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The trapdoor clunked down behind him and he set aside the pile of papers before unbuckling sword belt and kicking off his boots. Breastplate next, he'd learnt to do that one handed, the buckles chosen to be reachable easily, and the little half step backwards to avoid it falling onto his feet was automatic. As always, he felt momentarily light, easy. The warmth of his mantle settling around him without the barrier of metal.
He picked up the breastplate and carried it and his boots to the armour stand.
Straightened it, lined up his boots. Checked for a clean shirt and braced his shoulders in acceptance realising he only had one clean one left, which meant engaging with the laundress.
Very well. Armour was clean enough, but he wiped it over nonetheless. Sword belt rubbed down with oil. Blade checked.
He hadn't used them today. It didn't matter. Every night, check your gear, clean your blade.
He poured the single glass of small ale, and cut precisely ¼ of the loaf, and an 1/8th wedge of cheese.
No apples left, and he frowned, had he miscounted. Then he remembered, yesterday's had been rotten, and it had spread to the last one too. Marylin brought the basket every week, she'd bring more tomorrow. He did not need an apple. He broke his fast on the same porridge they gave all the inquisition forces, studded with dried fruits and nuts for its strength. Lunchtime was a plate of stew, often more turnip than meat, so he'd no fear of the sailors' curse.
His mouth watered for a brief moment, at the thought of a soft fresh peach, or honey for his bread but no mind. This food met his needs. It was acceptable enough.
Food eaten at the window, it meant the crumbs spilled from shaking hands fell to the ground, not attracting vermin to his room. The cup rinsed with rainwater. Dried and placed back on the shelf. Rainwater enough to splash his face with. Marylin had offered to bring hot water, but it was hardly her duty, and besides, it would likely as not be cold by the time he finally got to his room each night.
The moon was high in the sky, the distant sound of the guard calling the watch told him it was nearly midnight. The papers needed his attention, but.... it was midnight, he could wait. If he started it would be tomorrow already. It was acceptable for him to review them at dawn watch, not now. It would save a candle too.
He sat down, then without pulling back the blankets, lay down.
The slight give of his pallet, the relief of being horizontal, of having space for his body to stretch out, weight removed from his legs. The exquisite pleasure ripped through him, as always it took half his strength with it.
He never knew how long he lay there. But the wave of relief receded, leaving behind awareness. The ache in his calves, tight pressure at his temples. His hands trembling against the bedclothes. Cold biting at every exposed piece of skin.
It was a new agony to haul his body upright enough to pull back blankets and coverings, and then lie down again. Not the first loose sprawl, but on his side. The way he'd learnt to sleep in barracks. Now he curled, shoulders hunched against cold, face to the trapdoor, hand ready to clasp dagger if needed. The body cried out to him, red hot pain in his shoulder. He shifted, freed his arm a little and it grumbled to a purple blue, low enough that he could ignore it and sleep.
….
He only woke twice, the first time was the dark hours watch, as usual. He pulled his mantle on top of the blankets and that gave him enough warmth to fall back into sleep.
The next waking was close to dawn, and the cold had crept in round the edges. He was always tired enough then to drift back off, but the cold stopped him sleeping too deeply, so he'd not risk dreams in those witching hours before dawn.
He woke for the third time as the guard changed outside his door below.
Up, break the thin film of ice in the basin, the shock of cold aching in the fingertips as he washed his face.
Arm, stretch and hold, water dripping down his cheek in reaction to the sharp pain. Warmth bloomed in the muscle and he had enough movement to dress.
Clean shirt, mantle, boots.
Bedcovers, pulled tight and straight.
He lifted the trapdoor, let himself down the ladder slowly and clumsily. Marylin was never here this early, the guard was detailed to bring him porridge and the overnight reports.
He read them standing by the window, one hand cupped round the porridge bowl, waiting to eat it until it was nearly cold for the warmth it gave his fingers.
He didn't sign anything yet.
He reclimbed the ladder. In his room he shaved first, whilst he still held the porridge warmth in his fingers. Not smooth, never smooth; but acceptable for the Commander. Breastplate, sword belt.
Marylin moved around downstairs and he went back down to meet her, descending the ladder smoothly (not easily, never easily). He signed the overnight reports first. 1356, accounted for in Skyhold. 27 in the infirmary, but none serious. 93 in Inquisition outposts and camps. Waiting for the weekly updates, but no raven word that their numbers had been changed. 1,476. Men and women. Alive.
And their commander. Alive.
Another day.