Summary: The Hero of Ferelden arrives in Skyhold, threatening Cullen and the Inquisitor’s fledgling relationship.

Notes: 7.7k words. Written for @cullenappreciationweek, day 2.

It is a gray day in Cloudreach and less than a week out from Alistair’s funeral when the Hero of Ferelden’s letter arrives by crow.

The bird is not one of Leliana’s, and when it tries to land in the rookery it is to a great cawing and ruffling of feathers from the other crows. Cullen hears the cacophony clear out from his office and thinks little of it, but later, when the Spymaster calls them all to council, he connects the two together. Leliana herself doesn’t look the slightest bit perturbed that her birds got into a melee, though her gloves have several new tears that she did not have the time — or thought — to mend. What she does look like is ecstatic, which is a very strange emotion to connect to her, in his opinion.

Leliana gestures with the folded parchment as she speaks, detailing the encounter with the foreign crow. “And imagine my surprise when this is attached to it!”

“What is it, then? Why are we here?” Irene snaps. She is still in her nightclothes, decidedly rumpled and grouchier than usual at being woken up not an hour into her rest.

Cullen represses his smile. She would not appreciate his humor at the moment, and he doesn’t even know why her frazzled state is so amusing in the first place. Perhaps because today his head is mercifully clear for the first time in what feels an Age. No less work to be done, but a better mind for it.

His good mood grinds to a halt, wobbles, then shatters when Leliana announces her news: the Hero of Ferelden is coming to Skyhold.

Maker’s breath. His past is coming back to haunt his present, again. The last time he saw her he was so angry and hurt, and the time before that he had been a fool. Both times, he had been a fool. She always brought that out in him, the foolishness, but it was his own fault. It is easy to remember her face, as if it were not over a decade ago, as if he has not been trying to forget. She is the Hero of Ferelden, and reconciling that with the razor-witted, assured mage he had known before she became a Warden is hardly difficult now. Years ago, it had been. What will she think of him now?

“Cullen?” The Inquisitor’s voice brings him out of his racing thoughts, and he knows that his face has been showing all of them. He wrestles it back into neutrality, or as close to neutrality as he can manage. Josephine is confused, Leliana is smirking — and he doesn’t look at Irene long enough to determine her expression. Another headache is creeping in behind his eyes.

He asks instead of answers. “When is she expected to arrive?”

“The day after tomorrow, and she’ll likely be here a week. You should know, Josie: she won’t expect or appreciate any fanfare on her behalf, especially not if it takes away from Alistair’s funeral. Oh, and she has a dislike for titles, especially ones that she’s willingly forfeited.” Leliana is back to business, and he breathes a sigh of relief that her knowing smile is gone. Not that he expects the issue to drop entirely — from her or Irene. Neither ever could leave well enough alone.

~o~O~o~

To his surprise, Leliana just winks at him before she and Josesphine head off to their beds, after a few minutes more of hashing out the details. Irene glances his way, as if she is about to speak, but for once seems to lose her nerve. Ultimately she nods at him in farewell and turns around.

“I loved her.”

She stops, shoulders going stiff as his voice — his voice — rings out, too loud in the quiet war room. He wishes he could snatch the words out of the air before they reach her ears. He wishes he could make her forget he had ever said them. He wishes a lot of insane things, in that moment before she turns around.

“The Hero of Ferelden?” Her voice is soft, softer than he’s heard before.

He nods, but she’s not looking at him, not quite. “I knew her as Vera Surana, in another life.”

“That would mean you’ve known at least three movers and shakers of Thedas within the last decade or so?” Her gaze flicks towards him, and though there’s a note of rare humor in her tone, her face gives nothing away.

“I… I saved the best for last, of course.” He comes around the war table, thanking the Maker that she isn’t inclined to interrogate him over his outburst. Their relationship is delicate, in the early stages, and though she hasn’t shown a hint of a jealous nature before, that doesn’t mean it won’t appear if he messes up during the visit.

She makes a faint, amused noise at his flattery, but her cheeks darken in the dim light. He has found that she is unused to compliments and wary of people who give them too often, so he has fewer opportunities to make her blush. “What was she like back then? All I’ve heard are the tales. Varric-style stuff.”

Cullen pauses. He can’t begrudge her the question, though he wishes she had asked Leliana. Leliana had actually traveled with Vera, had seen the legend in the making. But maybe that was the point — their Spymaster hadn’t known Vera before. Before she became a Grey Warden. Before she was conscripted out from under the brand. He has to suppress a shudder at that thought. When Kinloch fell, one of the recurring torments then and since were visions of a world in which Warden Duncan had never come. During Kinloch it had been Vera, blank-eyed and soul-dead, that haunted him after he proved resistant to temptations.

