#general cullen

[fenrispenris-blog]

“Wheres General Cullen?”  “He lead the charge at dawn, hasn’t stopped fighting since. The man hasn’t slept more than an hour in two days running.”

[rihouston]

Cullen is on Twitter...go follow him for a reward!

Come on Cullenites, lets do this!  Only 33 more followers for Cullen are needed on Twitter!  He is a great guy to follow-he even asked for requests to say/sing and performed them!  Show the man behind the sexy General some love and go follow @ellisgreg!

[defira85]

My third prompt, and the sixth and final in the challenge overall. I beg forgiveness from both Nadia (bossuary) and Jess (leviathanbones​), who both tolerated my lapse into lethargy and encouraged me to make it to the finish line. Nadia was late for her final prompt, but I think at twelve days late I am officially the polished knob of the challenge

Prompt: An inappropriate use of the Skyhold Throne

The mantle of leadership can be lonely indeed- it is a fact that Cullen is well acquainted with after years as the public face of the templars in Kirkwall, and he knows the toll it can have on a person. When he encounters his new commanding officer, Geralt Trevelyan, burdened with the weight of his responsibilities, he cannot help but want to set his mind at ease.

[Featuring leviathanbones' Geralt, as both a late birthday present and as a thank you for moderating the challenge for us. Thank you!]

And thank you to everyone who enjoyed the Kink in the Armour writing relay! 

[the-promise-has-been-made]

Naughty Cullen for your enjoyment, Cullenites :D

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From the General's Journal

She finds her General in the library – that was no surprise. He sits hunched over a book and did not look up when she came in. Her hands behind her back, Ros skips closer until she is behind him, head on his shoulder to look down into the pages he is working on, noting down in the clean handwriting she was so familiar with.

“What are you doing, love?” she asks. Cullen half turns, pecks a quick, small kiss on her nose and smiles.

“Keeping my journals. I like to write everything down that happens. So in case I ever run out of lyrium…”

He does not finish his sentence. Ros leans her forehead against his temple and tries not to think of it. Of what might happen to him under lyrium withdrawal. There had been times when he had run low and those were unpleasant memories. Memories where he called her by different names, or did not recognise her at all. Memories when his hands shook uncontrollably in meetings in the war room. Memories of him too paranoid to sleep.

She wraps her arms around him and kisses his temple, he leans into the touch of her lips.

“You’re writing about me, too?” she asks cheekily, hoping to lighten the mood of such dire thoughts.

“Ah, most certainly,” he confirms.

“Oh! Tell me what you wrote?” she asks.

“She is incredibly curious, a walking, talking distraction, cheats at cards, is terrible at chess…”

“Her kiss tastes like strawberries. Her laugh lights up my darkest days. Her hands feel like the touch of life itself. Her lips are an ambrosia I could get drunk of every day for the rest of my life. Her eyes have starlight in them. When she whisper to me, I feel safe. In her arms, I feel home. Her body is a world, and I want to explore every single inch of it. I have never loved like I love her. She is the grandest miracle in my life. I believe in the Maker, because what other explanation is there for someone as… magnificent, wondrous, and beautiful as she?” he whispers. Her heart sighs with every word leaving his lips. Yet before she can ask another kiss of him, he has hoisted her up onto the table and has her legs pulled around him. She stumbles back, holds on to his arms so she would not topple over. When he looks up to meet her gaze again, the shadow cast over his golden hazel eyes makes her shiver. His lips brush hers, and his eyes are fixed on her. One arm is wrapped around her, to hold her up, the other is travelling up on her inner thigh. She whimpers ever so lightly when his hand presses against her most intimate flesh through the fabric of her leggings. She gasps, he catches her lower lip with his teeth, runs his tongue over it. 

“Cullen…” she whispers, her voice shaking. His fingers press against her, stroke her, exquisite pressure on the hard pearl through her clothes. It makes her insides pull together, makes her heart race, makes heat fill her.

