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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"One of us, at least." Judiciously. "I'd still like to see how much it takes before you can't tell a pawn and a king apart."

"...I guarantee you I'd fall unconscious before that happened. They look nothing alike."

He snickers; takes a drink. "Only way to be certain -- "

Alistair gestures to the chess board.

"Or would you rather wait to start until we're on the third drink?"

Cullen rolls his eyes and starts setting up the pieces.

"I'm not drinking to black out, Alistair. Unless you'd like to ensure that I never drink with you again."

Edited 2016-10-07 22:09 (UTC)

"I say there's little point to drinking unless you're really drinking, but...fine, fine," grouses Alistair, good-naturedly.

After another swig of his drink, he helps Cullen set up the board. (This involves a lot of surreptitious glances to Cullen's half to make sure he's got the order of the back row right. Alistair can never remember which piece goes closest to the king and queen.)

"Look," Cullen says, lifting up his tankard, "it's me, really drinking."

He follows through.

Voice lowered: "I spend enough time feeling ill that I don't want to induce a hangover on top of it. All right?"

Ah. Yes.

"All right," says Alistair, more soberly. He lifts his tankard an inch. "To no hangovers, then."

Cullen snorts.

"Feel free to make yourself sick by all means."

"Oh, no." He points at Cullen. "I am going to defend my minuscule scrap of chess honor to the best of my ability."

Beat.

"After that, we'll see, but for now..."

"...we don't have to play, you know."

His gaze drifts back toward the fire. "We could just... sit here."

Alistair's smile dims by a fraction. He studies Cullen.

Quieter: "Which would you rather do?"

"Does it always have to be about competition?" he says to the crackling logs. "I'm not -- I'm trying to find something that isn't work that we can just... enjoy. I don't want to -- attack your honor, or whatever it was you said. I don't want to attack anything right now. And you, never."

The smile's gone. Uncertainly, Alistair glances to the fire, then back to Cullen, before his gaze drops to the chess board.

Still quiet -- and a little helpless -- he says, "I was only joking about that."

The part of him that's nothing but jokes and teasing, that's been slowly regaining its footing since he settled into Skyhold, falters before anything else can reach his mouth: I don't have any chess honor at all, are you kidding, my chess honor's the size of a dust mote, all you'd have to do is wave your hand and --

No. No more of that.

He shrugs, one-shouldered.

"We'd already established I have no sense of humor." Why does he feel so tired when he's been sleeping all day?

Cullen moves a piece: pawn to E4. He knows plenty of ways to throw a game without losing control of the center of the board. And if Alistair catches him at it -- doubtful, he thinks -- he can lie.

Alistair sighs, just as soft. He takes a long swallow of his drink; studies the board; moves a pawn to E5.

"What if you taught me instead?" His smile returns: just a slight lift to one corner of his mouth. "I tried to read some of the books I gave to Kieran. Couldn't get much of it to stick."

The key in throwing a game is not to be dominant too early. Make conservative defensive moves. Then -- a few easy slips. It takes patience.

"You'd do better getting him to teach you." His attention's back on the fire. "It's good practice for him, and it's time with him for you."

"Possibly," he mumbles.

Alistair remembers something from the books: get all your pieces off their original squares as fast as possible. Unfortunately, that's manifesting in a very methodical way -- he's moving all his pawns first and leaving the back row largely untouched.

"It doesn't have to be about competition," he says eventually, low. "You're right. I'm sorry."

His shoulders are hunched, tight, his head low.

"Nothing worth apologizing for." Another move. "Don't mind me. Just -- being a bear."

Alistair's mouth quirks in rueful understanding.

"You're allowed." He moves a piece; drinks. "At least you're only the grumbly sort of bear and not the sort that rampages through the tavern overturning tables."

On another day he might say something like we'll see how exposure to present company might change that.

Instead: silence. Cullen plays the game.

He can't think of anything to say to make this better. (He thinks, unwillingly, of that blurred day he fell out of the Fade: when he'd open his mouth to say something, and other words entirely would emerge unbidden.)

He's...trying to be all right with that. Give Cullen the space he needs; try not to keep pressing. Try not to be loud.

Alistair drinks, and plays, and -- he's pretty damn sure Cullen's going easy on him by the time he captures both of his knights, but he's not going to say anything about that either.

Cullen doesn't want space. He wants to feel safe -- to not have to think about offense or defense (or, in lieu of that, to get back to work). It would be nice if he were the kind of person able to articulate that. Or anything.

"Honor restored," he says, quietly, a while later, and tips over his king. "Well played."

Alistair smiles crookedly. (Does not say, no matter how lightly, anything like well thrown.) "Thank you."

His own tankard's sat empty for some time now; he gestures to Cullen's. "Want another?"

He shakes his head. Reaches for his cloak.

"I should go." Cullen gestures to the chess set, and pushes his chair back. "You should -- keep it. For Kieran."

Oh.

Quieter than he means, Alistair says, "All right." He drags a hand through his hair; folds his arms atop the table as he looks up at Cullen. "...Do you want me to come along? I could -- get the brazier, from somewhere. At least."