howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Alistair's own routine has proven...somewhat more difficult.

It's not that Bull and Krem are taskmasters, exactly. He's endured harder days of training at the Chantry and among the Wardens both. The difference comes in the sort of exhaustion he has to endure after.

Their first day in the yard, Bull pointed him toward Krem and said, Hit 'em with all you got. He did -- and five minutes later he emerged like someone shaken out of a dream, Bull holding him in check by the shoulders. They'd planned this: Krem would tap out and Bull would take his place if things went badly.

Things kept going badly for quite a few training sessions after.

You spent two months straight fighting like a berserker, Bull said at one point, as they sat near the wall -- Bull's bulk shielding Alistair from view -- as Alistair gulped down water from a skin. That'd fuck with anyone's head. And you did it in the Fade on no sleep, no food, no nothing on top of that. You'll be fighting different for a long time, but that's why you're working with us -- so we can get that 'different' working for you.

It isn't just physical exhaustion. It's mental. Spiritual.

There's no fix, like Cullen said: just figuring out how to live with it.

Soaks in the hot springs for hours on end, however, do offer a little bit of a temporary fix. If nothing else, it reduces the physical exhaustion. He's submerged to the neck, head tipped back against the rim of the pool, when Cullen arrives; cracking open an eye, he lifts one arm out of the water so he can scrub at his face.

"Mnh." Beat. A bit warmer -- and more coherent: "Hello."

(He'll react to the "cheese toast" part in a minute.)

Cheese toast goes on the bench, for the moment; Cullen pulls off vambraces and gloves and lines them up carefully next to the toast.

That done, he moves behind Alistair, kneels, and sinks a hand into Alistair's hair. Quiet: "It's good to see you."

No louder: "Good to be seen."

His eyes fall closed again. Alistair leans his head against Cullen's hand.

"How's your day been?"

"Quite pleasant, actually." There's something like a laugh underlying his words; he gently massages Alistair's scalp.. "I'll guess from your presence here that yours has been marginally less pleasant?"

"Marginally," says Alistair, dry -- but there's a little twitch of a smile to go with it. (It's always good to hear Cullen's had a decent day.) "More training, is all."

"The life of a soldier is incredibly difficult." Too amused to be solemn. He's trying, though. "Poor you. I suppose you'd like me to be very nice to you."

"If you don't mind?"

The plaintiveness is mostly feigned. (Mostly.)

A low, warm laugh. "I'll do my best, Theirin."

His smile grows.

(It's absurd, really, how much Alistair's warmed to that name, simply by virtue of the warmth Cullen carries whenever he speaks it.)

Tipping his head to look up at Cullen -- if it grants him more contact with Cullen's hand, so much the better -- he says, "Was I imagining the bit about cheese toast?"

"You were not," Cullen says, cheerful. "Shall I bring it to you here?"

He brightens a little more. "If you're so inclined?"

Translation: YES, PLEASE, YOU ARE THE BEST.

With only a small ruffling of Alistair's hair, Cullen rises to retrieve the toast.

...and a towel, because Cullen's not feeding Alistair. Lines must be drawn. And Alistair probably won't want damp hands.

Alistair's too tired to object to the hair-ruffling.

...anyway, if he were going to object to Cullen ruffling his hair, it would've happened weeks ago.

His shoulder hasn't borne up as well as he'd like under the new training regime. When Alistair pushes himself higher out of the water, the better to grab both towel and food, it takes a bit of awkward maneuvering so he doesn't have to stretch too far.

"You," he says to Cullen, fervent, "remain my favorite."

"An impressive title." He's returned to the bench to take off greaves and boots. And coat, Cullen supposes.

And when he's done, he goes to sit by Alistair, and very carefully puts his feet in the water. No splashing: it tends to interfere badly with cheese toast.

"Well, you've been working hard lately." Solemn. "You're due for a promotion."

Beneath the water, Alistair hooks his free arm around Cullen's calf, hand settling near the top of his foot. He takes a bite of the cheese toast; makes a small noise of pleasure; keeps eating.

A crooked smile, and Cullen goes back to running his fingers through Alistair's hair.

Alistair finishes off the toast. He sinks lower into the springs, leaning against Cullen's leg with a quiet sigh.

"So what sort of pleasant things happened today, Commander?"

"Retraining's going well." Quiet. "Even the newer squadrons are improving at an impressive rate. Weather's good. All the reports arrived on time. Healers say injuries are improving. Morale is high. Managed to get a good cup of tea around midday."

He runs his fingertips in slow, gentle lines over Alistair's scalp -- just a little pressure. Not too much.

"Not much more I could ask for, in a single day."

"Good," he murmurs. "I'll save the basket of puppies for a worse day, then."

He's relaxing more under the touch. Hot water's all well and good; this seems to be working better.

"The entirely fictional basket of puppies, you mean." Smiling, audibly.

"Doesn't have to be." Still mostly in a mumble. "I could fold a bunch of out of paper scraps."

"I probably shouldn't encourage you, but I rather like the sound of that."

Alistair smiles, a little. "A project for a worse day, then."

He idly traces his fingers around the knob of Cullen's ankle.

His foot twitches.

"I know I'll regret admitting this," he announces to the air, "but that tickles."

"Oh," innocently, "does it? I'm terribly sorry."

Alistair draws a line down Cullen's foot with one fingertip, starting to grin.