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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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)

Nearly three hours later, his eyes snap open.

He lived this way for too long to give up the habit. There's a middle of the night prayer service, in the Chantry's cloisters, and that means waking up and doing something is -- habit.

Cullen lets out a long breath, and turns onto his back. More reports. There are always more reports, until his eyes can't stay open.

Alistair's fallen into a doze. At some point, he drew up his knees to huddle completely under the fur; all that's visible is his head and neck.

As soon as the bed shifts, he jerks awake with a quick intake of breath. A moment to orient himself -- he's in Cullen's room, he's at Skyhold, he's fine -- and he blinks down at Cullen.

"All right?" he asks, very quiet.

"Still wake up for Lauds." His voice is sleep-roughened; he stares at the sky. "After all this time. Should probably do some work."

Of course.

Alistair's all prepared to sigh despairingly at Cullen's choice of pastimes, but, as he follows Cullen's gaze to the sky, the impulse silences itself.

Instead, no louder: "Does it help?"

"The working?"

He turns his head toward Alistair.

"More than the prayer. Better at producing immediate and tangible results."

No surprise there, he thinks; like the sigh, the words stop before reaching his mouth.

"There's also the option of going for a walk. If the work will keep. Or -- " A shrug, which is more of an impression of a shrug thanks to the fur, and a crooked smile. "I could wake you back up when you inevitably fall asleep at your desk?"

Cullen looks back at the sky.

"Or I could just... not move." A passing breeze ruffles the leaves; they rustle louder, just for an instant. "If you're comfortable there, I see no compelling reason to get up."

Mock-thoughtful, "Moving would require unbundling myself from this."

He jostles one corner of the fur in demonstration.

"...I might not be able to offer much in the way of keeping your mind occupied, however. Unless you want more jokes about Qunari walking into a tavern."

"You did offer me five sovereigns if I stopped worrying for an hour," he murmurs. "I'm quite accomplished at keeping my mind occupied."

Alistair snorts, with faint amusement, and rolls his eyes.

"Most people just read books, you know."

"And there's a stack of recent reading over by the chest, and a shelf's worth and then some in the office," he counters. "But here it's warm, and out there -- "

All... foot away from his bed.

" -- is cold."

Grave, "You make a fine point."

As if to emphasize, Alistair snuggles further down into the fur, burrowing all the way up to his chin.

"That's why I'm the commander."

He turns over on his side, facing Alistair.

"Thorough understanding of tactics."

"And the Inquisition could ask for no better," he murmurs.

Alistair turns his attention back up to the tree branches. Something flitting between the leaves catches his eye; he frowns, slightly, and tracks its movement.

Cullen's eyes have closed in the meanwhile.

Soft:

"I didn't like getting up in the middle of the night at Kinloch. In Kirkwall -- at least I was up anyhow."

Whatever's in the leaves passes through a sliver of moonlight, resolving into a silhouette: a moth. Alistair relaxes.

"And now?"

"The busier I stay, the easier it seems to be."

Barely audible.

"Yeah."

It's more sigh than word. Beneath the fur, Alistair folds his arms closer.

"I should...encourage you to rest more. As double commander. But -- I'd be a hypocrite to argue, I suppose."

He shakes his head a little, and doesn't open his eyes. It's easier that way.

"It's the lyrium that's... troublesome. If I do too much -- "

Cullen's shoulders hunch a little.

"Before Adamant -- it was so bad that I... I asked Cassandra to find a replacement. And I nearly took the Inquisitor's head off -- threw my kit against the door right as she was walking in."

"It's -- I'm sorry, I shouldn't put this on you -- "

His fingers have threaded through his hair, pulling.