Author's note:

Thank yous to Tokugawa Blitzer, Minizilla and DarklingGl0ry for the comments! Reviews really make my day.

So here's some Cullen jealousy for you all, and for the Adric fans...well, you'll just have to read this to find out. ;)

Next to Chapter 14, this was so very difficult to write. It underwent revision after revision after revision. Basically, I don't want to make out Stroud to be an arse who's only aim in life is to lust after Evangeline. Even typing out that sentence makes me cringe. He's under a good deal of stress, and can sometimes be misguided. So don't hate the chap, I implore you.

Also, if you have the time, check out these great fics as well:

Temporary Absolution - Tokugawa Blitzer

Dragon Age Noir - Orillia Orange

The Nature of the Beast

He ascended along the curved stairwell, allowing his fingers to gently trace the indents and grains of the winding banister. He'd really taken to the sense of warmth that the tower's prudent yet tasteful lighting provided at night. As the Inquisition could not afford to take liberties with its funds – which trickled in in the form of appreciative-jobs-well-done, enemy spoils and donations of providence (both charitably- and politically- motivated) – when it came to the simpler things in life, they had to make do with the rudimentary. Rush lights and beeswax candles, contained within somewhat opaque glass, alternately adorned the stone walls. His feet treaded lightly on the final step and then onto polished acacia woodwork. Now how Josephine and her modest contingent of associates, colleagues and assistants (there was one of each) had managed to procure such lavish furnishings, he didn't quite know. Perhaps they came by this luxury thanks to an altruistic benefactor.

This serene niche had become a favourite of the mages as well. He witnessed one arrange a bouquet of flowers in a clear glass vase. She fussed for the better half of a minute over the placing of both lilac and white wildflowers and fiddled about with the fronds of forest ferns before she inched backwards and straightened up – finally satisfied with her handiwork. He glanced around the atrium library and noticed that she'd taken it upon herself to brighten up the large room with an array of diverse flora. A gentle wind wafted through the open windows and carried with it the scent of petrichor – intense after the day's earlier downpour. He let out a contented breath. His eyes hungrily lit on leather- and cloth-bound spines of shelved books, and he wondered which one he'd devour tonight.

This elementary sanctuary of his – for that was how he'd always thought of it – excelled at soothing his frayed nerves.

Well, almost.

A charcoal mass of feathers fluttered past his head and out the window. It almost caused him to lose his footing at the top of the stairs. It cawed abrasively at him and as it did so, the sound echoed and amplified against the confines of his environs. The tower was splendid when it came to nurturing solace-seekers, but its acoustically-inclined architecture loomed with equal measure. Much to his displeasure.

A murder of crows followed the first and Adric flapped his hands in the air, shooing the avian abominations away in annoyance.

"Confound you all to the depths of the abyss!" he cried, swatting at the last creature. "Why can't you use the windows in the rookery?"

"Because they hail or are said to be part of a warrior goddess," called out a hidden voice from a large oriel window. "And when warrior goddesses aren't tossing coins with men's lives, they take to frivolity instead."

"What?"

"Come now, did you scatter your mythological knowledge to the four winds? The Morrighan. Goddess of war and sovereignty."

Frustration quite forgotten, Adric moved towards the familiar tone and found Dorian organizing and stacking piles of books on the ground. His face was impeccably smug yet he looked a mite flushed by all the lifting and heaving.

"Have you taken it upon yourself to rearrange the entire library system, then?" asked Adric.

Dorian scoffed in contempt. "What system? Look at this." He dived into a pile and yanked a rather moth-eaten tome. He held it up for Adric to see. "The Art of Cooking for Love. Placed absurdly next to Poisoned Salves: Crafting the perfect contaminant when a mace simply won't do."

Adric grinned impishly at Dorian. "Are you...sure that their juxtaposition was an accident? I'm sure if you conferred with a disgruntled married couple, they might disagree."

They laughed together.

"Do you need help sorting this mess out?" offered Adric.

Dorian's eyes flicked up at him. He could see that the young man was tired, but its manifestation came from the soul, rather than from worn muscles. His oval face seemed more or less refreshed but an ominous cloud lumbered through his eyes. Perhaps this had something to do with their recent excursion into Crestwood.

"Well," said Dorian; studying the masochistic task he'd felt compelled to undertake, "I'd be foolish to turn down some help." He beckoned Adric forward. "For starters, let's try and separate the arts of alchemy from culinary. After all, we've got a resurrected Tevinter madman clamoring for our heads; we don't want him to know that we're capable of doing the job ourselves. Idiocy is a surprise attack I reserve for special occasions only."

Adric brushed his hair back and set to work on one pile immediately.

"So how did it go in Crestwood?" queried Dorian as he thumbed through a page of contents. He issued a disdainful sniff and transferred the novel to another heap.

"Peachy keen – as our lady Inquisitor would say. Oh, and I should mention that we found out where the Grey Wardens have been skulking."

"Where's that?"

"They've allied themselves with a chap called Livius Eramond. Tevinter. Currently under employment of the Elder One."

"Good grief."

Adric went on. "You've heard of the Calling, I'm sure?" Dorian nodded and Adric proceeded. "Well, Corypheus – bless his undead little heart – flipped a switch somewhere which made every Warden across Thedas hear it. He secretly dispatched Eramond, under the pretense of aid, who's informed the Warden Commander that the only way to stop the Song was to march into the Deep Roads and kill the Old Gods once and for all. The only way to do that is to raise a demon army. And the only way to do that is by blood magic. I don't think the Wardens realize that by agreeing to this literal blood bath, they're effectively going to bind themselves to Corypheus' will."

Dorian ceased all activity. "You'd think that Warden stock had descended from a pool of inbred cretins. Surely this is just ludicrous conjecture...?"

Adric shook his head. "Wish it was."

"But why would they possibly consent to it?"

Adric shrugged in disconsolation. "Desperation. No one wants to die. But to consciously be slowly driven mad...well, there are fates worse than death."

