Cullen strode through the crowds, pushing by with barely a nod of acknowledgement for greetings or praise. He fixed his eyes on the banqueting tables set up in the dining hall.

Bread, she said. She wanted bread. Nor was it an empty request; her expression had sharpened with hunger for it. Where had she been that simple bread was a rarity, a treat to be desired? Where had she been that she was as pale as fresh milk? Too thin as well. She had always been elf-slender, but now she looked fragile as glass.

There was nothing to carry food on, he realized as he looked over the table. His hesitation whetted his impatience; she had promised she would stay, but there was no doubt she felt trapped. He would have felt guilty for being the one to capture her, except…

Except what? That he wanted her to stay? Was that good enough reason?

No, he decided, a sharp shake of his head. She should stay, at least the night. She would freeze on the mountain. That was all. He owed her; they all did. He could scarcely repay that debt by letting her wander around the Frostbacks without at least a decent meal. He grabbed the tray from the hands of one of the servants running fresh food to the tables, taking it from her. She was dressed almost identically to Neria—

(Neria! Here!)

—and he wondered if the servants were ever cold. He would speak to Evelyn about it. They should be more warmly dressed.

Butter. He took butter and walked down the table, taking food at random. No fruit; she needed more solid fare. Cheese, that would do. She should have meat as well. Why was the roast gone?

"You know, the army can come in here to eat. You don't have to take it to them."

Varric leaned against the table, blocking his access.

"Just… making a plate for myself," Cullen said, awkwardly wedging the large tray between his arm and his chest.

"Uh huh. You should probably take some of those vegetables," Varric said, hooking a gloved thumb over his shoulder toward a largely abandoned plate of carrots. "Elves eat a lot of that rabbity crap and she doesn't look like she's had a decent meal since she left Ferelden."

Cullen frowned. "Keep your voice down," he said.

"No one's listening. Leliana promised to sing so everyone's heading to the main hall."

After a moment, Cullen took some carrots and dumped them on the tray.

"So you found her, I guess."

"In the courtyard," Cullen confirmed. "I owe you an apology."

"Nah. Damn near shit myself when I figured out who she was, I can't blame you for being skeptical." He pushed away from the table so Cullen could pick through the remnants of what appeared to be a ham. "She always look like that?"

"Like what?"

"All pale skin and wide eyes. Creepy," Varric said. "Like she can see what your body parts would look like pasted all over the walls and it makes her sort of sad to think about it."

Cullen strangled his immediate anger. "She's lived through a great deal, Varric," he said as calmly as he could. "I'd think she's seen so many people in pieces, picturing one small dwarf disassembled would hardly task her imagination."

"Whoa, easy there, Curly. Didn't mean to insult your girlfriend. I'm just saying she's got this air about her."

"What are you—?"

"There's a reason I told the former Templar about the creepy mage who appeared in Skyhold and not, say, the bard who helped her stop a blight."

He almost dropped the tray, fumbled it. "You think she's abomination?"

Varric caught the pot of butter before it hit the floor, tossed it once in his hand before returning it to the tray. "It's a thought."

"An idiotic one," Cullen snapped, scowling. "And one you'll keep to yourself."

"You're the Templar. Sorry, ex-Templar. But you might want to think for a moment exactly how bad it could get if the Hero of Ferelden turned out to be carting around a demon. Or two, or three. Seriously, who needs eyes that big?"

"Her eyes are—Never mind about her eyes!" Cullen added a jar of crystalized honey to the tray. "I suppose there's no harm in being sure," he said slowly. "She always was a powerful mage; they are the most susceptible. And if a demon wanted revenge, it would make sense that it would come here, try to get close to the Inquisitor."

"Exactly," Varric said, nodding.

"I'll speak with her some more," Cullen decided. "Until I can be sure of her."

"You do that."

Something in Varric's tone caught his attention and he frowned down at the dwarf. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He looked entirely too innocent for it to be real. "Nothing," he protested. "It's a good idea. You should stick close to her, that's all I'm saying."

"I will."

"Good."

Cullen hesitated, certain he was being set-up for something but unable to say what. After a moment, he turned away. Neria was in his office, but there was no saying how long her promise would hold her.

He thought he heard Varric chuckle behind him.

The door to the office rebounded off the stone wall. Perhaps he had shoved it open a bit too forcibly.

The room was empty. His stomach dropped. "Neria?" he said, stepping further in to let the door close behind him.

