Author's Note: I know, I know, I've been gone for months...

But I am really trying to finish this story, and had to work on a three-chapter-long segment, plus a fourth or fifth to tie up this part of the story, and you know I hate leaving things hanging, so I had to nearly finish the entire thing before I could start posting.

Anyway, to say thanks for putting up with me, here's a little something-something ;D

Chapter Thirty-Three: What a Day (Part I, Morning)

Cullen exhaled, feeling relaxed, warm, rested, comfortable…

He inhaled, and the heady scent of lilacs filled his sinuses, wafting its way up to his brain, suffusing his thoughts with not so much the actual memories, but the wispy impressions and smoky recollections of how he had felt… as a child… with his family around him… back home….

Home. A simple enough word to spell or pronounce, and yet impossible to define. Home was a place, and yet no place in particular. Home was where one felt safe and warm even in the midst of a blizzard. Home was love, even though sometimes loved ones could be absent. Home was full of memories, both past and future. Home was there, before him, in his arms, filling his senses, even before he became aware of anything.

"…aaahhhhhhh…"

His sigh was as gentle as his waking. He opened his eyes to find the room still dark with night, though judging by the candle on the hearth it would soon be the time servants began stirring about. He wasn't thinking of them, however, or their duties, or his own duties for that matter. The first real thing he became aware of, upon waking, was the beautiful creature sleeping before him.

They were lying on their sides, his front pressed up against her back. He could vaguely remember the two of them going to bed last night, Peredura's stern command that he was still too sick to try anything, his somber and somewhat reluctant promise to behave, and the slight awkwardness as they tried to settle in while not, erm, playing any games. At some point during the night, however, he must have rolled over, and she must have moved closer, because now they were melded together, her using his biceps as a pillow, and his nose buried into her lilac-scented hair. Selfishly he indulged in another deep breath, inhaling through his nostrils, intoxicating his senses with her, and enlivening his manhood.

Maker's breath, was he really thinking of trying to do this?!

His one arm, the one pinned by her head on his biceps, was effectively trapped, the back of her hand lying on his palm, their fingers entwined. But his other arm remained free. And as if of its own free will, that hand was moving. It had been wrapped loosely around her form, keeping her pinned against him without force. Now it was stroking, the fingers splaying across her abdomen, feeling her through the softness of her silk lingerie. It slid upwards, brushing across her ribs, his chipped thumbnail catching on the fabric and threatening to snag it. Carefully he freed his thumb and, a little more deliberate in the placement of his fingers, went back to caressing her.

She stirred and pressed herself even closer against him, murmured something unintelligible, but remained asleep in his arms.

The first thing he encountered, having to feel his way beneath the covers, was one weight globe. He breathed deeply, his hand encasing the entire mass, pinky finger in the crease beneath, middle finger falling across the sensitive nub, thumb stroking the upper swell. Another perfect fit—there were so many ways they fit together seamlessly, as if they were meant for each other, somehow, despite their very different pasts. Then almost as if in confirmation of this, her body reacted in the absence of her conscious will, the tiny bud hardening and tightening beneath the warmth of his hand, her back arching to press her chest into his arms while pressing her backside against his groin.

Yup, he was definitely going to try to do this.

She hummed again, something pleasant sounding, and woke with a yawn and a stretch. Of course, this only served to offer up even more of her body to his touch, yet he did not press his advantage. He kept his movements as steady and light as before, one hand fondling her, the other keeping her pinned with their joined fingers.

"…Cullen…?"

"Hmmmmm…?" he made an agreeable sort of sound, his breath fanning hotly against the crook of her neck.

"…uh… ah… but… oh… ung… Cullen… that's…unghhhh… that's my… my, erm…" Her breath was staggered, her chest heaving said part of her anatomy over and over, upward into his hand.

"I know," he replied simply. The hand did not stop moving.

"Cullen…" she moaned again, "Ah… Andraste's wedding veil! Please, Cullen!"

"Please what?" His hand moved off to follow the curves of her side, the ridges of her ribs, the dip of her waist, until finally caressing the roundness of her hip through the softness of the lacy panties, before the fingers ventured towards her front and the apex of her legs.

"CULLEN!" she panted, shouting, her free hand squeezing his wrist at her groin. "Stop!"

He froze, other than to lift his hand far enough away so as to not accidentally touch her, but close enough she could still feel his body heat. "I… I…" he began, stuttering in his shock, "I'm… sorry, Pere, I… didn't mean… I'm not hurting you or anything, am I?"

