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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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Alistair's own laugh is a little choked, but at least he's laughing.

"Sounds dangerous," he says. "A true test of mettle, honor, and keeping my mouth shut. But I think I'll persevere."

"I have complete faith in you."

(There's like a 30% chance they'll both die.)

"And should you decide to streak through the hall of your own accord, I'd appreciate advance warning so I can be elsewhere."

"You have my word." He smiles; his eyes are still a little overbright. "I'll also warn you if you'll need to haul me up eight thousand flights of stairs again. That's how many it was, right? Eight thousand? I lost count somewhere around the first five thousand."

"Eleven," he says, smile crooked. "Maybe twelve."

"Twelve thousand?" Alistair shakes his head in mock-dismay at his past, extremely drunken self. "I was way off. Damned ancient elves and their love of stairs."

"...you've been to Kirkwall. It's not only ancient elves."

Every single staircase down to the docks is a steep and terrifying nightmare with no handrails, and is also a great deal of fun to navigate in full plate.

Alistair considers this.

"All right, I have two regrets about not being king," he says. "The second being that I can't declare all stairs everywhere be demolished and replaced by gently sloping hills."

Beat.

"...Not that that would've done any good in Kirkwall. Or here."

"And you can still trip up a hill anyhow."

"You really have to put your back into it to trip up a hill, though. Much easier to trip over stairs."

"Know this from experience, do you?"

"It happened once." He points at Cullen. "Once. And I will maintain there was a half-buried rock in that hill until the day I die."

Cullen laughs, drawing up his feet onto the chaise again. (The floor remains cold.) "Of course there was. You'd never trip over your own feet on your own recognizance."

"Of course not," says Alistair, with great dignity. "I'm a man of enormous poise and grace, Cullen."

He glances out the window. (Still snowing. Ugh.) "Too early to get a head start on the drunken revelry, do you think?"

It's either that or finish wrapping the effects, and Alistair, as Cullen suggested, ought to talk to Leliana before finishing that task. He also just flat-out doesn't have the heart for it anymore. Not right now.

"Not like anyone's around to judge us." Wry. "But I'm bringing the chess board. Be warned."

Alistair's mouth falls open in dismay -- and then he shuts it as he gets a thoughtful gleam in his eye.

"All right," he says.

Maybe Cabot's got some more of that powerfully strong whatever-it-was he gave Alistair last time. Maybe he could convince Cullen to have a tankard before playing a match. Hmmmm.

"Oh, no."

When Alistair gets that look --

"Whatever idea you've just had -- it's terrible, forget it."

With practiced innocence: "No, no, it's all right, by all means, bring the chess board. On an unrelated note, you remember that drink Cabot gave me? Before the brandy? It was delicious, you should get a big glass of it."

Smooth, Alistair. Very smooth.

Cullen rests his arms on his knees, and steeples his fingers.

Alistair gets an intentionally beady look.

"You assume I don't become more brilliant when inebriated."

"Are you willing to test this?"

He's very near to beaming.

"...I've got another two days of enforced idleness."

He drops the act, rubs the back of his neck. "There's no better time, really."

VICTORY.

"Wonderful. Go get your boots." He claps his hands together, rubbing them with the sort of air that usually accompanies an evil cackle. "And fair warning, if I manage to beat you? I will lord it over you for the rest of the night."

"More like the rest of my life," Cullen mutters, shifting to stand. "It'll be longer than boots, I've got to do something about this." He runs a hand through his hair, which is still... uncouth. Unaddressed. Unacceptable.

On the one hand, nobody'll be around to see it and it would give Alistair another opportunity to tease Cullen. On the other: if anyone can appreciate the desire for proper hair maintenance, it's Alistair.

"Doesn't look any different than usual," he says, straight-faced.

(Okay, so teasing Cullen does not have to be a mutually exclusive part of this decision.)

From two or three rungs up the ladder:

"Consider this a cordial invitation to fuck right the fuck off, Theirin."

Alistair cackles, pleased, and flops onto the chaise to wait for Cullen to finish tidying up.

After a moment, he grabs the book Cullen was reading to see if it's any good.