howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Kieran looks up as well, interested in the answer.

"It's not always," Cullen says. "You could open with a knight. But the real reason -- "

He taps e4. "Establishing control of the center at an early stage is very important. The fastest way to get there is with the pawns. If it helps, think of them as the vanguard."

A soundless ah. Alistair nods. After a beat, he quirks a crooked smile. "Maybe I'll find a head for this after all."

Something catches his attention across the garden; he looks up, swiftly, just in case there's --

No. There's nothing there. (It's fine; he's safe.)

Cullen gives Alistair another quick, sidelong look --

Kieran thoughtfully moves his queen out, in preparation to (apparently) move to the center squares.

"An interesting choice," Cullen says, light. "You want to move your queen here, yes?"

Kieran nods.

"You might want to think carefully about that," he cautions. "It makes sense to move your most powerful piece to the most powerful place -- but what happens if i arrange my pawns, or one of my knights, in such a way that it makes it easy for me to capture your queen? Either you move her, and I can take over the center -- or you don't move her, and you've lost your most powerful piece and control of the center."

Kieran tilts his head, brow furrowing. "There's a bigger lesson there. Mother makes those too."

Cullen laughs, quietly. "Perhaps. Let's say -- when you've got a clear view of the field, it's rarely advisable to make your most important asset highly visible. With visibility comes vulnerability."

There's a slight buzzing in his ears he can't manage to shake. Cullen's words lodge in his head -- with visibility comes vulnerability -- and all Alistair can see is the bright, open sky, the walls circling the garden that let everyone cast an eye down into its center. Breathe, he tries to command himself. Breathe.

He can't let Kieran see him like this. This won't be the impression he makes on his son.

"I should -- " He pushes his chair back. "Leave you to your game. I've just remembered something."

It's a weak, obvious lie, but it's all he can think up.

-- right.

How to cover? "Yes, right." He summons up a sheepish smile. "Please apologize to him on my behalf -- I didn't mean to keep you. Let's speak later. Good day."

"Good day," Kieran echoes -- but he's busy studying the board.

Cullen gives him a nod, as his smile turns more rueful.

Alistair returns the nod. His mind's whirring: where to go? The Undercroft, maybe. Dagna's warm, and kind, and keeps roughly the same hours Alistair does (which is to say she hardly ever seems to sleep) -- and after their encounter all those years ago, she remains fond enough of Alistair not to pester him about the Fade. So long as he helps her fetch something off a high shelf every so often, she'll be fine with him hanging around for a bit.

Well. Hiding, really. Let's be honest.

"Good day," he says. Breathes. "Kieran, it was good to see you again. Don't crush the Commander too dreadfully."

Rubbing the knob of his elbow, he takes his leave. Once he's calmed down more, he'll find Cullen to apologize, if Cullen doesn't seek him out first.

Cullen turns his attention back to Kieran, and moves his pawn to g6.

He'll find Alistair as soon as he can.

"You're worried about him."

His gaze flicks up to Kieran; Cullen doesn't deny it. Cullen doesn't say anything.

"Mother said he spent a very long time in the Fade."

"He did," Cullen says, rubbing the back of his neck.

"She's glad he returned." Kieran returns his attention to the board, kicking his feet again. "She said I wasn't to ask him what it was like. She said he'd be very upset for a long time."

"Your mother is a kind woman, and she's absolutely correct," Cullen says. "Do you think -- you could be kind to him? Without asking him any questions about all of that?"

Kieran nods, and goes to move his queen.

Any ally -- even a small one -- in a storm, Cullen thinks, and closes his eyes for a moment.

It's as frigid as ever in the Undercroft. Alistair always forgets until he's already down there, staring at the icicles and watching his breath steam in front of him. Dagna, bundled up at her workbench, glances over to give him a cheerful, if distracted, smile. "Hey, Alistair."

"Hello." He tucks his arms close to himself and takes a seat on the stairs.

It's a posture the dwarf's seen before -- the I'm having a bad day and need a moment posture -- so all she says, as kind as ever, is, "There's a couple blankets in the chest over there, whenever you want one."

"Thank you," he mumbles, and closes his eyes. Dagna returns to her work, humming softly under her breath; only the occasional snippet of melody rises above the wind whistling past the cavern's mouth.

Eventually, once he stops feeling like he's about to choke, he gets up to fetch one of the blankets. Dagna looks up again; offers another smile. "Want to see what I'm working on?" she asks.

It fascinates him, the way she works so diligently to learn about a thing she'll never be able to touch -- and Alistair knows she wouldn't offer to show him her latest project if she thought it might upset him. So, cautiously, he nods, and picks his way over to her workbench, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a royal mantle.

The panic, thus distracted, slinks away. A slow retreat, but a retreat nonetheless.

Some time later, he emerges: fingers and toes a bit numb, cheeks pinked from the cold. Time to find Cullen and make his apologies.