"No," she moaned, shaking her head. "Not exactly…"

"Then," he swallowed, feeling his way through this treacherous terrain, unsure of what had caused her so much distress. Maybe she wasn't a morning person? Or maybe that broken thumbnail of his had scratched her? "Then what is it? What did I do wrong? If it's me, my withdrawal, I mean, I feel fine. Honestly. I'm not ill at the moment. And I do so want to do this, if you do…?"

"I do…" moaning seemed to be her default setting today. "I want nothing else, but… Oh, Cullen!" He could feel her shuddering against his chest, her breath still rapid and uneven. "It's… it's only that… for these past few days… I've tried to distract myself with those bloody reports… while waiting for you to wake up… But every time… every single time I've looked at you… seen you lying in bed… this bed, where we… where we made love… I keep remembering that night and all we did and wanting to do more butIcouldn'tbecauseyouwereoutofitandI'vebeensofrustrated!" She was fully panting now, as if she had been running for miles. Even a fine film of sweat was forming on her skin.

His breath huffed hotly against her neck once more, and he took their hands away from her crotch to settle against her hip. "Pere? I want this, too. I want to be with you again. Erm, you know, that way. If I feel well enough to be able to do so, and you want this, and I want this, then…"

She groaned this time, deep and guttural and flooded with emotions. "That's just it," she finally answered, grinding the words out between her clenched teeth. "I want this. Too much. For three days I've wanted this. Thought about this. Even yesterday while you were reading your reports, I wanted to toss them aside and straddle you and…"

Her words stopped, and he knew she was biting her lip.

"If memory serves, you did straddle me."

Another exasperated sound, caught between a moan and a sigh. But at least it made her let go of her lip. "I'm trying to tell you that I'm… oh, what's the word… close?"

"Close?" he repeated, slightly bewildered.

"Close," she confirmed. "Close, as in, if your fingers so much as twitch down there, I'm going to cum."

He blinked and swallowed. "Erm, Pere, my love," now it was his turn to moan into her hair, his body heating up with embarrassment over his own lack of control and overabundance of desire, "In case you haven't noticed," he shifted their entwined hands, bending her arm gently behind her back at her waist, and pressing their touch against his hardness, "I'm very close myself. Probably won't be able to do more than one or two strokes before I'm finished."

She laughed softly at that, finding it a little funny how the two of them so sexually frustrated. She pushed her head against him, turning it slightly as if reaching up to kiss him, or to offer her lips to be kissed. "I simply cannot say no to you."

"Nor I, you," he affirmed, "I am at your command, Madam Inquisitor."

In confirmation of his words, he kissed her.

She moaned again, and he could feel her chest vibrate with the low tones. "Then do it. Quickly. I… I don't think I can… last…"

He needed no further encouragement. He let go of her hand to grab the fabric of her panties, pulling the lacy undergarment down her legs. She obligingly shifted and twisted, lifting her hips off the mattress to allow the garment to be pulled down. Yet he only pulled far enough to get them out of the way, leaving the fabric stretched across the tops of her thighs, keeping her from spreading her legs, and holding her even tighter for him. He fumbled for a moment with his own knickers, almost too hard to be able to free himself from the cotton prison. Yet when he finally entered her, when he slid into her heat, her wetness, her tightness, he moaned.

Maker's breath, but he wanted—no, needed!—this woman.

His arm beneath her bent at the elbow, letting go of her hand to wrap itself across her torso, his hand only able to reach her shoulder, but it was enough to keep her trapped. Her now free hand found his where it was caressing her body, fingers overlapping, both of them together sliding across her sensitive skin, half showing him and half learning from him how she preferred being touched. Her other hand was still behind her, reaching back for his hip, encouraging him to go as deep as he was able.

He obliged, thrusting himself as far as he could, feeling all of her envelope all of him. Slowly he pulled out, somewhat amazed at how wet she was, how ready for him, how responsive to his presence as her body arched again and tried to keep him within her. He wanted to laugh, felt something akin to giddiness fill his head, and leisurely plunged back into her depths.

"Cullen…"

He answered with a third deliberate thrust.

Her breath ragged, she repeated, "…Cullen…"

It would be soon, he reasoned, hearing the buildup in her voice so strong it was almost painful. Carefully he pulled out, feeling like he wanted to moan with pain himself, this felt so good. So right. So perfect.

And so soon.

"Ah! Cull—!"