"Is this demon army on its way to kill Celene?"

"The demon army is but a twinkle in Corypheus' eye at the moment. The summoning ritual won't be carried out until a fortnight from now. I think."

"Maker."

Adric remained mute. He resumed scanning each book title.

"I've read some of Eramond's works," spoke up Dorian as he followed suit. "Used to refer to himself as a Fade scholar. Of course he conveniently withheld the fact that he was Venatori. Even did a stint as a visiting lecturer at the University of Orlais. He was chucked out six months later – I'm actually surprised he'd lasted as long as he did. The fact that he was charismatic may have had something to do with it. Someone found out that he'd plagiarized decades-old publications and there was a fantastic to-do and scandal – I believe that the Empress even had a personal hand in his dismissal. Pity that she didn't discover his ties to the cult. She'd have had him executed on the spot. And maybe then we wouldn't have to deal with the mess of the Wardens."

"But then Corypheus would have sent another lackey in his stead," Adric pointed out.

"True enough." One stack sorted out, Dorian began to the tackle the next. "We really should be cataloguing all these."

"I'll help you do that tomorrow if you'd like," smiled Adric.

Dorian studied his companion's mien for a second longer than he'd intended. "I would like that very much."

Three hours past midnight, the pair had finally managed to slog through several shelves and had categorized each according to their respective topics. They were quite pleased with their accomplishment.

Dorian patted Adric appreciatively on the back. "Too bad we're the only witnesses to the fruits of our labour. This was no mean feat, my friend. I feel as if a sudden calm's come over me. When I first discovered this...literary mutiny, I felt like I had a bloody bee in my bonnet."

"Well, I'm glad you're bee-less – as it were," Adric jested.

"I certainly am. Speaking of bees – I don't suppose you have the time to spare for a quick nightcap? Maybe some honey-wine? But this time, without lusting boars."

"I...would love to."

"Wait right here," motioned Dorian.

Adric exhaled. The scene was too reminiscent of the interaction he'd had with Dorian a few months ago. The clammy sense of anxiety and butterfly-turning in his stomach attested to it. After the calamity at Haven, he had grown reluctant to approach the man despite their mutual attraction. Adric wasn't certain if this originated from an innate sense of betrayal towards Peter's memory or from a desperate need to guard his heart. With friends, one could relinquish emotional detachment easily. While the bond of friendship wasn't immune to its share of heartache, the need to uncoil and relax came more naturally between friends. But after Peter, and on considering the aspects of romantic love, Adric was quite as a loss to define its intricacies. The matter had him stumped. If he could possibly understand the nature of the beast, he could tame it.

Evangeline had once referred to love as a socially-accepted form of insanity.

Perhaps she was quite right.

Maybe he didn't need to think through this one. Maybe the trick was to rely on instinct.

This wasn't going to be easy.

In the span of five minutes, Dorian returned. He held two wine glasses in hand and a green-tinted, slender bottle in the other. The two men sank down into the soft upholstery of the trapezoid bay window. The mage popped the cork off and sloshed a generous portion of liquor into the translucent vessel.

Adric accepted the drink gratefully. "I feel the need to apologize for something."

"Oh?" Dorian sipped at his own beverage as grey eyes peered curiously from behind the rim of the glass.

Okay. Here goes. "I know I've been a little...cool towards you since Haven, and I just wanted to let you know that it's not because of anything that you've said or done. The fault mostly lies with me...and my reluctance to move forward. Your behaviour despite my...standoffish-ness is commendable."

Dorian smirked. "I will admit to being a trifle surprised by your demotion of me from friend to casual acquaintance. But I figured that after Haven, we were all a little bruised and battered. You especially. It's not an easy thing to accept the potential death of a dear friend."

"She's not had it easy either, you know."

Dorian issued an approximation of a nod. "Yes, but she's the Inquisitor. She has a decent support system. Which reminds me, are she and the Commander...?"

Adric feigned surprise, and then on further contemplation, became keenly aware that Dorian could see right through whatever falsehoods he could contrive. "Off the record?"

"On pain of death," grinned Dorian as he placed a hand on his breast.

"Well...yes, then."

"I thought so," said a vindicated Dorian. "I saw her go into the Commander's dwelling a few weeks ago and she didn't come out until morning. I should know. I'm a certified insomniac."

The mage refilled their glasses. "But I digress. What I'm trying to say is that you may be tucking away your feelings elsewhere in order to make room for hers. I think it's very noble of you. It's the mark of a true friend. But simply because her problems overshadow yours, doesn't mean that you can't seek out a friendly ear."

"Are...you saying that I should spend less time listening to her problems? Because I would never – "

"No, no," chortled Dorian. "Not at all. In fact, I suggest that you be there for her whenever you're needed. But her troubles don't necessarily invalidate your own. Even if they're several shades darker. I'm just suggesting that you...jettison your load on a willing participant from time to time."

The corner of Adric's mouth twitched upwards. "The willing participant being you, I assume?"

"Maybe."

Adric's eyes twinkled. "What entitles you to such a lofty position? Have you done anything to earn it?" Dear sweet Maker. That was a beggarly attempt at flirtation. This dance came naturally to him when it was brought on by a single night of passion, but now it was all he could do to keep from falling flat on his proverbial face.

"I suppose not. But that could be easily rectified." And with that, Dorian leaned in – his beautiful, strong face mere inches away from his own. The mage was so close to him that he could feel the near-tangible temptation that his warm breath elicited. It smelled of strawberries, apples and wine. "Nothing you don't want, of course," he whispered cautiously, conscious of Adric's inhibitions.

"I think I do." breathed Adric. "Want – that is."

Dorian's mouth gingerly sought his own; then pressed further inwards. Initially terrified of the prospects thereof, the intensity of this connection quickly undermined his resolve to resist it. Something palpable, something more meaningful than lust sat patiently behind it. It was fiery yet comforting. Demanding yet compassionate. When Dorian finally pulled away, Adric's chest was heaving, and not for lack of air.

