howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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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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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."

"And keeping everybody else awake." Cullen turns over on his side, facing Alistair. "A little villain."

"The worst," he agrees, and chuckles. "I'm surprised I didn't get punched more often, to be honest."

He contemplates Alistair a moment.

And slugs him on the arm.

"Ow!"

He recoils, overexaggerated, and pretends to nurse his arm. (The act's marred somewhat by the grin on his face.)

"Vengeance may not come swift," thoughtful, "but it arrives eventually. Now pipe down, I'm supposed to be sleeping, some very serious grown man said so."

"Yes, Commander," he grumbles, still smiling, before reaching to muss Cullen's hair.

He didn't do anything to fix it after visiting the springs; Alistair's incursion makes no visible difference.

A long-suffering sigh. "Satisfied?"

Alas. That just means he'll have to try again after Cullen's fixed it properly.

"Quite," he says serenely, and rolls onto his side, facing Cullen. "Sleep well."

A beat.

Softer: "And thank you. For keeping me safe."

Well. He thought he was doing all right.

His face crumples; he nods; before he can stop himself, he hides his face in Alistair's chest.

Oh.

Without hesitating, Alistair wraps an arm around him, tight; he tucks his chin over Cullen's head. It's all right, he wants to say.

It's not.

Best just to hold on, wordlessly, and let that serve as it own comfort.

That -- Alistair's presence -- is the point. First when Cullen was a young man the demons and abominations came for his brothers and sisters, one by one, until Cullen was alone. Now, year after year of losses, what's left of the Order is gone.

Alistair is real.

After a few long minutes Cullen relaxes. Mostly.

With caution he drapes an arm over Alistair's waist. Soft, tentative: "Is this -- all right?"

"Yes," he whispers.

It's...surprising, a little, even with the number of times they've ended up with their arms around each other as they slept, but --

"It's all right."

Edited 2016-09-28 18:48 (UTC)

Cullen lets out a long, long breath. Tension drains out of him; he breathes.

(It's about being shielded, as rarely happens. It's also about having somewhere comfortable to put his arm.)

It doesn't take very long for Cullen, wrung out, to fall asleep again.

At some point, Alistair thinks, things have to start being all right again. To think otherwise...he can't let himself think otherwise.

Trying to figure out how it can be all right again after all this, though: that's the more difficult part. After killing your fellows; after watching two orders fall to pieces; after -- everything.

Better if he doesn't think about it too much right now. He can just count Cullen's breaths and focus on the someday part. Even if everything's awful now, someday, it will be all right.

Also, it turns out when you're comfortable, warm, chronically sleep-deprived, and unconsciously matching your breaths to someone who's sleeping, it's pretty easy to fall asleep yourself.

Cullen wakes about two hours later.

He doesn't start awake -- surfaces, instead, slow and comfortable. He's with -- someone? Alistair. It's Alistair.

Someone safe. Not alone.

...maybe he should try to sleep more? He nestles his head against Alistair's chest while contemplating his options.

Alistair has his cheek pressed to Cullen's hair and his arm still wrapped around him, apparently dead to the world. It's not an entirely peaceful rest: he's breathing deep, but it's a little too quick, a little too deliberate. His heart beats fast under Cullen's head.

Still. For Alistair, it's more peaceful than he usually gets.

Cullen listens: the wind, Alistair's heartbeat. His breathing.

Just in case:

"Alistair." Low. Calm.

Alistair twitches. The next exhale's longer than the rest; he readjusts his hold on Cullen.

"Mnh?"

(His heartbeat's slowed by a measure or two.)