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He could not say how long he spent in the Arbor Wilds. Nor could he say how long he spent away from their forward camp, fighting his way through to the gates of the temple. Days, certainly. At least two. Perhaps three. Bolting down potions, to lessen the effect the red templars had on him and to help him stay awake. The potions didn't provide for witnessing the sight of a few of his ruined brothers and sisters, hearing the sound of more of them hissing his name, before Cullen and his men cut them down.

A few bad gashes, here and there. (More scars for the collection.) His right side feels like one giant bruise. It was not clear why Corypheus quit the field until Leliana's agents made it in, and found Samson, and discovered the empty well. And the shattered eluvian.

Cullen was already swatting away healers -- too many of his soldiers were worse off, and he was beyond not in the mood for magic -- when word came: Charter had concluded that the Inquisitor's party, likely in the company of Morrigan, went through the eluvian. Probably back to Skyhold.

Cullen, in Leliana's company, was examining the remnants of the bodies of the Grey Wardens when confirmation of Charter's theory arrived.

Less than an hour later, bruises and all, Cullen was on a horse headed north to the next available station to swap out his mount and keep riding. Corypheus fled the field; there's no reason he wouldn't go after Skyhold; and even if he didn't Cullen needs to know what happened --

Shadows are long, and the mountains reflecting blue and gold light, when the horn sounds and Cullen rides through the sally port. A stablehand is there, to lead the horse to Master Dennet. He's not sure how his legs are holding him up, but he's not going to stop to find out. The war room, first, and then if the Inquisitor isn't there --

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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.

Wouldn't that be nice.

Alistair waits. Briefly, he entertains making up some good news. Maybe...they found a dog on the grounds while Cullen was gone. And they've adopted it as the new Inquisition mascot. And because it's a war dog, that means Cullen will have the care and feeding of it as Commander.

...No, that'd just make him more upset when he found out it wasn't true.

He'd get up and leave, but --

How is he supposed to take this when he isn't allowed to work?

Water drips into his eyes.

Dull: "You should bring this to the Inquisitor."

"I will."

Alistair's eyeing Cullen with a bit more concern.

Softer: "People thought archdemons were unkillable at first, too. We'll find a way."

If there is one. If there's time.

He brushes his hair back, and sits, hunched over.

"I know."

And how many died before they figured it out?

"Do you want me to go?"

"Do what you need to do." Quiet.

For a moment it looks as though he might say something else, but then -- nothing.

What he needs to do is finish the letters. What he wants to do is stay here.

The letters will keep; so long as he finishes them at some point today, it'll be all right.

He stays. Keeps swinging his feet through the water, in a slow forward-and-back.

His fingers have wrinkled. They look withered.

Cullen's brow furrows, sudden and sharp.

(How did he deal with this in Kirkwall? He had distractions. (And denial.))

Enough of this. With a loud splash, Cullen reaches for a towel, and climbs out of the spring, wrapping the towel around his waist as he goes.

Jolted out of his thoughts, Alistair looks up -- and then back down again, swiftly.

That's. Well. That's a sign he should've left, then, isn't it.

It's on the tip of his tongue to apologize, but he doesn't know for what, and while he knows neither of them are at their best, and Maker knows Alistair hasn't been an easy person to deal with since he came back from the Fade, he's trying not to apologize for -- for his existence so much anymore.

He scrubs a damp hand across his face, and rests his forehead against his palm.

Cullen pulls his shirt over his head -- and takes advantage of Alistair not looking at him to get his trousers on.

Picks up his boots. Pads back over to the other side of the spring, sits on a bench.

He rubs at his hair with a towel, and doesn't say anything for a moment.

"I know you're angry," he says, finally, sounding exhausted. His hands drop between his knees. "Just... allow me this. All right? Allow me to keep you safe. Let me be glad about it. You don't have to be around for it."

Alistair sighs, very softly. He doesn't look up.

"I'm less angry at you than you seem to believe," he says, no louder. "I'm -- you remember what I said. About being angry at you as a soldier, not as a friend. It's like that. I know you're right. I just...wish you weren't."

"But I am a soldier."

Cullen gets to his feet.

"It's all I've ever been. Forgive me for expecting too much."

It's a sincere plea. He turns to go.