“Cullen?”

He coughs. “Forgive me, I… She was always destined for something. I knew it even back before her Harrowing. Maker, I think everyone knew it, even her. Perhaps especially her. She was always so confident. She knew I had this ridiculous crush, and she never missed an opportunity to needle me about it. I think I just loved her more.” He hadn’t meant to say so much, but he feels a bit better now that he has. Irene isn’t running or yelling yet, either, which is a nice bonus.

“Her confidence? Don’t tell me that’s all that attracted you to her.” She crosses her arms and cocks a hip, but she’s also smiling, and he’s just that little bit lighter because she’s smiling at him.

“I, uh… It really was, at least at first. I was a starry-eyed recruit back then, she was this fiery apprentice ready to take on the world. She didn’t rebel, but she could talk circles around me. She did, regularly.” She never had to so much as raise a finger; perhaps if she had, he would have known what to do. But her verbal acrobatics? He couldn’t do anything but gape. “She was pretty though, I suppose.”

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on that, even as he feels every ounce of blood in his body rush to his cheeks. Make up your mind, Rutherford. After a moment, though, she grunts thoughtfully. “I’m not surprised she became such a hero, then. It’s been over ten years since you last saw her?”

“Yes. We did not part on amicable terms,” he says stiffly. “I said things I regret still.”

She smiles again, and it is lopsided for lack of practice in such a gentle expression. “If she’s expecting you to be the same person you were ten years ago, she’s a fool. No matter her heroics.” Her fingers brush against his arm, fleeting but deliberate. From anyone else, it would mean little, but she rarely touches anyone with unguarded affection, so he clings to this feeling, and her words. He wants to kiss her, wrap his arms around her and her arms around him and never let go. Vera Surana was pretty, but Irene Trevelyan is beautiful.

~o~O~o~

He’s alone in the tower.

The mages and templars are gone. The demons and abominations are gone. Wind howls through deserted hallways, scatters notes left by long-gone apprentices. He picks one up.

It’s a love letter, and it burns his fingers. When he drops it the parchment crumbles to ashes, blows in his face. It smells like perfume. Not hers, but a more subtle, earthy scent. (She’d been so proud when he went off, her determined eldest son. He never saw her body, or his father’s. He only sees them in dreams.)

He knows. As soon as he knows, the dream shifts, like a scarf fluttering on the edges of his perception. He’s still in the tower, but Senior Enchanter Wynne hangs in the doorway, her neck at an unnatural angle. No, perfectly natural. The rest of it isn’t natural. Wynne was lucky; she had the steady hand needed to decide her own fate. And the last of the rope. The others, though, are scattered like the notes left by the apprentices. An arm here, a foot there. Carroll’s head is on the windowsill, his hair ruffling in the breeze. He’d been trying to leap.

He drifts out of the room, past Carroll, past Wynne, past the piles of parts that he can’t attach to names or faces. Up countless stairs that stretch and warp under his feet, pitching and rolling like a boat on a stormy sea. Light spills from the cracked door at the top.

He’s not alone in the tower.

The ancient wooden door sighs and opens, an invitation, as he nears. His tread carries him onward, over the threshold, even as he tries to stop.

There’s something here that he has to see. There’s nothing here that he wants to see.

Vera kneels in the center of the room, in the center of the sunburst pattern that also shines, still bleeding at the edges, on her forehead. Her lips form the Chant, but her voice, when it reaches his ears, is far from holy.

"Blighted are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. In their blood the Maker’s will has been written.” She opens her arms to him, hands curling inward. Beckoning. He does not want to go to her, but when has what he wanted ever mattered?

For want of the Wardens, her soul was lost. For want of her soul, the Wardens were lost.

She smiles, and it is Irene’s smile.

Cullen bolts up so fast the world tilts. When it rights again, he is on the floor, legs still on the bed and tangled in the sheets. The wood is cool against his fever-hot back, and through the jagged edges of the hole in his ceiling the light of a moon filters through a cloud. A rain so light it is better called mist settles against his face and chest.

Another nightmare. His mind knows this, has known it for some time, but it still takes an age for his body to catch up, for his heartbeat to slow, for the organ to stop spasming against his ribs and the dizzy rush of oh Maker, it’s over to dispel. His legs are numb, the sheets bunched from his thrashing. No matter how many terrors he faces in the night, no matter how well he thinks he has prepared himself for them, the immediate aftermath is the same. He is helpless.

