"He who finds a wife finds a good thing, and obtains favor from the Maker," Cullen whispered the familiar verse to himself, feeling its weight as he stared at the document spread before him. Sent by Josephine for the Commander's approval and signature, it was an official invitation to his forthcoming marriage to the esteemed Inquisitor Miriam Trevelyan. A copy of it was to be delivered to the Inquisition's allies, dignitaries, and heads of the noble houses from near and far.
The parchment felt both weighty and fragile in his hands. It represented not just an invite, but a tangible symbol of the path his life had taken, the culmination of his efforts to rescue Miriam from Gaspard's clutches and find his own happiness. Yet, despite the clarity of his intentions and the certainty of his love, he couldn't shake the lingering sense of disbelief that whispered in the recesses of his mind. As he traced the elegant script with his fingertips, he wondered if this was all too good to be true. It felt as though, at any moment, the illusion would shatter, revealing some cruel twist of fate that would render their betrothal and the plans for the future union null and void.
If he had been asked to sum up the past few weeks, he would have described them as the most paradoxical chapter of his life. On one side, his relationship with Miriam flourished, surpassing even their previous closeness. The unease that once lingered between them had dissipated, replaced by a harmony that seemed to deepen with each passing day. In the mornings, she would often delight him with a thoughtfully prepared breakfast brought to his office, her gesture ensuring he started the day nourished and energized for the tasks ahead. Nearly every evening was a sanctuary of quiet contentment, as they came together to share tales of the day's events and bask in each other's presence. Whether it was joining in prayer within the solemn confines of the Skyhold's Chapel or sharing lighthearted laughter over a game of chess, every shared moment now felt imbued with an added layer of significance and promise.
On the other side of the coin lay his family, and the contrast couldn't have been starker. His once-estranged ties had transformed into something far more antagonistic.
Mia seemed to have found solace in directing blame towards him for the misfortunes in her life, her demeanor heavy with accusations and resentment in every interaction. It appeared that after his confession explaining why he had severed contact with them, he had become, in her eyes, the singular source of all her hardships. He suspected that what pained her the most was not only his partial responsibility for her husband's demise, but also his apparent forgetfulness of him. Despite his earnest attempts to explain that his memory loss was a result of withdrawing from lyrium, Mia remained immovable, refusing to grant him forgiveness. With a bitter expression, she spat out that he must have been blessed by the Maker if his withdrawal conveniently allowed him to erase his past sins. Every accusation she hurled his way struck a chord, resonating with the guilt he carried within. He knew that her grievances were valid, that he had indeed failed her in more ways than one. With a heavy heart, he bore the weight of her ire, understanding that it was a penance he must endure.
Meanwhile, his brother Branson wasted no time in exploiting their newfound connection, shamelessly demanding money to feed his drinking habit. It pained Cullen to see his sibling ensnared by such destructive addiction, but despite his sincere attempts at reasoning or impassioned pleas, Branson refused to even try to break free of his vice.
And then there was Cullen's youngest sister, whose reaction puzzled him the most. Instead of accusing him of his transgressions like Mia or trying to exploit their shared bloodline like Branson, Rosalie seemed to be indifferent to her estranged kin. His little sister immersed herself in the bustling atmosphere of the Herald's Rest, where she spent her days charming the patrons and flirting shamelessly with the men who frequented the tavern. After the knowledge of her lineage spread through the Skyhold, no man dared to approach her, intimidated by the notion of crossing paths with the Commander's sister. Yet Rosalie remained undeterred, her confidence unshaken by their avoidance. She moved between the tables with an air of self-assurance, seemingly unaffected by the stares and whispers that followed in her wake. Concerned by her behavior, Cullen once attempted to discuss the matter with her, hoping to understand her attitude and perhaps offer some guidance. However, his efforts were met with resolute silence as his sister refused to even acknowledge his presence.
With a steady breath, he halted his rumination on his family's issues. At least now, whatever challenges lay ahead, he would confront them alongside the woman who had captured his heart. And as he affixed his signature to the document, he clung to the knowledge that this union held the promise of a future filled with companionship and shared purpose, a journey guided by the favor of the Maker himself.