“Every minute of every day, I can’t help but think of her skin against mine. I think of parting that tunic she is wearing, I think about cupping her firm, beautiful breasts. I think about kissing them, about suckling her peaks. I think of the way she says my name when she is in pleasure. I think of going on my knees before her, her legs over my shoulders, having her wide open before me, letting my tongue roam over her flesh. I think about feasting on the sweet wetness between her thighs until she screams and begs, until she quivers and writhes under me because she can barely hold on to her sanity.”

Makers breath, she barely could. His words are husked breaths on her lips, and while he speaks, his hand slips into her leggings. He strokes her, and she can tell by how slick his touch is that she is already wet, urging for him to fill her up. Her legs tremble and she presses her hips towards him, fingernails dig into his shoulders. And when he plunges inside her with a finger, thrusting and curling it against her inner walls, she does cry out his name, just as she knows he wants her to. He smirks, leans his head to the side a little as he continues. His movements are slow, and all she wants is for him to rip her clothes off and fill her up, so strong is the need to feel him. All of him.

“Tell me. Tell me everything…” she whispers, pleads. He nibbles at her lips before granting her a single, long kiss. He pulls away again and drives a second finger to join the first one, making her cry out again.

“I think about pulling her against me, about feeling her skin against mine. I think about kissing her breathless, stifle her moans with my lips. I think about being inside of her, as deep as I can. I move in her, and her every breath is a prayer. And-”

He pauses suddenly, and she is holding on to him, still as a statue. There are voices outside, approaching the library, and for several heartbeats they both contemplate whether or not they should postpone this. But when the voices are too close, there is no way out anymore. Cullen pulls his fingers from within her, causing a moan of protest to fall from her lips. He puts his other hand over her mouth, then pulls her off the table. They stumble into the shadows of the furthest corner of the library when the door is pushed open and the owners of these voices wander inside. Josephine and Leliana, laughing and chatting about life in Antiva and Orlais before the Breach. Ros peeks through the books, she can barely see the two women on the other end of the library, looking for a book there. And everything would be fine, if it were not for Cullen. He wraps his arm around her from behind and reaches down the front of her leggings to reach for her folds once more. It makes her jump against him. His other hand comes up to cover her mouth and her eyes flutter close when he begins fervently stroking and pinching her clit. Maker have mercy!

“Shhhhhh…” he whispers into her ear. She feels him shift behind her, then his hand leaves her sex, leaving her relieved and hopeful that he might have given up on that mischievous plan he seems to have made. But far from. She feels him tuck at her leggings and as they fall down to her knees, she feels his hardness against her rear.

“What by the Maker are you doing?!” she mouths, eyes widened in alarm. He puts a finger over her lips and she feels him press against her entrance. His tip teases her, and she grabs hold of the bookshelf and his arm. She looks back over her shoulder, tries to protest, but she cannot. Because he thrusts into her, and she is too busy not crying out his name. He pulls back painfully slow, makes her feel every inch of him while he nibbles at her earlobe. When he thrusts back into her again, her mouth opens in a silent moan and she stumbles forward, forehead leaning against the shelf. He picks up in his pace, deep thrusts burying him within her completely. She feels his hips press against her rear – careful not to make their skin slap and cause more noise than necessary. She tries her hardest to focus on the two women in the room with them, to make sure neither of them has caught their presence. They seem lost in their own chat, but also show no intention to leave anytime soon.

Cullen reaches for her chin, turns her to meet him in a heated kiss, keeping her from moaning. She barely notices the movement of the two women in the library anymore, all she can think, feel, or care about is him, his kiss, the sensation of being filled by him. But when they hear the door fall shut and the voices disappear down the hall, all caution flies out the window. Cullen hoists her leg up, knee pressed against the bookshelf, and reaches down between her legs. The simplest touch of her most sensitive bundle makes her finally release that cry of pleasure she has been holding in, her hand fists in his blond curls and his thrusts grow frantic as he is no longer holding back. He drives his length into her, hard and fast, his deep groans mix with her moans and cries. And it takes little more to send her over the edge on which she has been balancing for what seems like forever.

