faderift | spare me your judgements and spare me your dreams

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spare me your judgements and spare me your dreams

WHO: Malcolm "sulky seeker squinty" Reed, friends, you
WHAT: Catch-all of Justinian, also him fretting at his people after the Fade and completely trying to ignore the things that fuck him up mentally
WHEN: all month long unless otherwise noted
WHERE: around Skyhold
NOTES: Fade-related shenanigans discussed or glossed over, a couple of specific starters in the comments

The Fade was...unpleasant. It was unpleasant in the way that a demon masquerading as someone you care(d) deeply for is unpleasant, as facing your deeply embedded fears is unpleasant, which is to say--it was awful. So obviously he'd rather not talk about it and spend a little extra time to himself these days, praying, reflecting, seeking inner consul and finding it occasionally lacking.

Everyone else, on the other hand, would get a little more of him than usual to make up for the introspection, to account for those he's grown fond of, to take stock of the morale of the Inquisition in the wake of the Nightmare. And, apparently, in the wake of Weisshaupt, but details from that are slim at best at first.

Courtyard

Sometimes it seems as though Malcolm wants to do nothing but hone his already fairly honed skills, whether it's sparring with wooden pikes for swords, whacking at dummies with his personal sword and small shield, or trying to see from what distance he can still nail a headshot with his shortbow. Other times, his training involves his curly poodle, making hand motions for orders or barking out a few verbal commands in Orlesian through a makeshift obstacle course, or trying to get a certain battle action just right, or...playing fetch. Hopefully she doesn't bring you a slobbery training sword to throw.

Battlements

The reconstruction and repair of Skyhold has hit a few hiccups recently, from disabling rain torrents and hallucinatory illness, to many of Skyhold's leaders and workers getting sucked into the Fade at Adamant, to...so many little things that go wrong. But still, with enough hands, it's coming along well. Malcolm uses the high perch of the battlements to clear his head, take assessment of the areas of Skyhold that still need more work, and gaze out over the valley at the little tent city forming in the shadow of the castle, always peering at the horizon for smoke or for signs of approaching armies. Also found shooing away people practicing their bloody 'parkour', does this look like a playground, what do you think will happen when your broken body is found down there when you slip and fall.

Great Hall

There are precious few places within the hold that are quiet enough for him, other than the war room, personal private quarters, and the garden (and the small alcove set aside as a small area for Andrastrian prayer). So he's stopped trying to find the quiet and embrace the inevitable, settling in by fires with a meal and drink to look over letters or notes or other papers, sometimes sketched out maps, or reading books borrowed from the library. Sometimes he seems distracted, his gaze up but far far away, a frown worrying at his features.

Wildcard

Hit him up in places that also seem like places he might be. Bump into him sending off a notice in the rookery, heading off to early morning prayer, taking his horse out for a trot, assisting in building/rebuilding projects, throwing something together for himself (or someone else) in the kitchens...

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Seekers need to stick together. They are so few now that it some days feels pointless to even identify as one. Three of them now, with all the rest abandoned or unaccounted for? But it makes his connections to Cassandra and Aleron all the stronger.

And he has to swallow down a terrible thought about the kind of things Aleron must have witnessed. There's already been enough tragedy in his life, and the Nightmare could only feed on such a thing.

This time he doesn't start with any words, just has a bowl of thick and meaty stew in each hand, sets one by Al, settles down with his own. Doesn't start to eat yet, merely keeping his hands warm around the bowl, letting out a long breath as his body slowly relaxes.

To say the Nightmare fed on and exploited the tragedies and failures that have comprised Aleron's life to date? Understated indeed. Even knowing the demon was, in fact, a demon and prone to twisting and warping truth and reality had not been shield enough against the verbal arrows lobbed at the Seeker. Knowing the Fade to only be a representation of one's realities and thoughts didn't prevent pain being laid at his feet, nor stop him from a rather embarrassing pause to gawk at the impossible.

He has since then attempted to push down and away all feelings about the experience, both the anger and dismay, as well as the embarrassment, with only moderate effect. Getting an admission of any of it will prove a monumental task, however, as Aleron remains committed to remaining calm and detached.

When Malcolm shows up with warm stew, however, some of that resolve melts. The gesture is appreciated, which he notes with a dip of his head and a murmured word of thanks. For some minutes, he sits quietly, letting the heat from the bowl soak into his hands and spread up his arm. The silence buys him the time to reflect on the experience, how new friends and old acquaintances stepped in to help when he didn't even know he needed it. How a fellow Seeker is here now. Maybe he's not alone and unwanted after all.

