Home wasn't a set house, or a single town on a map. It was wherever the people who loved you were, whenever you were together. Not a place, but a moment, and then another, building on each other like bricks to create a solid shelter that you take with you for your entire life, wherever you may go.

The boss was having a bad week, Bull thought as he leaned back in the saddle of his massive warhorse. The horse whinnied softly but kept plodding on through the woods, as if reminding Bull of the coin he'd lost to Dennet.

He'd sworn the horsemaster couldn't find a beast large enough to bear a qunari, and damned if the man hadn't gone and rounded up this lumbering Ferelden sucker. The stallion, large and grey, had given Bull the cut eye when he'd first throw himself on – horses were damned shifty, suspicious creatures – but it'd taken the beast only two tries to throw him before it realized that you didn't mess with the Iron Bull. So Dennet had earned ten royals for finding the beast, but Bull got five of those back when he held his seat.

But back to the boss. Well, poor lass could use a friendly bet or something to put a smile on her face. Thinking back on it, Bull can't really remember the last time he'd seen a proper smile on those lips. Probably that was way before Adamant, when they'd taken down that high dragon together and got raucous drunk even though Varric was hounding them to be off.

That was over a fortnight ago now. Days were certainly full for the Inquisition's grunts and their fearless leader. Rescue Harding and her damned careless scouts from the Fallow Mire – the boss had beat the living shit right out of that Avvar warlord, Bull remembers with a grin. Then trounce over to Crestwood, kill some bandits, fight some demons, close a giant ass rift and out a sketchy mayor for the desperate lowlife that he really was. Battle a dragon and then she was off again to the Western Approach and then to Adamant. Twenty days and a lifetime of miracles, Bull thought with a hmph of air through his lips. He adjusted his seat again and the lump of a horse he rode threw an evil glare over its shoulder. Blasted animals had too much attitude.

And now Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan was here. Not two days after she'd ripped a hole in the world and saved a bunch of lives by throwing them into some wretched fade place, she was leagues away from Skyhold and headed due north for more chaos and cold. Bunched up under furs and stooped over the saddle of her own animal – one of those shrieking harts she'd chosen because in the thick of the Free March woods, being fleet of foot was a blessing from the Maker. She pressed on ahead of them, scouting herself because she couldn't bear the slow pace of their soldiers.

The elf was nervous energy in the way she sat high in her saddle, the way her hands fidgeted at the reins, at her hair, at the knives at her hip and over her shoulders. She was ready for combat that wasn't coming – any highwayman with half a brain was inside by a cookfire, not out in this frigid mess. Bull sighed and then sighed again as he watched his breath mist in the air before him.

Someone ought to talk to her, the qunari thought, glancing around. But her partner in crime, Dorian, was wrapped in a dozen blankets and too depressed by the cold to attend to his friend. Bull smirked at the sight of the mage's handsome face twisted into a sullen scowl beneath a decidedly unfashionable rams-wool hat.

And beyond Dorian, Cassandra and Cullen had their heads bent together in intent conversation. Clearly, they were developing the plan for the approach on Wycome. The boss' clan was in danger, holed up in that pile of bricks, and it was up to those two to get the Inquisition troops inside the city in a way that wasn't going to get everyone killed.

Bull didn't envy them the task, and didn't begrudge the fact that his quick assessment left only him to cheer up the Inquisitor. With a grunt, and a tightening of his heels, he sent his stallion forward to catch up with the elf and her nimble beast.

"Hey boss," he says as he pulls up alongside Ellana and her hart. The damned skinny horned fiend had wailed the whole boat ride over. It'd taken every ounce of Qun discipline the keep Bull from throttling the creature. But here, in the wild tail-end of the Vimmark mountains, the animal seemed at peace, quiet and graceful as it clopped over rugged stone and around stunted trees.

"Bull," Ellana replies with a distracted glance. Her eyes, big and green, don't focus on the qunari for long and instead slide away to scan their woodland surroundings. "What can I do for you?"

"I have a question," he rumbles, and when she doesn't respond or even look at him, he continues. "These elves in Wycome. They're the ones that raised you, yeah?"

The elf regards him now, her expression speculative.

"Yes. Until I was sixteen, the clan was the only life I'd ever known." Her gaze falls to her hands, leather gloves gripped tight on the reins of her mount. Clop, clop, clop and the snap of twigs and leaves underfoot – their company's procession is the only noise in the oppressive silence of the woods.

"So, they're your people." Bull clarifies and she nods. "So why don't you look thrilled that you'll be seeing them again?"

The Inquisitor opens her mouth to respond, and then closes it when no words come. Behind them, Bull is aware that some of Cullen's soldiers are close enough to hear them. Damned if he cared – the Inquisitor had always been honest with her troops.

"I…" she rubs the back of her head with her hand, mussing her brown hair. "It's complicated. I feel responsible. They're trapped in a city that's bent on persecuting them, and all I've done is send a dozen different kinds of help to dig them out of it."

"What else could you do, boss?" Bull shrugs. "They were summoning a demon army at Adamant. I think that takes gold on the crisis scale."

"If I'd just gone there in the first place, maybe they won't be so royally screwed." She turns her face to his. "You know?"

Bull laughs.

"Boss, if your people are anything like you, they can fend for themselves."

Ellana smiles faintly, but does not laugh along with him. They fall silent for a moment, and Bull decides to ask some questions he's held close for a long time now.

"You walked away from them. You don't have their marks on your face."

Ellana's hand rises up and her fingers dance along one high cheekbone, tracing the outlines where the vallaslin would have been.

"Are they really your people?"

She studies him again, her deep green gaze on his one good eye.

"Just as much as the Qun is your people."

He snorts.

"The Qun is not a people, boss. It's a way of life."

"It's a set of expectations," the elf retorts immediately. "The Dalish are the same. Find your role in the clan – hunter, mage, crafts person. Be good at that. Choose a Creator to serve and be good at that too."

"The Qun is not the same at all," Bull's surprised to find himself insisting. But how can she compare a life in the woods flitting from one place to the next with the staunch demands and rigid hierarchy of life under the Qun? He was probably the only Qunari she knew, sure, and admittedly he was no sterling example of what the Qun created. But even so, the comparison spoke volumes to Ellana's ignorance.