He closes his eyes and focuses on his breath and the rain. When he opens them again, when he no longer feels like he had leaving Kirkwall so many months ago, like the floor is dropping out from under him and he is plunging into an abyss over and over (which happened every time the ship ducked into the shadow of a wave, so every other second or so on the worst days), the moon is emerging from behind its shroud. It is framed nicely in the broken beams of his ceiling. He wishes, absurdly, that he had a talent for poetry.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow the Hero of Ferelden arrives. The Inquisition is ready, but is he? A few hours has never seemed so short or so long.

~o~O~o~

Every arrangement has been made for Vera, and he has given himself the same pep talk over and over. He has told himself to snap out of it, you’re a grown man every time the thoughts come crowding in, bringing the nausea with them. (He bolts for the safety of his office only once, and he is pathetically proud of himself for it.) But it’s a lot harder to inspire himself with a few well-placed words than his men.

Irene’s words repeat in his head almost as much as the Chant of Light, now. But, as with the nightmares, there is nothing he can do to prevent his stomach from flipping over and flattening itself against his spine when the sentries blow the signal horns. Rider spotted in the pass. Vera.

He is roasting alive, standing as he is in the direct path of the late morning sunlight on the stairs into the keep. The sky has cleared overnight, it’s the warmest day thus far in the year, and what few snowbanks are leftover from months before stand little chance. After the winter they had, he’s glad for it. The escape from Haven alone almost ruined his natural Fereldan predisposition for cold. But not quite, and now he regrets praying so fervently for the sun to return. Serves him right, really.

Irene, front and center as Inquisitor, never takes her eyes off the courtyard before her, but she shifts slightly and her hand brushes against his. He can’t feel her skin through his gloves, doesn’t even realize the movement is deliberate until she does it again, lingering a few extra (precious, precious) seconds this time.

To his right, Leliana’s mouth lifts at the corner, though her eyes stay on the gates. Damn her, must she see everything?

The signal horns blow again. Rider approaching the bridge. The portcullis is already raised, allowing them and the rest of the gathered people (a far smaller contingent than welcomes the Inquisitor back from her missions, as the majority of Skyhold has been ordered, pointedly, to stay at their regular duties) to see the exact moment when Vera’s horse appears from behind the guardhouse and starts over the bridge.

She is alone. Cullen frowns, and beside him, Leliana cocks her head. Vera’s letter hadn’t mentioned any companions, being very short and to the point, but the Spymaster had told them someone by the name of Zevran had been with the Hero when she left on her journey. Leliana had been scant on the details, but apparently they were lovers or at the very least intimate friends. All of them had assumed the two would arrive together. Cullen has a vague impression of a grinning elven rogue who was there when the Circle was retaken (he remembers very little specifics from that time, though whether it is from forcing himself to forget or something else he cannot say), and Leliana’s briefing informed him that this was the very same Zevran, one-time Antivan Crow.

He’s not sure how he feels about Vera taking an assassin to her bed, but it doesn’t matter as it isn’t his business.

She slows her horse, a sleek dapple-gray courser, to a walk at the halfway point on the bridge. Cullen can’t pick out much of her face, not from such a distance, but it is tilted upward — she’s probably looking at the fortress as it looms over her. A black cloak hides the rest of her body from view, but she sits well in the saddle, and he wonders when and where she learned to ride so well. It is, after all, not a skill taught in the Circles.

She’s not been in a Circle in ten years.

Vera kicks her horse into a trot again, bringing her into the shadow of the battlements and, a few moments later, through the gate and into the courtyard. Irene steps forward, pulling her hand gently from Cullen’s loose grip (he’s only dimly aware that he grabbed it during the agonizingly long time it took for Vera to admire Skyhold’s walls) and crosses into the open space while Vera pulls to a stop and slips from her mount’s back. She murmurs something to the stablehand who materializes to take the reins, and though he has no idea what she said, the boy’s resultant blush is a beacon all the way across the courtyard.

Here, a bit closer but still too far, he can make out more details. Her cloak is actually a very dark green, not black, and beneath it her travel leathers are worn, but sturdy. He is surprised to see her obsidian half-breastplate when it reflects the sun as she turns; it covers the tops of her small breasts and disappears under the cloak at her collar, not quite as protective as full plate but still both fashionable and practical. And very Vera. The only other metal on her person is in the form of shin guards and vambraces, also in obsidian. Her ears are still too big for her head, even compared to other elves, but she has them on full display with her hair swept up and back out of her face, and she’d added piercings — a tiny silver stud in each lobe. Nowhere near as extravagant as what he has seen in both humans and elves as fashions come and go, but it’s one of the few things about her physical appearance that he can put a finger on as different.

She is different, though. That tiny bit older. Her hair seems a duller brown than it was when she was an apprentice, like her experiences have sucked the shine out of it. She holds herself differently, as Irene greets her. Still confident, still measuring every word, every action, every detail presented to her. But there is a new weight to her shoulders, a new grief in the depths of her eyes.

Or maybe it was there the last time, and he just didn’t notice.

Irene’s posture is rigid as they speak, as she tends to get when forced into diplomacy, but Vera’s is open, easy, relaxed.

No, not relaxed. Resigned.

Irene gestures behind her then, at the advisors still on the stairs — oh, he wishes he could hear her — and Vera’s eyes flick their way only for a moment. Dismissive. Josephine leans forward from his other side to share a look with Leliana. She, in turn, considers for a moment before sidling down the stairs. Josephine darts forward to walk at her side, radiating nervous energy.

Cullen is abruptly confronted with the fact that he does not want to follow. But he does anyway, and that feeling from the dream comes back to him, presses itself against his skull and sets his temples pounding in a fresh migraine: that his body is not his own, that it is moving without his say-so. It is a ridiculous comparison. He could stop, he just doesn’t have a good enough reason. Even if he really doesn’t want to face Vera again; not Vera as she was and definitely not this new version.

Luckily her attention is taken immediately by Leliana, and the two greet each other as old friends. Here he sees more of the old Vera. She smiles, and though it reaches her eyes it doesn’t erase the grief behind them. It is still nearly blinding. Leliana comments on her piercings, and Vera shoots back that she is wearing entirely too much purple for a commoner.

Her voice is the same, and he clamps down on the memories hearing her brings. She hasn’t noticed him yet.

Josephine steps forward next, addressing her as Lady Surana. Vera doesn’t so much as blink at the title, and Leliana’s eyebrow twitches upwards. The Ambassador politely inquires on her journey, Vera gives an equally polite answer, and then Irene can’t stall any longer.

Vera’s eyes have settled on Cullen, and though her brow furrows she doesn’t seem to recognize him. He valiantly tries to control the expression on his face, but here, so close, he can see the flecks of gold in her vibrant green eyes as they sweep over him curiously. He supposes he does look different. The last time they met was in the aftermath of his torture. His curls are tamed, and he’s not in templar armor. That’s likely what is throwing her.

“And the Commander of the Inquisition forces, Cullen Rutherford,” Irene says quickly, tightly, like the words hurt to push past her lips and expose to the air.

Vera goes still, eyes darting to his face and staying there.

“Hello, Vera,” he says. The back of his neck twinges, muscles bunched from the tension in his shoulders, and he resists the urge to rub it. His voice is even, but his stomach is threatening to force itself up through his mouth. He swallows hard, reminds himself again. She’s just a woman, and you are a grown man who has faced far worse than Vera Surana and lived.

She smiles, but it’s slow to unfurl and ends up looking more like a grimace as it lingers too long on her face. “Cullen,” she breathes. The smile drops, too painful to keep up.

Leliana clears her throat at the same time as Josephine coughs politely. Irene startles, a guilty look coming over her before she inclines her head at Vera — and too often Cullen forgets that their Inquisitor did have a noble upbringing, even if it is long past and nigh impossible to tell most of the time — and invites her to settle in. “Lunch is in the hall in an hour. Josephine, if you would…?”

“I will show her, Inquisitor,” Leliana cuts in. “Vera and I have a lot of catching up to do. You traveled light, yes?” She saunters away, arm in arm with the elven mage, toward the keep.

“Everything I need can fit on one horse…” comes the faint reply.

Josephine excuses herself as well, and Cullen and Irene are alone. Well, as alone as two people can be in Skyhold’s courtyard in the middle of the day.

“You need to get out of that fur,” Irene remarks. Anyone else, and he’d think it was innuendo, with how casually she says it. “You look like you’re going to faint, and I don’t think it was just her.”

He chuckles, trying to rub the knots out of his neck. Now that dread is no longer sitting, cold and hard, in his stomach, he does feel a bit lightheaded. “I’ll be in my office, then.”

“Promise me you won’t hide in there all day. Lunch, at least.”

“Of course, my lady Inquisitor.”

Irene scowls, but her eyes are bright. Even if Vera is here, even if she brings back all the memories he would rather forget of a past he is only beginning to atone for, Irene is his future.

