Their reunion ended up being decidedly less dramatic and romantic than some (Cassandra) had imagined (or Varric told her) it would be. When the signal horns blew announcing the Inquisitor's return, the commander did indeed meet her at the gates. But the two shared nothing more than a mutual salute and a few words.

Which is why, when Varric told her that he saw Commander Curly making his way up to the Inquisitor's quarters in plainclothes much later that night, she was loath to believe him.

But, for once it seemed, Varric was telling the truth.

Each creak of the wooden steps beneath his feet knotted his stomach tighter. It was a long march to Ora's quarters – one he hadn't made since they first arrived at Skyhold. His eyes tracked the orange glow that grew brighter, dancing and flickering against the dark stone. He almost tripped, however, and so resigned to keeping his sight on the stairs with whatever shreds of light his eyes could gather. This was not only for his dignity, but also for the parcel he carried: the Keeper's gift to Ora which she asked he deliver.

Ora faced her own dilemma. When she finally heard them, Cullen's steps transformed into a nerve-wracking countdown. Should she continue sitting at her desk reading reports? Should she meet him at the threshold? Should she sit before the fire, staring thoughtfully into the flames? The elf scurried from one place to another on the tips of her toes in an effort to be discreet.

When Cullen breached the staircase ledge, his gaze landed softly on a familiar silhouette hanging a cast iron kettle in the fireplace. Ora's eyes took a moment to adjust from the fire to the darkness, and seeing him there made her jump just a bit. But she smiled, and he smiled back. Her back straightened, hands clasping quaintly behind her as he approached, grin still smeared across his lips.

"What's this?" she asked, glancing to the box in his hands.

"A gift," he explained, "from your Keeper." Her jaw slacked in astonishment. "She asked I give it to you."

Ora received the box with a careful reverence. She turned, he followed. Cross-legged before the hearth, she set the box down to the carpet, tracing its edges with a fingertip. Though transfixed, she managed to tear her attention away to invite Cullen to sit at her side. He did so, the warmth of the fire lapping against his skin. Elbow crooked on his knee, the commander watched the elf remove the cover. Delicately, Ora pinched the mouth of a vial, excavating it from its nest of dried grasses and into the light. She stared before she uncorked it with an unexpected suddenness. She wafted the air to her nose. Cullen watched her face curve both happily and sadly simultaneously, not sure if her eyes squinted from the brilliant smile or the tears she so desperately fought contain.

"What is it, if I may ask?"

"Eth'therenas," she spoke, barely louder than a whisper. "It, ah… I was… I had trouble sleeping sometimes as a child. She would make this to help me calm down." Without much pause, Ora dabbed the oil onto her wrists and temples. She inhaled, then exhaled.

"May I?" Cullen received the vial and brought it to his nose as Ora rummaged through the rest of the box's contents. The scent was vaguely, fleetingly familiar. When his sights set back on the Inquisitor, she stared at a red pouch resting in her palm. "What is that?"

She did not answer right away. "Tea."

A peculiar quiet settled among them. Cullen's gaze strayed to the kettle in the fire. She was still staring at it when it returned to her. "We should have some, then," he smiled. A laugh forced its way from Ora's throat. "I've, ah… missed it."

She still did not look to him. "Have you?" she asked absently, edge of her mouth twitching with a half-formed grin. Her fingers closed around the pouch.

His head dipped, his jaw clenched, his throat jumped as it cleared. He rolled the phial between his thumb and index finger. Why was this still difficult? Why? It followed no logic. He didn't really miss the tea. He missed the person attached to the cup. The ache joined his long list of symptoms in Wycome, sharper and more persistent than ever before. He supposed that made sense, at least. He'd been surrounded by her clan, fought for them, healed with them. There wasn't much he could do to not think of her. Every sprig of elfroot, every pointed ear, every vibration of magic, every flash of dark hair, every elven word spoken like silk. He'd watch the smoke from candles and incense furl in the rays of light beaming through windows, and somehow his thoughts would land on her. Unlikely scenarios would play in his head of Ora arriving in Wycome. Wondered if she'd still greet him with a kiss despite his pathetic, disheveled state.

"So have I," she added softly, gingerly returning the pouch to its bed of grasses. "But you wouldn't like this tea."

"That has never stopped you before," he joked.

