"Uncle Cullen, are you watching?"

Cullen snapped his head back to the table. "Yes, I'm watching," he said quickly. Katrine had lain out most of her food in a complicated pattern on her plate, demonstrating the magic inherent in a fire rune, and how it could be used for something that seemed even more dangerous. Cullen knew where he stood with a good sword. He also knew where he stood when an arcanist worked her particular brand of business - very far away.

His niece continued to talk herself blue, and even if he hadn't been hopelessly lost he might not have been able to pay attention. He had far too many sightlines to cover for a dinner.

Peter sat across the table from him, speaking infrequently but almost exclusively to his neighbor, Deanna. Cullen didn't need the boy's confidences to know that he burned for her. The stammering and blushing were familiar enough to make his own cheeks color, and he cursed Cassandra for being more right than she knew about their similarities. Cassandra was another distraction, speaking seriously to Deanna about mercenary life. When he'd suggested she help the girl in conversation, he hadn't meant for her to stump for a dangerous life on the road. Nor would he have expected her to be so interested.

Deanna was a surprise in many ways. Rather than the waif-like sprite he'd envisioned, she was the true daughter of a farmer, strong in body and mind. There was nothing of the ethereal about her. She spoke decisively and with cool consideration. The lines of her jaw were striking, and her eyes clear, but she was far from the evasive beauty Peter had implied.

Cassandra had taken to her like a long-lost sister, of course.

He cleared his throat when there was a pause in their discussion. The Seeker rolled her eyes without looking at him and abruptly switched the topic to Peter's virtues. His nephew rubbed the back of his reddening neck while Deanna showed puzzlement, and Cullen prayed to the Maker to save them all.

Katrine was still talking, and he turned enough of his attention back to her to nod and murmur agreement to her last question. His duties satisfied, he moved his eyes to another target, Mia's husband. Brandon Walker was, by all accounts, a superlative husband, but Cullen knew that a brother never took such things on faith. Besides, from what he remembered, the boy had been an inveterate follower, always trailing the three Rutherfords like a lost duckling following a flock of geese. Mia probably ran roughshod over him.

Intermittent observation revealed him to be devoted, at least. He never looked at a servant girl or any of the young ladies of the group, and his hand rested more and more often behind Mia's chair as the dinner went on and the wine flowed. His sister did drive the conversation at their part of the table, overriding nearly everyone with her own opinions, but Cullen watched Brandon gently steer her when needed, through touches and whispers that Mia didn't seem to notice were part of a clever dance.

Nothing to worry about there. The man loved his sister and was better at working with her than Cullen would ever be. Bless him.

A burst of raucous laughter came from the far end of the table, but he steadfastly ignored that particular section. The so-called young blood of the party had clustered there immediately, Alice included. They'd cast him several inviting glances before he'd hastily claimed a place with the children, citing a need to make up for lost time with them. The party had at least been too polite to press, but he'd noticed one woman in particular had risen to retrieve something from his end of the table too often to be chance. She did so again now, and the look in eyes when she leaned across him to claim a butter dish reminded him of Dorian, only without the Tevinter man's reassuring self-awareness.

Cullen was starting to understand what it might mean to be an unattached man slightly past his prime in Honnleath. Like a cattle auction with silent, hungry bidders.

His sisters were no help. Alice was good-naturedly flirting with the entire table, and Mia's every look told him he was being punished for not announcing his non-existent engagement to Cassandra. Fine. He'd endured worse than this at state dinners. He looked at Katrine after the woman left and asked, with only a hint of pain, "And what about ice runes?"

She started speaking with even more enthusiasm, but he'd barely taken in ten words before a voice boomed behind him, "Come now, this is no way to spend a dinner party, speaking of magic like soft men in robes. Commander, tell us of the glories of war!"

Cullen turned slowly. He saw Cassandra glance at him sharply as he did, and he tried to convey with only a tilt of his head that he was in control. A swarthy man, one he hadn't met, was leaning across their shared neighbor to speak to him. "War is rarely glorious, for either side," said Cullen. "And it's no longer Commander."

