There was no way out of going.

Leliana had nearly punched him when he suggested it, chastising him for even thinking of insulting their hosts. She'd also threatened him with arrows in considerably uncomfortable places if he hinted at it to Josephine. He wasn't nearly that brave. The ambassador's smile was practically incandescent when she inspected her new diplomatic corps that evening, and Cullen tried his best to hide his discomfort by examining the group.

Cassandra was there, of course, as was Solas. He avoided both of their eyes. Dorian, to his surprise, was also sprawled in a stuffed chair awaiting orders. When he caught Cullen's puzzled expression, he smiled. "A necromancer is welcome wherever he goes, particularly in a land so obsessed with death as Nevarra," he said. "Granted they prefer their corpses a little less ambulatory, at least officially, but secretly I fascinate them. A common reaction."

There were a few other familiar faces; a woman posing as Cassandra's maid who he recognized as one of Leliana's highest ranking operatives, two actual servants who read lips and wielded kitchen knives like Antivan Crows, and some of his own soldiers as official guard. Two days ago he would have been shocked at the amount of death lurking in the hands of a diplomatic mission. Now he only hoped they wouldn't need it, or, if they did, that it would be enough.

Josephine still hadn't started her speech after he'd memorized every object in the room, and he was starting to recite Chants in his head in a desperate bid to stay awake when his brother walked in. Cullen straightened immediately. "What are you doing here?"

The ambassador waved her hand. "The Queen requested he accompany us as her envoy. The Nevarrans agreed. There is no harm in reminding the Prince that we are not friendless," she said.

"But he's under my command, now," said Cullen. "She can't do that."

"In this instance, the chain of military command may need to be somewhat more flexible than is traditionally understood," she said. The warning in her eyes kept the rest of his protests silent.

"Don't worry, Cullen, I won't embarrass you," said Darren with a grin. He remained standing, leaning against the wall near the door. "I'll even keep taking your orders. When I want to."

Cullen folded his arms and sat back in his seat as Josephine began her instructions for the official visit. They boiled down to, in essentials, be nice, but she found a truly staggering number of words to wrap the message in. He also received scrolls of Nevarran customs and pastimes which he was instructed to read before they left. He nodded obediently but looked at Solas. This was just the surface briefing. The elf would tell him what he needed to know later.

But he didn't. Solas was nowhere to be found that night or the next morning, though Cullen searched everywhere. Well, everywhere except Ellana's room. Which, in fairness, was the most likely place for him to be, but Cullen wasn't suicidal.

Instead he said goodbye to his family with Darren. Mia was still vibrating with excitement over her evening with her idol - "He said I should write him!" - but she managed to summon up a few tears for the departure. "It's been so good to see you both, to have us all together, and now it's over again so soon," she said. "Promise me you'll come to the farm for a holiday. Before the year is out."

"I'll have to see if my commanding officer will allow it," said Darren. He laughed when Cullen rolled his eyes.

Alice only ignored him when he mussed her hair and said she still owed him a pair of pants, and Katrine and Alistair climbed on his back like wild things while he threw them to Darren with less and less energy. Brandon offered a solemn handshake and a look that said Cullen still wasn't forgiven for being the conduit of fulfilling his wife's dream meeting. Peter, to Cullen's amusement, saluted him, but he returned it gravely.

A newly deployed squad was escorting them back, and he and Darren watched them until they were out of sight. "Well, brother," said Darren. "It's just the two of us. The Rutherford boys in Nevarra. Sounds like a children's tale, and not a very good one." He clapped his hand across Cullen's back. "Try not to look so grim about it all."

Solas didn't find them again until they were ready to depart, and Cullen didn't dare ask him where he'd been. The rest of the Inquisition saw them off, with varying degrees of enthusiasm and worry. Cullen shook hands and slapped backs wherever he could, but eventually the groups were separated into uncomfortable sides.

Bull was the last to step across the unacknowledged line, and he paused when Cullen grabbed his arm. "Take care of her, Bull," he said, nodding at the Inquisitor. She'd remained outside the circle of goodbyes, claiming her clan eschewed such emotive displays, but Cullen couldn't help but see her exhaustion.

"You got it," he said. "Take care of that one, too." Cullen didn't even need to look to know he was looking at Cassandra.