After sealing the document, he promptly summoned a messenger. The young man with a determined expression, bowed respectfully before accepting the parchment. "Take this to Lady Josephine immediately," Cullen instructed firmly.
The messenger nodded earnestly and with a swift turn, darted out of the office, his footsteps echoing down the stairs as he hurried to fulfill his task.
Left alone once more, the Commander returned to his desk, his mind already drifting back to the reports awaiting his attention. He had barely skimmed the first page when the door to his office burst open with a resounding bang.
Startled, Cullen looked up to see Branson storming into the room with unchecked fury. "You shoddy piece of crap! What do you think you're doing?" his brother bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
Two soldiers hurriedly appeared at the doorway, ready to intervene, but Cullen raised a hand, signaling for them to stand down. "It's alright, leave us. Guard the entrance so we are not interrupted," he commanded quietly, his gaze fixed on his kin. The men swiftly withdrew, leaving the brothers alone in the room.
Branson took a step closer, his fists clenched at his sides. His face was flushed crimson, though this time it was not from the effects of the drink but rather from the intensity of his anger. "Not a soul in this blasted fortress is floggin' me any booze today! I know this is all your handiwork!"
Cullen met his brother's gaze evenly, his voice calm but firm. "I have tried to appeal to your senses, but your ears have remained deaf to reason. The days of drowning yourself in a bottle must come to an end. I observed your presence at the Grand Hall when my betrothal to Lady Trevelyan was announced, Branson. You are well aware that I have no choice but to intervene on your behalf. Your indulgence now holds sway not solely over yourself, but it tarnishes the reputation of the Inquisitor, who is soon to be welcomed into our family."
At his words, Branson snorted. "Ah, typical of a hound's arse like you, ain't it? Rather put your energy into some blighted wench than show an ounce of care for your own blood!"
Cullen sighed, feeling his patience wearing thin. "You can insult me all you want, for Maker knows I deserve it, but refrain from disrespecting my fiancée."
Branson scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. "Save your sorry act for someone who cares! What I need ain't your fake remorse, it's a coin and a decent drink, plain and simple. And you darn well know you owe it to me!"
He met his brother's gaze, his expression weary but resolute. "I owe you many things, I won't deny that," he said evenly. "But coin and drink are not among them."
Branson's eyes narrowed, his frustration evident as he clenched his jaw. "Oh, so now you're the one calling the shots, eh? Well, it ain't bloody up to you to dictate how to make it up to me," he declared with a bitter edge to his voice.
The Commander pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, I am resolute in my decision. If you have nothing further to add, I would prefer to be left to my work. It's a concept you might consider embracing here at Skyhold."
"Easy talk for someone like you," his brother retorted sharply, his voice tinged with a hint of disdain, "but not all of us got the looks to charm our way into a fancy title."
"You dare insinuate—" Cullen began, his voice low and dangerous.
"Oh, please," Branson interrupted him, his voice rising in volume. "You expect me to swallow that hogwash about you shagging with the Inquisitor having nothing to do with you snagging the Commander's seat? If you're ready to hitch yourself to a wench uglier than a toad and flatter than a board, it's as plain as the nose on your face that you're just scrabbling for power however you can!"
Cullen's patience snapped like a taut bowstring, his anger boiling over. "That's it," he growled, rising from his chair and closing the distance until he was mere inches from his brother's face. "Shut your mouth, or so help me—"
But before he could finish his threat, Branson's fist connected squarely with his face. The blow was swift and unexpected, catching Cullen off guard. He stumbled backward, his back colliding forcefully with the edge of the table, sending a jolt of pain coursing through his body.
"Been schemin' to stick it to you ever since I realized you dumped us like used rags," the younger man muttered as he absently rubbed the knuckles of his clenched fist.
The Commander quickly regained his balance, his posture straightening. He suppressed the primal instinct to retaliate. Despite the storm raging within him, he refused to stoop to his brother's level. "I won't engage in a brawl with you, Branson, but you've crossed the line, and there are consequences to face for your actions. Guards!" The men stationed outside immediately rushed into his office, their faces etched with alarm as they surveyed the scene before them. "Take him away," Cullen commanded with a steely tone, his words carrying the weight of authority as his brother looked at him in stunned disbelief. "Throw him into a cell for a few weeks. And ensure he's tasked with the duty of cleaning the chamberpots." His gaze remained fixed on his sibling, unwavering and resolute. "Perhaps it will allow you to reflect on your actions and regain some semblance of sobriety."
