Chapter Twenty-Two: This Dance

Bull had doubts.

It was late evening, well after supper, and though most people wouldn't be going to bed yet, those who were leaving for Halamshiral early the next morning probably should be in bed. Bull was one of the latter. He knew he wanted his sleep; he needed it, as he'd be walking the whole way thanks to his size—too large for a horse and too proud to sit inside a carriage. But he also needed to speak with the Commander one last time, go over a few final details, just to make sure nothing had been overlooked.

One leader-of-men to another.

So he marched along the ramparts, his course set for Cullen's tower, knowing the man would also still be up, still be working, still be preparing and finishing up any last minute details, still be…

Bull opened the door and stopped in surprise. The office was dark, with only a small candle on the desk burning low. There was no sign of scurrying soldiers with reports, no sign of the indefatigable Commander, no sign that anyone had been in there for a couple of hours.

He scratched at the strap of his eyepatch. He had been fairly sure Cullen would be in here. He wasn't with Peredura, of that Bull was certain; he'd just come from there and she had already been preparing for bed herself. So, if Cullen was not with Peredura, and he was not in his office, where in Thedas could that man have gotten to…

Coming out of his musings, he began to pay closer attention to his surroundings. That's when he heard it, soft, muted, but steady, like a heartbeat, a gentle rhythm that resonated with something deep inside him. A voice hummed, warm and masculine—and sounding quite satisfied. "Ah…" he sighed, whoever he was, though Bull thought he recognized the voice. Bull left the door cracked behind him and inched further into the empty room, trying to figure out where the noises were coming from.

"Yes… yes… that's it… take it slow… set a rhythm… let yourself feel it… NO! No! Step back, ouch, that's my…"

Bull didn't hear the last word, the sound of something heavy landing on wooden floorboards drowning it out. He lifted his face towards the ceiling, finally discerning the sounds were coming from up there.

"Sorry, sorry," he heard Cullen's voice answering, "But this is not as simple as it seems, or as you've been leading me to believe." There was a bit of hurt mixed into his accusatory tone.

It was followed by Dorian's signatory long-suffering sigh. "Tell me about it. I believe you've bruised my arse. Oh, don't pout, my dear Commander; you'll get the hang of it. You're already much better than you were last night."

"…last… night…?" Bull repeated, whispering to himself.

"Just, set the chair back and we'll try again."

Upstairs, over Bull's head, the two men were completely unaware they were discovered. Cullen righted the chair, making sure it was off to the side this time, and returned to face Dorian, who had just regained his feet. They were using a round rug in the middle of the room as a sort of guide to help give Cullen some idea of the space he would need for dancing a waltz, and the chair had been right on the edge. When he'd stepped on Dorian's foot, the mage had tried to stumble out from beneath his heavy boots and wound up tripping over the chair. But now with both men and furniture returned to their places, Cullen eagerly slapped his hands together and demanded, "Right. Where were we?"

"My, my, my, Commander," Dorian couldn't help but tease him a little. It had been a long evening already, after an even longer week, and he desperately needed a laugh, "So stiff. And so eager. Ready to perform again at a moment's notice."

Bull's one good eye widened in the dark room below.

Cullen's eyes narrowed in the bright room above. "I haven't been asking you here to my bedchambers every night just so you could tease me. I am serious about this."

"As am I, Cullen, I assure you. Sincerely." Dorian placed a hand over his heart, even used the man's given name, trying to placate the flustered Commander. But Cullen continued to pout. It was a lovely sort of pout, as dark as he could manage with his blond locks and creamy pale skin. And it worked, Dorian dropping his teasing and returning to work. "Come here. Come on, I won't bite, you know that by now. Let's start over, shall we? Put your hand on my hip, just like that. Good. Now, I want you to think about this, think about how you want to move, and how you want my body to move with yours, got it? Then think about how to communicate that to me."

"What, I just tell you what I want you to do?"

"Yes," Dorian's voice hummed, "But not with your words. With your hand. This hand, right here. Use the pressure of your fingers, to suggest to me that we're going to move to your left, or backwards, or forwards. Whatever you're planning the next step to be, tell me with your hand." He took hold of Cullen's free hand with his and added, "With both your hands."

Bull listened to the shuffling sounds above him, unable to discern exactly what sort of movement was going on, but his imagination filled in the blanks. Especially when Dorian began to exclaim, "Yes! Yes! That's it, my dear Commander. Slow. Steady. Yes, just like that."

