"The Spymaster is slipping in her duties, it seems. I thought I wasn't to be disturbed."

A soft snort followed from the darkened depths of the tent. It had taken too long, coming down the mountains, but once in the foothills Evelyn had been able to trade the surefooted and slow pony for a Dalish All-Bred, fleet of foot and heavy of cost. But the price would have been heavier if she hadn't come.

She stayed in the entrance, the heavy green fabric of the tent fisted in her hand. Fire warmed her back. It had taken too long to find the right camp and she had shed her leathers in favour of the scouts uniform, muted green and brown and hair tucked safe beneath the hood. She hadn't wanted anyone to stop her.

They had tried, her friends, wanted to take her back up the mountain, back to Skyhold. But she had promised. You don't break promises just because an ancient magical Elvhen mirror whisks you away. The battle might have been over but her duty was to the men and women that served her. For them to think, even for one moment, that she might have abandoned them was unconscionable. For Cullen to think that-

Receiving word from only two of her advisers had set her on edge. What price had been exacted for Samson's capture? Too much blood had been spilt already. In the Wilds, at Adamant. At the Winter Palace and Therinfal Redoubt and Redcliff and Haven.

She had left her friends on the mountainside after Cassandra got Varric's note. It didn't matter that they were on their way. It didn't matter that they didn't want her to know until they got to Skyhold. None of it mattered.

She dropped the flap behind her, dipping the interior into blackness; near pitch but for the glow of the fire sneaking in where the fabric doesn't quite meet the ground. Pulling the hood down she let her eyes adjust to the darkness, waiting, listening to the laboured breathing.

"You just going to stand there?"

"What would you have me do?"

Another snort, louder than the first, and a shuffle as a body adjusted to a new position. "Put me out of my fucking misery, for one." Chains clanked as he raised his arms, bound together by iron. "But you're just like the Knight-Captain, aren't you? Too good for the rest of us."

"You were a good man, once. That's what the Commander told me." She crossed her arms, staring down at the vanquished general. Divested of his armor he looked like nothing, a mere wisp of a man, haggard and dark circles under his eyes.

A harsh bark of laughter met her ears. "Aye, once maybe. Before I got the blindfold ripped off and saw what the world was. You ever been made to beg, girl? Ever had to grovel at another's feet for scraps, for dust?"

Even in the dark she can see the sneer, feel it in the bite of his words. Samson, once so proud, fallen once more. He prays on her nobility like it's a curse, like it prevents her from knowing the way her supposed lessers live. For all she has seen, she knows, there is more; there is worse. She has never known hunger, want for shelter. Not like the poor, not like the downtrodden. She is and always has been a Lady, for better or worse. Anything else is just playing pretend.

But she has always tried to be compassionate, to be fair. Trevelyan is a name that carries weight so she has carried weight, but never has she swung it. It will never be enough, she knows. Her experiences will always be different to those that know the gutter.

He takes her silence as his answer, spitting a glob of phlegm at her feet. "Bet you like it when others grovel at yours though, huh? All high and mighty Inquisitor, holding the fate of the world in the palm of your fucking hand. Hah, literally!" He barked again, rough and papery. "You took my kin, girl. Stole them from Corypheus like you stole the anchor and turned them to your cause. Do you wield that leash like the Chantry did? Generous the one day and harsh the next, extra rations for your pets? Isn't the Knight-Captain your pet, Inquisitor? Gave him enough power, but he don't smell right no more. Not enough song in his blood. You not happy with him, huh?" He ranted, poking and prodding and looking for an opening to wedge a blade.

But she plays the Game, and words cannot harm her. "The Commander made his choice, and he is no one's pet."

"Could'a fucking fooled me," Samson spat, chains rattling as he tried to pull himself up to a stand. He stumbled, falling back to his knees with a curse.

"They expect me to put you on trial once they get you back to Skyhold."

He ignored her, stretching his legs out as best as his shackles would let him. "All that Lion nonsense. He sleep at the foot of your bed, warm your feet?" His rough voice filled the tent, surrounding her, mocking. "Stupid Fereldan dog. He'd have been better off with us. The red stuff hurts, I ain't denying that, but it's a better purpose than the Chantry. Than whatever the fuck you are doing."