As it happens, the commander is ensconced in his office, after a brief stop by the kitchens. Once it gets dark, he'll go look for Alistair. In the meantime... he does have some actual work to do.

It's easy to get wrapped up in, to lose track of time -- especially when one of Leliana's people comes in with the daily intelligence report.

He doesn't notice when one of the runners lights the torches in his tower, and he doesn't notice when the sun finally sinks behind the mountains.

Alistair's mostly gotten the hang of Skyhold's layout by now. (It helps that the landscape doesn't shift and warp every couple of hours.) So: up the stairs, along the walls, to the tower he knows houses Cullen's office.

If the man's anywhere, he's probably going to be here; if he's not, well. More walking will do him good.

Tentatively, he raps his knuckles against the door.

Buried in his work as he is, Cullen barks without thinking, "Enter!"

He's not supposed to hear any report from western Orlais for two days, at the very earliest -- is it a training report? Did he miss any of those today?

Alistair flinches.

Maybe this can wait until morning. He should -- he can check first, though. Right?

Cautiously, he pushes open the door just enough to peek his head through. "It's me," he says, quiet. "I can come back later, if you'd rather."

Cullen's head lifts quickly. "Alistair? -- Alistair." He pushes himself back from his desk. "I was going to come find you, soon, but I was waiting for -- "

There are lit torches.

"Dark -- "

The sky is dark behind him. And it's dark outside his window.

Cullen winces. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to -- wait this long."

He gestures at a fluffy-looking loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese on a plate on the far corner of his desk. "I wanted to bring you that. I'm sorry I didn't get it to you right away."

Cullen apologizing to him is not how Alistair expected this to go. He blinks, casts a faintly bewildered glance at the food, looks back to Cullen. He sounds a little bewildered, too, when he says, "It's all right. I, er. I appreciate the thought."

It's draftier up here than he anticipated. Alistair looks up as he marshals his thoughts. "I -- wasn't exactly fit company anyway."

...What in Andraste's name sounds like rustling leaves in here?

What doesn't sound like rustling leaves? There's a lot of paper in here, after all. Admittedly most of it is confined to the bookshelf. And on several chairs. And on nearly every square inch of his desk.

Cullen looks -- worried.

"You did well," he says, quiet. "You know that, yes?"

One side of his mouth lifts. Just as quiet, "I didn't, really, but thank you for saying so."

Giving up on placing the noise for now, Alistair rubs his forehead and glances around the rest of the room in a thoughtless check of his surroundings.

"How did the rest of the game go?"

He did: he recognized when he needed to remove himself from the situation, and he did it. And he made a reasonable, and polite, exit.

But Cullen figures arguing that point wouldn't help.

There's a chaise over by the practice dummy (the dummy with several nasty-looking throwing knives buried deep in its stuffed thorax). Cullen stands, picks up the cheese plate, and nudges a pile of books on the floor close enough to serve as a table. Sitting, he gestures to the other side, for Alistair.

"It was fine. He seemed to enjoy it." A little awkward. "I've -- he keeps to himself, and since Dorian's gone..." A one-shouldered shrug. "It seemed like it might be... nice. To ask. I'm sorry I didn't find you first."

Something in his chest tightens. "Find me first for -- ?"

And a quick shake of his head, as if to drive the thought away. "Never mind."

He eases himself onto the other side of the chaise. A few hours' exposure to the cold of the Undercroft has kicked his appetite up a notch: Alistair reaches for the bread to break off a piece. "I'm glad he found a worthy opponent."

"That will keep," Cullen says mildly, "until he's learned a little more of strategy."

He gives Alistair a sidelong look. "You've first claim on any spare time I can find. I should have tried harder to find you, to ask if there was something you'd rather do. That's all."

"Oh." He sounds nearly as startled by the clarification as he did by the original statement.

But, after a moment, Alistair ventures a tentative smile. "You may regret that when I suggest running laps around the fortress. For hours."

Cullen snorts. "I'm trapped behind this desk. The more excuse I've got to actually do something, the better."

Cheerfully, "Oh, well, that works out well, then."

Alistair adds a bit of cheese to the bread. Takes a bite. Leans back to regard the ceiling again. Another draft circles through the room, rustling the papers on Cullen's desk -- but he swears he can hear something else rustling, too, dammit. And those faint lights near the ceiling...

His chewing slows, then stops. After he swallows down the bite of food, Alistair says, "I think you have a hole in your roof."

Yeah, he's pretty sure those faint lights are stars.

"Oh, that? Yes," Cullen says, completely unconcerned.

He stretches. He wasn't kidding: he spends far too much time behind a desk.

Alistair eyes him.

"Are there not enough supplies to fix it?"

Skyhold does look a lot better than when he last saw it, but it's an old fortress, and only so much can be done at any given time.

Cullen shrugs, untroubled. "It's not a priority."

He turns enough to pull one of the knives out of the dummy (with some effort; it's buried very deeply) and uses it to slice a bit of cheese.

He lives like a disciplined, minimalist frat boy. Whatever gets the job done.