howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

(no subject)

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 --

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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."

A small laugh. "Don't think of it that way," he says as he scoots closer to Cullen. "Think of it as giving yourself plausible deniability if Inquisitor Lavellan shows up. 'I'm resting, see? If I wasn't I would've gone when everyone else in Skyhold was crammed in here.'"

"I think she thinks anything that isn't attacking something with a weapon, or doing a lot of paperwork, or standing around in meetings, is resting." He tilts his head toward Alistair. "No work allowed. Tavern acceptable."

"Oh, good."

He props himself on one elbow, watching Cullen.

Light, "Also, remember I'm older than you whenever you call yourself an 'old man.' I'm not ready to take up that mantle yet."

Whippersnapper.

A quiet sigh; he looks back toward the ceiling. (Or, more properly speaking, the hole in the roof.)

Mild: "Perhaps, but remember you have a sense of humor. Allegedly."

"Lies and slander." Airily, as he flops onto his back. "I just happen to be thirty-one going on thirteen."

"Twelve, surely." A faint smile. "Perhaps nine."

"Split the difference and call it eleven." He sighs, contented, and drums his fingers on his chest. "Of course, most of my jokes then involved making as much noise as possible until the brothers came to check on me, so perhaps not."