His fingers were burning. At least, that's what it felt like. Thule tried to pull his hands back, but something heavy bound them. His toes were burning, too, he realized, as consciousness began to settle heavily on him, like a pall of smoke. Or an avalanche.

Avalanche.

He twitched, trying to draw his feet away from the flames that were burning them alive. Then soothing blessed coolness washed over his extremities and a wave of drowsiness closed over his head. He was asleep again in moments.

The next time he woke, he recognized the sensations as the tingling of circulation returning to frozen hands and feet. In that long trek through the snow, he had resigned himself to losing some toes to frostbite; he hoped that keeping his hands under his arms as much as possible had saved his fingers. Experimentally, he tried wiggling them, but they seemed to be bound somehow.

He opened his eyes.

"Finally, you are awake," said a voice next to him, and he turned his head on the pillow.

"C-Cassandra?"

Her face came into view in the light of the single candle, her mouth set in its usual stern lines, but her eyes were soft. A warmth filled him at the sight of her; he felt better just knowing she was there. "I wondered how long you would sleep."

"How long has it been?"

"Since we found you in the snow? Nearly a day."

Thule cleared his throat. "How … how bad is it?"

"You will recover."

"No, I mean—my fingers. Did I lose any?" He struggled to sit up in his alarm, and Cassandra placed a firm hand on his chest.

She glared at him. "You will lie still or I will call Dorian to put you to sleep again."

Thule settled back under the blankets. "Fingers," he reminded her.

"All ten." He recoiled in horror, and her eyes widened. "No, no, you still have all ten. Dorian thinks you may lose a toe, but your fingers are fine."

He could breathe again now, and he did so, slowly, saying a silent prayer of thankfulness to the Maker.

"I am sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"No, that's all right." He looked at her more closely, noting how drawn her face looked, and the deep shadows under her eyes. "Have you slept at all?"

"Not since we escaped from Haven. I—you should not have stayed behind."

Thule smiled. "I don't run as fast as the rest of you. Makes me easier to catch."

"Do not make jokes! It wasn't funny."

"I know. I was there, not laughing, remember?"

"Do you wish to talk about it?"

"Not right at the moment. How is the rest of the Inquisition?"

"Tired. Cold. Grateful. Frightened. Hungry."

"All of those at once?" Thule smiled.

"You are still making jokes."

"It's a funny world."

"That is what Varric says." Her voice crackled with disapproval.

"Maybe it's a dwarf thing."

"Perhaps."

He looked at her, the candlelight flickering over her face, illuminating her strong cheekbones and the curve of her lips and the line of her jaw. "I want to make you laugh," he told her, and wasn't sure which of them blushed harder. What was he thinking, blurting something like that out to her? Maybe she would think of it as the ravings of a man who had nearly frozen to death.

Stiffly, she said, "I am not given to laughter."

He wondered what she was given to. Passion? Love? Fierce devotion, that he knew, to the Chantry she had served for so much of her life; an intensity in combat that made her formidable to foe and friend alike; and occasionally, if you looked very closely—which he had—hints of uncertainty that said she, too, wondered what else she might be made for.

"That just makes it that much more of a challenge, doesn't it?"

"As long as you are alive to take on that challenge, I will do my best not to make it any harder than it must be," Cassandra promised, and that softness was back in her eyes, making Thule's heart flip over in his chest at the sudden thought that maybe, just maybe, she had been struck by the same bolt of lightning he had. "You should rest," she added. "Save your strength for healing."

"Will you stay?" he asked her, and felt bad about it the moment he said it, seeing the dark circles under her eyes.

But she was already nodding. "I will."

He should tell her to go and get some rest, but he couldn't bring himself to let go of this warm circle of light, alone with her. Thule blinked sleepily. "You have never looked more beautiful," he whispered.

"Do not be foolish," Cassandra said softly. She was leaning over him, and if he was at full health he would have been kissing her right now. "And how would you know?"

Thule wanted to tell her that he knew how she looked in every light, but his eyes were heavy with sleep, and he couldn't hold the thread of the thought. As he drifted away, he could feel her hand steal out and close over his bandaged one, and he fell asleep smiling.

