One moment wishing for his bedroll -- it is much softer than the ground -- but that's all Cullen allows himself.

The water's right. The birds are right. The wind in the trees is right. Nothing ever quite managed to replicate it, just so -- not Kirkwall, not Val Royeaux, not even Haven. (Too much snow, too many rocks.)

He doesn't think he could stay here. He thinks it would be a very bad idea to go look for traces of the farm, the village. He thinks he'll be glad to move on tomorrow.

Until then, it's much easier to focus on all the things he can't see, and to be still.