Ora's legs unfolded beneath her as she stood. "I suppose not." She placed the parcel on her desk. Her palm brusquely wiped her cheek in an attempt to be both quick and inconspicuous. But before she knew it, Cullen stood behind her, holding out the vial of eth'therenas she had forgotten. She did not meet his eyes. "Oh, thank you." Ora cleared her throat, hoping to regain some stability. "Would you go grab those pillows while I ready the tea?"

"Of course." He dutifully obeyed, snatching the cushions from Ora's sofa and tossing them haphazardly on the carpet before the hearth. In the meantime, Ora retrieved her cups from the mantle and plucked leaves off the dried elfroot stalks hanging right below them. The two sat, a bit closer now, waiting in silence for the kettle's beacon of steam. It became too much for Ora'ana to bear. She had to do something, say something, think of something else besides the red pouch sitting on her desk.

But there was nothing else worth asking. "How are they?"

He was wondering when she'd ask. "They are well."

Her insides screamed. "The children are happy? Healthy?"

"Very much so. Many have already made friends outside of the clan."

"Have they?" she asked with a breathless joy, masterfully concealing the anguish that lurked below it. "How do you know?"

Cullen nodded. "The boy, Elasan," he began, not realizing the uncomfortable direction the story headed, "he, ah… tended… to me… when I fell ill. We spoke at length about this and more." She grinned. Cullen could not put into words how much he enjoyed making her do so. "Elasan may have also told the others I was bedridden with lycanthropy," the commander added hastily. Immediately, Ora smothered her face in a pillow, fingers digging into the fabric. Even her feet intertwined at the toes in discomfort. "After that, most young ones kept their distance, Dalish or no. So there was some communication amongst the city elf and human children at least."

The Inquisitor dragged the pillow downward, revealing only her eyes. There was no hiding the laughter swirling within them. Thrusting the cushion into her lap, Ora bit her lip in hopes of quelling a smirk. Staring into the fire, she was only partially successful.

"The Keeper has taken him under her wing, then?"

"Yes."

"That is… That is good. He always was very bright." Ora smiled, albeit briefly. Combing a lock of hair behind a pointed ear, she held the pillow flush against her breast.

"He reminded me of you."

A few abashed laughs forced a path through her throat. "Did he?"

"Yes," he answered warmly. "It seems your Keeper may have a preference in apprentices."

He was trying to make her feel good, proud, happy. He couldn't know he did the opposite. Not unless he somehow heard the terrible things the red pouch whispered harshly from the dark. But he also could not know just how much the sentiment meant at that very second. She wanted his voice to drown out the others in her head. Keep talking. Keep talking.

"That is a good thing, I hope." She knew what he meant, but she needed him to keep talking.

"It… It is," he stammered. Fidgeting, Cullen chewed his lip, cursing his apparent thoughtlessness.

His misplaced, awkward panic was bittersweet. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry. It was a tenuous balance to maintain. She would end his needless suffering. "I know, Cullen," she teased.

He looked unconvinced, worry still carving its way along his brow. Finally he glanced away to the hearth, rubbing the back of his neck. "Forgive me. It appears I still do not know how to properly give a compliment."

"You do." His eyes jetted to her, shocked. "I…" Pausing, she held her breath. "I just like hearing them from you."

Sheepishly, the blushing commander fought off a grin that flickered on his lips. He could not meet her gaze for a minute or so. Clearing his throat, he finally mustered the courage to look in her direction, unable to hide the gleam in his smiling eyes. "That's good. I mean, I am glad. That you do. Of course." Why wouldn't she? Maker, take him. Quickly but painfully.

Her expression sobered after a moment, fingers absently playing with the pillow's tassels. "And… you are feeling better?"

Cullen's own voice softened. "I am." A log in the fire collapsed, sending a cloud of sparks up into the draft. Their shadows danced erratically behind them. Ora rose to her feet, using a ratty cloth to grab the kettle from its hook and pour its boiling contents into their waiting cups. Again, she folded her legs and sat; and again, they found themselves closer than before. Their shoulders could almost touch now, if one were to lean a bit. "You should tell me of the Emerald Graves."

A pleased hum vibrated in her chest. More talking. Of other things. "What would you like to know?"

"Whatever was not in the report, I suppose." He lifted the rim of the teacup to his mouth and took a careful sip.

