howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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."

"I've no complaints," says Alistair, grinning. He swings down from his saddle -- with a slight wince; just like his armor and weapons, he's still not entirely used to long journeys on horseback -- and, reins in hand, guides his horse to the water's edge so it can drink its fill.

"Should that bird make itself known before sunrise, though, I say all bets are off."

"That's what birds do," says Cullen, following suit. As his mount and the pack horse drink, he stretches unselfconsciously.

(It seems -- silly, now, to be worried that this place had changed. Or corrupted.)

"I brought fishing line. And a hook."

Alistair brightens. "Perfect," he declares. "I'll dig for bait once we've finished making camp?"

Not to disparage trail rations, but...they're trail rations. They can't compare to fresh fish.

"...we'll make that your official job," Cullen says, stifling laughter.

He turns to the pack horse, to relieve it of its burdens.

Serene: "Always happy to be of service."

The pack horse whuffs, moving on to some of the grass near the shoreline. Alistair joins Cullen to haul their gear off its back; the sooner everything's unpacked and set, the sooner they can get on with the fun bits.

(His fingers brush Cullen's, more than once.)

Horses settled first. Shelter next: the tent's sizeable -- Cullen can nearly stand to his full height in it -- but he's almost used to wrangling it.

When the stakes are in, he settles down in front, removing gauntlets and gloves and vambraces, and starts to pull grass out in a circle for a campfire.

"Don't even think about it," he warns Alistair, without turning.

"What?"

...actually, it sounds more like whmph?, thanks to the jerky Alistair immediately dug from his pack once the tent was set up.

"Good." Darkly.

Now he does turn around -- and tries hard to hide his amusement.

"Couldn't wait? More fish for me."

Hastily, Alistair swallows his mouthful of food.

Sheepish: "I was hungry."

And apparently, those months of relative idleness in Skyhold have fully restored his appetite to its pre-Fade days.

"Not as though we've been riding since daybreak or anything," he observes, shrugging out of his coat. "Or that it's midday -- " And breastplate, and pauldrons. " -- and time for lunch."

Cullen flops on his back, then, tucking his arms behind his head, turning his face to the sun.

He closes his eyes. He couldn't stop smiling if he wanted to. (He doesn't.)

"Ah, yes. All those minor details."

Alistair polishes off the jerky; he studies Cullen for a beat or two, an unconscious smile tugging at his lips.

Then he drops onto the grass next to him, stretching out alongside, and leans his head on Cullen's arm.

"I'm being attacked," Cullen announces, and wraps his arm around Alistair. "Oh dear."