howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

(no subject)

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Shame."

He tries to glance up at Cullen without moving his head too much.

"You'll have to let me borrow whatever you're using for yours. Since I doubt Double Commander involves such a ceremony and imparting of wisdom."

Cullen's eyes stay closed; his hand drops, heavy, down over Alistair's shoulder again.

"It's up there on top of whatever barrel holds that business."

Along with the razor he uses too infrequently, and the dim, scratched glass he uses to make sure he doesn't miss with the razor.

"Or in the chest. One or the other."

"Wonderful. I'll investigate later."

When he's not keeping watch. If Alistair had to place a bet, he'd wager Cullen will be asleep within the next ten minutes. Which probably means he ought to stop talking quite so much, too.

(How long has he been sitting here? By now, his chest has usually started to tighten, and the idle fidgeting -- which seems to be a constant -- has crescendoed to a need to run. But...there's none of that. He's not even tapping his fingers anymore, or jostling his leg around.

He's repeated that refrain, you're safe, as often as he can. This might be the first time since the Fade spat him out that he actually, truly feels it.)

"Don't use it all," he adds as an afterthought. "Or... else."

What, he's not sure.

"Ah, yes." By some miracle, Alistair manages to keep a straight face. "The dreaded or else. I'm terrified."

Cullen gets a (very gentle) nudge to the side. "I won't take it all. Promise."

Cullen snorts -- and ruffles Alistair's hair again, this time with great malice aforethought. (Spikiness aforethought?) "Do, and there's more where that came from."

"Agh -- "

Alistair tries to duck away from the assault. When that doesn't come anywhere close to working, he gives Cullen's hand another smack.

With over-the-top mournfulness, "I thought we were friends, Rutherford."

Laughing, he pats Alistair on the head.

"You were the one who said I act like an obnoxious older sibling. I'd hate to disappoint."

He heaves a melodramatic sigh, doing his best to smooth his hair back into place. "And to think I was sad about effectively being an only child, once upon a time."

There.... isn't anything really positive Cullen's got to say about that. Either way lies the fact of his siblings, or the fact of Alistair's lack.

(Hence, he thinks, one very large reason Alistair doesn't know quite what to do with Kieran.)

So instead he stretches, and pushes himself up off the chaise. "Come on. Bed."

Alistair stretches both arms overhead, briefly twines his fingers together, and cracks his shoulders one at a time before heaving himself off the chaise. "Thanks for the meal," he says; his smile, however slight, is completely sincere. "Is your bed...?"

He peers up at the lofted space above Cullen's desk. It makes sense: there's open sky and he's no more than a ladder's length from any work that needs doing. (Because of course he is.)

And he's two flights of stairs away from the sally port. Which is a consideration, after Haven. His adjutants respect his space as much as they can, and do what they can to make sure there are normal hours for working and for rest -- but he's on call, always. He has to be.

That's the other reason to sink into work: then it's about the work, and not what happens to Thedas if he doesn't do it perfectly.

"Yes," Cullen says, and starts up the ladder.

The bed, and not much else. (Besides the tree in the wall, and the vines, and the other assorted plant life, and the ruined piles of building material, and the armor stand, and the ancient-looking barrel that serves as a nightstand, and a spare pile of books, and in the corner a single chest for his personal belongings.)

When he reaches the top of the ladder, Alistair pauses, taking in the sight of the tree. He looks at Cullen. Looks back to the tree.

Does not say a single damn word, but: he knew it wasn't just the paper.

Hefting himself over the top, he turns around to give Cullen some privacy, takes a seat, and sets his feet back on one of the ladder's rungs. It's a perfect vantage point up here. You can see everyone who might enter or exit; it'd be the work of seconds to drop down and attack. Or run, if necessary.

...Are there any weapons up here? Alistair feels in the small of his back, and scowls when he realizes he left the Undercroft unarmed.

(There are always the throwing knives in the dummy, and the one knife with the cheese.)

Vambraces, pauldrons, coat, breastplate. He rubs his face, trying to forecast whether he'll need to shave in the morning, and gives it up as a lost cause, prognostication-wise.

Leather armor off. He pours out some icy water from the pitcher into the basin, washes. Pulls on a pair of soft, loose trousers. Runs his hands through his hair and sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Alistair's... gone? Down in the office.

...all right. Cullen shrugs, a little, and eases down on his knees to pray.

The cheese knife can stay, as it has been claimed for a higher purpose. Namely, the slicing of said cheese.

That leaves the other throwing knives. Picking one at random, Alistair yanks on its hilt hard enough to stumble back a step once it comes free. He throws a glance over his shoulder: no footsteps that he can make out, no hissing, no whispers. Good. A quiet start to the night.

He scales the ladder with all intent to take up his perch as soon as he's ascended. When his head pops over the edge of the loft, and he spots Cullen...he pauses again, uncertain whether to keep climbing or duck back down.

Eventually, as quietly as possible, he steps up the last few rungs. Alistair returns to his seat and settles his forearms across his knees, the knife hanging loosely from his grasp.

Transfigurations 12, tonight. It doesn't take long.

Cullen lifts his head, gets to his feet.

"You can't stay there all night," he says mildly. "You'll freeze."

Alistair glances over his shoulder, shrugs, and gives Cullen a halfhearted smile. "The Undercroft's toughened me up," he says, just as mild. "It feels downright balmy up here."

He resumes his watch over the office.

He huffs.

"Alistair, you expect me to sleep while you're there looking like you're going to jump?"

Alistair shuts his eyes -- it's a very Maker give me strength sort of expression -- before shifting his grip on the knife.

"I'm not going to throw myself off the ledge, Cullen. It's a good vantage point. You know, for the watching part of keeping watch?"

"Let the guards guard my office."

Quieter, as he sits on the edge of the bed.

"It's their duty. I trust them. Come here and watch the sky."

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.