He fled.

He. A qunari. A Ben-Hassrath spy. A mercenary. A man who'd faced dragons and mages and giants and bears.

He was The-Iron-fucking-Bull.

And he ran away from the sound of Dorian and the Commander…

Nope. No. No way. No how. He was not going to believe that. Whatever they had been doing, whatever was going on, it was not THAT.

Yet here he was, nearly out of breath, standing outside the stables, one hand braced against the wall while his head swam.

While he pondered the reasons for his head to be swimming.

"Iron Bull," a gruff voice called out. "Is that you?"

"What?" he blinked, looking around quickly, getting his bearings while shoving away the unpleasant thoughts. "Oh, ah, hey, there, Blackwall. I was just, er, stopping by to check in with you. Wanted to make sure you'd be alright while the rest of us are gone," he lied on the spot, but he'd always been good at lying.

Blackwall stepped out of the shadows from inside the barn, walking around towards Bull's good eye. "Appreciate your concern, but everything should be fine here. Varric's staying behind after all, some sort of bad blood between him and the Seeker right now, so he volunteered to keep Sera and that strange boy in hand. That'll leave me and Vivienne free to deal with anything that might come up. Not that we expect much."

"Naw, I suppose not," Bull agreed, "Trouble seems to follow Peredura around, doesn't it? Well, don't mind me; I was just making one final check on everything before turning in. Good night, Blackwall."

"'night, Bull," he gave a curt nod before returning to the shadows.

Resigned, Bull turned away from the stables and headed for the Herald's Rest, intending to start getting what sleep he could before morning. But his steps were slow, reluctant, even sullen. He knew he'd have to pass by Cullen's tower again, and he feared what might happen, what he might see, what he might do. As he neared the walkway, movement over his head caught his attention, and though he didn't want to know, his face lifted up of its own volition to see…

Dorian was just slipping through the doorway, stepping out onto the stone walkway that led to the Main Hall of Skyhold. Even with only one good eye, Bull could see the flush to his cheeks, the slight limp in his step, and the satisfied smirk on his lips.

Bull bent his neck and studied his feet as he walked, hands in his pockets, shoulders slouched. It was going to be a very long night indeed.

It was early. It was so early, it was still dark outside, the sky painted black, the stars only just beginning to wink out. Fear was curled up on his rug in front of the fire, not quite ready to leave his cozy den if there wasn't any food involved. And the servants had only brought food for his partner, not him, so he lay still, curled up in a tight little ball, and dozed and waited.

Peredura, however, was awake, wide awake and well fed and standing before her wardrobe about to get dressed. Yet she had stopped, paused, her reflection catching her eye and giving her a moment to consider.

She had changed over the past few months. So many things, and so far changed she might hardly be recognizable to any who knew her from before. She couldn't help but marvel at what eating regular healthy meals and getting plenty of outdoor exercise could do to a body. Her complexion, once pale and watery due to her years of confinement, was now a healthy rose color, her skin slightly tanned from all her time spent outdoors. She tilted her head just so and admired the way the firelight shadowed her cheekbone, and how her silky hair hid her ears and made her look so human. Then she looked full on into the mirror, her other scarred cheek coming into view, and the lovely image faltered, reminding her she wasn't what she appeared.

It was a harsh, bitter, painful, and undeniable truth.

A gross feeling grew over her, morbid and self-deprecating and hopeless. Slowly, almost mesmerically, as if controlled by a puppet master's hand, her fingers untied her belt and opened the front of her robe. She stood before the mirror, holding the fabric as a backdrop, studying her reflection, her body. Her figure, too, had changed, morphing from the unhealthy and underfed slave to the toned lean muscles of a trained archer. Her body had a pleasing shape, the developing muscles actually adding definition and curves to her form. But she didn't see this; she saw only the pale lines, some thicker, some thinner, carved across her flesh. No amount of exercise could change the unchangeable, could remove the unremovable, could erase the indelible scars. No matter what she did, how hard she worked, what lies she told…

…she would always have her past, that time in her life where she had been Peredura the slave, the possession of a blood mage, the opeigh addict, the willing assistant to his evil…

Fear shifted and gave a soft sort of bark behind her, alerting her that someone was coming, the sound crashing into her thoughts like a mace and shattering them apart. The next moment she was closing her robe, tying it fast once more as Cullen's voice called out her name. "Pere? Are you, erm, are you decent?"

