A/N: I just have to say one little thing—oops.

I tried to do research before starting this story, to find out if Tevene was the language spoken in Tevinter, and as far as I could tell back then, it was. But recently I've discovered I'm wrong; Common is spoken in Tevinter, and Tevene is saved for important occasions like swearing and battle cries.

Kaffas!

Oh, well, so I'm slightly off cannon. Too late to change it now. I'll just forge ahead and hope no one's as picky as I am :'D

Chapter Twenty-One: Wagging Tongues

"I was thinking you might enjoy a reprieve," Cassandra explained as she and Cullen climbed the stairs to Peredura's main bedchamber. "You've been cooped up with the Inquisitor for days. No doubt there are matters you've been putting off seeing to, until you have been able to return to your office."

"Well, now that you mention it," he rubbed at the back of his neck, "There are some reports I need to write. And there's a few new training exercises I've been meaning to have implemented. I'll need to talk with my captains about that. Then there's the escort…"

"What escort?" Peredura interrupted as they reached the top landing. She was sitting up in her bed, pillows propped behind her and the covers straightened and tucked in around her warmly. Her hair was freshly brushed, her cheeks faintly tinted pink, and her hands folded calmly on her lap. There was a tray off to the side of the bed, a steaming cup of tea half-finished and a large plate of eggs and sausages and rolls hardly touched. Cassandra shot a glance at her as soon as she came into view, but turned away just as quickly to avoid making eye contact. The act did not go unnoticed by Peredura, and she felt a little hurt by the apparent, and undeserved, snub.

"Your escort for the Inquisition's trip to Halamshiral," he answered as if it should have been obvious, completely oblivious to whatever dynamic was occurring between the two women. "We'll need to present a strong show of force, but not make ourselves look like an invading army, and yet still be suitable for escorting the leader of the Inquisition…"

"Sorry I asked," she muttered.

"It is distasteful, playing politics," he thought he was agreeing with her, "Especially 'The Game,' as Orlesians like to call it. I should consult with Josephine about this, and the sooner it's settled, the sooner I won't have to worry about it any longer."

"There you are," Cassandra lifted her chin as she spoke, as if declaring a divine decree. "Go and speak with Josephine; I believe you will find her in her office. Then go and see to any other matters that need your attention. I shall stay with Peredura for the day."

Cullen looked torn for a moment. His usual habit if throwing himself into his work was strong and deeply ingrained, but he didn't want to leave Peredura if she should need him. He hesitated, and his whole body swayed between the stairs and the bed.

"I'll be fine, Commander," Peredura made the decision for him, knowing there was no reason he himself had to be the one to stay with her, knowing there was no debt he needed to repay. Yes, she had been able to spend three whole days—and nights—cooped up in this room with him while he struggled through his withdrawal. But she hadn't had a choice; no one else had known what he was going through. This time around, Cullen had a large pool of support to draw from; nearly everyone in the Inner Circle—as Peredura liked to think of her closest friends—knew of her past addiction and current symptoms. At the very least, they knew she had been drugged by a rogue mage, and was struggling to recover from the drug. She didn't have to rely on Cullen alone to help her through this. Besides, "The worst of my symptoms are over. It's only a matter of regaining my strength, which I could probably do on my own; I don't need my hand held for this part." Adversely, she held out her hand to him; in two steps he had taken it. "Go and see to your work, Commander. I don't want anything left unfinished before we have to leave for the Winter Palace. I'll need the entirety of your focus during our mission there, not distracted by something left behind back here in Skyhold."

Cullen straightened his shoulders and snapped his heels together, setting a stern and serious expression on his face. Then he made a very stiff and very formal bow over her hand, "I am at your command, Madam Inquisitor."

Peredura's heart did a funny little flip-flop as he spoke those words. His voice held far less innuendo and heat than it had the day before when he spoke those exact same words, but there was enough hidden meaning and remembered emotions to make the tint on her cheeks darken. Especially when his lips brushed so lightly across the back of her hand that it tickled.

It seemed he was thoroughly enjoying throwing himself into the challenge, the one of sharing these secret kisses and whispered endearments and, er, hand-holding. And right in front of Cassandra!

Who, thankfully, remained completely unaware of what had just transpired.

"See to it that she finishes her tea," Cullen spoke to Cassandra as he pulled away, all business and formal and typical-Cullen-y, "And after that, her plate, every last crumb. The Inquisitor needs to regain her strength."

"Of course," she acceded.

"She's also to have a cup of tea every couple of hours, whenever she starts to feel, er, uncomfortable. You'll have to keep an eye on her, watch for signs of distress or upset stomach. She won't admit to it when she's feeling ill; she doesn't like taking her medicine. So you'll have to make that decision for her." He bent over to sweep a stack of reports off of the couch and into his arms.

"I will," she promised.

"Well, then," he looked around the room, but there really was nothing keeping him there, other than his concern for Peredura. But she was in good hands; he knew the two women loved each other like sisters. "I shall return this evening, after supper, and take the night shift. Seeker. Inquisitor." He inclined his head to both of them, turned smartly on his heel, and headed for the stairs.

The two women watched Cullen leave, his steps crisp and purposeful, his demeanor precise and military-like. Fear lifted his head and watched, too, but made no actions like he wanted to follow Cullen. He had already been outside that morning, and the fire was nice and warm, and the hearthrug freshly cleaned and no longer smelling right. He let Cullen go without him, rolled over onto his back—giving it a few wiggles to scratch his spine and rub his scent into the rug—and drifted back off to sleep.