And yet look at you, she wants to spit, the mighty Red Templar General shackled and chained at her feet. Clinging to a master who deserted him and all his forces once it became clear he had lost his quarry. She doesn't though, just watches the dim shadows that fill the tent around them. The air is warm, too warm for the crisp autumnal air outside and the lack of fire inside and even in the low light she can see the lines of sweat on the man's face.

"When was the last time you had your ration?"

Samson made a disgusted noise, mouth twisting into something ugly. "What do you care?" The dull chink of the chains does little to make him threatening, undermines his anger.

Evelyn clenched her fists. Zealots are the hardest to convince of anything, and she counsels herself for patience. "You may be a prisoner, but we aren't without compassion. If you need-"

"Compassion? Fuck me, sure! Let me bend and beg and plead for a drop, shall I?" He cut her off, scathing, yanking hard on the chains. "And what'll it cost me? What information is worth an ounce of blue, huh? And what if I don't need it, what if I need the red stuff? You gonna grow it for me? What'll it take to get you to harvest some of that for me, girl?" He spat, the only information he would offer.

Sighing, she tucked her hair back into the hood and pulled it low. Samson could wait. If he was willing to put himself through withdrawal that was his choice. She slipped from the tent and let the heavy fabric drop with a dull thud, nodding at the guards. They nodded back, already paid for their discretion and accepting of the order not to salute her, not to draw attention.

She shook off the last lingering impression of Samson as best she could, weaving a path at the edges of the firelight. The captured general has been kept to the front of the returning army, housed alongside the injured. Returning them to Skyhold is a priority and they travel at the head of the army as fast as the slowest of them allows. Which is why, nine days later, they camp in the Dales, still out of sight of the Frostbacks. The main body of the Inquisition still scours the Arbor Wilds, seeking out the remnants of Corypheus's forces, Barris at their head.

Information traded for with the men and women that rally under her banner, and not provided by her advisers. Evelyn doesn't take it as a betrayal. She probably would have done the same in their position, in truth. But she hadn't even known Cullen was hurt before she was halfway down the mountain; pride, stubborn pride drove her on regardless.

Between Josephine's diplomatic prowess in obtaining supplies and their mages and healers, though, the wounded are well tended making for some consolation as she moved from tent to tent, offering assistance. All the while avoiding the light, anyone that would recognize her too quickly. It's an old game borrowed from Bull and adapted, but she wants, needs to help. Needs to be useful right now.

So she carts boiling water, grinds elfroot, wraps bandages, cools cloths. The night slips away from her as she roams the lines of cots offering aid until-

"Aren't you tired?"

War doesn't give anything. War takes and takes and takes, bleeds you dry of everything, right down to your soul. War never repays the debt, it just takes more. And when you are spent, done, defeated, war twists the knife a little deeper.

No, war doesn't give; certainly not without cost.

She's heard that question enough but this time, Maker, it's worth more of an answer than a shrug and a smile. Evelyn glanced over at the speaker, wondering what cost this would incur. "You're the one that's supposed to be resting."

He grunted, waving a hand at the dimly visible desk hidden in the recess of his tent as if in answer. As if the heaps of paperwork she could discern the shape of would talk for him.

"As in, not on your feet," she pressed, crossing the distance between the infirmary tent and his.

Another grunt answered her, but he begrudgingly moved back into the tent, leaning on the makeshift furniture. He moves slow, shifting his weight back and forth like he can't get comfortable.

"Stubborn."

"You would know."

He has a point, an infuriating one voiced with a rasp she can't quite place, and she shot him her best unimpressed Inquisitor stare. It's only slightly foiled by the scout hood. "So take my advice and rest. Unless there's something in those piles for me and you're going to find it, I don't want to see you near them."

"Just come here."

Void take him for the heat in his voice. She does, and it's an easy few feet to him, even easier to melt against that broad chest. His heart beats steady and reassuring through the fabric of his shirt and she lets it be the only sound she hears, chasing away the last mocking bark from Samson.