"So, the interesting bits."

The commander snorted. "Yes, Sera. The interesting bits."

Her fingertip traced the lip of her cup, swirling the steam as it rose. "I was raised in forests. Never have I seen one so green. Barely any sunlight reached the floor; most of it passed through the leaves first. Wildflowers wherever the sun did touch."

"So it lives up to its name, then?"

"Yes. Fortunately, and unfortunately. You cannot go too far along without running into an ancient elven ruin or an Orlesian chateau in disrepair. But, in its own strange way, the decay was beautiful, too. Ivy climbing up walls. Trees sprouting beneath floorboards and growing through roofs. More hills of stone than earth, swathed in lush grass. Windy cliffs. Crystalline streams."

He watched her as she spoke. A twitch of the lips here, a furrow of the brow there, new and old scars highlighted by the warm glow. A flutter of eyelashes when she delved into her mind to remember. She sat on her knees, shoulders curled inward, holding her teacup daintily, as if she might soon pour it on the ground as a libation. To whom, he wonders. Is there an elven god of tea? Her hair hung unbound, cascading down her back and over her collarbone. How long it had grown. He had missed the way the timber of her voice settled into his bones, like the long, whirring resonances of Chantry bells. He listened to her words, yes, but more eagerly absorbed them.

He knew he was being ridiculous. He knew he would look back on these thoughts and roll his eyes at the overblown sentiment. But, Maker, he has missed her. Missed those ticks and and mannerisms. The comfort and familiarity in them, the gratitude that he knows them. Missed the feeling of knowing she was near and all that it entailed. He could barely articulate it. The vibration that her existence emitted into the air. And that, for some strange, incomprehensible, baffling reason, she was there with him, not by circumstance, but instead by choice. Him. The man stained by demons, by hatred, by blood, by anger, by fear, by hypocrisy, by addiction. Her vibration drowned everything else out. Pushed it away. Separated it.

She laid against him now, his own back propped up by a pillowy knoll. They both scanned the insides of their emptied cups in near perfect silence, searching for shapes and signs. The eth'theranas drifted from her skin to his. It was not long before they both fell asleep.

The cold was what woke him. The cold air, the cold floor. Dim embers barely clung to life, sinking pitifully in the fireplace. Ora lay nestled to his chest, his body the only barrier against the chill, her breaths still rising and falling in an even, sleepy cadence. Confusion and grogginess were quick to melt away. What time was it? Cullen tried sitting up, but Ora pinned his right arm down. With much care and much luck, Cullen somehow reached her bed, pulled back her blanket with his foot, set her down, tucked her in, and turned his attention to the fire.

Quietly, carefully, he neatly piled fresh wood onto the grate. It wasn't long before he realized he did not have anything to light it. She kept no flint at the hearth, and not a candle still burned. He murmured a curse, completely at a loss until the wood suddenly ignited. Startled, he fell back onto his bottom.

"Maker's breath!" He held his arms up as if he'd just been disarmed, head slowly swiveling to look behind him. Ora lay on her stomach at the foot of her bed, enveloped by a downy cocoon, watching him with drowsy eyes. "I didn't mean to wake you." She shook her head negatively and opened her mouth to say something, but all that escaped was an overbearing yawn. Cullen collected the scattered teacups and placed them back on the mantle. For a moment or so afterwards, he stood there, hands on his hips, motionless, wordless.

"Are you leaving?" Her voice jerked him from his thoughts.

"I should," he admitted, rubbing his nose. "I have an army to train at dawn. No, no need to get up." Cullen made his way to her bedside, sitting down on the edge. Ora draped her arms around his neck, sinking into him. He returned the gesture, and they sat intertwined for a good while before he finally attempted to separate.

"Stay until dawn, then," she grumbled.

"I shouldn't."

The elf let out a displeased hmph, making no effort to budge. Soon enough, however, Ora's arms slid half-heartedly from his shoulders and to the bed. He pried her away as gently as he could, grinning like a fool the entire time. At some point she regained her bodily control and sat up of her own volition, pulling the blanket closer with one hand and rubbing an eye with the other.

"Lie down, go back to—" She cut off his words with an unexpectedly forceful kiss. He'd barely had time to process the event before she pulled away. A single laugh escaped his nose. "Goodni—" Ora felt his lips smile against hers. Cullen kissed her back this time. Before he could take a proper breath, their mouths collided yet again, and she was pulling herself closer to him gradually enough that he did not notice.