He waited calmly for the younger man to say something. Words not forthcoming, he offered a languid smile in his direction. "Consider that the first of many payments. I fully intend to bribe my way to the top."

"Well? Is he a goodie or a baddie?" asked Stroud. He sat on a three-legged – and somewhat uneven – stool while peeling potatoes for an evening meal. He tossed the yellow-brown skins into a rusted bucket beside him.

Evangeline was coarsely chopping two onion bulbs on the table. "What an absurd question!" She jerked around, almost knocking into a blackened oil lamp that hung from the low ceiling of Stroud's humble domicile.

"But it's still a valid one. She was fifteen years his junior!" He shuddered.

"The question of whether he's good or bad simplifies the entire story, and makes an irreverent mess out of a beautiful piece of literature. And I'm not even done yet. Weren't you listening to a word I was saying?"

Outside, the pair could hear rain splattering against his small windows. The froth-crested waves of Lake Calenhad crashed against moored vessels of Redcliffe's docks. From time to time, they'd listen as running footsteps thumped along, seeking shelter from the storm. On occasion, and when the wind picked up, the soaked wood outside whimpered and groaned like a mournful, dying animal from the strain of the weather.

"Yes, of course I was. Bloke's around fourteen, falls for girl around the similar age. Girl dies, guy gets all mopey and then – "

Evangeline flung a piece of onion vigourously at him. "He doesn't get all mopey! He becomes wedged, stuck in that point in time. His body matures, his intelligence matures and you could even say that he manages to get over her death. But his emotion, love and..." she fumbled about, searching for the correct word, "idolization for who she was, what she looked like even, was tethered in place. Like a permanent branding on his soul."

Stroud cast his eyes heavenwards. "You're romanticizing again."

"Said the pot to the kettle." She turned around and moved towards a lit brazier just behind the dining table, on which sat a metal saucepan. She poured some oil in the pot and thrust the onions in, followed by a smattering of crushed garlic. "You done with the potatoes yet?" She stirred the mixture.

"Almost." He rose from his seat and began dicing up the peeled tubers. "Okay. So you're saying he's emotionally stunted. I suppose that makes sense. Doesn't he go nuts on a few occasions?"

She nodded as she took an appreciative whiff of the ingredients being roasted. "Yeah – he checked himself into a few sanitariums and then checked himself out. But he's as smart a fellow as they come. Just has this preternatural draw for younger girls. Much younger girls. But we're the readers, so it's not surprising for us at all because we've seen him from the inside. We know the how and the why. From the outside, he knows he's a bit of lecher – knows how wrong he is and is well aware of how the world would look at him if it knew."

"Love makes fools of us all," noted Stroud. He slid up behind her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

She hardly seemed to notice, so enraptured was she in her argumentative analysis. "So he's checks out of another bughouse, yeah? And he's all fresh and clean from the brainwashing psychobabble. A self-declared reformed man. Even begins to court a forty year old equivalent called Agnes Haze. But that decision proves to be both the best and worst thing for him." She held the lengthy wooden spoon in the air and marveled at the thought. "Isn't that funny? How some things hold that kind of duality?"

He shrugged and resumed chopping. He set down the knife and scratched his ear impatiently. This conversation was winding up far too long of a road. "Not really. Lots of things are that way. Religion, for instance."

"I suppose so. Anyway, so the girl happens to be Haze's daughter. Thirteen going on fourteen. He first spots her while she's readying obliviously on the lawn in their courtyard. A spring rain's started to fall at this point, but she pays it little mind. He looks at her and time freezes. Love at first sight."

"It's a wee bit...icky, no?"

"Of course it is." She peeked at the hot, sputtering food in the pot. "Onions are caramelized."

Stroud tossed the potatoes in and took over the remaining culinary duties. Evangeline raised herself up to table, her toes barely touching the floor.

"You agree with me?" asked a mildly bewildered Stroud. "That's a first."

"What he did was wrong. Getting sexually involved with a child. But remember that he doesn't see her that way. I think that sometimes, in his mind's eye, he morphs back into that fourteen year old boy. And maybe that's how he justifies it."

"But how can the author possibly condone what he'd done?"

"He doesn't condone it. That's the whole point. It's an impeccably-crafted tale that weaves all these emotions together – calls the character's feelings as he sees them. But it's told without prejudice and you can't help but feel sorry for the man. For all his smarts and numerous other gifts, that single event in his past had scarred him to the bone, and because of it, passion supersedes logic. The heart wants what the heart wants. Sometimes there's no denying it."

He turned and crinkled his nose at her. "Just how long is this story?"

"Oh, we have about three-quarters of it left to go. I want to tell you about – "

"Evie, we only have this evening left until I get to see you again next week. Do you really want to spend our time together talking about a sicko with an unhealthy obsession with nymphets?" Stroud grasped her hands and gently tugged her off the table.

She scowled. "Yes, I do. The book was amazing and I'd like to talk about it. I let you ramble on earlier about whathisface and his ice-fishing escapades."

"You've been talking about the book for hours!"

"It's only been twenty minutes!" Her entire face had tightened. "Okay. Okay." She was struggling to contain the beast. She knew that when it came to even-keeled persons, she hardly ever fit the bill. If Stroud wanted to fence, she'd join in, but minus heated fervor. "Just...tell me what we did today. From the morning right up to this very moment."

"We went ice-fishing. You said you love the water and you like fish."

"I like to eat fish, and I like to swim – not sit idly for hours freezing our buns off! That's like saying: let's take a trip to the sun because you love warmth and blue skies. And we've been going ice-fishing for the past month!"

Stroud flung the spoon melodramatically on the ground. "You always manage to manipulate what I've done for you – out of love – and take it to an extreme! You exaggerate everything!"

