[sandbox]

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair surprises himself: he adapts to the Basin a lot quicker than he expected.

The camps feel -- snug, he decides. In a good way. Trees overhead, a limited number of egress points, a vantage point so high it puts every night by the ladder to shame: they're not the stone walls of Skyhold, but maybe they're the next best thing. After an initial restless night or two, he sleeps soundly.

(Knowing he's surrounded by lots of people with sharp, pointy weapons? Also helpful.)

Joining the patrol rotations seems like a decent next step. No point in being in the field, especially after all that training with Bull, if he's just going to twiddle his thumbs all day.

Comments

[howtoactfereldan]

On that front, at least, Alistair has succeeded. Cullen's too occupied with maintaining some kind of equilibrium, some kind of control --

-- because it's dangerous to lose control, especially in an unfamiliar place where you're vulnerable and where demons burst out of rifts nastier than anything the Inquisitor's seen thus far --

-- and when you know what demons would do with you, given a sliver of a chance --

-- to think about his desk, or maps, or intelligence reports in from the distant camps regarding the movements of the Jaws of Hakkon.

Cullen has found that rest and proper vigilance are mutually exclusive states of being.





Perhaps someone somewhere has managed to wholly separate mind and body; it's not Cullen, at any rate. When he comes, it's with a great shuddery breath. He presses his hands to his eyes, drags them down.

Reaches out, after a moment, and cups the back of Alistair's head, fingers sliding into his hair. Aims a warm, foolish smile at Alistair as though no one else exists in the world.

(For a moment or two, there isn't anyone else.)

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair wipes a thumb over his mouth. He settles his chin on Cullen's belly, smiling up at him, fond and pleased.

(He could watch Cullen smile like that all day.)

"All right?" he murmurs.

[howtoactfereldan]

He combs his fingers through Alistair's hair, the gesture protective, possessive.

(Anyone rash enough to press an ear to the side of the tent will have a good idea of what goes on tonight. Of course, that would also mean getting caught, and getting latrine duty.)

"Unless you wanted me to move any time soon." One corner of Cullen's mouth curls up further. "But I'll get my revenge."

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair chuckles. He turns his head so he can rest his cheek on Cullen's stomach.

Warm, and contented: "Take your time."

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen settles his hand on Alistair's head, fingers rubbing gentle, idle.




"I suppose," he says, softly, "it's only fair that I take my turn at being a pillow."

He shifts his legs, the better to accommodate Alistair.

"A pleasure, to serve a handsome man."

[bringspeopletogether]

"Mm." He makes himself comfortable, one hand curled loosely around Cullen's thigh.

(It takes a little effort: he's trying not to break contact with Cullen's hand.)

"You think I'm handsome?"

[howtoactfereldan]

"Severely." Solemn. "Severely handsome."

[bringspeopletogether]

"That sounds like entirely too much handsome."

No less fond, and struggling not to laugh.

[howtoactfereldan]

"Mm. No." Cullen shakes his head a little. "Just the right amount."

[bringspeopletogether]

"Lucky for both of us, then."

He lets his eyes close.

"I wouldn't know what to do with any extra handsome. Send it off to the less fortunate, maybe?"

[howtoactfereldan]

"Then they wouldn't work on their other redeeming qualities."

His hand still moves through Alistair's hair, slow, steady.

"Not interested in them, though. Just you."

[bringspeopletogether]

"Good." Soft, as he curls closer.

Cullen's protective; Alistair's secure, at peace. The tent descends into a comfortable silence.

[howtoactfereldan]

Maybe this was the end point of what Alistair was after tonight, Cullen muses. At least they got there. Found some kind of compromise.

It's good to be in the Basin. But he misses Skyhold. Their room. Their bed.

(He might have taken a clipping from a plant at the lake, carefully coaxing it into a steady life, for their return. A secret, for now: something he can keep for himself, until the time is right.

Other things, though... they bear some thinking about.)

[bringspeopletogether]

After a time, Alistair disentangles himself, gently -- but only so he can scoot higher to rest his head on Cullen's shoulder.

He ought to sleep. (Try to sleep.) Despite the calm that's settled over him, though, he can't close his eyes for more than a minute or two.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen doesn't say anything about that.

He just works his arm around Alistair, and settles his hand back on Alistair's head.

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair lets out a small sigh, turning into the touch like a plant seeking sunlight. He wraps his arm around Cullen. More...snugly than usual.

(He's clinging. Why deny it.)

[howtoactfereldan]

If Alistair needs to say something, Cullen knows, he'll say it. Pushing isn't likely to help.

Besides, this right here is what Cullen actually wanted. He touches his lips to Alistair's forehead, and doesn't speak.

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair's smile returns, faintly.

He should say something. He just -- can't think of what. Words still feel a bit too distant to grasp properly, and the old worry, that he'll say the wrong thing and destroy the peace they've cultivated, keeps him from reaching too far to begin with.

He closes his eyes.

Eventually, as the noise outside their tent dips to a subaudible hum, he even dozes off.

[howtoactfereldan]

So does Cullen, more soundly.

He'll make his proposal tomorrow, about the letters. When they can sneak a chance. For now, though, he can barely keep his eyes open.

