howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"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 -- "

As he pulls the shirt over his head he finally lets out that breath, long and shaky. Cullen's right side is the color of an angry sky about to let loose: dark and brooding blue and purple. There's no particular pattern to it. No way to say for sure how it happened, just by looking. He might have been thrown. He might have been hit by a behemoth.

Thanks to the elfroot potion, the wound on his left at his waist -- made by a red templar sword just low enough to get under his breastplate -- isn't bleeding any more. Just a flesh wound, he knows; same goes for the shallower cuts aimed at the vulnerable points between pauldron and breastplate that didn't land in the right spot.

Voice tighter than he intends, he says, "It's fine."

He's taller than the chaise. He can't sleep there like this. The ladder's out of the question. If he can just get Alistair out of here, he can do -- something. Tug his jerkin back on long enough to make it to an empty room in the guest quarters, maybe.

"I'd hate to see what not fine looks like, then."

The jibe's a halfhearted mutter, secondary to Alistair grabbing the healer's bag and kneeling in front of Cullen. Fortunately, the kit he mentioned earlier is just an injury kit; he pulls it out, along with a jar of elfroot salve. "Does anything feel broken?"

He'd be surprised if a rib or two wasn't cracked, under all that mess.

"Rib or two." He looks away, toward the window behind his desk. It's full twilight now. "Nothing too bad, else I wouldn't have made it back."

Alistair nods. Cullen doesn't sound like he's having trouble breathing -- not the kind that would mean a punctured lung, at any rate -- and he's right: serious damage wouldn't have mixed with a hard ride, anyway.

The superficial wounds first, then. There's not much you can do for a broken rib but bracing and rest.

He unscrews the jar's lid; more elfroot smell wafts up to join the rest. A bit awkward, as he gestures to the enormous bruise painting Cullen's torso: "Do you want me to -- ?"

Cullen closes his eyes. Don't be a bear.

"A healer would be best." Tight. "I'll wait. However long it takes."

Maybe then, at least, he can make it up the ladder.

Alistair breathes out. "I'll see who I can find."

Maybe one of the healers is free by now.

He sets the jar aside without recapping it. Pushes back to his feet. "Back in a moment," he says, and, throwing one last glance toward the Warden effects scattered over Cullen's desk, takes his leave.

And like that --

It's quiet.

It's unfortunate that he's not tired enough to just... stop thinking. He skimmed the preliminary report, in the war room. He can't help but replay the details, comparing it to what it was like for him, fighting in the forest, hearing his name hissed --

It hurts to take a deep breath. He does it anyway. Easier to focus on the pain.

It stays quiet for thirty solid minutes. House calls, so to speak, aren't as easy to triage as someone brought to the healers in person -- and there's almost always someone to triage there.

(Besides: bruises and broken ribs, no matter how painful, likely would've put Cullen a ways down the triage list anyway.)

A knock finally interrupts the silence, followed by a perfunctory, "It's me," before Alistair and the healer enter. The healer's a short woman with close-cropped hair; she immediately turns a hawklike gaze on Cullen, arms folded as she takes stock of his injuries.

"It's nothing very exciting," he tries. "I'd just... like to be able to go to bed. Move around. That sort of thing."

Maybe if he says it like it's not a big deal the healer will agree with him and give him something that isn't magic that will fix everything so he can actually work as long as he stays out of the Inquisitor's sight.

Optimism!

"They're just flesh wounds."

(Did that sound too hopeful? Maker's breath, he hopes not.)

"Don't forget the broken ribs," adds Alistair, like a giant jerk, as he circles back to Cullen's desk.

The healer raises her eyebrows. "I wasn't aware ribs counted as flesh nowadays," she says, in a mild Antivan accent. "They must not have trained me properly."

She rolls up her sleeves and approaches Cullen. "You know the drill, I'm certain, Commander. Hold still."

Cullen would heave a sigh, but doing so would probably bring a reprimand. He'd glare at Alistair, but -- well. He doesn't want to be a bear.

So he holds still -- except to mutter something about how the ribs are covered in flesh and the flesh itself is bruised, so that ought to count.

He almost can't feel the healer draw upon her magic. Almost. But there's still that little twinge of awareness, and he flinches before he can stop himself.

But Cullen holds still. He's tired. He's on edge. He's hurt. She deserves better from him.

She works quickly, efficiently, like someone used to only having a short window where her patients don't squirm or thrash about. (She also doesn't roll her eyes at his muttering, much as she may like to. She's a professional, after all.)

The pain lessens in short order as Cullen's ribs knit back into place, as the bruise lightens like ink fading in sunlight. The deepest cuts seal first, then the shallower ones. Even the muscles that only ache from fatigue start to hurt less.

"There." The glow vanishes from her hands as she releases her grip on the Fade. "You'll be stiff for a few days, but you should be able to do everything you need. Like go to bed. Or move."

(The last is a touch dry.)

The relief is sudden enough that by the time she finishes mocking him (although he does deserve it), Cullen has bent over, pressing his hands to his face. It doesn't take him long to surface, running his fingers through his hair, letting his arms drop.

"I -- thank you, Enchanter." Why does he suddenly feel like he's going to lose it? Did this always happen? "I don't know, but if I -- if there's anything you need, that I can help with -- "

(Someone isn't coping well with having nothing to do already.)

"We'll be all right, Commander," she interrupts, gentle but firm.

(Over by the desk, Alistair's watching Cullen more closely than he was a moment ago.)

"Should anything arise, though, yes, I'll let you know."

"Please do." Cullen's nodding, casting about for the report, straightening pages that don't need straightening. "Thank you. I'm sorry to be a bother, just -- thank you."

(Like his body stopped moving a while ago, and his mind's taking some time to catch up, tripping all over itself.)

"Yes. Thank you," Alistair echoes.

"You're welcome." The healer allows herself a slight smile as she rises. "It's what we're here for."

As she heads out the door, Alistair -- not wanting to sit in Cullen's chair, but not really inclined to stand much longer, either -- takes a seat on the corner of the desk. He reaches for the bent feather. It's something to toy with for a bit.

He can move.

He has to do something.

He can't just leave his armor all over the floor.

Cullen begins to gather all the pieces, stacking them on the chaise beside him. There's an empty armor stand right next to it. He'll fill it. Then... then he'll figure out what to do next. A shirt ought to be on that list. Probably high up, too.

When he spins the feather between his fingers, the bent part blurs into a lopsided circle; tiny fluttering noises whisper where its edge cuts the air. It's kind of meditative. Easy just to watch the feather blur, come back into focus, blur again with each spin, without wondering who owned it.

...Of course, now he is thinking about who might have owned it before it came into Cullen's, and now Alistair's, possession. Damn it.

Alistair sets the feather aside, sighs, and rakes a hand through his hair. "You know what I'm about to suggest," he says to Cullen, quiet and a little self-deprecating.

"Food, a bath, and sleep," Cullen says to the armor stand. "In no particular order."

There's only one of those he's truly interested in.