"Once a military man, always a military man, that's what I say. I should know! Balen Goldward, at your service. Former Captain Goldward, I should say. Guard captain in the Free Marches, before my sister and I moved to friendlier climes," he said. He leered as he extended his hand, "She's taken a liking to you, I think. Quite anxious to acquaint herself with this side of the table, I've noticed!"

To Cullen's horror, the man winked as they shook, and he steadfastly hoped this wasn't the start of a marriage offer. "Why come here instead of join the Inquisition? We can always use a man of skill in her armies," said Cullen.

"Considered it, considered it. Might have considered it harder if I'd known you had ladies like that in your ranks," he said, nodding to Cassandra. "She's enough to get a man to attention in the morning!" He spoke in a voice loud enough to carry to Antiva, and only the fact that Cullen knew Cassandra could have easily beaten the louse to death with her soup spoon stopped him from a dinnertime assault. He spared her a quick glance, but aside from a pursing of her mouth, there was no reaction.

Goldward seemed not to notice their discomfort. "But no, we thought it might be best to stay out of that particular fold. No offense to you, Commander. Heard nothing but fine things about your leadership, but, well, it never turns out well for a woman to rule the roost!" he said, winking again. "They can't keep their heads about them in a crisis."

Oh, well that would do it. Cassandra had always taken comments on her physical attributes with a weary equanimity, but having her or her gender's competence questioned was a guaranteed way to raise her ire. And he certainly wasn't going to stop her.

When nothing happened, he looked at her again. Her mouth was even tighter, but she was focusing on Deanna's words so fiercely he wondered if she was memorizing them. What was she doing? He'd seen her verbally eviscerate a man for suggesting she had a flaw in her shield work that had actually existed. Balen Goldward should be bleeding on the floor.

She met his eyes and shook her head before turning back to the girl. He understood immediately. She was keeping the peace. He was going to stay here, and a brawl with his sisters' dinner guest was no way to enter society. Cassandra was taking the insult in silence to protect him, with everyone watching.

To the Void with that. "The Inquisitor is better suited to rule than any man I know," he said. "I couldn't do her job. You certainly couldn't. Cassandra could," he said, jerking his head towards her. "Then again, Cassandra has done my job and her own at the same time for months, so perhaps she's not a fair example."

Goldward looked incredulous. "You don't have to toe the party line anymore, Commander. Even if the Inquisitor did have the stones to deserve the title, and we know she doesn't, you can't expect solid leadership out of a mage. And a knife-ear at that. Fought enough of them in the Marches. Their mages are even worse than the normal ones," he said, shaking his head.

Cullen pounded his fist on the table hard enough to topple his wineglass. It shattered by his hand, and the contents dripped over the edge of the table like fresh blood. The already hushed room fell deathly silent. "Peter, Katrine, Alistair, please leave," he said. "And if I ever hear any of you use that term, to anyone, under any circumstances, I will take a stripe out of you for it. Do you understand me?"

His eyes never left the former captain, but he heard their murmured assent and the scraping of the chairs as they stood. Mia opened her mouth, but shut it at Brandon's touch.

When he turned around to make sure they truly did understand, Alistair's eyes were as wide as gold pieces. Regret touched him. His youngest nephew might never feel easy with him again. But their civility was more important than comfort. Deanna remained seated, but Cassandra motioned her to follow. Peter took her hand as they went through the door, and that was the only thing that kept Cullen from tipping over the edge of violence.

That and Cassandra's support. He looked at her for a long moment and was satisfied when he saw her fury, and acceptance of his, reflected in her eyes. Skyhold, the Inquisition, had moved so far beyond racial animus that it was a shock to still encounter it. To the Inquisition, enemies were enemies, and friends were friends, and their shapes were irrelevant. Except Tevinter, he allowed himself. That was proving a difficult path for Dorian. But elves in particular were accepted, trusted, and esteemed, thanks to Ellana and their other allies. And thanks to him and Cassandra. Whenever a recruit came in who didn't understand the concept of earning worth, it was either driven out of her or she was driven out by them both.

This man wasn't his recruit, but he could damn well scare the piss out of him. "You, serah," he said with steely emphasis, "are not my kin, and so I will not take the same stripe out of you."

"I'd be pleased to meet you on any field you chose," said Balen. Stupidly.