He heard the hitch in her cry, felt her body within his embrace pause for half a heartbeat. Then it happened—all at once, it seemed. There was a scream, the bliss she felt so rapturous that it tore its way out of her through sound. Her body arched even further, spasming and convulsing as if she was having some sort of fit. Her muscles clamped down on him almost painfully, twitching rhythmically, milking him, drawing him inside, deeper and deeper and deeper and…

Even as he came, even as he lost control of his actions to mindlessly pound into her, even as he flooded her with his seed, his mind remained aware enough to take note of her condition. He felt her body shudder and tremble as the last wave rocked its course, leaving her weak and sated and oh-so-relaxed. His own rocking was slowing down, and he was fairly certain she had wrung every last drop from his body.

Both their bodies glistened with sweat, their musky pheromones combining headily, their limbs entangled and too lax to disengage. He sighed as he half-collapsed against her back, vaguely registering her own sated sigh, and held her close.

He didn't doze off—at least, he was fairly sure he hadn't dozed off—but the session they just had, however short, had left him completely knackered. Perhaps he was weaker than he knew, perhaps he still had some recovering to do, but by the Maker and Andraste's bridal veil and the Golden City—by all that was holy—they had both needed this!

Yet he couldn't allow themselves to remain so selfish. Not for too long. And though he loved to hold her sleeping form in his embrace, he knew they would have to get up and start their day. The cocky little smirk settled on his lips as he decided to wake her up the way he had earlier.

Tenderly his hands caressed her body, slowly, drawing across her skin covered in satin and lace that was now damp with their commingled sweat. She hummed, snuggled in closer against him, and lazily opened her eyes. "Cullen?"

"Hmm?" He stroked her hip, from waist to thigh and back up again.

"Cullen, do you…?" she didn't finish her question, twisting until she could see his face in the light of the embers in the hearth. "Again? So soon?"

He laughed, a little embarrassed over the question, and more so over his answer. "I, erm, I don't think I'm able to, at the moment."

"Oh."

He thought she sounded a little disappointed, at least he dearly hoped she was disappointed—he certainly was very disappointed! Maker's breath, but he needed to get his strength back. He needed to have her again. Tonight. He needed to make her moan and scream, make her lose control and tremble, leaving her a mess of putty in his hands. But to do that, he needed to start getting his strength back, to move around and build up his stamina. And to do that, he'd need to get her up and out of the room.

"It's only that, well, it is morning. The servants will be coming by soon, stoking the fires and all."

"Oh, right."

Yup, her tone of voice was definitely disappointed. He could feel his smirk stretch across his lips at that thought.

"I suppose I should get up and get dressed. We still don't want anyone to catch us, um, I mean, well, we don't want to be outed like this, anyway, right?"

"Right," he agreed, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

She started shifting beside him on the mattress, moving slowly and without purpose, as if stalling for time, "I'll just…"

There was a sound at the door, a timid knock in case the occupant was awake, a gentle prelude to the servants' arrival.

"Too late," he whispered. Quickly he moved, pulling her back against him, throwing one of his legs over hers as he half rolled on top of her. His other arm tented her head with the blanket, leaving enough of a gap that fresh air could circulate, all the while making it appear there was only himself in the bed. "…hold…still…"

She was shocked into silence, a bit of panic and apprehension tossed in for good measure, so it was fairly easy for her to remain still at first. And then after the door opened, after the servants entered, she found herself barely daring to breathe.

"Oh, look, he's still asleep." It was one of the servants who spoke, a young woman by the pitch of her voice.

"Hush, girl," another older, and male, voice scolded her. "You know the stories. The Commander rarely sleeps. Best we let him get his rest, if he's able. Come and place the tray by the fire. It'll help keep the food warm."

"But, Papa," the girl protested, though by the sound of her voice fading she was walking away, "He's so handsome."

Cullen couldn't quite stifle the moan before it started. So help him, if that giddy girl started giggling next, he was going to jump out of that bed and…

"Enough of that, Beatrice," her father continued his scolding. "Put that silly thought right out of your head. He's a commander, The Commander, of the Inquisition. He's no match for any mere servant girl. That man, if he marries, it will be to a lady of quality. Not the likes of you or me."

The tray rattled a bit as she must have finally found a place to set it down; Peredura had left reports stacked on every available surface. "What if I joined the Inquisition? Became a soldier? Moved up the ranks? Do you think he would notice me then?"

"I think this daydreaming of yours is going to wake him up," her father replied. "Listen, you can hear him moaning. There, I've refilled the kettle and stoked the fire. We should leave before he finishes waking up."

