Chapter Thirty: Caught Off Guard

There'd been a hum, like the annoying drone of a mosquito, that tried to bring her out of her peaceful slumber. Peredura ignored it, favoring instead the warmth of the thick comforter and the softness of the cotton sheets. Oh, Maker, but life was heavenly.

A slightly timid, slightly boastful smile tugged at one corner of her mouth as she remembered last night. They did it. She and Cullen both had finally done it! Several times—that thought made her cheeks burst into red and that smile break across her lips. Blessed Andraste, but they had both admitted their love for each other—she had feared she'd been wrong, or misunderstood, or that even if it were true it would be something he'd never admit to—but it finally happened last night. They admitted their love. They made love! And now, she was here, in his bed, beside his warmth, feeling tight and stretched, muscles gooey and floppy, her head rejoicing and her heart basking…

…and that damned mosquito was droning again! Her hand slipped out of the covers long enough to fan at her ear, hoping to shoo it away, before retreating back into the warmth.

"…nnnnnooooooooooo…"

Peredura opened her eyes; that sound hadn't been a mosquito. It sounded more like the moan of a ghost, the sound a zombie would make as it dragged itself out of the grave, something ghoulish and Fade-born—at least it did to her sleep-addled and love-distracted mind. Trying not to panic right away, she opened her eyes to see if anything was there.

Cullen's chambers were dark, the lamp having gone out and the fire not yet stoked into life by the servants. There wasn't even a sliver of moonlight coming from the drapes, though an occasional flash of distant lightning would flicker through. Slowly, her eyes adjusting to the dim light given off from the coals in the hearth, she turned her head and scanned the room. There were shadows, odd shapes in the night, things she could imagine were some horrible monster or remnant sent to torment her, but truthfully—honestly—there was nothing in the room but herself and Cullen.

"…nnnnnnnoooooooo!"

That one sounded different, perhaps because she was becoming more and more awake, or perhaps because he was becoming more and more desperate. The sound was coming from Cullen, she was sure of it, looking over her shoulder at the man. His chest was heaving, slow and seemingly painfully, his cry overflowing with just as much pain and torment. A slow drag of breath in to fill his massive chest, followed by a forceful exhale as if he had to push and pull the air, and on the exhale that horrible moan.

"…llllleeeeeeave meeeeee…"

It was almost as if he had been mostly paralyzed. His brows were furrowed, but his face refused to show expression. His mouth could open, but could barely articulate coherent sounds or speech. His hands were twitching, but his limbs would not obey his commands to move. He was trapped, she was sure of it, trapped within a nightmare, unable to end it, unable to wake, unable to banish the demons and return to reality…

She knew how that felt, having been trapped inside a seemingly unending nightmare herself once. It must be a hundred times worse for a templar—former or no. They most of all had the power over the demons of the Fade. For Cullen… to be so deeply enthralled… to be so powerful and yet so helpless…

To her it seemed like another eternity, her empathy automatically processing his situation, her compassion sharing his emotions, her loyalty telling her clearly what she had to do. In reality it only took an instant, half a heartbeat, not nearly enough time for him to swallow another breath, before she was rolling over, reaching out to him, her hand touching his shoulder.

He woke.

The gasp was loud in the darkness, followed quickly by a swallow and a few heavy pants, his head twitching left and right, eyes darting, his mind quickly assessing his surroundings and taking note of everything that was there. When those hazel orbs found her form, looming above him, the lingering nightmare tried one last time to torture him, tried to make him believe it was a desire demon hovering over his supine body about to devour his soul. Yet he knew better. He knew those soft brown, doe-like eyes belonged to none other than Peredura. He knew those long strands of auburn hair ever since Haven. Even that lower lip, quivering on the edge of masochism, about to deliver itself to her teeth—no desire demon could imitate that!

Instantly he relaxed, the nightmare banished, and sighed back against the pillows. Figuring she'd be willing, especially after last night, his arm snaked out and wrapped around her, pulling her down next to his side, feeling her curling against him. He took a deep breath, his hand stroking her back; life was good.

"Bad dream?"

It sounded like a question, but he couldn't be sure, having closed his eyes again and already dismissed the nightmare from his mind, years of practice making it almost second nature. Ever since Kinloch, nearly every time he slept he'd dream, and upon waking he'd push it away and focus on something tangible. It was habit for him, something done by rote, without thought, without planning, without concern. But Peredura was different, he realized. This might have been the first time she'd seen him wake from his dream, not counting his withdrawal—that had been nothing but one monstrous, continuous nightmare. He took another breath, feeling her head rise and fall with his chest, and answered her.

"They always are. And now, for some reason," he paused to yawn, almost unconcernedly, "Without the lyrium they've grown worse."

Something changed, he could sense it. She hadn't moved, remaining curled against his side, snuggled into the warmth of his body, but her fingers stopped drawing their idle designs on his chest, and her breath stopped fanning his skin. With her head tucked between his jaw and his shoulder, he couldn't see much if anything of her face, even if there'd been more light than the soft amber coming from the coals. But he knew, he simply knew, she was chewing her lower lip. "Hey," he said, his tenor voice tender, his fingers just as gentle as they lifted her face up where he could see, and where he could pull her lip free. "Hey, I've been managing this for years; I know what to do. And I'm alright. Honest." His fingers moved to stroke her unscarred cheek, now that her lip was safe, his brow furrowing with concern. "I didn't mean to worry you."

