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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Midway through unearthing a cracked vase, Alistair looks up, hopefully.

"You're certain?"

Alistair's still got the porridge, after all, and gross as it may be, he's not going to waste it.

"Of course," Cullen says, mock affronted. "What do you take me for?"

A crooked smile. Light: "Someone who gets on with the cooks much better than I do?"

He sets the vase aside and returns to the makeshift dining table.

"And someone who'll go back and inform them that you're expanding your breakfast preferences beyond porridge if they'd be willing to oblige you."

"Definitely the best."

His smile straightens out; he grabs one of the rolls.

"I'll even refrain from laughing at the innuendo next time."

"You will not," Cullen says. "You're constitutionally incapable."

Immediately, in the exact same tone as before: "I'll even laugh very quietly behind my hand so you can't hear me."

He takes a bite of the roll.

Cullen huffs, sounding exactly like an irritated mabari, and goes to rifle through the crate Alistair abandoned.

"Next time I won't have any mercy."

"No breakfast at all," says Alistair, in exaggerated horror. "No food at all. I'll have to go forage in the woods for my dinner."

"Perhaps you hadn't noticed," Cullen says, digging out a coil of rope from under the cracked vase, "but we live above the tree line. You'll have to travel quite far to get to the woods."

"My point exactly." He gestures to Cullen with the roll. "I'd leave for breakfast and return five days later, covered in mud and scratches, possibly having fallen into a bramble bush somewhere along the line, but by the Maker I will have eaten my breakfast."

Beat.

"Five days ago, so I'll immediately have to turn around and go foraging again."

Cullen looks at the rope in his hand.

"You could just forage right here." He tosses it on top of the barrel where he was sitting. "Find something useful and you might even avoid the mud and scratches."

"What, are there more rolls in there?"

He stuffs the rest of the sausage roll in his mouth and leans to get a better look.

"Given how long this has been down here, even if there were, I wouldn't recommend trying them."

Mournful: "You're probably right."

Settling back, he peeks into the kettle. The tea's a deep, rich brown; aromatic steam wafts up into the cold room. "Tea's ready. Come have some."

Cullen tosses the rope into the middle of the room, and follows it with a fresh-looking tarpaulin.

Wandering over to the tea, he stretches, with a slight sigh. "You're in charge of defending us to the Inquisitor if we get caught doing something more strenuous than reading."

"Of course," says Alistair. He fills the teacups, pushing one of them closer to Cullen. "I'm thinking something like -- "

Affecting a look of total horror, he points to the corner of the room.

"Maker's breath, is that a dragon? And is it carrying a whole cadre of slightly smaller dragons on its back?!"

"...that would do it," Cullen says, thoughtful, and picks up one of the teacups. "A solid strategy. If nothing else, she'll pause to express concern about your well-being, which would give me time to hide."

A grin. "Dragons," he intones, solemnly. "I'm seeing dragons everywhere. Terrible affliction, she's right to be concerned. Meanwhile you can stay in the corner with the tarp draped over yourself. She wouldn't suspect a thing."

He shakes his head, takes a drink.

"I'm feeling the urge to retreat to bed before the day's properly started," he muses. "Surely that and your series of ideas are unrelated."

"Naturally." He lifts his teacup, still grinning. "I'm a delightful ray of sunshine waking and energizing all I touch."

"...who told you that?"

"No one had to tell me." Sagely. "I know it deep in my heart."

He drinks.

"Then I suppose it's no use disputing it."

There's a trunk over there that looks less dusty than the others, and it's not locked. Cullen kneels with his cup of tea and undoes the latch with his free hand.

" -- so that's where she put them. I wonder..."

As he starts going through the lengths of folded cloth: "She's acquired all kinds of banners in the field, Maker knows how. I'm sure she wouldn't miss -- there."

Cullen slips out one particular piece of heraldry in familiar colors: Ferelden.

"That should keep out a draft or two." Satisfied.

Alistair's eyebrows lift as he stares, delighted, at the banner.

"And here I thought we'd be lucky to find something that wasn't half-eaten by moths." He sets his tea aside and slips off the crate for a better look. "Perfect. Anything else good in there?"