howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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.

Impressive.

He waits until Alistair's got one off before saying, "Tell any noble this place exists and it's over the battlements with you."

Alistair huffs a small laugh. "You have my word."

Once his boots and socks are off, he rolls up his trouser legs and dunks his feet in the spring, letting out a sigh of relief.

Cullen goes back to his casual floating and brooding.

(He's washed his hair, along with the rest of him, and feels much better for it -- although it does now look awfully... springy.)

(Alistair did give him a reprieve from hair-ruffling before. He supposes he ought to give him another one now.

All bets are off once they're out of the springs, though.)

He starts to trace long arcs through the water with his feet, sending ripples across the pool. He's a grown man; he can be quiet. Cullen needs quiet more than Alistair needs talking. Not like Alistair came home with broken ribs and battle exhaustion, after all.

(Because he didn't go out to the Wilds. Because he wasn't there when Corypheus took over the body of one of his former fellows, like an archdemon leaping into the nearest darkspawn. Because -- )

Tap, tap, tap tap tap -- he realizes what he's doing and spreads his hands flat against the stone, leaning back against them. Harder to fidget that way.

Cullen doesn't miss it.

He shifts, moving back onto the seat, and stretches out his arms along the spring's edge.

"What's troubling you?" Finally, something to do.

Alistair glances to Cullen, a bit wary, then shakes his head and looks down at the spring. He can't tell if the shadow on his cheek is from the ink, or if it's just from the dimness of the reflection.

"Nothing worse than usual," he says, as light as he can. "It's fine."

"You're still angry with me."

"No." Swift. "It's not -- that, it's -- "

He rakes a hand through his hair.

"I know it's better I wasn't there. It's just..." A brief sigh. Alistair leans forward, scoops up a palmful of water, gives his cheek another halfhearted scrub. "I'm angry at a lot of things. You're rather low on the list, considering."

"But I'm still on it," Cullen says to one of the stone walls. "All right."

"Are all of them dead?"

Maybe if he scrapes at the ink with a thumbnail, more of it will come off. Yes. That seems to be working a bit better.

"I don't know."

Calm. The warm water makes it easier -- he doesn't feel brittle any longer.

"The ones with Corypheus, yes. The ones serving as his honor guard. The Wardens in western Orlais are still patrolling for darkspawn incursions in the Gamordan Peaks. Leliana can tell you more about that when she returns. Last word was their losses are lower than anticipated. But to answer your question -- I don't have good numbers on either group, but I don't believe the loss is total. The lone exception might be the group still in thrall."

Alistair nods. More water; more scraping and scrubbing. Hot water's doing a better job at getting the ink off than the icy water in Cullen's room.

"All right." Very quiet. "That's..."

(When he woke up at Cullen's desk, he thought, for an instant, that he was back in the Korcari Wilds. Alone except two Witches of the Wilds, and a woman who wasn't the Hero of Ferelden yet -- just a Warden mere days past her Joining.)

"All right."

But he's still on Alistair's list.

Just once, he thinks, it would be nice to keep someone safe and not have them get angry with him for it.

Cullen eases his shoulders under the water again. It doesn't matter. Alistair's safe. That's all he can ask for.

"He's behaving like an archdemon."

Alistair swirls his feet through the water.

"Corypheus. The way he -- jumped into someone tainted when he died. Archdemons do that, not darkspawn, no matter how old and powerful they might be."

"So his dragon isn't an archdemon, but he is."

Cullen heaves a sigh in the direction of the ceiling.

"Wonderful."

"Oh, no, it's much worse than that," says Alistair with brittle cheer. "At least when an archdemon jumps to a Warden, the archdemon gets annihilated too."

Cullen takes this in.

And disappears, briefly, under the water, as though when he comes back up it won't be true.