"Really? Didn't you tell me you were born to be a soldier, but when your Tama didn't approve and you didn't meet the expectations, your role in life changed?"

He twinges, surprised by her excellent memory. The day he became Hissrad, the 'liar', was not a fond memory. He remembered the empty feeling, the instant regret of knowing that his petty actions in the face of his Tama forever altered the course of his life. But he remembers the comfort too – that was what the Qun brought to bear. The realization that you were who you were, that compromise was not possible, but that the Qun would make a place for you anyway. Would give you purpose when you proved unfit for another.

"The Ben'Hassarath was deemed the better order for my talents." He replies, stiff.

"My father was warleader of our clan, the first hunter. Made so because his skills with a bow and knife were unrivaled. How is that different?"

"The Qun is not a convenient means of dividing labour so that the needs of all are met." How could he get her to understand? It was more than a system of organization – it was a philosophy of being. "It's like being a block of stone with a sculptor working on you. One day, the last of the crap gets knocked off, and you can see your real shape, what you're supposed to be."

Ellana is silent for a moment, staring ahead as she digests his words. Bull wonders how they got on this track – he'd just wanted to cheer her up, see that famous crooked smile that she wore when crazy Sera and her got up to mischief, dousing lovely lady Josephine in a bucket of ice cold water.

"I don't know, Bull." She says, finally. "I guess the sculptor needs to keep working on me so I know what in the nine hells I'm supposed to be."

Bull laughs again and the sound is loud and hearty against the oppressive silence of their march.

"You were born to kick ass, boss."

The elf's face breaks into an unexpected grin.

"Well, I suppose that has always been true."

"Under the Qun," he finds himself saying because in his heart he knows it's true. "You'd be a leader."

Her smile fades as her eyes widen slightly.

"You think so? Because of the mark, I guess?"

Of course she'd ascribe it all to that creepy glowing shit she did with her hand. The Ben'Hassarath had done the same, dismissed the elf as a fluke of magic, unwilling to admit that she was more than the set of circumstances that put the anchor on her palm. He'd tried to convince them otherwise back when he still wrote them reports, but they had never listened. Couldn't acknowledge that true excellence, able command, flourished outside of the Qun and in the unlikeliest of places.

Bull shakes his head firmly.

"No, not because of the mark. My people don't pick leaders from those with special powers. Nor do they choose from the strongest, or the smartest, or even the most talented."

"Oh." She readjusts herself in her saddle and he can see that she is surprised by his words. "So the strongest of the soldiers aren't your leaders in combat?"

A common misconception about the Qun – outsiders were forever confusing it for might-is-right, rule-by-strength system.

"No." Beneath Bull, his stallion throws his head as if sensing the qunari's impatience with the mistake.

"So..." Ellana prompts slowly. "How do qunari choose a leader?"

He clears his throat.

"We pick the ones who are willing to make the hard decisions. And live with the consequences."

She swallows and he sees the way her hands tighten even further on her reins. On her shoulders are the deaths of every soldier she's sent to the grave, of every person she couldn't save. Stroud is in her eyes – he knew that guilt hung heavy around her neck, so potent that even a night at the tavern with Sera and himself hadn't pushed it away.

"And you are very good at that, boss." He says softly.

"Am I?" She replies too quickly, her voice breaking over the words and her gaze firmly on his.

But Bull doesn't waver. He knows the words are true – he knows that none of them, her companions or her advisors, would be able to do the unimaginable so many times in a row.

"Yes."

Ellana takes a deep breath in and looks ahead again. She is shaking slightly, and she kicks her heels into her hart, sending herself galloping forward. Without thinking, Bull does the same, pulling up alongside her again and falling into a quick trot to keep pace. Their troops behind do not follow.

"It took courage and skill to bring both the mages and the wardens in line, Inquisitor." He rarely uses the title, but today he thinks that perhaps she needs to hear it. "It took incredible strength of spirit to decide between Hawke and Stroud. They trusted you enough to let you make that decision."

She takes another deep breath and won't meet his gaze.

"And it took more strength than any of us considered at the time," he says finally. "to leave the people that raised you to their own fate so that you could go kick an ass that really needed kicking."

She stopped her hart suddenly, and Bull yanked on his reins so that he could stop next to her. Behind them, he could see that Cullen and Cassandra had sped up to watch them.

"You make the difficult decisions, Ellana."

"You made the hardest one of all, Bull." She says, quick in her reply. Finally, one of them has brought up the incident that neither of the want to speak of. "How can you still preach the Qun when you have so thoroughly abandoned its principles?"

"You helped me make that decision too," he replies evenly, unwilling to be driven to ire. This was her strategy in the face of hard truths – move on, make it about someone else, ask and listen to the pains of her friends. He wouldn't let her this time. She needed to know what he owed her.

"If I stayed loyal to my place in the Qun, Krem and the others would all be dead."

"You left the system of being." She says, parroting his words back it him. "The philosophy that gave you purpose."

"You did the same when you left your clan and joined the Inquisition."

She smiles, a wry half smile on her sun-bronzed face.

"And here I thought you said the Qun and the Dalish were nothing alike?"

Bull laughs.

"I'm saying that your decision made it easier to make my own. You are still an elf even though you aren't Dalish. As Tal'Vashoth I'm still a qunari and I still understand the Qun, even if they've cast me out from it."

The words smarted on Bull's tongue, but they were all true. He'd tried not to think of it in the aftermath of that impossible call he'd made. He'd ignored the letters of outrage, the words that stripped him thoroughly of any rank and place of esteem he'd once held. But some part of him must've been thinking on his actions that day, on the little elf that convinced him to change who he was, and on the Chargers that had, without him really noticing, given him a reason for living outside of the Qun.

For once, Ellana seemed to be speechless. He could tell she wants to say something, to offer support, reconciliation, in the way she always does. But he speaks again before she can form the words.

