howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

I fucked that up, he thinks, wincing -- it's not about orders, it can't be. And he can't -- normally he doesn't mind when Alistair uses his title, but this --

Cullen blurts, "I expect to see some nugs in there, Theirin."

Alistair pauses, one hand almost to the doorknob.

His smile's straightened out -- and warmed considerably -- as he looks over his shoulder.

"At least ten per page," he agrees. "Don't worry."

"I shan't, then," Cullen says, with a quick (and slightly doofy) grin. "Until later."

"Until then." Warm. "Love you."

And out the door he goes.

Sweet silence.

Cullen sits, pours himself some more tea, and sets about finishing his sandwich. In peace. That'll be enough break for him.

Alistair's halfway down the battlements before he realizes he forgot to take his journal with him.

...Nope! Nope. Not going back to their quarters and interrupting Cullen again. He'll just have to soldier on.

"Soldiering on" looks a lot like taking a detour to the library in search of a blank ledger or similar. There's a Tranquil woman there who conducts research on all the beasties Lavellan finds in her travels; Alistair swallows down his discomfort long enough to ask her for some paper and a quill.

(Fiona's there, too. Their eyes inadvertently meet when he glances over; he looks away, swiftly, and tries to ignore the itch on his neck that means she's still watching him.)

Soon after, he's settled in the courtyard to sketch a highly accurate rendition of all its comings and goings -- if by "highly accurate," you mean "everyone who passes through his line of sight gets drawn as a stick-figure nug."

In time, that includes a pair of soldiers who were part of his and Cullen's retinue as they returned to Skyhold.

My hand to the Maker, says one of them. Heard it from that Kenric lad himself. A mage! And an elf too!

The other one snorts. Like we haven't been servin' an elf Inquisitor for months, he says. That's not the interestin' bit. A mage? The Chantry'll shit when they hear that.

Alistair frowns, quill hovering above the page.

No reason they can't shit over both, remarks the first, dryly. Not sure Kenric'll...

They're out of earshot before Alistair can make out exactly what they're not sure about, vis a vis Kenric.

He'd ordered that he's to be left alone but for reports at noon, at midafternoon, and before dusk. He almost -- almost -- gets as much cleared off of his desk as went onto it by noon.

At which point, everything from the morning that couldn't wait until tonight lands.

And to think I'd hoped to spend more time in the springs, Cullen thinks, a little despairing. Or visit the chantry. Or meet with Leliana.

The midafternoon messenger brings him another sandwich, along with more work. Cullen scarfs it with a report in his other hand.

Alistair works a loop around Skyhold at a steady pace. From the courtyard, it's on to the stables; to the kitchens; to the garden; to the great hall and the undercroft.

(Also to the springs, because, look, it's very important he be thorough about this survey. That particular sketch has a single nug luxuriating in a steamy pool of water, a look of total bliss on its face, and the caption, THE DOUBLE COMMANDER SAYS: THE SPRINGS PASS INSPECTION!)

He wanders to Herald's Rest just before midafternoon. Bull's quite pleased to see him in one piece, and demands the full details of his time in the Basin over a drink or two; that draws things out another hour or so (and gets a sketch of an oversized nug with an eyepatch and a very impressive set of ears). After that...

Well. He's at a bit of a loss after that.

To the library once more, then. Alistair has every intention of returning the quill and maybe going back to the springs, or saying hello to Leliana, or seeing if Varric's got any new stories in the works, or -- something that will squash the impulse to find Cullen. Anything. But as he circles the rotunda, idly skimming the book titles, he finds his steps slowing. His mind wandering.

A mage and an elf, the soldiers said. An elf Inquisitor. Kenric.

Didn't Cullen have a book about Inquisitor Ameridan once upon a time?

He drifts into one of the alcoves, and begins to skim the titles with far more intent.

The good thing about doing research? If it's not the boring sort, it can keep you occupied for hours before you realize it.

Well after sundown, Alistair's still hunched over a pair of books in one of the library alcoves.

Cullen hasn't noticed the sun's gone down.

He's making calculations, adding to a piece of scratch paper covered with other such calculations: timetables for travel, comparing arrivals to averages, cross-checking supply chain contracts with the specified times.

Angles of calibration, for the proposed extra battery of siege engines to replace those destroyed in the Arbor Wilds. They can and should do better on those specifications, Cullen writes in a sharp hand to Josephine. Engines coming out of Val Royeaux two years ago could exceed those parameters with ease. They're trying to get something past us.

Damned if he can figure out what. Or why.

We should meet to discuss this at your earliest convenience.

Cullen feels like he's been writing that phrase a lot today. And every time he does, a little more life is sucked out of him.

At some point, Alistair grimaces, pulls at his neck to get rid of a crick, looks up -- and swears under his breath as he sees it's full dark.

Is Cullen still working? ...Who is he kidding. He's positive Cullen's still working.

Still: he scoops up the books, plus all his sketches, and dashes from the library. If Cullen shoos him out again, he'll just run a few laps around Skyhold.

