howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

The Inquisition's forces left to march on on Corypheus, and, by Cullen's direct order, Alistair wasn't among them. He'd been feeling better than he had in weeks -- he swore he would keep himself under control on the field -- but it hadn't been enough to sway the Commander. Never mind the very personal reasons why Alistair might want to help destroy the creature that fractured the Grey Wardens and sent him on a nice two-month vacation to an unreal horrorscape. Never mind the need for as many able bodies as possible. They would march, and he would do what he always did: stay at Skyhold, pace the corridors, and wait.

It took hours for the anger to burn off. He helped it along with uncountable laps around the fortress, which turned to mindless, dead sprints up and down the entire length of the bridge leading to Skyhold's front doors. That was where Kieran found him eventually: seated, leaning against one of the bridge's low walls and struggling to catch his breath, his mind quieter for the exertion.

Morrigan had gone to the Arbor Wilds as well. And...Kieran wanted company, and needed looking after while she was gone.

How did you like Dane and the Werewolf? asked Alistair. Kieran smiled, faintly, and sat beside him to talk -- and for a time, that kept Alistair's mind quiet, too.

As soon as the commotion started, Kieran bolted. By the time Alistair caught up, the commotion had swelled to a dull roar of barely controlled mayhem. He caught fragments -- something about a well, and a temple, and escaping Corypheus through the eluvian -- before the tide of people carried the Inquisitor and her people away.

(He caught Morrigan's eye, too, over Kieran's shoulder. He couldn't hold her gaze for long.)

More waiting, after that. More pacing. More space to think too much. He's sitting on the steps leading up to the great hall, feet jittering against the stones, when the second commotion starts and bears Cullen into Skyhold.

Alistair's on his feet in an instant.

Good. A banister.

Filthy, exhausted, upright by sheer force of adrenaline and will, Cullen balances himself against Alistair -- carefully, since there isn't a rail -- and keeps walking, leaning on Alistair's arm. Alistair... does not have much choice about this, it seems, unless he wants to get physical.

"War room first," he grunts. "We'll talk once I'm done. But I told you so. Remember that."

Alistair doesn't protest being commandeered as a banister: he adapts readily, shifting his weight to keep Cullen upright. The man looks awful. That's pretty much the only reason Alistair can force back the anger that flashes, brief and hot, behind his eyes.

War room first. He steers them that way.

"I can get a healer on standby for when you're done," he offers, quiet.

People are staring. Cullen doesn't care -- just pushes into Josephine's office, and keeps walking.

No magic, he doesn't bark. Not necessary.

Because Cullen was right to tell Alistair to stay behind. And Alistair is alive and well.

Instead, making his (their) way down the long corridor: "It's been quiet? No hostile forces in the valley? No sign of -- anything?"

"No. Nothing."

Out of Josephine's office; up the short flight of stairs. The enormous double doors of the war room loom just ahead.

"The Inquisitor and her people came through the eluvian some hours ago. That's it. What happened?"

(No; he shouldn't have asked that. Later. Cullen said they'd talk later.)

"That's what I need to know." If he stops here, he's not sure he can get going again, but --

(He knows Alistair wasn't happy. He knows that's an understatement.)

"Corypheus fled the field. It was a victory. But we don't know if he's retreated, or if he's -- " Cullen's grip tightens on Alistair's arm for just a moment. "You're alive because you weren't there. I'll -- explain later, but -- " He sways on his feet, braces himself against the door. "I have to do this. While I still can. All right?"

Alistair breathes out. (Does another small, thoughtless shift of his weight to keep Cullen from falling over.)

"All right," he agrees, and pushes open the war room doors with his free hand. "Go."

He'll at least get some potions, if a healer can't be spared.

Cullen makes himself straighten (with a sharp wince; all those bruises -- ), squares his shoulders, and walks into the room.

Lavellan is the only one there. She's sitting on the widest windowsill, sharpening one of her mean-looking daggers. Leliana sent word ahead of you, she says, giving Cullen a cool look. I don't believe we're in immediate danger. Corypheus has lost the Wardens, the Red Templars, and the vir'abelasan. He'll have to regain strength before trying anything.