"That's why you're the boss. You're living with the consequences of so many choices." He pulled up in front of her, pleased that the brute of a stallion he rode was pliant under his commands. "You inspire us to do the same."

Ellana Lavellan sits tall in her saddle, the layers of fur draped over her shoulders and around her making the elf looking bigger than she is. Even through all the folds and bundles of cloth, he can see the hilts of her knives over her shoulders. Her hair is swept back in the braids of a Dalish elf but her face is smooth and unmarked.

"And that is why," Bull continues. "your people in Wycome will understand. You made a difficult decision and it was for the good of the whole fucking world."

The Inquisitor holds his gaze for a long moment and he cannot read her expression. She was always so good at that when she chose to be – kept her feelings close like a dirty secret. She seemed like she was about to say something when the rest of the contingent caught up to them.

"Inquisitor. Should we camp here for the night?" The Commander's voice seems loud against the intensity of their conversation.

Ellana looks over her shoulder, as if surprised to see Cullen and Cassandra a few paces behind. She cocks her head and glances at the sky.

"No," she says, firm. Another decision, dispensed with the ease of a crossbow bolt leaving Varric's fancy toy. "A few more hours and we'll be half a day out from Wycome. I want to reach it tomorrow by midday."

"Very good, Inquisitor." Cullen turns to face the soldiers. "You heard her!"

Ellana glances around at all of them – Bull, Cassandra, Cullen, and even Dorian who's pulled up close and for once has stopped complaining.

Then she sets her hart into motion, an easy smile on her face. A confidence in her posture that Bull hadn't seen since before Adamant. As she passes him, she doesn't say a word. Instead she nods, a small gesture, but one that he's pleased to see because he knows that it means he's done good.

Ellana Lavellan was the boss through and through. When he struggled with the decisions he'd made - stay loyal to the Qun or save the men he'd fought beside for years - he thought about the boss and the thousand choices like his that she'd already made.

A leader was someone who lived with the consequences of difficult decisions. A principle from the Qun, sure, but one that would hold true for Tal'Vashoth and ex-Dalish elves, for former Templars, apostates, spirits, seekers and wardens alike.

A leader was someone like Ellana Lavellan, Bull decided, nudging his horse into motion again.

Sometimes, the boss just needed to be reminded of that. Whenever she did, Bull would be sure to be around.

"Do you know who I am?"

Cullen had to stifle a laugh. The Marquis D'Seur was a pompous Orlesian noble who'd been run off from the court in Halamshiral and declared himself a merchant lord of Wycome. He was a big man with shiny silk leggings, a ruffled cravat that pulled too tight against his bulging neck, and a hat that seemed to be more bird than headwear. And he looked positively terrified.

"I said," The Inquisitor repeated, sitting tall on her hart and out of her furs. Her armour was dark and clean, ready for battle if need be. In the quiet of the Marquis' camp, her voice rang out, low and menacing, echoing over the nobles' troops that had gathered at their approach. "Do you know who I am?"

Cullen knew he shouldn't be laughing, but the sight of Lavellan, so much smaller than this fumbling noble but so much bigger in spirit, a scowl on her face and her hand on a knife hilt at her waist, was damned incongruous. Worlds apart from the laughing face and teasing words that the Commander had come to cherish in the elf.

"I, well, that is, the Lady Guinevere Volant did mention the Inquisition would send someone–"

"Someone?" Ellana interrupts, ushering her hart forward so that she's squarely in front of the Marquis. Though the man loomed over her, his own horse much larger than the nimble, horned animal Ellana rode, he urged his mount back a step.

"Do I look like just anyone, Marquis?" She said with a flick of her wrist that brought green light to life. A ripple of muted gasps and whispers rang out in D'Suer's soldiers around them. Cullen's troops, used to the antics and abilities of the Inquisitor, stood stock still and silent. He glanced over his shoulder and gave the assembled soldiers a firm nod of approval.

"Yes, well, that is, well, you must be Inquisitor Lavellan," the noble stammered. Cullen smirked as the whispering in D'Seur's ranks grew, the troops in leather armour shying back from the light that the Inquisitor brought forth. Cullen had seen the mark enough times now that he wouldn't flinch at its presence, but he couldn't deny the queasy feeling it gave birth to in his stomach, the dull pull on his veins and in his chest that reminded him painfully of lyrium.

"I am Inquisitor Lavellan." Ellana affirmed with a flip of her chestnut hair, urging her mount into the Marquis' space. Cullen remembered back to when she'd worn the title of Inquisitor with a look of discomfort. That version of the elf had shied away from attention, had done anything she could to get out of a parlay with the local lords. This Ellana would have Josie beaming with pride, wearing her title and bringing every ounce of her image and reputation to bear to intimidate the Marquis into deference.

"Of clan Lavellan." She continued with a nod towards the walled city of Wycome that loomed not one league beyond the Marquis' encamped army. "Who have proven instrumental in bringing stability to Wycome."

"But the red lyrium -" the Marquis was foolish enough to interject.

"The red lyrium was introduced into the city by Duke Antoine in a desperate bid for power." Lavellan clarifies, words like fast dropping hot coals. "He sought to blame the Lavellan clan. Despite years of peaceful trade between our people, the Duke needed a scapegoat for his foolishness."

The Marquis slowly begins to nod. Eyes the Inquisition's soldiers, arranged in neat rows behind Cullen. The Commander himself keeps his expression stern and rests a hand on his sword hilt. He knows he makes a fearsome sight in furs and glistening armour. Cassandra, at his side, doesn't even try to hide her disdain, and the sneer on her lips as she regards the noble is contemptuous.

Like the other three lords they'd intimidated this morning, the Marquis was coming around. They'd sent half their force into the city to meet with Lady Guinevere, Josephine's agent, to raise the Inquisition's banner. But Ellana had rightly reserved the other half, insisting that she speak with each of the dissenting nobles personally.

And by speak, the Inquisitor had clearly meant "frighten".

"Lord Ambrose and his lackeys have decided to stand down." Lavellan iterates. The Marquis nods. "I have granted each of them a seat on the Merchant Council, along with Keeper Deshanna of the Lavellan clan, and Lewelyn of the city elves."