Thule paced the hall, oblivious to the noise around him. He had to have a meeting later with a prominent Orlesian noble to discuss the particulars of his invitation to the Empress's ball—procured under the auspices of Grand Duke Gaspard, which was a calculated risk, as Gaspard and Celene were at war over the throne—and he had no idea what to say. His lips moved slightly as he tried to anticipate the questions and challenges that might be thrown at him. Josephine was there, but this meeting would determine Thule's own fitness to become a player in the grand Game of Orlais, and he was deeply afraid he was going be a complete failure.

He felt a light tap on his shoulder. Turning, to his surprise he saw Cassandra there. That she, of all people, had managed to sneak up on him said a great deal about how worried he was. She gestured to him to follow her outside, into the gardens, and he followed, burning with curiosity. It must have to do with the Seekers, or Inquisition business. Cassandra was too agitated for anything else.

She led him up the steps and out onto the balcony that overlooked the garden, stopping there to look at him. "I was hoping … can we speak privately?"

Thule looked around, seeing no one nearby. "Aren't we already?"

"Right." Cassandra walked a few steps further, at her usual brisk pace, and Thule followed her. As if to herself, she added, "Of course we are." Then she stopped, and without looking at him, she said, "The flirting."

His heart thudded in his chest, momentarily cutting off his breathing.

When he didn't respond, Cassandra continued hesitantly, "With me. I've … noticed it. Unless … unless it is my imagination, which is entirely possible …"

Thule found it utterly adorable that she had any question. She must be the only person in Skyhold who wasn't completely certain that he was flirting with her as hard as he could. "No, it's definitely not your imagination. Does it make you uncomfortable? I could stop." Maker, he hoped she didn't want him to stop. He wasn't really all that sure that he could.

She frowned at him, as though the confirmation was not at all what she had expected. "You cannot court me," she said in indignation. "If that is your intention. It—it is impossible!"

His heart sank. Of course. Because he was a dwarf, and she was a princess, and it had been ridiculous from the start. "Why?" he asked in a whisper. "Why must it be impossible?" Much as it would hurt, he needed to hear it from her or he would never be able to let go of the idea of her, the fantasy and hope he had treasured all this time.

"That should be obvious," she said, almost coldly, and Thule found himself shamefully near to tears.

"It's … because I'm a dwarf, isn't it?"

"What? No! No, of course not. Why would such a thought ever occur to you?"

He frowned, not understanding. "Then what else could it be?"

"You of all people—you cannot possibly intend to properly court me."

The light dawned. Of course. Cassandra the romantic, Cassandra who read Varric's books and clutched their stories to her heart in secret—Cassandra wanted to be wooed, she wanted the formalities of the romances she read, and Thule readily admitted that he didn't exactly seem the type to get down on his knees and kiss a woman's hand. Not that he would have to get down on his knees to kiss her hand, but if he was reading this right, that didn't seem to be the issue, much to his relief. He looked up at her, meeting her grey eyes squarely. "Is that what you want?"

"No." The answer came quickly. She paused, looking at him, and then she walked by, leaving him standing there, wondering what in the Maker's name had just happened here, and whether all his hopes had just been completely dashed, or if he was missing something.

The door closed behind her, and Thule walked off, trying to compose himself and get his mind back on the Orlesian nobleman. Then he heard the door open again, Cassandra's firm footsteps approaching, and he turned to look at her.

She stopped in front of him, swallowing hard, the words coming from her with difficulty. "I take it back. That … that is what I want. I—"

She looked so distressed, trying to come out and say what was in her heart. Thule reached for her hand. "You can tell me. I would … I would never hurt you."

Cassandra swallowed again, and then the words came forth in a tumble. "I want a man who sweeps me off my feet, who gives me flowers and reads me poetry by candlelight. I want the ideal." She looked down at him, her eyes searching his face. "I know what you see: I am a warrior. I am blunt and difficult and self-righteous. But my heart lies beneath all that. It yearns for the things I cannot have. I … just don't know if you … You are not exactly … I'm sorry, I don't mean to be …"

"I understand. I'm a rogue—I'm sneaky and snarky and difficult to pin down." He smiled. "Don't you think just maybe I have a heart that lies beneath all that as well?"

