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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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.

It is a bad habit to get into, letting squirming piles of blankets in one's office lie, but given who's likely underneath...

From his position, it's possible for Alistair to hear silence, a very long sigh, and the sound of someone ascending the ladder.

He's just awake enough to process the sigh, and just asleep enough to think, I made the right choice staying down here. Good.

Within minutes of that thought passing through his head, Alistair's out again.

It would be -- easier. If Alistair was up the ladder, next to him. But not so much easier that Cullen's willing to disturb him, or sleep on the floor next to the chaise.

He piles himself under the two furs -- since Alistair stole all the blankets -- and squints at the pile of snow in the corner.

It might be time to think about doing... something. Clearing out the rubble, at the very least. Maybe remove a few of the vines from the walls. (But only a few.) Scavenge a rug still on the good side of threadbare. The question is how to do it without anyone noticing, as they'll think he's gone soft.

Downstairs, the occasional snore drifts up. Otherwise, it's silent.

When Alistair jolts awake for a second time, he lies motionless, counting his breaths like he used to do when the Warden dreams got to him during the Blight. The brazier's burned down, gone cold. He has no idea how long it'll be until sunrise.

...He's also got a nasty cramp in his legs from sleeping half-scrunched like this. Damn it.

Alistair swings himself off the chaise to pace the floor for a little while, half to finish calming down, half to stretch his legs.

It doesn't take Cullen very long to drop off. Nor are the dreams -- awful. Vague impressions, more than anything else.

(It helps not being rolled up in a fur like a forgotten scroll, as he's room to spread out.)

This isn't working. His breath's coming faster; he's not moving to stretch his legs, but to keep moving, propelled by the anxious fluttering under his ribs. Alistair rubs his hair, fitfully, and throws a glance up at the loft.

He's not going to go running to Cullen like a child after a nightmare. He's not. He's been getting better. He can work through this on his own.

Maybe if he goes up the ladder, though, and just...sits near it like he used to do when he first came to Skyhold, that'll be all right. He'll be able to keep an eye on everything there. If he starts to fall asleep, he can always go back downstairs.

Five minutes later, he's taken up his perch.

Even when the sky starts to lighten, he sits there: the fluttering doesn't let him sleep anymore.

A gust of wind ruffles Cullen's hair, sending a sharp chill along the back of his neck. Just like that, he's awake.

He sits up, stretches --

And squints.

"Alistair?" Sleep clings to his voice. Even barely awake as he is, he knows what it means when Alistair sits by the ladder, and doesn't sleep.

Cullen pats the spot next to him. "Come to bed. Get out of the cold."

Alistair startles: all his attention abruptly snaps around to Cullen like a spring uncoiling. It's passed half a second later. With a sigh, he rubs his face, and nods after another beat.

No use offering up a bunch of halfhearted I'm fines after a reaction like that.

Stiffly, he gets up and settles into the proffered side of the bed. "Good morning," he thinks to add, half-mumbled, as he draws one of the furs closer.

"Mm," Cullen agrees, shifting closer. He's already mostly asleep again; his thought process is something like Alistair cold, I can fix.

Such a monosyllabic urge to protect might be misplaced, but it is barely even morning.

The fluttering has already started to quiet down. It's a bit embarrassing how fast it's gone away, considering how it lingered the whole night.

Hesitantly, he settles an arm around Cullen. (It's only because he's cold and could use the extra body heat. Yes.)

Cullen may not be able to be the big spoon, but he is striving to be a spoon (or perhaps a barnacle), slinging an arm over Alistair in the process.

Mumbled in Alistair's ear: "Stop being cold."

Alistair chuckles, brief and halfhearted. "I'm trying."

...He really is much colder than he realized, now that he's snuggled somewhere warm. No wonder he couldn't sleep.

A soft sigh; he leans his head against Alistair's, and tightens his hold.

But only temporarily, as he's too close to falling back to sleep.

The impulse is there, briefly, to smooth a hand over Cullen's hair as he drifts off. But that'd involve moving, and Alistair's starting to relax enough that he doesn't want to move.

He stays awake -- by now, it's too close to morning for him to do anything but a light doze -- and listens to Cullen breathing. He...probably could've done this from the start with no problem after all, couldn't he. Even if Cullen didn't want to be around him earlier.

That's good to know.

(Maybe once he's warmer, and Cullen's awake for the day, Alistair will see about finding that tarp for the roof. He doesn't have much else to do; that's something he can work on for a bit.)

Cullen mumbles, "Hung over?"

His mouth quirks, rueful.

"Not very," he says, soft. "Bit of extra water at breakfast and I'll be fine."

He huffs a laugh -- again, right in Alistair's ear.

"Good job."

Alistair doesn't seem to mind. The crooked smile grows.

"Not for lack of trying," he admits. "I'm surprised it's not worse."

"A new talent?" Sleepy.

A small laugh. "Could be. I'll have to test it again another night."

"...now I'm sorry I brought it up."

"You have my solemn word it won't be any time soon."

He smooths his hand along Cullen's back, then resettles his arm around him.