Cullen shook his head. "You don't want to fight me. It would be to your death," he said. Someone at the end of the table gasped, likely his sister, and he smiled slightly. "You've insulted the most powerful person in Thedas. More importantly, you've insulted my friend. This is not something I take lightly. That you are a guest in my sister's home is the only reason you still draw breath."

He didn't execute people for insults, no matter how they deserved it, but no one here knew that. He saw other guests shift uncomfortably, and the woman next to him tried to move away without making a noise. No, the people here didn't understand what lived under the skin of a soldier.

The man glared at him, clearly not repentant. Cullen wouldn't demand an apology. A forced apology was worse than none at all. But the lesson needed to stick. Cullen leaned forward, making sure that the muscles of his arms flexed clearly through hhis clothing. He was still half a head taller than Goldward, even seated, and in much better shape. "If others of the Inquisition were here, they would not be so forgiving. Think of that before you share your ignorance in company. The Dalish are worth a thousand of you. The Inquisitor is beyond compare. Leave, or learn why my sword hand is so calloused."

Balen pushed his chair back, muttering, and Cullen didn't try to stop him. His flirtatious sister joined him, pale and unsmiling, and they left without another word.

He sighed and rubbed his temple, suddenly too aware of the eyes on him and his lack of things to say. The rise of so much anger had drained him, and he was in no mood to smooth things over.

Mia broke the silence. "What is the Inquisitor like, Cullen?" she asked hesitantly. "We hear so many stories but few truths."

What was the Inquisitor like? A week ago, he would have said she was quiet beauty, strength without compare, a soothing balm for a troubled heart. Yesterday he would have said she was a skilled manipulator, a master of strategy, and a ruthless leader who could never be denied. He had no idea what he would say tonight.

Cassandra spoke for him. "She's brave. Whether it is the gift of her people or of herself, she never complains of suffering. Her compassion is such that she wants to help everyone she meets, but she is shy of strangers. She is very direct in her thinking. She grasps the heart of a person easily, but her attempts to soothe their woes often lead to disaster. She is beautiful, especially when she works her magic. She loves to laugh and has closed down the tavern more than once with a round of song. She enjoys pranks. Skyhold is often the scene of designed embarrassments for its notable citizens," she said. She looked at him with a small smile. "Only a few months ago, she managed to trick the Commander into entering a formal dinner in his nightclothes."

He gaped as the room laughed, a little nervously. "That was her? I thought it was Sera!"

"Ellana was quite proud that it was entirely her own idea," she said. "She bragged of it to everyone. I believe another trick was being considered before we left."

"I always thought she was so serious," he said, baffled.

Cassandra shrugged. "When she is at work, she is. The Inquisitor must be serious," she said. "But Ellana? Hardly ever."

Mia smiled, and he leaned back in his chair and released what anger he could. "I suppose there's always something new to learn," he said. "Tell your stories of truth, Lady Seeker."

When they excused themselves with the pretext of the Inquisition letters, the moon was mostly hidden under clouds and the world was dark. They'd spent the rest of the evening trading off stories of the Inquisition's members, Cassandra injecting a humor that settled the guests and made them a little less afraid. And him less angry. The other guests, while sheltered, were predisposed to kindliness, and they found the tales of elves and dwarves and qunari exotic but not unnatural. Alice had remarked they were more human than humans, in some cases, and she wasn't wrong.

And when they passed the stables, he saw something that pushed any lingering resentment far to the back of his mind. Peter and Deanna stood sweetly against the stable wall, lit by a single sliver of moonlight, kissing the soft kisses of young lovers everywhere. He pulled Cassandra behind a wagon and peered out, grinning. "He was brave," he whispered.

She was less impressed. "We cannot spy on them," she hissed.

"Of course we can. I'm his uncle," he said. Deanna seemed almost as happy as Peter, and Cullen wondered if she'd been the brave one, in the end. He gave Cassandra a triumphant look. "And you said he'd think himself out of happiness."

"Yes, apparently that trait skips a generation," she said, smiling an enticing half-smile. He pulled her in for a kiss of his own. There was no moon, and there was no love, but there was this. It was what he needed.

"On second thought, I think I'd rather write some letters than spy," he murmured against her mouth.