The men nodded in understanding, moving forward to restrain his kin, who struggled against their grasp with renewed fury. "Cullen, you bloody wanker, I hope your dick falls off!" he shouted, the intensity of his emotion causing his eyes to bulge. "Rotting maggot spawns! Get away from me!" Branson's desperation fueled his resistance as he lashed out, kicking and thrashing against the firm grip of the soldiers restraining him. However, his efforts proved futile against the combined strength of the two trained soldiers, who swiftly dragged him away, his insults and curses fading into the distance.
Cullen closed his eyes briefly and let out a long, slow breath. He knew his actions were necessary, both for Branson's sake and for the integrity of the Inquisition, but it pained him that it had come to this. He was also sure that Mia would not approve of his methods of reining in their brother. With a heavy heart, he turned back to his desk, attempting to bury his troubled thoughts beneath the weight of his duties. However, despite his efforts, the conversation continued to haunt him, its echoes reverberating through his mind. Did Branson truly believe what he said, or was it merely an attempt to retaliate for having his drink taken away? How many people saw their union with skepticism, interpreting it as nothing more than a commoner's attempt to cozy his way into power?
He pushed aside these intrusive thoughts, reminding himself that he shouldn't concern himself with the opinions of others and that facing such ugly suspicions was not a new experience for him. In Kirkwall, his rapid ascension through the ranks of the Templar Order had sparked whispers about his alleged liaisons with Meredith. Yet, as time passed, those speculations gradually faded into obscurity. Despite the initial fervor surrounding them, they proved to be nothing more than fleeting gossip, unable to withstand the test of scrutiny and the passage of time. This will be no different. Besides, during the betrothal announcement at Skyhold, Miriam revealed to the gathered crowd, under the adamant insistence of the Spymaster, that her union with the Commander of the Inquisition forces transcended mere matters of the heart. Rather, she declared it to be ordained by the divine will of the Maker. This proclamation, underscored by the unwavering support of the esteemed figures of the Chantry, undoubtedly influenced by Leliana's 'persuasion', imbued their bond with a sense of sacred purpose, elevating it beyond the realm of mortal affairs. Though the theatrics and overblown statements of it all made him sick to his core, he also felt relieved that no one who wished to remain in good standing as an Andrastian would dare speak ill of their union.
Even the Emperor of Orlais had to swallow his pride and admit in his letter to Miriam that if the Maker Himself did not sanction their marriage, he, as a faithful servant of His will, would humbly accept the decree. However, Gaspard's so-called humble acceptance masked the truth that he had ordered his agents to spread rumors suggesting that the Maker had chosen a different husband for the Sword of the Faithful because she was incapable of providing His Majesty with an heir. Thanks to this manipulation, the twist of events was now perceived by many as a sign of how deeply the Maker and His Bride cared for the Emperor's well-being.
When Cullen first learned of it from Leliana, he felt a mixture of anger and frustration. He was furious at Gaspard's depravity and disheartened that, despite his efforts, he couldn't shield Miriam from becoming the subject of public scrutiny due to her condition. The mage never broached the topic of those rumors with him. He strongly suspected that her silence stemmed not from a genuine lack of awareness but rather from a deliberate act of feigned ignorance. Yet, regardless of the reason, he resolved within himself that he would not be the instigator of such unsettling discourse.
The thought of Miriam pulled him back to the present moment, jolting his consciousness into the realization that the gift he intended for her should have already been in the hands of the quartermaster. With purposeful strides, Cullen left his office and navigated his way through Skyhold to Ser Morris' place of business.
