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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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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.

Muffled: "Neither was Varric. Strictly speaking."

A noncommittal noise.

"Perhaps. But I've known you longer."

"That's unfortunate for you."

His hold tightens.

"I endure, that's what I do, but this time -- I can't endure, I have to act."

Alistair closes his eyes.

"What if..." Hesitant. "I know you're under strict orders to rest, but I'm not. I could -- distract the Inquisitor, or something like that. Start a book smuggling operation from the library. I don't know."

"She did say I'm allowed to read." A sharp exhale. "I'm not confined to my quarters."

His head shifts a little, as though he's looking up at Alistair suspiciously, or meaning to.

"You wouldn't tell her if I practiced throwing knives in the office, would you?"

Immediately: "Never. You have my word, lest those knives get turned on me."

He's starting to smile, faintly.

"No need, as long as I pretend the whole dummy is his face."

He lets out a long, long breath -- one he feels as though he's been holding for weeks.

"I'm tired, Alistair." It comes out far more plaintive than he'd intended. Or hoped.

"I know." He tightens his hold, briefly. "I know. More sleep may do you well, much as I'm sure you don't want to hear that. I'll keep watch."

I'll stay.

"Don't keep watch," Cullen echoes. "Just -- stay. I can't -- I don't want to -- "

Don't leave me alone, he doesn't say.

"It's all right," he whispers. "I'll stay."

One last squeeze, and he pulls back a little. "Come on."

Cullen follows, head low.

"We can go to the tavern later," he says, after a moment. "They're not here."

"If you'd like," says Alistair. "I'm sure it'll be much quieter as well."

He takes up his post one side of the bed, pushing the blanket further down so Cullen can get in. The furs are still piled at the foot of the mattress; he grabs one for himself.

He climbs in, feeling -- even more tired. Or in a different way, maybe.

"Tame fun for an old man." A little rueful. "All right."