"Cullen," she answered, spinning in place to see him pop into view as he came up the stairs. "Good morning." Fear got up and gave himself a shake, as if echoing her words, and then sat in eager anticipation of attention. Cullen gave the best scratches, just behind the ears, digging his nails in that little bit that made Fear's leg want to twitch! He panted at stared, willing the man to walk past.

Cullen, however, hesitated a moment on the landing, taking everything into consideration, nothing—not even the most minuscule detail—slipping past his trained gaze, before he acknowledged, "Good morning. I don't mean to catch you at a bad time." He came as far as the mabari, offering the anticipated scratch, making the puppy shiver. "The servants told me you were already up and breakfasted, and I thought you might be ready by now, and we could walk to the gates together. But I see that I'm a bit early."

He watched her waver, chew her lip, glance around as she thought of an excuse. "What? No, um, you're not early. I'm late. I'm afraid I let my mind wander for a moment. Just, er, just give me a minute, um, and we could…"

The hound forgotten, Cullen started for her, his movement enough to silence her useless vocalizations, to still her furtive gestures.

To send her heart racing.

He crossed the room, his steps surprisingly silent in spite of all the armor he wore. The golden metal shone like sunlight in the darkness, the fur brushed to a lustrous softness, the leather freshly oiled and conditioned. His gloves were tucked into his belt, so when he reached out to touch her cheek, her scarred cheek, she could feel the heat of his flesh against hers. Except for where those damnable scars lay.

Cullen had had his suspicions when he first entered her bedchambers. He could tell that she'd been standing in front of her mirror, that she had only just closed her robe. That knowledge coupled with the fact that he new the servants had brought her tray up a good half hour before, which was only half-finished and lying cold beside the bed, and he could conclude that she had been standing and brooding over her reflection. He had touched her scarred cheek as a test, and when tears threatened to drown her brown eyes into mud, he knew he had supposed correctly. He sighed, not sure if he could wrestle with her mental demons—much less win—but he knew he would have to try. "Come with me."

"I'm not dressed yet," she protested mildly, trying desperately to keep the despair from her voice.

"We won't go far," he promised, "Only to the balcony."

She swallowed thickly, from the misery as well as fear. "I'm not overly fond of heights, remember?" she reminded him, even as his hand fell to her shoulder and encouraged her forward, "And it's cold outside. And I'm only wearing a robe. And…"

"And I'll keep you warm and safe," he breathed huskily, shifting her around until she stood in front of him. He wrapped his arms around her, along with a healthy portion of his mantle, pressing their bodies as close as his armor would allow. Then he pushed open the door and walked them out onto the balcony.

Despite his efforts. she shivered, yet she wasn't entirely sure it was from the cold. He walked them right to the edge, stopping only because the railing was in their way, or so it seemed to her. She felt her head spin at the dizzying heights, the courtyard dipping so far below, the mountains rising so high above. "Please…" she turned her face aside, tucked beneath his chin, and tried to spin around, but he held her too fast, "Cullen…"

"I've got you," he assured her, running a hand up and down her arm, soothing and enticing at the same time. "You're not going to fall." He paused and gave a rather cheeky laugh, "You do trust me, don't you?"

"Cullen," she sighed, half exasperated, half pleading, but answered, "Of course I trust you."

"Good," he sounded quite pleased with her answer. "Then, open your eyes, lift your face up, and tell me what you see."

"What I see," she repeated, not at all liking whatever game he was at. "Hm, well, let's see, there's the mountains. And the sky. And the stars. And it's night! And what else am I supposed to see!"

She could feel his whole chest move as he took a deep breath to steady his own temper. "Hm, yes, well, I suppose it is a bit difficult to notice from this angle. Here, lean out with me, just a little bit, that's it, I've got you, now," he leaned over to press his cheek, freshly shaved for once, against hers and tipped them both a little further over the railing. She clung to him, desperately trying not to look down, her whole body trembling and unable to stop. Yet his hold on her was secure, his balance steady, his head and shoulder between her and the ground—the far, far, distant ground—as he lifted one hand and pointed, "There. What do you see there? To the south."

She wanted to stare in consternation at him, but his arm was in the way. Giving up, knowing she couldn't go back inside until he allowed it, she lined her sight up along the length of his arm and stared at the spot where his finger hung in the sky. "Nothing," she answered honestly, and perhaps a bit crossly, "There's nothing there but sky."

