howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Alistair nods. He busies himself with the fur for a moment, ensuring he's properly cocooned.

"So are you, I'd hope?"

He lets out a soft sigh.

Wry: "I'll be going down to the springs later. But yes."

Half a smile that quickly turns rueful: "I'm fine."

"All right."

He'll...do his best to take Cullen at his word. For now, at least.

"Hang on, there are springs? That anyone can reach?"

How has he not found them in all his pacing around Skyhold? THIS IS GREAT.

Cullen laughs a little.

"We've done our best to keep them quiet. But yes. Below the cells. Good for soaking."

"That," reverently, "is very good to know."

(And that explains why Alistair never found them: whenever he's gone to the cellars, he hasn't ventured beyond the abandoned library.)

"Especially when it's this cold out."

"At least it's warm enough to snow," he murmurs, eyes closing. "Feels like home."

"You could lead a snowball fight in the yard." Innocent. "If you're looking for something to do after you've finished soaking."

"Inquisitor says nothing more strenuous than reports." Absent. "Can't very well defy her in public."

Alistair wrinkles his nose. "I suppose she's got a point," he says, doleful, and burrows deeper into the fur. "And I should encourage anything that ends with you taking a break."

Beat.

"When I build tiny snowmen of everyone at Skyhold, I'll be sure yours is reading a report so the Inquisitor knows you've been following her orders."

And whether Alistair likes it or not --

That's why. That's exactly why he ordered Alistair to stay at Skyhold. Because on the off chance the intelligence was wrong, he'd be an asset in defending their home; because if the intelligence was correct, taking him to the Arbor Wilds was as good as a death sentence.

And here he is, making stupid cracks about stupid snowmen and stupid jokes at Cullen's expense. He's all right. He's safe.

He doesn't reply right away. Frog in his throat. Perhaps it's the dry environment.

"I doubt your artistic prowess," he says, after clearing his throat. "But I wish you luck."

His smile gentles. "Always appreciated, Commander."

Alistair rolls onto his back, watching the leaves shift above them.

"I know you've had a very long few days, so I won't mess your hair." Beat. "...Also, you're right, this is very warm and now I don't want to move."

"I told you so," Cullen says.

(Without thinking about it.)

A small huff of breath. Alistair shakes his head, but doesn't say anything; he's still smiling a little.

Easier to brush aside an I told you so when it's about something this inconsequential.

Of course, now he's thinking about it.

(They knew him.)

"Alistair, I -- "

"Never mind," Cullen says, and hunches deeper, as though to hide.

Alistair might understand. But he wouldn't appreciate the comparison. It's Cullen's weight to bear, anyhow.

The smile fades. Forehead wrinkling, Alistair tips his head to the side to regard Cullen.

"Are you sure?" Quiet.

Like a four-year-old with object permanence problems, Cullen has decided that if he closes his eyes, Alistair might as well not be able to see him.

"Doesn't matter." A little muffled. "Go to sleep."

Alistair sighs. What it lacks in volume, it makes up for in length.

"All right."

He returns his gaze to the tree branches. Sleep...well, it's even odds whether he'll manage to fall back asleep. But it's warm here, and he's got something to stare at besides letters and effects, and his mind's already quieter for knowing he's somewhere safe. It could be worse.

This would all be much easier if he could just go hit something until it broke, or until he did.

It would be much easier if he weren't still exhausted.

(Frankly, it would be easier after a proper breakfast.)

Cullen turns away, curling in on himself. When Alistair gets bored, or exasperated, and drifts away -- then he'll... do something.

Another option, if perhaps a more unexpected one than the others:

A tiny snore drifts from Alistair's side of the bed fifteen minutes later.

Cullen didn't think telling Alistair to go to sleep would actually work.

Carefully he eases out of bed -- and then makes himself stretch, because he is stiff, and it is cold.

Boots first. His shirt and trousers aren't ideal for a great deal of trekking around Skyhold in the snow, but they'll do. Cullen tucks the report under his arm, and starts down the ladder, moving as quietly as possible.

Breakfast. Reading the report, then returning it to the war room. (If Alistair's going to tear up his office, he wants to make sure he can find the report when it's safe to do so.) And then he can go brood in the springs. And... find something... else... to do.

(Like disobey the Inquisitor.)

Much can be said for a warm, safe bed versus literally anywhere else in Skyhold, when it comes to Alistair's ability to fall asleep. Especially when coupled with a long night.

Still: even that can't net him more than a couple hours. It's midmorning when Alistair's eyes snap open again; he shuts them, takes a few deep breaths, opens them again.

Cullen's gone. Which -- that's fine. That's fine. More deep breaths, then, with an unwilling groan, Alistair heaves himself out from under the fur.

Someone could've found an ancient elven fortress in the tropics, but noooooo.

Time to bundle up, find some food, and maybe see about those hot springs. And -- then he can finish the letters. Only then.

Vivienne is still in the Wilds. Cullen goes up to her balcony, leans on the railing, surveys the hall as he idly stuffs sweet bun in his mouth. They're not like the ones he grew up with -- too sweet, with cinnamon and other spices rare in southern Ferelden -- but that doesn't make them objectionable.

(He ate the bacon on the way up from the kitchens.)

He tries to imagine what she'd see, were she here beside him. Too early for most of the nobles to be awake. Can't quite make out Varric and Gatsi; the lines of sight are all wrong. Solas slides into the solarium from wherever it is he sleeps. No one enters or exits through the door to the war room. Harritt, with a steaming mug, walks with his head held high into the undercroft.

Skyhold is slow. Sleepy. Empty.

Sera slips out of the Inquisitor's quarters and follows Harritt. Cullen would feel better about that if he didn't suspect Sera might feel better about whatever happened in the temple if she made several large explosions. For plausible deniability's sake -- Dagna will stop anything too dangerous, and Harritt will stop anything truly destructive -- Cullen leaves the balcony, fetches a few towels and a large mug of tea, and tromps outside to descend into the cells.

Alistair smashes together a bit of bread, cheese, and bacon for his own breakfast. There's fresh tea; he lingers over it, sticking to one corner of the kitchens to stay out of everybody's way. With the fires going, it's warm enough to keep him in the present.

(The Fade is a cold, clammy place.)

In theory, he could just stay here until he's ready to write more. In practice, once the kitchen staff begins their ramp-up to lunch and dinner, he knows it'll be much harder to keep from getting underfoot. The springs will serve better.

Once his tea's done, he rinses the cup and steps outside. The shock of cold makes him wince, in spite of himself; Alistair shakes it off and heads for the cells.

Some prior inhabitant of Skyhold made changes to the way the hot spring surfaced -- changes designed to let the spring be used. There are carved stone seats around the far edge -- whether natural parts of the rock or not, Cullen can't say and doesn't care -- and the near edge has been smoothed down to provide for easy entry and exit, even if someone has bad knees.

That's one reason why someone might want to use them, after all. Another is that someone might have been smacked around by a former colleague who turned into a lyrium monster and is feeling a little out of sorts.

Cullen occupies one of the seats, edging down with the stone against his back so that his shoulders fall beneath the water's surface. This does not do anything to fix the appearance that he is brooding.

(He's brooding.)

It's an appearance that could also be translated, if you're someone like Alistair, as please be quiet for more than five minutes.

Which accounts for the sound of footsteps that slow to -- not quite a tiptoe, but close. And for how Alistair doesn't say a word as he approaches the springs, taking a seat on the side opposite Cullen. In silence, he gets to work unlacing his boots.