Cullen holds her tentatively, like he's not sure she's really there. Or maybe - maybe, no one would tell her for certain exactly what happened - like his wounds bother him. Ungloved hands trace the curve of her spine under unfamiliar leathers until one settles at the small of her back and the other travels up, tugging at the hood. "Your smile gives you away when you wear this, you know."

Evelyn let him pull it back to reveal her face fully, gracing him with the upward curve of her mouth that he apparently knew by heart. His words answered a question she'd long since stopped trying to puzzle out, the disguise having lost its effectiveness the longer her reign as Inquisitor; the more nobles that needed to meet the Lady Trevelyan; the more duties that required the deft hand of the Herald. It only worked now because she clung to the shadows, to unfamiliar people, saying as little as possible.

But with Cullen, she didn't need it. Especially not if all it took was a smile to dismantle the otherwise carefully crafted impersonation.

His fingers had found their way into her hair like they belonged there, tangling in the loose waves that hung across her back now that they were freed from their confines. Another puzzle piece, one that didn't fit quite yet, but she had time. Maker willing, she had time.

"Do I need to order you to bed, Commander?" She kept her voice light and teasing, kept her heart and sundry thoughts out of it and to herself. It's so late it's early and whatever sleep he gets will be minimal but he's supposed to be healing, not up at all hours going over reports or holding her in an embrace that made her feel like she was the one that had been wounded, and not him. In fact, though the thought made her guilty, she hadn't planned on letting him know she was here. Not that she had planned much at all, in truth, nothing more than ensuring her army was as well as it could be before letting Josephine know she was there.

Oh, Josephine and Leliana were going to murder her, no doubt. But she couldn't bring herself to care, guilt assuaged by warm hands and a warmer timbre. "You can order me to do whatever you want."

Maker take me. Evelyn slipped free from his hold with a huff that was more squeak than irritation, letting her hands fall to her hips. In the wan candlelight she tried to discern what injuries troubled Cullen, but other than the slightly curled edges of a bandage peeking out from his collar there were no obvious signs.

None, if one discounted the shaking of his hands, the shifting of his weight from foot to foot. He had been still with her in his arms but in her absence he fidgeted freely, sweat on his brow. She wasted no time, tugging him away from his makeshift workstation with a gentle hand in his. "Bed, then," came the order, words softened by her smile, by the affection she couldn't disguise.

He settled on the pallet like a weight dropping, a less than subtle grunt escaping him for the effort. Evelyn busied herself with setting the tent to rights, tying the flaps closed and shutting out what remained of the night and when she turned back, he hadn't moved.

"You'll find it more comfortable to sleep if you lie down, you know."

Cullen snorted, waiting for her to drift close before lifting his hands to her. Biting back a laugh at how silly it seemed - her smaller hands cradling his - she pressed them to her heart, watching with concern. She's about to ask if he wants, needs help when he asks, "real?"

There is a word, surely, to describe the exact sensation of a heart jump-starting itself even as the mind grinds to a halt with almost panic. To describe the wrench of pain in her chest tinged with a spark of hope and desperation. He hasn't asked her in so long, Void, the last time the word passed his lips like that had been his tent, the supposed hunt.

There's a notion that it's unfair, somehow. That she been content to think nothing would befall him, her faith in him so great. And he had been the one wounded, enough that her friends had thought it better she simply not know rather than be given the information. But it's her presence that he questions, as if Sera had been correct and Corypheus's dragon had swallowed her whole, making her being here at his side an impossibility.

But it's selfish, to hold the word against him. If nothing else, she knows the battle involved red lyrium, and she cannot imagine the toll that took. Taking a deep breath that does little to steady her - even less to restore her heart to tempo - she sat next to him, staring at the dark fabric in front of her as if studying it would reveal some other as yet untold secret. "Real, Cullen. And still yours."