She is swept away by the pleasure, eyes closed, holding on to him in every way she can. Overwhelmed by the sensation, she is quite certain there is no ground beneath her feet. She has never felt so alive, so complete, so divine. He is right there, with her, pulls her lips to his again, his final thrusts ripple into her as he finds his release. They breathe together in shallow gasps as they ride out their climax together and it feels like the world has come to a halt around them, allowing them all eternity for this fulfilment.

When she comes down slowly, she feels her body tremble in his embrace, his arms locked around her firmly as they lean against the bookshelf. He kisses the nape of her neck and shoulder blade. She sighs.

“Maker... that was... something else...” she whispers out of breath, forehead resting against the shelf again. He slowly turns her to face him and his lips meet hers in a kiss so gentle she can scarcely believe the ferocious collision they have just experienced was real. He caresses her cheeks and smiles.

“We should do this more often.”

“Oh, we should! We definitely should! Every day in fact. Twice. Or more. Like... yeah!” she declares, feels heat flush her cheeks. He laughs, bows down to kiss the tip of her nose before he nonchalantly pulls up his breeches and trousers and swaggers away, back to his journals. Ros stays hidden behind the shelf for a moment longer, trying to tame the violent blush in her cheeks.  

[the-promise-has-been-made]

Aaaaand because I obviously have no self control: Cullen and Ros angst-leading-to-fluff.

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I love you

Their return was not announced with trumpets and laughter this time. Iron Bull came crashing through the gates, yelling for healers, his voice resounded through the keep. Dorian came behind him, as did Sera, both looked mauled. But not as bad as the small figure the Bull carried in his arms.

Cullen felt his heart stop.

His brain took over mechanically – the military education, telling him to send a servant out to find Solas, telling him to see to the health of the soldiers that had returned with them if any had survived, telling him that panic would not solve a thing, that he had to stay calm. He came down the stairs into the great hall and felt like he was walking on air, or like his body was not his own, simply piloted by logic, while his heart had ceased all function.

Cullen stopped in the Bull’s path. A shaking hand came up, reached to touch the Inquisitor’s cheek but he hesitated inches away from touching her bloodied skin. 

“What happened?!” he heard the elf ask when he came storming down the steps. Cullen’s hand dropped and he stepped aside to let Solas through. The General barely heard Bull’s response, the explanation for the pitiful state of the group. All he heard was the quiet, pained moan that came over the lips of the Inquisitor. He saw her hand twitch, and every hesitation went overboard. He stepped closer, took her hand, squeezed it gently.

“Ros… I am here, I am right here with you…”

Her hand was cold and wet from fresh blood that soaked his hands and sleeves. Only now did he realise the colour of her tunic had not been deep purple when she left the Keep a few days ago. It had been light blue. That was blood, staining her clothes dark, from a gaping wound across her sternum.

“Hey… eyes ‘re up here…” she whispered. He pulled his gaze away from her wound and met her smile – one corner of her mouth pulled up ever so slightly, and one eye opened just a little bit. He forced a smile back.

“Yes… yes they are…”

“Get her to the clinic, immediately. And no disturbances!” Solas ordered and led them ahead. Cullen felt her hand slip from his and saw her drift unconscious again. He could not move. He stared after the huge qunari who carried the Inquisitor after the mage, but his feet were nailed to the floor. He stared at the blood on his hands. His heart set back in, painful and brutal, cutting off his breath, making his head spin. He struggled to breathe, his hands were shaking, he felt nauseous.

“Ser Cullen. Ser Cullen.”

He jumped when Leliana touched his shoulder. “Ser Cullen, lets clean up that blood, hm? And then we’ll visit the Inquisitor.”

He could not speak, could not respond. He simply followed her, like a dead man walking, like a golem, no longer a man.

