Cullen usually held training exercises outside in the yard, but the weather had turned unusually cruel overnight. Instead, he practiced in the lower levels of the Chantry, where the Herald had insisted upon opening up for their specific use for the time being.

"That won't be necessary," Cullen had told her, but she shook her head.

"I hate training outside, why should they have to?" She shrugged her shoulders as if her response were the only one that made sense. Gwyn had a flair for getting a rise out of him and it certainly didn't help that he'd been feeling weak all day, or that she was rolling her eyes. To her, it seemed like the more opportunities she offered Cullen, the more he seemed to dig in his heels. "Why do you insist on—"

"They need to be prepared for anything, that conditions won't always be favorable," he argued, slamming his hand down at the table. She stared at his fist, her eyes wide. He hadn't gotten angry like this at her before; she wasn't used to it. Frustrated was one thing. Angry was another thing entirely. She took a step back, which only caused regret to wash over Cullen.

"I apologize if I spoke out of turn," she had whispered, taking another step back. Cullen felt his stomach clench at the look on her face. She almost looked wounded.

"Herald—"

"I meant no offence. Your men and women may train where they wish. I only wished to extend an opportunity for them so the number of ill could be held at bay. My apologies." She hurried out of the door without another word, and left Cullen feeling like a fool. If he was honest with himself. It wasn't her he had gotten angry with. He had been feeling that nagging voice in the back of his mind. The one that lingered there with an enticing beckon that could not be ignored. He had not meant to be so short with her. He certainly hadn't meant to make her face fall in shock and disappointment.

The next day when she didn't come around the training yard, he began to look for her in the other places she frequented—the war room, the stables, and even the Singing Maiden. Unfortunately he walked out of the tavern feeling dejected. He had only wanted to apologize.

"Curly! Finally decided to hang around with us common-folk, did ya?" Cullen sighed at the sound of Varric's voice. It was always too harsh, too brash, for him. Cullen turned on his heel to face him, his hand absentmindedly scratching at his neck.

"Varric, yes, I—" he paused, trying to choose his next words carefully. "I was wondering if you had seen the Herald today." Varric was quiet, his eyes dropping to the floor.

"A certain Ponytail may or may not have taken a ride into the woods for some alone time. She declined any and all company—can't for the life of me figure out why—but you didn't hear of that from me." Cullen ground his teeth. Gwyn, out on her own. This was something that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

"Where?" Cullen inquired through gritted teeth.

"There's a spot deep in the woods just beyond the cabin that belonged to the old apothecary. Ponytail mentions it from time to time—I imagine she's gone there," Varric shrugged. Cullen balled his hands into fists. Did anyone think to send scouts? Why not send a few members of the guard at the very least? Holding his tongue, Cullen gave a curt nod.

"Thank you, Varric," he murmured, taking his leave.

Despite the fact part of him was screaming at himself to borrow a horse from the stables, Cullen remained in Haven. He was probably the last person she would have wanted to see. Instead, during dinner hours, when he found she'd not returned yet, he sat inside the quiet of the war room and crafted a short apology letter. It was something simple, something to the point. There were moments where he found he couldn't bring himself to bring his quill to the page. He halted, wanting to explain his actions and unlock that part of him for her. Yet, it seemed like madness to even think of wanting that. So, he stuck with kind words. For the first time, he found himself scrawling out her name, not her title. Lady Gwyneth Trevelyan. He stared at his script, her name still foreign to him. The longer he looked, he realized that she preferred Gwyn. Yet, as he buried the folded letter deep in his pockets, he knew it was much too impersonal to present to her.

Later that night when the wind began to howl, he found himself offering up the lower levels of the Chantry for training. While he had commanded men to bring around training dummies, he had found that the parts of the dungeons had already been outfitted. The Herald—always two steps ahead of him. The thought brought him a moment of satisfaction—she deserved more credit for her actions. He could only hope to aspire to that level of kindness, that level of empathy.

"All of you are dismissed." The words spilled out of him before he could give them a second thought.

"Excuse me, ser?" His lieutenant leaned in nervously. Cullen paused, rubbing the back of his neck.