"Here."

He turned and looked up. She stood at the edge of the loft, the area he had set aside as his own living space, still wrapped in his surcoat. It did something to his insides to see her standing where he slept, something he did his best to ignore.

Letting his held breath out in a controlled exhale, he walked to his desk, shoving aside reports and pots of ink to set the tray down. "I thought you'd gone."

Her booted feet made hardly any noise on the rungs of the ladder. "I promised," she said. "And you said you'd bring me bread."

He made a mental note to go back for another loaf. Or ten. Or twenty. "I brought butter, too," he said, carting papers and books to the shelves, clearing space for them to eat.

"So you did," she said slowly.

He looked over his shoulder. "What is it? Did I forget something?"

"I can't imagine there's a food made by mortal hands you didn't bring," she said, fingers resting hesitantly on the edge of the tray. She looked over at him. "Are we expecting company?"

Her eyes were fine. Varric was an idiot. Well, not fine, perhaps, but the same unusual, startling green-on-blue they had always been. Sad, though. Varric was right about that. And just now fearful, that skittering distress he had seen in the courtyard when she realized he had recognized her.

"No," he said, feeling he had been quiet too long. "I didn't know what you'd want so…" He gestured toward the tray, only then realizing, with her hand for scale, exactly how much food he had brought. The tray was nearly the size of his desk.

He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. "Perhaps I overdid things a bit."

Tension eased across the set of her shoulders and she pulled one of the chairs closer to the desk. "A bit," she agreed, the corners of her lips brushing higher.

He pushed his chair closer as well and sat, knees not quite touching hers. "So," he said, pouring a glass of wine for her from one of the bottles on his desk. "You were in Kirkwall?"

She nodded, slathering butter on a piece of bread the size of her hand. "I had made my way there from the Coastlands after hearing rumors of problems among the Grey Wardens."

"Amaranthine?"

She hesitated, biting into her food neatly. Stalling, he thought, wondering if she would lie. "No," she said finally. "There are other Grey Warden bases in Ferelden. But it was largely abandoned. The false Calling had done its job rather too well."

He cursed himself. Would he say nothing that wasn't upsetting? "You resisted," he pointed out, taking a piece of ham.

"I knew it was false," she said with a shrug. "Whispers and tugs, I heard and felt them. I think perhaps it's because I've heard the voice of an archdemon echoing in my head. This sound was … something else. Tainted but…" She shook her head. "I'm sorry, I would explain if I could."

"So. Kirkwall."

"Kirkwall," she agreed. "Where I heard the stories. They offer tours, you know. Here is where the Qunari were kept, there is the Hawke estate, and now a pause at the tavern where Varric Tethras stayed and the Champion of Kirkwall was known to drink."

He laughed at that. "And you took the tour?"

"Who could resist? That was how I learned of Anders. The tales were so unlike the young man I knew, I could hardly credit them."

"You could say that about the tales of you as well, you know," he pointed out, nudging the wine goblet closer to her.

Obediently, she lifted the glass and took a sip, wetting her lips and licking them clean. "That is true," she admitted. "They used to tell many more of them, and I never recognized myself. You'll see."

He cocked his head. "I?"

The darkness in her eyes had abated, banished by hidden laughter. "The Templar who took a stand and defied the madness of Meredith to save the people he was charged to protect? The Commander of the Inquisition, who led the charge against Corypheus' archdemon and single-handedly fought through armies of Red Templars to get the refugees of Haven to safety?"

"Hardly," he snorted. "I got the people out, but safety was a long way off. And most of the Templars were dead by the time we snuck out the back."

"Then you see how it is. The tales are never the story. It will only get worse, I can promise you that."

"So you never taught the Qunari how to dance? How disappointing." He tossed her the jar of honey and lounged back in his chair, grinning.

"One!" she protested. "In Denerim, we were watching the people dance and Sten commented that it seemed a waste of energy to practice footwork so ill-suited to fighting." She turned the jar in her hands, then scooped out a solid spoonful and spread it over another chunk of bread. "I told him it was for fun and showed him a tandem, that's all."

He chuckled, picturing her dancing with Iron Bull.

Suddenly it wasn't funny.

He hid it behind a drink from his own goblet of wine. "What did he say to that?"

"He said I was very clumsy, and it was best I had been born a woman as I would have made a terrible swordsman."

He laughed. "That, I cannot see. Clumsy, you?"