Cullen agrees. But what's the --

Vir'abelasan, Lavellan says, a lilt in her voice that he never hears when she's speaking anything other than her native tongue. The Well of Sorrows. An artifact at the heart of the temple, now gone. Morrigan made a very foolish choice, but it was her or me, and I am still Dalish enough to be wary. Regardless I am very angry.

She gestures to a side table. There's your preliminary report. The full one will be ready in three days, by the time Leliana and Josephine arrive. And you, Commander, are to do nothing more strenuous than reading that report until they get here.

But --

Leliana sent word ahead, Lavellan repeats, jaw set. We are safe. Our forces have good leaders in the field. You will take this time to rest and recuperate because there is no planning we can do until our spymaster and ambassador return, because I will not trust any of this to a raven. Too easy to intercept. Go rest, Cullen.

She gives him a very tiny smile, as though they share a secret. And by the way -- we won. You proved yourself. Thank you, Commander. I'll see to it Sera leaves you and your belongings alone for the next week, at the very least.

Cullen has to brace himself against the table, but he laughs, quiet, exhausted. So that's what's meant by full military honors.

When Cullen emerges, it's with the preliminary report under his arm.

The corridor is... very long.

The door shuts behind him; he keeps his attention on his feet, lest they give way from under him, and balances his other hand against the wall.

(He didn't think Alistair would wait around.)

The advantage of doing so many laps around Skyhold: Alistair has a very good idea of how long it will take him, if he puts all his speed into it, to reach any particular part of the fortress at any given time. The instant Cullen's through the door, Alistair turns and bolts for the healer's quarters.

No healers to spare once he arrives -- not unless he wants to drag Cullen all the way back down to the yard, when the man can barely walk as is. But he does wheedle a bag of assorted potions off the surgeon before dashing back to the war room.

Unfortunately, he'd factored Cullen's meeting going a bit longer; when he returns, he smothers a wince when he sees Cullen already standing in the corridor. (Well. 'Standing.' Upright, at least.) Alistair crosses the last few yards at a jog, already fishing through the bag in search of a stamina draught.

"Here." He holds out the vial. "That ought to get you to your quarters, at least."

He's sick of stamina draughts. He can't count how many he's had in the last several days.

But it would take energy Cullen hasn't got to argue. He takes the vial, uncorks it, downs it. The effect is instantaneous: Cullen shudders, shifts on his feet. "Thank you." He starts walking, slow. "If you -- if you want to see... you can read the report while I... do something." He rubs at his eyes.

"She says I can't work for three days." And that's a little sullen.

Alistair falls in step beside him. His mouth twitches on a badly suppressed smile.

"Maker forbid," he says, gentle. "Anything but that."

Cullen scowls at him --

And immediately looks guilty, and looks away.

He doesn't want to be a bear. Not now. Not to Alistair.

The scowl's expected. The shift in expression immediately after...isn't. Alistair's gaze flicks to the report under Cullen's arm, back to his face, then away.

"As for the 'do something' part," he goes on, "I've more than stamina draughts in here." He lifts the bag, shakes it a little to make the vials inside clink. "If it would help. Or -- I expect you didn't eat anything on the ride back?"

A nap, so often being the Standard Alistair Recommendation for Cullen's many and varied ills, goes unsaid for now.

"I know you're -- not happy with me."

He pushes his way into the hall, makes for the door to the rotunda as the quickest way to his office.

"You don't have to fuss."

"You turn up back at Skyhold long before anyone else, except the people who walked through some ancient magical elven portal...thing, looking as if you'd fall over if I went like this -- "

He gives Cullen a light poke on the shoulder.

"I've fussed over less." Beat. "Even if I'm very not in the mood for any I-told-you-sos regarding your command decisions."

"Too bad," he mutters. "I did. I was right."

He'll show Alistair how, once a runner brings the contents of his saddlebags to the office.

As they emerge onto the bridge, back into the sun and wind: "And it had nothing to do with your combat readiness. So don't start in on that."

