She was lost. Cullen could see it in the way the Herald moved. Her earlier confidence—or false bravado, he couldn't say—had disappeared. Instead, each step felt like she was about to break out into a sprint, and the tension in her was getting worse with every breath, like she might succumb to a panic attack. Her footfalls barely left an imprint in the snow, and if she did run, he'd be hard pressed to keep up or keep track. Was that why she'd let him come with her? Easier to lose a single pursuer than a host?

He should have realized that sooner.

It had been some time since he'd had to chase down an apostate—and even back when he was in the Order, he'd mostly served in the towers, rather than out in the field—but he shouldn't have allowed himself to forget that mentality of 'whatever it takes to be free' that so many of them had. How many times had he heard stories from his brothers and sisters of the Order, talking of mages who acted friendly, submissive, or just barely cooperative because they were trying to lull the templars around them into a sense of calm carelessness?

There'd been one instant, where a friend had nearly been kicked out of the Order because he'd been stupid enough to let a rather lovely mage make him some tea. It had been drugged, of course. If they hadn't found her a week later, he would have been begging for lyrium on the streets. Another time, two templars had been hunting an apostate who fled to them, thanking the Maker for their presence and getting their assistance in fending off a bear that had attacked him. By the time they'd killed the bear, he'd fled the field. He'd eluded them for almost a month before they finally caught him and brought him in.

He'd been one of the bastards to turn to blood magic in Kinloch Hold.

Cullen focused on the Herald, eyes narrowed. She couldn't really be planning on running, could she?

Maker, demons were pouring from the sky, and he had to worry over someone who was supposed to be invested in saving the world. How could she not be? Surely she understood that whatever that mark was, it was the only true weapon they had against the rifts.

Perhaps it was too much for her. A simple mage like her had likely never planned for greatness. To be swept up in such a whirlwind, involuntarily…there were times he could barely breathe, and he was a willing participant.

Still, with things as they were, the Inquisition could hardly afford to ease her into this chaos. She would have to toughen up or…there was no acceptable or. She would have to toughen up.

Too much depended on that mark.

It was hard to see the sky through the trees, but he was fairly certain that they'd been wandering for an hour, at least. One long, unbearable hour of utter silence. Demons would have almost been preferable to the tension between the two of them. Almost. He stayed alert, listening for any sounds of fighting, noting any broken branches or signs of rampant magic.

It had been months since he'd taken lyrium, and now he was wondering if his templar abilities still worked. They would likely come in handy out here, should demons attack. Aside from a keen sense of magic developed through years of training, he hadn't really tried to use any of those skills since his departure from the Order. He'd considered it once, when a despair demon had begun casting some horrendous spell. However, even as he'd focused, the pain that was ever present in the back of his mind had flared to life, and he'd lost his concentration.

Luckily, he'd managed to gather himself fast enough to just shield bash the monster. One interrupt was as good as another, he supposed.

He kept waiting for the pain to subside. If he went long enough without lyrium, surely it would get better; he would grow accustomed to it. It was just these first few months that would be miserable…if he could just get through them…

He would have thought he'd enjoy the silence over the Herald's ramblings—dear Maker, she could ramble—but the silence just gave him time to think, time for memories to whisper to him all his past mistakes, all his wrongs.

All the times that mages had used their cunning to try to outwit templars.

He should not have come out alone with her.

Drawing himself from his thoughts before images could flicker to life just behind his eyelids, he looked around to see where his self-assigned charge had gotten to.

She was easy to find in the snow, what with that bright orange hair trailing down her back in such a messy braid that he really didn't see the point in even putting in up. She was eyeing a fallen tree, fingers running over the bark, as though trying to conjure a memory of her own. She liked to touch things, he'd noticed. Trinkets, trees, plants, anything inanimate. Her hands were always busy.