"Exactly," he agreed, leaning them back away from the balcony, though still not allowing her to retreat inside. "That was the part of the sky where the Breach occurred. But it's gone, now. It's closed, because of you. Yes, you may have felt obligated to help us close it, because you're the only one with that mark, but you did help us. Willingly. That counts for something.

"And look there," he pointed downwards, down into the courtyard beneath them. She barely spared it a glance, unwilling to acknowledge the height, preferring instead to focus on his breath warming her ear, "To that tower there, the one you're having renovated into a sanctuary for mages. And over there's the infirmary you ordered to have set up for the sick and wounded. Look at all the changes happening around us, here at Skyhold, all because you decided it would be a good idea to have something done. For that matter," he gave a scoff, "We wouldn't even be here, at Skyhold, if you hadn't found it. And us. We were lost in the mountains after Haven, cold, starved, hurt, angry, scared. We fought against each other, because there was nothing else for us to do. Not until you came along and led us here.

"Now look out there," his arm pointed one last time, down into the valley lying before the gates. She followed his gesture, no longer worried over the height or the distance, his words beginning to penetrate. She saw where he was pointing, all the hundreds of tents and campfires, thousands of men and women. "Look at them, Peredura. Look at all those who've come to us, to the Inquisition. Not because of what we stand for. Not because they saw you close the Breach, or because they know you need an army to face Corypheus, or any other of a hundred important reasons. Those people, those men and women, those soldiers and peasants, those parents and children, are here because of you," he turned her around to face him, cupping her face in his hands. letting her feel him against both her cheeks, scarred and unscarred, her past and her present.

"Whatever is in your past, whatever you've done before, whatever happened when you were under duress—none of that matters. Not any longer. Not after all you've done since then, freely of your own will and good intentions. And wisdom. And kindness. And love." Maker, how badly he wanted to kiss those trembling lips. "They don't care where you came from, or what torment you were made to endure, or what secrets you hide," his fingers combed deeper into her hair, his fingertips brushing her ears and eliciting another shudder. "They only care about you. About your actions. About a young woman named Peredura who came from nowhere and fed the hungry. Or gave blankets to the cold. Or fended off wild animals. Or championed a widow against injustice. Or simply delivered flowers to a grave. You inspire them, Peredura. You inspire us all."

Maker forgive him, but he could resist no longer. His head lowered, his hands tilted her face upwards, their lips brushed. Then his eyes closed, shutting out the view and the cold and the uncertain future waiting for them in Halamshiral. All that mattered at that one moment, was her. This young woman, so strong and yet so vulnerable. So capable and yet so innocent. So unattainable and yet so thoroughly his.

Sudden inspiration gripped him, his earlier words having turned prophetic, as a new sensation swept through him. The urge was primal and unsettling—whatever he was feeling was tearing away his self-control, something he normally would not give up lightly—but for one moment this one morning he chose to give in. Their kiss deepened, their tongues engaging in mutual combat, while his body held sway over her. He could feel the air move past as they walked a few steps, hear her grunt when she ended up pressed against something solid, but most of his attention was focused elsewhere, on another plane, both curious of and mystified by his self and his actions.

He'd never had very many opportunities for this sort of thing before. Not that he had never done it—back when he was a young recruit, there had been one or two willing girls who weren't quite as irritatingly giggly as the others. And he had been curious about the whole act, certainly. And one thing had led to another… but that all had been mostly curiosity, nothing that held any sort of meaning or emotions, nothing near like what he felt now.

And it had been a lifetime ago. For the past decade—ever since Kinloch—he'd felt no desire, no need, to put it bluntly: no libido. Every time he might have felt even the inkling of an attraction towards someone, the vision of those two desire demons would return, leaving him feeling as if he'd suddenly been thrown into a frozen lake. It had grown so predictable, so painful, so violent, he had begun to simply give up and take every precaution to avoid any situation where such, erm, yearnings might arise.

Yet this morning he stood, after years of his self-imposed celibacy, feeling his body react to hers, feeling the long-slumbering drives kick into life, feeling the rush of the conquest suffuse his veins.

And never once did those desire demons enter his thoughts.

Blessed Andraste, but he ached for Peredura, emotionally and physically. He could feel the flush of blood racing through him, the building of anticipation, the mounting of desire. And for the first time in oh-so-long he knew he could, too. He knew he could perform, he could see this to its conclusion, he could reach that pinnacle and sate himself with her, within her. They stood there on her balcony, her frail and trembling body breathing life into his numbed and hardened body.

