Cullen's eyes blearily opened to the furious scratch of quill upon parchment, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he looked for its source. As his bedchambers came into focus, he found Solas at his desk, pausing at whatever he was writing to take a careful sip from his steaming mug. There was a faint pounding in Cullen's head but as he took stock of his faculties, he realized he was significantly improved compared to the previous morns.
Solas' eyes rose from the parchment, "Excellent, you're awake," he said, setting his quill back into its inkpot. He stood and made his way over to Cullen, the larger man patiently accepting the elf's ministrations. It had taken Cullen some time to feel comfortable in the mage's presence; though his misgivings had mostly abated during his time in the elf's care, the two did not share what he would call a comfortable acquaintance. Vigilance was a difficult mandate to put aside.
Once Solas seemed satisfied, he removed a hand from Cullen's now cool forehead and nodded at the templar favorably.
"I think… it should be smoother sailing here on out, Ser Cullen."
A sigh of relief floated from Cullen's lips as he ran a hand through his unruly hair, "Thank Andraste." Though still feeling a bit weakened, Cullen pulled back his various blankets and climbed out of his bed. He made his way to his wardrobe; cool stone uncomfortably meeting the pads of his soles before he reached within and pulled on a thick robe. As he tightened the ropes about his hips, he absently rubbed at his parched mouth, approaching his various decanters of wine and water. Solas came to stand before him as Cullen brought a goblet of water to his lips, savoring its crisp refreshment.
"Give yourself today for personal evaluation and if you feel confident, you could potentially return to your regular duties on the morrow," Solas suggested, looking at Cullen over the rim of his mug as he loudly slurped at his tea.
"As you say Solas," Cullen acquiesced, bowing his head in thanks, "I… appreciate what you have done a great deal. It will not be forgotten."
Solas languidly waved Cullen's thanks away. "It's what comrades do, is it not? Besides, the lion's share of the work was upon Isabeau's shoulders," He crossed his arms and simpered knowingly at Cullen, "She was quite dedicated. Now, if only a modicum of that patience would consistently be applied to her other responsibilities…?" He playfully jabbed, making Cullen smirk in agreement.
"Yes, I intend on expressing my gratitude," Cullen's face softened as he reflected upon what he could recall of her labors, "Does the Inquisitor intend on coming this evening?"
"Alas no, Trevelyan was unfortunately forced yesterday to embark with Montilyet and others on a rather urgent trade matter," Solas eyebrows hiked up in amusement, "A little muscle never hurts in diplomacy, hm?"
"She is formidable," Cullen agreed, making his way to his solar as he began to reflect upon the past days he'd spent with her. Though utterly imperceptible when Isabeau reached full stride during war councils and battle engagements, Cullen had glimpsed what lay beneath her clout in their more private councils together. In contrast of her ferocious confidence, there was an endearing timidity that he'd come to discover when outside their defined roles.
In time, he knew his own carefully erected walls had begun to crumble one insecure stone at a time. It had taken Cullen many years to master his nightmares, startled and dismayed when he had discovered Isabeau both beneath and before his blade that night. While her intrusion was initially horrifying and utterly humiliating, Cullen had little choice but to swallow his resignations, taking solace in her discretion. If his Inquisitor had harbored any pre-existing suspicions with his conduct, he had certainly been exposed, but as of yet, Trevelyan had said nothing.
Perhaps flowers or a fine meal, before a terrifying journey to the Fade, would have sufficed?
He scoffed at his cynicism and reached for his razor, positioning himself before his water basin and looking glass, carefully beginning to tame his facial hair. In the reflection he saw Solas return to his parchment, affixing a wax seal just as Cullen swiped the last bit of oil and hair from his jaw.
Cullen surreptitiously sniffed at himself. Repulsed, he realized he was heavily overdue for a bath. He dismissed Solas and slipped his feet into his best soft leather boots, half-shuffling his way through the Keep and to its baths. The hour was early enough that the ancient Keep was eerily still, Cullen's absence of late from its usual controlled chaos leaving him oddly wanting. As he entered the hot pools tucked into the depths of the Keep, he lazily toed off his boots and allowed his robe and smalls to drop. After he tentatively waded into the pool, he paused only to reach and carefully fold his bundle of items. When he slowly sank himself down until the hot water settled over his broad shoulders, he couldn't stifle a deep groan of respite.