A kiss had not felt so deep and desperate since their moment on the battlements. But this was different. It was now Ora who kissed him with that hunger. The warmth of her body coursed down his throat and pooled in his gut. It was not a primal craving, at least not in the way most would describe it. She did not think she could put into words everything she wanted the kiss to mean. Mostly, she was afraid to try. How clumsy words were, how limiting. At least, that is what she told herself to make not saying easier. Saying was hard. Showing was not. Not for her. Showing was doing. Doing was instinct. Instinct was thoughtless. Instinct was natural. Instinct was hold his jaw, breathe his skin, press against him so that he knew she was willing to give what he did not already have.

Cullen was none the wiser. So used to giving, he was not used to having. So much so that the concept rarely crossed his mind. His only true possessions had been his sword, shield, and faith since he was ten years old. Joining the Inquisition had perhaps been one of the most selfish things he'd done. Accepting Cassandra's offer was the first thing he'd really taken since his brother gave him that coin before he left for templar training. And even then he gave that away eventually.

And yet, how greedily he received her lips. Her attention. Her time. Her gaze. Her fingers digging lightly into his chest. The small of her back arching as his arms wrapped around her like thick vines, one hand daring to graze her spine as the other raked through the hair at the nape of her neck.

Cullen did not deserve this. He believed that almost as much he believed in the Maker. The truth of it hurt, but he persisted. He did not know why. Pain should have been a discouragement: a notice to avoid that which caused it. But what was he to do if the cause was himself? What was he to do if his dreams reminded him almost every night of the filth on his body and lyrium in his veins and blood on his hands? Why was this happening? How could it be possible?

Maybe it wasn't. The commander gasped, ripping his mouth from hers, eyes searching her face in a panic, shoulders rising and falling with shallow breaths. Ora withdrew as much as his grasp would permit. The fire behind him reflected brilliantly in her eyes: something about elves he once found a bit disconcerting. But, in that moment, it was the most comforting and reassuring thing he could have seen.

He drew her close again. Each rested their heads in the crook of the other's shoulder, Ora's legs around his waist, arms folded and pressed between their breasts.

Cullen would stay until dawn.

—Halamshiral—

Cullen and Ora rested their heads in the crook of the other's shoulder. Her hair still hung damp from washing away blood and sweat and Orlesian perfume. She hadn't expected him to join her so late (or early, depending on who asked). She also hadn't expected his response to her confession — "Best not talk about it here." — to mean anything beyond its face value. But it must have meant we can talk later or we will talk later or I will listen later or something else she felt like she didn't deserve.

They could both barely remain awake. Even as his limbs leadened, they diligently held around her body in a solid, steady embrace.

"Did I disappoint you?" came a small voice, much more lucid than his own. He managed not much more than a grunt in response, but his slow mind eventually pieced her words together.

"Of course not."

"Are you sure?"

Cullen's eyes could not bring themselves to open. "Quite sure."

"Even Gaspard?" she added weakly.

The commander heaved a heavy sigh. "You did what you thought was right."

"No, I didn't. I knew it wasn't. I knew."

Turning his head, Cullen nuzzled his nose into her hair, his fatigue loath to dissipate. The conversation forced it to unwillingly, little by little. "Then why did you?"

"I told you."

"Wycome?"

"Yes."

Silence joined them for a while. "Why did that make it wrong?"

"Because," she replied with an angry sort of eagerness, "i-it was selfish. I'm…" Her voice began to waver. "I'm supposed to be doing what's best for everyone, not just myself. And now a man is dying for it."

Cullen found it strange how similar their conversations could be to others they'd had in the past. This felt painfully familiar. "You didn't do it for yourself, Ora."

He could feel her tears seeping through his sleeve. "Then what would you call it? I didn't do it for the Inquisition. Gaspard would have been a strong ally."

"You already answered that. You did it for Wycome." Of course, Wycome didn't mean just the city-state. They both knew what it meant. It meant elves. It meant her clan. It meant Deshanna, Iriel, Elasan, Velara, and all the others.

"It wasn't right," she whispered. Her tense muscles trembled with frustration and overwhelming shame, aggravated by her attempts to quell her weeping.