"I … yes. I mean, I hope so." She flushed, glancing away, as if she felt she had said too much. "But you are also the Inquisitor and the Herald of Andraste! I cannot ask you to take time away from what is important to … woo me."

"Is there anything more important?" he asked, holding her fingers when she would have drawn them from his grasp. "Cassandra. I can be that man. Won't you even give me a chance to try?"

She wanted to believe him, he could see that in her eyes, so open and vulnerable for once. "The world hinges on our actions, Inquisitor. We face death at every turn."

"All the more reason to stop every once in a while to face life … lest we forget what it is that we face death for."

"That … was poetic."

Thule grinned at her. "See? I can do it. I … Cassandra—"

She cut him off, shaking her head and tearing her hand from his grasp. "No. It was foolish to speak to you of this. There is no time, and many more important tasks that lie ahead of us."

Turning, she strode off, not looking back. Thule watched her go. Now that he knew what she wanted, he was more determined than ever to be it. He knew she liked him—they got along, they trusted each other—and he was certain he could find a way to woo her that she would like. Maybe the Orlesian noble would have some ideas.

Lilias stood outside the Herald's Rest, hesitating. Varric and Merrill had convinced her to promise to meet them there, but while she appreciated their attempt to get her out of her room and back out into the world, she wasn't sure she was ready for … quite this much of the world. And if she went in there, the chances were good she might run into—

"Um, hi."

Alistair. Right behind her. Lilias cursed inwardly as she turned around and pasted a fake smile on her face. "Fancy meeting you here."

"It's a small keep. Easy to run into old friends."

"Old friends?" she echoed, raising her eyebrows.

"Weren't we?"

"No! Of course we weren't! We were—" But she didn't want to get into that.

"Yes. Yes, we were." His eyes were on her, all dark and smoky and filled with promise.

Oh, snap out of it, Lilias! she said to herself. That was all over with a long time ago. She had put it behind her. But as he moved closer to her, she didn't feel as though it was behind her. She felt that it was still right here in front of her, so close she could reach out and …

He took her hand, and she watched with some disbelief as she didn't pull it back. "I don't think I've ever fully apologized for being such a … Well, you can use your own words. No doubt you have," Alistair said, with that disarming smile meant to make a person forget how angry they were at him. And she was angry. He had been a … well, many things. Some of them very painful.

"And?" she said noncommittally.

"And … Lilias."

"Yes?" He had used her name. Not Hawke, or Champion, or … The memory flashed through her mind, of him muttering the name of the wrong Amell in a voice husky with passion, breathing it into her ear, and Lilias stiffened. "What?" she snapped.

"I was a fool. I clung to—I held on to something I should have let go, for far too long. And … I want to let it go, Lilias, I do." He tugged her slightly closer to him, and she went, the sincerity in his voice moving her feet for her. "I want to start over again, as if … as if we had just met. Can we start over? Can you let me try?"

His hand was cupping the side of her face, and it was all so sweet and warm that Lilias could barely breathe. But it was also … fast. Too fast. Too unexpected. And … Bethany. Between them, they had left Bethany behind. She pushed away from him, seeing the flash of hurt in his eyes.

"Alistair. I—I want to believe you. I want to give us another chance, I really do. But … I've lost track of who I am. I've lost everything. I can't just … If I'm not who I used to be, then where do we start? If I don't know who I am then how can I be with … anyone? Do you—do you understand?"

He shoved his hands in his pockets, nodding, his eyes on her with something that looked like he really did understand. "Between you and me, I don't know who I am, either. I've been pretending to be something I'm not for a really long time, and now …" He shook his head, a spasm of pain crossing his face. "How about this—how about I help you figure out who you are, and you help me figure out who I am, and maybe when we come out the other end, we'll … know who we are together?"

It felt to Lilias as though the world was standing still, as though even the snowflakes falling softly around them had ceased to fall and were hanging suspended in the air. She looked at Alistair, this man whom she had cursed and dreamed of and fantasized about and longed for and feared and desired for such a long time, and she knew that she wanted that new chance, that sense of understanding she felt when she was with him, that connection they had shared almost from the beginning, that sense of safety. "All right," she said softly. "Let's try it."

His smile lit up the night, setting the snowflakes in motion again.