howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"Did I ever say it was exciting?"

Alistair's laughing again, quiet and fond.

"No. Pleasant, yes. Comforting. Peaceful. Not exciting."

"It's almost as though you're saying," Cullen says, "that the point of this is quiet."

"Shhhh."

He pats Cullen's head.

"I have a reputation to uphold, Commander. Don't tell anyone I actually enjoy quiet things sometimes."

"Never."

Cullen nestles closer, and shuts his eyes.

(And allows himself a moment to be so glad Alistair could come.)

"Oh, good."

Alistair presses another soft kiss to Cullen's forehead. "Sleep well," he murmurs. "I love you."

I'm here.

"Love you too," he mumbles.

Third watch will end just before dawn, and they'll be on the road again by sunrise. Fortunately Cullen's tired enough that it doesn't take long at all for him to drop off.

Alistair isn't far behind.

His sleep's been more restless since they began traveling; hyperaware of every unfamiliar noise, he wakes every couple of hours, lies awake, listens hard.

(Tunes into Cullen's breathing, eventually, and drifts off again.)

He's up for good just before third watch ends.

When Cullen wakes -- not long after -- he plants a sleepy kiss on the corner of Alistair's mouth, and mumbles something that sounds like morning.

"Morning," whispers Alistair in return.

Uneasy sleep: always worth it, to wake up to this. (Worth it, if his presence can ease Cullen even a little.)

He doesn't ask his customary sleep all right? -- he was awake often enough to see for himself. Instead: "Heard the watch changing over."

"Mm."

Cullen rubs at his eyes. Gravel-voiced: "Sooner we move, sooner we see if it's still there."

He's not holding out much hope. He can settle for matter-of-fact perseverance.

Were it any other morning, Alistair might try to coax Cullen, however playfully, to stay in bed a little longer. Considering how Cullen reacted at the mere suggestion of not going to Honnleath, though...

Not today.

"All right," is all he murmurs instead. One last squeeze, and he pushes the blankets aside to start reassembling his pack.

Alistair said it meant a lot, to see it. They're going. Simple as that.

Cullen picks up two sets of rations and instructs the lieutenant and her second that if he and Alistair don't make the rendezvous tomorrow afternoon, to send a bird for reinforcements and then search immediately. We're not anticipating problems, but the area's been unsettled since the Blight, he tells them. They nod, a little grimly.

It's a good sign, that he can say that without any expression. It's good.

Three horses, then: one for each of them, and one for the tent. Cullen's jaw is set as he adjusts the straps on the pack horse.

As he passes by, Alistair catches Cullen's elbow, briefly: just long enough for a quick squeeze. Hopefully, he thinks, he doesn't look as concerned as he feels.

(Considering Alistair's total lack of a poker face, it seems unlikely.)

When he reaches his horse, he takes a moment to rub its nose, clucking his tongue in a soft greeting. The horse sneezes in reply. "All right, yes, good morning to you too," laughs Alistair, and hoists himself into the saddle.

As does Cullen, whose spirits are not quite so high.

He looks at Alistair; when he speaks, his voice is light enough. "Forget anything? Last chance."

Alistair figures he could go two routes here: crack a joke, or say something mushy.

Or, the third (boring) option:

"Not that I can recall," he says, with a slight smile. "Onward?"

"Onward," Cullen agrees, and nudges his horse into movement.

He's quiet; it's perhaps to be expected. At least the weather's nice, he thinks: air crisp, sky blue and cloudless. If Cullen's calculations are right, they ought to know by noon whether this was a very bad idea, and it'll give them time to catch up to the rest.

You planned it as best you can, he tells himself. And if it goes wrong, you'll be too busy trying to catch up to talk about it.

Alistair's hesitant to break the silence. It feels like the type that ought to stay intact -- but a distraction might be welcome at some point, just so Cullen has more than his thoughts for company. Maybe.

(Adding to this: Alistair's tired, and twitchy under that big cloudless sky. Hard to think up good stories or jokes when he's in that state.)

He steers his horse close to Cullen's as they move along. It's -- good, having the extra reassurance.

Wetlands to the west, hills to the south and east. The further south they go, the tenser Cullen gets.

At the bottom of a hill they can see the skeletal remains of a windmill, one arm broken, sails ragged and torn.

His voice sounds rusty from disuse. "Can you tell if it's safe?"

Alistair is resistant to the Blight. Cullen... isn't.

Low: "No darkspawn."

His brow's knitted as he guides his horse to a slow plod.

"Doesn't look blighted either. Or -- " He shakes his head. "I don't know. Blighted land's not darkspawn, but sometimes it makes you itch if it's bad. No itching."

Cullen's mouth twitches.

"That's something." Quietly. "At least there's that."

At the next crossroads, a faded sign points the way to Honnleath. Cullen takes the opposite direction, and then eases off the road and through an overgrown field. Fenceposts are still visible, here and there.

"It looks like it's supposed to, this time of year."

The wind and some crows are the only noise.

"Apart from all of this lying fallow."

Cautiously optimistic, Alistair says, "That's good."

He's listening hard, still, waiting for the moment the noises shift. It doesn't come. Neither does the hum in his blood that means they're about to stumble into a nest of darkspawn.

(Since Corypheus's false Calling, Alistair can recognize that hum as something worse: the faintest, subaudible song, like vibrations in the soil. Like the opening strains of the music that takes all Wardens in the end.)

The high grass rustles as their horses trek on.

They descend, then, into a small valley, where the plains give way to tree cover by the water. And Cullen begins to smile, a little.

He points. "We're close. This stream feeds in."

A sidelong look at Alistair.

"Looks fine to me."

Alistair relaxes into a smile.

"Still no darkspawn, either." Twigs crack beneath the horses' hooves; Alistair looks up at the canopy of leaves. "If there was any Blight, it healed years ago."

It's --

Cullen can't even describe how much of a relief it is. This part of his life is over, has been for years, and nobody lives here any more, but --

But.

"Consider this your final warning," he says, as ominously as he can.

"Any whistles out of grass, and it's into the lake with you."

Alistair shifts the reins to one hand so he can press a palm over his heart. "You have my word. No whistles."

Beat.

"Out of curiosity, exactly how cold is the lake?"