howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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.)

The stream is broadening, and the ground getting muddy; Cullen nudges his horse to the left, to circle around a tall outcropping of rocks. "Or," he says, "or we could work very hard so that the lake seems like the best option."

"Hmmmmmm," says Alistair, drawing out that one syllable as long as he can. He drops back to let Cullen take the lead. "Sounds promising. Tell me more."

Cullen raises his voice accordingly. "What do you say we spend our one night away from everything doing heavy labor like moving stones around, for the enjoyment and benefit of no one?"

"You're very lucky," says Alistair, thoughtfully, "that you're so far away. And that the pillow is buried under fifteen other things in your pack. Much harder to throw it at you."

Cullen flashes a grin at Alistair over his shoulder and rounds one last outcropping of rocks --

And there it is.

A perfectly picturesque lake, of respectable size, reflecting a clear blue under the sky. There are a few low cliffs, on the other side; closest to them are a small dock and a long, flat grassy stretch.

Cullen brings his horse up and looks out.

He turns to Alistair, and gestures forward.

"Well." Softer, with a small, sheepish smile. "We're here."

Alistair nudges his horse until he's pulled alongside Cullen, eyes on the lake.

Since his return from the Fade, he's come to appreciate the little pockets of stillness that arise here and there; the moments -- and places -- where he feels safest, where his mind quiets down to a whisper as the tension uncoils from his shoulders. This...well, it's not like he knows the lake, but it's still easy to see how it became a refuge for Cullen. Alistair can picture him as a boy, years before they met, sitting at the edge of the dock and listening to the water lap the shoreline.

It's quiet. Peaceful. Safe.

"It's beautiful," he murmurs.

"It hasn't changed."

The best part.

A bird fusses in a nearby tree; Cullen looks at it. "I haven't the heart to tell it to be quiet," he says -- cheerfully. "Shall we camp? Then we can get on with idleness."