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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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"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."

"No need," murmurs Alistair. "I've enough of my own for tonight. And we'll have more tomorrow."

Cullen shakes his head a little and doesn't reply.

It's not -- Alistair isn't getting it. There's a price to pay for safety, Cullen is trying his best to pay it, the least Alistair can do is just shut up and take it.

If it weren't for the fact that he's been soaked through to the bone for longer than he cares to think about, Cullen would go.

As is, he reaches into an interior pocket of his coat, pulls out the small oilcloth-wrapped bundle of stale bread and dried apple and cheese, and rolls it in Alistair's direction.

Well. Apparently Cullen isn't going to be satisfied until Alistair's willingly starved him out of...not house and home, but clothes and pack. Or something.

Stifling another sigh, he stops the bundle with his palm. Gives Cullen a long look before he opens it. Alistair can't stop himself from hesitating for a beat before breaking off a small portion of cheese, murmuring a thank you as he does.

(The thing about being a Warden: it's a thankless job by design. You don't do it for glory, or praise, or payment -- and even if this isn't exactly Warden business, it makes Alistair itch uncomfortably to be rewarded for the basic decency of sharing shelter.)

Cullen's look in return is flat -- at least until Alistair takes something.

Then he settles his head back on his knees and closes his eyes. Mission accomplished.

"I've met my match." Gently wry. "I've been out-stubborned. But I'll accept my defeat and this cheese graciously."

"Just take what you're entitled to like everyone else." Muffled.

Alistair's eyebrows rise.

"Entitled?" he repeats.

Cullen doesn't answer. The exhaustion's starting to get to him; it's a struggle to keep from drowsing.

Alistair lets out a breath. "All right. If you say so."

He doesn't sound angry, or upset -- not even annoyed. Resigned, mostly; like he's humoring Cullen, except there's no actual humor to it.

He separates another piece of cheese from the main hunk, rewraps the bundle, and watches the fire as he nibbles the food.

Slowly his shoulders come down from around his ears; his breathing slows, deepens.

It's been -- too long. Since he could sleep in a dry place without having to keep an ear open. The adrenaline's left him. (And he's more stubborn than hungry.)

It can only be a good thing if Cullen gets some sleep. Too long without can lead to bad decisions, bad choices -- a sloppiness no apostate can afford.

Is Alistair going to follow his own advice? Absolutely not!

(That's the other fun part of the Calling: his nightmares haven't been this bad since the Fifth Blight.)

Losing his conversation partner means he'll have to make his own fun, though, lest the song start driving him mad. Alistair gets up to rummage through his pack, as quietly as he can: he's certain he has a deck of cards somewhere. The Corypheus research will wait until he can talk to himself again.