Cullen leaned back in his chair, stretching. It was the first time he had put the pen down in at least an hour. He would still be writing now, a dispatch half-finished in front of him, but his hand was beginning to cramp and the perfect copperplate handwriting that had been drilled into him was suffering as a consequence.

He was almost relieved when a knock came at the door, although he had been enjoying the momentary lull in what seemed to be a constant stream of people in and out of his office.

To his surprise, his visitor was the Iron Bull. He got to his seat, gesturing the Qunari to take seat, worrying as he did so whether the extra chair in his office would hold the giant man's weight.

It did, just, and both of them held their breath for a moment until they were certain the Iron Bull wasn't going to crash to the floor in a heap of splinters where a chair had been. Cullen resumed his own seat, nodding at his visitor.

"What brings you in here today?"

"I got a letter from my contacts in the Ben-Hassrath. Already verified it with Red, she said to bring it to you."

"Red?" Cullen echoed.

"Ah, yeah, sorry. Leliana."

"Oh. Right. Of course." She was the only red-headed female in the Inquisition leadership, after all. Cullen should have known. Sometimes his own rigid adherence to the formalities of command was a hindrance in Thule Cadash's more relaxed Inquisition. "What exactly does this letter entail?"

The Iron Bull looked at him across the desk, his single steely grey eye unusually sober. "They've been reading my reports—all vetted by Red, so don't worry—and they don't like Corypheus or his Venatori. And they really don't like red lyrium."

"I'm glad we agree on that front," Cullen offered.

"Yeah. Me, too. Of course, big Vint darkspawn, not really something my people would be likely to support."

"No, I wouldn't imagine so. Are they offering assistance?"

"They are. They want to work with the Inquisition—with the Inquisitor."

Cullen stared at the other man, completely flummoxed. "The Qunari and the Inquisition, joining forces?"

"That's about the size of it."

"That could be a powerful alliance." Cullen was trying to grasp all the implications.

The Iron Bull nodded. "My people have never made a full-blown alliance with a foreign power before. This would be a big step."

"You say you've discussed this with Leliana already? Have you approached Josephine or the Inquisitor?"

"Yes. Both of them are cautiously intrigued."

"As am I," Cullen agreed.

"So apparently there's a massive red lyrium shipping operation running based on the Storm Coast. They want us to hit it together—talking about bringing in a dreadnought."

"A Qunari dreadnought?" Cullen had heard of them, but had never seen one. Of course, as he understood it, few people who saw one lived to tell about it. He remembered Isabela in Kirkwall—she had outrun one once, and spent the next five years avoiding the Qunari in Kirkwall as best she could. "Do they want a full-on assault?"

"No. Just a picked crew to avoid tipping the smugglers. The Chargers, the Inquisitor's team."

"Then … why are you here? If you don't need the army …"

The Iron Bull looked uncomfortable, and Cullen realized the answer.

"You're worried about this being some kind of trap."

"I wouldn't be doing my job, on either side, if I didn't try to get ahead of the problem."

"So what do you suggest?"

"I … uh ..."

Cullen had never seen the Qunari at a loss for words. "You don't seem entirely happy about this."

The Iron Bull waved his hand vaguely in the air. "I'm good. I mean … I kind of got used to them being over there somewhere, and now here they are."

"A bit too close for comfort?"

"Something like that. Look, I think they're on the level, but I want some … protection, just in case."

"You want some troops discreetly moved into the area?"

"I was thinking about the Blades of Hessarian."

"By all means, I'll have them on alert, and I'll have some soldiers trickle into the area bit by bit, get you some backup without causing suspicion." Cullen frowned thoughtfully at his visitor. "So you don't want the Qunari to extend their reach to the entire world?"

The Iron Bull shifted in his chair and it creaked ominously beneath him. When it had settled, he said, "Look, the Qun answers a lot of questions. It's a good life for a lot of people. But … A lot of folks here wouldn't do so well under that kind of life. Not everyone would make a good Templar, either, I'd bet."

Cullen thought of Thule. Of Sera. Of Dagna. He smiled. "Certainly not."

"Would you go back if you could?"

Looking around his office, thinking of the freedom of this position, the feeling of truly doing something good in the world, Cullen shook his head. "No."

"Do you regret the time you spent as a Templar?"