"You won't answer the question? Fine – I'll answer it for you. We went ice-fishing for three hours. Then we had to wait for an eternity for your blasted friend – who looks very much like a thug, by the way, not a brother of the Chantry – who you were selling black-marketed trinkets to. And I had to stand next to you while you flirted with his colleague. And smile. Because that's what you asked me to do. I smiled. Acted like nothing was wrong. When she suggested that you rendezvous with her at a later date, you should have seen your face. You were like a simpering puppy."

"I was playing a part! And you're always jealous – I'm a bloke, and blokes look."

Something acrid permeated the air, but in the verbal affray, neither participant paid much mind. "You know what – every time we did something you wanted to do, I tagged along. Because you moved to Redcliffe because of me. I...I'm still grateful." She strove for a watery, appeasing, grin.

"Well, you don't look it." he shot back.

Evangeline set her teeth and continued. "I wanted you to be yourself, do the things you wanted to do. But once in a while, I bring up something I love as a topic for discussion and we linger on it until your patience runs out. Which, I might add, has a terribly short lifespan when it comes to other people."

"That's because you're not the brightest bulb in the box. Can I help it when I process information faster than you can? Goddamn it, Evie – you always have to say something snarky!" The retort leapt from his lips as a pewter tankard sailed from his hand across the room. It hit the wall with an ominous clank and thudded on to the floor.

That did it. She forced her person in front of him. "You wanna hit me, you little jackass? Do it. Come on – do it. Just give me a reason."

"You're a barbarian!"

"You're a fucking child! And your potatoes are burning!"

"Screw the potatoes – screw you!"

"Shove the damned tubers up your sodding arse instead of down your throat! After all, that's where all your horseshit comes from!"

And then she was gone.

Stroud's eyes shot open. Someone seemed to be thumping on wood. He sat up ramrod straight and looked about the small room frantically. A bed. He was in a bed. In an inn...somewhere in the Frostback Mountains. Evangeline. Inquisition. Skyhold. A solitary candle had been consumed by a steady flame – almost to its halfway mark. The mattress was soft. Too soft in contrast to the knobbly, cold ground that had kneed him every which way for the past several months. Really, it was a marvel that he'd fallen asleep on an actual bed so quickly. Lemon-coloured curtains flapped in accordance to the wind as it ferried in the sound of music and buzzing voices. A ceramic wash basin balanced on a stool next to a modest little bureau. A vase of wildflowers and a pitcher of water adorned a humble mantelpiece that framed the hearth.

The thumping sounded again. It was a knock, actually. Several knocks.

"Alec?" called a muffled voice from the other side of the door.

Evie, he mouthed silently? He kicked away the covers, swung his legs over the side of the bed and sprang to his feet.

"Evie?" he repeated, except this time with a smile and flung open the door.

Not Evie. But Maker, was this one beautiful.

The woman's figure struck a voluptuous pose. He didn't know if it was deliberate, but at that moment, he didn't quite care. Coils of dark brown hair slid down just past her shoulders, and she appraised him meekly with sapphire eyes. Her lips were parted ever so slightly, and she smiled demurely up at him.

"It's Collette. We met...earlier? Near the stables? Where you were talking with your friend."

"My...uh...oh, Blackwall. Yeah. Warden Blackwall."

Her grin broadened. "Yes, that's him. You said that you'd like to buy me a drink...later."

His eyes twinkled back in amusement. "I believe the words I so judiciously used were: sometime later in the week. Not the same day."

"Does it really make a difference?"

Studying the stunning creature before him; cold pangs of conscience snuck inwards. The dream he'd had about Evangeline seemed more of a memory than an imagining of his psyche, and it was begin to fuel the need to patch things up between them.

He raised an elbow and rested it in lassitude against the door frame. "Maybe. What if I was to expect someone else up here?"

She stood on the balls of her feet and peered coyly around his shoulders. "I don't see anyone else. And besides, you don't seem like that sort of man."

Trouble. This woman was trouble. If Evangeline knew, what would she think? Possibly very little. Or a lot. Damn those mixed signals. "And you don't seem like the sort of woman to knock on strangers' doors in the middle of the night. Or do I have that all wrong?"

"I wasn't knocking on strangers' doors. I knocked on your door. And it's barely midnight."

Evangeline had made everything...somewhat clear yesterday, hadn't she? She'd – how did she put it – absolved him of his guilt. They'd always be friends. Friends. Just...friends. "What's your name again?"

"Collette." She rubbed her hands rapidly up and down her upper arms. "And this hallway is cold."

He beckoned her in. He walked over to the bed and reached for his rucksack. He pulled out his flask of whisky. He paused for the briefest of moments before unscrewing its cap. He knew what would happen if he consumed too much, but something within needed appeasement. Or dulling. Or both. He held it out towards her. "Would you like a sip?"

She shook her head.

He took a swig of the drink, relishing the heat and bitter flavour as it slipped down his throat. "Why exactly are you here?"

"Why do you think?" She began to slip her dress off.

Stroud gulped a larger portion down. And then some more. Before he knew it, no liquid sloshed against its silver confines. He set it down on the bedside table and sat down on the bed as he watched her slowly undress. If he'd thought her striking while clothed, she was significantly more alluring without anything on. She was more...curved in places than Evangeline had been. Her breasts were fuller, heavier and her shoulders more poised. She moved with the litheness of a cat – there was little awkwardness in the small, patient steps she took towards him. Evangeline could never do graceful consciously, but it was an endearing trait and –

"Andraste's tits," Stroud muttered in irritation as he looked to one side.

Collette paused in mid-stride. "Is...everything okay? Would you like me to go?"

"No..." He just had to compare Collette to her. Just when he needed relief, reprieve, this compunction had washed over him. With the last woman...when was that – about four months ago – he'd never run into this problem. No forethought. No rationale. No hesitation. Yes. Perhaps that was what he needed now.