There's a perceptible shift in his shoulders, some unseen weight lifting as he wrapped an arm around her waist, gently urging her closer. "Sorry, I just..." His voice shakes the same as his hands, and he tilted his head to rest against hers. "I kept thinking you were here, wanted you to be so badly, only to be told I was talking to myself. I was worried I was doing it again." He fell quiet, almost like he was ashamed of the confession. Like she would, could ever think less of him for it.

If anything, it breaks her heart once again for leaving him, the fight. The first coherent thought that comes to mind, however, is not so dour. "So you've been flirting with the air?"

A wry snort escaped him, a poor attempt to cover the rising flush on his face. "I- Yes. I suppose I have been. Maker's breath, what must everyone think of me?"

She pressed a kiss to his heated cheek, barely able to stifle her laughter. "Maybe that you hit your head on top of whatever else happened to you?"

A grunt. "I did, thank you. And it wasn't that bad."

"Liar."

She meant it to be teasing, to continue trading banter back and forth, but Cullen dropped his hand from her waist, moving away ever so slightly. "I'm fine," and the words don't shake but she doesn't believe him.

"Liar," she echoed, more serious this time.

"Evvy-"

"Liar," and her word shakes, she shakes, her hands fisted in her lap. "I was so angry, with myself, with Morrigan, all I could think was getting back because I promised, I said I would but I couldn't, she shut the Eluvian and Void, does that hedgewitch think of anyone but herself?! We left everyone behind and what if Corypheus didn't leave, what if he had turned his dragon on everyone? And it would have been all my fault," the words tumble out and she's not shouting, not yet, but the anger, the fear is there and the anchor wants to react. It itches from within her fist as she continues. "There were no horses and only a few ravens and I didn't even know if it would find anyone anyway, and then the responses came only there wasn't one from you, they didn't even talk about you, Maker, Cullen what was I supposed to think? No one would talk to me, they all wanted me to stay at Skyhold-"

"You should have stayed," and he's about to press the point but she snarled, cutting off his interjection.

"I had to leave everyone behind, not just you. I was worried about everyone. You didn't even factor into my decision to come back until I was already halfway down the bloody mountain and Cass let slip you were hurt! And everyone here has a different story about what happened to you for Andraste's sake! How am I- What else should I have done? Forgotten that I left an entire army in the Wilds? Sat back and twiddled my thumbs until you all got back?" Exasperated, Evelyn stood, unwilling to look him in the eye. "I couldn't do that. I had to come back. I had to be here. For them," her hand swept in an arc, indicating the world outside the increasingly confining tent.

"I'm sorry," and she's not sure which part of her rant Cullen is apologising for, or if it's something else entirely.

"No," she can't quite bring herself to offer absolution, but with the words out she's able to calm herself. "Just rest. Tell me what happened later."

"Will you stay? Please?" The shake is still in his voice, in his hands.

Andraste preserve her, she does.

She's still dressed in her scout leathers, and there's a moment of disconnect between his brain and his eyes when he first wakes. Then it hits him, and even though it's not sunrise bathing her in gentle light as it filters through the hole in his ceiling, or stained glass shifting patterns on her face as dawn appears through her windows, waking up to her at his side in the tent is something so close to perfection that it's rapture.

Evelyn is nestled under the traveling furs that make the bed, her back to him. Her head has claimed his right arm for her pillow and soft waves of chestnut splay between them, her hair unbound and wild. She stirred slightly, grumbling when he attempted to reclaim his arm and he stilled, admitting defeat and suffering the pins and needles stabbing the offending limb for the sake of her comfort; for letting her sleep a little longer.

At least it wasn't his left arm; the shoulder was still giving him trouble. And the shakes have stopped, the better of the good news. He still aches all over, still, hesitant to let the mages do that much still - save their energy, their mana for the men, he's fine, he had insisted, no matter that his voice still rasped - reliant only on healing potions and poultices once he was out of the woods. And now, the warm body curled up at his side.

Maker's breath, but she's perfect there, like she belongs. Like the crook of his arm was made exactly for her, like the curve of his torso was shaped specifically for the curve of her spine to rest against. He can't help himself, turning into her. He gets a mouthful of hair and a reminder that neither of his arms are happy with their current state for the effort but-

But.