Her hand covered his, lending comfort back to him. Quite honestly, this wasn't the first time she'd woken him from this particular recurring torment, having done so throughout his withdrawal. Yet to learn, after all this time, after all the effort to purge him of lyrium, that he had not only continued to endure suffering, but that it had grown worse?! It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, he should have gotten better, found some relief from his agony—apparently that was not to be, at least not yet. And then, to top it all off, amazingly, somehow, he had brushed aside the horror like it mattered nothing. It made her feel properly chastised, as if he had told her she was being silly for worrying about him having bad dreams, but… "Cullen, I love you. I'm entitled to worry about you, don't you think? Even a little?"

She looked so serious, so full of concern, he wanted to laugh at her. After all, they were only dreams, nothing that could actually harm him. If they were facing another dragon, then yes, of course she could worry about him. But over a dream?

And yet, she was staring up at him, so much love in her eyes, so much need, so much… he didn't know what it was, but it was overflowing and making his heart ache. His fingertips beneath her chin, he tipped her face up a little more, bent his neck as far as he could, and brushed their lips together. "Alright," he breathed across those lips, "You are allowed to worry about me—but only a little."

That did it. Her lips twitched, her eyes twinkled that small bit, and he knew he'd eased her worries. He smirked in response, unable to help himself, knowing how it would make her feel, and saw her cheeks flush. "Oh! You!" she let go of his hand and punched his arm, but it was playful. He chuckled and caught her fist, pulling it off to their sides, pulling her even closer, higher, until they could kiss more comfortably. Which they did.

His other hand stroked her back, slowly down her spine, from the nape of her neck to the top of her ass. He felt her shudder against him, and his caress grew bolder, broader, his hand fanning out to touch even more of her.

She shuddered again, but this time it was different. He sensed it, somehow, and let off their kiss to look at her face. "Pere? Are you cold? I hadn't thought, I mean, we could move under the covers and…"

"No, I'm not cold. It's, ah…" she looked off and to the side. She really wanted to chew her lip, but with him right there she knew he would only pull it free, and at that moment she was having enough problems with his touch. "…nothing. Never mind, I…" Words failed her, as they always did, whenever she found herself facing something this strong, this emotional, this important, this devastating, this…

"Pere," his voice was softly chastising, but she would not look at him. With a long-suffering sigh he sat up and tried to drag her with him, and though she did sit up, she scooted back a bit, giving them space. As he leaned against the stiff, wooden headboard with his posture erect and his shoulders square, she slouched on the bed, cross-legged, her hands toying with each other in her lap or picking at imagined lint on the bedclothes, and as ever and always her hair falling forwards to draw close in to her face. "Pere, do not lie to me. Not after tonight, erm, last night. I love you. You know that, right?"

"I love you, too," she quickly confirmed, daring a risky glance upwards to his face. But she was unable to hold it and dropped her eyes back to her fingers and their fidgeting.

"Then, whatever this is," he spoke plainly, clearly, making sure there would be no misunderstanding, "Whatever is wrong, whatever is bothering you, know this: I'm going to worry about you, too. Even if it's only a little."

She had to laugh, a small and breathy sort of huffing that fell into the space between them, but it was a laugh. And it did help. "Cullen, I… I don't know how to explain… I don't know… the words… they just won't come."

"Is it because of the language barrier?" he tried to understand.

"No," she shook her head, her hair shimmering like a satin curtain, "I know there are words, but they… I can't… when things are… they just don't…"

"When things are too strong, too personal, too emotional, they become too hard to share, is that it?" He took a deep breath; why, oh, why was everything little thing a monumental struggle with her? "I haven't your empathy," he began, "I've nowhere near your ability for understanding others, but I do have love for you. Pere, I…" the backs of his fingers stroked her upper arm, "I have never felt anything like this before, for anyone. You are…" now words were failing him. He exhaled, closing his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again he found her peeking at him from behind those overgrown bangs. "Start with what you can find the words for. Just start. The rest will come, however long it takes, I'll be patient. I want to know, Pere," he stroked her arm again, "I want to help, even if it's only just to listen."

It was hard. It was so very hard. The words were simply stuck in her chest, not even reaching as far as her throat. Maybe it had something to do with her being a slave for so many years, being denied her natural right to be a person, to have her own feelings and dreams and desires. Then again, maybe she had always been this way. But his touch… the backs of his fingers… so light and caressing… and at at the same time causing her so much heartache. She took his hand away from her skin, took a breath, and tried.

"I… I don't like me… my body, I mean… when you touch me."

"Your body seems to like my touch," he hummed.

She shook her head, "No, you don't understand. It's not that, it's…"

Before she could do it, his fingers were there, keeping her lip safe, and in consternation he sighed. This old battle, he thought to himself. He knew she had self-esteem issues, but honestly, why couldn't she ever see her own beauty? He prepared himself for battle and waded onward to engage this unseen enemy. "I'm sorry," he said, "I shouldn't have interrupted. You're trying to tell me, and that's good. That's important. And I need to shut it and let you tell me. Go on, Pere, I'll listen this time and won't interrupt." When she remained silent, he ducked his head to peek around her bangs, "I promise."

She had to. She had to try. And she had to do more than try. This was a man who loved her, who made love to her. This was a man who was sitting comfortably despite both of them being so naked. This was a man who'd bared his soul to her, who'd told her of Kinloch—something he'd never shared with another! Surely she could find some way to explain what was bothering her. "Close your eyes."

Peeking again, she saw that he had obeyed, leaning his head against the headboard and closing his eyes, confident in his trust of her. So she took a deep breath, let it out through her lips like a silent whistle and, taking his hand in hers, brought their fingers up to his arm.

There was a scar there, an older one, a slice across the top of his bicep, all of three inches long, but it was just wide enough for her purposes. "Do you feel this?" she asked, dragging their fingers over his arm.