Much of the last few days remained a relative blur to Cullen, Solas and Isabeau's presence aside. True to their word though, the stalwart pair had seen Cullen through to the other side, more than his years of previous solitary attempts had ever achieved. While Cullen's over-analytical brain had wreaked havoc with the miasma that was his shame, for Isabeau's honor, he had buried his failure and consequent nightmare as deep as he could. Though difficult in practice, the constant battle for his moral compass within Isabeau's presence had begun to dissipate; Cullen had finding a clandestine succor instead. The fierce woman he had come to know and respect began to blur into this maddeningly charming but different person, Cullen finding he was increasingly looking forward to what he had come to call their 'little visits'.
Not that you haven't... entertained the idea, previously.
That was true enough. He had furtively admired her for quite some time; able to recall the exact moment, while laboring over the war map at her side, that he had blinked with the sudden realization. In the time since, he had respectfully subdued the inconvenient and unprofessional feelings, only opening the debate when in the privacy of his bed chamber. Trevelyan's unexpected foray into the Fade had left him uncomfortably exposed on two fronts now. Maker's breath, at least she hasn't throttled me yet.
It was truly in Cullen's favor that Isabeau had not probed too deeply, but to his mild astonishment, their rapport had distinctly improved. There was now an endearing fluidity to their company, despite their stations, and both had relinquished a stone bit by bit from their walls as it proceeded. Cullen was not the naïve boy he had once been, feeling so sure in his intuition that he had attempted to act; so far though, he'd accomplished little more than choking on his efforts. The chiding he would unleash upon himself always swiftly followed, whatever bit of confidence that remained carefully being packed up and mindfully put away.
Certainly did not lack for confidence last night. Cullen smiled ruefully at himself. And how well had that went?
Groaning, Cullen buried his face in his hands, fighting the urge to submerse himself in the water, the reflection on his dishonest behavior painful to recall. Solas had informed both Cullen and Isabeau ahead of time what they could expect in conduct and reaction during his reduction. It was not an unknown to Cullen, having usually locked himself in his quarters in previous attempts, though if Isabeau had legitimately discovered him in a fit of delusion, he could not say.
That was not honorable. The lady did not deserve that falsity.
The truth in Cullen's nagging conscience could not be denied, no more than his ignominy at what he had allowed to develop within himself. For Cullen, the foundations of his growing admiration for the Inquisitor had already been firmly established in respect, its tendrils taking root over every shared tactic and victory, the two investing their unspoken trust into the other as time went on. Then in one night the careful balance they had cultivated was in shambles, Cullen feebly grappling for the remaining pieces as inconvenient truths harassed him incessantly.
He had been absolutely wracked with nerves upon first meeting with her, the illicit memories of the demons fresh at the forefront of his mind, but Isabeau's command and poise at the situation had served to assuage his concerns. It was that very grace of hers that served to flood Cullen with guilt for each morn he had awoken since, her name on his lips, and her naked body fresh in his vision.
When last night he had felt her fingers firmly pressing against his chest, interrupting his determined stupor, he had cursed his ill-advised and poorly timed mettle. It was all he could do to blunder his way through an apology, dishonorably taking advantage of both her care and his condition with the deception. In retrospect, as his skin puckered from the warm waters of the bath, the inappropriate timing of his advances appeared utterly reckless. Was there ever going to be a good time? The world is burning down around you and now you sack up for a pair of teats?
Cullen scowled at his fit of unwarranted vulgarity, deciding to climb out of the hot baths rather than get stuck in a bitter feedback loop. When he returned to his apartments, he immediately made his way to his wardrobe and armor stand to dress. As he went to tug his tunic down over his head, Cullen noted the bulk that was missing from his scarred and chiseled frame in the looking glass across from him. He'd have to invest some time between the larder and melee ring to regain his mass. Once he had securely fastened his fur pauldrons, Cullen left for the war room. Solas did say to take the day for 'personal reflection', pity our definitions of what that entails happens to differ.
Idle hands were the demon's tool and Cullen intended on entrenching himself behind his duties, stemming the warring tides that were his ceaseless thoughts with duty rosters and troop movements. He was making his way through the Keep when he found himself passing a nearby balcony that overlooked the main yard, an eruption of panicked shouts and the thunder of hooves giving him pause. Leaning out to get a better look at the front gate, Cullen watched as several guards on horseback came crashing through. A disheveled Josephine and a battered Cassandra followed shortly behind them; a slumped, weightless thing joined Cassandra in the saddle, tucked between her arms. Blood of Andraste…
Cullen bolted for the stairs, the chaos of the arrival sending the yard into a flurry of action. He shoved his way forward, bursting from the circle surrounding Josephine, Cassandra and a lieutenant who were all gingerly picking Isabeau off the saddle.