Maker.

Take him.

Now.

Evelyn mumbled something, still mostly asleep but responsive to the hand sweeping her hair aside. And all the more to the shift in his position, her arse perfectly aligned with his groin. She stirred again, hips adjusting, grinding ever so slightly back, and-

And.

He thanks the Maker, for His infinite capacity for forgiveness.

He thanks Andraste, for Her sweet mercy.

He thanks Evelyn, his Evvy, for staying. He thanks her the best he can with the conflicting messages his body sends his brain. His hips beg to follow her lead, his arousal begs for the friction that would create, but his arms counsel against it, his chest cautions against bearing her weight, and as much as he wants to press kiss after kiss to the exposed skin of her neck with his lips, his throat is dry and parched, desperate for water more than anything else.

It's almost a relief, then, when his clumsy attempts to tame her hair result in a grumpy "stop it," and she rolls from him and frees his decidedly useless arm.

He'd give anything to be able to pull her back, to pin her down. To slake his thirst between her thighs, not the water pitcher. To do anything but lie there, sleepy grin mirroring sleepy grin, slowly shaking the feeling back into his arm.

But it's perfect, in its own way, and she mumbles a "hello," that has his heart skipping to a different song than it's used to for a minute. She follows it with a "good morning," in the absence of a response from him, sitting up and demurely covering her mouth to hide a yawn.

Is it morning? Cullen hadn't taken notice of the time, only how comfortable he had been for the scant few hours of sleep he had gotten. The light seeping in at the bottom of the canvas confirms her salutation, the grey of pre-dawn accompanied by the sounds of a camp slowly stirring to life. He watched her stretch the last vestiges of sleep from her bones, torn between asking her if she's real again or using what precious little strength remains to him to pull her back under the covers.

As it is, she decides for him, ruffling his curls affectionately and making it clear there's no room for argument, "I'll get you some breakfast, and then we'll talk." Before he can complain - about the breakfast or her leaving him or his hair - she's gone, leaving him to wonder if he really is losing his mind.

But the bed retains her heat and her smell, and no matter what his brain and the withdrawal might be capable of conjuring, they have never been able to properly capture the feeling of her hair between his fingers. That much, he knows, is real.

She does not take her time, either, and he's barely gotten himself to sit up before Evelyn is back with a bowl of questionably watery gruel and a mug of weak, only slightly hotter than tepid tea. "It's all they had right now, and you should eat," she answered his unvoiced complaint, wrinkling her nose with something akin to pity as he took the meager offering. "It's a shame I didn't come here on Major. I had some honeycomb in my pack, it would make the porridge taste... Like something." There are other words, other thoughts on the contents of her pack that she leaves unspoken.

"We brought Major back with us, he's bedded with Galahad at the moment. He has not been happy, but your things are over there," Cullen nodded to the makeshift desk where her saddlebags rested next to his. It had made sense, really, to keep her things with him. Selfish, too, of course, but it's amazing what the mind will let you rationalise as normal and sane behaviour when you want it to.

She didn't question his sanity or why he had the bags, instead digging the honeycomb out in no time, smile as sweet as the promised treat. She unwrapped the wax paper carefully and offered it to him, letting him break off a chunk to stir into the bowl before returning the precious cargo back in her pack. For bettering the tea she produced the bottle of whisky, only slightly touched, pouring him no more than a dram.

Cullen had thought about it, seeing if she still had the bottle. Drinking himself to sleep had appealed more than once during their return to Skyhold, but something had always stayed his hand once he had her saddlebags set by his. Knowing now that Evelyn had partaken of the gift, if even just a little, set him a little more at ease for reasons he wasn't sure he could ever explain.

And Void, did it make the weak tea more palatable.

He was halfway through both before he noticed she hadn't gone to get anything for herself. "Aren't you hungry?"

"A little," she shrugged, "but they didn't have that much ready, and there are others that need it more." Like you, is the unspoken admonishment behind her words, but she relented when he beckoned her to his side again.