Cullen waited until he heard her breathing stabilize. "I must be very selfish, then."

"W-What?"

He took a breath before replying. "I went to the Free Marches the first time for you," he admitted, voice low. "Not for the Inquisition, not for tactical reasons." Ora removed herself from his embrace. Her red, weary, damp eyes scoured his face for some sort of explanation. "The last time, I went for Wycome. Because going for Wycome was going for you. I risked the lives of my men, the security of Skyhold, a war with three states for Wycome. Do you think I'm selfish?"

A tremulous hand covered her mouth. "You shouldn't have done that."

His frown deepened. "Are you disappointed?"

Her resolve could not withstand another blow. The elf fell apart before him, tears flowing over her fingers, breathing ragged and pitiful. "No."

Cullen brought her hand down and held them both in his own in their laps. "If I am not selfish, you are not selfish. Or, maybe I am and make poor decisions. But that is why I am not the Inquisitor. You are the Inquisitor. And you are not selfish." Ora looked away, the lids of her eyes closing and freeing a cascade of tears.

"This is different, Cullen. I'm different."

"You're not, Ora."

"Yes. I am."

"You're not."

"Yes I am!" she bellowed.

Cullen rose his voice in kind. "Someone once told me some things do not have to be about the Inquisition."

Ora would cry herself to sleep eventually.

When the two failed to appear in the morning, Josephine found them both huddled on the lounge before a dead fire. She chose not to disturb them.

—Skyhold—

Cassandra looked down at the box the commander placed in her hands. "Why can you not deliver it yourself?"

"It is not a matter of whether I can or cannot, Cassandra."

"So you… do not want to?" The Seeker's nose crinkled with the furrow of her brow. "What manner of thing is it, Cullen?"

"It's… It isn't… Just… take a look."

Skeptical and honestly a tad annoyed, Cassandra acquiesced, though she would have preferred to not do so. Her hard gaze brushed across what looked to be a coat or cloak, finely made. "Is the Inquisitor in need of a new coat?"

"No, not… necessarily."

"Then what is the point of this gift?"

"Gifts require reason to be given?"

"I suppose not, but—"

"You depart for Emprise du Lion tomorrow. It is… cold there. Thus, a coat," he pointedly elaborated, thinking he sounded much more certain than he actually did.

"Ora has a coat."

"Yes, I am aware. This one is different. I… commissioned it from the tailor who made mine."

With this new information, Cassandra set the box onto his desk and removed its contents. She observed the garment as it dangled, eyes switching from it to the commander more than once. There were a few similarities, most notably the presence of a 'mane' of sorts. Though this one was white and grey compared to his black and red. "Is that significant?"

Cullen's eyes clamped shut, dismayed. "Apparently not."

"You confuse me, Cullen."

"I wanted your opinion."

"My opinion?" Her voice spiked with bafflement. "Of what?"

"Of the gift. I thought you'd… It's just… I'm not very knowledgeable of this whole 'romance' thing."

Her eyes narrowed, lips pursed into an impossibly tight line. Her next words crawled out of her throat leashed with tempered restraint. "And you suppose that I am?"

As the implication of his statement quickly caught up to him, the commander blinked. Jaw tensing, lungs freezing, the usually unshakeable Fereldan appeared quite nervous. "I only meant—"

"I'm going to kill him."

"Him?" The question weaseled its way from his lips, and he regretted it immediately. Luckily, however, Cassandra seemed to ignore it for the most part. Finally, he realized she meant Varric. She thought Varric had told him of her taste in literature. Relieved, he relaxed slightly, though still concerned about the fury with which her hands clenched the cloak.

"But I think I understand now." Cullen opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it, instead letting his surprised expression do the talking. Cassandra visibly calmed. "Yes. I will give it to her. But might I make a suggestion?"

"O-Of course, please!" This inefficient and indirect method of receiving advice was going so much better than it had with Rylen. At least, he thought so, until she elaborated. She pushed a piece of paper across his desktop towards him. "Are… you sure that is not too much?"

"It's the truth, is it not?"

"I suppose, but—"

"Then it is not."

Once camp had been established, the Seeker approached the Inquisitor at her tent, leaving her with the mystery parcel and walking away with a smirk. Ora opened it right there, the wind instantly blowing a piece of parchment into the air. With a sharp yelp, Ora chased after it. It did not take too long to wrangle, though she retrieved it a bit worse for wear. The elf scanned the ink smudged from the wet snow.