He nodded, remembering his promise to keep quiet, but then thinking she might not be looking at his face—and technically he had promised not to interrupt, he hadn't promised not to speak—he answered verbally, "Yes."

She touched him again, this time without his hand there. "Do you feel this?"

She was repeating herself, repeating her action, and it frustrated him at first. Of course he could feel her touching his scar. What of it, he thought to himself. It was an old wound, something from ages ago, back when he was in training to become a templar, a mistake he'd made during a sparring contest, but one he learned from, one he'd never repeated. "Yes," he said again, trying to keep the heat from his voice, trying not to give in to the impatience. She was trying, after all; he could try, too.

Again, she stroked her finger, feather-light, down the length of his scar. "Do you feel this? Honestly? Do you feel my finger touching your skin? Or do you feel the pressure to either side of the scar, the pressure that tells you another part is being touched? But that part of your skin, that scar," a finger stroke, "This scar… does not feel."

"You're right," he agreed, opening his eyes, beginning to see. "I don't feel you touching my scar, but I do know you're touching me. That much I can tell."

She pressed her lips together for a moment. Then she leaned back from him, spreading her arms wide, and demanded, "Look at me. Look at my skin, Cullen. Look at my scars. It must be… what… a good third of my skin or more is scar tissue. Dead. White. Unfeeling tissue. Every time you touch me, you touch them. And every time, I feel them rob me of your touch. Every stroke over every scar is just that little bit of your touch I never get to experience. And I don't like it!"

Her face was bright red, but not from embarrassment, at least not the embarrassment of being naked physically. It was from the embarrassment of baring her soul to another, of baring her fears and emotions, of baring her thoughts and concerns…

…of letting someone else into the darker corners of her mind, into the places she feared to go, feared to acknowledge they were real, lest speaking of them allowed the darkness to grow.

But speak she did, aloud and to the man she loved. And, somewhat trepidatiously, she awaited judgement and sentencing for the darkness within her.

"Pere…" he murmured, her name on his lips like a prayer, like an avowal of undying faithfulness, as empathy welled within his heart. Her scars truly did bother her, deeply, and he supposed they always would, as scars were permanent. In the back of his mind there was some tickle of a memory of a whispered rumor overheard about… But whatever it was didn't really matter at that moment. She did.

"Peredura," his hand was at the side of her face, brushing her hair behind an ear, showing yet another scar she couldn't remove. She ducked her head, but his hand was suddenly there, beneath her chin, forcing her face upwards.

"Look at me." This time, he was the one demanding, and she obeying. Her brown eyes, filled to the brim with self-loathing, self-dislike, self-deprecation, fearfully and fatefully lifted to meet his hazel eyes. And his eyes, filled with determination and strength and endurance and… love… held her gaze captive as he proclaimed, "I love you. I love ALL of you. Whenever I touch you, Pere, I'm not just touching your scars, or your skin, for that matter. I'm touching YOU. Pere. The woman I love. I'm touching your strength, your compassion, your loyalty, all those things that make you you. I'm touching your heart and soul, not just your body. Not just your scars. Honesty, Pere, I don't even notice them much. Yes, I know they're there, and now I know how deeply they affect you, but they mean nothing to me. Other than," his lips curled, not into his usual smirk, but into something tender and meaningful and loving, "For some reason they seem to mean quite a bit to you. I understand that now, I don't agree, but I understand. And I hope," his fingers beneath her chin moved to cup her jaw, "Someday, you'll come to understand how I feel, that I care for… no, that's not quite right… that I see more than this outer layer that's really only a fingernail in thickness. These scars are a part of you, yes, but such a small part. Focus on the rest of you, the whole of you, as I do. Alright?"

It didn't quite fix things; honestly she didn't think anything would completely fix her other than removing every single last scar from her body that had to do with blood magic! But seeing Cullen before her, seeing herself through his eyes, was enlightening. "Alright," she nodded, "I'll try."

She didn't sound convinced to his ears, but she did sound willing to try. That was probably all he could ask of her, at this moment. One battle won, the rest of the war to go. "Good. Then let's talk about today. What would you like to do?"

She laughed and gave a sniff, both of them ignoring the moisture in her eyes. "You trying to change the subject? Distract me or something?"

"Something like that," he smirked. "But quite honestly, there's no reason for us to rush back to Skyhold. We could take a few days here, say you need a bit more time to recuperate, or call it a vacation, whatever you like. It's not often we manage to get away, to find the time; we shouldn't waste this golden opportunity."

"Alright," she agreed.

"So, what would you like to do? Take in a show? Tour the University? I hear they have an exhibit of weaponry from the First Blight…"

"Um, no," she shifted a little closer to him, "I'm not really interested in that. But we could if you wanted to," she added hastily, knowing his love for weapons and armor and the like.

"No," he pecked at her cheek, "Not today, at least. Maybe tomorrow, but today is going to be all about you. What do you want to do? Anything. Anything at all. Even if I have to sit through five hours of Orlesian theatre, I promise to do it willingly. Whatever you want."

"Whatever?" she batted her eyes at him.

He swallowed nervously but confirmed, "Whatever."

"I'd, um," she wanted to chew her lip, but his hand was still cupping her face, she'd never get away with it, "I'd really like to do a bit of shopping."

He paused for a heartbeat or longer. "Shopping."

To her ears, his tone of voice sounded resigned, disbelieving, perhaps a bit disappointed even. Her heart fluttering anxiously, she felt the need to explain herself, "Yes, well, we are in Val Royeaux."

