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He will not face Ysalwen in templar plate.

Cullen isn't entirely sure about this whole 'sword instruction for arcane warriors' enterprise, but that's the one thing he is entirely positive about: he will not face one of his former charges like this in the uniform of the Order.

What this means is that after much dithering and fretting -- too much, he tells himself sternly; it's a simple problem, with a simple solution -- he produces simple black leather armor, a purely functional cuirass, and plain pauldrons, vambraces, and greaves.

The goal is to only be the regular, average kind of threatening.

Whatever his goals, Cullen is standing out back looking at the lake in the company of two practice swords, a wooden shield, a slim book with a plain cover, and a jug of switchel at his feet. He is frowning, as though the lake has offended him.

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His hand stills on Liranan's head.

Cullen breathes in.

Out again.

Says, dry:

"So much for that childhood memory."

"No, it's still sweet! She tells stories about Honnleath sometimes."

Ysalwen grimaces, but only a little, still staring up at the sky.

"Some things I did not want to know about what people got up to under the statue after dark."

Now you know, Cullen! Sharing is caring.

Liranan licks Cullen's face.

Cullen wrinkles his nose -- both thanks to the mabari, and to Ysalwen's comment.

"I assure you," he says, "none of those stories were about me."

"They're probably about people that got married, eventually."

Well.

"I hope they did, anyway. It seems -- nice."

Cullen's ears are turning pink.

"I -- wouldn't know. About them. And anything they -- I wasn't -- "

Has she not punished him enough today that they need to talk about -- illicit liaisons underneath a statue that was apparently watching the whole time?

"Not that."

Oh Maker, save them from themselves.

Her own cheeks are pink, because this is Cullen, and somehow that makes a difference.

Maybe it's his own awkwardness reflecting outward forever and forever.

Maybe.

"Just. Marriage and children. It seems -- normal. Nice."

So... licit liaisons. He doesn't think that's much better. Not in this particular conversation, anyhow.

"I hadn't thought about it," says Cullen.

Not for a very long time, anyhow. Ysalwen can probably guess when it stopped being an option.

"I did a little. Once. After Zevran."

Meeting him, taking him to bed, falling in love with him -- all of it and none of it, and still a little now. Maybe.

"The Joining changes a lot of things. Not everything, but -- "

The earring in her right ear is a comfort, and she focuses on the feeling of it resting against her neck for a few moments.

He should probably ask. He's not sure if he's allowed.

(If she talks, he doesn't have to. And there's only one other way these family inquiries can go, if the focus stays on him, and Cullen would much prefer not to dwell upon how ashamed his dead parents would be of the man he's become, or how they might blame themselves for his failures.)

"You've mentioned Zevran before," he ventures.

There. A gambit that Ysalwen can take or abandon, as she likes.

Her color deepens, even though Cullen probably cannot see.

"I apologize for that. He's um. He's my partner. And the ex-Crow I mentioned having around to help break me out of Weisshaupt, if it has to go that way."

That will be fun.

"And also the Crow that Loghain hired to kill me and Alistair, back in the beginning. So."

She sure did take that gambit.

She sure did.

"You might have mentioned," he says, dust-dry, "that I was wasting your time with all this sword nonsense when you've got a perfectly talented assassin at your service who can teach you far more."

"He doesn't use a sword," she says, actually pushing herself up on her elbows so she can look at Cullen.

So.

"I'm not built for stealth. Death and destruction, sure, but not stealth. He can't -- teach me. Except maybe some of the acrobatics. But the blade, and attacking from the front -- that's what I need to know. And want to know."

How does she keep messing this up?

Cullen is currently frowning at the clouds.

"You'd be better served by learning to fight dirty," he says. "If your goal's to have them underestimate you. And I mean this as praise -- an assassin will have much better skills there than I ever will. But I suppose you've had quite enough of my opinions."

Her brow furrows.

"Why do you say that?"

Where did that even come from?

"I do take your point about learning to fight dirty, though. I'll be sure to ask him. I promise."

Ysalwen will definitely not forget. But --

"But I don't -- why do you think I don't want to listen to what you have to say?"

Cullen breathes out, eyes closing.

There are... several things he could say. The question is whether it's worth the energy. Whether he can manage to say what he means to say without making things worse.

Probably not.

(No way in hell.)

Weary: "It doesn't matter. You should -- if you've had enough of a break, now's as good a time as any for your daily exercises."

"It matters," she says it quietly, then stands up and picks up the practice sword.

"But you get to choose. So."

Liranan whines a little, very quietly, and butts his damp nose against Cullen's shoulder.

"What two exercises do you want me to do?"

Without opening his eyes, or acknowledging the mabari:

"First two in the book. Or any of the first exercises, I suppose."

"All right."

Animation has leached out of her voice, but she goes to the book, opens it, finds the exercises, reads them and looks at the diagrams silently, props the open book up on a slightly larger rock, hoping to make it visible to herself as she practices, and stands.

"All right."

Stroke one, wrist just so, grip flexible but strong, not too tight, movement through the center of the body and down through the legs, steady and stable as the earth.

Okay.

And again.

He's listening. Counting.

Somewhere around fifteen, Cullen's eyes open.

Somewhere around twenty, he sits up and says, "Watch your front leg -- too much weight."

She bites her lip and concentrates, but can't seem to tell the difference, or what the right difference is.

So she asks.

"More weight on the back, or less weight on each?"

"Neither -- it's about proper alignment."

Cullen rolls to his feet. "When you're lunging forward, you're bringing your shoulders and hips out of alignment, and that puts the bulk of your balance on the front."

He's demonstrating. "Which makes it a simple matter for someone to knock you down, or get around your guard, because should you need to step back, your shoulders have further to go -- "

And another demonstration, in which he stands on one leg and pulls his shoulders back too far, losing his balance. "So you're top-heavy. And that moment you have to take to catch yourself is a moment you can't afford. You'll want to do it like this -- "

The right way, this time. He goes through the motions.

She studies him carefully, and more than that she studies where his feet are pushing against the ground.

Then, slowly and very deliberately she shifts her own position to match his, frowning very slightly as she does so.

And then she remembers his injunction not to talk, so she says nothing, just repeats the movement again. Nope, too much weight, still.

Hmm.

And again.

Oh. There, that feels less -- maybe that's closer.

" -- yes," Cullen says, with approval. "Just like that. Good. Keep going."

Once, twice, and then it feels wrong again. Wrist and feet this time. Her frown deepens, and she shifts her position and -- there, again she feels the difference between having it and not.

One, two, three, four, five -- another adjustment, sweat beading up on her brow, her upper lip, and the back of her neck under her hair.

And again.

After the second time she self-corrects, he nods, and goes to lean against the rock, watching her.

He'd hoped she'd be able to self-correct. It'll make the rest of it much easier.