He could barely remember anything that happened then. Not how he washed the blood – her blood – off his hands and clothes, or how he changed into something clean. Not how Sera and Dorian debriefed the advisors in the war room. Until finally, Leliana informed him that Solas would allow him into the clinic to see her. He walked down the hallways past familiar faces that seemed like nothing but generic masks today. He reached the clinic, filled with the scent of healing herbs and incenses. Solas was just cleaning his hands and looked up startled when he noticed the visitor. The elf nodded quietly.

“She is stable. For now. If she lasts the night, she will recover, I believe.”

“Is she… awake?” 

The elf shook his head.

“No. Ser Cullen… even if she does survive the night… she might not wake up. Be prepared for the eventuality… just in case.”

Cullen looked away from the elf. One bed in the clinic was occupied, in it the small, broken figure of the Inquisitor. She was sleeping, her breaths irregular, but they had cleaned most of the crusted blood from her. It only made it worse, because that way, she was recognisable. That way, there was no doubt it was truly her. It took him great effort to get closer, to pull up a chair by the side of her bed and sit down. Hesitantly, he brushed a few dirty strands of short hair from her forehead and he forced a smile to his lips.

“You’re a fighter, my Ros... You’ll come back to me… I know you will… you will not leave me in this world alone… Not now, not like this, not when I just… when I finally have you in my life… Don’t leave me now…”

He took her hand, so small and fragile in his, so weak. He brought it to his lips, pressed a long kiss on her knuckles, his eyes closed, felt her pulse with his fingertips. Faint, slow, but fighting. She was fighting. He believed that, with all his heart.

“Ser Cullen… she needs rest.”

He looked up at the sound of Solas’ voice and nodded quietly. Before he got up, he took his chantry amulet off his neck and gently placed it around hers. He leaned down and ever so lightly put his lips to hers before he left her side.

----------

That night when he could not sleep, he dressed, climbed down from his tower and wandered the empty halls of the Keep until he reached the clinic. Solas was in his room, asleep, and Cullen guessed the elf was scouting the dreams of the Inquisitor – his most important patient – to make sure she was safe from demons and that she, in fact, still dreamt. Because as long as she was dreaming, she was alive, right?

The elf did not wake when Cullen entered, he quietly crossed the room and sat down at the bedside of the Inquisitor. She had not moved, nothing of her condition had changed since he left here in the afternoon. Though maybe, just maybe, her breathing was a little more steady? Maybe, yes…

He held her hand, his thumb brushed along her wrist. Was she warmer than earlier? Was that a good thing, or did it mean she was working up a fever? He scooted closer, his other hand reached for her face and cupped her cheek. She was still covered in cuts and bruises, but he was convinced Solas had been able to reduce the swelling, at least a little. He could almost believe that she was peacefully asleep, not fighting for her life against her failing body.

It seemed like yesterday that he had watched her leave the Keep. It seemed like yesterday that they had said their goodbyes with soft smiles, and softer kisses. All of this… was still so new to him. He was still not quite used to waking up next to her, still often found himself staring at her in wonderment why she would chose a man as broken as him. He had tried to figure out what this was between them. Ever since their first kiss and first night together, every day after that. He tried to understand the way she smiled at him, the way she reached to touch him, the way she leaned in to kiss him and the way she snuggled up next to him when they slept. He had wondered often what he would feel if she returned injured, or - Maker forbid – if she died on the battlefield. But never had he seen so clearly as he did today. He was in love. He was in love with her, and he could not bear the thought of losing her. Sitting by her side like this now made him realise just how much he really cared for her. And he swore to the Maker, then and there, that he would tell her, as soon as she recovered. Tell her every day, so that she would always know that he loved her.

When Solas came to check on his patient in the morning, he found the General had fallen asleep in the chair by the Inquisitor’s side, holding her hand. It made the elf smile. Because that might explain why the dreams of their brave leader had turned so soft and peaceful about halfway through the night…

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It was deep in the night when Róisín Trevelyan woke. How she had gotten to her chambers in the Keep, she did not remember. The last memory she had was facing a bright light, then a burning pain and only darkness. She groaned a little, her body still in pain, one big aching sore. Only then did she notice someone next to her. Kneeling at her bedside, head resting on the mattress, his hands holding hers, his blond curls dishevelled. Cullen. Carefully she reached over to brush her fingertips over his cheeks.