"The Inquisitor isn't in here," the girl continued to seem reluctant to leave. "She's usually right by his side. Do you think she's in her chambers? Should we have brought her breakfast there?"

"No," the man snorted. "Look at the crack under door to the office. You can see shadows passing across the light coming through. She's in there, no doubt, working hard and leaving the Commander to his rest. Which is what we should be doing, girl. Come on. Out the door, That's it. And we'll pop into the office in a few minutes, let her Worship know we've left her breakfast with the Commander's on a tray here in the bedchamber…"

The door to Cullen's bedchamber closed, and the voices were immediately silenced.

"Maker's breath!" he swore, throwing the covers off of them both, "But that was close. Remind me," his eyes narrowed slightly, "If an Orlesian servant girl by the name of Beatrice ever tries to join the Inquisition, that I reject her application."

"Agreed." Peredura's voice was even more deadly sounding than his. Then they looked at each other, and in the next moment started laughing. "I, ah," she paused to wipe at an errant lock of hair, "I suppose I better get dressed. You heard them, they're going to check in at your office next. If I'm not in there when they do, they might wonder where I am, and…"

"And assume they've just missed you, popping back in here to check on me," he spoke with confidence as he watched her wiggle her panties back up over her hips, helping to remind him that he had wanted her to leave the room so he could rebuild his stamina so he could uncover that cute little derrière later tonight. He coughed, scratched at the back of his neck, trying to hide the flush that had come over him at that thought, "But I suppose you're right. You should get going. Pere?"

"Yes?" she answered, even while she hopped off the bed and padded on bare feet over to her clothing.

He didn't answer right away, watching her shake out her leggings before stepping into them. "You will be coming back, won't you?"

"Of course," she agreed, picking up her tunic next. "I'm sure there are fresh reports that have come during the night; I'll bring them in for you to read."

"No, I mean, ah," he watched her settle the shirt over her shoulders, the fabric a little loose and billowy around her slight frame, bunching a little as she tucked it into her waistband. His hand scrubbed even more at the back of his neck as he felt certain his blush was getting hotter, running from his scalp to his toes. "To—to—tonight, um, this night, spending it, here, with me again, ah…"

His arm was blocking her from his gaze, or perhaps blocking him from her gaze, as he raked his fingers through the hair at the back of his head. Maker, but he needed a wash, and a shave, and a comb, and his hair product, mostly his hair product. He could feel the frizzy curls tickling the palm of his hand. He must truly look a sight, he thought to himself, wondering how she could stand to be in the same room with him. And he had just tried asking her to spend the night. Maker, what a fool he'd been. He vowed then and there he would wash and shave and comb and…

Her hand on his bicep startled him from his thoughts—he hadn't registered the sound of her boots tapping across the floor, but she was beside him now and fully dressed. He dropped the arm at her gentle nudge, his hazel eyes wide, that damnable heat flushing his features, his brows curved with only a bit of anxiety.

Yet miraculously her own face was a becoming shade of pink as she answered, "It's a date."

He grinned at her, and she grinned back, both of them feeling only a bit foolish, though mostly pleased.

The tea was bitter, strong, and somewhat unpleasant tasting—even once he got past the anise—but it went down and stayed down, and that was all Cullen wanted at the moment. Well, that—and his leggings.

As soon as Peredura had left him, he'd gotten up out of bed, eager to test the limits of his strength, to push at the boundaries until they gave ground—then he could push them further. His first stop was to the chamberpot to take care of some unpleasant business. Then he ventured away from the bed and towards the hearth. Hearing the kettle begin to whistle that the water was ready, and Peredura not having returned yet, he reasoned he could just as easily brew his own tea, thank-you-very-much. He remembered the proper amount of tea leaves from when he had nursed her through her withdrawal, and while it steeped he walked to the other side of the room to begin his search for his leggings.

Wherever she had hidden them was clever, he would give her that. They weren't behind any of the furniture, or stuffed beneath a cushion, or left to hang beside the drapes. He couldn't find them in her pack, or in his pack, or tucked away with his armor. Defeated, at least for the time being, he returned to the hearth to sip at his tea.

"Cullen!"

He nearly spit out the last sip, startled to find Peredura had come back into the room without warning. He swallowed, coughed, but managed somehow to keep it down, and finally faced her. "Inquisitor."