Her fingers in his hair, encouraging the locks free from their tight control.

His hand sliding up the side of her robe, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast.

She gasped against his mouth, yet it wasn't from alarm or fear, but shock. Surprise. Even a smattering of her own desire. It was her answering desire that broke him from the spell, that brought him to his senses, that allowed him to regain control. Manfully he strove to pull their lips apart, to allow his hand to move towards her waist. As much as his body and this newly (re?)discovered drive protested, he was the master of his self and his actions. And though both he and Peredura may be willing, now was definitely not the time.

He opened his eyes as he leaned back, wondering what her reaction would be. It was almost comical, the way her eyes remained closed, the way her shoulders followed his retreating warmth, the way her lips remained parted and wet and willing. It filled him with such confidence, such amazement, to know that he literally held sway over the most influential woman in all of Thedas—in absence of the next Divine, that is.

It was a heady sensation, something to be savored minimally, lest it, well, go to his head.

His hands went to her shoulders, pushing her back against the wall beside the door, giving her something strong and unmoving so she could steady herself. He watched her lips turn from parting to pouting, watched her eyelids lift and unveil her dark brown orbs, watched her flushed cheeks begin to cool as the moment of passion faded.

"Cullen…?" Damn, but he had her head spinning, her heart racing, her body aching. And all because he'd kissed her? No, she realized, he'd done more than that. Yet again he'd seen through her subterfuges and deflections and discovered her problem. Yet again he'd given her the tools to deal with it, to put the issue into perspective, and to silence the fears and doubts. She didn't feel she deserved him, not this man who was so intuitive, so giving, so capable…

And he knew it. That damnable smirk was on his lips again, that self-confident, knowing little half-a-grin that told her he knew it, too.

She gave him half-a-laugh in answer. "Go," she shoved lightly at his shoulder, turning him, pushing him back into her bedchamber.

"Is that an order, Inquisitor?"

She could hear the humor in his voice, and was nearly able to match it, "It is." She followed him inside and closed the balcony doors firmly behind her, before giving him more little pushes and shoves, steering him towards the stairs. "If we're to leave on time for Halamshiral, I need to get dressed. And to do that, I need you out of this room. So, go. Now. And take Fear with you. I'll meet you and the others down by the main gates."

His hand gripped the top of the railing, but instead of descending the stairs, he turned towards her and asked, "Promise?"

She hesitated a moment, then nodded.

"No more brooding?" he pressed.

She glanced away, a troubling expression flickering across her features, but made herself lift her face and hold his gaze confidently before she answered, "I can't promise that, but I can assure you, you've given me what I need to combat it, the next time it happens. Thank you, Cullen."

She hadn't been sure it was the answer he wanted, but it was the only answer she could give. And, apparently, he was satisfied. He shifted slightly, looming above her, that look of mastery on his face. It sent her heart racing yet again with eager anticipation, making her lick her lips in artless hopefulness. And he fulfilled that hope, kissing her, though nowhere near as passionately as a few moments before. Still it made her knees weak. Still it made her head spin. Still it made her yearn for… what, she did not know, exactly; but she knew he knew.

All because of that damnable smirk.

"Go," she begged, unable to endure any more of this sweet torture.

"As you command, Inquisitor." He watched her reaction to his words, the darkening to her cheeks, the heaviness of her breath, the exasperated and desperate curve to her brow. Then he gave her a bow and commanded, "Come along, Fear, let's get you to Blackwall. He's going to be watching you while your partner is away."

Fear gave Peredura a look, but she waved her hand for him to go with Cullen, so he padded on his oversized paws, easily keeping pace with Cullen as he started down the stairs.

Cullen mulled over his actions with her as he and the hound headed down the tower and through the hallways. He could admit it: he might be feeling a little guilty over what he'd done, teasing her as he did, giving her a taste and then denying her the dish. However, they did need to leave for Halamshiral that morning—they simply didn't have the time right then to try for anything, um, physical. Besides, it had served the purpose of distracting her from her dark thoughts, at least for as long as it would take her to finish getting dressed and then join them at the gates.

He popped out of the main doors of the Keep and paused a moment, Fear beside him and taking the opportunity to sniff the air. It was a crisp morning, the breeze slight but just cool enough to add a bit of vigor to one's step. In very little time he was down in the courtyard with the others, passing the time in idle chatter, everyone waiting for the Inquisitor to appear before they could start.

