howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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?"

Says the bear:

"Look out the window."

"You've got a better view, what with the snow landing on you and all."

He rubs his eyes, squinting down at the topmost letter. The last half a sentence has smudged abominably; frowning, Alistair scrubs at his cheek, and the scowl deepens when his fingers come away black. "Damn it. -- Not you," he thinks to direct upward after half a beat.

"This bed isn't under the hole in the roof and you know it."

Cullen huffs, and turns over on his back. "Have you destroyed my office?"

"No," sighs Alistair, "just one of the letters."

Maker, he hopes it smudged badly enough that he won't be walking around with I REGRET TO INFORM YOU printed backward on his cheek.

"Can I come up and borrow your basin?"

"Long as you bring it back."

-- wait. Where did the furs come from?

"Of course."

Sadly, that means shedding the blanket: it's more trouble than Alistair would prefer to scale a ladder while wrapped in a blanket. Oh well. He'll persevere.

Moments later, Alistair pops into view. (The large smudge across his right cheek might form into the occasional letter here and there, but only if you squint.) He makes a beeline for the basin -- there's a quiet clink as he taps the ice on its surface to pieces -- and, after locating a cloth, he starts to scrub away the ink.

Cullen peers at him.

And says, accusingly:

"You slept at my desk."

"Well, it's not like you were using it," says Alistair, blandly, as he keeps scrubbing his cheek.

"True. And you've also lost all right to complain whenever I do it."

Satisfied.

"Forever."

Alistair groans, slinging the cloth back into the basin to wring out the ink.

"That is the only time I've ever done it," he points out, "while I've damn well lost track of how many times you've done it."

"Meaning you have no proof."

Alistair scowls, and attacks the ink smudge with renewed vigor without deigning to reply.

Cullen watches this process for a moment.

"You're all right."

It might be a question. It might not.

A rough shrug. "Yes. I'm fine."

Another dunk of the cloth. The water's turning an unappealing grey color; he wrings out the cloth and gets back to work anyway.

"How are you feeling?"

Cullen rolls his eyes.

You can't play a player, Alistair.

"Warm," he says. "And better than you, I'd wager."

"Because you slept in a bed rather than at your desk, I'm sure."

The line of his back remains taut, but Alistair throws a glance over his shoulder, eyebrows quirked, before returning to the task at hand.

"Now I understand why you're so grumpy all the time."