"What happened?" He demanded as he descended upon them.
"Does it matter? She needs healing not tarrying!" Jospehine snapped, Cullen's eyes sent ablaze as he swallowed her insolence. Carefully, he took Isabeau in his arms and hefted, feeling the strain in his weakened state from her weight and remaining armor. Cullen strode as fast as he could manage to Solas' chambers, immensely relieved to find the elf already within. Josephine and Cassandra had been hot on Cullen's heels, the pair bursting into the room in a roar of explanations. While the two women could exude confidence and control, the aberrant unpleasantness of the situation was clear in their panic. Cullen raised a hand to silence them both.
"Explain," he quietly demanded before further clarifying, "One at a time, if you would please."
"We were ambushed. Those cursed red templars are harassing our supply lines again," Josephine asserted, furiously rewrapping a torn bandage around one bloody arm. "They'll put our trade to ruin if their numbers increase and they are allowed to grow bold, Cullen. I need more armed men on patrol. I asked this of you weeks ago and here is the fruition of your inaction," she snapped jutting an arm toward Isabeau's prone yet breathing form.
Fury battered like a siege ram behind Cullen's eyes but he pursed his lips, assuming his stoniest façade as he calmly turned away from Josephine and looked upon Cassandra. "You were to guard her. How were you caught so unawares?"
Cassandra had by now regained her composure, always quick to leap from hot to cold and shrugged as she stared Cullen down. "It is the truth. We were overrun, held our ground but to this cost. Take solace in the fact they are dead while she yet lives."
The two turned to look at Solas who was focused on his spell craft, motes of soft blue and yellow light dancing around Isabeau. He only briefly looked up to nod at Cullen, confirming that he had the matter, Isabeau's life, under control. Cullen looked down at the smeared stains of blood that now stained his tunics, his fists clenching as he fought to find his calm. He was growing increasingly alarmed by his reaction to the state of affairs. I should have been with her. Maker's breath, if I had not been such a stubborn arse, an allocation of my men could have avoided this. He frowned at the panicked thought, fully aware that their numbers were taxed enough as it was, Cullen opting to file Josephine's info away for later contemplation.
"We will discuss your generous conjecture regarding my troop allocations at a different time, Josephine," he met her furious amber eyes as he nodded at her in dismissal. He turned to Cassandra as Josephine left, "Red templar's? Since when did a mere raiding party become problematic, Cass?"
"Cullen, the roads have been clear for months, we had no reason to suspect. Besides myself and a few other guards though, the bulk of the envoy were some of our master smiths and traders. Some held their own but…" she trailed off, her implications clear. "Trevelyan was taken unawares in the fray. I intervened as soon as I could, but the blade was already upon her back. All I fear I prevented was it coming out from the other side."
He visibly winced.
"Enough. I will speak more of this with you later," he turned and made his way to Isabeau's side, a hand coming up to cup his mouth and chin as he crossed his arms. He watched intently as the bloody wounds faded to little more than blemishes and bruises, Solas' soft chanting strumming at his ears. Cullen swallowed and privately thanked the Maker, an old and tired confliction distantly present as he felt a swell of unexpected affection towards the elf. He reached and took Isabeau's hand in his. You are a fool; this war would tear it apart…
Strands of soft hair slid between Cullen's fingers as he reached down and gently raked them through Isabeau's tresses. Solas ceased his uttering and proceeded to uncork various potions.
"Give us a hand, Cullen," he commanded as he brought a potion to the Inquisitor's lips, Cullen gingerly lifting her into a sitting position. As the red liquid poured between her dry lips, Isabeau began to cough and sputter; the first signs of her consciousness returning as she whimpered in discomfort. Cullen courteously averted his eyes as Solas moved to undress his patient, leaving when her chemise and bodice were crumpled in her lap. He returned to rapidly apply a poultice to Isabeau's now healing wound, cinching a cloth bandage around her back and waist before carefully tugging her articles of clothing back on. He then came up behind Cullen, taking his place and steadying her as the templar knelt before his superior.
"Inquisitor?"
