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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He's not avoiding anyone per se. It's just that, in the wake of the Fade, he Nightmare, he's found it prudent to try and gather himself back together in what little solitude he can muster. Not much, in the Approach (unless he wanted to wander into the desert alone), but more, thankfully, back at Skyhold. It's difficult to put into words how he'd been shaken down to his roots, the emotional drain more than he'd care to admit.

But of course he is, as he always is, fine, and he must go about his business. They all must. They must carry on. He's always been very, very good at carrying on, a proud Reed trait.

And surely Cassandra also is carrying on. Just fine. Surely she is every bit as fine as he is. Which is to say...fine. Still, his look carries the tenseness of worry, shoulders stiff from carrying invisible weight. "Lady Seeker." The (not quite true) title gives more of that concern away, his informalities forgotten when he is tight.

It's hard as well to figure out just what to say. He isn't here on official business, but to express simple concern seems...well, she isn't sick, so that isn't an excuse now, and she hasn't exactly done anything particularly unusual. But to simply ask if she is all right? That opens up a door wherein she might ask him the same, and then it may be a game of awkward lies to placate one another.

Thank the Maker for privacy.

"Perhaps we could sit and talk for a time, if you are not too busy for it." Sure. That doesn't sound awkward and weirdly social of him or anything.

"That is not my title, Malcolm."

She may never get him to stop saying it, but she still feels the need to remind him, occasionally. There is no Lord or Lady Seeker, not anymore, and if there were it would hardly be Cassandra.

She takes a moment to study him, one eyebrow raising at the request. Talk? He never comes just to talk. Of course, it's not hard to guess the real reason for his visit. Their time in the Fade had been...trying, but when are their lives not?

Her first impulse is to refuse him. She has no shortage of work to do, as they both well know. But she notes the tension in his shoulders, in his face, and her own expression softens, her answer surprising even her. "...All right."

He bows his head in apology and acknowledgement. One day he will actually learn. Maybe. Sometimes the slip is deliberate and other times he's too distracted to make it deliberate.

"I'll try not to take up too much of your time," he says, which should mean getting to the point. There's a moment when he considers being seated, but his anxieties keep him from wanting to sit. To stand is fine. He is not one to pace, but he would be doing so if he were.

He can't start with 'how are you, are you well, does everything you saw in the Fade make you want to crawl into a hole and never see the sun again'. But he can start with: "The Fade researchers must have plenty of work on their hands now, to try and figure out how a rift being so deliberately opened could react in such a way. I pray it never will, but should an issue like the Nightmare arise again, we may have to consider another strategy or another method of drawing it out. That it was defeated on its own ground is nothing short of a blessing."

There. That sounds at least slightly more businesslike, even if it's nothing Cassandra hasn't already considered. ...Damn. That must sound patronizing, then, or perhaps childish? Damn damn damn.

Of course he brings the Fade immediately, and Cassandra stiffens instinctively. But Malcolm is all business, almost...overly so. He sounds like he's delivering a report, or contributing to an ongoing discussion of strategy...except, of course, that he had been assigned no report, and offering unsolicited suggestions on strategy is hardly his place. Her eyes narrow, and she frowns. What is this? Mere social awkwardness? Or does he truly think that nothing he's saying had already occurred to her?

"I have no doubt that the Maker was on our side, but the strength of our soldiers and the others involved was doubtless just as important," she says shortly. "Is that all?"

His stance only gets more rigid at the casual dismissal. Of course, he's being...ridiculous and roundabout. And she seems...fine. Of course she seems fine. Of course Lady Cassandra Pentaghast would be fine fighting nightmares in the Fade. "No, ma'am," he says crisply, because damn it all, he might as well get on with it.

Give him a moment to gather his words back up. "After...all that happened in the Fade, I...had thought it might be prudent to...check in with you." No, that's not quite the right phrase. "Check up on you, in fact." That's not weird or overly familiar, is it? Oh Maker, it is, isn't it?