"We can share."

She relented again, and while Cullen is sure it's more to shut him up than anything else - it's certainly not an involuntary response to the husky timbre his voice can't escape right now - he can't help but feel... something, when she takes the spoon from him and puts it in her mouth. Oh, it's stupid, he knows. He's had her in his arms, in his bed, seen every wondrous moon and star kissed inch of her body, but, but, this insignificant, intimate act of sharing the same spoon.

It kills him more than any Red Templar blade ever could.

And oh, but he knows she can see it in his face.

Madness.

Sheer, bloody madness.

He has to have died, surely. Or else he has lost his mind completely to the lyrium because who in their right mind gets turned on watching their lover share a spoon? He swallowed roughly, throat only slightly soothed by the whisky and tea.

The scant breakfast and offending spoon are quickly forgotten though, Evelyn foregoing food to appease a different appetite. And she's careful, so damned careful, her kiss soft, her touch light. Too light, a frustrating lack of friction following her fingers as they roam his arms, gentle on his shoulder; the one place she knows for certain he was wounded.

Cullen lets the bowl go, uncaring. The mug, so carefully placed on the ground earlier, does not appreciate the foot it connects with. The contents of both, presumably, mix together on the dirt floor. And he does. Not. Care.

Evvy, his Evvy, she quiets the lyrium. Even the red. The only song in his veins is that of one to her glory, and he wants to sing.

He wants her to sing.

He wants the harmony, his song and her song. Sweeter than lyrium, better than fantasy; he bestows upon her a new title as he convinces her for more. More. And she gives, his Goddess, careful, so careful as he pulled her back down in the furs, careful as he rolled her onto her back, so careful as she deepened the kiss and pulled a moan - the good kind, the best kind - from him.

Maker, but this has to be heaven, the Golden City open to him.

It's not though, because Andraste would never be so cruel as to let Jim in. Not now.

"Commander, I have that report from Lady Montiliyet."

Void take him. Void take the entire damn Inquisition. "Come back later."

"But ser, we're breaking camp in half an hour and-"

"And come. Back. Then." Maker, is there anyone as obtuse as that scout? Cullen glared at the tent flaps, willing the hapless man to feel the weight of it. Beneath him Evelyn attempted to contain her laughter, hands clamped over her mouth. Of course she'd find the humour in being interrupted, once again, by that cursed scout.

"But ser-"

"If I have to tell you one more time to leave me alone you will be permanently sent to the Fallow Mire."

The threat seemed to do the trick as silence fell in the tent again, broken by a low growl when she turned her face aside when he sought to reclaim her lips.

"What?" It's hard to keep the petulance from his voice at being denied.

"You wouldn't," and she's as incredulous as she is amused.

"It's the Fallow Mire," and he pointed to her left. "Or the Hissing Wastes," pointing to her right. "Either way, I don't ever want to see or hear him again."

"Surely there's somewhere less, i don't know, horrid you could send him?"

He thought about it, picturing the map they spent so many hours in front of. "Nowhere in Orlais. Maker knows what he'd let slip about us to them. Maybe the Storm Coast." Based on the rough places he'd pointed out before, he marks the Storm Coast to the left of her head with a flick of his wrist.

"The Storm Coast is wet and grey and miserable and wet," Evelyn countered.

A fact he knows well. Jim deserves no kindness, as far as he's concerned. "Fine. Then... Wycome." Above her, and further left. "He can't do any harm there."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "We don't have an official presence in Wycome."

"Exactly," out of sight, out of mind. It's perfect. And, selfishly, "that means Skyhold will be safe from his tyranny." He tapped her collarbone before frowning slightly. His rough measurements were off and he corrected, resting his hand over her heart. Better.

A smile threatened to overtake her face. "Home is where the heart is?"

"Home is you," and he doesn't stop to think about how ridiculously cheesy that might sound, distracted instead by the fact that her heart is beating faster and that his hand is right above-

"You know, I always wondered what side of the map you'd favor."

Cullen blinked, train of thought derailed once again. "What do you mean?"

