howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"Ah, yes, even better." He's grinning, now. "Who could want for anything more?"

"...we were in Kirkwall. When we could have been... literally anywhere else."

"True. A small raft in the middle of the ocean would be preferable to Kirkwall. Orlais might be better than Kirkwall."

A pause.

"No, wait, let's not take it that far."

Cullen snorts. "Val Royeaux is far preferable, believe me."

Alistair lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Placing Kirkwall on par with being strung upside down by your toenails for a week, at minimum. I'm glad for all our sakes the Inquisition set up camp elsewhere."

He snags Cullen's hand again.

A low laugh. "I liked the university quarter." Linking their fingers again. "Lots of book stalls and cheap food. Everybody too preoccupied with their own thoughts to interrupt mine. I did a lot of reading in those taverns between Kirkwall and the Conclave."

"Sounds perfect for you." The fond smile's come back. "Any thrilling books of interest, or was it all Kordillus Drakon?"

"Very recent treatises on engineering and mathematics, actually. Helpful in the details of establishing fortifications."

And -- soothing, to the mind. Orderly things, numbers.

"And calibrating trebuchets, I'm certain."

Serene.

"Yes." Dry. "That was the point, in fact. Since I hadn't had experience with that, and there was a reasonable expectation of siege engines ahead."

"Then I'm further glad, for your sake, that the trebuchets came to pass and let you put all your hard studies to work," says Alistair. "And should I ever need to calculate the precise arc to lob a tomato from the tower onto Solas's head, I'll know who to ask."

"You should calculate it yourself. It's good for you."

Alistair wrinkles his nose. "You know I've no head for that sort of thing."

He can't even hold his own in a chess game against a ten-year-old.

Cullen rolls his eyes. "I won't believe it until you've tried to figure it out for yourself. You didn't have a head for it when the sisters were rapping your knuckles for some reason or another."

His smile goes crooked; he shrugs, glances down under the pretense of making sure he won't lose his footing on the hart trail they're following.

"I know my strengths, is all." Light.

"And you also know that strengths must be cultivated." It's mild enough.

"Mm." Just as mild; still smiling, a little.

(And still not looking up.)

"And I've got to have plausible deniability if you're planning to launch anything at anyone's head."

Alistair breaks into a laugh, and gives Cullen's shoulder a gentle nudge.

"All right," he says. "To maintain your pristine reputation, then."

"I appreciate it," he says, very dignified.

Alistair lapses back into quiet.

The trail curves, bringing them close to the shoreline again. He breathes deep, taking in the scent of mud, of clear water, of healthy vegetation -- like Skyhold's garden multiplied for miles in every direction. No wonder Cullen likes to hang out in the garden during his down time.

With some embarrassment, he realizes a tiny tense spring has uncoiled under his ribs, now that he's back under the trees. Easier here than under open sky.

"A complete lack of excitement."

Quiet. And very satisfied.

"Excellent."

Alistair laughs, softly. "Don't say it too loud," he warns, "or fate might send something crashing through the underbrush straight into us."

"The eels won't grow legs," Cullen says, "and there aren't any gurguts."

"Bears?" suggests Alistair. "Harts? An eagle mistaking one of us for a tree branch and perching on us for the rest of the afternoon?"