Cassandra bit his lip lightly before she drew back, and his breath caught in his throat. She stood without looking back and headed for the guest house. Peter and Deanna never even noticed them, lost in each other, and Cullen left them to their joy.

In the house, Cassandra made for her room, but stopped him when he did as well. "Your room," she said. "I need to get my writing supplies."

He cocked his head. "Is that code? Don't tell me you're actually planning to write letters," he said.

"I do not wish to lie to your family. Go," she said and disappeared.

He grumbled as he did as she ordered, but he resolved that if she had to write, it certainly wasn't going to be the first thing she did. He stripped his shirt off and paced, fidgety and wanting, and when she entered he barely gave her time to shut the door before he was on her. He took the bag of supplies of her hands as he kissed her, and she didn't protest until he dropped it on the floor.

"Don't treat my things that way," she said, a little incoherently. Her lips were otherwise occupied, and his hands were already exploring the goose-fleshed skin underneath her tunic. It was the same thin one she'd worn all day, but he didn't think it was the cold of the night that was causing her shivers.

He moved his mouth to her ear. "I'm more important," he said with more than a hint of a growl. He bit the lobe lightly, but still hard enough to make her gasp. "So are you."

He stilled his hands. Where had that come from? Cullen tried to clear his mind, gather himself together, but her own fingers dipped beneath his waistband, and he pressed her more firmly against the door at the invasion. He felt strange and edgy. And not just from the physical want, which had subsided slightly after the afternoon by the pond, but from something pressing against the walls his mind. He claimed her mouth again, more urgently, until she turned aside from him.

"Cullen," she said. The magic of his name in her rich accents hardened him fully, and he made sure she could feel it as he stripped her shirt away. "Cullen, what's wrong?"

She sounded concerned, not afraid, so he didn't stop undressing her. Nor did he stop to think. "He insulted you," he said. He dragged his thumb over her parted lips, already swollen from the friction against own. "He insulted you, and you let him. For me."

Her body relaxed a little under his. "Yes. It was the easiest path," she said. She tried to look him in the eye as he removed her pants. He didn't meet her gaze as he leaned back to study her. The skin of her legs was pale and marked where she'd taken blows over the years. Her chest and stomach were even more scarred. She'd lived a hard life. So had he.

"You never take the easy way," he said, finally looking back up. "You do what's right. Don't compromise yourself on my behalf, Cassandra."

She smiled faintly, and he gripped her chin in his fingers. "I mean it."

There was no answer. Her finger ran over his chest, and he shuddered, whether from anger or desire he couldn't tell. He looked down and saw she was tracing her way over an old wound, one that had nearly split him in two. Taken in Kirkwall, against a mage who was half-crazed with fear. Before he'd met her.

"Sometimes we take scars when we defend," she said. "The soul is no different."

Her mouth followed her finger, and it was so like his fantasy of Solona he almost yanked himself away. But he didn't, because it was good. Better than good. "I don't want you to scar for me," he said. "I -"

"If you say you don't deserve it, I will leave," she said mildly, and his mouth snapped shut. She smiled and slid back up him, pressing her body against his. "Do you wish me to stay?"

Wish wasn't a strong enough word. If she left him here, like this, he would die. "Yes," he said. Her lips found his again, and he was still hungry, but it was a little softer. A little less desperate. He couldn't get enough of her skin under his palms.

"The bed," he said eventually, surprised he could even manage that much thought. They were bare and tangled in minutes, and the dark satisfaction in her eyes when he took her would stay with him for a long time. The sex was fast and rough, not by design but from necessity. He'd never felt so uncontrolled, but she met him at every point as an equal. It was the first time he'd slept with a woman without shame or worry, and his climax left him shaking and weak and wholly at peace.

When it was finished, she lay next to him quietly, demanding nothing of him but stillness. He closed his eyes and thanked the Maker, Andraste, and even the Creators for sending him this last gift. And for Cassandra, who'd offered it to him when he needed it most.

She wrote one letter that night, and he wondered how she found the energy. He dozed lightly, waking when she tried to leave, and he found he wanted her again. When he finally let her go to her own room, he fell into a deep sleep, comforted by the knowledge that she was more than content, this time.