It was Fear's excited bark that alerted everyone to her presence. She came out of the main hall, the buckles on her armor catching the torchlight, her helmet tucked into the crook of her arm, her other hand clutching nervously at the hilt of a dagger at her waist. She kept her chin up as Vivienne had taught her, giving a slight nod to every soldier she made eye contact with. The effect was heartening. It was her first appearance since the Incident, as people were calling it, and for the soldiers to see her so strong, so healthy, as if nothing as wrong…

A cheer rose through the courtyard before she was halfway down the steps. She smiled and blushed, giving them a wave in response, but quickened her pace to reach the others before the cheering grew too loud. "Good morning, everyone," she beamed at Cassandra and Bull, Dorian and Solas, Josephine and Leliana and Blackwall, studiously avoiding Cullen's gaze.

"Inquisitor," Blackwall nodded to her. "Just want you to know, I'll take good care of Fear while you're away. Might even go hunting once or twice. No need for you to worry about him."

"Of course, Blackwall. And thank you, again. I know he'll be in good hands. And you," she turned to look down at the hound, "Behave yourself."

Fear tilted his head, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

She turned from the hound and faced the others. "Is everyone here?"

"You were the last to arrive," Leliana answered.

Peredura nodded, all business. She was still not looking forward to having to ride a horse out of Skyhold, much less into Halamshiral. "Then let's get this thing started."

"If you please, Inquisitor," Master Dennet stepped forward, "I've taken the liberty of finding you a new mount. Handpicked him myself."

"Oh?" she asked, politely curious. The crowd parted and Dennet's assistant, some nameless stableboy, brought forward the new horse. Her heart began to race, the animal so perfect for her, that she gave a girlish squeal and dropped her helmet so she could hug the gruff horsemaster. "Oh! Master Dennet! He's perfect. Thank you." She planted a kiss on his rough cheek. "Thank you."

"Yes, well," he coughed once she had let him go, "I wasn't sure about the pedigree and all, being he's a Dalish All-Bred. Don't know how he'll handle in a fight, but he's sure-footed and far less high strung than a Courser, something nice and placid for a beginner rider."

Peredura couldn't care about the horse's pedigree or his training. He was a slightly smaller mount, with a white mane and a tan-and-white piebald coat, and a burst of white nearly in the center of his head. She looked into the animal's eyes, and he looked back at her, and she knew this would be the horse for her. "He's beautiful."

"If you're satisfied with your mount," Leliana broke into her thoughts, "We should get going. We'll want to reach the lower camp just as the sun is rising, for the most effect. It will surely inspire the troops, to see you pass among them first thing in the morning."

Peredura rolled her eyes, but it was where no one could see, her face next to her horse's neck. "Very well. Where's my helmet? Ah, thank you, Master Dennet. And the mounting block?"

"Right here," he led the horse himself over to the steps.

Peredura managed to mount without vaulting over the horse entirely or otherwise embarrassing herself. Settling her helmet on the saddle before her, she took the reins from Dennet and waited for the others.

Fear came up to her side and gave a very insistent bark, making the horse sidestep slightly before turning his head to give the hound a reproachful look.

"No, Fear," she looked down at him, too, "I've already told you; you're staying here. Maybe next time I'll take you with, but there's more training you need to have before you can start coming with me."

He sat down on his haunches and gave her his own reproachful look.

"Oh, you are incorrigible. I'll tell you what, stay here, be a good boy, do everything Blackwall tells you to do, practice real hard, and maybe I'll bring you back a special treat, some sort of fancy Orlesian treat just for dogs."

Josephine coughed, "I'm sure we can manage something."

Fear gave an expectant bark, as if insisting she make sure she does bring him something, but he returned to Blackwall's side.

"Inquisitor," Cullen's voice called out, letting her know all was in readiness.

She looked at him, and caught just a glimpse of that smirk before he squelched it. Oh, he was not playing fair! knowing how she reacted to his smile, and doing it in front of the others. Well, she didn't have to play fair, either. "Very well, Commander. Come along, I want you up front, with me," she continued, nudging her horse forward. Despite Dennet's assurances that this horse was calmer than her last, he was still a very large horse. "I'd feel better, knowing there's a seasoned rider beside me, should I prove unable to control my mount."

He fell in on her left, keeping that smirking right side of his where she could see it. "I am at your command, Madam Inquisitor."

