Work Text:
1111111111111111
The first time Alistair saw Cullen was not so much an unremarkable day as one that he’d rather forget. Nobody wanted to remember the aftermath of demon possession, nor the depths of madness it could drive a man to. In wanting to forget, Alistair had all but banished the memory of his countryman from his mind. Even if he hadn’t been trying to forget, the circumstances of the world had made him.
The Blight had been upon them. And the fate of Ferelden had rested upon Alistair’s shoulders. While he had wanted to ignore the responsibilities that his brother’s wife had so eagerly embraced, fate had dictated otherwise. Rather, the vaunted Hero of Ferelden had been the one issuing edicts. Alistair had been the one in the way.
Though even now, he couldn’t regret it. Loghain had not escaped vengeance. Though Ferelden deserved a better king, Alistair knew he would at least do his best to save it. If that wasn’t good enough, well, they could blame their vaunted hero for making him king.
222222222222222222222222
The second time Alistair saw Cullen, it was barely a glimpse. In fact, it took him days to realize that it had been the same man he’d seen at the top of Ferelden’s mage tower. Cullen had looked old, impossibly old. Sickly too, as if his experiences with the demons had made him sweat his very soul out of his pores.
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. The passage of time changed everyone, and Alistair had been eager to stop the meltdown of Kirkwall from invading the shores of his country. That hope had been in vain, like so many hopes before it.
In the time that passed, he’d heard a great deal about the templar from Kirkwall. That he was militant. That he was fair. The typical fare for people on differing sides of an issue. Yet… There was one report that made him hesitate. Some said that he argued for lenience for the mages of Kirkwall. That he insisted that not all were blood mages, and that those who sought mercy should find it.
These rumors made him think more than other reports. Many said that he had joined the Champion of Kirkwall in the fight against the templar leader. They spoke of his strength of leadership, his prowess in battle.
Yet… many had claimed to own tactical prowess. Many more the courage for battle. Few had ever claimed to argue for the lives of the innocent. Of those few, even fewer were templars. It was easy to be a saint when everyone assumed you to be one.
33333333333333
Alistair didn’t think much of Cullen as he focused on the summit that the Divine had called. He couldn’t say he thought much about the man any other time either. It would be unusual for anyone to claim they thought much about somebody they’d seen twice in their life.
Just because he didn’t think about him much, didn’t mean there was no thought cast his way at all. By no means was the name “Cullen Rutherford” on Alistair’s lips at any strategy meeting. But when the name was mentioned as being recruited by the Right Hand of the Divine, he knew who was being spoken about.
It hadn’t been a concern. Even if he’d given Cullen the honor of being dubbed a political wildcard, the title wouldn’t have brought much concern with it. A templar who had reason to hate mages, yet argued for the clemency of those who did no wrong? A man who had attacked his own Knight-Captain for the good of Kirkwall? Some factions certainly would hate him, but he wasn’t a threat to Alistair.
44444444444
So… there were times that Alistair was certain that he wasn’t meant to be king. The one that stood first and foremost was the moment that the Hero of Ferelden nominated him as king. The second highest was when Redcliffe tossed out his sort of uncle in the name of a Tevinter magister.
While Alistair was not the most accomplished politician of all time, he felt justified in being irritated at the turn of events. The political pressure he’d faced for his support of mages had been, in a word, painful. He’d made quite the statement by allowing them sanctuary in Redcliffe.
There was nothing to do but retaliate. Arl Teagan’s appearance at court demanded it. Marching across his own lands to attack his own city should have felt ridiculous. Should have, but it did not. Alistair had fought to take Redcliffe back once before, and it had not been that long ago.
When he marched into Redcliffe castle, however, there was no Tevinter army there to meet him. A Tevinter, yes. Standing rather pompously beside the so-called Herald of Andraste. If Alistair were honest, which he had no intention of being, he’d say that the Tevinter mage was better dressed for the part. He, at least, seemed aware of his own position.
Recognition of their own power or not, the Herald seemed eager to take the mages away from Redcliffe. While Alistair had never been accused of political brilliance, he knew a mutually beneficial solution when he saw it. But even so, a part of him felt bad. He had truly wished to help the mages. But if he hoped to hold true to his intentions, letting them go with the Inquisition’s religious figurehead was the best way to go for all of them.
At least, Alistair thought it was the best way. For all he knew, the Inquisition would turn the mages against Ferelden the moment they had the chance. Still. Call him optimistic, but the head of the Inquisition’s army was a beleaguered templar who had more experience with mages – rebelling or otherwise – than anyone else. If Cullen Rutherford had the ear of the person taking the mages off Ferelden’s hands? That couldn’t be too terribly bad.
55555555555
While in the moment, Alistair had been happy enough to let the Herald of Andraste waltz off with a wagon train full of mages, time changed things. For one thing, the Herald of Andraste had now been declared the Inquisitor. For another, he wasn’t quite sure if his chambermaid’s mind was her own or not.
So, he wrote to the Inquisitor. Because chosen of Andraste or not, they owed him for the whole Redcliffe thing. Thankfully, the Inquisitor seemed to agree, because Inquisition troops were the ones defending him from possessed kitchen staff. This was a fact that he gratefully relayed back to the powers that be of the Inquisition.
What he didn’t relay back were the words of the Inquisition sergeant that defended him from the possessed chef that threw butcher knives at him. “You know our commander? He was right concerned about you. Said that we shouldn’t lose Ferelden’s prettiest face. It’d be a shame to let Orlais be the only ones with pretty faces in thrones.”
While Alistair doubted that their commander had said anything of the sort, he felt flattered nonetheless. So while he wrote a letter of thanks to the Inquisitor, he wrote another to the Inquisition’s commander. Years he’d spent thinking about Cullen Rutherford, then just as quickly tossing his thoughts aside. After the man had just, sort of, saved his life, it seemed like it was past time to do something about it.
+1+1+1+1+1+1+1
Cullen fidgeted with the cuffs of his formal wear. He was nervous, yet not as nervous as he’d been at the Winter Palace. There was no world ending calamity at stake now… as far as he knew anyway. This was just a dinner invitation from a man that had crossed his path many times.
Nervously, he raked his hand through his hair, dislodging his curls from their tightly slicked back positions. Maybe the knowing glances that Leliana had given him had gotten to him. Maybe the effort Josephine had gone through to hire a tailor for him had given him the wrong impression.
The door swung open and the King of Ferelden walked through. He blushed as his eyes lit on Cullen’s face and the flicked away. Cullen would like to pretend he was above noticing, would like to pretend that this dinner was about nothing more than political discourse.
But Cullen wasn’t one of the people who underestimated the thought capacity of Ferelen’s king. More than that, something about that glance told him that Alistair Theirin had been thinking about him.