~o~O~o~

Vera does not show for the midday meal. As afternoon draws on, she does not emerge from her assigned quarters, where, Leliana assures them, she left the Warden in good spirits. Josephine has a servant send up a small meal. It sits outside her door until evening, when it is replaced with dinner. Dinner sits until sometime in the wee hours of morning, when it disappears. Leliana says she’s probably just sorting through her feelings, which sounds like something Vera could do, though the Spymaster sounds like she’s convincing herself as much as them.

It is not until the second day, when she’d not left her room for over twenty-four hours, that he realizes she is waiting for him to come to her.

She’d do that, in the Circle. Send him coy glances, giggle behind her hand with her friends, say not a single a word until he brought it up. She loved making him initiate all their interactions. The few times she had confronted him were black marks on his memory. The day he admitted his crush out loud. The day he thought she was just another demon come to taunt him with her shape. And the day after that, when she came to him before she left for the Deep Roads, her mission at the tower done, and he snarled in her face that she would be responsible for the deaths of everyone remaining at Kinloch. That when the demons rose up again and won, her hands would be the ones stained red in the Maker’s judgment.

It was no wonder that he had been visited by that dream the night before she arrived. So much depended upon her, and he’d thrown that back at her feet. She didn’t need reminding. She was already a Warden. She’d already seen the slaughter of everyone but her and Alistair at Ostagar. Then blood on the tower floors. She’d been forced to cut down abominations that had once been her friends. Then he—

He rubs his face with one hand, knocking on her door with the other before the self-loathing crests and he loses his nerve.

Immediately, her voice from within bids him enter, and he jumps. She has been waiting.

Her room is smaller than the Inquisitor’s, which he has been in once before, but has much the same features. A four-poster bed is against the opposite wall from the door, and a desk sits in one corner. It’s empty but for a set of writing implements that don’t look like they’ve been touched since the room was set up. A bookshelf, fireplace and two cozy armchairs occupy another corner. A book lies open on the floor in front of the chairs, pages ruffling in a gentle breeze from the open windows.

“Vera?” he calls, pausing just past the threshold and cautiously closing the door.

“Cullen!” she yelps, and he finally sees her, or rather, her silhouette. She’s perched on the windowsill behind the curtains, nearly hidden until she moves, one bare foot dropping down to rest on the floor before she emerges, clad in a simple blouse and breeches. They were made for a much taller woman, he notes; the legs are rolled up at the ankles and the blouse falls to her mid-thigh. He wonders where she got them from. The Hero of Ferelden should be able to get clothes from the best tailors in the country.

“Cullen,” she repeats, one hand curled over her heart. They stare at each other. He’s lost his words somewhere between his brain and his mouth, and she seems just as unsure. Where her eyes always so large and round?

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. For their last meeting? For the meeting before? For this meeting, right now? He doesn’t know. Maybe all of them.

Her hand drops to her side and she swallows hard. Her fists clench, once, twice, then relax. “I thought you were dead for the longest time,” she says softly. “There were rumors in the months after— after, and I believed them.”

“I—”

“I only found out through Tale of the Champion. Alistair had a copy; he lent it to me.” Her tone turns flinty. “Can you imagine? I read that book, every page wondering if you were going to die. Again. I had mourned you the first time around, I had moved on. To go through that again…”

“Vera—”

She shakes her head, but her eyes aren’t watering. She already cried herself out, he realizes with a start. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself, for believing the gossip of old women. I never thought to actually check with Greagoir what had happened. I was afraid.” She looks away at last with that admission. Afraid? Vera Surana’s never afraid. But that was the Vera Surana he had known. This incarnation is older, wiser, and has experienced more loss than anyone could ever deserve.

He comes a little closer. “I’m still sorry, Vera. For everything. Forgive me?”

Huffing out an incredulous laugh, Vera grabs his hand and holds it between her own, smaller and softer than his. “I did a long time ago, you ridiculous man. I’m just glad you have the Inquisition behind you now, and its Inquisitor.” She grins, bright and genuine. “Don’t look at me like that. I have eyes.”

His cheeks burn, but it’s a good warmth that matches the feeling in his heart. “I wasn’t aware it was that obvious.” Maker, if Vera could see it, what about the permanent members of the Inquisition? He and Irene weren’t sneaking around, not exactly, but they weren’t advertising their budding romance either. They hadn’t discussed it explicitly, but she knew how private he was and respected that. There were many things he had never shared with her, with anyone. Vera may have a general idea, but that is by virtue of being in the right place at the wrong time.