"Check up on me." She raises a single, unimpressed eyebrow in a gesture that would send most people skittering out of her sight.

But Malcolm is not most people, of course. He's not one to be cowed by a frosty glare, even from Cassandra, and she...He knows her better than most. He has seen her, if not at her worst, then certainly not at her best, and he had not judged her for it. More importantly, he had not lost his faith in her or her abilities, even when she had admitted to weakness or doubt.

(and of course the Fade had affected her, how could it not, but that does not mean she wants or needs to talk about it - )

Still. Still. She is hardly incapable, hardly in need of being checked up on, and she sees no reason to collapse into a blubbering mess simply because someone had asked after her. She sighs, a little more weary than normal, perhaps, and leans back in her chair.

"I am fine, Malcolm. I - appreciate the concern, but it is not necessary."

Good thing he doesn't expect her to collapse into a blubbering mess, then. He considers where to go from there, whether to bow and mumble an awkward 'of course' and slip back out of the room, or to press the issue, or change the topic to something else. He wets his lips out of nervous habit and continues on. "To face ones personal fears and doubts in the heat of battle, in the physical Fade no less, and come out the other side? I believe that speaks volumes about the integrity and strength of the individuals of the Inquisition. To walk where few have walked since the ancient magisters thought to march into the City of the Maker, to face a literal Nightmare and to be besieged by demons."

He draws himself up a little taller, more sure. Feels his point speaks for itself. "I don't find it so unreasonable a thing to ask after a...colleague." Malcolm would not be so presumptuous as to consider himself a friend of famed Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine, founder of the new Inquisition, (very distant) royalty.

"A colleague."

She frowns, but on reflection, she supposes it's true enough. Cassandra looks down at the table. She has known Malcolm longer even than she has known Leliana, he understands what it is to be a Seeker, he understands her better than most - but they are not, perhaps, friends. Not when he continues to insist upon calling her by a title she has not even earned, not when he defers to her in everything - and she is well aware that she has not made it easy to do otherwise, that she has taken advantage of the opportunity to treat him like a soldier, like a subordinate, dismissing him at her whim whenever it is convenient for her to do so rather than listen to his opinion or advice or concern for her well-being.

They had held the same rank in the Seeker Order, but the Order is no more. Cassandra had been the Right Hand, and is now, whether she would have chosen it or not, a leader of the Inquisition - an authority figure, separate and removed from the others by necessity.

Alone, more than she would have liked. But that is not so different than the rest of her life, after all.

"I suppose it is not so unreasonable," she says at last, her heart strangely heavy. "But the fact remains. I am fine." She looks up at him, finally, hesitates briefly before daring to ask. "And what of you? Are you - recovering?"

Just shy of are you fit for duty, just this side of pure, impersonal professionalism. She sighs inwardly at herself, quietly miserable.

Is...is even colleague too far? There is a look about her that, while clearly disapproving, he isn't sure how to interpret. Disapproving of what? Uncertain? At the very least, having shared battles and rare smiles and food and company, he could call himself her colleague. They had known each other before the world so drastically changed, though not in a way anyone would consider well, but maybe the distance is greater than he thought.

Is it the other way around? Did she expect something more? Blast and bollocks, he should have just taken her fine and been done with it.

Since apparently it's him that isn't so fine. Even if hers is a lie, she gives off an air of finding this to be...unnecessary. Which, all right, fair enough, but it shouldn't seem so inconvenient to check in on her. He had done so easily enough when they had both fallen in and soldiered on. To ask if he is recovering means she sees he is not fine. And if he were to say as much, she would catch him out in the lie.

Recovering. How does one do as such? The illness is of the heart, of the soul. His discomfort is obvious, and his internal debate ends when he, at last, takes a seat instead of standing there like he's trying to deliver a report.

