Cassandra was busy discussing something with a scout when he walked up. He waited until the third party left, then turned to the seeker.
"Where is the Herald?" he tried to contain the urgency in his tone, but it came out as more of a bark than a restrained inquiry. Cassandra's lips curled back in a sneer.
"I am not her keeper," her tone was full of ire, and had been since earlier that day. It didn't help his mood nor his patience to have her continually combat him on every little thing. He didn't have the time to deal with her attitude right now.
"But you are a Seeker, are you not?" he argued.
"And you are a templar, so why don't you go find the mage," she retaliated. His scowl deepened.
"Former templar, I will remind you," he warned, "my title is commander or ser now, and nothing more."
She bared her teeth for a brief moment, but had no biting remark to reply with. He shifted his stance to reassert himself and tried again.
"She needs to be briefed about the situation in the Hinterlands – we don't have time to stand around with our heads up our asses while she wanders about the camp," he said.
"A fact I am well-aware of, Commander," she bit on the end of his title like a distasteful scrap of meat, then worked her mouth into a frown. "She was last seen speaking to Varric, so perhaps you should ask him."
The two held a challenging stare for a moment before Cullen broke away and waved a hand in disgust, electing to walk away rather than spend another five minutes volleying thinly-veiled insults at one another. If the Seeker wanted to pretend there was no need for urgency, then he would retrieve their party himself.
"Can't get anything done around here in proper time," he mumbled to himself while pushing open the chantry doors to the courtyard. A blast of cold air clawed at his face as he stepped out, bracing him against the cold before he shouldered forward toward the lower campsite. He paused to acknowledge the salutes from a band of passing soldiers, then continued down the winding path to where Varric stooped to poke at a fire.
"Curly!" he announced Cullen's arrival before he could greet him. He twinged at the loud echo of his unwanted nickname. He had a bad habit of doing that. "Can't say I'm glad to see you again so soon," Varric smiled. It was a strained gesture, and as fake as always. Interactions with the Commander and former templar rarely ever spawned from a desire for idle chitchat, something the dwarf had clearly not forgotten.
"Where is the Herald?" he demanded.
"By all means, skip the pleasantries," Varric laughed. Cullen's patience was wearing thin.
"There is a veil torn open and demons pouring out by the hour – now where is the mage?" his voice carried across the camp to a group of huddled refugees who cringed and pretended not to notice.
"Now, now Curly – don't get your templar breeches in a knot," he held up his hands in surrender. Varric turned around and began scouring the lowlands of the camp. After a pause, he perked and pointed into the distance.
"I think she went in that direction, last I saw..." he sounded uncertain. Cullen looked to where he was pointing – past the lake and far into the woods. Somewhere any apostate could easily escape the grasps of their jailer. An alarm immediately went off in his head.
"You let an apostate mage wander off unsupervised into the woods?!" he raised his voice again. More nervous looks from the refugees. He forced himself to calm down, and leaned in so the others would not overhear.
"She said she'd be back in a little while," Varric's voice began to pitch in fear when the commander grabbed him by the nape of his shirt.
"And you believed her?" he demanded. Varric just shrugged, and with a frustrated sigh he released his grip on the dwarf and stood back up. He scoured the expanse of woods where Varric had pointed, seeing no signs of obvious movement. Of course, then it would be too easy, wouldn't it?
"It's not as if she has anywhere to go, Commander. We're in the middle of the mountains," Varric tried to defend his point, but it was a weak one at best.
"There are plenty of places for an apostate to hide out here, Varric," he ignored his empty reassurances and walked past him towards the lake.
"Just don't blame me when she freezes you with magic for startling her!" he warned after the commander. Cullen paid him no mind and, pulling his fur pauldrons closer to combat the wind, began an arduous trek down to the lake's edge to look for the missing mage.
Once he reached the frozen shoreline, he could see light footsteps where she'd walked along the edge. There weren't any refugees or soldiers nearby, which meant she could have wandered off to anywhere by now. Groaning, he turned and began following the footsteps into the woods, praying to the Maker she wasn't halfway through the mountains by now.
It surprisingly didn't take as long as he thought to track her down, but any time lost was longer than he would have liked. She shifted between the treeline, her back facing her party as she stooped to picked something up. He did his best to approach silently, but with heavy armor weighing him down and iced paths it was nearly impossible. He sheepishly approached the trunk of a pine, and clung to the backside of it for support.
He considered walking out into the open, but Varric's caution pricked at the back of his mind in that moment. A fistful of ice magic to the face would really be more than he was willing to tolerate today. Rather than stand foolishly for another five minutes debating on the best approach, she decided for him with a light statement of caution thrown his way.
"Elfroot grows strong here, despite the cold," she said without turning around. She hid her meaning under careful layers of conversational courtesy, but it was her way of warning him. He knew better than to play the fool, and after a reluctant pause moved out from behind the tree just as she finished harvesting a root from the snow and placed it into a satchel at her hip.
He knew she was Dalish without asking. Her robes and markings were enough, but he recognized the certain way she and her kind carried themselves – proud and unafraid. He cleared his throat and set his feet apart to reclaim himself.
"You're needed back at camp, in the war room to be more specific," he said. She glanced up – a second's worth of calculation – then looked away again and continued her search.
"I am aware," were her only words. She was neutral, but guarded. If she recognized him or knew of his title, she hadn't admitted to it yet. He crossed his arms as she stooped again to cut another root from the snow.
"Meaning we don't have the luxury for you to be wandering around by yourself doing Maker-knows-what out here," his tone became accusing again. She continued to carefully uproot another stalk, placed it in her satchel, then rose to her feet.
"I am gathering herbs for the soldiers – there are many wounded," she said, then continued walking. He followed.
"I do not care what you are doing mage, and I don't think it was a smart idea to wander off alone in the first place," he cut in. She did not retaliate, and nor did she lash out to show her offense. Instead, she continued her calm exercise of walking a few feet and pausing only to cut another stalk of elfroot.
"Are you saying that out of fear for my safety, or your own?" was her reply after another glance. He stepped back, a touch unnerved but still angry.
"Do not pretend you are not capable of much more damage than help," he accused. "You are a mage with a dangerous amount of magic at your disposal; that is cause enough to be suspicious."
She looked up again, her brow knitting in the slightest, then turned away before sheathing the dagger she had used to cut the elfroot.
"Should I be suspicious of you then because you carry a sword?" she retaliated in a low voice, her eyes cutting to where his hand rested on his belt. He'd never removed it from the hilt since entering the forest – an old habit he'd hardly noticed until now. Surprised, he released his grip and stepped back. His throat knotted a bit when he realized just how unkind he must have sounded.
"I..." the words burrowed, thick and clumsy. "I-I apologize. I didn't mean to lecture you," he sighed. He needed to be level – something that seemed to slip from his grasp more and more lately. A headache was blooming behind his eyes. He could no longer see clearly, and she was only trying to help. He tried to remind himself of that.
"Cassandra and the others are waiting in the Chantry hall, when you are ready," he ducked his head and turned away, unable to find reason to stay any longer. He'd made an ass of himself enough already, and recognized when he should leave things where they lay. He had to remember to be kind.
He'd promised her he would.