“It wasn’t,” she says with a quirk of her brow. “That was a wild stab in the dark.”

Oh. Trapped again. He groans, pulls his hand back so he can rub his pounding temples. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“I don’t know about that. But you have. A lot.”

He tries to smile, but he can tell he doesn’t quite succeed. Her eyes alight on his mouth and she furrows her brow. He hopes that she doesn’t want to kiss him. His crush is long past, and the ache for her in his heart is gone. She — or rather, the memory of her — will always hold a place there, but the wounds are healed over and he doesn’t want to open new ones. Not when he has Irene.

“Is that from when Hawke punched you?” she asks instead, head tilting to the side and ears twitching in curiosity.

Startled, he reaches up to trace the scar across his lip. “Yes. How did you know that?”

“The book, remember?” He looks at her blankly, and she sighs. “You haven’t read Tale of the Champion? You’re in it!”

“That’s precisely why I haven’t read it. I already know the story. And I hardly have the time.” He does not say the other, more immediate reason: he knows Varric will have pulled no punches in regards to him. Varric doesn’t leave any drama out of a story just because it might be uncomfortable.

She huffs in exasperation and waves her fingers at him. “Have it your way, then. Though I may understand how you feel. I couldn’t walk into a tavern in Ferelden for years because the damn bards wouldn’t stop singing about my ‘adventures’. Zev enjoyed the attention enough for both of us, though.” She shrugs, pretending nonchalance, but the sudden tension in her shoulders gives her away.

“Zev?” It takes a beat for him to realize who she’s referring to.

“Zevran Arainai. Former Antivan Crow, unrepentant assassin, fearless rogue … and the love of my life.” She sways on her feet, just a tiny stagger that is over before he can move. “Come on. I don’t think I should tell this tale standing up.”

“You don’t have to, Vera,” Cullen offers, even as he follows her over to the armchairs in the corner. Vera bends to pick up the discarded book, a dog-eared copy of Tale of the Champion. She sets it on the little table between the chairs, and sinks into a plush seat with a sigh. He perches on the other, trying to will his headache away so he can focus on her. It doesn’t work, of course. If anything, the pounding worsens, until he can barely keep track of her story.

What he does process explains a lot. She starts at the very beginning, with Loghain finding out he missed Vera and Alistair in the slaughter at Ostagar. This was after they saved Redcliffe from undead, their exploits in the town alerting the Teryn. He hired a Crow, the best of the best. Zevran told her later it had been a suicide mission from the start, and only when Vera hesitated did he realize he really wanted to live. He never thought he would. She was swayed by his words, though even she kept a close eye on him along with everyone else. His charm won her over eventually, and they became lovers. He went west with her after the Blight to search for a cure for the Calling. But then Corypheus happened, and her own Calling made her irritable and paranoid. At the same time, Zevran found out the Crows would never let him be. He returned to Antiva to dismantle his old organization from the inside.

“I haven’t heard from him in weeks,” Vera whispers. She stares into the middle distance, eyes unfocused but dry. “I didn’t even say goodbye properly. I was terrified of the Calling and it was driving me crazy. I accused him of abandoning me. That got him to stay a bit longer, but after the fifth ambush, he couldn’t make me a target as well. I miss him, I’m worried about him, and now Alistair’s dead. Or lost in the Fade. Same thing.” She takes a shaky breath, and now her eyes shine a little brighter with unshed tears.

Cullen rubs the back of his neck. “I… don’t know what to say, Vera.”

With a sigh, she takes down her bun. Her hair, even duller than before now that it’s out of the sun, settles over her the tips of her ears. “You don’t have to say anything, Cullen. There isn’t a magic phrase that will make this all better, I know that. It is enough to have a good listener. Thank you. Thank you for being here, too. It’s selfish, but it’s comforting to know I can still get you to come to me.” She winks at him, but her eyes are sad. It’s not enough to fool him.

“At least that hasn’t changed,” he says quietly. “I should have realized it sooner.”

She hums noncommittally. Silence stretches while she watches him, while he tries to keep his face from pinching. He shouldn’t worry her. Not now. “Hey, are you okay?” she asks at last, voice soft and understanding.

He doesn��t try to smile, because he knows it will be a grimace. “I’m just tired, Vera. My work for the Inquisition…”

Vera waits for him to finish, and when he doesn’t, she inclines her head at him. She knows he’s lying, but Maker bless her, she’s changed. The old Vera would pry. “All right. I shouldn’t keep you any longer. I’ll see you all at the funeral.”

He parts from her with a heavy heart.

