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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"Of course you did," says Alistair in response to the first bit. To his credit, he refrains from patting Cullen soothingly.

Instead, folding his arms, he leans his shoulder against the wall. "And done quite well. I'll have to build all my snowmen outside from now on, especially once we get the braziers lit."

"You never built them inside." He tilts his head back against the stone, closes his eyes.

"So far as you know." Lightly. "It was a long night last night, I had to keep busy somehow."

Without opening his eyes:

"You sat at the ladder and nearly froze. It doesn't count if you become the snowman."

"Damn, that's where I got it wrong."

He sighs, mock-mournful, and shakes his head.

Cullen cracks open an eye. A dubious eye.

Without anything further he goes to the bed, and sits, and takes off his boots.

(It's still relatively early -- well before noon.)

Alistair watches this. Kneads his shoulder, absently, and rolls it a couple times.

"I'll get a torch and fuel for the braziers, if you'd like."

Cullen shakes his head a little.

"I need to think." Without looking up. "Don't need all that to think."

Quieter: "All right."

Alistair hesitates a beat, then moves closer. The mattress sinks an inch as he takes a seat next to Cullen.

Alistair gets a sidelong look -- it's a little suspicious -- before he shifts back, curling on his side, facing Alistair.

"...What?" He quirks an eyebrow. "You're looking at me like I piled all the snow in your bed."

"You piled yourself in my bed," he points out. "Better than snow, I'll grant you."

"At least until I freeze myself into a snowman again." Straight-faced.

Alistair looks up at the tarp. Rubs his shoulder again.

To the cloth: "I would notice if you were gone. You know that, yes?"

The silence that follows isn't the silence of I don't know that, but rather the silence of where is this coming from, and why?

"...yes?"

"All right."

He relaxes a little, though that's offset somewhat by the tips of his ears going pink.

"I know you were joking, earlier, I just wanted to -- make sure." And apparently he didn't need to do that. Alistair pats Cullen's leg. "I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

He pushes himself up and heads for the ladder.

Meaning he did something wrong.

Cullen scrubs at his eyes, hard. "Alistair -- "

A frustrated sigh. "I'm sorry, I just -- you know they're going to bring Samson back with them, and I have to think, and I'm -- going to be distracted." The harder he presses the heel of his hand into his forehead, the less likely he is to say something he regrets. It's a valid strategy. "And a bear."

Alistair pauses, one foot on the ladder. He's frowning as he listens: mostly concerned, a little puzzled.

"I know." Gently. "It's all right. You don't have to be sorry."

"And if I'm not -- " He sits up, running his hands through his hair in frustration. "Then what does that make me?"

"...Not sorry about which part?"

He isn't following. The old anxiety tightens his chest; he breathes through it, takes his foot off the ladder.

"Being a bear."

He amends, "To you."

Right.

Alistair shrugs. Matter-of-fact: "That makes you someone who's got other things on his mind besides entertaining me," he says. "And higher priorities."

Not today he doesn't. Inquisitor's orders.

Cullen looks away.

For all Alistair's insistence that there's more to him than his role in the Inquisition --

"Right," he says.

"I forgot."

He resettles, looking at the far wall.

Alistair breathes in. Breathes out.

(This isn't about him. Cullen's carrying more than usual, and can't do anything about it.)

"I don't want to make this worse," he says, eventually. "That's all."

"And you think your presence would be worse than your absence."

That's a little flat.

Alistair cracks a halfhearted smile.

"Have you met me?"

Annoying Bastard, party of one, your table's ready.