She stopped, staring at him disbelievingly. She had been so surprised to see him up and about that she had wanted to scold him, and her tone had been a bit motherly when she barked his name. He did give a guilty start in response—lending her a somewhat placated feeling—though he recovered soon after. He managed to choke down the last of his tea and stand there, back straight and shoulders back as if at attention, the cup still in one hand, the other at his hip searching for the pommel of his sword where it usually rested. Only he wasn't wearing his sword, or his uniform for that matter, only his knickers and a gray tone to his skin that she found alarming.

"Where's Fear this morning?"

"Where he's been since last night, down in the barracks. Abbets seems to take some comfort from his presence, and you know Fear has a way about him when it comes to Templars and withdrawal. And don't change the subject. What are you doing?"

"Drinking tea," he responded glibly. "Would you care for some?"

"Why are you out of bed?" she completely ignored his offer.

"The kettle was whistling, and you hadn't returned, so I brewed the tea myself."

"You… I… ugh!"

"I don't see why you're so upset," he continued to bluff, hoping she wouldn't figure out what he really had been doing. "I feel fine."

"Do you?" she challenged, coming up to him. The stack of new reports were set on the chair, freeing her hands to reach up to his face and stroke the sweat at his temples. "Then why is your face so gray?"

"Better gray than green, wouldn't you agree?" He handed her the cup, but truthfully he was feeling light-headed, had been all the while he'd been moving about, but he resolutely ignored the weakness. "Mind getting me another cup? You are standing between me and the pot."

"I swear, Cullen…" she started, taking the cup and closing her eyes while she tried to get her thoughts in order. "Just… get back into bed."

"Couldn't I sit in the chair where you've set the reports?"

"No, you absolutely will not," she countered. "You will get your arse back into bed and stay there!"

"I'm fine…"

"You are not! Your face is gray. You're sweating, trembling, and your knees are knocking so hard you're about to collapse. So help me, Cullen," she came up nose-to-nose with him and set down the ultimatum. "If you pass out here, in front of the hearth, there is no way in all of Thedas that I could get you back into your bed. I'd have to call in Dorian to help. Oh, I can already imagine what he would say about seeing you in nothing but your briefs. Then for good measure, I'll have HIM stay with you today, and I'LL go work from your office! I'm sure it would be his pleasure to sit with you rather than pour over all those reports. So you can either stand there until you pass out and I have to call Dorian… Or. You. Can. Get. Back. Into. Bed!"

Her arm shot out straight, pointing directly past his shoulder towards the bed. Cullen wanted to protest, and almost opened his mouth to do so, but then the thought of Dorian seeing him like this, without any leggings or anything else of the sort…

"Yes, Ser."

With an expression like that of a kicked puppy, he turned towards the bed, barely keeping himself from staggering as he approached the mattress. He didn't see the look on her face, the private smile as she watched him, the way she nodded to herself as if approving of his progress. Though of course, by the time he had crawled onto the bed, collapsed against the pillows, and dragged the covers up to his waist, she was all stern and motherly once more. "That's a good boy. Now, promise me you'll behave, and I'll bring you these reports." She set the cup aside and picked up the stack off of the chair.

"And another cup of tea?"

"And another cup of tea," she agreed, dropping the reports down beside him. "I thought you didn't like the tea."

"I don't like the taste of it," he clarified, already picking up the first report, "But that doesn't mean I don't want it. I know I feel better once I've had some, that it settles my stomach, and I would dearly love to have something to eat this morning, so tea it is. You've changed your clothing."

The last statement was so completely random that it brought Peredura up short, making her nearly drop the cup. "I, erm, that is, well…" he watched, fascinated, as her face immediately burst into flame, figuratively speaking. She ducked her head, her loose hair falling forwards over her shoulder and effectively hiding her from his gaze. "When, ah, when I walked into your office, and Dorian was there, and it was right before the servants got there thankfully, but Dorian… he made this face… this horrible, evil, wicked little grin. Maker's breath!" she cursed, pouring out a cup of tea before setting the pot down with a thump. "He knew! Just by looking at me, and smelling me, he knew we had, um, you know, done it. And he just stood there and grinned at me and winked and looked all smug, all the while the servants are telling me that they left my breakfast in here with yours, and how you sounded like you were waking up, and so on. After they left, Dorian suggested I take a few moments to freshen up, because I was smelling of sweat and musk and sex and all that. So I went back to my chambers and washed and changed and… Why are you laughing?!"

She had walked back to the bed, cup in hand, cheeks still bright red over Dorian finding them out, and seeing him grinning at her in much the same way Dorian had made her want to dump the hot liquid directly onto his lap.

