On occasion, like now, Alistair thinks of the unsent letter Cullen wrote months ago. The one where he called himself monster; where he commanded his sister to put him from her mind.

There has to be some way to impress upon Cullen that -- that what? That he should let his siblings decide those things for themselves? That there can be a middle ground in communication, somewhere between laying every fault bare and a terse one-sentence note?

That Alistair would've given his left arm to get letters like that from Cailan, or Maric, or Fiona?

(It keeps coming back to that, doesn't it. The pure, selfish wish that he could have what Cullen has. And that's no foundation to build an argument on.

Maybe he should just keep his mouth shut for once.)




Alistair closes his eyes, trying to follow Cullen into a doze, but finds himself stirring awake before long. They're out in the open, and the lake -- it looks safe, but he doesn't know. Not like Cullen might.

Better just to keep watch. No reason he can't stay awake while he's lounging in the sun.