Ellana brings her fingers in and the emerald light of her mark is extinguished. Cullen lets out a small gasp as it pulls a piece of him with it, a small tug on his heart that gave way to a feeling of nothingness. He casts a sideways glance at Cassandra, to see if she reacts the same way to the mark, but the Seeker's face is set in marble. In all her field missions with the Inquisitor, Cassandra's likely witnessed the coming and going of Ellana's power a hundred times and more. Where once the woman had been all distrust for the small elf that fell into their midst, she now watched Ellana with a look of satisfied pride, barely blinking as the anchor came and went.

"Ah, yes, I see Inquisitor." D'Seur wrung his palms together, his pale blue eyes flicking from the Inquisitor to Cullen and Cassandra, and then skittering over the lumbering qunari, stylish mage, and troops in glistening armour behind them. "And might I also -"

Ellana scoffed, a loud and brazen laugh in the silence of the field.

"You want a seat on the Merchant Council, Marquis?" She urged her hart closer again. The dun-coloured beast obliged, levelling its horns at the man's regal Orlesian thoroughbred. "You, who sought to besiege a city based on ill-conceived prejudice and unfounded facts?"

"Well," the lord is taken aback and Cullen's eyes narrow as he hears Dorian giggling behind him. "if Lord Ambrose and Lady Chamberly…"

"What is it your house trades in again, D'Seur?" Ellana interrupts again, dispensing with all pleasantries and titles.

"Ah, yes, of course." The man swells up, finally finding something to be sure about. "We are an importer of exotic goods of exquisite quality. As you know, Wycome is southern Thedas' largest source of Antivan wine and much of that is facilitated through the many connections I have with the Antivan merchant class. You can rest assured that, should I be granted a seat, no quarter of the Inquisition's territory would be without the finest goods that Antiva, Tevinter and the Free Marches have to offer. In fact –"

Ellana held up her hand and the man's babbling ground to a halt.

"You seek to entice us with baubles and alcohol?"

Cullen shoots a glare at Dorian on his left, and the mage turns his cackling into a cough.

"Well, that is, I'm sure that a distinguished lady such as yourself-"

"Silence." Ellana's gaze turns pensive and her chin is high as she studies the Marquis through lowered eyelids.

The tension in the air is palpable. Metal creaks as the Marquis' soldiers shift in their spots. Behind Cullen, the Inquisition's troops are still as stone. He had Rylen and Blackwall to thank for their impressive discipline, especially since this was the fourth such display they'd witnessed this morning. And the march to Wycome came no more than a fortnight after they were all thrown into desperate battle at Adamant. He owed his troops a long rest after this.

"You are fortunate, Marquis," Ellana says finally. "That my chief ambassador hails from Antiva and often bemoans the Inquisition's lack of creature comforts."

Relief washes over the Marquis' face.

"Your troops must remain quartered outside the city, but you may enter to join the Council in negotiations."

"Thank you, Inquisitor Lavellan, you are most generous. I shall spread word of your go-"

"You will remember that Wycome enjoys the protection of the Inquisition now." Ellana is firm as she turns her hart away from the man, uncaring of his prattling. "Any action against our members is an action against all of us."

"Of course, Inquisitor, of course. Safe travels and may the Maker's light go with you."

But Ellana wasn't listening to the man any more. Their work done on the outskirts of the city, she turned her mount towards the front gates of Wycome.

When they were a good distance from the Marquis' camp, Dorian burst out laughing.

"You seek to entice us with baubles and alcohol?" He cackled and Bull joined in. Ellana glance over her shoulder at the man and threw him a wide grin.

"Boss, who knew you could be so scary?" Bull rumbled.

"Evidently, not Lord Ambrose or the Marquis D'Seur," she replied and Cullen was content to see her smiling. The entire ride to Wycome, the elf had been withdrawn, wearing her guilt on her face by the fireside each night, and speaking very little with any of them. This smile and ready energy were a welcome substitute.

"You did well, Inquisitor." Cassandra affirmed at her side. "If Lady Guinevere's note is any indication, your people are most appreciative."

Ellana's grin faded into a soft smile and her eyes turned contemplative.

"I'm sure they're eager to see you." Cullen said softly at her side. She glanced at him and then let her green gaze slide away to contemplate the city.

"I'm sure," she repeated.

The reunion was postponed, however, by the fanfare that awaited them at the gates. Josephine's agent had arranged for a parade of sorts, and Ellana and her troops were greeted by a cheering populace who somehow saw the Inquisition as their salvation. They cried their thanks to the Inquisitor as she led their procession of soldiers through the city streets, Lady Guinevere at her side speaking quickly, an appropriate smile plastered to her pretty face.

Cullen, next to Cassandra, shifted uneasily in his seat. The reception was more than he'd expected, and even at the best of times he had little use for attention. The people threw flowers and he caught one, smiling at the young girl who'd thrown it.

"Quite the charmer, Commander," Dorian commented, laughing as Cullen scowled at the man.

Ahead of them, Ellana looked tense, her shoulders stiff and the carefree smile from moments ago replaced by an appropriate mask of welcome and responsibility. When they reached the city square, it was clear that a speech was expected of her – at the top of a wide winding staircase that led to the city hall, a makeshift stage was in place, the city's coat of arms draping over the stone walls on elegant tapestry.

Inwardly, Cullen sighed. As Ellana began to ascend the steps, he guided his horse past her and underneath vaulting archways into the central courtyard of the keep. His troops needed feeding and a barracks. With Cassandra at her side, the Inquisitor was an impressive enough sight – she didn't need him and, much as he enjoyed watching her lead, he'd heard enough of her speeches in recent days.

He dismounted and fell into discussion with the quartermaster who waited within. Lady Guinevere had prepared the man, and Cullen had little to add to her instruction Distantly, he was aware of the rising and falling cadence of Ellana's voice, clear and firm though it was lost in the intermittent cheers that the crowd let out.

A boy appeared to take his horse but Cullen waved him away, leading the gelding into the stables himself.