"Sorry, love," he covered his mouth with one hand while holding the other out for the cup; he also feared she might dump it on him and he wanted to take away any such temptation before she gave in and acted on it. "And I'm not laughing, only grinning."

"Close enough," she huffed, dropping down onto the bed next to him, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Well, regardless," he finally managed to get his facial features in check and dropped his hand to cover her thigh, "I don't think we have to worry about Dorian knowing about us; we already know how well he can keep secrets. Besides," his hazel eyes twinkled with promised mirth, "You can pay him back, you know, the next time he and Bull see each other. I'm sure their reunion is going to be quite a show. Bigger than the performance he gave after Bull returned with you and the others from the Fade at Adamant."

"I, ah, I think I missed that," she confessed, but her tone of voice sounded cautiously intrigued. "Dorian, erm, caused a scene, did he?"

He had her interest now, and had distracted her from her own troubles. "Yes. I was standing right next to him when the seven of you fell off the tower. He screamed Bull's name so loudly, it nearly popped my eardrums. Then when everyone came out of the rift in the courtyard, Dorian stalked straight up to Bull and clocked him, on his blindside, right in the jaw. He struck him so hard he spun the Qunari around, must have nearly rung Bull's bell. Yes, ser, he made quite the fool of himself." He paused to take a sip of tea, his eyes still twinkling over the rim, "Can't imagine what he'll do this time. Last time they were apart for only a few hours; this time it's been days."

"Nearly a week so far," she agreed, starting to grin herself. "And it will be longer still before they get here. Last time it took Bull and Dorian four days to bring me here. This time they're escorting prisoners, so the going will be slower."

"Any word on that, yet?" Cullen hummed before finishing his tea.

"I believe there was a raven from Harding that came in late yesterday evening," Peredura answered, shuffling through the reports. "Here it is. Ah," she paused, working her way slowly through the hasty scrawl, "'Me and B.W., erm, heading to V.R. Rest to S.H., um, e-eks-ex-explain when… when arrive.' And it's signed 'H.' Suppose that's from Harding."

"Hmm, yes," he accepted the report from her hands. "B.W. must be Blackwall, so Harding and Blackwall are coming here, to Val Royeaux, while Bull and the others are escorting the prisoners to Skyhold. But what could she mean about explaining. Explaining what? There's been no word that they've had any trouble, has there?"

She shook her head, "Not that I've heard. It's all very cryptic, all those initials, and then why are she and Blackwall coming here? Why separate? Why don't we just meet them along the way? What's going on? Did something happen?"

"Obviously it's something she didn't want to put in writing," he set the unhelpful message aside. "But there's no use speculating on it now. I suppose we'll find out when they get here. For now, we have enough to worry us, just trying to find that mage."

There was a bit of vehemence in his voice, his fingers tightening around the cup and making her think he might break the delicate porcelain. "Yes, well, no word yet on him, either." She took the cup away and passed over his breakfast. The plate was piled with food, as if the servants had anticipated his appetite would be mountainous after not having eaten for three days. There was a stack of at least a half-dozen crepes stuffed with a batter of cooked eggs and covered with melted cheese. Scattered around the stack were several links of small sausages, the savory spices making his stomach growl and his mouth water. And jammed in wherever there was space were a few croissants, as if thrown in for good measure or simply as an afterthought. "Oh, better not try the sausages just yet. At least, I always found them a bit too flavorful right as I'm coming out of withdrawal. The crepes should be all right, though. And the rolls. But not too much butter or jam. Best not to take any chances, at least for this morning."

He watched her pluck the supposedly offending meat off his plate—he was sure HE could have handled the flavor. Swallowing the water in his mouth, he focused on his eggs. "Thanks for the advise."

"No problem," if she heard the sarcasm in his tone, she didn't acknowledge it. Getting up from the bed, she walked over to the table where her plate had been left and added the sausages to it. Then she picked up her own croissant, sliced it open, and stuffed it full of jam herself—or so it appeared to Cullen.

To distract himself, after all there was plenty of food remaining on his plate, he shoveled a large forkful into his mouth with one hand and picked up a random report with the other. "Hmm."

"Tastes good, right? I asked for the crepes specifically for this morning. The chef here is quite remarkable. Dorian's been working on him, trying to get him to come back with us to Skyhold."

"What?" Cullen blinked at her, having just finished swallowing his first mouthful and about to take a second.