Oh, that blush in the early morning light. She stared up at him, tongue slowly passing over her lower lip before she answered. "In the war room. If you could. Would you have me over Fereldan or Orlais?"

Oh.

Maker's breath.

Keep your Golden City.

Give him the war room.

"Who says I have to choose?" He grinned, wolfish. Outside there is shouting, men and women readying the camp for travel. Soon, they'll be ready to take down his tent and Jim will be back. But right now, right now he has Evvy looking at him expectantly and, sweet Andraste, he has geography to explore. His hand leaves her heart - Skyhold - and trails down her side, drawing a shoreline. "Lake Calenhad is a place I need more good memories of, you know."

His left hand traces the path down the mountain, hitting her shoulder. "And what I wouldn't give to think fondly of the Winter Palace for once."

She whimpered, a soft, small thing almost lost in the sound of her breathing, to the heave of her chest as he pulled her right hand above her head, pinning it in place. "Why limit ourselves? Kirkwall would be made radiant by you, or-" he tugged her hand to the side, following the coastline "-I could take you over Ostwick."

There was no missing the needy whine this time, the shift of her hips against his and he smirked. "Or we can just lose ourselves in the mountains for days if you like," and Maker, she does as he traverses the range south, down. Past the ruins of Haven, tapping against her hip bone to mark Honnleath, down between her thighs. They haven't been there yet but he knows further down sits the Frostback Basin, but that's too far south right now, and he's more concerned with different landmarks.

Evelyn helped him divest her of her leggings, a slightly guilty look on her face as she did so. A look that was not assuaged when he marked the Arbor Wilds on her right knee with a kiss, the Kokari Wilds on her left thigh with a squeeze. Cullen paused, repentant at the altar of his Goddess and when she bit her lip - Maker, how does she not know what she does? - he asked. "May I?"

She nodded once, swallowing whatever complaint might otherwise had left her. Her left hand still marked the Free Marches coastline, her right fisted in the furs near Val Royeaux. Let the Orlesians gossip as much as they like, he is hers.

Wholly, utterly.

And devoted.

He set to proving it, tongue mapping terrain well explored previously, slipping between her folds with slow, greedy laps. She abandoned the coast for his hair, grip tightening every time he let his tongue dip in. Evelyn moaned softly as he hooked an arm under her left thigh, tracing new roads, new shorelines onto her hip with his fingers.

And then he made her whine, pulling away to compliment the paths spun by his fingers with a trail of kisses on her right leg. "Cullen, please," and as pretty as she pleads he doesn't need to be asked twice. Next time. Later.

Maker, he will make her beg another time.

Because there will always be another time with her.

He chuckled, kissing his way back up his trail to her sex, running the broad of his tongue over her once, twice and right as she's squirming in annoyance he adds a finger, slipping between her folds like his tongue had previously. She's wet and it's more intoxicating than any drink he's ever had, more potent than raw lyrium.

It's glory, in his veins and between his Goddess's thighs.

Two fingers, she takes effortlessly, another whimper when he curves them against her inner walls. But it's the wanton mewl, the gut-wrenching moan that echoes in his soul when he takes his tongue to her clit that has him canting his hips into the furs, relying on friction alone to help ease his own arousal.

His map can wait; there's only time for one lesson in cartography right now.

Cullen doesn't stop her when she abandons Val Royeaux to stifle her cries, only tries harder to pull the noises from her with every lick, every suck and nibble and twist of his fingers. He doesn't care if anyone hears; let them know he worships Evelyn at her leisure.

He draws her to the edge, rewriting the borders between Orlais and Fereldan on her skin and lets her tumble over, matching her panted moan with his own, thirst finally slaked there between her legs.

Next time, they're starting with South Reach.

It's not until later, when the camp is well on its way and she's sitting in his lap astride Galahad, his white Charger, half asleep and no longer scout but Inquisitor again, that it occurs to her to ask. "Did Templar training make you good at reading maps too?"

He shook his head with a chuckle. "I had to look at something in the war room to keep myself from staring at you all the damn time."