"Thank you, for this. It is appreciated."

Okay so he's still awkward with social things, even if he is starting to thaw a little on the coldness.

Malcolm is certainly thankful, in a way, that only Cade witnessed his interactions with the obvious demon wearing an old friend's dead guise, or that only Kirk bothered to assist him out of the murky water of the Fade, and no one had mentioned anything the Nightmare had whispered to him, perhaps too occupied with everything the Nightmare was also saying to them in turn. And yet the embarrassment was difficult to shake. The quiet despair at his own weaknesses.

He doesn't look up at Aleron's words, at last picking up a spoon to dig in, but there's a small smile on his face nevertheless. He had not overstepped his bounds or made a fool of himself, and the sentiment as it was meant was apparently understood. "Think nothing of it, friend."

And he's sure that they are that, friends.

Friend.

The word holds so much weight, so much meaning, and yet it somehow lifts Aleron's spirits with that gravity. Bethany's quiet insistence in the Fade that no matter what his past, his present held people who genuinely cared for him... he hears it again in that word. In fact, it prompts him to slightly smile and nod once at Malcolm. A slow thaw, but a thaw nonetheless.

He wants to ask how Malcolm is bearing up against his own experiences in the Fade but isn't quite sure it's acceptable, even between friends. For that matter, he's not entirely certain he wants to share with his family either. His sisters would go out of their minds and Maker only knows what his mother would do. He's not been in a habit of discussing his work with them, secrecy aside, as he's never fully trusted them.

"I owe you a stout bottle of ale, regardless. Or four. I think we need them." That is an admission he's been rattled and he's pretty sure his fellow Seeker has too.

He laughs, tired and strained but honest as he relaxes more in his seat, stirring up his stew and letting the idea hang there while he takes a thoughtful bite. Easier to relax around Aleron than most anyone else. They've been through much as Seekers, have a similar bearing, similar ways they deal with their strains.

Easier, perhaps, to admit weakness. "Or more. We should take some days to be merry and relegate our duties to those more sober." They won't, of course. An evening at the tavern or to themselves with some drink, perhaps, but that would be all. "We would make jolly arses of ourselves. Give everyone a laugh."

The suggestion of either of them slacking and allowing someone else to take care of their responsibilities is so laughable, it actually draws a chuckle out of Aleron. He shakes his head, still chuckling as he thinks it over once more. Funniest thing he's heard in months. Years even. "Don't tempt me, Malcolm," he replies in full-knowledge it would never happen.

No, his own temptations got laid out bare for any passerby to see in the Fade and he's embarrassed to the center of his soul for it. He didn't succumb, clearly, but just the idea that he's not above temptation bothers him far more than he cares to admit. In fact, he's quite certain he'll never be able to look Cassandra in the face ever again.

The chuckles die down and fade away on that far more sober reflection. There is a lapse of silence where he considers his next words carefully. "Have you ever thought what our lives would be like had we not joined the Seekers?"

Yes, that's it. An easy way to ease into the topic without revealing too much.

He's thankful to hear Aleron laugh like that, even if to most it wouldn't seem like much of a reaction. It's funny, really, how he's always thought himself reserved. And he is, truly, but Aleron is something else entirely. His passions may run deep, but so too are they hidden deeply. If Cassandra is the rushing, flooding river, then Aleron is the dam.

Malcolm isn't so sure what that makes him, but he's glad he can understand both of their different temperaments.

He's likewise thankful that his fellow Seeker is broaching the subject, even at an odd angle, a roundabout way. Malcolm considers for a moment how best to reply, but in this case, honesty must be the best of policies. "Often." How different their lives would be. "No one really sets out to be a Seeker when they're growing up, do they? It just becomes a natural progression of faith and skill under the right circumstances. The right people. I began training as a Templar early, to appease my father." And the less said about his father's ambitions... "Had I never been given the chance...had I perhaps joined a Fereldan army..."

He shakes his head. "It doesn't do much good to dwell on it, but I think of it nonetheless. Perhaps I would have been slain trying to keep a Circle in line. Perhaps darkspawn would have taken me in the battle of Denerim. Maybe I'd have a wife and fat children, resting easy on the family land." In an attempt at levity: "Our lives would not, I think, be so exciting as they are now."

"Do me a favor and put that in writing then send it to Ravonild, if you would." She's spent years reminding Aleron that he's 'duller than a butter knife' and unlikely to recognize any brand of excitement tied to her twin's life. Although perhaps in some perspectives she's right. His life is not exciting if the lack of social engagements and fine frippery is any measure.