"You should drink your tea," Cassandra started, almost before the bedchamber door had closed behind Cullen. She walked over to the fire, her arms crossed, her back to Peredura, her dark eyes and dark hair reflecting her dark mood.

Peredura sighed, knowing there was something going on between them, something she didn't understand, something that was completely beyond her ability to discern. She did pick up the cup, however, and took a healthy sip of the contents. Despite Cullen's dire assessment of her thoughts and feelings about the tea, she knew she had to drink it in order to recover. And she wanted to recover, as quickly as possible. She took a second sip as she studied Cassandra's back, wondering how to begin to patch things up between them if she didn't know what was wrong.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" she decided to begin with something simple and courteous. "Cullen says I'm to eat this whole plate, but it's far too much for just me, and I'd hate to see so much food go to waste. Would you like some?"

"I… er… no… um, thank you… I've already eaten."

Peredura's eyes stared hard at her back, wishing she'd turn around. She set aside the cup, not quite finished, but felt her stomach was settled enough for her to risk it. She picked up a roll, the soft dough wrapped around sweet spices and chopped nuts and smothered with warm icing. Possibly not the best choice, but all that deliciousness was too hard to resist. She picked off a piece and set it in her mouth, taking a moment to suck the extra icing off her fingers. She might have made a small humming noise, she wasn't sure, but in the next moment there was a scrambling of toenails on the floor, a startled grunt of surprise from Cassandra, followed by a very eager pair of brown eyes staring at her from the side of her bed. Peredura laughed, just a little bit, "I thought you'd already had your breakfast, Fear."

There was a similar laugh coming from Cassandra, just a little bit, as she turned to follow the exuberant puppy. "I suppose it's not surprising if he is still hungry; he is a growing boy, he needs plenty of nutrition. But I wouldn't give him any of your food. The rolls are too sweet. The sausages are too spicy…"

"How about some of the egg?" Peredura asked. Truthfully, the eggs were probably the best thing for her, cooked with very little seasoning that would upset her stomach, unlike the sausages, and far lighter than the sweet rolls. But Fear's eyes were staring at her so intently, as if he could by some sort of mental thought make her give him some of her food.

"If you'd like, I suppose they wouldn't hurt him. But I'm sure he'd much rather have a nice, rare, juicy steak."

Fear turned his attention on Cassandra, as if she held that very steak in her hands. Seeing that she didn't have the tasty morsel, he whined a bit and turned back to his partner. One paw lifted up, trying to reach the top of the bed, his whole body shaking with the intention of jumping onto the mattress—as soon as he could reasonably assume that she had given him permission.

"No, Fear," she sighed, almost as disappointed as he, "I better not. At least, not until after I've eaten all I can." She leaned over and whispered to him, "But I'll save you a sausage, alright?"

Cassandra had no difficulty hearing the exchange, but she rolled her eyes indulgently and pretended not to have heard. "Go lie down, Fear, and let your partner finish her breakfast."

Fear gave a slightly miffed sort of huff, but he couldn't argue with the two women. He dropped his paw, gave Peredura one final, pitifully reproachful look, and padded softly back to the hearthrug.

"He's becoming spoiled," Cassandra hummed.

"That's Cullen's fault," Peredura quickly deflected the blame. She set aside the roll, as it was sitting a little too heavy in her stomach, and started poking at her eggs. "He's the one who allowed Fear up on the bed the other night. Just to keep me company, he said, but now Fear wants up here every night. I wish he hadn't done it," she scooped a small bite into her mouth, chewing the soft and fluffy eggs before swallowing. "I mean, I know why he did it, for my comfort, I did the same for him, but the last time Fear was allowed on the bed, it took me a week to retrain him." She suddenly realized what she had said, and sputtered a moment, grabbing her cup to hide her face. "I mean, what I said, about comfort, I just meant, erm…"

"I know," Cassandra said softly. "That's why I asked the Commander to sit with you these first few days, until you had recovered enough to take care of yourself. I know you were the one who helped him through his withdrawal from lyrium. And I know why you did so—because you had gone through it yourself, at Haven, right after the explosion at the Conclave." She settled herself on the edge of the bed, but she didn't relax. "That's why I wanted him to be here for you, not only so he could repay his debt," she finally looked Peredura in the eyes, "But because he was better suited than I for making decisions on your behalf."

At last she figured it out. "That's why you're so uncomfortable around me," she nearly exclaimed, almost tipping her cup as she hastily set it back on the tray. "You're still blaming yourself for that whole sleeping potion business."

She lifted her chin, as if daring Peredura to absolve her. "It was my decision, my ignorance, that left you being tortured in that unending nightmare."

"Oh, Cassandra," she leaned forward, taking hold of the older woman's hand, "I know we haven't talked about it. I mean, when I was still asleep, I spoke with Solas about it, and he said he'd tell you how I felt. And later, after waking up, Cullen told me how you were still feeling, and I told him, too, that I don't blame you, but…" she made a funny sort of face, "I suppose you and I haven't talked about it. The two of us. Face-to-face. So, here goes," she leaned in a little closer and, just as Solas had freed her of any guilt over her own past actions, she showed Cassandra the same mercy. "I don't blame you. You made the best decision you could under the circumstances. There was no way you or anyone could have known what that sleeping potion would have done to me. Maybe it was because of the opeigh. Or maybe Stitches mixed the potion too strong, as it had been meant for Cullen, not me. Who knows," she shrugged it aside, "But my getting trapped in a nightmare was not your fault. It happened. It was ugly. But it's over now and I do not blame you." She lunged forward and wrapped her arms around her. "Please don't beat yourself up over this any more. It hurts me, to see you hurt, because I love you, Cassandra. I mean, not like, well, not like that. But I love confiding in you, because I know I can trust you and tell you anything. And when I need help with a problem, I know you're there for me. I love you, Cassandra, like what I imagine a big sister would be like."