"All of you are dismissed for the night. Dinner should be ready within the hour and get yourselves some rest—we've a long day tomorrow." Soldiers snapped at attention, each one murmuring a gracious thanks before retiring for dinner. He had half a mind to join them; he hadn't had a proper rest in days. Instead, he stared at the supplies the Herald had stocked. His fingers traced over the stored equipment—bows, long swords, axes, hatchets, daggers, short swords, and shields. Each one shared something in common: a small Inquisition symbol had been engraved into each weapon. Tracing the small grooves of the symbol with his finger, Cullen felt the corners of his lips tug upwards. Clever.

He picked up one of the swords, feeling the full weight of it in his hands. He inspected the blade, carefully sharpened and polished to perfection. Gwyn had outdone herself. He practiced for hours in the lower levels of the Chantry that evening, well after the sun had set and the stars had spread across the night's sky. He settled his robes on a nearby barrel, carefully folding each item then laying pieces of his armor. Abandoning his undershirt, Cullen picked up a sword once more, his fingers firmly gripping the hilt as he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he prepared to take the appropriate stance. Turning quickly, he followed through with the THUD of metal against stuffing. Another hit sliced a training dummy from shoulder to hip. Sweat beading against his forehead, Cullen turned once more to strike the dummy from behind.

"Commander?" The voice was so quiet, he had almost not heard it.

"What?" He barked, making another thrust towards the dummy. Another tearing noise erupted as he made a downward cut. His hands shook in a way that had become familiar to him ever since he had stopped taking lyrium. It was a biting sensation that ebbed and flowed underneath his skin, poking and prodding him more than he could ever care to admit. He flexed the muscles in his hands, pulling the sword from the stuffing of the dummy. Sweat running down his face and his chest heaving in exhaustion, Cullen turned around to face Gwyn. "Herald!"

"Sorry to disturb you, Cull—" Her voice caught on the syllable and she swallowed thickly. "Commander." The word stung him. Gwyn had always been one of the first to use his name with ease, reminding him that he was a person first and foremost. He wiped his face, embarrassed and disappointed.

"Is there something I can do for you, Herald?" He returned the sword to its rightful place, watching Gwyn out of the corner of his eyes. She was quiet still, her eyes studying the floor as she fidgeted with her hands. He noticed that every now and then she glanced in his direction, her eyes gazing at his chest only to shoot back down at the stone floor. "I tried looking for you earlier—before, I mean," Cullen added.

"I'm glad someone's getting use of the supplies down here," Gwyn sighed, changing the subject. Her fingers traced over the mutilated dummy, attempting to look anywhere but at him. "Maker knows Harritt wanted to kill me when I put a request." Cullen wanted to launch himself into the apology she deserved, wanted to tell her he had been a fool.

"Right. I wanted to thank you. The soldiers were grateful to have a night where they didn't have to be subjected to the harsh weather before you march to Temple of Sacred Ashes tomorrow." He was tripping over every word and he knew it. "I owe you—"

"That's not necessary, Commander," she interrupted. The word stung. Whether it was from the lyrium withdrawal or the way she had cut him off so casually, a pained expression spread across his face. He leaned against the stone walls for comfort, hoping she hadn't noticed this lapse of strength. Taking her lower lip beneath her teeth, her face suddenly softened. She studied the floor as her hands fidgeted with one another once more.

"It is," Cullen interjected. He took a step towards her, his hands shaking. He rubbed the back of his neck, "I behaved poorly and you did not deserve—"

"I didn't mean to push you," she interrupted, glancing up at him. "It doesn't happen often, but arrogance makes me behave foolishly."

"Not often?" Cullen raised his brow. He smirked as she approached him, her arms crossed.

"You would know," she grinned, snorting with laughter. He liked the way the scar on her eyebrow wrinkled when she expressed joy and how her laugh seemed to fill the room with reckless abandon.

"I apologize for taking my anger out on you, Gwyn. I won't be making a habit out of it," Cullen finally said, after her laughter had subsided. He couldn't help but notice the way her eyes gazed into his. A sea of blue that he dared to swim in. This was probably the closest she had ever been since she asked to take part in sword training.

The longer she stood silent in front of him, Cullen was testing himself. This is a woman who had taken the time to bring him dinner the nights she was in Haven, a woman who brought him pastries and chocolates from Orlais, while also writing informal reports for his eyes only. He still remembered reading about a farmer in the Hinterlands offering her ham or how hard he had laughed after reading about her encounters with Orlesians—a woman told me I smelled like mud. Mud, Cullen. I might have told her to sod off on behalf of the Inquisition. Oops.

