howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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?"

"Fed by snows," Cullen says, and nudges his horse into a trot. "Good after a long day in the fields, but miserable in every other instance!"

That spurs an exaggerated shiver out of Alistair.

"I was going to suggest a more fun way to end up in the lake," he says, coaxing his horse to keep pace with Cullen's, "but I've changed my mind."

"I'm afraid." Dry. "What is it?"

"Just a swim."

Innocent. So innocent.

"That's all."

"That's all, is it."

Cullen does not sound convinced.

"Why?" Cheerful. "Were you expecting something more, ser?"

"You seem to forget, Theirin," Cullen says. "I know you."

Alistair's smile blossoms into a grin. (Perhaps surprisingly: it's a sweet, uncomplicated grin, not one of the wicked smirks that'd usually accompany something like this.)

"True," he allows. "You do."

It winkles an answering grin out of Cullen; how could it not?

"So? What else is it, then?"

"A swim."

A beat.

"A naked swim."

Longer beat.

"That might come about after getting thoroughly distracted on the docks and rolling off into the water -- "

Cullen is too busy laughing to respond immediately.

"I won't reject the suggestion out of hand."

"Snow melt, though," Alistair points out. "Perhaps we could skip the swim part. Or save it for a warmer lake."

He's beaming.

"Or both." Cullen is grinning. "I like the sound of both."

Alistair laughs. "I think we can arrange for both, then."

(Maker, it's good to see Cullen smiling again.)