“Cullen…” she said, her voice did not sound like her own, merely a tiny whisper, a shadow of what it used to be.

He woke instantly and his head snapped up, he gasped. Words he might have wanted to say got caught in his throat and instead they simply looked at each other quietly. She forced a smile to her lips, although it hurt. She tried her best to sit up, but he protested.

“Don’t! You’re injured.”

“I’m fine. ‘Tis but a scratch.”

He stared at her like she had completely lost her mind and she almost felt bad because she realised, then and there, that he had been worried out of his mind. How long had she been unconscious? How long had he sat at her bedside, held her hand, made sure she yet drew breath? And what did she do? Mock his concern.

But to her surprise, he suddenly laughed, first just a chuckle, then a loud – possibly hysterical? – laugh, like all the weight of the world had fallen off his shoulders. He stood just enough so he could sit on her bed and he leaned down to her, both hands on her face, and pressed his lips to hers.

She gasped surprised, but only for a moment. Forgotten were pain and exhaustion. She wrapped her arms around his neck and allowed the kiss to burn through her heart. She arched her back towards him so he could wrap his arms around her and hold her against his body. Their lips were on fire. Devouring oxygen, leaving her dizzy with longing. She pulled away just for a breath, his lower lip between her teeth for a moment. He kissed her once more, his lips lingering on hers much gentler than she was capable of right now.

“I thought I’d lost you. I’d go insane. Don’t ever do that to me again,” he demanded, his breath hot on her lips.

“I’ll try my best,” she promised and pulled his lips to hers again. She grabbed a fist full of his shirt and pulled him onto her. A small groan of pain from the healing injuries made him jump away abruptly. Their legs were tangled, and he supported his weight on his elbows, their foreheads touched lightly and she could still taste his breath on her lips. He struggled for air, looked as much in pain for unfulfilled desires as she felt. But he managed to shake his head.

“You need to rest.”

“I’m plenty rested,” she insisted, sat up and put her arms around his neck. Her lips ghosted over his, pleading for his kiss. He smiled, sweeter than she had ever seen, when he caressed her cheek, then brushed his fingertips over her lips.

“Maker… I… I love you more than I thought I could… Róisín Trevelyan... I love you...”

Ros was not the girl for a fluttering heart. But to hear Cullen say these words – I love you – made something jump in her chest. It made her catch her breath, fight back tears, run her fingertips along his jawline, brush her lips over his gently. What happened, she had never suspected. To fall in love with a Templar, of all people. But she did, she did love him, with all her heart. She laughed, shook her head.

“I… I never saw you coming. You just… tore through everything I thought I knew about the world. And I… I love you too. I love you.”

His kiss sealed her lips, melted her heart, made her forget all about her pain. They barely parted, she held him close, needed to feel the warmth of his arms. His lips wandered, leaving hers to kiss the corner of her jawline, down her neck, lingering on her skin for several moments, burning in the most beautiful pain, drawing a longing sigh from her.

“Stay with me…” she whispered, out of breath. He smiled at her, caressed her cheek.

“I wish I could…” he said. She grumbled in frustration and it made him smile. “Don’t be mistaken, my love. I need you to rest and recover from these injuries. Were you at full health, I would take you here and now, Maker be my witness,” he growled. He leaned closer to kiss her neck, his breath ghosting over her skin. She was not sure if she had ever been this aroused in her life and when he pulled away, she responded with a moan of protest.

“Promises, promises…” she mumbled. He laughed and made her lie down by gently pushing her shoulders back onto the bed. He brushed her fringe aside and gently pressed his lips to her forehead, giving her the opportunity to deeply inhale his scent before he pulled away again.

“Rest.”

