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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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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."

Cullen can think of a few possible retorts -- that Cassandra sleeps in a bedroll in a corner above the armory, that he sleeps little enough under normal circumstances to justify the effort, that technically they could decide to send any and all of those items to places where more people could benefit from them -- but he doesn't want to argue.

"Fine," he says again, and shifts down to lie on his back, pulling the fur up (an unfortunate display of why the proposed improvements would be helpful) and staring at the (hole in the) ceiling.

Alistair doesn't sigh, but not without effort.

Like always, the ache in his shoulder isn't going anywhere. (He'd call it a bad-weather ache, but that would imply it has any sort of weather forecasting ability. It's like the bad-weather ache of someone camped on the Storm Coast.) Giving up for now, he pushes himself out of bed.

It crosses his mind that he could do an over-exaggerated shiver for extra effect, but...he is capable of not teasing.

"Kitchens are probably open by now," he says, padding toward the ladder. "Want anything?"

Alistair's definitely bringing back a pot of tea, if nothing else. Maybe two pots of tea.

"If the kitchens are open I might as well go myself."

Cullen does sigh, threading his fingers through his hair and tugging, just for a moment.

"I'll make the damned changes if we can agree not to issue any further commentary on it. All right?"

Edited 2016-10-10 22:30 (UTC)

Alistair chances a small smile. "All right," he agrees.

He's got a feeling Cullen will grumble less once the changes are actually in place. He's hoping, at least.

Climbing down to the office, Alistair fetches his boots and a couple of the blankets from his earlier sleeping spot. He...really ought to get a proper cloak soon. Oh well. As Cullen claims his quarters are fine with a hole in the roof, so Alistair would claim a blanket works just as well for trips outside.

Cullen will also grumble less after he eats something.

Boots on, cloak over his arm, he descends -- and wanders over to inspect the brazier, crouching to get a closer look.

"How well did it function?"

"Fairly well, while it was lit," says Alistair. He shrugs. "Only lasted a couple of hours, though. I think. It was out when I woke up."

That was likely Alistair's fault as much as the brazier's, though.

Also possibly the fault of very old fuel. Cullen makes a note of it, and straightens.

"All right. At least one more of those, a good supply of fuel to burn, a tarp, some rope -- "

He says this as he heads out the door. Whether Cullen is talking to Alistair or to himself depends on whether Alistair is prepared to follow.

" -- something to put on the floor... and a broom. Ought to make for two trips, total, once supplies have been located."

Alistair's a few paces behind; he nods, adjusting the blanket more comfortably around his shoulders.

"The kitchens probably have a broom to spare, so long as we bring it back." He squints up at the lightening sky, then points to one of the towers. "I got the brazier from there. Didn't see another one, but I wasn't looking too hard, either."

"We'll check the cellars first. The other items will be there anyhow."

The great hall is deserted at this hour; Cullen steps through the door to the war room, and turns down the cellar stairs.

"I hope there's something that isn't porridge," he mutters.

Alistair wrinkles his nose. "Agreed.

"If you had to choose between porridge and the fanciest, froufiest Orlesian breakfast imaginable, which would you pick?"

Cullen laughs. "Orlesian breakfast, obviously. And I'd take great pleasure in shoving five of those little overwrought cakes in my mouth all at once."

He gives Alistair a sidelong look. "Don't tell me you'd choose porridge."

"Depends." Thoughtfully. "If I could stand in the middle of Val Royeaux dressed exactly like this -- " A gesture to his less-than-tidy clothes. "And eat the porridge with my hands to the shock and dismay of all, then yes. Yes, I would. But if there's no chance to spite anyone than I'll take the fancy cakes."

Cullen carefully and slowly opens the door to the kitchens; it was very clear to him the first time he visited that doing anything else was likely to end up with injured scullery maids. Fortunately, his caution has won him friends.

Over his shoulder as he enters: "Five cakes at a time would elicit the same reaction, Theirin."

"But you wouldn't get to savor the cakes," he points out. "And you're less likely to choke."

Alistair eases up on his clutching hold of the blankets, taking a moment to bask in the heat of the kitchens. Then he's off to find a kettle and some tea.