She blinked slowly at him, wincing from some pain as she smiled, "Thank you, Cullen… Your prompt delivery of my person to Solas is appreciated."
Solas stepped back and regarded Isabeau, nodding kindly as he rubbed her blood from his hands, "You know the drill by now, Inquisitor. Come to me should you require assistance but otherwise, kindly avoid Bull and Sera at all costs. And may the dread wolf take you if I catch you in that sparring ring for a tenth time! Now, if you'll excuse me." Solas politely inclined his head before stepping from the room, Cullen left gaping at the elf's levity. Isabeau must have caught the message in his expression for she reached out with both hands to squeeze his shoulders assuredly.
"This is not the first time my entrails have graced this cot, Cullen."
He grimaced at the casual declaration. True, it had been some time since he and Isabeau had fought side by side, but at the conclusion of her excursions away, she would return t, sometimes worse for wear but usually in one piece. Cullen was too well versed in war to harbor any wide-eyed illusions, instead finding he was poignantly humbled by her. He had committed himself to her as a Marshall, but when embroiled in the ruthless calculus of the war, the ability to disconnect was a grim necessity of his duty. The Inquisitor was more than a mere foot soldier but she met the enemy at close quarters and always at the head of the charge. How many times did she return battered and bloodied and I'd been too accursedly busy with a map or quill?
He pinched the bridge of his nose in aggravation, as many times as you've put that quill to the map. Cullen's insides twisted as he wrestled with the chiding voice, "I'm… not sure if you want me to express relief at that assurance, my lady."
Isabeau smiled tiredly at him then, "Go on then, help a lady in distress once more and get me to my chambers, ser Knight."
He helped her off the mattress, their arms slinging over the others' as Cullen supported her weight, the pair slowly making their way to Isabeau's apartments. He guided her to her bed chamber, carefully helping to settle her atop the bed.
"Do you have much pain?"
She shook her head, "I'll be… tender for a few days but nothing I can't handle," She stood and reached up, working on loosening the laces of her bloody, tattered bodice. "Solas has become quite excellent at putting me back together again. A pity…" She abruptly sighed, gnawing at her nails in silent contemplation.
"…A pity your spleen ended up in the right place?"
Isabeau laughed at him incredulously, "No, you git. A pity those red bastards got at it in the first place!" She groaned loudly as she rubbed her hand tiredly down her face, the other dramatically tossing her ruined bodice to the floor. "We lost Herren. Wade is going to become either very useless or very dead as a direct result, and I won't be getting my bloody salt."
Cullen was immediately contrite. Maker preserve us.
The loss of Herren was a blow, their discriminating but skilled armor smith would be devastated at the news, but Cullen could not attest to the validity of Isabeau's distress. Wade was an asset of war, and to Cullen, war had its consequences with its victories. Given a suitable amount of time, he believed Wade would take strength in his loss and endure.
There were two thumps as Isabeau tugged off her muddy boots, sighing in relief as she ambled over to her collection of wines and spirits. Cullen recognized a particular Fereldan scotch in her hands, its amber fluid one he himself had partaken of on occasion. He followed her as she moseyed out into her solar, fetching two glasses before waving Cullen towards a seat. The chamber was sparse but tastefully decorated; a low standing table and two very plush chaise longues at its center. Isabeau roughly set her handful of debauchery upon the table with a clatter of glass, working at the bottle's cork.
"I just… wanted some damn salt," she lamented again, filling her glass with several fingers worth of the aged liquid before hovering the bottle above the glass facing him, "Drink?"
"Please," he said as he took a seat on a chaise, joining Isabeau as she raised her glass in a toast.
"To Herren and Wade!" she cried, their glasses clinking before both swiftly tilted their heads back, Cullen's throat and chest pleasantly warmed by the alcohol. Isabeau immediately filled another, Cullen cupping his glass with his hand as he gently shook his head at her.
"That was… sufficient for me, thank you."
"More for me," she quipped as she sat across from him, propping her feet up against the edges of the heavy table. "Did you see the others?"
When Cullen nodded in answer, she leaned an elbow against the seat's arm, resting the side of her head on her first. She idly swigged from her drink, "If Cassandra had testicles, she'd have popped one there on the road. Maker, it was almost embarrassing, how did we overlook such an obvious choke point?"
Impulsively, Cullen rebelled against his previous discretion and reached to refill his glass. He quickly knocked back the drink as he bitterly rued her words, evidence surfacing of the complications from his recent absence. Isabeau had stood then, coming to slowly sit beside him as she finished her last gulp of scotch. She tilted her head and silently regarded him, Cullen returning her gaze expectantly as he admired her smoky, oval eyes.