Cassandra hesitated, but only for a moment. She returned the hug, smiling a little over Peredura's shoulder where no one could see. "I love you, too," she agreed, "Like the little sister I never had."

"Good," Peredura sniffed, not wanting her to see her cry, "So, no more blaming yourself?"

She posed it as a question, but Cassandra knew it was an order, one she gladly obeyed. "No more blaming myself. Now," she leaned back and brushed a strand of hair back from Peredura's face. She almost tucked it behind her hear, then thought better of it, knowing how Peredura hated her scars showing, especially her ears and all those particular scars revealed about her. Instead she shifted the length over Peredura's shoulder and continued, "Finish your breakfast. You need to regain your strength, if we're to leave for Halamshiral by the end of the week."

"I don't see what all the fuss is about," she made a face, but picked up the platter of eggs and added half a sausage. "I'll be riding in a carriage, won't I?"

"We are taking along a carriage, yes," Cassandra watched her take a bite, "For those of us who are unable to ride, or simply never learned." She refused to speak Varric's name, still angry with him after all he'd done… "But you will have to ride a horse, for at least part of the trip."

Peredura lifted stricken eyes up to her, a forkful of eggs halfway between her plate and her mouth. "I'll be on horseback?"

"At the beginning, just for the first few miles as we leave Skyhold," Cassandra took hold of her hand and helped the fork reach her mouth. "Your troops will want to see you, fully recovered and sitting atop your mount. It will be good for their morale. Also, you'll have to ride horseback as we enter Halamshiral, in full dress uniform. Appearances are everything when playing 'The Game'."

Peredura finished her bite and swallowed. "You sounded like Cullen just then. I thought you'd enjoy coming along, dancing at a ball, all those eligible young noblemen and so forth. Aren't you royalty yourself?"

Cassandra made a long-suffering sound of disgust. "I am seventy-eighth in line for the throne; that hardly makes me royalty."

"But you are in line for it," Peredura persisted, picking at the roll again. It simply was too tempting.

Cassandra took the roll from her hands. "Still, the only reason I agreed to come with is, well," she paused to smile again, this time where Peredura could see, "My little sister asked me to."

Peredura smiled back, knowing in that moment that all was well between them. "Well, if you can come along with us and suffer through a long and distasteful night of music and dancing and politics," she took another bite of eggs as the roll was firmly out of reach, and spoke very impolitely around the food, "I suppose I can ride a horse for a couple of miles. For the troops, of course."

"That is good," she nodded in approval. "Tongues have already begun to wag, speculating on what really happened that night, on your condition, even on why the Commander has been sequestered with you for so long."

"There's gossip already?" she gulped, forcing the eggs past a throat constricting with apprehension, "About… Commander Cullen? And me?" She'd had enough when people were spreading unfounded rumors about her and Dorian, but her and Cullen…

"Yes," Cassandra cut off a small bite of sausage for her to try, "The men have been wondering if there's some secret plan being hatched, a massive attack against Corypheus perhaps. Or if the mage that attacked you has been found, and is being tortured for information in a hidden location here at Skyhold, and the Commander and you are spending all night discussing this information." She looked up to hand over the piece of sausage, saw the color draining from Peredura's face, and quickly tried to put her mind at rest. "That is one of the more fanciful rumors, and one that is not taken seriously, I assure you."

"Oh! Er, well, good, then…" Peredura blinked, taking the bite, relieved that she didn't have to fear anyone spreading stories about her and Cullen.

And just as quickly, Cassandra crushed that relief. "The most common rumor is that the two of you are having a private tryst." She laughed, "Not quite as ridiculous, but a complete fabrication, nonetheless. Peredura! Are you alright?"

Peredura was choking on the piece of sausage. She had been chewing it, but as Cassandra revealed the latest rumor of her and Cullen, her fears seemed to expound tenfold. Her mouth had gone lax, forgetting to chew, and her throat had reflexively swallowed. Unfortunately the half-chewed sausage was not yet ready to be swallowed, and had gotten lodged in her throat. She coughed and spat, her air wheezing around the stubborn morsel, until Cassandra's heavy hand slapped her once—just once—smartly on her back.

Peredura gave one final cough, spitting the chunk out into one hand while the other tried to fend Cassandra off. "I'm alright. I'm alright. It's… just spicier than I anticipated."

"Hm, perhaps the sausage wasn't a good choice for you, not yet, anyway," Cassandra agreed, completely missing the true source of the awkward moment. She handed back the sweet roll. "Here. At least this is staying down. Do you think," she tilted her head slightly, picking up the other half of the sausage, "Do you think Fear would allow me to feed him? Without taking off my hand, I mean?"

Peredura smiled, glad for the change in subject, and the easy excuse for her, um, discomfort. She nodded, watching as Cassandra stood to give the meat to the hound, and the antics of said hound as he tried to jump up to knock it out of her hand. With her belly full and her symptoms eased for the moment, she was content to sit there and watch the funny scene play out to its inevitable conclusion.

Cassandra grunted as she regained her feet, dusting off her backside and glaring—somewhat tolerantly—at the mabari. "You are an overly enthusiastic puppy! And very ill-mannered."