He stood up purposefully, crossed the room in less than five seconds and wrapped his arms around Collette. He allowed his fingers to stretch beyond what most women would decree as acceptable. She surrendered completely and began to help him remove his shirt. He pressed his naked torso against her chest. Her breath was hot and sweet as it pulsed along his neck. He slid his mouth down her own, slowly and surely – in between her breasts and left it there only to feel them heave with stimulated anticipation. Collette placed a coaxing hand on his head. She wanted him to venture lower.

As he began to do so, a sound escaped his lips. He tried to choke back a groan that intermingled with a hoarse cry.

He pulled back, straightened up and rubbed his hand painfully across his face. "I – I'm so sorry. I just...not now. I can't. I don't know."

Her mouth opened in confusion. And then something seemed to dawn on her. "I can help you...if you're having problems. Coming awake, that is."

"It's not that." He moved a few yards, picked up her dress and handed it to her. "And it's not you. You – you're gorgeous. This is really difficult for me."

She grudgingly accepted her clothes. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. Really, it's probably just best if you leave."

Her tone finally grew testy. "Then what the hell do you want? You made it clear enough earlier that you wanted to see me. And then, only a few minutes ago, you were all over me. And now you can't stand the sight of me?" She hastily buttoned her dress as he looked on in apologetic silence. She shot him a poisonous glance and then stormed out the room, slamming the door behind her. The walls rattled for an instant in response and then all was still.

He needed another drink.

He descended the stairs carefully, fearful of a misstep. He'd only consumed a single flask of whisky. He was sufficiently self-aware that it would have taken him about six equivalents of such to succumb to complete and utter inebriation, but circumstances then had demanded caution. Finally at the foot of the stairs, he glanced around the tavern and marveled at the fact that it was so busy, given the lateness of the hour. Sod caution. He was thirsty. For safety, for ale, for company. And all three were suddenly at his behest.

He ambled towards the bar and requested a dark, bitter ale by name. It was something he'd been fond of drinking during his time in Rivain when he was younger. The dwarven barman asked no questions concerning the opening of a tab, and busied himself in preparing several drinks – Stroud's included. He pushed a filled stein down the plywood counter. On polishing off the rich, familiar taste of his first, Stroud motioned for the second and swiveled around on the tall stool, reclined his elbows behind him on the bar's ledge and surveyed the din. Aware that the sweet melody of the Song was loudening within him, he was thankful for the scope of chatter and activity that innocently rivaled it. A timorous voice at the depths of his mind urged him to quit while he was ahead, but he raised his hand in the direction of the barman again before running it against his densely-stubbled cheeks.

He was about to turn back; prepared to nurse his successive drink in self-pity, when he heard a familiar chuckle.

Evangeline sat in between a Qunari, Adric and two other faces he failed to recognize. The Qunari shoved a container of something in her direction, but with an amicable expression, she pushed it back at him. The company held several cards in their hands, and with animated discussion and revelry, they contested each other loudly.

Before long, he found himself making a beeline for their company.

Ignorant to his standing over her shoulder, he conducted a cursory survey of her hand. He leaned into Evangeline's ear. "Better fold now."

She bristled but held her own. "I'm their bloody Inquisitor. Having me lose reflects a loss to morale."

The Quanari had one leg on the floor and the other propped on top of an empty chair. He rested his free arm on the raised knee, his hand dangling leisurely from it. She wasn't discreet enough for his ears and he pounced on her remark with bemused delight. "Horseshit! I've won two rounds already. Get three sodding drinks in the gal and she's putty in your hands. I've earned five silvers. And only an hour past midnight!" He turned to a boyish soul by his side. "Or is it two?"

Evangeline staggered to her feet, fumbled into the cotton threads of the cloth pouch in her trousers and fished out several more coins balled up in rounds of lint. She slapped them – her form reluctant to accept defeat – onto the table. "Raise you one more silver, Bull! Someone's got to take you down."

"I have a more entertaining proposition for you all." declared Stroud quite suddenly.

All heads angled towards him.

He cleared his throat. "I propose a drink-off. Any hot-blooded individual against this here Warden. Fifteen shots of the strongest beverage the house has to offer. I'm willing to guess that none of you'll make it past twelve. Best me and you'll find a whopping ten silvers in your pocket."

In his defense, Adric struggled valiantly to restrain Evangeline. However, in the awkward fracas, she'd managed to shove her friend's entangling arms aside and pointed an emphatic finger at Stroud. "You're on! In fact, I can do one better. I win this and you're buying the next round of drinks for all my friends." She then scratched her head pensively. "What if I match your fifteen?"

"Wager's still on. It'll be a draw until we can draft up further terms."

"Shake on it?" She thrust her right hand out at him.

"Done deal." confirmed Stroud and accepted. "But what do I get if I win?"

She shrugged in nonchalance. She hadn't thought that far. "I dunno. A victor's satisfaction?"

"An evening and a dance with the Inquisitor."

She curled a bewildered lip at him. A portion of her sound mind was furiously striving to puzzle something out, but before she knew it, an overeager acquaintance at her table leapt up and shook Stroud's hand on her behalf. Onlookers cheered as Adric held his miserable head in his hands. He gave Stroud a once-over out of his peripheral vision. To his keen eye, Alec wasn't quite himself. But in comparison to Evangeline's dwindling capacity for rational thought, he was a goddamned scholar of the arts. Alec – recognized for his propensity for fun and game, and dash of romanticism – also appeared to be capitalizing on his familiarity with Evangeline's own shortcomings.

He pushed his chair aside and approached the Warden. He pulled Alec delicately to one side and whispered in his ear. "What are you doing?"

"What I should have done a long time ago."

"Two days from now, she's going to accept the title of the Inquisitor. You get her plastered and what'll everyone think?"

"She's the people's choice. And not because of her airs and graces. Of which you seem to have an abundance of."

Oh no. You won't goad me that easy. Alright. A different tactic then. "Alec...you can't possibly hope to win her back this way. She might be slightly drunk, but she's not a fool. And don't forget what I said earlier."