"The incident has not hampered my ability to perform my duties," he says with a practised military cant. "As to all else... While I have doubts no prayer can properly assuage, in time, I will be fully...recovered. I'm glad to know that you--" can be so calm and pass it off as nothing, as though something doesn't continue to gnaw at your insides, making you question yourself, more frenzied than the feeling has been for some time "--are well in the wake of the unintended and unanticipated journey."

He pauses, about to leave it at that, but that sinking feeling of wanting the ground to open up under him is steadily growing. "I apologize. For disturbing you."

It's a relief when Malcolm finally sits - his stiff posture as he hovered above her desk had slowly been putting her more and more on edge. Cassandra sighs quietly, frowning at the formal tone of his reply. She may as well have asked for a report, for the answer that he gives her.

Is it her? Does she truly make him so uncomfortable, so...nervous? Perhaps he does not wish to be more than a soldier, reporting in and doing his duty in watching out for the well-being of his commander? No, she cannot believe that. This is Malcolm, and she knows he cares for her and wants her to be well, just as she cares for him.

Doesn't he?

She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, fighting a headache. This is pointless. Neither of them have the time to waste dancing around words - and Cassandra, at least, has no patience for it in any case.

"You are not disturbing me, Malcolm," she says. Even if...well, perhaps it had come off that way. She raises her head to look at him, trying to smile. "I...it is good to know that..." She sighs again, struggling for the words, even now. "That you cared enough to ask."

Were Despair still whispering in his ear loud enough to hear, it would be telling him that nobody cares to have him around, that he is so much worse at hiding and getting over his weaknesses than everyone else around him. He doesn't need Despair with him, however, to think those thoughts on his own.

Perhaps she's trying to humour him. "You know that I consider you...an ally." Sure, let's start again that way. "A trusted commander. And, if you will allow it, if I am allowed to even consider it, perhaps a friend." The word hangs in the air for a few breathless moments. "I would be a fool," he continues on with a renewed strength, "to dismiss that what I faced shook me in ways I dare not show anyone. To think that those I care for have gone through something similar, am I to just ignore that? I want to show my support, a solidarity, even if I don't know how."

Cassandra actually laughs at that. Perhaps it is not the kindest way to react, but she laughs, tired and helpless.

"Malcolm, you know how people feel about the Seekers," she says. "Even Templars hate and fear our presence, to say nothing of mages. And I - my role in the Inquisition -" She stops, shaking her head. "Most people...see me as someone to obey, or to run away from. And my decisions have not always been...popular."

And even if none of that were true, if she were never a Seeker or the Right Hand or anyone with any authority at all - even so, there might not be any change. She has never been skilled at connecting with people.

She truly smiles this time, tired but genuine. "We have known each other longer than either of us has known anyone else here. If I cannot count you as a friend, who else do I have?"

A tension in the room breaks, and Malcolm's shoulders sink. He even slumps forward, leaning his elbows on her desk and laughing, breathy and light, with embarrassment and a release. "That's good to hear." What an understatement.

He shakes his head, a hand resting on his face momentarily as if to hide the joyful shame. "Of course, you are right. I didn't want to presume. You have your lofty position, and you are one of the most famous names here. To count myself among your friends seemed..." He gestures helplessly. They have just seen where that thought leads. This awkward confusion and pointless tension. "I truly apologize for being a buffoon." He hasn't acted so stunningly nervous about the idea of potentially fraternizing above his station since his old CO had been so friendly to him, a much younger fellow at the time.

"Besides which, I felt the topic difficult to approach. I should remember to be more blunt the next time I ask how you are."

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise, rolling her eyes. "You know how I feel about my name. As for my position..." She sighs. "It changes nothing. Not truly. I am still the same person I always have been." She's certainly subject to the same flaws as ever, just as prone to mistakes and blunders as anyone else.

She huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she leans forward. "I cannot promise that I will always take such questions well. But...it would be preferable to thinking you dare not ask."

"You are still the same person who would rather punch a tree rather than admit she must sneeze." And would rather make a disgusted noise and state with impatience that she is fine rather than admit she might be otherwise.