Fear finished gulping down the sausage and looked up at her, his tongue lolling out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes bright and shining, stating quite plainly that she was the fool if she thought he could act any differently.

Cullen was standing at the window, using the daylight to read the report in his hand. It was early afternoon, he had left Peredura and Cassandra only a few hours ago, but it was getting harder and harder for him to focus on work. He found his thoughts constantly returning to that courageous young woman with her long brown hair and soft, doe-like eyes. He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and gave himself a mental slap upside the back of his head. He had been spending quite a lot of time with her, and they did have some sort of feelings towards each other, so it was quite natural for him to be thinking of her every now and again.

But NOT continually.

The door opened and he quickly brought his hand away, turning to face the next round of reports or recruits or…

"Ah! Excellent, you got my message."

"Yes, I did," Dorian drawled, looking around the dark and dusty office, at the desk overflowing with stacks of paperwork, at the bookshelf stuffed randomly with binders and sheafs of papers, at the disused chair behind the desk, and the overused practice dummy pricked like a pincushion with throwing daggers. "Though I honestly have no idea why you would wish to speak with me. And privately, too. My, my, Commander, whatever would people say?"

Cullen's face darkened. "They can say whatever they bloody well like!" he groused. "I have very little patience for rumors or gossip. But I do need to speak with you." He saw the stricken expression on Dorian's face and immediately he curbed his anger. Belatedly he remembered something Peredura had said about Dorian, and though he hadn't given it much thought at the time, he was beginning to reconsider. Right at that moment, with Dorian's face turning pale beneath his tanned skin, and the implied innuendo within his last statement, he began to consider she might be right about Dorian. At the very least, the man was an incorrigible flirt. But he needed Dorian's help—desperately needed Dorian's help—so he swallowed his irritation and started again. "Excuse me, Altus Pavus, but these past few days have been tiring. Please, allow me to start this conversation over. Would you care to sit down?"

Dorian had been nervous over the past few days, ever since he recognized Peredura. He had no idea what she remembered of him, or what she had told whom, and the fear and dread hung over his head like the sharpened blade of the headman's axe. Getting Cullen's message to meet with him privately, that afternoon, in his office… well, let's just say it got Dorian's heart pumping, and not in a good or pleasurable way. Still, the missive came as a request, not an order, and without an armed escort or chains, so he supposed he was still alright.

Yet Cullen's insistence on privacy, and his gruffer than normal attitude, did little to ease Dorian's nerves. He had to use all his bravado to cover his weakness, and though he was quickly running out of spunk in the face of Cullen's irritation, he lost it even faster when the Commander turned, well, gentlemanly. Cullen even used his correct title. "I, er, yes, I suppose, thank you," he glanced around for a spare chair, found one in a dusty corner, and quickly turned to retrieve it.

"Well, I suppose you are wondering why I asked you here. Oh, would you care for anything? A refreshment, perhaps? I have some brandy over here on the table."

"I, er, no, well, if you insist," Dorian spoke to his back. He had tried to decline, remembering the last time alcohol passed his lips, he'd blacked out only to wake up in Bull's bed. Not exactly dis-favorable, but he honestly didn't want to do the same with Cullen, especially knowing how Peredura felt about him.

The thought of her brought to mind his own secrets, his own need for privacy, and his bravado fled completely as Cullen passed him a glass of the golden bane. "To the Inquisitor!"

"To the Inquisitor," Dorian's salute was lackluster, automatic, as he raised the glass and took a sip. He was so distraught, he couldn't even notice the quality of the brandy.

"It's Antivan," Cullen explained, holding the glass up to the sunlight, admiring the deep amber color. "I suppose it's not as good as what you're used to back home in Tevinter, but I've been assured it's quite good. I don't drink much myself, not very often, but every now and then I like to sample a drop." He gave a little chuckle as he walked around to the front of his desk, half-sitting, half-standing against it, relaxing his pose. He was still trying to put the nervous Dorian at ease, but he only seemed to make the mage more uncomfortable. Maker's breath, he swore to himself as a thought came to him; he hoped he wasn't making Dorian think he might be coming on to him… Maybe he shouldn't have offered the brandy.

"What?" Dorian blinked at him. "Oh, yes, quite, the brandy," he took another sip, one that turned into a healthy swallow, completely by habit, he told himself, purely for courage. "It is rather excellent. Antivan, you say? I should procure a bottle for myself and compare it with something from my native land. Perhaps you'd care to compare brandies with me?" Vishante kaffas, now he was the one sounding like he was hitting on Cullen. "I… that is… I mean, with cigars. There's nothing like sharing a glass of brandy and a couple of cigars, between two men, or more, depending on who all wants to join us."

Cullen definitely knew he shouldn't have offered the brandy. He watched as Dorian took another swallow, emptied his glass, and set it with a purpose on top of his desk. "Ah, yes, that sounds like fun. But perhaps another time. First, there's something I wish to discuss with you. Something personal. Something that concerns you. Something that should, well, something that would be best if it remained private."

"Oh!" Dorian felt the brandy burning in his gut, warm and welcoming and soon to be spreading through his body. Perversely, he felt a little relief over Cullen's latest statement, thinking this had more to do with Peredura's secret than his secret. "Oh, is that what this is about? You know I know, don't you. Who told you, Bull? No, doesn't matter, but he is the only one who guessed, since apparently I reacted the same why he did, when he found out. But not to worry, Commander," he leaned forward and patted Cullen's thigh, "Of course you would be concerned about my remaining silent, now that I've discovered what I've discovered. But I assure you, I know how to keep a secret. I will never tell a soul about it; it'll be our little secret."

