faderift | spare me your judgements and spare me your dreams

Entry tags:

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...

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

spare me your judgements and spare me your dreams

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject