Every time he tries to back off and give Cullen space, Alistair's hindbrain insists -- despite all evidence to the contrary -- that he's leaving Cullen behind. Discarding him. Abandoning him.

But as he said earlier: he can be trained.




Twenty minutes later, the door creaks again. Alistair heaves his way up the ladder with some effort. It becomes clear why soon enough: he's got an entire basket of food, not just a tray.

"Tiny roast birds of some sort," he announces, "beef stew, little custard tarts, a couple apples, some berries, and a bottle of wine someone shoved at me on the way which can keep for later if you'd like." He sets the basket at the foot of the bed. More sheepishly: "I couldn't decide."