Barely a week earlier, in conversation with him, Josephine had nonchalantly mentioned the Inquisitor's impending birthday in a fortnight, predicting the arduous task of composing responses to the deluge of well-wishes sent to Skyhold. This prompted Cullen to ponder that he, too, wanted to bestow upon Miriam a token for the occasion. It presented a golden opportunity to ensure that the weathered amulet did not remain the only reminder of him in her life. As he considered what gift to offer, his mind drifted to a memory of Miriam accepting his proposal. Despite ash smudging her features and her hair tousled, she exuded a delicate grace, her pale face a stark contrast against the fur lining his cloak. The word 'delicate' lingered in his thoughts, encapsulating her essence in that fleeting recollection. That's why, when he mulled over potential gifts for the mage, he wanted something that would protect her amidst the tumult of their lives. Perhaps a piece of armor, he mused, lightweight yet durable. Or maybe a buckler, one she could easily wield on her hand. Yet, as he weighed these options, none felt quite right—they were all items she was not accustomed to using, nor ones she could efficiently wield without training. Then, like a spark illuminating the darkness, inspiration struck—a cloak crafted from wool. The idea resonated deeply with him. In his mind's eye, he saw her enveloped in the soft warmth of the garment, its fibers acting as a shield against the biting cold of the Frostback Mountains. It would be more than just a gift; it would be a symbol of protection, a tangible manifestation of his steadfast commitment to keeping her safe and sheltered from harm.
Upon reaching his destination, he found the quartermaster poring over a ledger, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Good day, Commander," Morris greeted, looking up from his work.
"Good day, I've come to collect a cloak I requisitioned." The quartermaster nodded and rose from his seat, motioning for the Commander to follow him to a nearby storage area. As they walked, Cullen couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation building within him. "I trust everything is in order?" he inquired, unable to hide the hint of excitement in his voice.
"Indeed, Commander," Morris affirmed. "It's a fine piece. I am sure it will serve its purpose well," he added as they reached the storage area, where the cloak awaited him ready for collection.
"Thank you," Cullen said sincerely, his gaze lingering on the garment for a moment before he carefully picked it up.
"It was my pleasure, Commander," the quartermaster replied curtly.
With a grateful nod, Cullen draped the cloak over his arm, feeling a sense of satisfaction wash over him.
As he made his way back to his office, he ruminated that the robes Gaspard sent to Miriam, the ones destroyed by the flames, were opulent and fit for royalty. Their ostentation was evident, designed for someone who would command attention with a mere tilt of her chin. Crafted by the finest tailors of Val Royeaux, they exuded lavishness and perfection, yet they seemed out of place on the woman he loved. A pious soul will forever be ill-suited to the treacherous world of politics, where even the word of the Maker is treated as just another tool of manipulation amidst grandiose displays of power. In stark contrast, his cloak was humble. Woven from wool sourced from a creature grazing on grass, it was made by someone of modest means. Its length was practical, making it less likely to snag on loose stones or inattentive feet. No jewels were adorning it, nor did it boast materials befitting an Inquisitor. He hoped, however, that his infinitely more modest gift would be the source of an expression he longed to see on her face more often: a comforted smile.
Upon returning to his office, he carefully folded the garment, and then placed it into a box he deemed appropriate for a gift. As he set out to find the perfect hiding spot for it, his search was abruptly halted by the arrival of a messenger bearing the documents he had requested from Rylen earlier in the day. Hastily, he placed the container near the ladder, intending to return to it later. However, as he became engrossed in reviewing the records, the box was left forgotten, overshadowed by the pressing tasks at hand.
The day continued in a blur of activity, but as the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky darkened into shades of indigo and violet, it was not his fiancée who appeared in his office, but his older sister. Mia entered silently, her lips drawn into a thin line, her eyes flashing with intensity. She stopped before his desk and fixed him with a piercing stare, her voice low and laden with accusation. "Do you not think that taking my husband away from me was enough?" she demanded. "Now you've decided to imprison my brother as well?"
Cullen squared his shoulders as he confronted the fiery gaze of his sister. He had braced himself for this confrontation, hoping it might alleviate the burden. "Mia, I took measures this morning to ensure that Bran could no longer procure alcohol in Skyhold. So, he confronted me in fury, hurling insults at myself and, more importantly, at the Inquisitor. Then he turned violent." She began to open her mouth, a retort poised on her lips, but he insisted, his resolve cutting through any attempt to interrupt. "Please, allow me to finish. You understand better than anyone that Bran is in desperate need of assistance. He cannot continue to drown his existence in liquor and languish senselessly in his filth."
