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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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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.

Cullen lets the door close, and immediately steps out of the line of traffic, next to one of the preparation tables. "When everyone fled the horror of five cakes at once, I could make off with all the rest of them and eat them in my own due time. -- Good morning, Cat."

"Commander," says one of the cooks, turning and sliding four small rolls from a wooden board onto the table beside him. "You'll be making off with these the same, then?"

Cullen laughs. "With great appreciation for your skill and generosity, of course."

"Listen to him flirt," announces Cat to the air. One of the maids giggles. Cullen turns pink. "Sausage in them this morning, and do be sure not to shove them all in at once?"

Cullen goes from pink to tomato very quickly.

There's a very undignified splutter of laughter off by the kettles.

Alistair is not going to say a damn word. (For now.) He's content to keep to the corner, innocently ladling water into a kettle as he watches this unfold.

Cullen narrows his eyes at Alistair.

And coughs. To give himself a moment to recover.

"They are still warm," the giggling maid observes.

"And who'd be wanting a cold one?" Cat muses, and pats Cullen's shoulder. "Come by around noon, and test some cookies for us, if you'd like."

Cullen reaches for a clean cloth and wraps the rolls up quickly. (They are indeed warm -- too warm to carry by themselves.) "I'll -- keep that in mind. Thank you, Cat."

As he makes for the door, he points at Alistair. "If you can, get this one some porridge? It's his favorite. Won't have anything else in the morning."

"Wh -- hey!" Hastily, Alistair finishes filling the kettle and tries to bolt for the door, which turns into a quick twisting maneuver to dodge around a few of the cooks.

"Of course!" he hears someone chirp behind him. "It'll be just a moment -- "

"Did I say anything? No!" It would probably be easier to plead his case if he wasn't still grinning a bit. He seizes a pair of teacups en route. "I did not, Rutherford. I did not say a single word about you or your sausage -- "

That does little except set the maid off again.

"I was being good!" he finishes, only to be brought up short by a cook thrusting a steaming hot bowl of porridge in his face. Alistair looks at the bowl; looks at the door; his shoulders droop. In a mumble, as he accepts the proffered food: "Thank you. Much appreciated."

When Alistair emerges, he'll find Cullen leaning against one of the stone columns in the main cellar, finishing off one of the sausage rolls.

He looks unbearably smug.

"You," says Alistair -- he would point, but his hands are full -- "are the worst. After I got a teacup for you and everything, too."

Sulk.

"Please," Cullen snorts. "You picked those up after I left. You'll have to do better than that."

"I would've done it earlier if I'd remembered!" He scowls. Those rolls smell really, really good, damn it. "And you could've stayed in bed while I fetched breakfast for you. I offered. Just think, you could be in bed right now, warm, comfortable, and moments away from sausage rolls."

Beat.

"...You're going to say 'but I have sausage rolls now,' aren't you."

His Cullen impression is pretty uncanny.

It's improved greatly, it's true!

Cullen waggles a roll back and forth, smirking.

(Why respond when Alistair's done all the work?"

"The. Worst," reiterates Alistair, and walks past Cullen with an audible hmph!

Cullen waits until Alistair's passed -- but just barely.

He puts out a hand to Alistair's shoulder.

The sausage roll is within reach of Alistair's mouth, if he turns his head, since his hands are full.