"What – that she's with someone?" Stroud let out a derisive snort. "Obviously a ruse or a pathetic excuse. You lot have allowed the prospective Inquisitor the time for romantic dalliances with the entirety of Thedas to save? Please." He appraised Adric as if the man hadn't contemplated something. "Isn't she entitled to be happy? To be with someone she loves?"

"She is with someone she loves!" he hissed. "Don't jeopardize this!"

He slugged Adric playfully on the arm. "What – Cullen? Look, I've given this a great deal of thought. It's a good act, but we all know it's not true. Have a little faith in me, Adric. I know she isn't with anyone. I may have a cup or two in me, but I can see the truth of it. Now, alright. I understand the...qualms you might hold against me because of certain actions I've taken in the past. But Evangeline risked her neck to come to my aid. Despite every protest I made to the contrary. And whether she's aware of it or not, she did it out of love. I didn't deserve her before, so I'm going to make damn sure I'm worthy of it this time around."

"Hey!" called Evangeline. "Stop prancing 'round the room like a nubile Nancy and let's get this show on the road. You're about to eat my dust, Warden."

Adric could do nothing but glower at Stroud. But the Warden gently pushed past him and sat down across from Evangeline. In the span of a few moments, Adric wheeled about on his heels and stormed out of the establishment.

At that very moment, Maryden, Skyhold's customary minstrel retired for the night. Three jovial men, armed with string, rudimentary percussion and an absurdly large cello took the modest stage. They conducted garbled introductions to which the tavern's patrons paid little notice.

The Bull cleared the rectangular wooden slab whilst Krem made the necessary arrangements for the challenge. A worn barmaid tended to their needs, bringing a choice selection of alcohol to the table along with several empty, shot-glass-sized vessels. Stroud eyed Evangeline knowingly at one end.

She snarled at him à-la- Cassandra. "Time to win back my coin."

"You're going to win much more than that back, Evie," he grinned. He turned to a plump man who sat between them both. "Shall we?"

The man began to pour aliquots of liquor into fifteen, sparkling shot-glasses. "Ladies first." he gestured to Evangeline.

Not taking her challenging eye off Stroud, she guzzled one followed by a second. She turned each small tumbler over on its rim. "Two down."

"Child's play." he said as he quickly drained three.

"I'm telling you – she's had one too many, and you probably ought to intervene."

Cullen, donned in simple trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, strode towards a candle on his windowsill. He snuffed it out with thumb and forefinger. "Adric, I'm not her keeper. Evangeline trained hard the entire morning and afternoon. She deserves a little down time with her friends. It may not be my thing, but it keeps her going. I can't begrudge her that." He gave Adric a tired attempt at a smile. "Now if you don't mind, I've had a long day. I wouldn't mind some rest." He gestured to his open door.

"It's a drink-off!" Adric almost shrieked.

"That's nice."

"Stroud challenged her to it!"

"Well, good for him," he motioned again to the doorway and suddenly froze. "I...sorry – what?"

Adric gazed up at him plaintively. "I don't quite know what's going on, but he challenged her to a drink-off. She's already had one mug of Bull's ale. From Par Vollen – that shit's strong. It's like he almost knew that she was going under and took advantage of – "

"What were his terms?" asked Cullen, his voice low.

But Adric, now oblivious to the Commander's concerns, was on a running on his own steam. " – took advantage of the fact that she might already be a little buzzed. I don't mean take advantage in the lecherous sense of the word or that he'd..." Adric paused for a breather. If he didn't take command of his senses soon, he'd come out like sputtering loon. "Look, I agree, she's not wholly innocent in this setup. But she can't resist a challenge. Think of a cat who hasn't been out all winter. Then suddenly, the sun peeks out, and a chipmunk nuzzles its way out of the undergrowth. The cat sees the chipmunk. Its pupils dilate, muscles tense...all its instincts take over. That's Evangeline. Drunk or no, she wants to forget and will resort to her bloody ingrained impulses – "

"Was there a bet involved?" demanded Cullen again, his voice louder this time.

"A bet?" repeated Adric, coming to his senses. "Uh...yes." He looked at the Commander ruefully; as if he were the one who'd come up with stakes involved. Truth be told, in being unable to pin Evangeline's inner rebel down, he did feel personally responsible. "An evening and a dance with the Inquisitor."

Cullen shut his eyes slowly.

"The girl is an ignoramus when it comes to the machinations of love! But I do know for a fact that she loves you, and if you're half the man that I think you are, you'll go down there and stop your lover from making a fool out of herself. And if you're still content with letting her be her own person, then consider this instead – her old friend wishes to win her back." It was Adric's turn to gesture emphatically towards the gloom outside.

"Where are they?" Cullen growled as he turned.

"The tavern, of course. And look," his chest heaved as he breathed in deeply, "Stroud's not quite himself either. Just try to keep in mind what the man's being going through the last few months."

Cullen marched out of his quarters and down the stairs into the night.

As the Commander's boots tread across moist grass and wet cobbled paths, he realized that he'd walked into this situation with little to no preparation. A strange manifestation of anger had taken ahold of him; fear and fury and envy all coalesced into a writhing knot. But if anything, he was disciplined, and his nods in passing to the guards came across and cool and controlled – nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

How simple it was to allow a single moment of weakness to transition him back to old inclinations and memories. Back to Ostwick and the Trevelyans' courtyard. Seeing Alec take what he'd sought...Now, that wasn't exactly an impartial judgment. Opportunity and charisma came naturally to men like Stroud, and he'd fairly won Evangeline's attentions then. But that was all long gone and he'd relinquished his chances with her. Cullen wanted to believe that the man had forgotten and buried old trysts, but the heated conversation between the pair the night before came to mind, and that together with what Adric had described today...

He pushed the doors to the tavern open.

She sat blinking at five small glasses filled to the brim with amber liquid. She closed her eyes and seemed to summon a reserve of her strength. She reached for a vessel and downed its contents. But she didn't swallow. It was as if her taste buds colluded with her gag reflex in an attempt to reject this forced imbibing. Seconds later, she mastered herself and shuddered as the concoction slid down her throat.