"Shopping."

"And as you said, we don't get this chance much, a little time to ourselves, when we can do what we want."

"Shopping."

"And I've wanted to pick up a few things for so long now, and if you don't mind, we could today, and…" her voice trailed away.

"Shopping." It seemed to be the only word he could speak, his mind stopping at that one concept and refusing to move on. Yet he caught the hopeful expression on her face, the longing to her eyes, the little shrug of her shoulders. He sighed, wearily, heavily, and resignedly. "Shopping. Yes, well, I did promise. Though I had thought you were different than those other silly girls, obsessed with shops and all the frilly things inside. Very well, what will we be shopping for? Dresses? Ribbons? Fifteen pairs of slippers?"

"Books."

"Boo- oh, um, what?" he blinked at her. "Oh, books, that's right, I was supposed to be teaching you how to read. But I haven't, have I? I'm sorry, Peredura…"

"No, Cullen, it's alright," she quickly and easily forgave him. "It's not like you promised to teach me how to read. And you did show me quite a bit. But then we both got busy, and our schedules never seemed to line up. And then Mother Giselle figured it out, so she's been teaching me. And Varric."

"Oh, no!"

"He's a very good teacher," she protested his protest.

"It's more his choice of subject matter I would protest," he muttered darkly.

"Well, anyway," she continued, undaunted, "Since we're here in Val Royeaux, and they do have some of the best bookstores in Orlais, and you did promise we would do whatever I wanted today…"

"Yes," he nodded, resigned, "I did promise. Book shopping it is."

"Good!" she smiled, almost clapping her hands with anticipation. "Mother Giselle suggested I get a few books called, um, primers?"

"Very sensible," Cullen nodded approval.

"And then Varric suggested…"

"No!" he shook his head forcibly. "Absolutely not. I will put my foot down there, Peredura."

"But you promised…" she pouted.

"Yes, and I will take you shopping for sensible books, but none of that… that… drivel that he writes! You're just learning to read; you don't need to warp your taste in literature with his… ilk!"

She could no longer hold back, the giggle slipping past her lips. It confused him and, bewildered, he had to ask, "What is it?"

"I, um, know the types of stories Varric writes," she admitted, "Cassandra is a huge fan, by the way. But seriously, Cullen, the books Varric suggested are more sensible. One is on making, um, ap-er-a-shuns, or something like that."

"Ap-apparatus?" he stuttered, disbelievingly.

"That's it! Apparatus," she sounded out the word slowly. "I really do need to remember that word. It's all about these little devices, gadgets and the like, that I can carry with me, like smoke bombs or caltrops, to help me hide or escape. Stuff like that."

"That, erm, would be very good for you to learn," he allowed.

"The other book is about lock-smithing."

"We'll discuss that one," he hummed, "Later."

She got the distinct impression that she would have to sneak that book into the pile, which might be good practice for a rogue, but as he said they would deal with that later. For now, she had one last volley to fire. "Though I really would love a new pair of boots."

"Maker!" he cried, but it was over-acted, "Have mercy!"

"But, Cullen," she whined, also over-emoting, "I only have this one pair, and if anything were to happen to them, I'd have to go around barefoot, which come to think of it I wouldn't mind all that much, but since I am supposed to be human and not elven, I kind of need to wear the boots."

She batted her eyes.

He rolled his.

They laughed.

"Alright," he kissed the tip of her nose. "We should probably get going."

"Going?" she echoed. "Go where? It's too early to go shopping."

"Yes, but it is nearly the time when the servants start sneaking about, stoking the hearths, opening the drapes, bringing up breakfast and the like. You don't want to get caught here in my bed, do you? Have us outed after the first night?"

"Hmmmm," she dragged a finger across his bicep. "That would be kind of fun, but no," she shook her head, "It would be inappropriate. I mean, I truly do not mind who knows about us—I love you. I'd shout it to all of Thedas if I could. But perhaps now is not quite the time to make such an announcement. And it definitely should not be done through the servants catching us, erm, with our pants down."

"Pants off, more like," Cullen agreed.

"Oh, kaffas!" she suddenly threw a hand over her mouth, but he wasn't sure if it was for the curse word she just said, or over whatever disaster she had just realized.

"What is it now?" he asked warily, wondering what he would have to face next. The day had barely begun and he'd already handled a few problems, but with Peredura it seemed every day would hold adventure.

"My honor guard," she whispered through her fingers before dropping her hand to her lap. "I, um, I sort of, erm, left them, in the hallway, right outside your office. I, ah, I mean, they'll know that we… that all night… you and I… ah…"

Cullen's hazel eyes narrowed, calculating, quickly thinking through each and every contingency, looking at their little predicament from every angle, all of this in the blink of an eye before he nodded. "I've got it. No worries, my love. Now, get dressed, and when I open the door, just play along and act bored to tears."

"Bored to tears?" she wondered aloud, bewildered.

"Get dressed," he commanded, tossing her tunic towards her.

Peredura wanted to know the plan, thinking she'd be better able to play her part if she knew what to expect, but it seemed Cullen would not be forthcoming with any details. Resigned, she focused on getting dressed, doing it much quicker than he. Mostly, she reasoned, because she wore a lot less armor.

"What is it?" he asked, sensing her brooding while he fussed with a buckle at his side.

"Just…" she sighed, waggling her fingers at him when he glanced up, "All that armor."

"We went over this last night…"

"I know, I know," she rolled her eyes, "You just don't feel right without it. But for once, Cullen, just for one day, I wish you could feel comfortable enough to not wear fifty pounds of steel and leather."