Since I am not there to keep you warm, at least I know you will be.

"Our good commander is marking his territory now, is he?"

"Comments like that are why I bring you to the most miserable places, Dorian." Ora tried to mask her words with convincing disdain.

The Tevinter mage cocked an eyebrow, sneering. "Is that what you tell yourself?"

Ora peered over her pale, furry mantle, laughter and love carving its way across her lips and eyes. "Your moustache is frozen."

"So is yours," he snapped defensively, though he wrestled with a grin. It won when Ora bumped her head against his arm, resting there with her eyes closed, smiling softly.

The moment they'd left, Cullen took up his post at his desk, forearm draped over his eyes in shame in attempt to smother the perpetual blush claiming his face.

Despite it all, he would not realize his trite, corny message would give him the confidence to verbalize other truths later on. Particularly before traveling to the Shrine of Dumat.

"All the more reason to go. I would… sleep better, if I knew I would be at your side."

And although the Dalish did respect deed over word, Ora was gradually beginning to warm up to the latter nonetheless. Especially when it came from his mouth.

—Months Later—

Ora held the red pouch of tea from her Keeper, hovering over the rest of her gear as she packed for Val Royeaux. She would never tell him, and she hoped he'd never know. But the tea was a message. A warning. A condemnation. An accusation. A rebuke. A disapproval. The Keeper must have learned about her relationship with Cullen, because why else would Istimaethoriel have him deliver a bleeding tea directly to her?

They called it tu'len'din. To make a child not be.

The Herald had half a mind to throw it into the fire. She did not, however. Instead, she debated with it endlessly.

Eventually, she came to the conclusion that, yes, she would keep it. Use it, if such a situation arose, as unlikely as it was. But not for the Keeper's reasons. They would be her own.

This did not mean Ora did not understand. She did, quite well. It had been drilled into her mind from her earliest memories. Her purpose was to preserve. To rediscover. To sustain by giving birth to elven children of her own and instilling in them along with the rest of the clan the very same virtues. She might have complied in the past. Had the Keeper found out sooner and sent the bleeding tea then, it would have most certainly ended what she had with Cullen. But things changed. Things were changing.

Some things did not have to be for Clan Lavellan.

Some things did not have to be for the Inquisition.

He had said Wycome was for her. Halamshiral was for him.

Well, for them, really. For the elves, yes. For her clan. But for him and for her. That is partly why she broke down the way she did. Celene and Briala could not help but be a mirror, and Ora could not help but see herself in it. See him in it. If the Empress of Orlais could openly love an elf, her own spymaster, then why couldn't the elven Inquisitor love her human commander?

Because, she did love him. She did not yet have the courage to tell him, nor the courage to admit it to herself. But the truth still lingered there before her very eyes, and she could only pretend not to notice. She still struggled with the fact that such a thing influenced her decision at all.

Everything else, she gave. But she would have this. She would have it for as long as she could help it.

Ora returned the pouch to the mantle with some haste. She was already late.

Luckily, he seemed to be behind schedule as well. Sneaking in through a crack in the door, Ora watched and waited, listening as Cullen delivered orders to a herd of his lieutenants with his usual serious conviction. Ora swallowed back a bit of laughter.

"—assist with the relief effort."

Not well enough, apparently. The commander's face automatically donned an irritated scowl, wondering which of the soldiers had the gall, but it melted away almost instantaneously when she sent a few small waves and a grin in his direction.

"That will be all."

"Ser."

They filed out, each giving their own respectful acknowledging nod to the Inquisitor while she did so in return. Cullen closed the door behind him with an almost comical impatience. "There's always something, isn't there?"

Ora shed a soft, sympathetic grin. "Long day?"

The end! Thank you so much for reading and enduring this with me! I appreciate all of the support and feedback; I can't tell you how much it means to hear that this 9 month project (aka literal child) enriched others' lives, even if minimally. I am contemplating perhaps writing an epilogue to touch upon what happens between Ora and the Keeper after the defeat of Corypheus but before Trespasser - mostly because my intention with this fic was to stay within the bounds of the Lavellan clan missions as a framework. If you are interested, please let me know! Thank you again! 3 All my love! - arii