"You hummed like you were enjoying your food," she prompted, licking jam off the palm of her hand where it had dripped after escaping from her croissant.

"Oh, ah," truthfully he hadn't noticed the taste, more focused on the report and what he was just about to discover. "Yes, erm, adequate, thank you. Pere," he set the fork down and looked at her sternly, "Pere, can you count to ten?"

Her eyes, usually so large and soft a brown, suddenly flashed hard and rocklike. "Ugh! Cullen, yes, I can count. I know, I'm still having trouble now and then with some words…"

"That's not what I meant…"

"…but honestly, I've come a long way…"

"Yes, you have, but…"

"…and I'm doing very well…"

"Yes…"

"…I even read that report out loud to you, didn't I?"

"You did…"

"Then why did you ask something so… mean?"

The jelly-filled croissant was crushed in her hand, but she hadn't noticed it yet, the globs of red dropping to the floor next to her boot. "I'm not questioning you or your abilities," he explained, somewhat cautiously while remaining determined, using his gentler recruit-training voice, "I… I need some clarification, that's all. Can you at least count to five for me? Please?"

The 'please' did the trick. Peredura came down from her anger far enough to see the mess she had made in her hand. Stalling for time, mostly because she didn't understand why he was being such a jerk about her ability to count, she stalked back to the tray to pick up a napkin. "One," she wiped off her thumb, then each of her fingers in time with her counting, "Two, three, four, five!" She slapped the napkin down with a snap.

"Read this," he held out the report for her. "Just the street names, thank you."

Nostrils flaring, she stomped back to the bed. She knew somewhere, way in the back of her head, that she was acting childish. But being made to count to five was making her feel like a child—a very backwards child. She might have jerked the report from his hands when she took it, and undoubtedly she felt like slamming the clipboard onto the floor and stomping it repeatedly—five times!—but she looked down and obediently recited, "First Avenue, Second Avenue, Third Avenue, Fifth Avenue, Sixth Avenue… Seventh… WHAT?!"

He watched her while her eyes flickered over the streets again and again. "Exactly."

"Fourth Avenue… there should be a Fourth Avenue…"

"Yes, there should."

"There is a Fourth Avenue here in Val Royeaux, isn't there?"

"Yes, there is."

"But then why isn't it on the report?"

"I do not know," he held her gaze when she finally looked back up at him, "But I have a suspicion."

She blinked, the same suspicion striking her. "Fasta vass… Dorian. Dorian!" She was almost screaming his name, even as she raced towards the door that led to the office. Wrenching it open, she reached in to grab the mage by his robes and yank him into the bedchamber. "Dorian, you know magic."

"Obviously I do, yes, I am a mage. Oh, ah, good morning, erm, Commander." His eyes were a little wide as he nodded towards Cullen. Peredura had yet to release her grip on him, tugging him along behind her as she returned to the bed. If he felt any discomfort over seeing Cullen somewhat—shall we say—indisposed, it was covered by the shock of whatever was going on.

"Is there a spell that can hide a whole street?"

"Is there… a what?"

"A spell, magic, you know, that can make a street disappear. Here, it's in the reports, the routine patrols." She shoved the clipboard at him. "All this time, we've been tearing apart the city and stampeding around the countryside, and all this time it's been—he's been right under our very noses."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"The routine patrol," Cullen tried a turn at clarifying, "The guards who walk through the city and check that everything is as it should be, no trouble, nothing amiss. They've been noting every street they pass. First Avenue, nothing to report. Second Avenue, nothing to report. Third Avenue…"

He paused, gesturing to the report in Dorian's hand, so the mage looked down and read, "Uh, um, Third Avenue, beggar still asleep. Fifth Avenue, dog has moved on. Wait, what about Fourth Avenue?" The other two waited while he flipped through the pages. "There's nothing here on Fourth Avenue."

"There's been nothing on Fourth Avenue in any of the reports since the attack," Peredura confirmed. "I realized that, just now; Cullen and I went over them all last night, so they're still fresh in my mind. And not once was Fourth Avenue mentioned on any of them. So is there?"

"Is there what?"

"A spell," she answered, sounding more and more exasperated, "Can magic be used to hide a whole street, to the point where one doesn't even realize that there should be something amiss?"

"Well, one could try an invisibility spell," Dorian mused, "And we already know there's a mage out there who can do that. Couple it with a confounding spell or something that would distract one's attention away from the street sign, make one continue on without realizing you've continued on, or a… Vishante kaffas! He's here! There! Right here in the city! That rogue mage who keeps attacking you. He's there on Fourth Avenue!"