The horse whinnied softly as Cullen removed the saddle and let out a long sigh. It was good to be out of the spotlight and surrounded by four walls again. He couldn't imagine how the Inquisitor spent so many nights on the road, sleeping on rocks and roots. She deserved better than that, and as he brushed his horse down in gentle concentric circles, he was glad for the lush accommodations Lady Guinevere had written of.

"You must be Commander Cullen." Cullen froze at the voice and spun. In the courtyard the crowd was cheering, the Inquisitor's speech coming to a roaring conclusion.

An elf, an older woman with silver hair and gentle spider webs framing deep golden eyes, stood behind him. Her hands were folded serenely, robes of green and silver cascading over her shoulders like water over rocks. Cullen kept his face neutral, but he felt his stance tense as he took in the mage's staff on her back.

"And you must be the Keeper of Clan Lavellan." He forced himself to step towards the mage and swept into a low bow. "It is an honour."

"Indeed, Commander," the Keeper reached out and was touching him before Cullen could pull back. Soft fingers at his chin, forcing him to look up at her. "I suspect the honour is more mine than yours."

Inexplicably, Cullen felt himself blushing. Yes, she was a mage, but she was also an elder of her people, wise with years and the object of much respect. He straightened, pulled out of her touch and found himself floundering for something to say. Why was it so hard? Something about elves – they conversed to different ebbs and flows than humans – with more deliberateness, pregnant pauses and knowing cadences that his human mind could not interpret.

"I, uh, that is." He cleared his throat, the sound too loud in the close confines of the stables. Behind him, his horse neighed lightly as if laughing at him. "We are glad to have reached Wycome in time. I understand it was a tenuous situation."

The Keeper laughs and it is a flowing, free sound – like Ellana when she decides to keep none of her mirth from her face. The woman turns and begins to exit the stables. Unsure what to do, Cullen falls in step beside her. Next to him, he is surprised to see that the Keeper is nearly as tall as he is, shoulders back and neck straight.

"I suspect the merchant lords would have slain us all if you had not come."

He glances at the elf, surprised at the calm voice in which she relays the words.

She tilts her face to him and takes in his expression with a bemused small smile.

"Fear breeds the need for blame, Commander, and promotes ignorance in the face of facts. Without the Inquisition's support, my clan made an easy target."

"Ah, of course." He says because he knows he needs to be saying something. Why was she lurking in the stables instead of out with the crowd? He decides to vocalize the thoughts because he does not know what else to say. "Were you not curious to see the Inquisitor's speech?"

Distantly, they can see Ellana through the vaulting archways of Wycome's inner keep. She stands at the top of a parapet and seems to be responding to questions from the mass of people below. Cassandra and Bull flank her, the elegant Lady Guinevere standing just behind.

"I was more curious to know the men and women to whom our daughter entrusts her life." The Keeper replies candidly. "I understand that she owes you her safety."

"Oh," Cullen rubs at the back of his neck as he walks alongside, feeling the awful poison of guilt seep through his skin for every time he'd let Ellana down. For outside Haven, or above Adamant. He cannot keep the bitterness from his tone, the sense of his own failures, as he begins to answer.

"The Inquisitor is more than capable of taking care of herself."

The woman says nothing at first and the sick sense of responsibility begins to fester in Cullen's stomach, resurfacing from where he'd thought he'd buried it. The memory of Ellana, cold and pale in his arms after they dug her out of the snow. The unbearable not-knowing that had swallowed them all when she disappeared into a vortex at Adamant. It hit him again like a solid gust let loose from a mage's staff and it's all he can do to put one foot in front of the other, keep pace with the Keeper.

They continue to walk slowly towards the platform where Ellana is discussing something intently with Josephine's agent. The crowd's cheers are fading and it's clear that the ceremony is ending.

"That has always been true of Ellana." Keeper Deshanna says suddenly. "Surviving on Kirkwall streets after only fifteen winters. Refusing to return to us even after her father was slain." The elf turns her face, holds Cullen's gaze with eyes that are surprisingly like his own. Molten and warm. "She has never quite walked the path we expected of her."

Cullen finds himself laughing, miraculously brought out of his guilt, hand at his neck again.

"That's certainly true."

"You must be very dear to her indeed if she brought you here."

He stops walking, looks at the Keeper. The woman only smiles, refusing to explain herself.

"Keeper Deshanna!" It is Ellana's voice that interrupts them; the Commander hadn't noticed that the Inquisitor and her entourage were approaching.

The Inquisitor steps up to Cullen and the older elf, her gaze curious as it flitted between the two of them. Cullen doesn't meet her eyes, instead scans over her head and is pleased to see that his lieutenant is conversing with Lady Guinevere, giving instructions to his men.

"Andaran atish'an," Ellana intones with a respectful lowering of her head as she reaches the Keeper.

"Child," Deshanna says warming, reaching out to pull Ellana into a hug. "There is no need for such formalities."

The Inquisitor tenses in the woman's arms and then relaxes, returning the embrace.

"We have followed the stories of your victories with great interest, da'len." The woman says into Ellana's hair. The Keeper is taller than their Inquisitor by some good inches, and Cullen realizes that even by eleven standards she is small.

The Commander clears his throat and looks away from their intimacy. He meets Cassandra's gaze and shares a smile – it is so easy to forget that the Inquisitor comes from somewhere. Has a place that will welcome her, a people that will shelter her. That she gives all of that up to lead them.

"Ellana!" A man's voice yells and Cullen's hand is at his sword hilt as a tall elf sprints up to them. Then, the Inquisitor is in his arms and they are laughing, twirling in a hug that makes Ellana look like the young woman she really is.

"Elhan!" Her arms are tight around his shoulders as he spins her and Cullen tries to dismiss the sick clenching in his stomach. This man – an elf with chestnut hair and tanned skin, dressed in light leathers that disguise the deadly control he moves with – is surely no threat. The Commander lets out a long breath and loosens his grip on his sword hilt, though he does not let his hand fall.

"Now, now," a voice mutters at his side and Cullen is annoyed to see Dorian watching him with a sly smile. "At ease, fearsome Commander."