Cullen gently removed Dorian's hand from his thigh. "I think you've gotten the wrong impression…" he could feel his cheeks wanting to burn with embarrassment. Maker's breath, but Peredura was right about Dorian. And worse, he had given Dorian the impression that he was interested in him. He unquestionably should not have led with the brandy. "I… er… wasn't going to ask you… I'd never… I'm not… I mean… not that there's anything wrong with… but I wouldn't…"

"What are you talking about?" Dorian queried, giving his head a slight shake.

"What are you talking about?" Cullen countered, not wanting to say THAT out loud. Especially if he was wrong after all, which was entirely possible, considering the awkward direction this conversation was taking.

"I asked you first," quipped Dorian. Damn, but that was good brandy, hitting his blood with the force of a tidal wave and loosening his tongue with lightning agility. Perhaps he shouldn't have skipped breakfast that morning. He leaned back in his chair and propped the ankle of one leg on top of the knee of the other.

Cullen took a deep breath. Damn, but this man could be infuriating. He didn't know what Peredura saw in him. Perhaps it was because he was a fellow Tevinter and reminded her of something nice about her homeland. Perhaps it was because he was energetic and entertaining and could make her laugh with such ease. It truly didn't matter, as he was—unfortunately—the only man Cullen could go to with his problem. "There's a favor I'd like to ask of you, something I hope I can trust you to remain discreet about."

Dorian batted his eyes, loving secrets, especially ones that distracted him from his own problems. And, as this apparently had nothing to do with his own problems, he was even more enthusiastic to learn what it was. "You have piqued my curiosity, dear Commander. Pray, continue. What is this little favor you would ask of me?"

"Your word, first," Cullen insisted, "That this will remain between us."

"Mum's the word," Dorian readily agreed. For added measure, he pretended to lock his lips closed and throw away the key.

Cullen resisted the impulse to throw the bottle of brandy out the window. "As you know," he propelled himself away from his desk, walking around the room, burning off his nervous energy, "We will be leaving for the Winter Palace by the end of the week."

"Ugh, don't remind me," Dorian moaned, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he continued, "I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to an entire night of music and politics and sex and murder. The thought is making me sick to my…" Dorian had craned his neck, keeping him in sight the whole time while he traversed his office. He quickly saw the darkening look on the Commander's face and stopped his rant. "But that's not important right now. Do go on."

Cullen cleared his throat. "Thank you. As I was saying, we'll soon be leaving for the Winter Palace, to attend a ball. Peredura has, er, mentioned, in passing, that you are quite an accomplished dancer."

"I do know a few steps," he buffed his fingernails on the back of his coat in a lazy manner. "It's always a good idea to be able to impress the ladies, especially your hostess."

"Indeed," Cullen agreed. "I, er, I was wondering, I mean," he started pacing again, rubbing at the back of his neck where a nice little knot of tension was forming, "Undoubtedly, while we're there, at the ball, the situation may arise where I won't be able to decline a partner. And if I were to find myself out on the ballroom floor…"

"Cullen!" Dorian snapped upright, the brandy still loosening his tongue, "Are you saying you don't know how to dance?"

He stopped and gave him his best glare. "It's not part of the standard training of a templar, you know."

"And you're afraid you may be forced into a dance while we're at the ball?" Dorian pressed, his light blue eyes dancing themselves.

"Well," he hedged, "It might come up, as a part of The Game and all that, if I needed to dance with someone, or else the Inquisition's reputation would suffer, that sort of thing…"

"Oh, of course," Dorian nodded, though privately he knew—Cullen wanted to learn to dance to impress Peredura. The thought of the Inquisitor… his friend… a woman he thought of as human… who turned out to be an elven slave… one who knew that darkest of his secrets… He quickly swallowed and shoved away that train of thought. It was obvious—it had to be true—that she didn't remember him, or she would have told the others all about him—Cullen, at the very least. Yet Cullen didn't seem to know about his and Peredura's shared past, however brief and ugly. Therefore, his secret was still secret—he hoped.

And now he would get the chance to share a secret with Cullen. "So, you want me to teach you to dance, is that it?"

"Can you?" Cullen challenged.

Dorian laughed, a little affected, but the brandy was now helping him rather than betraying him. "It's not that easy, Commander. There's a time factor involved; it's hard to teach someone how to dance in only a few days. I know, I know, Peredura is fairly accomplished, but she's been practicing for weeks. We'd only have a few days before we leave, perhaps one or two opportunities along the way, whenever we can find the excuse to slip away and not arouse anyone's suspicions. Hate to give people the wrong idea; you know how tongues wag. Then also there's the matter of the student, how quickly you can learn and…"

"I believe you'll find me a quick study," he boasted, "And highly motivated. I want to make a good impression," he stopped suddenly, lifting his eyes up as if he'd said more than he should. "…On, er, on behalf of the Inquisition, I mean."

"But of course." Dorian knew exactly why Cullen wanted to learn how to dance, and it had nothing to do with dancing with old dowagers on behalf of the Inquisition. Oh, it was delightful, and fun, and challenging. And best of all, it would surprise Peredura.

His heart dropped again at the thought of her.

"What is it?" Cullen asked, fearing the worst when he saw Dorian's face grow concerned. "Can you, or can't you teach me in time?"

"What?" he looked up and refocused his eyes, blinking quickly. "Oh, that. Yes, of course I can. I think a nice little waltz should serve your purposes. It's slow, easy to learn, very methodical and pattern-like—perfect for a soldier."