Thinking 'bout things...like a walk in the park, crooned a rich voice from the center of the room. The bass of the cello peppered the chirpy melody.

Stroud's own little tumblers were all empty and deliberately overturned. He'd successfully finished his fifteen and waited expectantly for Evangeline to either quit the contest or match his own record. He'd perched an elbow on the table, resting a cocked, amused head in one hand.

Cullen guessed that Stroud was banking on the former.

He walked up to Evangeline and bent over her shoulder. He whispered into her ear quietly. "Maybe you've had enough for the night."

Things...like a kiss in the dark. Things...like a sailboat ride. What about those times we cried?

Evangeline wished the blasted song would end. She reacted slowly to his words and had somehow managed to mistake him for Adric. "Don't be daft, old boy. I don't intend to relinquish an evening with him. Let alone a dance. Let me recover my dignity." She shivered briefly with the thought of consuming more liquor but bravely pulled another cup towards her.

Before she curved her fingers around it, Stroud spoke. But he glanced up at Cullen as his words escaped dry lips. "Matching my count doesn't nullify the terms of the agreement. It leaves us at an impasse and merely postpones the bet."

Stroud then resumed his affectionate, taunting disposition. He began to bounce his head lightly from side to side and mouthed silently in accompaniment to the music. He didn't lift his gaze off of her. Things...like a lover's vow. Things...that we don't do now. Thinking 'bout the things we used to do.

"That's still a step up from losing," growled Evangeline.

"Evie girl, please don't make yourself sick," insisted Cullen quietly. "I'll find a way to get you out of this."

"I'll get me out of this." she stated vehemently. "And what the hell are you doing down here anyway? I thought you wanted to spend some alooone time with Dorian?" She issued simpering, smooching noises as she contemplated the task before her.

"What?" balked Cullen.

She jerked her head around and stared at Cullen as if at a specter. "Sweet dolly Bailey. It's you." Embarrassment quickly led to slouched shoulders. "This isn't what it looks like."

"You going to drink those final four or throw in the towel?" Stroud's gibes persisted.

Cullen shot him an annoyed glance. "Give her a moment."

"Oh, Teddy," she groaned and mumbled, still staring at the Commander. "I didn't intend for you to be here. Or to see me like this either."

She then glanced up at the group of people. In contrast to the mass that had occupied many a space only a few hours ago, this was but a smattering of people. But her eyes swiveled slowly in their sockets and as they touched on the strangers' faces, she felt overwhelmed. Her inebriated mind built the impression that far too many would judge her for the events of the night. She felt compelled to uphold her current reputation – which, at the moment, seemed to hinge on this would-be, trivial victory.

"Play the game or concede, Evie," insisted Stroud.

"Fine!" she cried and suddenly quaffed another glass. She smacked her lips in evident distaste. "This rot is vile. I can feel my gut dissolve."

Cullen pulled up a chair alongside Evangeline and pleaded with Stroud. "She's managed a solid twelve. Now why don't we declare this a draw and call it a night? If you'd prefer, I'd be happy to offer you some coin as recompense for your time and efforts."

Stroud, who swayed mildly from the effects of his own consumption, stabbed an index finger onto the table's surface. "She drinks it all or waves the white flag. It was a gentleman's agreement."

"And I, Ser, am a gentleman!" cried Evangeline. "A gentleman who's got the balls to handle his drink!" Number thirteen went down the hatch, followed promptly by number fourteen. Her forearm broke out in goosepimples and her face crinkled in disgust. "This drink is demonic...wretched, wretched...yeuch."

"Come on, Eves!" cheered Bull and his cohorts from the sidelines. "Just the one to go!"

She thunked her forehead audibly on the table and allowed it to rest there for several moments. The small crowd had thought her finished for the night. They glanced in uncertainty from her to Stroud in the anticipation that one would be declared victor. Cullen even made as if to raise her to her feet when she groggily lifted her head. If looks could have killed, Stroud would have been dead within seconds. Over the circumference of the glass, she wished him a myriad of illnesses for this diabolical scheme and then swallowed the cup's remnants as if her life depended on it.

The onlookers roared in mighty hoots and applause.

Stroud conceded a curious grin. "A draw for tonight then. Unless you care to continue...?"

"You, sir, are the devil. I'm quite done for the night. But get ready to have your arse puckered all the way to Rivain because this isn't over yet." She looked up at Cullen. "Can butt cheeks even pucker?"

He didn't even dignify the question with a response. So she pushed herself away from the table, summoned great restraint in stopping herself from planting a kiss on Cullen's head and walked out of the tavern, her respectability somewhat intact. For the time being.

The spectacle's observers began to file out amidst dwindling discourse and mirth. He waited for five minutes and then followed her into the night.

No more than several yards from the steep steps to his quarters when a hand forcefully grasped his upper arm.

"How old were you when the Blight hit?" It was Stroud. A cool breeze whipped past their faces. One by one, the oil and rush lamps in the tavern whiffed out.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I don't see what this has to do with anything, but I was twenty-four."

"How old was Evie?"

In the dim moonlight, Cullen's brows lowered. Although he doubted that the inebriated Stroud could discern much. "She was seventeen."

"Seven years her elder, huh. A good act you've put on, but I think the pair of you are getting a little carried away."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Pretending that you're together?" His voice intoned both skepticism and mounting irritation. A modicum of trepidation also connoted the edges of his words; it was near-negligible if not for the wavering inflections. "I'll admit, I don't know what you hope to achieve with that – stave off potential suitors maybe...?"

Cullen forced himself to inch away. He'd inadvertently tensed himself. Upon realization, he took several deep breaths of the cool night air and endeavored to concentrate on the sound of chirping crickets and soft rustlings of leaves. "Go inside, Alec. Get some rest before you say something you'll regret."

