howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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Cullen is fine in the field. He can set up a tent, build a fire, find water safe to drink, make something edible. But he hasn't traveled enough to get the knack of what's wise to bring.

These days it makes little difference, given his status: he helps to set up camp, but there are runners and adjutants to find and fetch things. And there are few enough of them, this time -- not the massed force of the Inquisition, but a patrol's worth of soldiers and scouts and accompanying support -- that in the evenings, Cullen finds himself... restless.

It's akin to the reason he doesn't frequent the Herald's Rest, but there's no office to hide in, and no paperwork to justify staying in the tent.

At least tomorrow he and Alistair will peel off to where Honnleath used to be, to spend the night and rejoin the rest again late the following day.

(This may also contribute to his fidgeting.)

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Good. With any luck, he'll stay that way.

Cullen tilts his head back for a moment and closes his eyes.

Then, silently -- he doesn't want to wake Alistair -- he begins reciting the Chant.

A couple hours past sunrise, Alistair stirs.

No violent jolt to wakefulness this time: he draws breath, opens his eyes, blinks a few time as he finishes surfacing from the Fade. Yawning, he scrubs the heel of his palm into one eye to clear away the sleep dust.

Cullen has been busy.

As much has been packed as can be without bringing the tent down around Alistair's ears. Tea brewed. Breakfast (last night's trout) prepared. He's even polished his greaves and vambraces, which glint obnoxiously in the morning sun by what's left of the campfire.

When Alistair stirs, Cullen, who's returned to his place beside Alistair, goes back to stroking his hair.

The tent seems bigger than when he fell asleep. Huh. Cullen's here, though, so -- that's all right.

"Morning," he mumbles. "I miss anything?"

"Not a thing." Small, warm smile. "There's breakfast. With tea."

Sleepy as he may be, Alistair brightens.

"And here I am lounging about when I could be eating." He snags Cullen's hand, lays a kiss on his palm, then pushes himself to sitting.

-- Oh, that's why the tent looks bigger. Maker, just how late did Alistair sleep?

Cullen's smile goes crooked.

"And as soon as you're done, we should get moving."

Well, that answers his question.

"Really?" He crawls forward to get a look at the sky; when he sees how high the sun's risen, his expression shifts toward rueful. "Damn."

...And then he has to rub his eyes again, because ow, too bright, too early even though it's almost midmorning.

"You needed the sleep," Cullen says, hoping that will forestall guilt. "We're still on time."

"Yes, I know, but..."

He sounds wistful.

"Wish we could stay longer."

A slightly crooked smile -- he doesn't agree, but saying so won't help -- and he says, "They'll send an entire squad after us if we do. Come on, Theirin. Up."

Alistair grumbles dramatically. "Taskmaster," he says, with all due fondness, and heaves himself in the direction of his pack to locate a shirt.

All of his plate will keep until after that tea, thank you.

Fortunately, by the time breakfast is done, he looks considerably more awake. Alistair hauls some water from the lake to douse the last of the coals.

Cullen, meanwhile, is packing the canvas tent as tight as he can before tying it on the horse.

It's been -- fine. Good. But if he lingers, he won't be able to help wanting to explore, and --

He needs paperwork. Or to stab something. Or to travel. Traveling is the easiest option at this point.

Armor donned. Sword and shield strapped in place. Pack added to the horse.

Alistair works quietly, stealing glances out at the water every few moments. It's on the tip of his tongue to make a suggestion, something involving the words small boat and next time, but the assumption that there will ever be a next time --

Well. That's part of why he lingers, once everything's ready to go, to take in the view one last time.

Cullen doesn't. He said his goodbyes a long time ago.

He swings into the saddle. Looks at Alistair. "Ready?"

(His mouth is set. There's nothing in his expression suggesting a desire to linger.)

He looks up at Cullen -- and away, quickly, as if he's been caught doing something embarrassing.

His voice stays light, though: "Ready," he says, and pulls himself up onto his horse.

Cullen's brow furrows, a little, but he turns his horse away.

And he doesn't speak until they're well on their way south.

"We're making good time."

"Good." A slight smile. "Eager to get back to work?"

Unusually for Alistair, there's no teasing lilt to that question.

"Ready, at the very least." Mild. "And you?"

His smile goes crooked. "Ready as I'll ever be, I suppose."

A beat's hesitation.

"The break helped, certainly."

Cullen breaks into a smile. "Good." Sincere. "Be thinking about how best to kidnap me back at Skyhold, then."

Oh, good. Alistair relaxes into an answering smile.

Thoughtful, "I've considered hooking myself up to the winch, slowly lowering myself down to your desk while you're unawares, then grabbing you and hauling you away. What do you think?"

Through laughter:

"Yes. Do that."

"And shall I hum some dramatic music while I'm at it?"

Grinning, now.

"If it would improve your experience."