She was the woman who had stolen strawberries from the kitchen just because she longed for a taste of home and for the few seconds the pad of his thumb had wiped the straying strawberry juice from her chin, he had wondered what her lips tasted like. Her hands were there, resting at her side. Gwyn was the woman who had brought him hot cocoa and wrapped her scarf around his neck one late night. At the time, she had talked to him about proving her worth to the people around her and it was clear she had made an impression. At least on him, anyway.

"You said my name," she said softly, smiling to herself. It dawned on him—he had. Heat crept to the tips of his ears and made a silent prayer that his embarrassment wasn't as painfully obvious as it felt.

"Right," he laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck once more. "I should…I should retire." He took a step away from her, ready to move.

"Actually, I came down here to ask a favor of you, Cullen."

"Oh?"

"It's been a couple of weeks since we trained last and Cassandra says I'm a mess at blocking and countering with my left hand." She held up her arm and showed several healing cuts.

"Cassandra did that?" Cullen exclaimed. Gwyn snorted.

"Maker, no. I might have…" she glanced at the floor. "I might have tried my hand at wielding a sword last time I was in the Storm Coast."

"You must be joking," Cullen said incredulously.

"I thought our last lesson went well and I might have had a few drinks with Bull and—" Cullen stared at her, shaking his head. "Don't give me that look! I told you—arrogance makes me behave foolishly." Cullen burst into laughter and it wasn't long before Gwyn had followed suit. She was doubling over, holding her stomach in sheer delight.

"Okay," Cullen finally agreed, moving back to the swords. Gwyn froze, suddenly very aware that half of Cullen's clothes lay folded on a nearby chair. He held a short sword out to her, ignoring the prickling under his skin.

"I didn't….I mean, we don't have to do this right this second."

"I don't mind." She eyed the hand he had offered her, the way his hands gripped the hilt loosely. Once, during a meeting in the war room, she had brushed against his hand to reach for a piece. Part of her felt tempted to try again, to feel the callouses he had earned from years of service. Her eyes traveling to the muscles on his chest once more—he had scars along his collarbone and another nestled on his side that made her nerves prickle. She committed each one to memory the longer her eyes lingered on him.

"Gwyn?" He gestured towards the sword in his hand, bringing the attention away from his chest. He had to force himself not to chuckle at the way she blushed. Laughing nervously, she took the sword from his hand only to pause. Something seemed different about Cullen, she just couldn't bring herself to figure out what.

"Actually—have you had dinner yet?" He raised his brow, confused.

"I thought we were-?" He gestured to the swords.

"Right, yes. I just—I haven't eaten all day and since you make it a habit of missing dinner altogether, I figure we could go together?" She spoke quickly, wanting to get the phrase out in one breath. He eyed her curiously, trying to discern if he was hoping far too much. "You don't have to," Gwyn stammered quickly. She didn't want him to feel obligated.

"I want to. I'd like that." Cullen said eagerly. Too much hope, he chastised himself. A nervous chuckle left him that made Gwyn's heart flip.

"Good," she grinned.

"I should get dressed," Cullen murmured.

"Right," Gwyn blushed. As Cullen put the swords back where they belonged, Gwyn noticed a folded piece of parchment on the floor near his clothes. She noticed the elegant script that was clearly written with care. "Is that…is that my name?" Cullen froze, turning to face her.

"I—" Gwyn had already picked it up. She ran her hands over his handwriting, where he had written her name. "Yes," he swallowed thickly. The smile that spread across her should have made his heart burst, but he felt dread as she began she tore the seal. His heart pounded as she began to unfold it in front of him. She hesitated, watching his expression through her eyelashes.

"Let's get some food in our stomachs. Maker knows I could use some potatoes," she smiled. "Don't take too long getting your bloody shirt on! You know how Sera goes for thirds." She winked in his direction, but he was too busy watching her fold his letter in her hands. He swallowed thickly as she pocketed the letter—the letter that said too much, the letter that hoped too much.

"Are you coming or not!" Gwyn shouted down the hall, her voice bouncing off the walls.

"I'll be right there!"

Oh Maker, did he have a mess on his hands.