He sits back in his seat and expels a long breath. Not truly a sigh, but close. Honesty is always a best policy as far as he is concerned. (Burying feelings notwithstanding.) "I think about it a great deal," he admits. Brooding is what his mother would call it, as would anyone who's known him a decent amount of time. The brooding is almost legendary. "I'd never wanted to join. My whole life until I was sent to the Templars, I'd been told that I was meant to keep my sisters safe." A scoff comes out of its own volition. "Until last year, I couldn't have picked my sisters out of a crowd. Layla was three when they packed me off."

There's a shrug of one shoulder as he considers what Malcolm broached. "But you're right. I don't think any of us really start out looking to be a Seeker. The number of people I know who sought it out was..." Aleron holds up a hand to count them and then after realizing he can think of none, flicks it in dismissal of the count. "None. I can think of none. Maybe Lord Seeker Lambert?"

"It is an honour and a privilege to be chosen to train as a Seeker of Truth. Some do not see it that way. I think in some ways it's better than being a Templar. We have more freedom, not simply assigned a Circle to watch over. There's accountability. We can't trust the Templars to always be mindful of their own when they overstep their bounds. When Templars cannot fulfill their duties, we can correct mistakes. But I think it also makes the Seeker Order...seem distant and mysterious. If Templars are already an iron fist, then what does that make those a step above?"

Seekers swoop in when things have gone exceptionally bad, and then disappear again. They poke around when something is wrong, at the Chantry's beck and call, and are allowed much (perhaps too much) leeway in how they go about doing so. They are ever watchful, and yet no one but the Divine watches back. Malcolm leans back in his seat and rubs his chin. "There are so few of us now. If Lord Seeker Lucius and those that follow him are still alive, I'm not sure they can be counted as Seekers any longer." He likes to think that any who would not join would, like himself, eventually make their way to Skyhold. "We could be the last, us three."

"Maker, what a thought..."

They've always been few in number, and greatly scattered to the wind already when the Order wasn't fractured. But to be reduced to three, terrible in its gravity and great in the potential for abuses to run rampant. As if they weren't already. It serves to remind him that now, it's even more imperative for their dedication to their duty to hold fast.

The sobering realization nudges something of a confession out of Aleron. "I did grow to appreciate the great honor bestowed on me, though as a boy I was quite the angry idiot about everything." To be precise, he threw himself in wholly to the Seekers in an initial childish belief that it would some how let him 'beat' his sister at something. Being a better person. Or more important than what frock to wear and planning parties. "If I hold any regrets now, it's that I allowed duty to chip away at the very little time I had with Mirielle."

But none of that is really truly what's eating him, or even unreasonable to regret. Most people cannot see what they have with them and appreciate it until it's gone.

"I saw her in the Fade."

And that, he leaves to hang in the air, for Malcolm to consider and connect the bits of what's really hounding him at the moment.

And there it is. Malcolm had suspected as much--who else, really, would a demon so imitate in Aleron's life? But now that they're done dancing around the topic, now that it's stated out in the open, it's almost startling. To actually speak directly of it.

"You saw a demon wearing her face." Aleron does not need reminded of this, but it's the same reminder he has for himself, the demon that wore a Templar's long dead face. "You saw nightmares and wants and fears made into a malleable reality within the realm of the Fade. You saw something take advantage of the regrets you have about her and your time doing your duty as a Seeker."

Knowing it all doesn't seem to make the immediate pain of it go away, of course. His expression softens. "There wasn't anything you did wrong, Aleron."

One eyebrow arches up in question. "Didn't I?"

There is that self-flagellating part of Aleron's nature that doesn't want to accept such easy absolution. But at the same time, it's a relief to hear from someone outside his own internal recriminations. He knows the truth behind the deceit. Those were demons preying on old wounds poorly mended and twisting them. Therein lies the largest part of his guilt.

There's nothing to be served by dissembling, and looking down or away is too escapist. He feels there ought to at least be some accountability for his personal responses. Maintaining eye contact with Malcolm is grounding and not allowing even a fraction of retreat. "I stayed and nearly looked overlong. I knew it to be a demon, false, nothing but lies, and still I stayed and hoped. I really thought myself above temptation."

Clearly he hadn't succumbed fully or he'd not be here now. It's the brief moment of weakness that shames him the most. The pride to think himself above reproach, there lies the sin.

'Nearly looked overlong', he has to fight down the urge to bark a bitter laugh. "Is that all? You stopped and you stared and you hoped, as most anyone would when confronted with those longings and old wounds ripped open?"