He says nothing but narrows his eyes at the mage. He lets his gaze move beyond the inexplicable sight of Ellana smiling unreservedly, her arms tight around the unknown man's shoulders, and scans the courtyard for other potential threats.

"He's her brother, Commander," Dorian's words had abandoned their teasing tone, and he tried to ignore the way the man watched him with interest.

"Oh." Cullen feels the tension leave his body and somewhat foolishly drops his hand from his sword hilt. He studies Ellana and the other elf again, Dorian's words casting them in a new light. The same chestnut hair and emerald eyes, Cullen noticed as the two separated, and then, laughing, pulled each other into another hug.

Watching Ellana now, gleaming eyes and a radiant smile, Cullen felt an unexpected twinge of sadness. In all her many months with the Inquisition he'd never seen such joy on her face.

They pull apart again and Ellana finally turns to face them all, her cheeks flushed a pretty pink from her pleasure.

"Commander," she says, meeting his gaze before she moves on. "Cassandra, Bull, Dorian. This is my brother Elhan, and Keeper Deshanna, the leader of clan Lavellan."

"And these," she says to the elves this time, gesturing to where Cullen and the others are assembled. "Are the backbone of the Inquisition. Without them, I would not be standing here today."

Keeper Deshanna meets Cullen's eyes with a knowing smile and the Commander feels some of the familiar guilt return to pool in his stomach.

"I suspected as much," the Keeper says, her voice low and melodious. Then she turns her regal gaze on Ellana. "Come, child. We have much to discuss before the Merchant Council convenes tomorrow."

"I will go see to our troops," Cullen says more to Cassandra than to the Inquisitor who begins to walk away alongside her Keeper and her brother.

Cassandra glances at him, surprise on her brow.

"Surely, Lieutenant Dershal is capable of overseeing the barracking?"

"All the same," Cullen says because suddenly he desperately wants to be somewhere else, to have the space to clear his thoughts. "I like to be certain."

Cassandra gives him a flat stare that tells him she is not convinced, but she does not argue as Cullen slips away.

The Seeker was right, of course. Under Dershal's diligent supervision, the troops found their barracks and mess hall without complaint. Cullen supped with his soldiers, ignoring their questioning looks. He preferred dinner in the mess hall where conversation was not expected. It was easier than the double-edged questions of the merchant princes or the unfamiliar rhythms of conversation with elves. It also spared him more teasing from Dorian and Bull. Maker, the teasing.

Ever since that fateful day that he and the Inquisitor had fallen down a mineshaft outside Haven, he'd quietly borne the pointed jibes and sometimes lewd suggestions from just about every one of Ellana's companions. He'd tried and failed to put a stop to all the nonsense and settled for simply praying that the Inquisitor herself never got wind of the antics.

Never mind that since that night they'd spent together in the darkness, he'd found himself thinking of her at the most unlikely of times. Remembering the warmth of her in his arms, the scent of her soft hair and the feeling of her voice against his neck. The memories came in the training yard, when he caught of glimpse of her taking the stairs courtyard two at a time because Ellana Lavellan was always in a hurry to be somewhere. They interrupted him inappropriately in the midst of a meeting when he found that his gaze was resting on her delicate face for a moment too long. And when sleep proved elusive and the deadly need for lyrium overwhelmed him, he let himself get lost in the recollection of their night together, pictured her patient soft voice and the insistent encouragement she'd dispense if only she knew how he struggled.

Never mind that the memories plagued him each time she left Skyhold, her companions in tow, to face some impossible danger. That they tore him apart on the snowy night that Haven fell as held her frozen form close to his chest and thought that he had lost her.

Never mind that his growing interest in the Inquisitor had long ago crossed the line into unprofessionalism, that it clouded his judgement and endangered their shared goals. In the midst of a swirling thunderstorm that engulfed Adamant, he'd watched her plummet a hundred yards, somehow knew that it was her in mortal danger even before she'd open the portal and whisked them all away.

In the aftermath of the green light that sundered their world, he'd felt himself spiral out of control, stumble as if the ground beneath his feet was something temporary, fleeting, impossible in a world that existed without her. His troops had needed his guidance and yet he found himself gasping, armour too heavy and blood-stained sword dead in his hands. What was the point of it all if she wasn't there to lead him?

Rylen had taken over in that moment of his lapse. But it shouldn't have happened – he owed his men and Lavellan more than distraction born of an unhealthy obsession.

When Ellana's companions had come back, stumbling out of the green haze without the Inquisitor, Cullen had fallen to his knees. The demons rained forth but function abandoned him.

And then suddenly, she'd been there. Stepping forward out of the portal, raising her hand as if she'd always done this, as if she was born for that very moment. She ripped the demons from the world with a single ferocious twist of her wrist. Delivered a speech and made a dozen decisions before his mind had a chance to catch up.

He couldn't speak to her then, not when he was realizing that his interest in her had threatened them all. He'd avoided the Inquisitor, made excuses when she tried to see him in the command tent, and stayed distant when she finally decided to head back to Skyhold ahead of the army.

But once she was gone, several days beyond them, Cullen found his thoughts returning to that single quiet moment they shared. Baring their histories in the darkness of a mineshaft, bodies slotted together in a way that felt so right.

Snap out of it. Cullen ground his teeth in frustration. It was easy to lose himself in the onslaught of memory and guilt. He'd let her down so many times, and that very fact tore at him, caused him to disappoint more than just the Inquisitor. It wasn't healthy. Not for himself, or the Inquisitor, or for his soldiers.

And yet he is constantly confronted with her. He happens upon her now as he enters the great hall of the Wycome central keep. She is seated on the far end of the massive room, knees pulled up in a too-large plush couch, her brother seated across from her. They converse softly in front of a fire that cackles merrily in a fireplace set into the wall.

Cullen leans against the doorway, happy for a moment to observe the Inquisitor from afar. She's speaking, animated, her hands gesturing though he cannot make out the words across the distance. Her brother is laughing, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The firelight bathes them both in flickering orange light.