Nope, he was definitely not playing fair!

The next moment, she noticed Devensport and Abbets, her favorite two templar escorts, were also mounted and packed for the trip. She smiled at them, Abbets giving her a gruff salute, Devensport flashing a warm smile back. They waited until she and the Commander had passed before pulling their mounts in just behind. Then she was past the gate and on her way to Halamshiral.

As they entered the lower camp, as the sun rose to shine off their armor, as the soldiers stood to cheer her passing, Peredura's heart lifted. She simply couldn't help herself. With the ever-faithful Devensport and Abbets standing guard, and with such close friends and companions accompanying her, and most importantly with Cullen beside her, she felt confident that whatever Halamshiral would bring, she could handle it.

She had to, for everyone's sake, she thought to herself as she once more fingered the dagger at her side.

"…are you alright?" Cullen asked Peredura. As he strolled out onto the balcony, he took a moment or three to study her, finding more than a few small causes for concern. She was leaning against the railing, too tired to either notice or care about the dizzying height. And she was still dressed in her armor, not having bothered to change back into her uniform after her latest—and final—escapade that night. Some of the fabric was torn, other parts were bloodied or stained with gore he refused to identify. But she at least was alive and whole. Yet when he had seen her alone out here on the balcony, her posture and silence belying her brooding, he had grown concerned and wanted to check on her personally.

She sighed deeply, sounding tired to her very bones, but she lifted her head and managed a wan sort of smile for him. "I know what you're really asking me." She turned back to look out over the grounds of the Winter Palace as he leaned on the railing next to her. "And you're right, I am brooding. I am standing here, second-guessing myself, wondering if we did the right thing." She turned just her head towards him this time, her large brown eyes even softer than ever. "I stood there, in front of an entire sovereign country, and I told them who would be the one to rule them. I imposed my will on them. Me." She turned back to the view, one hand reaching around to cup something at her waistband beneath her coat. "But I had to, because no one else would. I had to, to stop Corypheus." She shook her head, "Like you said back at Skyhold, before we left to come here. I'm the one who does those things… these things," she pulled the something out from beneath her coat and set it on the railing before them, "Because no one else will."

"What is that?" he found himself asking, staring at the simple dagger. It looked over-used and not very well cared for, and somehow familiar.

"My motivation," she answered, "At least, in so far as I had to come here, to Halamshiral, and stop Corypheus tonight. I'm sure he has other plans, other means at his disposal, to bring about that abominable future, but this one plan," she fingered the dagger, "This one outcome, has been changed."

A chill crept down Cullen's spine as he stared at the soiled weapon. He remembered it now, the dagger she had on her when she and Dorian took their brief sojourn into the future, a future of Corypheus' design. It was stained with blood, dried and caked and rusting the blade into its sheath. His blood. His blood that had ended his life. His blood that he had never spilled, but another him had begged her to spill…

Maker's breath, just thinking about it gave him a headache!

"I think we've all been motivated to see Corypheus' plans thwarted tonight," he purposefully looked away from the dagger. "And I for one am glad it's over. It may be foolish, but…" his hand reached out to cup her cheek, to lift her face up, to pull her gaze from the memory of the dead Cullen to the reality of the living Cullen standing before her, "I was worried for you tonight."

She gave him that smile, a little stronger this time, and put her hand over his. She might have said something in answer, he might have said something more, but their thoughts were interrupted by the sound of music and a chorus of applause rising from behind them. Cullen turned his head to look inside, and Peredura quietly spoke, "They're calling the last dance. Tonight's almost over."

To his ears, she still sounded tired, not as melancholy as when they first started talking, but nearly done in nonetheless. With the night almost over and her so close to exhaustion, he knew it was now or never. Swallowing down his nervousness, determined not to let either his or Dorian's hard work go to waste, he took his hand from her cheek and stood up straight and stiff at attention, saying, "I may never have another chance like this, so I must ask."

He saw the look of confusion flicker over her features, the slight head shake as she tried to decipher his cryptic actions. And he loved the way her mouth fell slightly open in surprise as he swept his arm wide in a low bow, keeping his head up and his eyes on her as he asked, "May I have this dance, my lady?"

A sound burst from her chest, like a bubble popping, and she smiled, "Of course! I mean, um," she tried to stifle the girlish giggle and compose herself, but for once he didn't mind the silly noises. He kept his eyes on her, watching in the predawn light how her cheeks started to turn a fetching shade of pink, "I thought templars didn't dance. That it's not part of their training, or something."