During their time in the war room together—during introductions, really—she'd played with place markers and her hair and tapped her fingers against the edge of the table in odd rhythms. However, whenever she felt him watching her, she would miss a beat, still for a moment, and then keep on, as though she hadn't noticed. Somehow, if he or another templar were present, she managed to remain eerily alert. It seemed like she always knew exactly where they were, and it was incredibly disconcerting. He sometimes wondered if she could sense templars the way they could sense magic.

She made more blunders under Leliana's gaze than his. A careless use of the word 'we' instead of 'I' when mentioning a healing spell, a dismissive cluck of her tongue when someone offered that a templar could assist her with carrying reagents, little things. Curious to see if she slipped up even more around people she wasn't completely terrified of—Josephine had explained to them how they frightened their dear Herald—he'd had several regular soldiers dress down in casual clothes and follow her throughout the week since the Breach's growth had been stopped.

Mostly, there were no blunders to be caught. She didn't talk much, instead either mending the injured, or making things to mend them with. And avoiding anyone of importance. She spoke very little to anyone, with precious few exceptions.

She sat with Solas from time to time, though she always found somewhere else to be whenever the conversation turned toward her. Solas seemed to understand her wary nature and never showed if it offended him how she dodged his questions as though he were seeking a way to trap her in some mind game.

All things considered, Cullen was surprised that Solas was still willing to talk to her at all. Their conversations had to be rather one-sided. Granted, one soldier had claimed they had been talking about spirits and the Fade, and that the elf did seem to enjoy telling his stories. Perhaps Solas simply enjoyed a willing audience.

Aside from Solas and Adan—who she only spoke with in regards to alchemical topics—the only person she seemed willing to really talk to for any length was Varric. The Herald and dwarf had an odd sort of understanding. They took some of their meals together and traded stories, none of which were even remotely true. There were talks of gang wars in Kirkwall and kelpies in the Wilds. He wasn't sure he remembered what a kelpie was, beyond it being some sort of wild animal. Mystical, too, apparently. His soldiers certainly enjoyed the stories, though they tried to keep stern faces when they reported to him.

Cullen doubted the duo had said a single honest sentence to one another yet, and they loved each other for it. Even Varric had admitted, however, that they needed to keep an eye on her.

She was too… withdrawn. She didn't trust anyone in Haven, and everyone could feel it. They could feel the way she kept herself separate from them.

Why would the Herald of Andraste act thus? was the question on everyone's mind. While most of them agreed she couldn't have caused the destruction, her actions did make her seem rather guilty of something.

If Leliana and Josephine would work to stem the rumors of the Herald of Andraste with the sunburst eyes, then it wouldn't matter as much if she ran off into the woods—not that he'd let her. But his point stood, if they would squelch the rumors, it wouldn't matter. They could figure out another way to close the rifts, given time. It would be a painful process, but it could be done, surely.

Solas seemed to know a great deal about them, so perhaps he and a few other mages could think something up.

However, to have a key figure just abandon their cause…that would kill them. Already, both Ferelden and Orlais looked upon them as an unwelcome thorn.

The Herald had backed away from the tree, peering around at a few others, rubbing her hands together slowly. Her fingers were getting red, and he could see that they were stiff from the slow way she paused to flex them, keeping the blood flow going.

Whatever she'd hoped to find, it was lost to her.

He glanced down at his gloves and started to pull on the fingers of one. It wouldn't hurt him to be cold for a while. "Perhaps I could send some soldiers out to search the area."

His voice startled both of them; it was so loud in the quiet of the forest. The birds and small animals had fled the demons…or been killed by them. The creatures hardly discriminated.

She whirled toward him, eyes wide, the yellow in them gleaming eerily as she met his gaze. She looked like she'd expected him to be right behind her, ready to cleave her in two.

He had to fight a scowl. A few years ago he might have been ready to drag her in for questioning—she certainly acted suspicious enough to warrant investigation—but now…he liked to think he was a better man now, though the way she tiptoed around him made him wonder if he wasn't simply lying to himself.

