howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

(no subject)

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 --

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I know."

His hand's paused; the anxiety stirs, an echo of don't keep running to him. Alistair draws a long breath, and lets it out.

"It's easier because you're here."

Cullen lets out a long sigh. A relieved sigh.

"I didn't mention," he says after a moment, "how glad I am that you're not leaving. I don't want you to leave."

"...Really?"

He lifts his head just enough to look down at Cullen. His smile returns: small, a little uncertain still, but genuine.

Cullen nods, meeting his eyes for a moment before settling back down. Nearly everything he can think of to say is excessively mawkish, so --

"You belong here."

Maybe it's the perpetual lack of sleep; maybe it's because last night was a little worse than usual; maybe it's just the talk of Weisshaupt. Who knows.

But Alistair's completely caught off guard by the stinging in his eyes; hastily, he squeezes them shut, and tightens his hold on Cullen.

One more day to get through, and then he can go back to work. The thought drifts into focus, and then out again: where he is now is good, and he doesn't care to let it go just yet.

He leans his forehead against Alistair's temple. "So don't leave."

Alistair nods, a little, too overcome for a moment to say anything.

It's too much to articulate, anyway. And Cullen knows half of it already: the home he never found in the Chantry, then the place -- the belonging -- he had for a decade with the Wardens. How remarkable that felt, after nearly twenty years of...well. Everything. Not always bad, just.

Everything.

"You say that now," he mumbles at last, with halfhearted lightness.

"Would've said it earlier. And louder.

"Wanted it to be your choice."

Which is --

(Even Duncan didn't technically give him a choice. Alistair doubts he would've conscripted him unwillingly, but he was still conscripted, in the end.)

Yeah, it's enough to make Alistair's throat tighten up again. He swallows, trying to clear it enough to say something. Anything, at this point.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"Means you can change your mind later, too."

He squeezes Alistair, just a little. "But I hope you don't."

"No, you're stuck with me now." He tries for a smile. "You opened the gate, let me track mud in the house, fed me, gave me a bed -- you let a dog do that and they'll never leave."

"We're Fereldan, Theirin."

Low, warm, smiling.

"I knew what I was doing."

A small, choked laugh follows. "Of course you did."

His hand scoots higher to ruffle Cullen's hair; he keeps his palm settled against Cullen's head once that's accomplished.

"Of course, get fleas and all bets are off."

Alistair breaks into laughter -- louder now, nothing choked about it anymore -- and buries his face in Cullen's hair to try and stifle it.

"I mean it. We've enough to be getting on with." Cullen taps his chest again. "Though I suppose fleas are an argument in favor of never repairing the roof. So the cold prevents them from flourishing."

Having successfully recovered from the laughing fit, Alistair says, "I'd rather risk it if it means we don't have to brush snow off half the room every morning."

He twists just enough to look up at the hole in the roof.

"I thought I'd work on that today. If you want help."

"I have a confession to make," Cullen says. Ominously.

"Last night... I went to Josephine's office. Because she has a fire. And chairs."

Cullen is sounding increasingly shifty. "It was... not unpleasant."

Alistair lifts an eyebrow.

"Are you suggesting we commandeer her office until she comes back?"

Cullen raises his head.

Raises himself on his elbow.

"She has the power to make us consort with Orlesian nobility. If you'd care to run that risk, on your own head be it."

He rubs the back of his neck with his other hand. "No, I was thinking more... do something about the roof. Clear some of the mess in the corner. Bring up a few braziers." Then, mumbled, eyes shifting away: "Find a rug."

Alistair scratches the bridge of his nose, the better to hide a smile.

(It's far more due to Cullen's expression than the suggestion of finding a rug.)

"A fixed roof, heating, and some insulation," he says, gravely. "No, that's clearly a step too far. Every part of us except our feet is allowed to stay warm." And, dropping the gentle teasing: "I like it. If nothing else you could probably yank down an old tapestry from somewhere. It'd be a start. And there's -- "

He hooks a thumb in the general direction of the ladder.

"That brazier I hauled in last night. Bit beat up, but it does the job fine."

Edited 2016-10-10 20:54 (UTC)

Cullen is a man whose ideas of creature comforts in his quarters lie along the lines of 'maybe some shortbread? but not too much' and 'the presence of a window might help prevent screaming nightmares and attacks of claustrophobia' and 'this personally meaningful token from my brother must stay hidden at all times lest someone think I'm not doing things right' and 'a practice dummy with throwing knives all through its head and torso really ties the room together.'

Then there are the vines on the walls. And the tree growing out of the walls.

He's gone a little pink when he sits the rest of the way up, pulling away. "Fine," he echoes.

Alistair watches this. Looks away, in fairly short order, and shifts enough to try and get at one of the eternal cricks in his shoulder.

Awkwardly, "You know, I am capable of not teasing. Or so I tell myself so I sleep better. If you ever need to extend that formal invitation for me to fuck off again -- not, not in the leaving sense, in the 'shut up, Alistair' sense -- "

Low, as he rubs at his eyes: "My deficiencies aren't your problem, Alistair."

Cullen drops his hands. "None of it's necessary. I've got along perfectly fine without it so far. No reason not to continue."

"Perhaps, but -- you don't have to keep going along without it."

Still kneading his shoulder, Alistair glances back toward Cullen.

"Having a warm room would be more comfortable. You've the means. You're not, I don't know, taking rugs and tarps and braziers from orphaned babes on the streets. There's just as little reason to continue on as usual."