She nodded a little. She had to admit, she was exhausted, and she was in pain. She closed her eyes, savoured the memory of his scent, the feeling of his lips on her skin, the taste of his kiss on her own lips. When she felt him move away, she caught his hand and although she had her eyes close, she could feel his smile when he brought her hand to his lips. She felt him sit down beside her. His arm wrapped around her and caressed her hair. She fell asleep with a smile that night.

[the-promise-has-been-made]

Here's the promised Cullen fluff of the day :D It's basically the continuation of this one here and its just pretty pointless fluffyness. I am just jumping on the bandwagon with everyone doing 'Inquisitor + LI + bathtub' fic, and I insisted that Cullen has a nose scar in that concept art so there it is. Enjoy!

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Cullen carried the Inquisitor to the bath chamber next to their shared bedroom and had hot water filled into the large tub. Enriched with scented oils, the steam filled the room quickly and he returned to her, helped her out of her armour. It was crusted in dirt and blood – mostly that of her enemies. A large bruise spread blue and green at her side, she flinched a little when he put his hand on it, her skin burning feverish. Alarm spread on his face, but she shook her head.

“Solas already checked on it. He stopped the internal bleeding, I’ll be fine. It’s just... unpleasant…” Róisín explained. Cullen nodded quietly. Careful not to cause her more discomfort, he helped her out of her smallclothes. She shivered a little, so naked against the chill of the Keep. So he quickly took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. He pressed his lips to her forehead and felt her sigh, part exhausted, part relieved. He took her hands. Her short fingernails were dirty, her hands rough from wielding her staff. He led her to the bath, where he took his coat from her and helped her climb into the tub. She moved like her limbs were aching, like she was much older than her spirited 25 years, and when the hot water wrapped around her, she moaned in relaxation.

“Oh Maker… this is wonderful…”

“I missed you…” he whispered, his nose softly brushing her cheek.

“I missed you too. I can barely sleep when you’re not next to me…” she whispered back. Cullen pressed his lips to her cheek, but did not reply. They both knew he rarely slept when she was not there. Nightmares kept him awake and he only felt safe enough to sleep when he had her next to him, her breath tickling on his skin, the weight of her body, her warmth.

Róisín turned in his embrace to find his lips with hers, gentle kisses pressed on his chin, the corners of his mouth. Her slender hands were on his cheeks, thumbs caressed his temples as his hands slowly stroked up and down her back. The tip of her nose brushed his, yet a moment of hesitation made her pull away. Her fingertips brushed over the small, crusted cut on the bridge of his nose, just healing up. “When did that happen?”

“Blackwall. A sparring accident…” Cullen replied with a soft chuckle. She looked worried.

“You’re supposed to do friendly sparring, not beat each other bloody,” she warned.

“We’ll try.”

She scooted closer and gently pressed her lips to the small cut. They lingered so, for a long moment, he lost count of the heartbeats that passed before he looked up and claimed her lips with his. He could feel a small cut on her lip, the faint taste of blood mixed with the sweetness her lips usually tasted of. Her hands caressed his shoulders and neck, his thumbs held her hips gently. Their kiss was slow, patient, a kiss to remind them what they loved about each other. There was nothing of the usual hunger they felt when they had been apart for a long time. This was quieter, this was all about holding on to each other, breathing each other in.

He was not sure how long they kissed but when her lips finally left his, the water had noticeably cooled down. She leaned down and pressed a long kiss on the nape of his neck while he brushed back her damp hair, and finally, she stood up. He watched the water trickle down her naked skin, trace the form of her, and he felt that hunger stir up in him after all, that need to feel her against him. When he stood up, his arms came around her again and they had barely climbed out of the tub when she pulled his lips onto hers, fiercer this time. She sighed against his mouth when he reached around her thighs to pull her up against him. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her next door. Without even taking the time to dry the bathwater off their skin, they fall onto their bed, lost in each other.       

[the-promise-has-been-made]

I wanted to post this days ago. It's Ros, being lost in Skyhold, very early on, basically just after she got there. 

