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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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."

Cullen shakes his head a little. "No, that's fine. Do as you'd like."

He picks up his tankard and, without another word, carries it over to the bar with a quiet thank you, Cabot.

At Cabot's laconic, sardonic Commander, Cullen heads for the stairs, to take the exit along the battlements.

Maybe he can sleep through as much of the next day as possible. Maybe he can throw knives. Do a limited calisthenics regimen. Write a letter to Mia striking a balance between the two he's already written. Figure out what he's going to do when Samson arrives at Skyhold.

There is nothing you can do to fix this, Alistair tells himself. Let him be.

(It's hard not to think -- even if it's not true -- you could have fixed this before Adamant.)

Alistair rises with his tankard a few minutes later. One more, and then he'll go back to his own quarters. Fiddle with the chess board, maybe. Try to read.

It ends up being more than just one more. (No point in drinking unless you're really drinking.) Alistair makes it back slowly, carefully, both arms wrapped around the board and the loose pieces shoved by the fistful into his pockets -- but he makes it back without incident.

He'll figure out what to do tomorrow. Maybe -- maybe Cullen will feel a little better after more sleep. Maybe Alistair will too.

Cullen looks around his office -- and decides, suddenly, he can't stand to go back upstairs in the dark and the cold.

So the cloak stays on. There's one place he can think of with a relatively private fireplace, one place where it wouldn't be -- unseemly -- for him to be, one place with easy and secluded access to the basement (and the kitchens).

One place where the fire is always stoked because someone has a delicate Antivan constitution.

Armed with bread and cheese and a toasting fork, Cullen is nestled comfortably in one of the armchairs in Josephine's office before the hour is out. As much as he hates to admit it -- which is a lot -- the tastefully appointed room, with its warmth and the faint smell of sweet spice that she claims makes the room welcoming, does a great deal to pull him back toward --

Well. Toward.

(It's almost like she's here; if she were, she'd be working. He can almost hear the scratch of her quill, the pages she turns in one of her dozens of books of heraldry, the offended sigh she gives when a draft is so crude as to enter uninvited.

He should -- tell her. Find something appropriate to thank her. And if he can avoid telling her why, even better.)

It also doesn't hurt that Josephine keeps a stock of books that aren't Orlesian and aren't written by Varric. After the bread and cheese, it's no trouble to find one that's... unexpectedly engrossing.

Edited 2016-10-08 23:40 (UTC)

The alcohol helps. Somewhat. Alistair makes it four hours before bolting awake with a yell half-caught in his throat.

The room -- isn't swimming, exactly, but he still feels a little unsteady when he puts his feet on the floor, and more when he moves his head too much. He breathes, running through the automatic mantra: you're at Skyhold. You're safe.

And he's also cold and the room feels too small and there's just enough light, off in the corner there, to glint off the Warden plate he wore for ten years -- and in the moment as he struggles out of the Fade's grip, it's all just a bit too much to bear.

He bundles up again. Steps cautiously from his quarters, to make his way toward Cullen's office. He veers off course at one point to search through some debris in the corner of a broken tower; when he moves on, he has a bent but still serviceable brazier in hand.

It's quiet once he gets there. Dark. Cullen isn't back.

Alistair could probably climb up the ladder, even half-inebriated. Climbing up while half-inebriated and carrying something on fire, though...not so much. Instead, he puts the brazier near the chaise before stealing a torch off the outside wall: once the brazier is lit and the torch returned, he curls up on the chaise in an effort to get back to sleep.

It's still cold, but not as cold. And at least he can see the stars if he tilts his head right.

You're safe.

He drifts off.

The book's a quick read because it's horrible and has no basis in reality: if there were an Antivan Crow who was a mage, the assassin would be unstoppable, and therefore the story would be short.

It is.

(Cullen checks the inside cover and sees Property of Yvette Montilyet scrawled inside. That explains that.)

Feeling much more cheerful -- no, Cullen thinks, call it what it is, you're feeling much less sorry for yourself -- he returns the book to its place, carefully leans the toasting fork against the mantel, and starts the trek back to his tower.

(Maybe an appropriate thank-you to Josephine would be to display even the slightest bit of enthusiasm for those interludes she thinks it's mandatory for the advisors to have. If only they didn't so strongly resemble tea parties.)

Cullen doesn't trouble to be quiet as he enters his office, stamping his feet to get the snow off his boots.

The bundle of blankets on the chaise twitches. At least three-quarters asleep still, Alistair drags the top of the blanket down just enough to peek an eye out.

Oh. Cullen's back. All right.

He burrows back under, eyes closing again.