He should have known she'd planned something when she'd puffed her way in, burdened with an enormous pile of cushions. Floor cushions. The old dwarf followed her, an enormous basket nearly bending him double. Something tinkled and something else sloshed as the dwarf gingerly laid the basket to rest beside the doorway. She grinned over the topmost cushion, a plush sky-blue velvet thing he'd never seen before, and that matched none of her estate's furnishings. She held it and its pale green partners captive between her quivering arms and her chin.

"If it's all right, messere, I'll take my leave," Bodahn said, faintly winded as always.

"Of course! Thank you for hauling that all this way."

A flight of stairs and a few steps could hardly be called "all this way," but the dwarf's florid face and heavy breaths made him reconsider.

"Anything for the woman who saved my boy!"

"Bodahn, Sandal saved himself. I had…" Each time the dwarf brought up his perceived debt, she tried to correct him, but six years of continual reminders hadn't yet penetrated that thick skull. The dwarf shared that much with her, it seemed.

"A good evening to you, messere, and a grander one to you, serah. I think you'll find everything is in order, and hopefully to your liking."

"What everything?"

"You'll see soon enough. Bodahn, I'll see you in the morning."

"Or afternoon as it may be, messere." The dwarf's usual bland smile had instead turned to a subtle smirk.

"Andra," he said as the front door slammed.

"Well, you could help me, you know." She craned her neck toward the fireplace, and the top cushion swallowed her chin.

He reached for the second in the pile, and as she raised her chin, the rest of the cushions cascaded to the floor. She shook her head and grinned, her lips still faintly red and swollen. The side-effects of three years of pent-up frustration clearly took more than an afternoon to heal.

"I suppose this extra coating of dirt will prepare these poor things for the dust bath they're about to receive." She gathered up two and dumped them in front of the fireplace.

"If you didn't want them to get dirty…"

"This place could use a good sweeping." She snatched two more and threw them on top of the first two.

"If you wish to sweep, go ahead."

"Maybe later." The last two joined the rest with a quick toss.

He caught her wrist. "Andra."

"Mm?"

He spun her into his arms and she crashed against his chest with a gasp. He lost a hand in her hair as he drew her close. His head whirled at the scent of clean her Ferelden soap left behind, though most would hardly consider the fragrance strong. He'd gotten used to straining to smell it across the distance he'd forced between them. Only slowly did her arms follow suit, though her eyes remained riveted to his and her breath came hot and shuddering against his chin. He leaned in close to her ear, still concealed by a thick curtain of crimson and let its silk tickle his lips.

"It's customary," he said as her breath quickened, "to say hello when one enters another's abode."

"He—" she said, only to trail off as he touched his lips to hers. He'd only wanted to feel their movement against his.

A faint hesitation, and his heart stopped. Had he done something wrong? Then, she was on him, in him, around him. She invaded his parted lips with gentle, searing flicks of her tongue that tasted faintly of rosemary. Her scent and her heat spiraled around him and shot to his head and down his spine faster than the most potent of Tevinter wines. She flowed as liquid against him, and gave where he clutched at her. He closed his eyes only reluctantly, unwilling to shut out the sight of her drifting as the rhythm of her breath caught him in its thrall. In and out, a heaving ocean that lost him to its pull. He matched her thrusts and flicks with his own, his lips a delayed mirror of hers. She didn't pause as he swept her up off her feet and carried her toward the bed. Only when her back met the mattress did she start and break contact.

"Maybe later," she said unconvincingly.

"What?"

"Later."

"Later?" He reeled back. Clearly there seemed to be more to this "togetherness" than he'd guessed, or she was playing coy in a pointless female game.

"Aren't you hungry? It's dinnertime."

Before she had a chance to sit upright, he straddled her. "You expect me to think of food? Now?"

His stomach protested his words.

"Liar," she said, her smile lopsided. "As I said, later. Things will be ruined if we don't eat now."

"It had better be later."

"Oh, I think I might be able to manage that."

"You think?" He clambered off her, suddenly chilled.

A single fluid motion, and she was up, gripping his hand. She gestured at the pile of cushions with a smile and kissed his forehead. "Sit down and relax."

"There are chairs and benches."

"The benches are hard, and those chairs, well, last time I sat on one, a spring gouged out a chunk of thigh. Besides, it's important that you sit right in front of the hearth."

He grimaced as he lowered himself to the floor. He'd once thought her sensible, though time had apparently changed that. What could be so important about a hearth? She mumbled, Maker, that's heavy! as she hefted the basket. She slung herself back and took up some of the weight with her belly as she inched toward the bench.

"Andra, I'll…"

"Sit down!" He could barely make out words in her grunt.

Something clattered within as she dropped the basket on the bench's unforgiving surface.

"Hmph. I never knew just how strong dwarves were until now. They look so fragile!"

"Dwarves. Fragile."

No response; she'd already moved on. She shuffled and clinked about his filthy dish pile in the corner.

"Maker's breath, Fenris! There's mold growing in these!" She held a single goblet gingerly by the stem as if it would bite her. Perhaps it would. "Don't you ever wash anything?"