"It isn't," he agreed, pleased when she took his hand and he finally had an excuse to pull her close. Privately he blessed Dorian for suggesting he learn a dance such as the waltz, something that allowed him to hold her so, "But for you, I'll try." One hand cupped hers, as his other slipped down to her waist. He could feel her place her free hand behind his shoulder, half leaning against him for support, and half wanting to pull him even closer. Then slowly, carefully, and very stiffly, he began to move them as one.

Or tried to, anyway.

They never found out that they had an audience. Through the balcony doors, across the hall, from a quiet and tucked-out-of-the-way corner, Solas was watching over them. He hadn't quite made out the words of the conversation they had had, but he could read their body language enough to get the gist of it. And Peredura's giggle, so free and open and pure, carried like the jingling of sleigh bells to his ears. He hummed along to the tune of the dance, tapping his foot in time to the music, as he stood bittersweet guard over the pair enjoying their private tryst.

"Hey, Solas," Bull's voice broke across the music and made him turn from the sight. "You seen the Boss lately? I know the danger is past and all, but I won't feel easy tonight," he glanced out one of the windows to see the sky growing lighter and amended, "Er, this morning, until everyone is safe in bed."

"You needn't concern yourself with her welfare," Solas nodded towards the balcony, his jewelry jingling with the movement, "She's been taken care of."

"Huh?" Bull articulated, twisting his neck to swing his good eye around to see where Solas had gestured. He didn't notice anything at first, only an empty balcony, but then Cullen and Peredura staggered and stumbled back into view.

"Sorry, sorry," Cullen was apologizing, not so much that Bull could hear him, as he could read Cullen's lips. "I know I haven't quite gotten the hang of it yet, but I have been practicing."

He saw the Boss reach her hand down to his wrist, guide his hand a little lower from her waist to the top of her hip. Then they spun, Cullen turning his back to the doors and Peredura's lips coming into view. "Use your hands. Give me a little push or a tug to suggest how you want us to move. Use this hand, too. A push here and a pull there, and we're turning this way…"

They traded again, Cullen coming back around. "I…. think I'm… getting the hang of it… slow… steady… just like this…"

Peredura misstepped, and they both stumbled, twisting around yet again. They paused in their dance to allow her to catch her breath, "Sorry. Didn't mean to step on your foot like that." She tilted her head while he said something Bull couldn't see. "No, no, you were just fine. It's me. I'm a bit unsteady after everything that's been happening tonight." One last time, Bull could see the side of Cullen's face, just enough to know he was speaking. But it was Peredura's face that held his attention, her eyes shining with emotion, her lips parted with her breath, her cheeks flushed with warmth. "Not on your life, Commander. As you said, we may never have another chance like this. I don't want to waste a moment of it."

The two pulled each other even closer, and together they waltzed into a corner of the balcony out of sight.

Bull wanted to laugh. He didn't know why, but relief bubbled up inside of him, rising up like steam from a kettle, like sea foam along the shore after a heavy storm. It started from his toes, making his knees weaken for a moment, making his stomach do a funny little flip-flop, making his heart skip and thump erratically, making his head swim.

THAT'S what Dorian was doing in Cullen's bedchamber back at Skyhold, teaching him to dance!

He gave in to the laugh. Shit, but it felt good, this headiness, like a warm buzz from a strong drink, like the rush of adrenaline after a hard battle, like the afterglow of sex. He laughed and laughed, and felt the need to share his emotion. He looked over and slapped Solas hard on the back of his shoulder. The elf had seen the blow coming and moved with it, absorbing the shock and energy, and most importantly keeping his feet. He wasn't exactly sure why the qunari was so happy, but he had his suspicions.

"I… I… I've got to…" Bull panted, diminishing the laughter and catching his breath. He finished with a grunt to clear his throat and tried again, "You were right, Solas; she is in very good hands. I'll just leave the Commander to, um, see to her needs for the rest of tonight, and I'll just, er, go check on the others." In his thoughts he was already moving, trying to remember where he had last seen Dorian. That Vint was going to get quite a talking to!

"Good night, Bull," Solas was saying to his back, sure the giant of a man hadn't heard him. He wasn't offended by the snub, turning his ever watchful, guardian gaze back to the balcony, determined to allow the two doomed lovers as much happiness as they could hope for, and as much time as they could borrow.