Mia's eyes flashed with indignation. "You care about Bran's struggles only because they are a nuisance to you. Who are you to pass judgment on him, let alone confine him like a common criminal!?"
"I have not imprisoned him," he replied, his tone firm. "I am simply making sure he works and abstains from alcohol. It is for his own good. If he continues on this path, he will only cause more harm to himself and others."
"You presume to know what's best for him, yet you're blind to the depths of his suffering. Bran needs compassion, not your oppressive measures and restrictions." Her tone held an intensity that dared him to challenge her understanding of the situation.
"I may not know what he's been through, but I'm sure that caring for someone does not mean enabling destructive behavior," Cullen retorted. "I am trying to help him reclaim his life, to become the man I believe he's capable of being."
Mia scoffed, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Your 'guidance' feels more like tyranny. You're forcing him into a mold that he's not ready to fit into. It will only drive him further away."
Cullen's expression hardened. "And what would you have me do? Stand idly by while Bran destroys himself? You've done that, and it's abundantly clear that it hasn't worked."
The moment the words escaped his lips, Cullen realized his grave error. Mia's breath caught in her throat, her complexion paling. "You? You of all people accuse me of being a bad sister?" Her voice quivered with hurt and indignation. "How dare you? I shed blood, sweat, and tears while raising them and my child all alone!"
"Mia, I..." Cullen started, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture.
For a long moment, she simply stared at him in silence, her expression a mixture of hurt and anger. "From this moment onward, you cease to be my brother," she declared, her voice quivering with emotion. "Release Bran and erase any memory of having a family. It shouldn't be a challenge, given that you already forgot Thomas. Once I've gathered enough coin for us to stand on our own, we'll be leaving Skyhold." With a final, resolute glare, she stormed out of his office, slamming the door shut with such intensity that its reverberation surely echoed throughout the whole of fortress.
He sighed, a weary exhale that seemed to seep out all the strength that he had left, and leaned forward, placing his weight on his hands as they rested upon the table. The polished wood creaked slightly in response, as if echoing the strain of his troubled thoughts. He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. He knew that the conversation wouldn't be an easy one, but it ended up being far worse than he had ever intended.
Before he could fully fathom the weight of his sister's words, the door to his office creaked open once again, disturbing the silence that had settled in the chamber. With a heart heavy with apprehension, he half expected the return of Mia, with even more sharp words to throw his way. Yet, it was Miriam who appeared with a tray of sustenance in her hands. The mage entered cautiously, her eyes scanning the room before settling on Cullen. "When I discovered you hadn't ventured to the kitchen throughout the day, I figured I'd bring you something to eat." The lines etched on her face spoke of concern and compassion as she approached, setting the tray down with a soft clink. "I saw Mia rushing out of your office, she looked decidedly furious. Something's happened, hasn't it?" He nodded, wincing a bit, as she began to make up his plate. She worked diligently with steady hands, neatly organizing everything in front of him, even going so far as to move his work away as he sat there in silence. Occasionally, she flicked her crimson eyes at him, waiting for a cue, but rather than push him for answers, Miriam allowed the quiet to settle his mind. His family, with the exception of Rosalie, was loud and intense as the complexities of the situation deepened every day. It was wearisome and did nothing for the exhaustion he was already feeling. When the mage accidentally knocked a book off his desk, he started coming back to the present. "Oh, I'm sorry."
The troubled expression on her face made him smile slightly as she sheepishly replaced the timeworn volume of Genitivi. Here was a woman content to suffer his silence patiently as she cared for him. She didn't push him to divulge what troubled him, but somehow she knew he simply needed time to sort out his thoughts. "You are a rare woman, Miriam," he whispered fondly.
She looked down, seemingly holding back a grin as she pursed her lips together. "That's a very kind way of describing all this," she remarked, gesturing with a marked hand to her face, where emerald veins accentuated the red of her eyes.