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Lost?

It was not even that every corridor looked the same. They did not. Everything looked different, but still... the rundown castle was so enormous, and so alien to her, she was not even sure in what direction she had to go. Róisín Trevelyan  turned around corners, rushed through rooms that were so demolished the ice cold wind was howling through them, and had to climb over ruined furniture at times. The hem of her blue robes was getting dirty, and with every step she took, her frustration only grew.

She was damn well near the point of resignation. She had not seen a living soul in what felt like hours. And right now, she just felt like crying. There was a lump in her throat and her fists were clenched to suppress the anger and... the loneliness. Here she was, in this enormous castle full of people who were supposed to be her allies. But really... she was all alone. She had been all alone since running from the Circle, had not dared to get attached to any of the young mages, because Maker knew, they might be dead next week. She missed her friends. She missed Rheon. She missed feeling safe somewhere, feeling home. She was alone, and she hated this place. She should just leave. What did she owe these people anyways? Cassandra had locked her up in a dungeon for days and now all of a sudden she was supposed to be the hero and play nice with the other kids? She hated everything about this!

She was not sure how long she sat here, face buried in her arms, crying for the life she had lost. But then she heard it. The sounds were only faint, and still somewhat distant. Blades crashing together, grunts from battle, not aggressive, more like... sparring? She wiped her tears (and snotty nose) and got to her feet, followed the sounds. Maybe, just maybe, she had actually found some people in this Maker-damned maze of a castle!

She had to take a few turns left and right and finally reached an inner courtyard. The sun was shining bright and warm out here, though it did little to warm the thick stone walls of Skyhold. Just at the bottom of a few steps leading to dusty, sandy ground, two men were sparring with long swords. One was the Grey Warden Blackwall, the other was... Cullen, the Templar – or former Templar, or whatever he was. Both men had discarded of their tunics, were sparring just in leather trousers, bare feet, bandages wrapped around their hands to stabilise their grip on the swords. Sweat was glistening on their bare shoulders, in Blackwall’s dark haired chest. The usually neatly combed back, golden hair of General Cullen was slightly dishevelled and likewise sweaty. Both men looked like they were having fun. And Ros could not help but stare. At the rippling muscles in the sunlight. Maker have mercy, that was just so unfair! Both warriors suddenly paused in their training and looked over at her.

“Serah Trevelyan,” Cullen greeted out of breath, surprised to see her here.

“Hm... let’s take a break, Ser Cullen,” Blackwall suggested, put down the sword and tossed Cullen a tube of water and a simple piece of cloth for a towel. The General put it over his shoulders after wiping the sweat from his face. He ran his hands through his hair, brushed it back and then took a gulp of his drink. Few drops spilled, dripped down his chin and along his neck. Ros had to force her gaze back up to his eyes and found a faint smirk on his lips.

“Are you lost, Serah?” he asked.

“L-lost? I’m a Trevelyan, Ser Cullen. We are never lost. I was merely... exploring,” she declared. He raised a brow.

“M-hm...” he began and seemed to search her face thoroughly. She wondered... could he tell she had been crying?! Could he see it in her eyes? Was her kohl smudged from the tears? Would he comment? But he just turned towards his sparring partner, who was sitting on a pile of rubble, drinking and watching them. “Ser Blackwall, I will show the Lady Inquisitor back to her chambers.”

“Sure, lad, you do that,” Blackwall said with a grin and a nod towards Ros. She smiled back and barely noticed Cullen pulled his shirt back over his head. It wrapped loosely around his torso now, and he offered his arm to her.

“May I?” he asked. She nodded – frankly a little disappointed that he was fully dressed again – and took his arm. He led her back up the stairs and through the corridors. The proximity was strangely comforting, having another by her side in those large, empty hallways. She found herself clinging to his arm. “The castle layout is rather counter-intuitive, I admit.”

“I was in the war room and must have taken a wrong turn...” she said. He glanced down at her with a smirk.

