Every night she was not on a mission, Argent trained on the walls of Skyhold. The Inquisition had not been nearly as emphatic about her training regimen as her former masters, but they did not need to be. An important part of being a weapon was keeping herself honed. So every night, she spun from shadow to shadow. Duck and slice, parry and stab, fully extend with the dagger, then jump away and disappear. The guards on the walls never saw her. That, too, was part of the training.

It was unprecedented for her to have an audience when she trained.

He stuck to the shadows, quick-moving and whisper-quiet, but she'd spotted him and stole subtle glances at him as she continued her moves. It was the thin, pale boy from the tavern, the one with all the hats. She'd watched enough to know that he was no stranger to shadows and knives himself. She wasn't sure how skilled he was with the knives, for she'd only seen him use them on the dying. Some had used their last breaths to thank him for the mercy. It struck her as wrong for people to thank their killer.

She was certain that no one had ever thanked her.

Sometimes he cut with words instead of knives. In the tavern, she'd seen him approach the grim dwarf and heard his quiet words. "All red, wet with blood. By the Stone, it's everywhere. He's weeping, blubbering, never meant for this to happen. They'll be here in minutes, they'll have his head for this… unless I give them mine instead." The dwarf, who had faced down pride demons without so much as a change in his expression, had blanched. Then the boy had said, "It was a noble act. It doesn't matter if only one person knows, and he didn't see that it was good and kind. If you'd let them take him and stayed in Orzammar, you would hate yourself. You did right."

And the dwarf had thanked him. Argent could not see why. The boy had done nothing. They were just words. They were just words. She asked the dwarf about it, later. He claimed not to know what she was asking about, and the others all said they didn't remember any boy. But the dwarf's steps seemed a little lighter, after that.

So what had the boy brought to her - knives or words? Most likely knives. What good would words be to her? If he planned to use his knives on her, he'd not find her an easy target. He might be good, but he couldn't possibly be as good as her. She'd done nothing but hone and use her skills all these years, while he'd been distracting himself with hats and whispering at people.

She accepted the risk that he'd know he had been detected and looked closer. No knife in his hand; instead, he held something large and round, covered by a cloth. She did not relax; any number of weapons could be concealed in such a manner. She had made use of such a ruse several times, dropping the parcel at the last moment, thrusting with the knife before her target had time to react.

Now the boy was approaching. She abandoned her exercises entirely and dropped into a defensive crouch, ready to strike or flit away as the situation warranted. But he stopped well outside of striking distance.

"Why are you here?" she demanded. "Your words won't change me like they changed the dwarf."

"You remember?" he asked quietly, in his reedy voice. "Usually people don't remember me. I'm here because I have something for you."

When she said nothing in response, he continued. "It was so hard to see what would help. The little girl hurts so much, but she doesn't want me to make it better. She's all hidden away, tangled up inside of you. I don't know how to bring her out without making it worse. So I had to look for something else to help."

He pulled the cloth away to reveal a birdcage. The bird within made a single, inquisitive chirp. A parakeet, she thought. She couldn't see the color well in the darkness, but somehow she knew that it would be blue. Probably he'd overheard gossip from her companions. She might have mentioned the parakeet to them.

He held it out to her, and she recoiled back. "I can't. I can't… It would die."

His eyes seemed to go far away. "The mark is dead, and look what he had, a bird in another golden cage. Can I keep it, mistress? No, she says, you just are a tool. Pets are for people. But I yearn for it, beg and plead. She relents, and my heart pounds. New color, new company, in my small room. But a week later, it lies stiff and still on the floor of the cage, and they laugh. Death is all I bring, they say, all I am."

She shuddered. This was not gossip he had overheard.

"It wasn't your fault," he said soothingly. "They let you have it to teach you a lesson. They didn't tell you anything about how to care for it. So it died, and they laughed, and blamed you, and made you smaller. It won't happen this time. I can tell you what he needs to live."

He could be hers, and live? Could this be possible?

He held the cage out to her again. She hesitated, then sheathed one of her knives and reached out to take it from him. She held it up to her face and tried to look into the bird's eyes. It chirped again.

"He is curious about you, but also quite sleepy," the boy said. "You will need to give him food - seeds, and fresh vegetables, fruits, and nuts from the kitchen. I'm sure you'll have no trouble obtaining those. And he'll need…"

He prattled on, then broke off, realizing that she was not listening, just gazing into the cage.

The boy sighed. "Perhaps I will come by and feed him. Yes, I think that will be best."

Argent made no reply, still staring at the bird. Her bird. Her bird that would live.