"She takes care of herself," said Cullen. "And the rest of us, without any help from me."

"Just because she doesn't need it doesn't mean she shouldn't have it," said Bull. "You're good together. Watch out for the enemies she doesn't see."

Cullen nodded and let the qunari go. Dmitri's group swung into view and mixed in with the Inquisition's forces. Delegation, he corrected himself. This was merely a cultural exchange before negotiations. He was a diplomat now. A visitor and pleasant guest, furthering understanding between two worlds. He wasn't even wearing his armor, just basic road gear.

He swung onto his horse with easy grace and made sure the prince saw the sword that still sat sheathed on his hip.

Dmitri smiled from his own mount. "Princess Pentaghast, I look forward to officially welcoming you home," he said in his heavy accent. "As well as each of your dear friends. Shall we depart?"

Cullen didn't react as the man took his place next to her, which seemed to disappoint him. Good. That meant he was doing something right, finally.

As they trailed onto the road that would take them north, he sought out Ellana again to say another goodbye, but her eyes were for Solas alone. Her lover was no less absorbed with her, and something passed between them that was too complicated for Cullen's to grasp. He had no more hope of breaking through it than he had of growing another limb. Instead something else tugged at his attention, and he turned forward again. Cassandra's gaze met his, just for a moment, and he saw the same knowledge reflected in her lines, of the lasts that could be. The endings that beckoned.

They would make sure they were never found.

The journey settled into an easy routine. After the slow progress of the caravan it was almost a relief to be moving so quickly and thinking so little. The Nevarrans might be somber, save one, but they clearly knew what they were about. Cullen had worried he would need to protect both groups, but they almost insisted that he do nothing of all. Of course, that only raised his suspicions. He also couldn't trust a strange force to guard them, especially at night, even if they'd been true allies. But as the days wore on he gained confidence that they weren't going to slaughter them all, and he could relax into some semblance of rest.

Strangely enough, the Nevarran guards seemed to want to impress the Inquisition's Commander more than anything, and Cullen was gratified by it. Despite what Dmitri had said about the generic nature of his leadership, it was clear his reputation carried some weight with the prince's fighters. They took delight in sparring with his soldiers, learning and teaching different techniques, and while Cullen never participated in any more than the basic drills, he did offer advice and instruction to any who wanted it.

Cassandra, on the other hand, took on all comers, and she beat them soundly and efficiently. Nevarrans trained in a way he'd never seen, with weighted sticks instead of blades, and Cullen was only just competent at it after a week of practice. But of course she'd been familiar with them in her childhood, and a watcher never would have known she'd left. The sparring ring was a different kind of ball, with a different kind of dancing, but she was no less impressive in it. Only Dmitri declined to test her, watching his and Cullen's soldiers fall to the light taps of her wooden stick with a curious smile. When she pressed him for its origin, he said it was like watching a Nevarran warrior fight with another woman inside of her. Whether that was a compliment or not remained a mystery to them all.

His Highness seemed less inclined to needle Cullen as they rode, either growing weary of the game or simply annoyed that it wasn't more effective. He still spoke with Cassandra frequently, and almost always rode beside her, but it wasn't so pointed, or so flirtatious, once Cullen forced himself into stoicism and indifference at every touch. The farther they went, the easier it was, and only in the privacy of his tent at night did he allow himself to worry about how simple it was becoming to pretend she meant nothing to him.

Dorian fell in quickly with the non-royal dignitaries, and when they camped he was constantly discussing magical theory with them in the most animated terms. Ironically the scholars and mages became more alive the more they talked about the dead, and while the philosophy and ethics of necromancy was never a topic Cullen felt comfortable wading into, he listened closely to their debates. He'd read Josephine's background material, as instructed, but this would tell him more about the people than any papers ever could. And since Solas was still avoiding him, wisely enough given their circumstances, he had to gather what intelligence he could on his own.

A day out from the ships that would take them to their final destination, they broke for the night on a cliff near Highever. The view overlooked the northern part of the Bannorn, a rich and rolling farmland, and Cullen settled happily on the grass with his dinner. The sun was still high enough to make the land golden, and while the fields were still fallow, he delighted in the wind that waved the grasses that remained for grazing.

