In the months away from each other, they shared a dream. Expressed only in pages and strokes of a pen, but more real to them than any tale. With each letter passed between them, they added to a landscape. A blade of grass here, or a ray of sunshine there-every droplet of ink bled together to create it. A landscape not of grand adventures on foreign shores, or even the honeymoon they had never been able to take. Their greatest desire was something far more mundane-something they were certain few others would wish for.
Their dream-and for many, reality-was a farm. Never more specific than simply in "The Bannorn", though each envisioned their home village. A modest plot of land, but fertile. Just a little more than enough to keep the family fed - the family they had yet to create. The primary crop changed every time wax separated from parchment, but there was never any reason to argue. At least not until Cullen mentioned everything he recalled being necessary for sweet rolls. His wife would never allow such ingredients to be readily available in quantity. Not unless she wished to see him outgrow his armour.
Children, while desired by both, were another matter. He was still a young man - a mere thirty-one and still in the relative prime of his Templar career. Cauthrien, while not quite a spinster, had passed many of her childbearing years by. Even in an ideal world, one child between them would be a gift from the Maker Himself. The sexes and names of the children changed as often as the number, though he always seemed to want a few more. As to be expected from a man who spent his formative years in communal prayer, her husband insisted they be raised Andrastian. She reminded him with all the gentleness she could muster that they must find their own way. At times she wondered if they might raise a brood of priests and Templars.
Then, of course, were the nights - after the children had gone to bed. At times they simply slept, comforted by each other's presence in the stillness. Other times called for more vigorous activity, activity that Cullen described in far better detail than her. Every touch, caress, and labored breath was as real to her as lying in bed with him. However, despite his turns of phrase, even those memories had faded. The dream helped to preserve them, to be sure, but each knew why descriptions of appearance and sound grew fewer and further between.
For the first time in over a year, she writes nothing of the dream. Instead that duty no longer demands she stay in Denerim. While she harbors no love for Kirkwall-a city for which "blighted" is often her favored descriptor-she is eager to make the journey. They will likely never have anything the dream describes, but neither would cross the Waking Sea for mere fantasy. She makes the journey to remember, to fill in the details lost to distance. Perhaps, if he's very lucky, she'll throw in a batch of sweet rolls. But he can only have one.