"No … not really. I … there were things I did, things I was part of, that I regret, but as for joining the Order in the first place, no. I spent a long time thinking harsh methods against mages kept people safe. I'm no longer certain that I believe the world is quite so black and white."

The Iron Bull grinned. "We sew the lips of our mages shut and chain them. I thought that was the right thing—then I met the mages here. Can you imagine Vivienne, or Dorian, with their mouths sewn shut?"

"No, I can't say that I can," Cullen agreed.

The door behind the Iron Bull opened and the Inquisitor ducked his head in. "Oh, good. You're here."

"Of course. What do you need?"

"Can you keep everyone off the west battlements tonight?"

"Compromise the guard rotation?" Cullen asked in consternation.

"Not compromise—just … limit. Please?" Thule opened his blue eyes very wide.

"I … Certainly, Inquisitor."

"Excellent. You have my thanks. Bull, you got any of those fancy candies you're always raving about?"

"The chocolates? A few, but it'll cost you."

"I'll cover your Wicked Grace losses for a month."

The Iron Bull looked offended. "As if I'd lose at Wicked Grace."

"Stop playing against Josephine if you want anyone to believe that."

"Good point. Fine. I'll have them delivered to your rooms."

"Thanks. You're the best." And the Inquisitor was gone.

Cullen looked at the Iron Bull. "What was that all about?"

"If I don't miss my guess—and I don't—the Inquisitor is planning to woo a princess."

"Oh." Cullen smiled. He wished Thule luck. "What were we talking about?"

"You were going to tell me how you became a Templar."

"Was I? It's not much of a story. I used to spend my time hanging around the local Chantry, begging the Templars to teach me—they must eventually have felt that I showed promise, or at least a willingness to learn, because the Knight-Captain spoke to my parents about it." He thought of that day with a sense of nostalgia. His parents seemed so old in his memory, but they hadn't been that much older than he was now, and they had been so reluctant to let him go. "Eventually they agreed."

"How old were you?"

"Thirteen."

"At thirteen, I was already a soldier."

"I wouldn't say I was a soldier until I was eighteen. I was trained and educated first, my superiors making sure I was ready."

"All my training, pretty much from birth, was aimed at making me a good soldier."

"And your family?"

"Didn't have one; just a cohort of other kids my age, all being trained to do the work they were best suited for. Qunari have a regimented system."

The side door opened, one of the scouts peeking in. "Commander? Dispatch from Sister Leliana."

"Ah. Duty calls, I'm afraid," he said to his Qunari visitor. "We're agreed on the plan?"

"Yes."

"And you feel comfortable with this decision?"

The Iron Bull got ponderously to his feet. "Yeah. It's not like we're converting. We're just joining forces against Corypheus. On that front, I think we're good."

"In that case, I look forward to seeing how this goes."

"Me, too." The Iron Bull paused. "Nice talking with you, Cullen."

"Thank you. Same here," Cullen answered, realizing rather to his own surprise that he meant it. A conversation with a Qunari—that certainly would never have happened in the Templars. The Arishok would never so much as meet with him back in Kirkwall.

It was good to be part of the Inquisition, he thought, reaching out for the report the scout was holding.

Leliana looked up from the papers at her desk as the ravens signaled the approach of a visitor. Her eyes widened with surprise as she recognized Vivienne. The mage looked around the Rookery with evident distaste, twitching the white skirts of her robes to keep them off the ground.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Lady Vivienne?" Leliana asked cordially. As if she didn't know. As if Vivienne would give her a straight answer.

"I merely wanted to see your charming rookery, my dear."

"And here it is. Are you interested in birds?"

"I've always been partial to falcons. Such efficiency."

Leliana didn't miss the implication in the mage having named a bird of prey. "Not particularly useful to anyone but themselves, on the other hand."

"Ah, how true." Vivienne favored her with one of her lovely smiles. "But a falcon can be trained to be of use, can it not?"

"So I've heard."

"So you know. I am well aware of how much time you have spent amongst the nobility of Orlais—you can't convince me you haven't been hawking a time or two."

"Perhaps." Leliana felt it a point in her favor that she had pushed the mage to such bluntness. "You must have as well."

"My dear, what need have I of a bird to do my bidding? I reach out my hand and I can grasp whatever I wish from afar. I have magic at my fingertips."