Peace. That was what Ferelden always brought him now, peace and contentment. There was only one thing missing, but she was near enough to almost touch perfection. And perhaps she would join him, silent and still, and they would live in worlds that overlapped once more.

When a body dropped next to him he almost gasped, terrified his thoughts had been so fervent that the Maker had given him a gift he couldn't accept, but instead it was a man's voice that greeted him. "Commander Rutherford. You're so silent on this trip."

It was the right accent on the wrong gender. Cullen's peace fled, but he searched for what calm he could find. "Your Highness. I'm afraid I don't have much conversation to offer. But rest assured if the need arises, I will meet the challenge."

"I have no doubt," said the prince, laughing lightly. "But allow me to take a cue from your own royalty. Formality among new allies is unpardonable. Please call me Dmitri."

He nodded reluctantly. "And my name is Cullen. Though King Alistair isn't my royalty. I serve the Inquisitor," he said.

"Of course. But your brother tells me that native sons of Ferelden hold it always in their hearts," said Dmitri. He smiled at Cullen's skeptical eyebrow. "Perhaps he did not say it so eloquently. But it is a beautiful country." He looked out over the expanse of spring. "I'm glad to have seen it. I'm sure it's not easily forgotten, even in a place such as Kirkwall."

Cullen's mouth drew into a thin line at the heavy meaning in the man's voice. Was this the new game? Some kind of interrogation? Reminding him of his past failures? A question with a question, that was the key. "How does Cumberland compare to Kirkwall, both being port cities?"

"You'll soon see for yourself," said Dmitri dismissively. Stalemate.

The sun crept towards the horizon as they sat in silence. Josephine would have slapped the back of his head for his lack of alliance-forging, if she were here, and he was glad she wasn't. Eventually the Nevarran smiled. "Cassandra said you were a stubborn one," he said. Cullen was suppressing another wave of anger - they talked about him? - when Dmitri rolled to his feet. "Let's spar."

He stayed where he was. "I don't duel anymore," he lied. He returned the smile. "I'm too old."

"Not a duel. It wouldn't be even considering your lack of experience with the sticks. Just sparring," said Dmitri. "Surely you can't object to that. I'll go easy on you."

As if Cullen was that green. Still, the man had him backed into a corner. "If you wish."

When they reached the practice equipment the soldiers had set out, a buzz went up over the camp. Its occupants quickly gathered around the open field in a loose circle. The guards on the perimeter, both his and the Dmitri's, turned inward briefly before whirling back with a look of envy on their face. Cullen approved of their discipline, but not the eagerness on the faces of the rest. "If this is to be only a workout, I don't think we'll live up to their expectations," he said quietly.

"It all depends on what those expectations are, wouldn't you say?"

Dmitri threw him a stick. Cullen tested its balance and strength, only newly familiar with the things, but it seemed well-suited to his hand. He looked up to offer his thanks, but stopped abruptly when he saw the royal shrugging his way out of his shirt. Cullen narrowed his eyes. Expectations indeed.

He drew a sparring circle with his foot, pointedly leaving his clothing on. "I've heard of light armor before, but Nevarra seems to have taken that to extremes," he said. It was hard not to notice the way a good portion of their audience was reacting to the new expanse of muscle and skin in front of them. For a man who avoided the front lines of battle, the prince certainly kept himself in good condition. Even if he was far too pale. The light color that looked like flawless beauty on Cassandra was weakness on him.

"No sense in spoiling a good shirt," said Dmitri with a shrug. "That goes for you as well."

He heard a laugh behind him, probably Dorian, and frowned. "I don't own any good shirts," he replied. He was just about to settle into a fighting stance when Cassandra walked out of her tent and froze. Her eyes flicked from the weapons to their faces to the crowd surrounding them, and Cullen groaned inwardly. She probably thought they were dueling for her favor or something equally idiotic.

Cullen started to explain, but Dmitri beat him to it. "Cassandra," he said, stepping forward and bowing politely. "Your Commander has graciously indulged me in a bit of exercise before the sun leaves us behind. Just a light sparring session."

"I see. You must be planning to sweat profusely in your a light sparring session," she said dryly. Cullen gripped his stick until his knuckles whitened as her eyes traveled over the man's torso.

Dmitri laughed. "I hope to. Cullen seems convinced he is in better condition than I am, though," he said. "He doesn't fear for his shirt."