He was heading for his guest quarters, but despite himself he finds he cannot move. He wants to add this memory to his vault – Ellana Lavellan, expression unguarded and safe. The threat to her people is averted, and he is thrilled to know that he played a part in that. That he has helped earn the easy smile on her lips, in her eyes, ensured that the worry and fear of their ride over was replaced with something she deserved.

"Pining is not attractive, Commander." They sound like Dorian's words, but the Nevarran accent is unmistakeably Cassandra.

He turns and gives the woman a tired glare. The Seeker is still in her armour – even Cullen had changed to a buttoned uniform shirt – and she watches him with a bemused smile, a hand on her hip.

"I'm not pining," but the words sound false even to his own ears. "I was just taking a moment to be grateful."

Cassandra laughs and rests a hand on his shoulder, stepping up to his side. Servants criss-cross through the great hall, footsteps and voices echoing, and on the other side of the room, Ellana and her brother are unaware of Seeker and the Commander.

"Grateful that that's her brother and not some long-ago elven lover?"

"Cassandra!" He swats at her arm, moving out of her reach. "I thought you were above all this."

The Seeker shrugged.

"Far be it from me to speculate as to your feelings, Commander." The Nevarran woman meets Cullen's gaze without hesitation. Cassandra was always painfully direct. "All I know is that the Inquisitor is lucky to enjoy such diligent protection."

"I…" Cullen let the words die. He had no idea what he was going to say anyway. At movement in his peripheral vision, they both turn to look at the Inquisitor. Her brother is standing, clasping her shoulder fondly and then walking off down a hallway at the far end of the room.

"Cullen." Cassandra says suddenly and something in her voice arrests his attention. "The Inquisitor has been hurt badly in the past."

"You mean after that dragon in the Hinterlands?" He's not sure where's she's going with this.

The Seeker lets out an angry huff.

"Don't be stupid." She jabs him in the chest with a finger. "I mean in matters of the heart."

"Oh." Cullen tries to say something more, but nothing comes. It crushes him to think of Ellana, wide green eyes and ready trust, in pain, the object of someone's cruelty. What could Cassandra mean?

"I do not know what feelings she has for you," the Seeker continues, unwilling to wait for his mind to catch up and words to form. "But she has noticed your… unusual behaviour. Your avoidance."

"I don't…"

"You owe her an explanation." She nods towards the Inquisitor and Cullen looks over. Ellana is sitting, knees up and her gaze on the fireplace. She's made no move to rise now that her brother has departed. "Now is as fine a time as any."

"I can't…" he gestures with his hands, willing Cassandra to somehow understand the risk he poses. He's already coming undone at the seams - the need for lyrium seems stronger each day. How could she ask him to act on feelings that would further endanger their cause?

But when he thinks on her words, he knows that what he wants is different from what he says. Badly hurt in the past - a part of him yearns to be the one to right those wrongs.

"I'm not telling you to do anything," Cassandra says as she begins to walk away. "Just speak with her."

And then the Seeker is gone, disappearing down a different hallway.

Cullen lets out a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Ellana is still facing the fire, seemingly content to remain where she was. She'd noticed his avoidance then, Cassandra claimed. He didn't want that - didn't want her thinking that somehow she'd done wrong.

That was all then, he told himself, as he propelled into motion. He owed her something more than a cold shoulder. His long strides took him up to the side of the couch where she sat, and she looked up at him, dark eyes widening slightly in surprise.

"Cullen, there you are." She smiled, soft and warm and he found himself immediately smiling back. "We missed you at dinner."

"Ah, yes," he says, hand at his neck. "I wanted to ensure that our soldiers were properly settled."

"Of course," she says, gaze drifting away and back to the fire. "We did it Cullen."

"Inquisitor?" He asked, standing awkwardly at the side of the couch. With nowhere to look, he followed her gaze and let his eyes rest on the dancing flames in the ostentatious fireplace. Thing was large enough to roast a Ferelden charger. No wonder Wycome's people were angry with their Duke.

"My clan is safe. Wycome is at peace." She leans into the couch and lets her head rest back with a sigh. Cullen can't help but let his eyes follow the smooth column of her neck, exposed as her head lolls. She's out of her armour, he notices, dressed in a loose cotton shirt and slim breeches.

She opens one eye and looks at him, and then suddenly she's laughing. Cullen stutters something inarticulate and looks away, embarrassed but feeling a smile on his own face.

"Why don't you sit with me, Commander?" she gestures to the spot next to her on the couch.

Cullen clears his throat awkwardly. He'd planned to sit where her brother had, in the chair across from the couch. Since that night in Haven he hadn't let himself too close to Ellana. And even then he'd been wearing armour, something firm and distinct when compared to the fabric of his dark fitted shirt.

But unable to think of a reason to do otherwise, he steps around the couch and settles down next to her.

"There." She says, turning her face to watch him. He dislikes the teasing glint in her eye, the mischievous smile that curls on her lips. "Not so bad, right?"

"What do you mean, Inquisitor?"

"Well, you've been avoiding me lately," her words are matter of fact, Cassandra-direct. "So I assumed it was something about my presence that was downright unbearable."

"No, no of course not-" he says quickly, hands up as if somehow his gestures can explain. He interrupts himself with a frustrated sigh and leans back into the couch. It is soft - the Marquis D'Seur hadn't exaggerated when he described the lush imported treasures of Wycome.

"Cullen," she tilts her head to one side, bringing it down so she can peer up into his eyes. He's disarmed at the sound of his name in her voice, at the soft way she presses with her words, gently asking to know more. He cannot deny her anything when those eyes display a quiet worry that undermines her attempts at levity. She truly suspects that she has done something wrong.

"What is it?" Her voice is hushed and suddenly the cavernous space around them seems too still. Where had all the servants gone, he wonders, but he cannot pull his eyes from hers to look about.

"I…" the words faded and he wondered how he could dig himself out of this mess. With a million and one things on her to do list, sparing her Commander's feelings should not be a priority for the Inquisitor. He swallowed and leaned back again, wrenching his gaze away so that he could stare at something – anything – other than her.

"Leliana wasn't wrong," he said finally, eyes fixedly on the fire before them.

