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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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"Inconsequential -- "

And that cuts off into a strangled noise of disbelief as Alistair stares at Cullen.

"Inconsequential. That you went through all that? That you recognized them? Cullen, that's very consequential, that's -- awful, you're not burdening anyone by saying as much!"

Cullen gets to his feet (the floor is cold), folds his arms across his chest. Glares.

"Problems have solutions. If one cannot find the solution, then that becomes a problem worthy of focus. This one had a solution, which I -- enacted."

He didn't mean to pause. He heard himself. He can't let Alistair notice. (Much of this flickers across his face.)

"It is of no consequence."

That I killed them, he doesn't finish. That they tried to kill me. That putting them down like a horse with a broken leg was the kindest thing left for the templars I knew. That I rode back to Skyhold with no rest and nearly ruined three mounts only to find that I'm of no use to anyone.

Quiet: "And that solution was killing your comrades."

Or what remained of them.

"If I came to you upset because I had to kill my fellow Wardens, you wouldn't dismiss it as inconsequential. Allow yourself the same kindness, for Andraste's sake."

His arms tighten around himself, like he's holding something in.

Stiff: "I don't see what the problem is with -- with naming what I did for what it is, and then putting it aside. There's work to be done. I shouldn't -- I can't second-guess myself."

"It's not a matter of second-guessing," says Alistair, still soft. "You can know it was the right thing -- the only thing -- to do and still be upset by it."

Beat.

"You can grieve."

The pile of snow-covered rubble in the corner is awfully interesting.

"That's not -- something I do."

Never has been. Not Kinloch, not Kirkwall, not when Alistair vanished into the Fade and didn't come out with the others.

"Why not?"

I don't know how.

"There are far more important things to do.

Alistair shakes his head, but doesn't say anything else for the moment.

He draws his knees up to make himself more comfortable on the bed.

In a sudden movement, Cullen scrubs at his face, hard. "Look -- just, just forget you saw it and go back to being angry with me. This didn't happen."

"No, you know what?" Calm, and light. "I've made peace with my anger in the past three minutes. I'd rather not start it all over again. Too much effort."

He's not looking at Cullen.

"I don't know why you're so -- so invested," he mutters to the floor. (His shoulders are hunched, and tight.) "Just tell me what I have to do to get this farce over with."

Alistair shoots him a frankly astonished look.

"Because I care about you," he says. "And you're miserable right now. That isn't enough?"

I care about you: Cullen's face twists at that, into something he can't control. He turns his back on Alistair, quickly.

"They're bringing Samson with them." Low.

Alistair breathes out a curse, barely audible.

He straightens his legs, swings them out of bed; miraculously, he doesn't wince when his feet hit the cold floor. Cautious, he pads around to Cullen, stopping when he's a few feet away.

(He doesn't circle to face Cullen. He can afford him that privacy.)

"I don't -- I've no idea -- "

There: a tremor.

" -- what I'm supposed to do, or say, when I face him. After what he's done." And then, painful: "And what I didn't do."

He's finally talking about it. Alistair won't interrupt.

(There's nothing to say, anyway.)

Another step closer: gently, he rests a hand on Cullen's back.

"I can't very well kill him on sight." His fingers clench in his hair; without realizing it, he's turned in toward Alistair, just a little. "And I can't -- work it out while I work because I'm supposed to rest. How is this restful?"

It's not, would be the answer to that rhetorical question. Not for Cullen.

Maybe -- would it be worth speaking to the Inquisitor? Probably not. Not only would she likely refuse to give Cullen a little work to occupy his mind, but Alistair would lose any plausible deniability: oh, I'm sorry I didn't pull him away from his desk, I had no idea he was supposed to be resting.

He stays quiet. When Cullen turns a little, his hand moves, his arm settling around Cullen's shoulders.

"Maybe I should kill him on sight." He drops his hands. "Maybe that's exactly what I should do. It's what Varric would write. Last vestige of the Order run through by the man who left it to rot."

"You didn't leave it to rot." Soft. "Don't put all that on yourself."

He squeezes Cullen's shoulders.

"Anyway, have you read Varric's books? They're terrible. No grasp on reality, that dwarf."

"The Kirkwall one's a fair representation," he mutters, and sinks his forehead onto Alistair's shoulder. "Except my hair."

"I always say," peaceful, "never trust a stranger who slanders your hair."

He wraps his other arm around Cullen, holding firm.

"You're right out, then."

He's clinging. Just a little.

"I'm not a stranger, though. Means I get a free pass."

He starts to rub slow circles on Cullen's back.