"Much to all of our displeasure," called out Dorian, and the crowd around them chuckled. There was even a low whistle from the back. Cullen flushed red. He turned to glare at the mage, and his brother joined in the censure, elbowing the man for good measure.

But a cough had him spinning back towards the real threat. "Surely you wouldn't see your colleague risk his clothing for no reason," said Dmitri, cutting a speculative eye at Cassandra. "I'm sure he'll follow any instruction you give him, Princess."

So that was it. A test, not of him but of her. Foolish to think the fighting would happen inside the ring.

But the prince had chosen the wrong opponent. Cassandra was impassive and unbreakable in any arena. Her face never changed as she looked back to Cullen. "I do not presume to order the Commander to do anything," she said. "Nevertheless, if he were to attire himself less appropriately, I would have no objection."

More laughter rose, and Cullen tried, unsuccessfully, to stop his cheeks from flaming again. The prince smiled thinly. "Who could?"

Cassandra's expression gave him no clues as to what he should do, but he thought - or imagined - that he saw a spark of fire deep in her eyes. It decided him, and he stared at the ground as he stripped off his own shirt. The crowd applauded lightly. Cullen stepped forward into readiness and flexed his arms, feeling very exposed and very foolish.

And, truth be told, slightly aroused. Even if Skyhold hadn't been the coldest place in Thedas, the Inquisition trained with armor, always. So had the Templars. He'd no more train with bared skin than with a sprig of daisies behind his ear, but something about doing it here felt primal and dangerous in a way he rarely did. It didn't hurt that Cassandra's dark eyes were on him. Or that all of the memories of her hands and lips grazing the planes of his stomach were rushing to fill the present

He shook his head as Dmitri approached in his own stance. Cassandra sat on the ground quietly, face still holding no more than polite attention, but the prince seemed to have lost interest now that the test was over. "Excellent. Now, we fight."

The best part of the boat journey was the weather, foul as it was. The only safe place from the constant winds and rain were the cabins below decks, claimed for Dmitri and Cassandra exclusively. Cassandra, never a good sailor at the best of times, stayed in hers being thoroughly sick. The only people allowed to enter were her maid and Solas, for healing, and no princes or commanders were tolerated. It was a comfort not to be the only one barred for once, even though Cullen was wet and cold nearly all the time.

"I thought it was supposed to be warmer in the north," he said to Dorian once as they shivered in the hold.

"My north doesn't have so much bloody water in it. And what we have, we keep on the ground," said Dorian. "I do know a few fire spells, you know."

"If you start a fire on this boat and sink us I will never forgive you," said Darren. He was, if possible, even wetter than the other two men. He'd tried to fashion a blanket into a shelter but had only succeeded in gathering enough water in a puddle atop it to drench him when the ship listed.

"Wet wood would never light properly." Dorian looked longingly at his fingers. "And it would be so warm if it did."

"Briefly," said Cullen. "Very briefly."

The mage sighed. "I supposed you're right." He brightened. "At least I can claim the distinction of having seen two Rutherfords with their shirts plastered to their chests. It's almost better than no shirt at all. A singular honor, to be sure."

Darren scowled, and Cullen pushed away from the wall. "His Highness seems less concerned about the fate of my shirts now, at least," he said. "I'm going above. Maybe they've found a patch of sunlight."

He ignored their scoffs and tested his hope. It was a fast test. One frigid lap of the deck showed only clouds and roiling seas as far as the eye could see. Which wasn't very far. There was no land in sight, and if he hadn't known about the other ships in their convoy, he wasn't sure he'd be able to pick them out against the gray sky. As it was he could barely see the faint, blurry outline of waving masts in the distance. He sighed. At least they didn't have the mounts on this ship. He'd never seen a horse get seasick, but he couldn't imagine it was an improvement on the human sort.

That turned his thoughts, as always, to Cassandra. He hoped she was okay. Maybe he could take her something. A book. A drink. Something, so he could see how she was holding up.

He rifled his mind through his few possessions, trying to come up with something that would work as an excuse as he made his way back down to the hold again. He was so caught up in his mental inventory that he almost ran into the two bodies pressed passionately against the outer wall.