~o~O~o~

There is no body to burn, but otherwise Alistair’s funeral is held as tradition dictates. It is a tense affair, with long silences and uneasy coughs from the back rows. Irene delivers the eulogy, visibly uncomfortable with the role. Cullen thinks he knows why — she was the one to order him to his death, after all. Or maybe it’s just her personality. Vera, Leliana and Morrigan, as the last of Alistair’s companions from the Blight, are in the front row. Kieran sits next to his mother, and Cullen tries not to think too closely on why he is there.

Cullen tries not to think about Alistair, either, but funerals have that effect. As a young templar recruit, he was a thorn in his side. Alistair seemed personally attacked by how seriously Cullen took his training, and Cullen in turn hated the lackadaisical attitude of the other boy. It was all so silly now, but at the time he couldn’t wait to see Alistair fail.

Then he’d been recruited into the Gray Wardens, and Cullen couldn’t decide whether that was a victory or defeat. In another life, they could have been friends.

He keeps expecting Vera to jump up and interrupt the increasingly awkward and rambling speech, but she doesn’t, and Irene has to cut herself off. Even when the Inquisitor invites others to speak, she remains still, staring up at the marble face of Andraste. No one moves. Leliana doesn’t like the spotlight, and Morrigan — as far as Cullen is aware — only barely tolerated Alistair in life. And Vera? Cullen doesn’t know.

When Irene finally ends the ceremony with a halfhearted invitation to the hall for refreshments, Cullen excuses himself to his office.

This reunion isn’t at all what Cullen had thought it would be. In truth, he hadn’t expected to ever see Vera again, and could have lived out his life without that resolution, but now that she’s here he finds himself both disappointed and relieved. She forgives him, everything is fine, but might-have-beens crowd their way into his head, still. His old flame has gone out, the ashes are cold, but what if…

He shakes his head violently. Creeping doubts will help no one.

The door that leads towards the keep flies open, banging off the wall and nearly hitting Dorian in the face on the rebound as he strides in, a whirlwind of immaculate white robes and flailing arms. “Sweet Maker, how did she ever get through that speech when she was made Inquisitor? I cannot fathom. I never thought I would see the day Irene Trevelyan babbled like a pubescent maiden around her crush.” He pauses, squinting at Cullen. “Oh my. If you’d rather I come back another time…”

“It’s fine,” he says. “The usual.”

Dorian nods, face smoothing back into its usual cocksure expression. Cullen has never told the mage about his withdrawal, but he’s sure Dorian has already guessed most of it. He’s perspective to a fault. Still, Dorian’s never directly mentioned it, either. “All right then. Our usual spot in the garden is taken, so I liberated the board. Also, this time I will thoroughly trounce you. Prepare for a defeat the likes of which Thedas will whisper about for Ages to come.”

“I don’t think setting the offending piece on fire when I’m about to checkmate you counts as a win,” Cullen points out, but he clears enough space on his desk for the board, smiling in fond amusement when Dorian protests that he’s never cheated a day in his life.

Chess with Dorian feels right, feels normal. The last time was before Adamant, and in the days after Cullen had been swamped, both with Inquisition work and with realizing the magnitude of his feelings for Irene. When she fell into the abyss, he was certain she was dead, certain her luck had finally run out. Who could survive that? He felt like many did, that all of them were doomed and it was only a matter of time, but there was also more. It didn’t just feel like a superior, or even a friend, had died. This was Irene. Irene who defied her own noble upbringing. Irene who poured her passion into every word, every deed. Irene who fought so hard for the good of the world, even back in the early days when most thought she had murdered the Divine. She didn’t ask for thanks, or even for their opinion to change. She did it because it was right.

He’s hopelessly in love. He only felt like this for Vera before, and what he can recall of his crush over a decade ago was completely eclipsed by what he feels now.

Even distracted as he is, Cullen corners Dorian within a few minutes, and while the mage grumbles, he doesn’t set anything on fire. He stares down his nose at Cullen, twirling his mustache with one hand. “If this is what you play like even when you’re thinking of your lady love, I fear I shall have to come up with a new strategy,” he declares.

“You’re hopelessly outmatched, no matter how you cheat.” Cullen leans back, crossing his arms.

“Yes, yes, you’ve told me this before,” Dorian says airily with a flick of his fingers. “I’m still not giving up. How is Irene doing? It hit her all at once, by the sound of that eulogy.”

Cullen blinks, but it isn’t the first time Dorian has caught him off guard by a turn in a conversation. He’s long since learned that the Tevinter’s mind often skips steps. “I haven’t spoken to her since this morning,” he admits.

