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When Cullen comes across the body, as he hikes in from the north, he gets the message immediately: this is not a place where he can reveal himself.

In the rain, oiled hood pulled over his head, Cullen crouches by the corpse. Female. Elven, he thinks. Circle robes. No one he recognizes. Probably came to Kinloch after the Blight. Five or six arrow shafts still in her chest.

In this weather, it's hard to get anything to burn. Even with magic. The best he can do is hope a wandering demon won't decide to take possession -- undead are one thing. Arcane horrors are something else entirely.

Not for the first time, he feels the swell of frustration, followed by a wave of guilt: there's so much he doesn't know, so much he could use to protect people --

And you could have learned it. If you didn't run.

Even then, Cullen knows it's not true. Not the way things were going in Kirkwall.

He straightens and hefts his pack again. If he's to find shelter before nightfall, he's got to get a move on. There are caves, he knows, all through the country. One of them should do for the night, if it's free of spiders. He should start looking past the keep, where all the bandits are.

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"Yes."

At last, he settles at ease, the butt of his staff on the ground. Alistair runs the best calculations he can. Cullen looks nearly as bad as he did ten years ago, and perhaps he'll be kind enough not to murder Alistair because of the help he and Mahariel gave him at Kinloch -- but a Templar is still a Templar, and Alistair is feeling a lot more exposed than he was five minutes ago.

This strategic math would be so much easier if he knew he could fall back on the Wardens for protection.

Evenly: "Just to get out of the rain, you said?"

"Yes." A little hoarsely, as he shifts from foot to foot, and folds his arms across his chest. "I just -- I wanted to help them. But I need to stay out of sight. They murdered -- there's a dead mage by the docks. She wanted to help, too."

Alistair's mouth twists, unsurprised. He nods and gives Cullen another once-over.

Easy to understand why they'd kill a mage. Things must be bad enough with the Templar Order that the locals are anxious to kill a few of them, too. Even the ones that might want to help.

"All right." Quiet. "Suppose I'll build up the fire a little more for us, then."

He slides his staff back into place between his shoulders.

Cullen looks --

Surprised, a little. But more fearful. Afraid of Alistair. His shoulders hunch forward as he pulls up his hood.

"You -- I don't want to, to intrude -- I can go. I'll go."

Alistair gathers an armful of branches from a pile in the corner. Adding them to the fire, he coaxes the flames a little higher with a wave of his hand, until he's sure the fresh wood has caught.

Without looking up from the task, he says, "If it's bad enough they're killing anyone who wants to help, not just mages, then I wouldn't advise wandering around. You'll either catch a cold or a knife to the back."

He raises his eyes from the fire.

Wry, "So long as you're not planning to kill me or drag me off anywhere, that is."

Not just mages, he says.

Cullen closes his eyes for just a moment in what looks like pain.

"I'm not, but -- "

Alistair gets another fearful look.

A pretty little flame, strictly controlled, springs from Cullen's palm, presented for Alistair's perusal.

Alistair's eyes fly wide. Everything briefly forgotten -- even the false Calling still humming away in his head -- he scrambles to his feet, staring at the tiny flame in Cullen's hand.

"What? Wait, no -- " He waves his hands as if to set his thoughts in a better order. "What? You're a -- how? What? Since when?"

"Kirkwall."

His voice shakes a little on the word.

"I don't know why it was this late."

Alistair swears under his breath. Roughly, he drags a hand through his hair, eyes never leaving the fire cradled in Cullen's palm.

"Well, there's an awful irony for you," he says -- a little quieter, a little more gentle. He glances up to Cullen's face. "How much have you learned so far?"

Cullen lets the flame go out, then rubs his palm like it's sore.

"I -- paid attention. During lessons. The -- parts of templar training helped with control."

He's absolutely not meeting Alistair's gaze.

"I'm -- I'm safe. I think. From, from possession. I'm careful. I never sleep much."

Alistair lets out a long, near-silent breath.

"Staying up 'til all hours isn't the best way to avoid possession," he says, not unkindly. "It depletes you. You don't want to weaken to the point you drop. But -- I think everyone tries that first, once the Circle puts the fear of the Maker in them. You're not alone."

Cullen makes himself even smaller.

He mutters, "I don't sleep anyway. Even before. Ever since -- well. You know. And I keep to myself. No one to hurt."

That...isn't particularly reassuring, but Alistair lets it go. He doesn't know the man well enough to push.

"Well," he sighs instead, and folds down to sit next to the fire, "if you're worried about hurting me, don't. I've some idea of how to handle novices. Templar-trained ones might be another matter, but -- " he waves a dismissive hand, "I doubt it. So you're welcome to warm up and have some provisions as long as you're here."

Cullen hovers with indecision.

Maybe this will get him killed, but he has to -- he has to.

"What... did I... do anything to you? At, at Kinloch Hold?" Beat. "Because I'm sorry. Whatever it is -- I'm, I'm so sorry."

"You didn't do anything."

He leans over, rummaging through a nearby sack to unearth a wrapped bundle of food.

"Said some things, but nothing I haven't heard before. Mahariel calmed you down soon enough anyway. Don't worry about it."

Cullen is only a small loss of self-possession away from wringing his hands.

Instead he inches around to the far side of the fire, his back to the stone of the cave, and gets as far away as he can while still being said to 'warm up.' He sits, keeping his eyes on his kneecaps.

All right. Well.

Alistair unwraps the parcel: some bread, stale but still edible, and a few slices of cured meat. He offers some of each to Cullen.

"No worms, no fuzzy bits. Promise," he says.

Cullen shakes his head, drawing back further. Faintly: "Wardens. Need what you've got. Won't take it."

Alistair sighs again. "I've survived on far less before," he points out, but tucks the food back into the parcel rather than insist Cullen take it.

As he nibbles on his own share, he makes himself tune into the noise of the crackling fire; it's either that or listen to the sweetly horrifying music circling around his mind. Since striking out on his own, Alistair's spent more than a few nights talking to himself like a madman just to drown out the Calling; he's not about to do it with another person present, though.

Which means his chewing slows, eventually, and his gaze unfocuses as he watches the fire, briefly lost to the world.

Alistair doesn't seem offended enough to -- to do anything untoward.

Slowly, carefully, Cullen starts to shed layers. The cave floor is clean enough; he stretches out his coat, so it can dry. Same with his jerkin. His linen shirt is -- damp. But it's not three wet layers. It's just one. Linen dries quickly.

"Should do the socks," he mumbles to himself, and starts with his boots.

Alistair blinks, gaze refocusing. (It takes a little effort.) "Hm?"

Cullen's head shoots up -- and then he colors.

"Sorry. Just... reminding myself. Of what to do." He gestures toward his half-unlaced boots, and goes back to work. "Long day."

Which is, all things considered, an impressive understatement.

Ah. His mouth quirks in a half-smile.

"I've been there," he says. "Prattle on as much as you need. I don't mind."

"Even if it's about wet socks?" he mumbles to his boots.

"Even then."

Still with that crooked smile, Alistair taps his temple.

"It's better than what I'm listening to up here."