[bringspeopletogether]

At one point, Alistair stirs from Cullen's side long enough to drag a blanket over. Beyond that, he barely moves the whole night -- and barely sleeps, either, falling out of and into a doze like a boat bobbing on ocean waves.

As soon as dawn arrives, he drops a kiss on Cullen's shoulder before sneaking free of the blanket. Patrol's -- when is his patrol due to start? Soon, isn't it? Or maybe in a couple hours. No matter, he'll take a walk (or a jog) around camp to kill time if he's not due to start his rotation yet.

It's fine. It'll be fine.

[howtoactfereldan]

Alistair's gone, when Cullen wakes. (The birds in the Basin are... very enthusiastic about noise.) He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and reaches for his trousers.

A few minutes later he's back at his desk.

[bringspeopletogether]

Patrol with the green recruits remains low-stakes; they stick to old paths rather than forging new ones, sweeping the territory under Inquisition protection to ensure nothing -- or nobody -- has tried to reclaim it. Today's intent is to extend their watch from early morning to midafternoon, with a short interlude to test how swiftly they can set up and break down a small temporary camp.

As the foul-mouthed Orlesian kid struggles his way through starting a fire (without magic, the captain insists; just because they've a mage in their group today doesn't mean they always will), Alistair takes a seat atop a nearby rock. He fishes out the leather scrap he found last night; turns it over in his hands, considering, before unstrapping a small knife from his belt.

One ear attuned to their surroundings, he begins to pare tiny bits off the scrap, trying to shape some kind of design at its center. A yard away, the mage strikes up a conversation with another recruit: an elf from Halamshiral, who could give Skinner a run for her money with the sheer number of knives she carries.

They're talking about how they came to join the Inquisition. Better than the alienage, says the elf, and unconsciously, Alistair's paring slows.

[howtoactfereldan]

Mid-morning, Cullen and Harding take a walk to the lake. He has records; she doesn't write anything down unless she can't help it. He rather admires her amiable demeanor: it invites underestimation, which is one reason she's so effective in the field as one of Leliana's operatives.

Lieutenant Farrow is scheduled to come in tonight, Harding says, and he'll go out again tomorrow or the next day. That would be the best time for you to go visiting. We could send someone out with you, but that would mean taking them away from somewhere else.

No, I quite understand, Cullen says. He palms a flat rock. I don't wish to disturb your efforts. You've done a really remarkable job here, Lieutenant.

I -- thank you, Commander. Harding looks surprised, and a little embarrassed. That's... kind of you to say.

Cullen, of course, has no idea what that feeling is like at all. So he says, simply, It's the truth, and skips the rock across the surface of the lake. I realize that Sister Leliana and I frequently prefer... disparate approaches. It's no small task to bridge that, and you and Farrow have accomplished a great deal with very little.

I try my best, Commander, Harding says, and stoops to pick up a rock herself. When she throws it, Cullen loses count at seven skips.

Well, now you've ruined it, Cullen says. Harding laughs.

[bringspeopletogether]

The mage frowns. I thought Halamshiral didn't have an alienage.

They say they don't. She spits. Might as well. Humans get the High Quarter and we get the rest. You can't even go up there if you're elf-blooded, let alone elven.

Alistair's head snaps up before he's aware of it.

Anyway, the woman goes on -- neither seem to have noticed his reaction, thank the Maker -- I'm sure you'll be shocked to hear I got sick of it. Val Royeaux's even worse. So here I am. How about you?

The mage shrugs, starts to relay the same story Alistair heard a thousand times in the Wardens, of hedge mages seeking protection, choosing any path they could find that wouldn't end with the Chantry caging them. Alistair draws breath, lets it out slowly, and returns to work.

What about you?

...Maybe they did notice his reaction. Alistair glances up, warily. Hm?

You're a Warden, right? How'd you end up here? I thought all the Wardens were...somewhere not here, the mage finishes lamely.

Carefully, Alistair sheathes his knife. For a long, silent moment, he regards the man -- a boy, really, not much older than their Orlesian friend still cursing at the fire to catch already, Maker damn you. The look goes on long enough that the mage starts fidgeting.

And Alistair tells him. About Warden-Commander Clarel; about his own research into Corypheus; about Hawke, and the battle at Adamant, and deciding upon his return that he couldn't serve Weisshaupt any longer. He keeps it succinct, and conveniently glosses over every single detail about his little two-month jaunt to the Fade, but it's still enough that the mage looks a little pale around the edges when he's done.

In a further stroke of convenience, that's when the captain calls the mage over for his own bit of fire-starting practice. (Also sans magic, just to expand his skill set.)

Not so much the funny one any longer as the scary one, thinks Alistair wearily, and unsheathes his knife again.

[howtoactfereldan]

If he's really heading into the field in the next few days, he should make sure he's got all his kit together and in good shape right now. Oiling leather, polishing armor, memorizing maps. He meets with Kenric, too, to listen to entirely too much history (and, at least for a moment, to talk Starkhaven).

Something still unsettles him, about last night. He looks down at the pages of intelligence he's gone through, today, and reports from the field.

Then, with nothing else pressing, he sits down and begins to write.