“So you admit you were lost?” he asked. She felt a blush on her cheeks and turned her face away, but still held on to his arm. The warmth of a body, anybody, even a Templar, made her feel much less alone, much less isolated. “There is no shame in asking for help.”

She hesitated a moment, then stole a glance up at him. He was facing forward, seemed to deliberately avoid looking at her, maybe so she would not feel offended, or uncomfortable. She lowered her gaze again.

“I’m a mage. I am not used to people... offering help. Least of all Templars. The last Templars I met tried to slit my throat in my sleep.”

“I am sorry you had to suffer at the hand of the order. Templars are supposed to protect, not terrorise. I often feel I have failed my duties as Knight Commander...”

“You can’t blame yourself for the actions of the Templars in my Circle. You did nothing-”

“Exactly. I did nothing. I sat by quietly for nearly ten years, though I was in a position to change things. I did nothing, I allowed this to happen by... pretending I didn’t see it. Your Circle, the Kirkwall Circle... none of it would have happened had I stood up to Meredith’s madness sooner.”

She stopped. And it made him stop too. He turned towards her and could barely prepare for a small fist beating his arm.

“You know what?! You’re right! It is your fault. You did let this happen. You let hundreds of mages get slaughtered, or made tranquil, innocent people who had never done anything. All we wanted was to live in peace and not be looked at like monsters. And all your order did was demonise us for the mistakes of few. It is your fault! My friends are dead because you didn’t have the... the balls to stand up to your Commander! This is your fault. My friends are dead. And Maker knows what happened to my brother! This is your fault! Yours!!”

Her voice ripped through the silence of the Keep. She screamed at him, and he stood there, still, and took all the blame. And only when words failed her, when she couldn’t see anymore, through the tears, he came closer. Carefully he put his arms around her and held her closer. She sobbed into his shirt, had not felt this small and scared in a long time, like the child she had been the first night in the Circle, away from home for the first time and all alone. Back then it had been her brother who comforted her. That she would find that comfort, of all the places, in the embrace of the General was by far the most unexpected turn of events of this day. She clung to him, like she feared to drown if she let go. His scent surrounded her – leather, lyrium, the sweat from sparring, not the unpleasant kind of sweat. It was a scent that promised safety, strength, support. His hand came to stroke her hair, and he said not a single word. As if he knew there was no point. No apology would be enough, nothing he said would make it easier.

How long they stayed like this, she could not quite say. Her tears had almost dried when she stepped away and the hand he had on her hair came to rest on her cheek.

“I cannot bring back what you have lost. But everything short of that, I swear to you, I will do. I will be by your side to save this world, and... everyone who the Templar’s have wronged.”

She nodded, barely visible, and he slowly took his hand from her cheek. He turned, to lead them further through the Keep and she followed him silently. Still, she had not found her words again and simply watched him walk ahead, the way he held his shoulders, the calm, steady confidence, like a rock in the unforgiving sea. She felt her heart beat faster, looking at him, and it made her turn away. Just in time to catch a glimpse out of the window at the collection of windows she knew her belonged to her chambers. She gasped.

“Wait a second! We’re nowhere near my chambers! You’re leading us the other way!”

He stumbled perplexed and looked out the window himself, a wave of crimson shot into his face.

“I... I... am so sorry, I was convinced this was... um... perhaps Ser Blackwall knows the way...”

She stared up at him flabbergasted, the way he was at a loss of words now, the way he nervously rubbed his neck. And she could not fight the chuckle, could not keep it from growing into a full laugh, perhaps the first time she had truly laughed since she had been brought to this castle. And she took his arm once more.

“Never mind. We’ll find our way. Both of us,” she said and looked up at him with a smile. He smiled back, nodded, and they continued on their way through the castle. Not lost, merely exploring. And after a while, he reluctantly put his hand on hers.

She did not mind.              

[azuremosquito]

Giveaway prize for conqueries. Prize was a quick sketch, character of choice. They asked for Cullen in an action pose with sword and shield drawn.