That isn't to say he doesn't share that feeling, that pit of failure that they seem to fall into every time they are not perfect, when they dare show the human failings the Maker Himself so blessed them with. "I talked with mine. Even touched. I spent far longer than I ought to have. Knowing what it was, I still allowed its words to cut me down."

And now he feels the hot shame rise in the admittance. Bad enough most of the interaction had been before Cade, but at least the man isn't mouthy or terribly judgemental. But to know it for what it was and still feel the sting of words he had thought but never heard aloud, accusations in a familiar voice, to feel so strongly, he understands entirely the disappointment in oneself that Aleron must be feeling over his own temptation.

Malcolm clears his throat, wets his lips, and finds little to say in his own defense. Covers the lapse with more stew, as an excuse, before he comes up with words, perhaps not the right words, perhaps there are no right words, but words to fill the silence. "We all saw many things in the Fade. Weakened by the fight, weakened in spirit from our own horrors. I don't find the lapses in judgement to be...unexpected."

"Nor do I." That's not hollow affirmation. A more objective look at what happened, a dash of grounded perspective, does make the lapses in judgement look expected. That they came away relatively unscathed in a physical sense is the surprise. "If anything, I find it a blessing there were not more, or more severe. I've not heard of ours lost." There might have been casualties to the fighting or temptations but they've not been brought to his attention yet.

Aleron doesn't even bother asking Malcolm why he didn't tell him sooner. He's doing it now. And he understands all too well why he wouldn't. The same reasons why he hasn't broached the topic. There is shame in abundance, disappointment in self, fear of being judged.

Eating seems a good way to fill the awkward silences that come from brooding on the experience. Asking how Malcolm is feeling about it feels trite in light of his own temptation, but there is something he can broach. "Does Cassandra know?"

He won't breathe a word to her if Malcolm would prefer she not know, but Aleron would quite prefer not to accidentally share in passing.

They can be logical about the situation even if it does little to ease the gnawing essence of guilt. "No." It comes out a little quicker, a little sharper than he intends, and he eases himself back down. "No, she does not. Have you ever attempted to have a conversation with her about how anyone might feel about a situation?" He hangs the rhetorical question in the air for a moment, then gestures between the two of them. "She's worse than we are, truly. Even if I were to go up to her and say, 'Lady Cassandra, I'm afraid I've been tempted by a demon who, in the end, I chose to turn away from', what would that accomplish?"

Perhaps he'd get a slight reprimand, a warning to be more cautious. He doesn't know what kind of demons Cassandra faced in the Fade, how they may have impacted her or if she simply shrugged them off. Doesn't see how. Even knowing the demon for what it is, it still felt...good to look upon the man's face again, to lay a hand upon his chest as if he were real. Still knowing Despair was using that voice to lash out.

Malcolm sinks into his seat but his body language is still tight and tense. "We were lucky and strong both. We should remember that." Maybe time will make the pain fade. That's always the hope. "I felt very small." A quiet, mild confession. "Perhaps, in a realm between mortals and Maker, that is how it ought to be."

The tension they're both carrying is so obvious in the way they're holding themselves, that an outsider could easily misconstrue their very honest conversation as far more irate than it is. Aleron's still stiff and though he sits up and folds his hands with his elbows propped on the table, (his mother would be scandalized!) it's obvious he is far from comfortable.

"I did too," he admits with a slow nod. "At one point, I almost considered it might not be so bad to stay. I wasn't thinking at all about the demons. Just everywhere I looked, I could see the Black City in the distance. To be so close to the Seat of the Maker. It was humbling."

That humility that he was so small compared to everything around him, plus Bethany's insistent hand pulling him along and away, is what stopped him from entertaining such a mad notion. Well and a self-reminder that the last time man stepped foot in the Fade, Blights were unleashed on Thedas. Who knew what could yet come from their trip where they did not belong?

"We walked in the Herald's steps. No one should ever do as we have done, nor in such great number. We're playing with theories we don't understand and magicks wielded by those who understand even less." Not just the Rifters, but most of the shardbearers. "We tried to bring out a demonic being, and instead we all got brought into the Fade. We ought to be more careful."

He huffs, annoyed, welcoming the annoyance, and moves himself closer to Aleron for the sake of comfort, a feeling of more privacy even though they have some now already. "And it wasn't just our little personal demons encouraging us along the way. The Nightmare, it said things. Things meant to dig under your skin. I would like to say it didn't succeed, but with the length of the battle, and those little...fears it had under its control, those that appeared in different form to everyone, I'm afraid I was weakened. Everything in the Nightmare's realm was made to cause us to falter and fail. It is a miracle we all got out."

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spare me your judgements and spare me your dreams

Aleron

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