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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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Cullen rubs at his face. "That's..." Visibly searching for a word. "Awful."

Then he draws himself up. "Right. Well. Conversation. What d'you want to talk about?"

"Well..."

He settles in more comfortably, knees half-drawn to his chest, one arm slung across them.

"Crestwood's a rather miserable place, we can all agree. What brings you through here?"

"I passed through Amaranthine not too long ago. I'd been -- hiding. Along the Storm Coast."

Cullen speaks to his kneecaps.

"Got the news there. Inquisition takes in mages. And they seem to be the only ones who are doing anything, so -- if it's safe at their fortress, then, then... I could be useful."

A little more wry, in an unpleasant sort of way: "And not murdered on sight."

Alistair snorts a quiet laugh, with almost no humor to it. "Yes, that does tend to raise their esteem, doesn't it."

He drums his fingers against his leg.

"There's a chance you might meet the Inquisitor if you stick around long enough." A little quieter. "Someone I know -- "

Wait. Cullen mentioned Kirkwall. How long was he there? How much of that overlapped with Hawke's time in the city? Wisely, for now, Alistair decides to keep his mouth shut.

" -- she's encountered Corypheus as well and took the matter to the Inquisition. Last I heard, they'd be in touch personally."

Cullen furrows his brow, looking up.

"I know they're not the Chantry, but they might as well be, and -- they don't send their leaders into the field. You really think...?"

Alistair shrugs.

"She might not," he says. "But it sounded possible, from the letter I received. More than possible." Another quirk of a smile. "Even if it's only my contact and a few members of the Inquisition, you'll have a much easier time getting back to the fortress if you aren't traveling alone."

Cullen looks --

Fearful. He looks fearful.

"I suppose it's -- less dangerous than presenting myself at their fortress." This almost to himself. "Easier to escape, if need be."

Alistair nods.

Then, more cautiously: "Do you know Marian Hawke?"

(It's the fear that does it. If they're allies, it may reassure Cullen; if they're not...well, better Cullen be informed than receive a further shock whenever Hawke turns up at the cave's mouth.)

He wraps his arms around himself. "I -- yes. Not well. She -- helped, once. When someone was trying to -- well. Possess templar recruits. I'd gone after one, and -- "

(His voice got tighter, as he spoke.)

"She and her friends arrived in a timely manner."

All right. That seems -- promising.

Alistair continues to speak carefully, though, when he says, "She's my contact. Is why I asked. So whenever they arrive -- the Inquisitor may not be there, but she definitely will be."

Cullen runs his hands over his face and lets out a shaky sigh.

"That's... awkward." Beat. "She -- doesn't know. Nobody there knew why I left."

Alistair stifles a wince, with little success.

"Do you think she'd bring you harm if she knew?"

She didn't seem particularly inclined to strike down Alistair where he stood, when he ran into her as Kirkwall was falling down around their ears. That could've just been because there were more important matters at hand, though.

Like, you know, Kirkwall falling down around their ears.

Cullen shrugs, roughly, closing in on himself even further.

"I don't know. I'd deserve it, but -- I don't know. I left before the Qunari invasion." Then, before he can stop himself: "I'd deserve it if you did it. Or anyone. It's just a matter of when it'll happen."

Alistair's quiet a moment.

(Not for too long. The music begins to swell in short order; he gives his head an irritable shake as if to dislodge it.)

"Well," he says at last, quiet once more, "it won't happen here tonight. I'd understand if you wanted to leave before Hawke turns up, but it may be a while yet. So if you need shelter for a little longer..."

He shrugs.

"It might as well be Hawke as anyone else."

Toneless. Cullen still isn't looking at him.

"Whether or not I've dry feet for the occasion is up to you."

If Cullen wants to go to the Inquisition, Alistair's of the firm belief that it's safer if the Inquisition comes to him. An apostate as concerned with staying in hiding as Cullen won't have been tested much, he suspects, and years of watching over mages can't compare to reaching for the Fade yourself. Yes, Cullen's made it this far alone, and he's still got that sword at his side --

But Thedas has rarely been kind to mages.

And Alistair's feeling -- protective, after receiving so little protection from Clarel in the end.

"It's a big cave." Gentler. "Plenty of room for two." He points to Cullen. "If you snore I reserve the right to throw half my bedroll at you, though."

"I won't," he says softly. "You don't have to worry about that."

Cullen draws back from the fire a little. "What do you want in return?"

A small smile. "Not snoring is enough for me," he says.

Now that he's certain Cullen won't go running to the village yelling aaaah, a mage!

Cullen fingers the cuff of his still-damp socks.

"No one gives something for nothing."

"It's not nothing," he protests. "Someone at the Circle in the bunk below mine, for three years he snored like a thunderclap almost every night. I'd fall asleep during my studies and wake up with a book stuck to my face from the drool."

Alistair shakes his head, mournfully.

"All those ruined books. All that time scrubbing floors in punishment."

"You know what I mean," Cullen says.

He draws his knees up closer. Wraps his arms around. Rests his head on them.

No jokes, then. Right.

The humor drains away. Alistair sighs. "All right. If you truly think that," he says softly, "then you can help me find provisions tomorrow, if that'll make you feel better."

"All right." He's relieved, and he doesn't bother hiding it. "Just -- tell me what you need. And I'll get it."

Or give Alistair some of his own meager stores. One or the other.

It hurts Alistair's heart, a little, to see that.

"Anything that'll keep well, I suppose," he says, rather than spinning out some big, fanciful request involving a whole roast pig and fine wines and cheeses. "Perhaps a little more bread. There's game around here that isn't a complete festering horrid mess -- plants, too, but they're harder to come by."

He flicks a finger at the fire, absently: the magical equivalent of nudging a log with his boot to kick the flames a bit higher.

"We can work together on it. Split up tasks, something like that."

"Whatever I've got, you're welcome to it all." Faintly, without moving. "There's bread. Bannock, nothing fancy, but it's only a day or two old."