Dragon Age One Shots

Regency Cullen 12

The lonely Duke stands inside his gloomy study, gazes across the world out the window. While inside is naught but dour tones and long shadows, beyond his forced asylum are verdant colors lit from above by the golden halo of summer.

He cannot hear the laugh, but he sees it in her cheeks blooming red from the splash of water. In how her body trembles, arms slapping at the bucket to spray back at the boy who's quickly sinking his fleet in play. In an instant, both are drenched, water erupting from the emptying bucket.

Her laugh doesn't pause for a moment, the smile contagious as Gwen tucks her fallen hair behind her ear. Cullen places a hand to the glass, his palm warming from the joy beyond his reach.

"Milord?"

Guilt burns up his stomach, Cullen adjusting the hem of his vest despite knowing he did nothing untoward. Still, it is a snappish tone that commands of James, "What is it?"

"You have a visitor."

"Very well," Cullen waves a hand in acknowledgment. No doubt one of the bankers or other sorts forever hounding his steps. God save him if it's a politician yet again insisting upon the holding's assistance for an election.

The Steward waves in a man, Cullen turning to watch. He wears a cleaned but ragged topcoat, the brocade of the vest fading from the sun, and a top hat is clutched in the hands calloused from years of working the rope.

A smile burns across Cullen's face as he meets those striking green eyes many ladies droned on about. "Lieutenant Barris!" he cries, crossing in three steps to the man -- his game leg be damned.

"Sir."

Even with the hat in the way, Delrin sweeps his arms around his old Commander in a warm hug. Cullen can smell the sea upon his jacket and a pang strikes his heart for the waves he left behind. After giving another welcoming pat to Delrin's shoulder, Cullen says, "Now, none of that. I gave up my commission. Why didn't James take that?"

He scoops up the wayward tophat and wanders back towards his desk. After perching it upon a bust of Amphitrite, he leans upon the always busy top to focus his full attention upon his guest. "It's so wonderful to see you again. I'd hardly have expected you to brave the English countryside." Cullen's musings at the familiar friend turn dour and he glances at the man, "Do not tell me you've been put in drydock as well."

"No, no," Barris lights up, crossing closer. Cullen waves towards the divan beside the window and his friend perches on the edge. "This is merely shore leave. We'll be setting out for Norway soon."

Open ocean waters, naught but gulls and men to judge him. The smell of salt, crisp winds through the fjords, and pickled fish of every manner. Cullen's rosy memory turned sour a moment and he nodded to himself. No doubt Lt Barris picked the least appealing option for the forced into retirement Captain.

"How are you keeping? The ship's...?"

"In good condition. We had to re-tar her after some run in with smugglers, Sir," Barris says without thought, then grimaces. "Or should I call you my Lord?"

"I'd prefer Cullen if it's all the same," he shudders at the massive line of titles stretching across his soul. Even he cannot remember them all in one go.

"That will," Delrin coughs, a hand rubbing into the back of his neck, "take some time. Captain?"

"Also acceptable," Cullen gives him. "What brings you to my door?"

The proud smile falters, Delrin twisting his fingers in his hands. Most days Cullen doesn't miss the calluses ground into his pads and palms from pulling the sails day in and say out. Most days.