"That's not what I meant," he interjected hastily, seeking to clarify his words.
The mage's quiet chuckle in response betrayed her understanding of his intentions. "You should eat before it gets cold," she advised, her tone gentle yet insistent. As he complied with her command, his first forkful of food caused him to inadvertently bite his swollen lip from the earlier altercation with Branson. A low growl of frustration escaped him as the distinct taste of blood filled his mouth, alerting Miriam to his discomfort. "Cullen, you're bleeding! May I—" she began, but her words were cut short as she observed his injury more closely. "Andraste's ashes! This entire area is inflamed. I highly doubt you bit down the length of your chin."
This time, she didn't ask for permission to use her healing spell on him, which he figured came with their new relationship status. Accustomed to her magic, he welcomed the familiar sensation without hesitation. As the mage gently tilted his chin upwards, she swiftly concluded mending the minor injury before releasing her hold with reluctance. Her patience had now been tested with this discovery, and he owed it to her, especially considering her earlier tolerance of his silence. "I had an argument with my brother," he confessed, meeting her gaze with earnestness, "and I ordered his confinement in one of the cells." Miriam blinked slowly at him with a calm dissatisfaction. "He took a swing at me."
"Whatever for?!" she exclaimed, her voice edged with incredulity and a touch of indignation.
"I ordered that he not be served any alcohol at the tavern in an attempt to help with his addiction. Now I find myself questioning the wisdom of my decision." Leaning against his desk beside him, her eyes bid him to continue. "But I mean, isn't that what one ought to do?" he continued, his voice tinged with a defensive edge. "Is it not the rational course of action to assist one in overcoming their vice, even if they themselves do not wish for it?" His words poured forth with an increasing fervor, as if a dam had burst within him, releasing a torrent of pent-up thoughts. "I have dealt with countless drunks in the past, but they were soldiers under my command, not family who disregard my efforts." A pained look crossed her face, matching his own. "They don't want me in their lives," he concluded, his voice heavy with resignation. "And I cannot fault them for it."
"I can empathize with your situation. Being scorned and exploited by one's kin for their own gain is a burden I too have carried." A fleeting glint of mischief danced in her eyes as she added, "Although I never entertained the notion of confining them to a cell for it, perhaps it's a tactic worth considering." Cullen appreciated her intention to inject some levity into the conversation, but his thoughts were clouded by his sibling's earlier accusations. His frown deepened, betraying his troubled state of mind. At her failed attempt, the mage deflated, looking away from him to a nondescript point in his office.
His heart skipped a beat as he realized his misstep, prompting him to swiftly attempt to salvage at least one of his relationships on this tumultuous day. "Miriam," he called softly, watching as her hair brushed around her shoulders to face him, her countenance having lost its luster. "Soon, we'll be family," he continued, his voice earnest, "and I pray to the Maker that I will never bring you anything but the happiness you truly deserve."
At his words, she placed her hand atop his on the desk, her smile reappearing brighter than before. "I'm already happy." She grasped her necklace, tilting her head in an endearing way as she rubbed it between her fingers. "It seems you've rescued me again, my hero, this time from the vileness of politics and empires." Cullen was sure she was alluding to the recent stint of slander against her for rejecting Gaspard. "Now, you really should eat, a commander needs his strength." Pulling her chair around the desk to sit beside him, they settled into the familiar comfort of each other's presence. Miriam rested her elbow on the desk, a sign of weariness after a long day, her gaze fixed warmly on him as he ate. In these quiet moments, her companionship served as a source of strength, infusing him with a renewed sense of determination to confront the myriad challenges that awaited him each day.
As the night progressed, and they spent hours in each other's uninterrupted company, Cullen became wholly engrossed in their conversation, completely forgetting about the gift he had left at the foot of his ladder. He only remembered its existence when Miriam spotted the rectangular container as she bid him farewell on her way out of his office. With a gentle smile, she hurried over to the ladder, offering to carry the box up to his room for him. "I truly don't mind," she insisted, concern evident in her voice. "Surely, it would be unwise with your arm still recovering."