"A dangerous thing to have, at times."

"Only if uncontrolled."

There was a challenge in this verbal fencing, but Leliana was busy and had a pile of dispatches to get through. "Have you seen everything you came for?"

"Where is your charming shadow, my dear?"

"You mean Nathaniel?" There was no point being coy about it; Vivienne knew perfectly well how much time Nathaniel spent up here.

"The very same. The two of you seem to enjoy one another's company."

"We have a number of old friends in common, and have lost most of them. It gives us much to talk about."

"It would be a shame to lose your new friends on top of your old, would it not?"

"What do you mean?" Leliana asked before she thought, alarmed.

"Only that leaving friends behind becomes tiresome after a certain point in one's life." Unless Leliana completely missed her guess, there was a genuine sorrow in the mage's voice. "One begins to think of making choices that allow one to retain friendships, rather than lose them."

Ah. So that was it. Vivienne was here to suggest to Leliana that she shouldn't reach for the position of Divine. In Vivienne's favor? That was an amusing thought, but not one to take particularly seriously. After all, if for some reason Leliana chose not to take the nomination, there was always Cassandra.

Even as she thought it, the Inquisitor came to the top of the stairs, looking startled to see Vivienne there. "Leliana, I came to ask if the thing had arrived."

Leliana lifted the paper-wrapped package. "It has indeed."

Thule beamed, taking the package. It was book-shaped, Leliana noticed. The Inquisitor was an intelligent man, but she had never considered him a big reader.

He turned to Vivienne. "And you don't mind my purloining a bottle of your Agreggio?"

"My dear, I insist you take it with my compliments."

"You have my thanks," he said hastily, and he was off down the stairs.

Leliana looked after him, frowning. Wine, a book … of poetry, perhaps? She was happy for her old friend, but if Cassandra was about to become the paramour of the Inquisitor, perhaps Vivienne's machinations needed to be taken much more seriously.

As if reading her thoughts—which she probably was—Vivienne smiled. "I will leave you to your work, my dear."

And she was gone, leaving Leliana looking after her in consternation. Could Vivienne truly become Divine? And did Leliana want the position enough to stop her?

Thule paused outside the sparring ring, watching Cassandra. She moved with such grace, such decision and determination. Normally he enjoyed watching her, but today he was nervous and his hands were clammy and he could hardly concentrate. He had the candy and the wine and the poetry and the flowers, he had the secluded glade ready … but he didn't have the girl.

It was as much as he could do to wait for her to finish. Interrupting her in the middle of her training would not be the right answer. So he waited, trying not to fidget openly, uncomfortably aware that half the keep knew what he was trying to do. At least most of them could be counted on not to mention it to Cassandra … or he hoped they could.

Finally she was done. She took her towel off the fence post and wiped the sweat off her face, coming toward him. "Inquisitor."

Her ever-present formality was not making him feel more confident. He willed himself not to stammer over the words. "I … was wondering if you were available this evening."

Her eyebrows flew up. "Available?"

"I … yes. There's a grove just outside of Skyhold. Will you meet me there an hour before sunset?"

She swallowed, her features softening. "Are you certain this is a good idea?"

In the face of her uncertainty, his vanished. "I am. Trust me?"

Cassandra nodded, her eyes shining in a way he had never seen before. "I will be there."

He walked away, his knees feeling weak. Now to finish setting things up and get himself ready. He glanced up, calculating the time. Entirely too many hours lay between him and tonight.

They crawled by at a snail's pace, despite his attempts to keep himself busy, but at last it was time for him to duck out of Skyhold by the back gate that Leliana thought no one else knew about, and make his final preparations in the grove. Blanket, glasses, grapes … Maker's blood, would she never arrive?

At last he heard her rustling through the trees. He picked up the book, opening it to the place he had marked previously.

When Cassandra came to the little clearing and saw the blanket spread on the ground, with the bottle of wine and the glasses and everything else, she stopped short with a little gasp of surprise.

Thule chose that moment to begin declaiming the poem. "On aching branch do blossoms grow, the wind a hallowed breath."

She turned to look at him, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

He smiled, feeling better now that she was here, continuing, "It carries the scent of honeysuckle, sweet as the lover's kiss."

