howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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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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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.

"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."