Cullen felt like he might have just been insulted, but he let it slide for the time being. "Good. Fine. So you'll do it."

"I will. When would you like to start? Certainly not now. It's in the middle of the day. Anyone could walk in on us at any time, and you did say you wanted to keep this secret."

"I did," he agreed. "I do. My office is far too public a place during the day. Meet me here right after supper."

"I thought you said this place was too public."

"During the day," Cullen affirmed. "But if we were to meet in the evening, upstairs," he nodded to the ladder.

"There's an upstairs?" he turned to spy the ladder in the far corner, sounding surprised.

"My chambers," he cleared his throat. "It's, ah, sparsely furnished, not cluttered or anything, so it should serve our purposes, and it's private. Very few people know I have my bedchamber over my office. And no one will walk in on us up there."

"Sounds perfect," hummed Dorian. "Until supper, then." He pushed himself to his feet and made for the door, wanting some fresh air before the brandy could cloud his judgement any further.

"One more thing," Cullen stopped him with a hand on his arm. Dorian lifted dark, veiled eyes up to his, his expression neutral, his body still aimed for the door.

"Would you mind visiting Peredura this afternoon?"

Dorian tried hard not to let his racing pulse show. "Peredura? Is she recovering then? Well enough to receive visitors?"

"She is," he nodded. "I know, well, the two of you, that is, you're friends, close friends, nothing that way, of course, but still close," he cursed his clumsy tongue and decided to forge ahead. "And I know a visit from you would cheer her up, distract her, and she desperately needs a distraction. Please," he let his hand drop away, "It would mean so much to her."

Dorian swallowed. "Perhaps I will," he thought out loud. "She and I, well," he could barely admit that to himself, much less say it. "I suppose it would be good to go and see her. Talk with her for a bit. Find out what she… er… find out how she's doing, things like that."

"Good man," Cullen slapped him on the shoulder. "And I'll see you after, shall I?"

"Yes," Dorian agreed, sounding anything but enthused, "Yes, I'll see you after." He left the tower then, walking back outside into the sunlight and the breeze. Damn, what had he just gotten himself into? It wasn't the teaching Cullen to dance part that had him flustered—it was the seeing Peredura. Yet, perhaps, it would be best, to go there and confront her and find out once and for all: did he have a place within the Inquisition…

…or should he start running?

"…so he says, 'Funny, that's the name of my puss, too.' Get it? Get it?"

Peredura's sides were aching, her cheeks stinging from smiling and laughing so hard. She nearly doubled-over, clutching at her gut, eyes watering. "I get it…" she panted, "I… I get… it… no… no more… please…"

"Yes, perhaps you should cease and desist, Sera," Dorian's droll tones drifted up the stairs. "The ruckus you two are making carries. Anyone walking past her door can hear you two screeching and cackling."

Sera made a rude noise and flapped her hand at him, "Like just anyone would pass by her door; it's at the top of a bloody tower, i'n't it?"

"I was passing by," he pointed out. "With all the noise, one would think you're torturing the poor girl or something."

"So you came here to what," Sera eyed him narrowly, "To save her? You?"

"At least I won't make her laugh herself to death."

"Hey…" Peredura panted, holding out a hand, still trying to regain her breath, "…don't… don't fight… not in front of me… at least…" she managed a somewhat steady deep breath, "Not until I can properly chastise you for it."

"I didn't start nuffin'," Sera groused. "He's the one what's born with a silver spoon up his arse."

"That's 'mouth,' you dunce," he corrected her, before seeing the trap.

Sera lifted an eyebrow, "Have you seen the way you walk?"

"Children!" Peredura scolded, and both of them managed to look sullen and somewhat guilty. She took a moment to compose herself, clearing her throat and settling the covers back over her, before she was prepared to address them. "That's better. Now, do you to think you two could find any sort of common ground? Please? For my sake?"

"Not unless he likes arrows… up his arse," Sera crossed her arms over her chest.

"That would be awkward," Dorian countered, "Considering there's already a spoon in the way…"

"Both of you…" Peredura groaned.

Sera started giggling, mercurially dropping the act. "Sorry, luv, too much fun, twisting your little girl panties into knots. And mage boy 'ere, too, what with those silky thingys he wears. A'right, a'right," she threw up her hands in surrender, before either one of them could retort, "For your sake, Harry-Peary, I guess I could ignore all the gold what shits out of him wherever he goes."

"You have a very disconcerting obsession with my arse."

"Dorian," Peredura's tone was full of warning, "She is trying."

"My patience," he finished the thought. But even without looking at her, he could feel her glare boring into him. "Oh, very well, I'll try my best not to antagonize the scrawny scalawag EVERY time I see her. Only on special occasions."

She rolled her eyes, but at least the two weren't in open warfare any longer. "I'll take what I can get."

"Anyway, looks like the next shift's here," Sera jumped off her perch at the foot of the bed and danced towards the head to give Peredura a peck on the cheek. "I'll leave you in mage boy's hands. See you later." She spun and skipped past Dorian, pausing long enough to cackle, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That… I can't even… doesn't make any sense… how could I…?" but he was sputtering at her back, the spry elf already down the stairs and at the door. Then there was the sound of the heavy portal closing, and Dorian and Peredura were alone. Suddenly, he didn't feel like talking. Suddenly, he didn't even want to be there. But Peredura was his friend.

But Peredura had lied to him.

He didn't know how he felt about her any longer—couldn't know. Yet he had come there this evening to find out, once and for all; and before his courage flagged again, he would have answers. Somehow.