"Wrong about what?" she'd dropped one knee onto the couch between them, her boots on the ground and her torso turned towards him. He cast a sidelong glance at her, but had to look away at the frank concern on her face.

"When she said that I was…" How to put it? "Stewing in guilt? Leliana wasn't wrong when she said that."

"Cullen, you're here now helping me save the people who raised me." Her tone is uncomprehending. "What's to feel guilty about?"

He sighs again, raking a hand through his hair. When the words finally come, they start tumbling out because he doesn't know any other way to make her understand.

"We looked for you for hours." His throat is suddenly dry, his voice hoarse. "In the snow after Haven. Cole was muttering gibberish. Cassandra was silent. We waded through the snow for so long and I felt this feeling." His fingers clench in front of him and he cannot look at the Inquisitor, cannot bring himself to witness the confusion that is undoubtedly all over her face. "Resentment, I suppose. For Cole, for making us think you could survive."

"Cullen…" she shifts closer on the couch, puts one hand on his arm but he doesn't look at her, just keeps talking.

"And then," he swallowed, blinking back emotion and hating the way that his throat tightened. "We found you." He finally brings himself to look at her, incredulously shaking his head as he looks down at the elf with wonder.

"You were half buried in the snow and when I pulled you out I was sure you were dead."

He hears Ellana breathe in sharply, suddenly.

"You were," his eyes trail off from her face, unfocused and fixed on some point behind her head. "so cold."

The Commander gulps down the emotions that press at his chest and he meets her gaze again.

"But you survived." Cullen can't help it now; he brings a hand up and cups her cheek, his calloused fingers rough against the softness of the skin across her cheekbones. "I don't know if it's the Maker or the Creators or something else. But you're a walking miracle, Ellana Lavellan."

Her eyes widen and a flush stains her cheeks, just visible in the warm orange light of the fireplace. She holds his gaze, lips slightly parted, but for once the Inquisitor is without response.

Suddenly, the intimacy of their pose, the softness of the couch beneath them, the heat of the firelight all becomes too much. Cullen drops his hand and turns away from her again. He needs to keep going now that he's begun this rambling monologue.

"And then we lost you again." He lets out a heavy sigh that moves his shoulders. "At Adamant."

"That wasn't your fault, Cullen." Her absolution comes quick – Ellana is always ready to forgive, to see the best in others.

"No, of course not," he says, hand at his neck again. "But what happened next. I didn't… cope well."

"Cullen the siege was a success."

"No," he interrupts, firm, because he cannot have her idealizing him. "You don't understand. When we saw you disappear I just… lost it. The troops looked to me for answers but I had nothing. I couldn't function. Without Rylen there, who knows –"

Suddenly her fingers are on his lips and she's inside the bubble of his personal space, nearly on his lap and he cannot breathe for her closeness.

"Cullen," her face is just inches from his, her eyes round, endlessly green and intent on his. "It's not your fault."

He blinks at her, wants to deny it, to explain so that she'd finally understand, but the pressure of her two fingers against his lips stills him.

"We all freeze, Commander." She insists, and try as he might to focus on her words, he's fitfully distracted by the warmth of her legs against his thighs, her left hand on his shoulder. She lets the fingers of the right hand fall from his lips but she doesn't move back. "And we all have limits. Things that will push us over the edge."

Don't you see, his mind rails at her though he is paralyzed by her nearness. You can't be the one who pushes me over. You can't be my limit.

"Ellana…" that's twice now he's tasted flow of her name on his tongue and he wonders if he's ever before used her given name. "I've never fe-"

"Hush." She says, suddenly, and then she's turned, facing away from him but curling under the crook of his arm, pressing close against his side.

"Thank you," she says, resting her head against his chest and Cullen is transported back to their shared memory, a mineshaft and the darkness, cold stone at his back and a warm elf in his arms. Compared to a couch in Wycome, plush fabric by the fireside and neither of them battle-ready in armour, their present situation was a markedimprovement.

"For explaining?" Cullen asks because he cannot believe what he almost told her and is desperate to cling to the new direction she's given the conversation. Thank the Maker she'd interrupted him, aborting the ill-conceived confession that nearly escaped his lips.

He shifts ever so slightly to pull her closer and lets his arm tighten around her shoulders without thinking. She's set these terms and he would stand by them.

"For digging me out of the snow after Haven." Curled against him as she is, he cannot see her face. He wonders if her eyes are as thoughtful as her words sound. "For holding the demons off at Adamant long enough for us to return from the fade."

She twists and he knows she's looking up at him now. He meets her gaze, gold on green, and feels an overwhelming urge to bring his lips down to hers. She's so close, so warm, and a foolish part of him suspects she would not stop him if he tried.

"For being here, leagues away from the thousand other things you should be doing now."

He smiles into her eyes, knowing that he cannot act on his sudden desire. Instead, he replies:

"There is no place I would rather be."

She smiles and he feels it in his heart. For a moment, it seems like she'll lean forward, close the gap between their faces in a kiss.

But then her gaze breaks away and she nestles her head against his neck. The same warm feeling of soft hair and skin. He'd never imagined that he would feel it again.

"I need time, Commander." She says softly and he finds himself immediately agreeing even as his mind scrambles to comprehend.

"Of course."

Time for what? Had she felt the unspoken sentiment of his nearly-confession? Words he'd sworn he'd never let out, lurking just below their conversation, embarrassingly close to the surface. Somehow, she'd managed to disarm him completely, disable his intent with her insistent eyes and prodding words.

"I…" she gulps and he wonders what it is that she is not saying. What were her secrets, held close to her chest and out of the light? Hurt once before, Cassandra had said. "Will you stay here with me, Commander?"

He smiles at the patent nervousness in her tone. His arm tightens and he pulls her even closer than he thought was possible. Her knees slip over one thigh and he is amazed at how warm she is.

"Of course."

She smiles and he hears it in her voice.

"Thank you."

He tightens his arm again, sinking down into the couch.

"Anything for you, Inquisitor."

They stay like that through the night, and when Dorian nudges them awake in the morning with an annoying toe and a knowing smile, they smile back and slip apart.