Stroud straightened his shoulders. Earlier, he'd somehow managed to convince himself that his Evie remained heartbroken since their parting at Redcliffe when he'd left to join the Grey Wardens. But too many elements wreaked havoc with his judgment tonight and he wasn't certain into which waters he'd lowered his anchor. All he was aware of now was this keen sense of irate fear. "Before she left for the Circle Tower, she decided who she wanted."

Cullen turned his back to him.

"I was her first, Rutherford."

Cullen stopped in mid-stride. He was possessed by a tentative calm; it was thin for the time being and threatened to break at further provocation, but for the moment, his Templar's training maintained its hold. "I know."

"Are you with her?" demanded Stroud. "She won't tell me anything – so you're the next logical source."

He should lie. Every rational inclination screamed at him to do so. "What if I was?"

"You're not even her type! She told me what she wanted in a man. And you're not it. She wants passion, a zest for knowledge, life. She wants to go places. Travel the world. I can't fault you for the paths you've chosen, but I can tell you that they won't suit her."

Cullen still hadn't turned around. But his voice was low. Dangerous. "So. In your mind's eye – she's still seventeen?"

Stroud lacked the propensity to understand the question. "She's not going to be your Inquisitor. You can't force her to assume these responsibilities."

"I'm not in the habit of coercing people against their will. She chose to remain here, Alec."

"What – because of you?"

"Perhaps you ought to ask her."

The Song was intensifying, and Stroud felt the urge to raise the ante. He didn't know what he believed anymore. Was she with him? Was she not?

Stroud's desperation escalated. "Has she fucked you yet? Because I doubt that – "

Cullen whipped around, shoving his arm against Stroud's throat, nearly flinging the man against the closest wall. "Give me a reason."

"...sound like her..." he choked. He struggled to level his gaze, but the Commander's amber eyes – mere centimeters from his own – contained a restrained furor that Stroud was reluctant to challenge. At least physically.

"I don't manipulate people, Alec. And while I'm trying to comprehend just what you're going through – you talk about her like that again and I'm going to leave you a crumbling, whimpering heap on the ground." Cullen released his arm from the man's neck and stepped back.

"The heart wants what the heart wants." coughed Stroud as he doubled over.

"You're trapped in the past. You want something familiar to latch onto. Evangeline isn't it."

"Because she's yours? Because she belongs to you?" Stroud propped himself up against a fence in the semi-darkness.

Maker forgive me. "She doesn't belong to anyone. But my heart is hers. And she claims that hers is mine."

"Bullshit. Who put you up to this pretense?"

The moon slid out from behind a cloud. "No one. But you can believe what you like."

The Commander began to walk away. As he did so, he added, "You shouldn't have treated her the way you did. Never in a million years or million lifetimes would you deserve her."

"Evangeline?" Cullen called as he closed the door to her large room. The French doors to her balcony were wide open, but the space was empty. Through filtered moonlight, he noticed that her bed was devoid of the elaborate duvet, sheets and pillows. A few cushions were strewn across the barren mattress. Feet pattered quickly from underneath a desk. Evangeline's Mabari slipped across the room and started to lick Cullen's hand. The Commander stroked Bunty's ears before the tired animal trotted off back to sleep.

"Whossat..." came a meek voice in the direction of the loft above the bed.

He sighed and climbed up the ladder towards her. She had propped herself up slightly with the aid of her elbows. She lay in nothing but her underthings on the down comforter, the remaining sheets a crumpled mess at her feet.

He sat down beside her and struggled to keep his attention away from her body. "For the record, what you did today was completely and utterly ridiculous. Not to mention unnecessary."

"Okay."

"What in the Maker's name came over you?"

"It was a bet. Is a bet. I think it's still on, actually."

Cullen glowered at her. "Well, call it off. The pair of you are behaving like children."

She pouted. "I can't. Bet's a bet." She poked him a little impudently in the chest. "You didn't complain the last time I lost face to Bull. Or even to Adric for that matter."

"This is different."

She grinned and wrapped her arms around him. "Someone's got to teach him a lesson."

He pushed her away slightly, bewildered. "You're enjoying this aren't you? Adric was right. You two are too alike for your own good."

"Huh?"

"You and Alec." A cloud hung low over his head. "Maybe you two are perfect for each other."

She rested her chin on his shoulder. "Don't be silly. Put the two of us in a room together and only one would come out alive."

The concept of the two of them alone together doing anything at all was enough to tighten his gut. "He's younger than me. More your age."

"But he doesn't have your feathered pauldrons, O mighty jungle cat."

Cullen felt his sulky resolve falter. The edge of his mouth had begun to twitch.

Which reminds me," she continued to tease, "What on earth links feathers to a lion's mane? Is it an allegory to the duality of cowardice and bravery? You know, because – "

Cullen turned his head and pressed his lips against hers while chuckling simultaneously. The kiss deepened but she pulled away briefly as she stroked the contours of his face. He tenderly traced the outlines of her collarbones as she spoke. His fingers tingled with the urge to travel lower, but he checked himself and held them in place. He wanted her, Maker help him, but to have her now felt inappropriate. Stroud's words ricocheted within, and he almost seized the impulse to surrender if only to get back at the man, but he simply couldn't now. Especially not in good conscience. When they eventually did...and he was certain that they would, he wanted them both to remember it. And for the remainder of their lives.

"I love you. Not Alec. You. And...if you asked me to...tonight, I couldn't say no." whispered Evangeline.

But he was only partially appeased at her admission. Stroud was so many things he wasn't. Charismatic. Droll. And far too good-looking. Not to mention that the man pursued damn near everything with dogged determination. But he contrived to appear as relieved as possible. "I know. And I wouldn't ask you...not tonight. We're both stretched a little thin. It's been a long day."

She kissed him on the cheek sleepily. "I suppose you're right. Goodnight then." And fell back onto soft pillows.

Cullen removed his boots and curled up alongside her, as precipitous and uneasy thoughts surfaced into mind.