"She does like you," Peredura hummed, "She only teases the people she likes."

"Lucky me," he quipped in a lackluster tone, his mind preoccupied with how to confront her.

"I'm glad you came by to visit me, Dorian," she started, studying his profile, wondering why he was avoiding looking directly at her. She'd already done this with Cassandra today; she couldn't imagine why she'd have to with Dorian, too. "I wanted to thank you. The Iron Bull said that it was the two of you who found me, and your magic in particular that kept me safe and from becoming more injured while you brought me back here."

"Bull…" he had to pause to gulp, wondering what the qunari spy might have told her, as he was the only one who knew Dorian knew Peredura's secret… "He's been here, to see you, has he?"

"This morning," she nodded, but Dorian still refused to look at her. He walked around her room, absently noting the contents, while she prattled on, "After breakfast. Cassandra left so we could talk. And then he left when Vivienne stopped by. And she left when Varric… well, you get the idea. I've had a never-ending stream of visitors all day."

He hummed, something noncommittal, and seemed more interested in an ink stain on her desk than what she was saying.

"It's been nice to see everyone," she continued, "But they've been a bit too obvious about their real motives for visiting, even for me; they're all taking turns keeping me company, and keeping me distracted from my symptoms."

"How nice of them."

"And now it's your turn. Will you be staying for supper?"

"What?" he looked up from his perusal of her sparse bookshelf. "Oh, no, no, thank you, I have an engagement."

"Anyone I know?" she teased him, hoping for some sort of reaction—anything!—other than this aloof manner. This was not the Dorian that was her friend.

"Yes," he thought of Cullen, then remembered Cullen didn't want her to know about his dancing lessons, "Er, I mean, no, I don't really have an engagement, not a date or anything, just meeting a friend for a bite or two. You?"

"Whatever they bring me. Dorian, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he denied, looking at her and then looking away.

"What's the term Varric uses? Oh, yeah, bull-shit." She threw off the covers, slipping her legs over the side of the bed, but she didn't stand up to go to him. Instead she sat there, in her leggings and tunic, and waited for him to answer her.

He did, but not in a manner she expected. He walked over to her dresser, picked up her brush to examine it, and asked, "Do you remember anything—anything at all!— about your past?"

It wasn't the words he spoke, but how he spoke them, in Tevene. And she answered likewise without thinking, "No, I don't. I can't. I have amnesia."

"Then tell me," he paused to look at her, switching back to Common, "How you understood and answered me in Tevene just now."

She could finally see his face, his eyes, and perversely wished he would turn away. His gentle, jovial blue eyes were gone, replaced by hardened steel, like a double-edged sword, cutting both the one he looked at—and himself. He had remembered her. "…kaffas…"

"My sentiments exactly," he agreed. He paced towards the bed, his fingers slicing through the air angrily as he gestured. "Imagine how surprised I was, when I finally figured it out. Incredible, isn't it, how such a little thing like chopping off the ends of your ears can have such a dramatic change in your overall appearance."

"Dorian, listen, please…"

"How could you?!" he demanded, overriding her words, and she fell silent beneath his onslaught. "How could you? I thought," he took another step towards her, "I thought we were friends. I thought we liked each other. I thought we could trust each other."

"You can trust me…"

"How? How can I trust you, when I know you've been lying to me all these months. We have met. We do know each other. And you stood there and lied to my face…"

"I never lied," she denied, the heat over the accusations lending strength to her voice, strength enough to counter his. "And we never met. We saw each other, true, but we never met. We were never actually introduced. You saw me walking behind my mast… behind Vicici and your father. I saw you poking your head through a doorway to eavesdrop on their conversation. And, honestly, Dorian," she hopped off the bed to approach him, "How many magisters or their family members—how many owners of slaves—actually look at their slaves, see their features, can distinguish one from another?"

He pouted, knowing she had a point, but not wanting to give up his hurt just yet, "I can."

She made a small noise at that, not quite a scoff, something akin to surprise. "Then you're the exception. And I am sorry I didn't come clean about our, um, shared past sooner."

She was so honest, so sincere, he was having trouble holding on to his anger. Yet he had to know what she knew. "So, um, just for the record," he began to clarify, "You do remembering seeing me, before we met in Redcliffe."

"I do," she affirmed.

"And you, er, you were a slave to that man, Vivianus Vicici."

Her face grew pale, a result of both her weakened condition and the topic of conversation. Perhaps there was still a little bit of guilt over her role in Vicici's acts, a little need to serve penance for her participation in his crimes. She lifted her chin and answered him clearly, "I know what you're asking. And yes, Dorian, my master…" she paused and closed her eyes briefly, hating the way she so easily slipped back into that former self, that timid self, that slave self. Reminding herself that her master was dead, that she was free, she opened her eyes and corrected, "My former master was a blood mage, and I was his favorite source. Yes, I know why we were there, at your family's estate, that day. I know what your father asked of Vicici. I know what they talked about as we walked down that hallway. I know what you overheard." She was trying hard not to remember that conversation, his father's concerns that the ritual might turn his son into a vegetable, her master's assurance that even so, Dorian would still be able to sire children…

"Then… you know about… me…"

Peredura was surprised. Dorian looked even more uncomfortable than she over the whole mess. "What about you?"

"That I…" he stopped as suddenly as he had started, the hurt growing deeper in his otherwise gentle blue eyes, "How would my father say it, that I prefer the company of men. As if it were simply a preference, something I would outgrow, or the novelty would fade over time and then I'd come around."