"Seventy," he corrected, "But who's counting. Now, Madam Inquisitor," he finished with the last of the buckles and turned towards her, "Shall we face the music?"

"We're not dancing again, are we? Though I did enjoy it the last time."

Cullen chuckled, "So did I. But I don't think Dorian enjoyed it as much."

"Dorian?" she queried, her hand on his bedchamber door, keeping him from opening it. "What does he have to do with anything?"

"He, erm," Cullen scratched at the back of his neck. When she planted her entire self in front of the door, he gave in, "He's the one who taught me the waltz, so I could know what I was doing when I danced with you at Halamshiral, without stepping on your toes, if the chance should come up, which it did. Why, ah, do you ask?"

"Ooo," she puckered her lips, her brown eyes flashing, "Ooo, that man, I could just… oh!"

"What?"

"He knew!" she answered, as if that explained everything. "All this time, and he knew all along! Oh! I could… just… oh!"

"Peredura…?"

"Cullen, he's… oh, I'm so mad at him! He's known for ages how I've felt about you. He's been giving me all sorts of advice, loads of it, telling me to be patient and persevere."

"How long has this been going on?"

She completely ignored his question. "He's known about my feelings for you. And if you asked him to teach you to dance, doesn't that mean he's known about your feelings for me?"

"I suppose…"

"Exactly!" When it looked like Cullen was still lost, she threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. "Don't you see? He's known how I feel about you, and he's known how you feel about me, but he NEVER SAID ANYTHING. Not to you. Not to me. He sat back and watched and let us flounder about, coming close but never quite getting there, all this time, all these months, just… just… OH!"

Cullen chuckled, a little darkly. It was out of character for him, but the sound for some reason made Peredura's blood race rather pleasantly. "I see what you mean. I've been trying, ever since we first got here to Val Royeaux, to tell you that I love you. He's known about it, even gave me advice on how to do it, but yesterday he came in with breakfast right before I could tell you. He must have been having quite a good laugh at the two of us. However, I do appreciate the fact that he didn't poke his nose into our business and allowed us to make our own way." He set a hand on her shoulder, calming her.

"I suppose, but…" she blew at her bangs, giving vent to the last of her irritation, "He could have helped now and then, a little nudge here or there, rather than simply sitting back and enjoying the show."

"I think he did nudge us," Cullen allowed, "But that doesn't matter at the moment. We can deal with Dorian's interference—or lack thereof—later. Right now, we have your reputation to maintain."

"Right," she nodded. "Right," she unfastened the top button of her jacket. "Boredom," she ran her fingers through her hair to spread it out over her shoulders. "Bored to tears," she gently slapped her cheeks to flush them. "Ready."

He shook his head, wondering what she might be doing, but trusted her. "Now, a real fine trebuchet," he began opening the door between his chambers and his office, "Has… oh, we're alone. Good."

"Trebuchet?" she repeated, her brows furrowing.

"Save it for the hallway," he whispered, walking around his desk to reach the other door. Then at a more normal volume he continued, "Yes, three centers of torque. Fascinating, isn't it, how adding more can make it easier to manage."

"Oh, ah, yes," she was still confused, but trying to act polite. What was he talking about?! "Three centers is quite fascinating."

"Now, if you'd like, you could come back later and I'll tell you about the very first trebuchets, used in the Second Blight. They were a lot clumsier back then. It took up to a score of soldiers just to wind them."

"How barbaric," she agreed. "Again, Commander, please accept my apologies, but it is very late," she pretended to stifle a yawn behind her hand, but mostly she was keeping her smile hidden. Maker, but she'd have never guessed he had such a hidden talent for duplicity. He actually seemed overly enthused to tell her all about trebuchets. "And there are several errands I would like to run today. Perhaps tonight, over supper, you could tell me about the First Blight's battering rams."

"We were discussing trebuchets," he corrected, "From the Second Blight."

"Right," she nodded, "Well, until later, Commander." She turned away, made eye contact with one of the honor guards who had been standing watch all night, a woman by the name of Delonce, and widened her eyes briefly while she blew a heavy breath quietly from her lips.

Cullen watched Peredura walk off, Delonce in tow, but he held out a hand towards the second guard. "Hold a moment, Fergus, wasn't it?"

"Ser," the man nodded.

"Did, erm, anything of import come in during the night, do you know? I've been waiting for a report from Rylen."

"Haven't seen him, Ser," the former templar answered.

"Well, I just thought, if you'd been here all night, you would have seen whoever was coming and going from my office."

"It's been quiet," Fergus elaborated. "Three reports by my count, since Delonce and I have been on station."

"Good, good," Cullen nodded, "Not too much then. Ah," he sighed, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, "It's only that she's so easy to talk to, such a good listener, I couldn't help myself. I hadn't realized so many hours had passed… I hope I didn't bore her. Well, anyway, back to your duty, Fergus, that's a good man."

"Ser!" The guard gave a smart salute and hastened to catch up with Peredura and Delonce, who were only then rounding the corner.

Cullen chuckled to himself, fairly pleased, thinking he had handled the situation correctly and eased any suspicion of what he and Peredura had really been doing all night. She had played her part well, too, he thought, thinking of that stifled yawn. Yes, their tryst should go unnoticed, he nodded to himself, returning to his office.

And to his desk, swiped clean of everything except the newest reports, the floor around it littered with paper and clipboards and a spilled inkwell. Well, mostly unnoticed…

Cullen hated to do it, but he truly had no choice.