"So it is possible."

"Undoubtedly so," Dorian nodded, "As he is so obviously succeeding in hiding from us—hiding a whole avenue from us. It would take a great deal of skill and willpower, but it would be easier if he's using blood magic…"

"We know he does," Peredura's tone turned dark. "That's part of why he's after me, for my supposedly powerful and unique blood that's just right for blood magic."

"Load of poppycock that is," Dorian brushed it aside.

"Nonetheless," Cullen's voice held the full force of The Commander behind it, "That is what he believes. And so long as he's alive, he'll be after Peredura."

"But right now," she tapped the clipboard, "WE know exactly where HE is."

"At least, what street he's on," Dorian agreed. "But how do we get him? If he's using blood magic to hide a whole street, to keep anyone from finding it, or even noticing that he's hidden it…"

"Templars," Cullen answered. "We have twenty of them. All of them very powerful. Together they could easily handle one mage, even if he is using blood magic. We'll send the templars in first, from both Third and Fifth Avenues, and hold the scouts in reserve to keep the damn mage from slipping past."

"Nineteen," Peredura corrected. "I don't think Abbets is well enough to go with, though I'm sure he'd want to."

Cullen made a weary sigh as he made a face, rubbing his fingers and thumb across his brow. "Forgotten about him. He should remain exactly where he is until we have the opportunity to deal with him. But, perhaps, he could be sent out on one final mission. It would be fitting if he and Devensport are the ones who bring the mage in. Only I don't know if we can risk it. Abbets might… crack… under the pressure. He's going through too much right now…"

"Could we," Dorian knew he was sticking his nose into something he shouldn't, but he hoped he had a solution to the riddle, "That is, would it be possible for him to take a bit of lyrium now, just enough to, say, last the rest of the day?"

Peredura dropped her gaze to the mattress, knowing the answer before Cullen could speak it, and wishing he wouldn't, but he did.

"It's not that simple, Altus," Cullen's voice was gentle despite the use of the formal title and the ugliness of the topic. "It requires a lot of willpower to take oneself off of lyrium, to walk away from it. Then to be asked to start taking it again, or to be forced to return to that which you've only just accepted you must give up…" he had to pause and swallow the lump in his throat before he could continue. "It's bad enough being surrounded by others who take lyrium every single day while knowing you can never touch the stuff yourself—ever—again. Even just a sip…"

Again he simply couldn't force the words from his throat.

"I… hadn't considered… never realized… of course, bad idea, never mind. But I also feel Abbets would want to be there."

"Want, yes," Cullen agreed, "But deserve to be there? That's another matter. He did keep this to himself, and in doing so he placed Peredura in extreme danger. He's here to protect her, damn him! He knows that! He's sworn an oath to that effect, yet he broke that oath! There's nothing that can excuse him!"

"It would be an act of mercy to allow him to go with the others," Peredura set a hand over his hand fisting the bedclothes, "And more fitting if it came from me. With the understanding that it will be his final act as a templar, as a member of my Honor Guard."

"You… you're going to, what, fire him? Retire him? Dishonorably discharge him? Banish him?"

"We're not sure, yet," she answered Dorian's question, "But since he's taking himself off of lyrium, he cannot remain where he is. I need templars protecting me, because of this mage, because they are the only ones who can counter magic. Abbets can no longer fulfill his duties in that respect."

"But… but you, Cullen, you've taken yourself off of lyrium, and you've remained here, in the Inquisition, as Commander even. Surely you're not one to judge."

"I am the only one qualified to judge," Cullen's eyes were haunted as he looked at Dorian, "At least, I alone know exactly what he's doing, what he's going through, and what is to come. And I know—more than anyone else!—I know exactly what I've given up, that I cannot protect Peredura from magic. I know how worthless I am in that respect. And though it galls me, I know I must accept it as fact. Abbets must accept it as well, if he is to continue down this path he's chosen."

Dorian swallowed, knowing he had definitely touched a nerve, and hating to have been the cause of such distress. "So, ah, what's it to be? Does he stay behind in disgrace? Or will he be given a chance to reclaim at least a small part of his honor?"

Peredura cleared her throat, her voice remaining so soft it could barely be heard. "Dorian, recall all the patrols, the templars and the scouts. Have the templars report to Cullen's office, and eight scouts as well."

"How many templars? Nineteen, or twenty?"

She took a deep breath before answering, "Twenty."