She had never heard his voice turn so acidic, so bitter. "So we both like guys," she shrugged. "As long as you don't try to go after Cullen, not that he'd be interested in you, I don't see how it's any of my business."

There was irony in there somewhere, thinking of the clandestine lessens about to begin between he and Cullen, and her subtle declaration that Cullen was off limits. He wished he could see it; Maker but he needed a good laugh right then. "Not your business, perhaps, but what about the others?"

"What others?" she blinked at him.

"Your Commander and Spymaster and Seeker and…"

"Wait," she held up one hand. Her breath was starting to grow heavy; she hadn't stood for this long for several days. "Wait, you're worried about Cullen and Leliana and…"

"You've told them, about me, I presume."

"Why would I?" she answered honestly. "And what would I tell them? Yes, alright, shortly after we met in Redcliffe, the first time not the time-travel-thingy-time," she must be getting tired; she was starting to sound like Sera. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I did tell them that I thought I recognized you, but that it was during that time when I was addicted to opeigh. I told them I couldn't be sure it was you I had seen, all those years ago, and that regardless I was fairly sure you didn't recognize me. The last thing we needed right then, or now for that matter, is it getting out that I'm not human, but elven, never mind the whole former-slave-of-a-Tevinter-blood-mage-who-had-been-at-the-Conclave…"

Dorian eyed her closely, "That, er, would be rather awkward to explain."

She nodded dryly.

He looked at her, finally looked at her, openly, honestly, searchingly. She was looking back at him, just as honest, just as open, just as hopeful in her searching. She was also starting to sweat a little, her face turning gray—whether from her current physical ailments or their heated discussion he couldn't tell. He took her elbow and steered her back to bed. "You better sit down again, before you faint on me."

"I just need a moment," she argued, but it was only a token effort.

"So, er," he made her sit and settled down next to her, the two of them side-by-side, occasionally bumping shoulders, "No one else knows about my, er…"

She wanted to laugh over his continued hesitation in talking about his sex life, but her legs were aching and a chill ran down her spine. "There's something The Iron Bull once told me, that anything spoken in the bedchamber should stay in the bedchamber—at least his Ben-Hassrath superiors told him not to report on those parts of his missions, after one particularly detailed report."

Dorian gave a soft chuckle. "I can well imagine—ah, I mean, Bull is rather blunt when it comes to certain matters. And hardly discreet."

Peredura heard the slip of his tongue, but let it slide for now, filing the information away for later. It was enough to have her friend back again, or at least speaking to her. "So anything we say here will be private, just between us. And, no, Dorian, I haven't told anyone about your secret. Not a soul. It's not my secret to share. And it has no impact whatsoever on the Inquisition." She looked up out of the corner of her eye and asked, "Is that what put you on a bender the other night? Not so much finding out I'm an elf, but worried that I might have tattled on you?"

"Vishante kaffas! Does everyone know about that? I knew I never should have trusted Bull…"

"What does The Iron Bull have to do with it?" she asked, honestly confused.

Dorian blinked at her. He had assumed that Bull had been the one to tell everyone that he had drunk himself into a stupor and had to spend the night in Bull's bed, but apparently Bull had kept his mouth shut—for once in his life. "He, er, saw me, in the tavern, even ordered me a round or two, while I was still conscious enough to remember, that is."

Again she caught his slip. Again she let it go. She wasn't sure how the two of them might manage a relationship, but she was fairly sure The Iron Bull would be willing to give it a go; he did like experimenting, and he had a varied and eclectic pool of experience. And it seemed, from the faint tint of red beneath Dorian's tan, that he was entertaining the same idea.

"So, um," she briefly chewed her lower lip, feeling the deep ache settling into her limbs, "We're still friends, right?"

"Well," he hedged, but only half-heartedly, "I have spent the past several days in fear for my life, thinking I was about to be outed and run out of the Inquisition." He paused to look at her out of the corner of his eye, and saw her giving her lip another chew. "But don't mind me, Peredura; I've been guarding myself for so long, it's hard to trust anyone. Especially when I've done nothing to have deserved such loyalty from you, from the very beginning. So yes, Peredura," he brushed a lock of her hair back over her shoulder, revealing a little more of her face, "We're still friends."

She gave him a smile, and he smiled back.

"Then, um," she gave her lip another nip, "Could I trouble you for a cup of tea?"

"Tea?" he repeated, at a loss.

"It's medicinal," she explained, "Solas came up with the recipe specially for me, to help with my withdrawal symptoms, which are starting to get far enough out of hand that I need…"

"Say no more," he held up his hand. Then he was standing and flapping his hands at her, making her scoot around on the bed to where he could drape the covers over her again, "One cup of tea, coming right up. And then you and I can sit and talk for a bit. I'd love to know how you and your master, excuse me, Vicici, ended up at the Conclave."

She watched him walk over to the hearth and put the kettle on to boil. "I don't know if I should…"

"You know my secret," he began measuring out the leaves and herbs for steeping, "And kept it for months. Don't you trust me to keep yours?"

She felt trapped, somehow, cushioned by pillows and warmed by a thick blanket and one of her closest friends fixing her tea to help her feel better. Alright, so maybe she wasn't quite so trapped. And Dorian had come to them with information regarding the Venatori. And it wasn't like he was going to tell anyone.

And she did trust him—implicitly.

Besides, it would help to pass the time, and distract her from her symptoms, until the tea could take effect. "Honestly, I don't remember much of what happened. That's kind of how the whole amnesia story started…"