She shrugged, but didn't bother to hide her smile. "It's all relative," she said, daintily licking honey from her fingertips. "For all that they are large, Qunari warriors are graceful to a man."

She had traveled to Seheron in the company of a man she spoke of with great familiarity and fondness, described him as graceful. "Ah," he said, refilling his goblet.

"Ah what?"

"I wondered how it came to pass that a mage had journeyed to Seheron and back without having her lips sewn shut. This Sten of yours, you're his, am I right?"

"His what?" She looked puzzled and took another sip of her own wine.

For some reason, saying the Qunari word seemed easier than the more common 'lover'. "Kas-berasala."

She choked on wine, coughed it up, sitting forward abruptly to cover her mouth. Hastily, he grabbed a cloth from the tray and shoved it at her.

"Er… so perhaps not?"

Her eyes were still watering when she looked up at him. "Where did you hear that word?" she croaked, coughing a few more times and scrubbing at the wine in her lap.

Cullen tugged on the collar of his armor, wondering if someone had stoked the fire in the guardroom below a little too high. Maybe he should have just said lover after all. "It's something I overheard Evelyn say once. To Bull. Her Qunari lover."

Delicate eyebrows spiked upward. If it hadn't been for that, he'd have thought she turned to stone. A tear from her still-watering eyes trickled down her face, but she was paying it no attention. She was staring at the door.

He reached out and plucked the wine-stained napkin from her hands, then used it to wipe the tear away.

That brought her back and she blinked at him. Her eyebrows stayed up, he noticed. "You're certain?" she asked. "Was she… was she calling him something and perhaps you misheard?"

"No," he said, forcing himself to stop brushing the napkin down her cheek. "It was quite clear. Then Bull chuckled and stroked her hair. They're not at all bashful about it."

Why it fascinated her so, he couldn't say. "Your Inquisitor has a Qunari lover, and she referred to kas-berasala?"

"I'm starting to think it doesn't mean what I assumed it did."

She caught one corner of her lower lip between her teeth. He found himself noticing the way it made the rest of her lip pout. "I should—" she began. Then she stopped. "No. Qunari politics are no concern of mine. The Arishok will simply have to— Perhaps a note."

"At some point, you do mean to include me in this conversation, I hope."

Abashed, she shook her head. "I'm sorry. It just wasn't a word I thought to hear outside of Par Vollen. Certainly not in reference to the Inquisitor. In any case, no, I can promise you that the Arishok and I are not lovers, and never were."

"The Arishok, is it?"

"The Qunari don't have common names, not as we think of them. When he was a sten, he was Sten. Now he is Arishok."

"And what does he call you?"

"Kadan."

"That means loved one, doesn't it?"

"Yes and no," she said, wiping her hands on the napkin and giving the stain on her clothes one last dab before abandoning all hope. She dropped the napkin back on the tray. "It does, but doesn't imply lover. Your mother or father may be a loved one, after all, as might a close friend. Though it can be used between lovers as well."

"So then, not all Qunari," he said, cutting two slices of cheese and handing one to her, "but you taught the leader of the Qunari warriors to dance?"

She laughed outright, and he relaxed again, his misstep erased. "Yes, I suppose I did."

"Good to see some of the stories have at least a little basis in fact."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

She took a bite of the cheese. "How did you end up in Kirkwall, of all places? When last we spoke, you said you had wanted to go with the others to fight."

He would, he realized, have to be more careful with his questions. Such a small one, but it threatened to slice open the thin veil of peace he wove for himself. It wasn't a feeling he wanted for her. "Greagoir sent me," he said, looking down at his glass, turning it to see the reflections of candlelight on the surface. "After Uldred, after the tower, I had some difficulties adjusting."

"I'd imagine that's putting it mildly."

He tried to smile, but it was hollow. "I suppose."

She waited.

He waited longer.

Neria looked away from him to the cheese in her hand. "I'm sorry," she said. "That was cruel of me, to bring it up."

"No crueler than I've been to you. I suppose there's no way to discuss where we've been and the things we've seen without touching on darker issues."

"Then we shall tell only happy tales," she decided, looking back up at him.

It was the hope in her eyes that defeated him. Had she always been so open, so easy to read? Once, she had seemed a great mystery to him. Brilliant and confident, possessed of some hidden knowledge that made her the envy of her peers, the pride of her teachers.

