Twelve years a Warden plus nine years a templar-recruit means he's got everything packed within five minutes.

So. Less time dithering in the morning, if that's what he decides.

Alistair goes through the motions of his evening routine; crawls into one side of the bed, bunching up the quilt so he can hug it to his chest. At least he won't have to worry about Cullen complaining he stole all the covers again.

In lieu of sleep, he runs the numbers through his head. How many rations will he have to pick up before he leaves -- if he leaves? (Already, he's balking.) Does he want to go back to Skyhold, or turn for Ferelden? He has a vague notion of Cousland's last known location -- maybe he could go toward her, instead.

What am I going to do? he thinks, and isn't prepared for how despairing the thought sounds.