They had left the mansion with only the two of them and a pair of guards, the ever faithful Devensport and Abbets. With no one else, no servant or valet—they hadn't even brought Fear along lest he upset the shopkeepers—and with Cullen wanting the templars to remain free to reach their weapons should the need arise—not that he expected trouble, Rylen reported no sign of it, but one never knows, so it's always best to be prepared—it was up to him to carry the packages. The boots were cumbersome, but the books were heavy. And for once, he could admit it, he was glad to have left his armor back at the estate.

That, and the look on her face when he showed to pick her up for their little shopping trip. He was wearing a new jacket of a forest green that complimented his eyes, and no breastplate or heavy mantle or even a cumbersome sword at his hip. He felt naked and unprepared, and at first had fidgeted a bit to try to cover the fact, but seeing her face light up with surprise that he actually was taking a day off and relaxing and willing to enjoy himself…

Yes, that made it all worthwhile.

So he handled the packages, juggled the awkwardness, endured the weight, all because it made her smile. "I am completely enthralled."

"What was that, Ser?" Devensport asked.

"What? Oh, nothing, just talking to myself," Cullen quickly covered his slip. "Do you, ah," he looked ahead where Peredura was peeking in through a shop window and asking Abbets his opinion on something, "Do you think she's quite through yet?"

Devensport snorted. "I've never known a woman who hasn't taken her time shopping. Us men, we go out, we know what we want, we find it, buy it, bring it back. Done. But women?" he shrugged, "They have to make an outing of it."

"That they do," Cullen agreed, sighing heavily. There was the rumble of thunder overhead, and he glanced up at the overcast sky.

"Sounds like the weather isn't quite through with us, doesn't it, Commander?"

"Yes, Devensport, I think you're right; we'll be in for more rain soon. Hopefully after Pere… erm, the Herald is finished shopping," Cullen's head was continually moving, slowly, scanning the street and the shops and the passersby. Then something caught his eye. As Peredura made for the door of the shop, Abbets following, Cullen leaned over towards Devensport and said, "Um, stay with the Inquisitor. There's something, ah, I've been meaning to check on, and I won't be a moment, but I also won't need your assistance. Just, erm, stay with her Worship, yes?"

"Ser!" Devensport saluted, managing to fill the single syllable with a sea of hurt—as if he would ever abandon the Inquisitor!

"Good man," Cullen ignored the insult he'd inadvertently delivered and started off, his mind on the matter before him, not the templar behind him. Devensport watched him enter a different shop before he let the chuckle out. Then he hastened to catch up with Abbets and Peredura.

The Inquisitor was meandering through yet another bookstore, Val Royeaux seemed to be overrun with them, talking pleasantly with the shopkeeper as she searched for yet another book on her list. "She's enjoying herself," Devensport hummed so only Abbets could hear.

Abbets nodded.

"Good to see, isn't it?" he gossiped, undaunted as always by Abbets' taciturn attitude, his head swiveling around to scan for threats against her Worship. "The two of them? I was beginning to wonder if they'd ever get over the hump and get together."

Abbets didn't comment. The air inside the shop was close, and he wanted to find an excuse to go outside, but Devensport was between him and the door.

"Lunch had been a bit awkward," Devensport continued, keeping an eye on Peredura at the far back of the store, "But they managed it alright. Might've gone smoother if we hadn't been there, looming over them, but," he shrugged, "You know. Still, it's nice to see them spending time together outside of Skyhold. And acting almost like a normal couple."

Abbets felt his stomach clench at the mention of food and his bowels threaten to grow watery. Sweat was also beading on his upper lip, making his hands twitch to swipe at it. He had to get outside. "Where's the Commander?"

"Oh, he went into another shop," Devensport answered. "I think he's buying a 'little something' for her." He chuckled again, quietly, fearful that it would carry to Peredura's ears. "Oh, Maker, but I hope he gives it to her before we're off duty. I'd love to know what happens when she opens the package and finds… Hey, where are you going?"

"Outside," Abbets panted, "To wait for the Commander."

"He's fine," Devensport waved his concern aside. "In fact, I think he wants to be left alone to do his bit of shopping. I know I would. Nah, Abbets, let the Commander have his little surprise."

"What surprise?" Peredura asked, her eyes brightening at the word. "Oh, and where's Cullen. I've found another book…"

"Right here," Cullen answered, coming into the store. "Ah, you're finished then? Excellent. Just in time, too. Looks like it's about to rain again."

"Oh, no," Peredura whined, unable to help herself. "But there's three more stores I could try…"

"Haven't you found everything on your list yet?" Cullen took her latest package, balancing it on top of the others. There was one new package, tucked between her stack of books and his chest where he hoped she wouldn't notice.

"Well, yes," she admitted, reluctantly, following him out of the shop and onto the street, "But there are so many interesting books out there to find, and my bookshelf is so empty, and…"

There was a crack of thunder sounding almost before the flash of lightning. Peredura squeaked, sounding so much like a little mouse, and gripped Cullen's arm so quickly and fiercely that he nearly dropped the packages.

"And tomorrow is another day," he finished for her, "Hopefully, a dryer day."

"We should get going, your Worship," Devensport added his two coppers worth, feeling as agitated as Abbets who was shifting from foot to foot. "Don't want to get caught outdoors in this."

The first of many drops were falling, heavy and large and very, very wet. Peredura looked down the street where it seemed a large, gray wall of water was coming towards them. "Too late," she responded, cursing herself for her selfish stalling. Rebelliously that selfish bit wanted to point out that there were several handy shops nearby they could duck into for cover until the storm passed, however…

"This looks like it could last hours," Cullen nodded to Abbets, who took her elbow and started steering her down the street, at an angle to the coming weather and the shortest and most direct route to the Inquisition's estate. "Wouldn't want to find ourselves trapped. Best we make a break for it!"

