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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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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.)

"All right?" Softer.

Another unintelligible noise, then, more breath than word: "Yes."

Alistair opens his eyes.

When he tries to force some volume into his voice, it creaks with sleep. "Did I wake you?"

"No." He shakes his head a little. "I just thought... you might... be in the middle of something that you'd rather not be."

"Oh," he mumbles. Drawing another long, slow breath, he lets his eyes drift shut. "Yes. Thank you."

A beat.

"Not as bad this time, just..." Alistair's brow knits as he tries to remember. "Ostagar? I think. 'S all right."

(Just Ostagar. Maker, to have that be so low on the list of terrible dreams nowadays.)

That is, in fact, the thought that crosses Cullen's mind.

His hold on Alistair gets a little tighter.

"Did you sleep all -- " Alistair tries to stifle a yawn, and fails. "All right?"

Cullen gives him an affirmative mm. "Better than... for a while."

Beat.

"Of course, that isn't saying much."

A small huff of laughter. "Even so."

He should probably get up. Go work on the letters, or...something. Alistair seems rather disinclined to move at the moment, however.

Cullen likewise. He breathes out, settling his head against Alistair's chest with his face tilted up. For a moment his eyes try to follow the stonework along the wall, trying to guess where and how it'll give way --

But no. It won't give way right now.

It does occur to him that there are still a few pies in that basket. But if Alistair's willing to be like this -- Andraste help him, he needs it. He needs to be held still, just for a little while, as everything else is chaotic and sharp outside.

"My one regret about not being king," mumbles Alistair after a few minutes, still only half-awake, "is that I can't snap my fingers and get anything I want when I don't want to get out of bed."

Such tragedy.

A quiet laugh. "What do you want?"

"Right now? To stay here."

He shifts a little to make himself more comfortable. (The world's -- smaller, here. More manageable. It's the sort of quiet he can appreciate.)

"...Probably lunch eventually. And a basket of puppies."

"There's pie over here."

Cullen sounds... 'pleased with himself' is the generous way to put it. A more accurate way to put it would be 'smug.'

"And wine. I brought it up earlier."

Alistair lifts his head and looks down at Cullen. (Or does his best to do so without pulling away too much.)

Reverent: "You are doing the Maker's work." A pause, then, hopefully, "And the puppies?"