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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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"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.

Cullen lifts his hand long enough to tap Alistair's chest. "Swear on a wheel of cheese."

With great gravitas:

"I swear on a wheel of the best Orlesian cheese ever made that I will not test my newfound drinking talents any time soon."

He pats Alistair's chest. "Excellent."

Another brief snicker.

After a moment, more seriously (if a bit hesitant as well), "Feeling any better?"

Cullen nods a little, the movement ruffling Alistair's hair.

"I'm sorry."

Barely audible.

"I shouldn't -- I ought to be better. I will be. I'm sorry."

"It's all right." Soft. He takes up the careful rubbing of Cullen's back again. "I know you're carrying a lot. More than usual lately. And -- if you need quiet, you can ask."

"Need peace, not quiet."

No louder. He's gone boneless against Alistair.

"Still sorry."

"You're forgiven." He smiles, faintly; it fades soon enough. "I'll...do what I can to help. I'm sorry if it doesn't."

Alistair isn't particularly good at peace or quiet. But he'll find a way to get better at it. He has to.

"This is good."

(He'll mention Josephine's office later. If he remembers.)

"All right."

Alistair isn't quite conscious of it, but he relaxes another fraction. His hand keeps up its slow, steady path along Cullen's back.

"You don't mind?"