"Then why?" he demands. "Especially after all that talk about how you don't command the Wardens -- "

Cullen clatters irritably into his office, and notes that his saddlebags are on his desk. Good.

He makes straight for the chaise, easing himself down with another sharp wince (and a little hissing through his teeth).

"Because ancient elven defenses at the temple," he says, voice strained, "cut down Corypheus. He was surrounded by Wardens at the time. And -- " He waves the report at Alistair. "They saw him... leap to, or out of, one of the Wardens. The man split in half, the magister emerged. Like he -- grew there."

He still has enough wherewithal to glare at Alistair. "And it wasn't you it happened to. I was right."

All the color flees from Alistair's face.

"Who was it?"

Somehow -- Maker alone knows how -- he manages to keep his voice steady.

"I don't know." Quieter, as he starts the methodical process of removing his armor. He won't be able to stay sitting for very long -- his ribs hurt too much.

"On my desk -- I brought some... things. That belonged to them. I thought you might -- "

Vambraces gone. Pauldrons next.

"They're a mix. Warden... things. A badge in there. A feather -- it might actually be a griffon's feather, I don't know." He winces again, having to twist to fully unhook his left pauldron. "A few letters from families, or letters they'd meant to send -- before. I can handle those, if you'd rather."

"No," says Alistair: swift, automatic. "No, I'll -- "

He sets the bag from the healer's quarters next to Cullen, attention already on the saddlebags. Distracted, "There's...poultices in there too. And a kit near the bottom, I think, if..."

He drifts away from the chaise toward Cullen's desk. Settles a hand on one of the bags; doesn't open it, just yet.

(How many of them are left? he wants to ask. Can't bring himself to ask.)

The good news is that even if it were a lyrium kit -- and he doesn't think Alistair would do that to him -- he knows a draught wouldn't actually help.

Alistair's distracted. He takes in a breath, holds it, and starts to undo his breastplate, as though neglecting to breathe will somehow make the process less painful.

Shit. He's still got to do his legs. How? He's done enough sleeping in his armor the last several weeks for an entire lifetime, or else he'd just leave everything alone.

Alistair finally makes his hands undo the fastenings of the saddlebag.

Its contents have jumbled together from the ride. The feather charm -- probably a fake griffon feather, anyway -- ended up bent at a sharp angle. There's a medallion further in; a few amulets, one etched with the masked heraldry of some Orlesian family or another; a rough-hewn mabari figurine --

(Warden Lucas always ended up carving things out of sticks when he got bored at camp. He remembers.)

-- and a locket that, when he pries it open, looses a fluttering scrap of paper onto Cullen's desk. Alistair spreads it flat. It doesn't take much; it's been folded and unfolded countless times.

He presses his knuckles to his mouth as he reads.

It is very probably going to make the bruising worse if he bends long enough to undo his greaves. He'll be lucky if it doesn't reopen the wound at his waist.

Another Maker-damned elfroot concoction it is. Cullen rifles through the bag, finds one, uses it, holds another breath --

-- and sets to work, silently. As swiftly as he can. Aiming for his bootlaces for good measure.

Compared to that, it's nearly nothing to get out of the underlayer consisting of a leather jerkin. This leaves him in a filthy linen shirt stained with mostly old blood (some new).

What would do him the most good, he thinks, is a trip to the hot spring hidden deep in the cellars. But it's unthinkable, the way he's moving now. Maybe he should just see if there's a sedative in that bag, and go to sleep.

-- but if he goes to sleep in a shirt damp from sweat, in a castle atop the Frostbacks, he will very probably catch cold and die. Cullen does manage to stifle a groan. One more layer. You can do it.

It's a list of names. He recognizes a few of them.

After each one: I remember you.

Alistair makes himself read every name. His lips move, soundlessly: I remember you. When he refolds the paper, he's very careful not to let his fingers tremble. If he can figure out who it belonged to, he -- he ought to re-copy the names for himself before he sends that Warden's effects to their family.

Exhaling, he looks up -- and is moving around the desk within seconds, crossing back to Cullen. "Shit. I'm sorry, I should've -- "