After all, it was seeming harder and harder to move passed his past, of late. Especially without the lyrium….

No.

Cassandra had seen something worthwhile in him.

This mage was just afraid of everyone.

Mostly everyone.

"I'm not going to hurt you." His voice was a frustrated growl, which he instantly regretted. He knit his brow together and took a breath before trying again. This time he just sounded only slightly irritated, and he decided it was good enough. "I know you're a healer, and everything I've heard says that you use your magic to serve man, as the Chant commands. We could not ask for more."

"People always ask for more," she replied, almost instantly, her voice a light lilt. The way she spoke…her accent was almost Ferelden, but not quite. Chasind, perhaps? It would certainly make sense if she was from the Kocari Wilds, as Leliana seemed to think.

While he expected her to launch into a speech on the whims of mankind and their innate desires to force others to do their bidding or…some such nonsense, she fell silent again.

He carefully took a few short steps toward her, holding a hand out, palm up. "I swear to the Maker and His Bride: unless you give me reason to think you're a malificar, I won't raise my blade against you."

She narrowed her eyes slowly, taking a few careful steps toward him, then abruptly half turning and beginning a wide circle around him. He started to turn with her, and then sighed, letting her slip out of his view for a few seconds before turning the other way to make sure she hadn't simply bolted. She was still there, finishing her assessment. She stopped when she reached her starting point, a full circle.

"Such an oath is meaningless if one without faith speaks it."

"I happen to believe," he replied, shifting his weight and tilting his head as he watched her.

"So you say."

"I am no longer of the Order. It is not my job to regulate what spells you use, so long as they are not—"

"Blood or demons," she murmured, almost dismissively. "I've never favored either." She crossed her arms, walking up to him until they were actually a comfortable talking distance apart. "Never saw a point in hurting someone to help another. That would cancel itself out, don't you think?"

"I've never seen blood magic end well, regardless of whether it was used to 'help' or not."

They stood there, another silence threatening to smother them. She drummed her fingers against her arms, letting her gaze wander, though it always snapped back to him after a few seconds. His face, and down…

Cullen realized his hands were poised on the hilt of his blade. He released it instantly, his hands hovering just above his sword before he crossed his arms, not sure what else to do with them.

Finally, she nodded, though the action was more for herself. "You're an odd sort, Commander Rutherford."

He managed a fleeting smile at the comment. "I suppose that would make us the pot and kettle, wouldn't it?"

"What nonsense are you on about?" She abruptly hopped back a pace, letting her gaze sweep the area, a frown settling on her features. "Kitchen utensils are hardly going to help us find my things."

"Speaking of," he brought up a hand and coughed to clear his throat, pausing when he considered he still hadn't offered her his gloves, "I can tell you're lost. Let's go back to Haven before night falls. I'd rather not freeze out here. I'll send a search party in the morning to retrieve your belongings."

"No."

She didn't even look at him as she rejected the idea, instead beginning to trot through the woods, headed a bit south of the tree she'd so painstakingly examined earlier. With a sigh he ran his fingers through his hair, only to frown when he felt a curl settle onto his forehead. He tried to smooth it back as he followed her. She still kept a certain distance from him, but it wasn't nearly as dramatic as it had been before.

She drew her hair over her shoulder, picking at the ribbon she'd used to tie it up. It looked like it was on the verge of unraveling on one end.

A gust of wind sent shivers through both of them. It was getting colder. He pulled loose one of his gloves. "Here."

With a pause, she glanced back at him, to his outstretched hand that held the leather. She tilted her head a little, inspecting the glove as though it were a foreign, bizarre thing.

Then she shook her head and started walking again. "It shouldn't be much further."

Cullen sighed and put his glove back on. "I'll humor you another twenty minutes," he said, catching up to her, at a distance that respected her paranoia. "Then we're going back, even if I have to drag you—"

A knowing look flickered in her eyes as she spun to walk backwards for a few steps. "To do that, you'd have to catch me first."