Of course, she might actually be fine. He'll tuck that thought away before he winds himself back up. "I can weather most of your anger, I think. I will, of course, obey if you order me out, but you know I'm not afraid to press an issue if I feel it pertinent. We are both stubborn, but in different ways. So yes, when next I feel you must eat something before you pass out, or ask after you when something unfortunate happens, or barge in and start demanding answers to claims from the masses, I will try and do so to the immediate point and spare us all a few awkward minutes."

"You would be surprised at how often it works," Cassandra says primly, though with a hint of a smile.

She rolls her eyes, shaking her head. "Let us hope that none of that comes to pass. Although...there is something, if you truly wish to help. It is only..." She frowns, looking down at the desk again. "It is...difficult. I do not want to presume an authority I do not have, and you may feel free to refuse." They are the same rank, after all, and maybe he'll be insulted to be asked at all. "But I have been considering our conversation in the Western Approach. Your offer to help, if you are able."

Technically the same rank, yet as a founder of the Inquisition and as the Right Hand, she certainly has more authority than he does. Malcolm folds his hands and looks alert and ready to get down to business. Neither of them are prepared to speak of whatever they may feel about the Fade. "The offer is absolutely still on the table, of course. Did you have something in mind?"

"Yes." There's no point in dithering now - and if nothing else, this is easier than talking about, or trying to avoid talking about, the Fade.

Less easy to explain what she has in mind, of course. She pushes her chair back, unconsciously starting to pace. "It has become - difficult to accomplish all that I must do in service of the Inquisition. There are so many meetings, so many reports, so many people, and they all want something, all the time -" She heaves a frustrated sigh, gesturing. "I find I hardly have time to keep up with it all, and of course, there is always some new crisis, within Skyhold or without. It would be a great help to me if there were...someone else to handle reports and personal issues, to ensure that only those which are truly important are brought to me. To make sure that such issues are resolved, without taking all of my time." She glances at him, with a wry smile. "Someone, perhaps, with more patience than I have."

He watches her as he normally does, still, alert, calm. The longer she speaks, the more he understands what she's asking of him. Their discussion at the keep. His offer to help however he can. And she has agreed to pull him into the loop.

(Someone, somewhere, is laughing at the idea of him handling 'personal issues', he's sure of it.)

"Are you offering me an...official position, as your liaison, of sorts?" Or a clerk. That sounds less exciting. "Because I would, of course, be honoured to work alongside you in a greater capacity than I already do. To take care of the business that you might scare away with a disgusted noise and a look," he adds wryly.

"Yes, I suppose so," Cassandra agrees. "Or perhaps, even..." She hesitates. Is it blasphemy to suggest it, even in jest? Somehow she does not think Justinia would mind. "A...a Left Hand of my own, perhaps - to act on my behalf, to help me see the solutions I may not." She shrugs her shoulders, still uncertain at the comparison. Of course she would never dream of fashioning herself and her position as equal to that of Most Holy, or anywhere near it, but it is, if nothing else, a structure she is familiar with.

"On a much lesser scale, of course."

The suggestion has him sitting up straighter. He doesn't mind, so much, that the comparison is perhaps off-colour. He's just surprised that she might want someone more...Left Handed. Of course he isn't about to be some secretive assassin and spy for her, but still, the comparison is almost distressingly apt.

"Would you, perhaps, also require a Right Hand to balance the scales?" Amusement crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Cassandra, it would be my singular honour to perform these duties for you. Alongside you."

"Let us begin with this," she suggests, the corner of her mouth quirking upward.

Of course she doesn't need a Left Hand, nor would she want one, not a true one like Leliana. But the parallels are enough to make the comparison work. Someone to give her another perspective. To pull her back from the edge, when she needs it.

Her smile grows into a real one when Malcolm accepts. "Good," she says, emphatically. "That is...I am glad. I hope - I hope you find the work fulfilling."

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spare me your judgements and spare me your dreams

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