howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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.

A crooked smile. "I've trained you so well."

The second, unopened saddlebag is within arm's reach. Alistair hesitates before pulling it closer.

"Though to put them in a particular order, I suppose: sleep, food, and a bath."

He piles his jerkin and his coat on top of the stand, gracelessly, and picks up the report.

"Feel like I'm forgetting something," he mutters, shuffling toward the ladder. "Forgot to do something."

"It'll keep," Alistair murmurs to the saddlebag. He unfastens the clasps. "Whatever it is, it can wait 'til morning. Just get some rest."

Cullen doesn't reply -- just starts up the ladder.

If he's lucky there will be a little water up there, so he can get off the worst of the grime.

Alistair watches him go, then turns back to the bag. Maybe he'll follow in a bit to keep watch. He just -- needs to get this done first.

Trying not to disturb the papers already on Cullen's desk, he fishes out the rest of the effects -- more amulets, a couple rings, the letters Cullen mentioned -- and spreads them out. Letters first. They'll be the easiest to match to the fallen Wardens who authored them. Then...he'll figure out the rest somehow.

(He still has responsibilities as a senior Warden, even one who relinquished his authority.)

There's water, icy-cold, and Cullen knows it'll have a frozen scrim on the surface by morning. He washes as best he can, uses the small and tired-looking bar of plain soap, and kneels by his trunk to fetch something clean to put on.

It feels better than he could have accounted for. Like he's a person again. For once.

Maybe he should review the report in bed.

Under a too-light blanket, Cullen sleeps, fingers curled toward the report.

Downstairs, Alistair works.

He tears up a scrap of paper and writes a name on each piece, to make sure he won't lose track of anything. He sorts what he can. After digging through Cullen's books for a bit, he matches the Orlesian heraldry on that particular amulet to a last name, a last name to a first: another piece placed.

Some of the letters use the generic language of any soldier at wartime. All is well. We push forward in a few days' time. Give my love to Mother and Father. A few break down into apologies. One or two mention Corypheus by name, and Alistair has to wonder whether it wouldn't be a greater kindness to burn them and let their family believe they died with honor.

And he writes. I regret to inform you -- is that all he can say? I'm sorry -- for what, their death or their treachery? By now, he's sitting in Cullen's chair, scrubbing at his eyes to stay awake.

The candle he lit burns lower. He keeps working.

No dreams, for once. Just exhaustion.

Snow begins to fall, lazy and with no real intent, through the hole in Cullen's roof. Quite pretty, actually.

Wind stirs the candle flame -- and sends a few snowflakes spiraling onto the latest letter Alistair's struggling to write. He blinks, stupidly, as they melt, then looks up. Another one lands on his face.

"Oh, for Andraste's sake," he mutters, and scrubs away the water droplet. It's only when he stands up that he realizes how cold he's gotten. Cullen's -- Cullen's probably used to this sort of thing, right? If Alistair stays down here a bit longer, surely he won't come to any harm.

...maybe he should get a blanket, though. After giving his arms a brisk rub, Alistair starts up the ladder.

Alternately, upon seeing Cullen huddled under a blanket that'd barely fend off a cold night in Seheron, let alone a mountain fortress: he'll sigh, very quietly, and rummage up a fur for the commander instead. With care, he drapes it over Cullen, gently tucking it into place.

He doesn't stir. (Even when the fur disarranges the top pages of the report.)

Some of the snow is starting to stick to the pile of debris in the corner.

Surely there's got to be a way to block the snow from coming in. Another blanket he can string over the hole in the roof...with tools and rope he doesn't have...in the middle of the night.

Right, that won't work. He'll have to do it tomorrow. After he's done with the letters.

Alistair finds another fur, hesitates, then settles that one around Cullen as well. A third blanket gets heaved over the side of the loft and lands with a fwumph on the chaise. Alistair follows down the ladder and returns to Cullen's desk, better insulated this time.

Within an hour he's fallen asleep over the letters.

Like the desk is (ironically) a vortex of sloth.

By the time the sky starts to lighten, Cullen has poked his head out, witnessed the snow over in the corner, discerned that he doesn't have anywhere to be and (just as the healer promised) he's very stiff, and put his head back on the pillow with the fur back up to his nose.

This kind of being a bear, he supposes, is socially acceptable. When he's forced into idleness, and his army's leagues away and taken care of.

The sky's more blue than red when a sharp gasp sounds from below, followed by a clattering thump and an, "Ow -- damn it -- "

Sounds like somebody else is awake, too. (Sounds like that somebody tried to bolt before realizing where he was, promptly tripped over the chair, and took a couple Warden effects down with him.)

Cullen's immediately on the alert until the swearing starts.

Hoarse: "Did you break anything?"

Damn it.

"No," he croaks, kneading the back of his neck as he hauls himself upright. "I'm fine."

Beat.

Rueful: "Good morning."

Edited 2016-09-25 20:20 (UTC)

The response from upstairs is a grumble. Maybe it's a grunt?

It's still cold. There's still no reason to get up.

...is that the report? He shuffles around to gather the pages.

Alistair sweeps up the pair of amulets that followed him to the floor. Neither one appears to have cracked in the fall. Good.

As he hauls himself back into the chair, re-wrapping the blanket around himself: "Has it stopped snowing yet?"