Cassandra reached out for him, giving his shoulder a shove as if she was trying to determine if he was real.

"It brings the promise of more tomorrows, of sighs and whispered bliss." Finishing the poem, he turned and went down on one knee before her.

There was a suspicious sheen in Cassandra's eyes, and her hand was covering her mouth. "You cannot be serious," she said at last.

"I can, and I am. After all, you were serious—your list was very specific." Thule gestured to the things all around them.

"And that's the poem you chose?"

"Would you like me to read a different one?" He proffered the book in her direction. "At least you can be grateful I didn't commission Varric to write one for the occasion."

Cassandra looked alarmed, as though she thought it was possible he might have. "Perish the thought." She took the book and began riffling through its pages. "Carmenum di Amatus? I thought this was banned."

"I'm the Inquisitor," he reminded her.

"So you are."

"Would you like some wine while you read?"

"I would." Over the edge of the book, she watched him pour. "You went to a great deal of trouble. Thank you."

"I would do much more than this for you," he said softly, reaching up with the wine glass.

Cassandra came down to him instead, sitting cross-legged on the blanket as she perused the book, taking the glass from him. "You say that."

"I mean every word," Thule assured her. He passed her a bunch of grapes and opened the box of the Iron Bull's chocolates. Leaning back against a tree trunk, he watched her, deep in enjoyment of the delights he had gathered for her. "When I met you, I would never have imagined that beneath that taciturn shell beats such a romantic heart."

"Which is as it should be. One does not wear one's heart on one's sleeve, after all. Nor is romance the sole province of dithering ladies in frilly dresses."

"By no means," he agreed.

"It is passion," Cassandra continued, her eyes starry and beautiful. "Being swept away by the pursuit of an ideal. What is not to like about that?"

"What happens if your ideal turns out to be nothing more than a man, as fallible as any other?" It was a question he had asked himself many times over in making the decision to put this evening together, to pursue the emotions and desires that had filled him so many times since he'd met her.

She looked at him, her customary honesty in her face. "I do not know. Perhaps that is why I have been content to live with nothing but the ideal for so long."

"And you're … willing to try now, take the risk of something less than your ideal?"

"Perhaps reality can also be ideal." She shifted so that her legs were drawn to the side, her weight resting on one hand as she used the other to turn the pages. "These are beautiful. You must have spent a great deal of time looking."

He had, in fact, recruited Dorian's assistance, but the mage had certainly made it a time-consuming task. Unwilling to lie to her entirely, Thule merely smiled, watching as she moved again, this time with her legs underneath her and the book held up.

"You could come sit here," he offered, opening his arms.

Cassandra looked startled and frightened, like a deer poised to leap, and then she relaxed. He could see that relaxing was a conscious decision, but he didn't mind that—at least she was making the decision to be with him and not to run, which was a very good start.

She brought the book and the glass with her and leaned back, her head on his shoulder, her body resting against his.

"Better?" he whispered, letting his lips brush the shell of her ear. He was rewarded by a shock wave that traveled palpably through her body, transferring itself to his in the process.

"Much," she said, somewhat breathlessly.

As she continued through the book, Thule stroked her side, lingering at ribcage on the upstroke and hipbone on the down, fingers caressing her skin through the thin material of the shirt she wore. Cassandra's breathing was coming more heavily now, the pages turning more slowly, her body relaxing more into his.

"Have you found one you like?" he asked. Gently, he touched his lips to the edge of her jaw. She sighed and turned her head further in his direction.

"I … was always partial to this one."

With some difficulty, Thule directed his eyes to the page, but he allowed his hands to continue roaming, over her stomach now and her abdomen, the muscles firm and taut beneath his touch.

Cassandra spoke the words softly, pausing as his caresses covered a wider area and her breath hitched in response. "His lips on mine speak words not voiced … a prayer. Which travels down my spine like—oh, like flames that shatter night." She pressed her head back against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed as he worked her shirt slowly free of her pants and hesitantly slid his hand beneath the fabric to touch her bare skin. She gasped in pleasure, her hips moving restlessly as he caressed the smooth expanse of skin below her ribcage.

He could feel himself hardening, and was sure she could feel it, too, the little grove warming with their body heat.