"You see why I don't."

"You do have something to hold a beverage, don't you?"

"You have several perfectly serviceable hearths if these surroundings don't meet your exacting standards. We don't need to use this one."

"Yes, we do."

"Why?"

A smirk. "You'll see. Just remember, this hearth is very important."

She mumbled something indistinct as she dumped water from his last drinking goblet into his last flagon. That goblet was still vaguely serviceable, though soon it would join its fellows in the pile. He'd have to relocate it and its cousins soon to one of the unused rooms downstairs. A few hands with Donnic and he'd be in the clear for a new set of dishes. She set the goblet down next to the basket and flipped the covering cloth back with a single deft motion. Efficient. He never tired of watching her motions, for even laying out plates and utensils, she moved with the same precision and speed as she did flinging her daggers in combat. Plates. Utensils. He had both, and some, even, had yet to be used.

"I hope you'll like this." She held a jug in one hand. "It was Father's favorite."

"And it is?" Alcohol, obviously, but the bottle wasn't one he recognized.

"Highever mead, 9:31 Dragon."

"Is that a good year?" Could it possibly have been, but a year after the Blight ended in Ferelden?

She broke the seal with her knife and twisted the cork free. "I don't know."

The drink splashed into the goblet, and the heady aroma of fermented honey took the edge off the stuffy smell of the velvet cushions. She set both the goblet and the jug on his table, far out of reach. He could feel a significance in her words, but what it was escaped him. And the mead escaped him also when she clucked at him as he worked his way to his feet. She unscrewed the top of a huge ceramic jar. Gravy, and some meat, though not in a significant enough quantity to judge what sort. She spooned a huge portion of what looked to be a stew onto two plates. Carrots and sodden onions fell apart as flaky bits of chicken and drops of the gravy slopped on top of them. He caught a whiff of the same rosemary he'd tasted on her in the steam that rose from both plates and his stomach rumbled.

As she unwrapped some surprisingly fluffy looking biscuits, he asked, "Why that year for the mead, if you don't know if it's good or no?"

She stacked three on each plate in a small pyramid, taking care to avoid the spreading puddle of gravy. "You don't know?"

He stared at her and furrowed his brows.

"It was the year we met. I hope the mead's still good: it's been in the cellar for the last three years."

"You never thought to drink it before now?"

She grinned. "Well, after all the trouble it took to get it from Lirene, I figured it should wait for an occasion."

Ah, this was an occasion of some sort. "There have been many 'occasions' to drink it, and I recall a certain woman enjoying such spirits all too much two years ago."

"I didn't buy this for me."

"Or you could have given it away."

"And it wasn't just for you. It was for us."

His heart stopped as she handed him one of the laden plates and a fork. Three years ago, she'd counted on him, and three years ago, he'd left her with this artifact she'd obviously gone to a great deal to find. He set the plate on the floor next to hers with trembling hands. She crouched down, arranging what was left of the pillows.

"Andra…"

"Shhh." Her lips stopped his apology. "It doesn't matter. You know, I originally bought these pillows to brighten the place up a bit without clashing with the dark grey everywhere, but now they match perfectly."

"There are advantages to dust."

She grinned and was up again.

"Hopefully this will chase some of the dust away and not poison us." She handed him the goblet and he took a careful sip.

"Not bad."

As she took a swig of her own, he broke one of his biscuits in half and dipped it into the gravy. She settled in close as he took a huge bite and forced the wet ashes down.

"How is it?"

"It's…"

"Oh, Maker, I screwed up Mother's recipe!" She scooped up some of the gravy and swallowed. "No, it's right, just the way she taught me."

"You made this?"

She nodded. "It was Father's favorite, and what she taught me to make our first night in Lothering."

He forced down another huge bite. "It's… delicious."

"I suppose it's a little bland for Kirkwall tastes, but we were always a little short on salt and shortening." She stopped as he struggled to find the flavor an almost liquid carrot slice and burst out laughing. "Maker's breath! Because we couldn't afford them. That's probably why there's not enough chicken, and, well, taste. Still, it tastes like home to me."

Tastes like home. An important hearth. Us. Suddenly, he picked up the taste of rosemary and recollection and family. He smiled at the plate and set to work on cleaning it with enthusiasm. He chatted with her about a few of her memories of Lothering as she finished eating. The goblet passed freely, and added its sweetness to the savory memory she'd cooked for him.

"I've been living here for years. Why is tonight an 'occasion?'"

"In Ferelden, the hearth is home."

"As it is in Tevinter."

"Then you should understand."

"No."

"You've been here for years, but for a reason. Now you're here by choice. Your first full day, here, free of what's been haunting you. Your first day home."

"I was always here by choice, Andra, even if it took years to realize it."

She smiled. "Anyway, it's a Ferelden custom to celebrate one's new home. So, welcome home!"

"There are far better ways to celebrate."

He shared the taste of her memories and gave of his own flavor. Only later as she bustled about organizing things half-clothed did he realize that the sharing had restored some of the pillows' original brightness. Even the fire, half-sputtering from neglect, burned brilliant in his hearth.