The two male bodies. Dorian stepped away and stood firm without even a lift of his eyebrow, but Darren bolted, rushing past Cullen with only a murmur and a hand across the back of a reddening neck. Cullen stared after him in shock. He'd wondered, at least a little, but Dorian was an outrageous flirt with everyone and his brother was no better. It had seemed like Sera and Alice, two people who got along so well outside the bedroom that they couldn't help but joke about the inside of it.

But he'd seemed very... enthusiastic, just now. Cullen frowned, thinking back. What had made him so certain his brother wasn't serious? He'd only ever seen him engage with Dorian. He'd just assumed his brother was a flirt because, well, it must be. Why else would he banter with another man?

Cullen grimaced at his blindness, still ingrained in him after all this time in the world. Some brother he was. Some person. He needed to give Darren an apology, even if he didn't know he deserved one.

But first thing first. Dorian's expression still hadn't changed, but his shoulders were tense. "Are you going to chastise the evil Tevinter mage for corrupting your family?" he asked. His voice was laced with careless sarcasm that Cullen knew better than to believe.

"Of course not," he said, and Dorian relaxed a little. "If I was going to worry about corrupting influences, I would have had to exile Sera long ago."

"True enough, I suppose."

The walls of the ship creaked and groaned as Cullen searched for the right words. "I know you, Dorian. You're a good man, even if you prefer to keep that hidden. I can't imagine you being anything but a good influence on anyone," he said. "No matter what your father thought."

"If you could tell him that in the next Inquisitorial dispatch, I'd be most grateful," said Dorian lightly. "But I appreciate your trust."

"It's been well-earned." Cullen braced himself. "Nevertheless, be careful with him. I'm still an older brother, for all I'm your friend. I don't want him to get hurt."

Dorian laughed bitterly. "Not so much trust then," he said. "Don't worry, the big, nefarious lecher will be exceedingly careful."

"Stop it. You know as well as I do that you're hardly serious about your partners," he said. "For Andraste's sake, you're thinking about getting married. That's fine, but don't get Darren caught up in it. He's just a kid."

"He's thirty. Older than I am, in fact. Hardly an ingenue."

Cullen shook his head. "In this, he'll always be a kid," he said firmly.

"I see," said Dorian. He placed a hand to his temple, shading his eyes. "For what it's worth, I have tried to keep my distance."

That had been Dorian at a distance? The mage must have read the disbelief on his face, because he laughed more genuinely. "Well you can't expect me not to flirt at all. I'm only human," he said. "And Darren has truly magnificent shoulders. Those, and his other attributes, are more than worthy of your name."

"Please," said Cullen quickly. "I believe you." Maker's breath, that was the last thing he needed to know.

Dorian's grin was pure evil. "Come now, that's hardly what I meant. I have no way of knowing, yet. Don't worry, you need not fear for your brother's virtue. From me, anyway. I can't vouch for his past."

"It's fine. Don't trouble yourself to explain. It's none of my business." He rubbed a hand across his face. This was worse than the time he'd walked in on Mia and her friend discussing a neighbor boy in terms he'd been completely unprepared to hear. At least they hadn't been talking about someone he was related to.

"Very well. For now. But if you want me to stop explaining forever, you're going to have to make it much less amusing."

Cullen rolled his eyes and pushed past him to find his bag. The original object of his mission, he reminded himself.

"Cullen," said Dorian quietly. Seriously.

He turned around with a questioning look.

"What I was going to say was that I did try to avoid this. I'm not unaware of my own complications. But your brother is a very persistent man. And competitive." The mage sighed. "And I do care about him. I'll keep him as clear of it all as I can."

"That's all I ask," said Cullen. He slung his bag over his shoulder, then paused. "What do you mean he's competitive? Has there been someone else vying for your attention? More than usual, I mean." Putting Dorian in a room full of Orlesians never failed to result in a thrown gauntlet.

Dorian cocked his head winsomely. "There's only one man in this world he deigns to compete with. Your looks are well-known, Cullen. And well-known to be admired by me," he said. Cullen's mouth dropped, and Dorian shrugged. He smiled again. "Still, he's the clear winner. But don't tell him so. It's such a delight when he tries to prove himself."

Cullen watched the mage walk away with trepidation. So many new things to navigate. And he owed Darren that apology.

He would give it. But only after, if the Maker willed it, Cassandra consented to talk to him for a very long time.