"His eyes—" Cassandra turned so that she could see his face. "His eyes reflect the heavens' stars, the Maker's light. My body opens, filled and blessed, my spirit there." Her lips were parted, her own eyes shining, and Thule looked away with some difficulty, completing the poem for her.

"Not merely housed in flesh, but brought to life." He brought his hand up to trace the line of her jaw. "Shall we read another?"

With a little cry, Cassandra turned all the way in his arms, kissing him fiercely.

Thule wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back, the touch of her mouth everything he had dreamed of and more. Her hands were busy at the buttons on his vest, and he worked her shirt further and further up her body until she sat up to take it off over her head. She unfastened her breastband at the same time, and Thule couldn't help the groan that escaped him. Her breasts were magnificent—perfectly round and heavy and firm, her nipples beautifully responsive as his thumbs brushed over them. He tugged her back down so that he could take first one and then the other into his mouth, rolling his tongue around the firm peaks and reveling in the cries of pleasure that escaped her.

With his hands free, he fumbled with the fastenings of her pants, opening them and shoving them down her hips with her smallclothes, aching to touch her. Cassandra kicked the pants off the rest of the way. He was surprised she was so unconcerned to be naked here in the grove—he hadn't imagined in his wildest dreams that things would move this fast—but he was hardly going to complain, not with Cassandra's hands restlessly moving over his bare chest, pushing his shirt back off his shoulders, and his fingers dipping into the wet heat between her legs, finding the spot that made her go still in his arms as he traced circles in a slow, maddening rhythm.

"Please," she whispered. "Don't tease me."

"Never," he promised in a rough whisper. He was still leaning against the tree. Wriggling awkwardly out of his pants, he breathed a sigh of relief as his length sprang free of the fabric, hard and throbbing. Cassandra faced him, raising her hips above him, and he felt her begin to envelop him.

Gritting his teeth, he managed to hold her still.

"What is it?"

He met her eyes, needing her to know before this went any further. "I love you."

Cassandra caught her breath, searching his face with something like fear. She must have found what she was looking for, because she relaxed. "Here, tonight, I believe you." And then she slid down the rest of the way and words were beyond them both.

He took her head in his hands, kissing her as she undulated against him, sloppy kisses that were hard to maintain as their bodies moved with greater and greater urgency. At last she broke the kiss entirely, throwing her head back, her body trembling with the approach of her peak.

Thule could feel himself readying to follow her, and he strained to keep his eyes open, fighting the urge to surrender entirely to the pleasure so that he could watch her.

And then with a last hard thrust of her hips against him, she called his name, and the sound of it on her lips pushed him over the edge.

Cassandra fell forward with her forehead against his shoulder, panting. When she had gathered her strength again, she moved off of him and he took an extra blanket and a small towel from the basket he had brought. When they had cleaned themselves, he drew the blanket up over their cooling bodies and they lay together looking up at the stars, Cassandra's head pillowed on his shoulder.

"I imagine," she said dreamily, "that they will say one of two things about me: that I stood at the Inquisitor's side, his protector and his lover—that it was meant to be … or they will say that I was led astray by the wiles of a dwarven madman." She twisted her neck to look up at him with a wicked smile.

He poked her in the ribs. "This is your idea of pillow talk?"

"If you wanted sweetness and light, you picked the wrong woman."

"Point taken." Thule laughed, and kissed her temple. "Well, I don't care what 'they' say. What do you believe? Am I a dwarven madman? Have I snared you in my wily web?"

"I believe you are part of the Maker's plan. Beyond that, I believe only that you are capable of anything—and that frightens me."

"You're still not sure about me?" he asked, feeling disappointment stab him.

"I've feared you since the moment I laid eyes upon you. I have never known anything like it. But I am sure of it, nonetheless. Of it, and of you." Cassandra rolled to her side, her hand on his chest. "I've been with only one other man in my life. A mage, with whom I adventured when I was still very young. He died at the Conclave. I will not let Corypheus win. I will not let him take you from me."

"You can't control what will happen, Cassandra."

"Perhaps not, but that will not prevent me from trying."

He couldn't look away from her. In her determination, her openness, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. "The way you say that, I believe it."

"Good." Her hand moved to his hair, fingers threading through it to hold his head still as she kissed him. And then she was moving atop him and the heat was rising and Corypheus was for the moment nothing but a fairytale in a forgotten book.