howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

He could not say how long he spent in the Arbor Wilds. Nor could he say how long he spent away from their forward camp, fighting his way through to the gates of the temple. Days, certainly. At least two. Perhaps three. Bolting down potions, to lessen the effect the red templars had on him and to help him stay awake. The potions didn't provide for witnessing the sight of a few of his ruined brothers and sisters, hearing the sound of more of them hissing his name, before Cullen and his men cut them down.

A few bad gashes, here and there. (More scars for the collection.) His right side feels like one giant bruise. It was not clear why Corypheus quit the field until Leliana's agents made it in, and found Samson, and discovered the empty well. And the shattered eluvian.

Cullen was already swatting away healers -- too many of his soldiers were worse off, and he was beyond not in the mood for magic -- when word came: Charter had concluded that the Inquisitor's party, likely in the company of Morrigan, went through the eluvian. Probably back to Skyhold.

Cullen, in Leliana's company, was examining the remnants of the bodies of the Grey Wardens when confirmation of Charter's theory arrived.

Less than an hour later, bruises and all, Cullen was on a horse headed north to the next available station to swap out his mount and keep riding. Corypheus fled the field; there's no reason he wouldn't go after Skyhold; and even if he didn't Cullen needs to know what happened --

Shadows are long, and the mountains reflecting blue and gold light, when the horn sounds and Cullen rides through the sally port. A stablehand is there, to lead the horse to Master Dennet. He's not sure how his legs are holding him up, but he's not going to stop to find out. The war room, first, and then if the Inquisitor isn't there --

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"All right?" Softer.

Another unintelligible noise, then, more breath than word: "Yes."

Alistair opens his eyes.

When he tries to force some volume into his voice, it creaks with sleep. "Did I wake you?"

"No." He shakes his head a little. "I just thought... you might... be in the middle of something that you'd rather not be."

"Oh," he mumbles. Drawing another long, slow breath, he lets his eyes drift shut. "Yes. Thank you."

A beat.

"Not as bad this time, just..." Alistair's brow knits as he tries to remember. "Ostagar? I think. 'S all right."

(Just Ostagar. Maker, to have that be so low on the list of terrible dreams nowadays.)

That is, in fact, the thought that crosses Cullen's mind.

His hold on Alistair gets a little tighter.

"Did you sleep all -- " Alistair tries to stifle a yawn, and fails. "All right?"

Cullen gives him an affirmative mm. "Better than... for a while."

Beat.

"Of course, that isn't saying much."

A small huff of laughter. "Even so."

He should probably get up. Go work on the letters, or...something. Alistair seems rather disinclined to move at the moment, however.

Cullen likewise. He breathes out, settling his head against Alistair's chest with his face tilted up. For a moment his eyes try to follow the stonework along the wall, trying to guess where and how it'll give way --

But no. It won't give way right now.

It does occur to him that there are still a few pies in that basket. But if Alistair's willing to be like this -- Andraste help him, he needs it. He needs to be held still, just for a little while, as everything else is chaotic and sharp outside.

"My one regret about not being king," mumbles Alistair after a few minutes, still only half-awake, "is that I can't snap my fingers and get anything I want when I don't want to get out of bed."

Such tragedy.

A quiet laugh. "What do you want?"

"Right now? To stay here."

He shifts a little to make himself more comfortable. (The world's -- smaller, here. More manageable. It's the sort of quiet he can appreciate.)

"...Probably lunch eventually. And a basket of puppies."

"There's pie over here."

Cullen sounds... 'pleased with himself' is the generous way to put it. A more accurate way to put it would be 'smug.'

"And wine. I brought it up earlier."

Alistair lifts his head and looks down at Cullen. (Or does his best to do so without pulling away too much.)

Reverent: "You are doing the Maker's work." A pause, then, hopefully, "And the puppies?"

Without blinking:

"They didn't want to climb up the ladder."

"Damn." A mournful sigh. "Oh well. Maybe next time we'll rig up a pulley."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"You're forgiven," he says, with a slight smile. "Especially since I'm still not king. Unless something changed very dramatically in the...however long I was asleep."

Cullen realizes he doesn't know how long they've been asleep. It's still light out -- midday? Early afternoon? It doesn't matter, he supposes.

"You still outrank me," he points out. "If that counts for anything."

"Mm." Alistair shrugs, very slightly. "That's only so I can look after you, not so I get a basket of puppies whenever I want."

"Should've negotiated better compensation." Comfortably.

"This is good enough." He stifles another yawn. "Pie, and...this."

(Being safe; being near someone who will wake Alistair because he might be having a nightmare; being near someone real.)

"If you ask me to act like a puppy, I won't do it. I refuse."

Alistair bursts into snickers, covering his face with one hand.

(Sadly, that means he's also -- finally -- let go of Cullen.)

"I can't imagine you," is as far as coherent words get.

Cullen scrunches up his face and rolls onto his back, stretching.

"Done yet?"

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