"May I ask you something?"
"Of course."
Isabeau stretched, carefully adjusting herself to sit comfortably with her wound, her thigh briefly pressing against Cullen's. She tucked her feet up and under her, "From what you've told me, your attempts at Lyrium cessation go as far back as Kirkwall."
"That is correct..."
"If you would forgive my candor, I'd like to ask why?" She evenly met his gaze, the flesh of her cheeks alight in various hues of red. Her long ashen hair, usually tied back in a loose pony tail, now fell in lazy waves atop her shoulders. Cullen paused in appreciation.
Maker she is…stunning.
He coughed into his hand, feeling his own cheeks grow hot as he contemplated his answer. He found himself yet again pouring a drink, silencing his nagging scruples over the consumption.
"Am I too bold?"
One could argue not bold enough.
Cullen squashed the thought and smiled apologetically, "Not at all, my lady. It is only proper for me to account for my actions." He nervously licked at his lips and continued, "Since my torment in Fereldan, I have increasingly grown… wary of the use of Lyrium. It wasn't until I was promoted to Knight-Captain that I truly committed to the ideal. Sobriety became increasingly attractive as my tasks began to include the, ah… dismissal of afflicted comrades."
Isabeau's eyebrows furrowed questioningly, "Lyrium addled?"
"It was rampant in Kirkwall," Cullen said hauntingly as he stared blankly ahead, "Per Meredith's orders, it was done quietly and efficiently, but I can still recall my astonishment at the numbers. I was fighting a war on both fronts, bleeding men lost to the dust as I struggled to replenish the ranks with recruits."
"I thought all templar's developed a… dependence on Lyrium?"
Cullen sighed and shook his head as he readied himself for the tired debate, "Though I feel it a misconception... too many of the men I stripped were no older than I, broken far too early. While it is true that exposure to the substance over time can affect cognitive functions, all of the Order's texts lay out strict consumption guidelines. Guidelines developed to mitigate any detrimental effects," He clarified as he stood and began to pace with drink in hand, "When I looked over Kirkwall's allocation schedules, it became abundantly clear these guidelines had long since been abandoned."
Isabeau narrowed her eyes, "I don't understand. Your official texts dictate the prescription but… not its application?"
Mid-pace Cullen paused and turned to face Isabeau, shaking his head, "No, the texts are clear for both, I fear it is the interpretation that went wrong. At the time I couldn't draw many conclusions from the change, I was still yet new to my station. Once I was more firmly situated however, Meredith's… disciplinary orders began to go through me…" He bitterly stared down at the liquid in his glass, swallowing it quickly and placing the glass on the mantle above the hearth. He leaned with the palms of his hands pressed to the warm stone, gazing into the licking flames, "It was then that I appreciated the sinister implications behind these revisions."
He pushed away from the hearth and sat himself rather heavily beside her again, "If you are wondering if she gave credit to the rumors, yes, she very much did. She was my Commander however, I wanted to believe her cause was just… but it only led to the rebellion of my men, their sympathy easier to come by when united with the mages in their suffering."
Isabeau placed a hand consolingly atop Cullen's muscular thigh, "Meredith was insane, Cullen. Whatever vicious tampering she did to your knight's doses, surely Kirkwall was an isolated incident? Forgive my being frank, but that city's a perpetual quagmire of misery more oft than not."
"That's where you're mistaken, my lady. I still had friends far spread in the Order by then, friends who confirmed my suspicions with investigations of their own," he haltingly swallowed as Meredith's dying screams invaded his thoughts. "It wasn't until Meredith's… corruption that I came to truly fit all of the pieces together."
Cullen felt a squeeze at his thighs, Isabeau's hand digging into his leather breeches as he met her concerned eyes. When recruiting templar's to the Inquisition's cause, Cullen had not had to explain his motivations in splitting from the Order. Most of the men who had followed him after the schism had bore witness to the growing corruption, or worse, were victims of the abuse themselves. Those who still had lingering complications from their torture usually maintained their lyrium habits; Cullen having noted that, if kept to the Order's canonical guidelines, they functioned in relative normalcy.
Where he was treading now was unfamiliar territory, Cullen finding himself distractedly embarrassed with the onslaught of angst.