He had to shout now to be heard over the noise of the rain striking the rooftops, and the thunder unendingly shaking the air. She felt the rain pelting her head and shoulders, could imagine it bruising her it was landing so hard. Thankfully there was no sign of hail, but puddles were already filling the divots and dips in the surface of the street. She didn't argue, saving her breath for running and her concentration for keep her feet. It didn't matter, however, as Abbets pulled her along and into one of those treacherous puddles. Unseen beneath the rippling water was a loose cobblestone, which the traitorous heel of her boot simply had to discover. She lost her balance, cried out in panic, felt the ground rushing up towards her…

And Abbets yank her roughly back up straight. "Sorry, Ser," he apologized for his heavy-handedness.

"No, Abbets, thank you," she panted. They had paused after her near miss, mostly to make sure she wouldn't land on her backside. But as the rain was still coming down… "We should keep going."

"After you," Cullen commanded, He had been leading the way, but if she was going to be tripping every other step, he wanted her in front of him where he could keep an eye on her. She obediently nodded and took a step, and the next moment he nearly dropped all their packages as she cried out in pain. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"My ankle," she felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment, and for a moment pictured the rain on her face steaming off due to the heat. "I know, cliche, right?"

"How bad?" If he had wanted to tease her, at least he knew this wasn't the time. He motioned for Abbets to lift her up and help her off to the side of the street where there was a convenient awning.

"I… I can make it," she panted.

Cullen didn't buy it. He studied her face, knowing she had a high tolerance for pain, or at the very least a great amount of practice learning to ignore pain. Seeing how gray her skin looked, how she struggled to keep her breath steady, he shook his head. "You're not going anywhere. You'll need a healing potion, first."

"This shop's closed, Ser," Devensport thumbed over his shoulder at the store who's awning they were using for cover, "But I could break in. They might have one inside…"

"No," the Commander shook his head, "We're not that desperate."

"Cullen, I can make it," she persisted.

"If it's broken…"

"It's not," she denied. "I can wiggle my toes and everything. Promise. I'm not lying to you." She reached out and took his arm again, like she had before when the lightning flashed, though without upsetting the packages. "We need to get out of this rain. And the estate isn't too far away."

"She is right, Ser," Devensport added. "We could take a shortcut, go down that alley there, and be less than ten blocks away. If we continue down this street, it'll add at least a half-dozen more blocks."

"Either way," Abbets finally spoke, "We can't stay here."

Cullen hated it, hated knowing she was hurting, hating being caught off guard—even by the weather—hated changing their route. But there was no hope for it. "Abbets, help her walk, carry her if you have to, but keep moving. Devensport, take the lead. I'll bring up the rear. Let's move."

Peredura had to laugh, a breathy and weak effort, but it helped to take her mind off her ankle. "You sound like you're expecting a fight, or like we're scouting through unfamiliar territory. This is Val Royeaux, you remember."

Cullen watched Abbets sling her arm over his shoulders and practically lift her off the ground as they started after Devensport. "Sorry, force of habit. Blame it on my military training."

If he felt any sort of embarrassment over his over-reaction, she couldn't tell as he was behind her and she was not in a position where she could turn around and see his face.

Nor could she spare the effort. Her ankle did hurt, and though she could wiggle her toes—she hadn't lied to Cullen—she could feel her ankle swelling inside her boot. Oh, how she hoped she would still be able to get the boot off when they reached the mansion, and not have to have it cut off. Yes, she had just bought a new pair of boots, but honestly! The timing!

"Hold!" Devensport commanded, and Abbets yanked her to a stop.

"What is it?" Cullen called up from the rear. He pushed past Peredura, and she had to blink and swipe the rain from her eyes to follow his movements.

"I'm sensing… something… not natural… magic."

Cullen swallowed, for the first time wishing he was still taking lyrium. He missed it, he could admit, the ability to sense magic, to sense the unnatural, to sense the Fade. But he had made a choice, that life was behind him, and there would be no going back. He peered outwards, down the alley both before and behind them, and upwards along the rooftops, but saw no sign himself of mage or magic or demon. "Abbets," he turned to the other templar, "Do you…"

Before he could finish his question, a bolt of magic shot towards them. Devensport stepped forward, shield raised, and easily deflected the blast. Cullen, much to his chagrin, had been forced to duck behind the other man, knowing he was no longer a match for any mage. Denying any time for wallowing in his shortcomings, he checked to make sure that Abbets had done his job and protected Peredura. Of course he had, shield out and at the ready, and Peredura tucked safely at his side.

"Shit!" Cullen swore, but the sound might have gotten lost in the rain. "It came from up ahead. Abbets, stay with Pere! Devensport, on me!" He didn't have a sword or shield or armor, but he did have courage and determination. No mage had managed to catch him off guard and unprepared since Kinloch, and he was NOT about to let the damn skirt get away with it! He ran down the alley, Devensport clanking along just behind him, their eyes locked to the area where the magic had come from.

Peredura clutched at Abbets for support, both physical and emotional, while she watched the two men race off further into the shadowy rain to disappear from her sight. "Do you think… kaffas… he's unarmed… how can he… will he be alright?"

Abbets didn't answer, other than to squeeze her around the shoulders a little bit.

She took comfort in his silence, knowing it was his norm, and reasoning that if he did speak it would mean something was amiss. "Thank you, Abbets—again—this time for the reassurance. I know Cullen's an extremely capable soldier, but sometimes…" her words trailed away, her free hand swiping at the rain—not tears—falling across her cheeks. "Sometimes he's a little too sure of himself! At least for my peace of mind."