“You haven’t spoken to her? She just had to give the eulogy for a man she knew for less than a month, a man she personally sent to his death! She looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her up by the end of it. And no one else stepped up to say anything, either. For such a likable fellow, he had few friends. Such is the domain of heroes, I suppose.”

“Vera was his friend,” Cullen snaps. “I don’t know why she didn’t want to speak, but she mourns him.”

Dorian raises his hands is mock surrender. “If you say so. Back to my original point. Irene needs you. Talk to her, or so help me, I’ll talk to her for you. I don’t think you’ll like my impression.”

“You’re impossible,” Cullen mutters, standing and helping to corral the wayward pieces.

“Impossibly handsome and charming, yes.” Dorian winks at him, board and the box of pieces in one hand while he gestures toward the door with the other. “After you. You’re not getting out of this one. She’s my friend as well. And should you two ever settle down, which I’m beginning to think is wishful thinking on my part, I will be Uncle Dorian.”

~o~O~o~

A few discrete inquiries on Dorian’s part — and Cullen is forcibly reminded that the man can be discrete at all — and Cullen is outside the Inquisitor’s quarters. Irene doesn’t spend much time in her own room, preferring the hall or garden or nearly anywhere else in the daytime, but Cullen figures she may, for once, want to be alone. He considers turning back, but Dorian is definitely waiting in the hall should he run.

He steels himself and opens the door.

Belatedly he realizes he forgot to knock, but the room is empty anyway. Perhaps Dorian’s sources were wrong. He’s about to turn around and head back down — and maybe strangle a certain Tevinter mage — when voices drift his way from the open balcony doors. He comes closer, spotting Irene at last, leaning against the railing. Her face is turned, talking to someone he can’t see.

“You’re kidding. That’s impossible.” Irene’s voice is flat. Who is she talking to?

“No, no. He really did. It was adorable. All I had to do was wink and he was a blushing schoolboy.” Vera. They can’t be…

“Cullen Rutherford. Stuttering. My Cullen Rutherford?”

Oh.

Irene turns, startled, hands going to reach for a weapon that isn’t there before she sees that it’s him. He must have spoken.

Vera pokes her head into view, looking from him to Irene and back again. “Ah. Hello, Cullen. I’ll leave you two alone.” She tiptoes past him, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

“You were talking about me?” He’s not as angry as he thought he might be. Mostly confused.

Irene sighs. “I’m sorry, Cullen. I should have stopped it before it happened. I’ve never put stock in gossip, but when Vera came to me…” She shakes her head, mouth twisting. “No. It was my fault. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t really want to know, but he has to, for his own comfort later. “What did you talk about?”

“It was just her life in the Circle, at first. I was curious about the other side of it. Then it turned to you. How she knew you loved her. How it amused her.” She’s struggling to keep her disdain off her face, but as usual with Irene she fails utterly. “I should have stopped it right there. It’s your life and your right to tell me or not tell me yourself. I’ve never believed I have to know every minute detail of the past to love someone, and that’s never been truer now.”

He nods, any lingering anger melting away. He’s not even mad at Vera; she was probably just making conversation. “I will tell you, Irene. I need time, that’s all.”

She steps off the balcony and comes within arm’s length, tilting her head as she looks at him. “All the time you need, Cullen.” Her eyes slide away — she’s considering — then she surprises him by stepping even closer and pressing her forehead to his.

They are near enough in height that the position is not physically awkward, but he still freezes, waiting for her to make whatever move she wants. Irene has never been so close for so long; even their kiss on the battlements weeks ago was a mere peck compared to this intimacy. Her eyelids flutter half-closed and her hands creep up to come around him in a loose hug. Even now, she will let him go if need be. He doesn’t want her to let go. “May I…?” he whispers, and she hums in response so he slowly wraps her in his own embrace. She sighs in contentment, dropping her head down to his shoulder as they sway gently.

“I love you,” she murmurs, muffled against the fur, but the words ring in his ears.

Here, with Irene, he remembers how he felt the day Vera rode into Skyhold. It’s even stronger now. Though neither of them can guarantee they will survive long enough to settle down — no matter how confident Dorian might be — he wants to in a way he never had with Vera. The mage is a huge part of his past, but Irene is his future.

“I love you, too,” he says into her hair.

#dragon age inquisition #cullen #trevelyan #cullen/trevelyan #cullen/inquisitor #hero of ferelden #writing #fanfic #oh my god this took so long #I started writing it on the 25th #it got away from me #lulzy writes

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