Are you so craven? She didn't ask why everyone else stopped, she asked why you stopped.
He cracked his knuckles nervously and submitted, "A-at the start, it was cowardice that compelled me to skip doses. The visions of Uldred's… depravity haunted me at all manner of times, and I began to suspect the lyrium in my paranoia, lashing out at my charges as a result. The consequences of my delusions lead to Greenfell, where blessedly, I came to appreciate the value of temperance, in all things..."
He swallowed hard as Isabeau's travelling hand gave him pause, a sorrowful smile tugging at his lips as she affectionately clutched his fingers within hers. She smiled encouragingly at him as she tugged off his soft leather gloves, Cullen jolting when she began to tenderly massage his palm.
"Ooh, Maker that's… nice," he moaned unexpectedly as the stiffness in his sword hand was eased away, the sensation momentarily snapping him from his unease. After an awkward clearing of his throat, Cullen shyly avoided her eyes as he continued, "Where was I? Temperance, was it?"
Isabeau blushed, playfully quirking her eyebrow at him. Before Cullen could continue however, she quickly snatched up the bottle of scotch, her lips smacking wetly as she sipped from its neck. When she held it out to him, Cullen took a generous swig, Isabeau's hands now working at his forearm.
"As ah… as I had mentioned to you previously, Kirkwall did little and less for my faculties, especially in that first year…" he trailed off as the memories attempted to resurface, the feel of Trevelyan's hands keeping them blessedly at bay. "In retrospect, it's easy to see how my initial… zealotry likely appealed to her, but it made climbing the ranks no less a trial."
"Meredith is but one, I would know more of the others involved in this treachery," Isabeau said with unexpected ferocity, "These were your superior officers, you were not wrong to trust in them. They were wrong to have broken that trust." Her eyebrows rose in pained suspicion, "Were you ever… denied?"
He let out a shallow breath as he delicately grasped her wrists in his rough hands.
"Yes, and it was at that first crack of the whip… that I understood how precariously the Order was perched." He hesitated, his thoughts growing heavy as Isabeau's hands pulled away to cup his jaw. He leaned into her touch, speaking in throaty whispers, "Everything went hurtling over the precipice, and I would have too, had I not tried to remove that collar. Poetic, but it felt like a shallow victory… at times, it still does. The… relapses however, have always plagued my efforts."
Isabeau's face was pressed so closely her nose had nudged softly at the side of his, Cullen's lips twitching rebelliously at the proximity of her own. Trevelyan swallowed audibly and began to pull away, Cullen burying the odd mingle of relived disappointment, until her arms came to wrap around his shoulders. She embraced him warmly while he sat there, stupidly stunned by the unexpected action.
That's… this- this… hm. This has never happened before.
Cullen softly chuckled, finding he was surprisingly placated by her curious tenderness, if not a bit circumspect. After he rubbed her back in turn, Isabeau pulled back, Cullen smirking at her sheepishness.
"I'm sorry," she shrugged apologetically, "Was raised to be a bit of a hugger."
"It was… not unwelcome, my lady."
She beamed at him then, standing to stretch and let out a great yawn, "Heh, well, before the scotch fills me with more ill-advised courage, I think I should bid you good night, Ser Cullen."
When Cullen stood to walk with her, he too, felt the effects of their somber riot. He absently berated himself over each drink, his body already in an undermined state. Once at the doors of her solar, Cullen paused at the threshold, turning to grasp and raise Isabeau's hand. He gently kissed her knuckles and pulled away, "I have come to cherish our little chats, Inquisitor. Your candor with all things is refreshing in a time of so much deception."
Isabeau smiled warmly, pulling her hand away to cup the underside of his jaw, squeezing affectionately. "The lion likes a good roar, does he?"
The lion dares for more.
Cullen turned his head slightly to the side, bringing the palm of Isabeau's hands to his lips, kissing softly before pulling away and striding from her apartments. Not running away… gallantly departing. The alcohol had wrought a bit of havoc, Cullen finding it more difficult than usual to quiet his racing mind. He went directly to his bed chamber, sinking onto his bed, his hands dangling between his legs in consternation.
Entirely too bold, she's going to smack me soon.
He briefly considered the possible gains to a good flogging before immediately disqualifying them in embarrassment. He was tired and definitely pretty pissed from the scotch, removing only his pauldrons and boots before he climbed under the blankets and into bed.
As he slipped comfortably into sleep, he could not help but grin.