Cullen is still working.

A pause point is within sight, though it's a dot on the distant horizon. When Alistair comes in, Cullen won't lift his head; his hair will be rumpled from running his fingers through it; the room will be cold from the brazier he never bothered to relight.

Alistair takes all of this in.

With a nearly-silent sigh, he pads over to the chaise, depositing his things alongside the book he couldn't finish that morning. Don't interrupt, he tells himself. There are things he can do that don't involve interrupting.

First among them being the brazier, which he relights from a torch off the wall. Gradually, the chill in the room dissipates; Alistair warms his hands over the small grate.

Food probably ought to be next, but that involves asking the dreaded have you eaten recently? question that always makes Cullen pull a face. Interruption and annoyance. Best Alistair wait on that.

Soon he'll have his coat back, maybe. In the morning. But -- shouldn't it be colder -- ?

Cullen looks up, and realizes there's a dull throb at the front of his skull.

"Oh," he says, sounding surprised. And exhausted. "Hello."

A quirk of a smile, more fond than not. "Hello."

He rubs the back of his hair.

"You have my word I'll be quiet this time." A beat. "Unless you'd prefer a break?"

(He wouldn't ask, but...well, exhausted is certainly one word for Cullen's tone.)

Cullen shakes his head a little. "No, I'm -- almost there."

This is not a lie. More like an exaggeration.

"Rather just push through."

"All right."

If Alistair's skeptical of that claim, he does a good job of hiding it. He scoops up his books and sketches; approaches the desk. "I'll be upstairs. And -- "

He lays the small sheaf of paper alongside the legit reports.

"Don't fall asleep before you read that one," he finishes, before giving Cullen a peck on the cheek.

"Of course not," Cullen says, squeezing Alistair's fingers. "I'm aware it's very time-sensitive."

"Quite."

His smile blossoms to a grin as he returns the squeeze.

"See you soon."

Cullen nods, rakes his fingers through his hair, and turns his attention back to his desk.

That's -- another few hours worth of work? Not so bad. He can do that.

If Cullen's still working by the time Alistair finishes both books, he decides, he'll check to make sure he hasn't fallen asleep at his desk. That's as far as any fussing can go.

Anyway, it's not really fussing, is it? It's just making sure Cullen gets a decent night's sleep in an actual bed.

...All right, maybe it's sort of fussing. A little.

After shedding a few layers, he makes himself comfortable with the book he found about the Exalted March of the Dales. Kenric's tome about Ameridan rests at his side, opened to a spot near the middle.

(Not exactly light bedtime reading, he'll admit.)

Three more hours, he thinks, and he can stop. He can do three more hours.

But he hits a roadblock sooner than he'd expected -- and it's nothing important enough to wake anyone or roust them out of the Herald's Rest.

So, with a sigh, Cullen reaches for the fair copies Kenric made of a few of the documents that Lavellan turned up. I thought they might be of some interest, Kenric said; Cullen couldn't quite tell if he was merely acting more scattered than usual in the name of avoidance, or if he was genuinely distracted.

When Cullen reaches the journal, he thinks, distantly, that his money's on the former.

He knows the story of the second Exalted March, of course. Everyone who was brought up through the Chantry does. The massacre at Red Crossing, the declaration by Divine Renata I, the ten-year battle against the heathen elven savages, their futile last stand on the Exalted Plains. Even as a child, Alistair remembers frowning at how...simple it all seemed. How all that talk about delivering the elves from wickedness and showing them Andraste's light by -- what, killing them all? How it didn't seem right.

Just say you're attacking them because they attacked you, he remembers thinking.

And now, of course -- well. He's acquainted with Lavellan. He's met his fair share of elves, city and Dalish. He knows about Fiona.

The book he found could've come straight out of his lessons fifteen years ago, and the way it talks about the elves rings so hollow.

When he can't bear to read any more of it, he trades it for Kenric's book; soon after, though, he has to close that one, too, and tips his head back to regard the branches spreading above him.

Alistair is diligent, Cullen thinks, and he's especially diligent when encouraged to commit some kind of gentle foolery. Which means the 'report' on Cullen's desk is likely to make Cullen laugh.

He should save it to go over with Alistair. That would be best.

Absently, his fingers fiddle with the bracelet on his other wrist. He leans against the arrow-slit window, looking out at the fires in the valley.

Is it quieter downstairs, or is he imagining it?

Technically, he hasn't finished either book yet. Technically. But the odds of doing any more reading seem slim.

Alistair swings his feet out of bed and pads to the ladder; rather than descending right away, he peers down into Cullen's office, just to check.

The cool stone feels good against his head, easing the ache.

Five more seconds, he thinks.

"At what cost?" T. asked me that once. I said it costs nothing, but I don't know. I met a man who'd fought longer than I, but his mind had faded with age, and he could not answer. The point remains that I can do more. I can be more effective. We've all seen the demons, what they did. We've seen what some would do with blood. The better question is, who pays the cost if no one takes this chance?

He breathes out, slowly.