Before she could reach for the parcel, he rushed to her side, stuttering protests tumbling from his lips. Closing the distance between them, he intercepted her movement just as she was about to pick up the box. Miriam gasped in surprise as he grasped her hand, and before she could react, he swept her up into a graceful twirl, as if they were dancing at a grand ball. The speed of his movement took her off guard, and she instinctively grabbed onto his chestplate to steady herself.
"Cullen?!" she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of surprise and amusement.
His heart beating wildly, astonished at his own boldness, he struggled to find words. They stood pressed against each other, their eyes locked in a silent exchange, each searching for the other's reaction. His free arm instinctively wrapped around her lower back, holding her securely against him, while her hand remained clasped in his. Despite the unexpected intimacy, the mage made no move to pull away, seemingly content to remain in his embrace.
"Cullen?" she called out to him once again, her voice now meek and quiet.
"I, um… well, that particular box is very heavy. And I, well, I had just dropped it there, but it actually belongs down here." Unaware of the deception, her lips formed an 'o' of understanding, and her eyes shifted to study their intertwined hands. As she flexed her fingers within his grasp, he felt the rhythm of her breathing deepen. While they stood there, his mind couldn't help but wonder what she would feel like in his arms without the barrier of his armor. Miriam seemed so fragile yet wielded an incredible power. It was as if he could sense the weight of her burden pulling her down, yet her faith and resolve gave her an unmatched defiance. He would help shoulder her incumbrancer; his affliction be damned, he'd overcome it for her, for she was the only one who cared for him now. Releasing her hand, he gently commanded her attention back to his face, his fingers trailing up her bony shoulder to cup her cheek sweetly.
Her head found solace in his large hand, and with a heavy sigh, she closed her eyes, as if attuned to his unspoken thoughts. Timidly, she nuzzled into his touch, and his heart swelled with a rush of conflicting emotions.
A desire to press his lips against hers surged, a longing born from the depth of their connection and the tenderness of the moment. Yet, alongside that desire, doubts gnawed at him, questioning whether she would welcome such a gesture, whether it was the right time to further their relationship.
Perhaps he should exercise caution, wait for a sign that she reciprocated his feelings before allowing himself to act on impulse. Yet, with each soft exhale from the mage, he felt the allure of surrendering to the stirring of his heart grew stronger.
His fingers, initially resting against her cheek, gradually slid beneath her chin, lifting it with a tender reverence. His thumb followed suit, tracing a hesitant path along the curve of her lips. It was a gesture filled with reticence and yarning, a silent plea for her to open herself up to something more. Her eyes fluttered open at the action, and he caught the flicker of nerves dancing in her gaze, a reflection of the same trepidation coiling in his stomach. Yet, amidst it all, there was a glint of curiosity, and dared he hope, perhaps even an invitation? Summoning his courage, Cullen resolved to brave the unknown, laying bare his own vulnerability in a leap of faith. He started to close the distance between them with agonizing slowness, mindful of giving Miriam the ample opportunity to retreat if she so desired.
But the mage stood motionless, as if carved from stone, holding her breath until their lips brushed together in an almost imperceptible kiss. The moment that connected their quivering souls felt both eternal and painfully fleeting, stirring within him a yearning for more he could scarcely bear.
Yet, however fervent his sentiments, he held back his ardor and gently withdrew, allowing space to form between them. "That was... nice," he muttered, his words faltering as he searched Miriam's countenance for a response.
She regarded him with a genuine smile, the lines of tension softening in her expression as she met his gaze. "Yes, it was warm and comforting," she affirmed, her voice filled with relief.
Cullen's brow furrowed slightly, a subtle pang of disappointment tugging at his heart. While 'warm' and 'comforting' were undoubtedly pleasant descriptors, they fell short of the slightly more passionate reaction he had secretly hoped for after their first kiss. Yet, he swiftly pushed aside any lingering doubt, opting to dwell instead on the gratifying realization that Miriam had, in her own way, found solace and joy in their shared moment
"I'm glad," he murmured softly, a faint curve gracing his lips as a revelation unfolded within him. Despite the terrible start to the day, it was concluding with yet another sign, however subtle, that there existed a chance – a glimmer of hope – that one day she might come to love him as he loved her.