And a concern to the Templars. The memory was stark, Greagoir ordering him to the Harrowing Chamber to watch over her as she tested. To kill her if she failed. He wondered if she remembered that.

But she looked at him with those eyes, so uniquely elven, so impossible to forget, and offered him something else to share. She wanted to talk. To tell happy tales.

"It took days to sail to Kirkwall," he said, leaning forward again, taking a carrot and offering her one as well. "Perfect seas, warm weather, belled white sails. I went overboard three times."

Her smile returned, making her eyes sparkle. She took the carrot.

When the wine ran out, he had managed to coax, cajole, and trick her into eating most of the loaf of bread, an entire wedge of cheese, and all the carrots he'd brought. He couldn't be sure who'd had more wine, but he couldn't stop laughing.

"In her knickers, no less, trying to get her hat from Schmooples, Leliana running after the both of them, screaming at Morrigan not to kill her nug. Suddenly, Korcari leaps up from my bedroll, charges across the campground, snatches the hat away and off he goes, into the night."

"Schmooples," Cullen managed to gasp out.

Grinning, Neria raised a hand. "Hand to Andraste, she named it Schmooples. It was the biggest thief in the camp, and we had an Orlesian bard and an Antivan crow with us."

He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and caught his breath. "Ah. Maker. Schmooples. I wish I had known that sooner."

"Well don't tell her now, or she'll know I've been here."

"What happened to the hat?"

"Never saw it again, though to placate Morrigan we did go searching for it in the morning. Ugliest thing you ever saw. Three odd little feathers sticking out of it and these straps… I confess I gave Korcari an extra bone when he got—"

She stifled a yawn against the back of her hand. "—back," she finished, blushing a faint pink.

Cullen uncrossed his ankle from his knee and stood. "I've kept you up too late," he said.

Neria shook her head. "No, not at all. I can't think the last time I laughed this much. But I should probably be going."

"You can hardly go wandering about the mountain at this hour," he said. "You'll fall off a cliff."

"I won't," she said, standing as well. "I promise, I've wandered worse mountains at later hours and managed quite well."

"Then you can manage even better in the morning. And you'll be able to take some supplies with you."

She hesitated, and he pressed his advantage. "Stay the night," he said. "Surely you can't prefer a cold snowdrift to a warm, soft bed."

"I suppose one more night won't hurt," she said finally. "Not that the beds in the servants wing are all that soft."

"Stay here," he offered.

Halfway through sliding off his surcoat, Neria blinked at him.

"I'll sleep in the barracks," he hastened to add. "Nothing untoward. You can stay in my bed. No one will disturb you, and you needn't fear being recognized or detained."

She finished pulling off his surcoat and handed it to him. An expression flickered across her face, a bite of wicked humor there and gone. He wondered how to call it back. "I've a better idea," she said.

His hands fisted in the fabric. "Oh?" he asked as casually as he could manage with his mind conjuring the images it was.

She ascended the ladder, quick and light.

He hesitated at the bottom. Was he supposed to go up after her? Was that too presumptuous? He began extinguishing the candles. Perhaps he should go to the barracks after all. That did seem safest.

Light flared and died from the loft. He had a sudden image of her magicking herself away, vanishing through one of the slitted windows though he knew it was impossible. Hastily, he clambered up the rungs after her.

In the loft, there was a wolf, long-legged and thickly furred. Some trick of magic, though, had translated her thinness. Its hip bones jutted out, and he could see the faint knobs of its spine.

Had he encountered such a beast in the open wood, he would have killed it out of mercy.

But this wolf had her eyes. Green on blue. It should have felt peculiar to address a wolf, but she remained uniquely herself. "If I see one flea," he warned her, "out to the kennels you go."

She snorted and padded lightly to the bed, springing up with an easy grace to curl up at the foot. Her tongue curled as she yawned, exposing rows of teeth that looked all too authentic.

He chuckled. "I always wanted a Mabari," he said. "I suppose this is close."

One of her eyes opened, and her pricked ears went back.

"Sleep well," he said, blowing out the candles on the bedside table before removing his armor.

A wolf, he told himself sternly. It was just a wolf.

But she had chosen to stay. Had stayed with him.

He slid into the bed carefully, wearing only the loose cotton pants and shirt that went under his plate. If he disturbed her, she gave no sign.

Cullen laid awake for hours, thinking about nothing more than the pressure of her body at the foot of his bed.