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Cullen doesn't care for Morrigan, and it's wholly mutual. Fortunately he has little enough reason to venture into the Skyhold garden, with the exception of prearranged chess matches with Dorian.

He's seen the child before, watching wide-eyed as people move around the garden on business, or just to rest. The child doesn't talk to anyone -- doesn't want to be a bother, Cullen guesses. He speaks respectfully to Morrigan, as far as Cullen can tell, and it's clear that Morrigan loves her son.

Still. It must be lonely.

***

Dorian went to the Hissing Wastes with some of the Chargers, to take out a nest of Venatori. Cullen forgot.

The chessboard is already set. Morrigan's boy is watching by the well. Cullen beckons him over, introduces himself.

"I know," the boy says. "The collar marks you. My name is Kieran."

Cullen laughs, quiet. "Well, Kieran -- do you play?" At the boy's headshake, he asks, "Would you like to learn?"

He's a quick study. Maybe not today, but soon -- Cullen will start throwing games.

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The panic stirs, like wingbeats striking the inside of his ribs. Alistair clenches his fingers tighter around the knife's hilt.

Breathe. In for a long count of five; out for the same count. It soothes a little of the nerves. Not enough to unstick him from where he sits. The shadows could transmogrify when he's not looking. The guards could fail. He --

"I can't."

This is the best place to stay, to make utterly sure, he can't just --

Cullen looks at Alistair's back for a moment.

He pulls the topmost fur off the bed -- if you're sleeping with a hole in the ceiling in a fortress above the timber line, you bet there are furs on your bed -- and wraps himself in it.

Then he settles down next to Alistair without a word.

He can't look at Cullen.

A senior Warden reduced to this: jumping at shadows, in constant need of reassurance that there's nothing lurking in the dark. A coward so scared of everything that he can't even turn his back on an empty room. He's so furious, for an instant -- at the Inquisitor, at Hawke, at the entirety of Weisshaupt for being so damned blind -- and then it's gone, like a candle guttered in a sharp breeze.

"You should sleep."

That's why he's keeping watch. So Cullen can rest.

Quiet, light:

"It's the other part of the obnoxious older sibling thing, I'm afraid."

His feet dangle through the trapdoor; he kicks them once, like a child, because he can.

"Meeting you where you're at, until you can. With whatever it is."

I'm fine, he wants to insist. He can't manage that, either.

Alistair sits, motionless and silent; the blur returns to his eyes, but he doesn't blink it away. (Of course he's going to start crying again, he thinks as a spark of the earlier fury returns. Of course. Because why not complete the trifecta of behaving like a child scared of the dark.)

At last, he angrily dashes the side of his free hand across his eyes, and pries his fingers loose from the knife so he can set it aside.

The Commander of the Inquisition needs to sleep more than Alistair does. If he won't sleep until Alistair stands down, then he guesses he's standing down.

"They guard the office," Cullen tells him, no louder. "You watch this room. Is that all right?"

He won't lie -- he's watching, carefully, Alistair and the knife.

Alistair nods. It looks more like defeat than agreement.

He casts his gaze to the knife, debating whether to bring it along; glances to the bed, to judge the distance. If he leaves it here, he could probably dive out of the bed and reach the weapon in time, if he put his mind to it. Probably.

And it'd lessen the chance that he'd accidentally stab Cullen if he dozed off and got caught in a nightmare.

He gets to his feet, rubbing his shoulder. He doesn't pick up the knife.

Cullen stands, moving again to the edge of the bed.

He doesn't say If you need to go, it's all right.

He looks up at Alistair, waiting. Waiting to see what he'll do.

Carefully, Alistair eases himself down onto the edge of the bed. There's not really anywhere else to sit. Maybe the chest off to the side there, but the bed's a little more comfortable.

(It's four steps from the bed to his weapon. Three, maybe, if they're big steps. Call it a second and a half before he has the knife on hand, if need be; sitting on the chest would push it to two seconds.)

"It'll get easier." Very quiet. Add that to the other refrains he only believes half the time: it's okay; it's safe.

Cullen tosses the fur he was wrapped in over to Alistair.

"You'll want this," he says, no louder, as he settles himself under the rest of the covers. "You'll stay close?"

Alistair wraps the fur around himself. (He won't admit it, but he was starting to get a bit cold.)

"Yes," he mumbles. The next smile doesn't have much humor to it. "I even promise to define 'close' as 'within a foot of the bed.'"

Unless he needs to get the knife.

"Good."

He shifts to look at Alistair more easily, and tucks his hands behind his head.

"Plenty of people looking after the castle. The commander's on his own. That's why there's a double commander."

Alistair breathes out a laugh; there's only slightly more humor to it than the smile. He looks away.

"I'm sorry to make you do all this."

Cullen's face clouds.

"You know you're not making me do it. Right?"

A quiet sigh. "I know."

He kneads his temple. After a moment, his fingers creep higher to rub at his hair: just a small section, back and forth.

"And I -- I appreciate it. I do. Maker knows how much worse this would be if you weren't around."

Cullen links his fingers on his chest.

"You're not a burden."

Quiet. Steady.

"You're not broken. This is the safest place in Thedas. And we don't abandon our own. I don't abandon my own."

Just when he thought he'd finished pushing the tears back.

Alistair breathes out; pinches the bridge of his nose as he works to regain his composure. His throat's gone so tight that it aches every time he swallows. He nods, after a moment, but it takes a bit longer before he can speak.

Once the ache's died down, he clears his throat to get rid of the last of it, then leans over to pat Cullen's foot. "Get some rest, Commander."

Cullen turns on his side, punching the pillow under his head to make it puffy enough, and curls up facing Alistair. "Yes, sir, Double Commander."

His snort of laughter sounds a lot more real this time.

Alistair bends to unlace his boots. Once that's done, he toes them off and swings his legs up, scooting back to make himself comfortable against the headboard. There's nothing in the shadows; it's safe to tip his head back and look at the starlight filtering through the gaps in the roof. (And the gaps in the tree's leaves.) Just for a bit.

It really is a nice view.

Cullen elected not to remind Alistair that Corypheus has a dragon, and that's really what he ought to be watching for.

Alistair's busy jostling the bed, so Cullen keeps his eyes open. Emptying his mind at the end of the day is always the worst part of trying to fall asleep, but it's one thing that helps him get there. Doesn't help the dreams, but nothing really does.

"If you can rest here," he says, barely audible, "do. Whenever you'd like. Whether I'm present or not. All right?"

The view helps him, a lot. If it can help Alistair --

"If -- "

He turns a startled look down at Cullen.

Hesitant, "If...you're sure. That it's all right. I -- thank you. I might do that."

"I'm sure."

Cullen's looking back at him, steady.

"Any time. Day or night."

He'll put the word out to his adjutants in the morning: Warden Alistair is to be admitted to the tower in every circumstance, without question.

"All right."

He still looks a bit lost, like Cullen just dropped a sack of gold in his lap with no explanation -- but he smiles, a beat later, small and full of gratitude. "Thank you," he says again.

Alistair wraps the fur more snugly around his shoulders.

A crooked smile -- and Cullen closes his eyes, curling in a little.

Alistair leans his head back again. A breeze stirs the tree branches, hiding and revealing bits of the constellations above. The stars in the Fade -- when there were even stars to see -- would wink out like that sometimes, but they never reappeared in the same spot. It's...good to see the lights remain steady enough that he can actually pick out a constellation here and there.

He counts his breaths. Counts Cullen's. Listens to the wind.

You're safe.

Edited 2016-07-19 03:14 (UTC)