Abbets huffed a bit at that, but she wasn't sure if it was agreement or scoffing. He did raise his arm a bit more, lifting his cloak with it, "Get under, your Worship, you'll be less wet."

She did so, and though her back was mostly protected, the rain continued to pelt the front of her head and face. Time wore on, the seconds stretching into minutes, and the minutes stretching even further. To distract herself from how much time was passing, she looked around them. "Oh, my books," she moaned, seeing them where they had fallen after the brief attack, strewn across the width of the alley.

"They're replaceable," he hummed, "You're not."

"You're right, I suppose," she allowed, "But I do hope something of them will survive." She sighed, waiting, clutching tightly to his belt, and having the odd feeling that Abbets was talking more than usual. Perhaps it was just to ease her mind, she figured, because she was babbling so much, and found herself babbling more because of it. "It got dark so quickly this evening. Do you suppose it's due to the rain?"

"Undoubtedly," he answered, raising his shield over both their heads. He wouldn't be able to hold that position for long, his arm was already shaking, but he was hoping the Commander would be returning soon.

Cullen was just beginning to think the same thing. "How far do you think we've come?" he called out over the pounding rain to Devensport.

"Six… maybe seven blocks."

Cullen looked ahead of them where there was a shadowy figure, just at the edge of vision, about to be swallowed by the storm. There was a flash and instinctively he ducked, but there was no bolt of magic flying towards them. Suddenly it dawned on him and he found himself wanting to curse again. "Will-o'-the-wisp!"

"Ser?"

"Will-o'-the-wisp," he groused, "We're chasing a ghost." His voice grew dark, growling like the thunder overhead. When he turned back to face Devensport, he saw the slack jaw and furrowed brow of confusion. Knowing they had no time for lengthy explanations, he shoved the other man and commanded, "Never mind. Back to the Inquisitor! Quickly man! Move!"

"But, Ser, the mage, I can just make him out." Devensport may have protested, but he also obeyed, running in step with his Commander, while his arm gestured behind them.

"It's not a real mage, but a decoy!" Cullen panted. "A distraction! There's nothing there but a spell, a trick of light, meant to lure us away from Pere… and it worked! Shit!"

Devensport didn't argue any more, having heard his Commander swear twice in one day, which was twice more than he'd ever heard the man swear. The matter had to be truly serious, and if he was convinced that they had been tricked, that meant her Worship only had Abbets to protect her.

"Don't worry, Commander," Devensport tried to ease the man's mind, "I've known Abbets for most of my career. He once took out a trio of apostate mages singlehandedly. He can handle one rogue mage, no matter how crafty."

"You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it," Cullen grumbled, but the words were lost to another roll of thunder.

And a scream.

It was distant, muffled by the storm, but he knew it was her. His heart pounding in his chest, he raced blindly ahead, intent on reaching her or die trying!

Peredura was screaming, she was sure of it, though no sound reached her ears. There was blackness, a heavy blackness, pounding down on her harder than the rain. If nothing could have weight, then it would be unbearable. She cried again, trying to maintain her feet, trying to hold on to Abbets, but it was becoming impossible to do so. The black thumped down on across her shoulders, blocking everything from her sight, her ears, all her senses. Her ankle gave way and she dropped to one knee, Abbets' belt slipping from her fingers. She grasped her head, clutching at her ears, trying to cut off the lack of sound, and gave full voice to her fear.

It had started gradually, an increasing of the grayness of the evening, followed by a darker grayness of night, but all of it happening too quickly to be natural. She had meant to ask Abbets about it, but when she looked up at him it was to find him sweating, face flushed, lips moving in silent prayer. He dropped his shield and grabbed his sword with both hands, ignoring the unending rain and the increasing blackness, and with a mighty roar he slammed the tip of the sword into the cobblestones.

There was a pulse of light, weak, timid, and all too quickly snuffed out by the black.

Abbets had shook then, trembled from his helm to his boots, and with a small grunt he turned his head to look down at her and apologize, "Sorry, your Worship, I've failed you," before they were swallowed by the black.

And now here she was, lost within the magic, Abbets out of her grasping reach, all her senses closed off, and all that was left to her was to scream silently, railing against the spell.

That it was a spell she had figured out almost immediately, Abbets' templar-like reaction confirming her suspicion, though why it hadn't worked escaped her for the moment. In her last effort of defiance, she invoked the Mark on her hand, lifting it up, intending to open a rift if she had to, but she was suddenly stymied. She couldn't see, not the hand in front of her face nor the Mark that should be glowing from her palm—she certainly couldn't see wherever the mage was to know where to open the rift. She could open one randomly someplace, she supposed, and hope for the best, but if she opened it inside a nearby building where there were unsuspecting innocents…

Defeated, she closed her fist and let the Mark fade, dropping to both knees.

Cullen rounded a corner, Devensport two paces behind, and burst out from a smaller alley into the larger alley where he had left Peredura and Abbets. He was just in time to see her close her hand, the light from her Mark fading to nothing. She was kneeling on the cobblestones, crying in the rain, trapped beneath some sort of spell. He could see the air waving around her and Abbets, shimmering down in wave after wave, trapping them both within some torturous nightmare he could well imagine. But the mage wasn't in that direction.

He swung his head around, looking down the length of the alley, and immediately spied the Venatori. The damn mage was pointing his staff at Pere, but his other hand was also stretched towards them, and above it something was levitating, something small and metallic that reflected the latest flash of lightning. Something sharp, something that hovered in space, moving slightly, as if taking careful aim…