Dragon Age One Shots

Regency Cullen 13

Cullen chewed upon Delrin's words as the man dashed away for his own wedding. It is a foolish thought. Marriage. He need not bother, Branson already slotted to take up the title after him. The only reason would be for his own selfish needs.

Wants.

"James?" he calls, straightening up from gazing out the window. There is no woman in green darting through the hedges with his nephew in tow, but his heart smiles at the wisteria dangling near. Is it the flowers he smells or her perfume?

"Yes, Sir?" James ducks his head in, slowly closing the door behind while pacing into Cullen's study.

"How does one go about...proposing marriage?" Cullen asks. When he receives no instant answer, he turns from the window to find a flabbergasted Steward.

"Mi-milord?" James stutters as if this is some failing travesty upon the Rutherford line. His fate was decided for him when he was still chasing frogs in the garden. He had no say in starting the wheels, much less any idea how to begin such a proposition.

"For," Cullen's internal organs burn hot, the shame of what he was asking finally taking hold. "For a purely speculative question."

"Ah, well, most would first approach the young lady's families to learn of her prospects. Charming the father is key."

Cullen frowns. He'd never inquired once about her father, or any other man in her life. What if she is already affianced? Hard to believe a man would let a woman such as her from his side for a week never mind long enough to become a...

"However," James continues, "if this is a more localized question, given your blood ties to the noble house you would first need to--"

"Do not say it," Cullen groans in the midst of James dooming him.

"--to petition the crown for rights to marry."

Wonderful. His hand plasters to the glass pane, eyes screwed tight to try and avoid such a possibility. "What of what you said before? Asking her father and the like?" Cullen clings to any chance to slip past where this line of questioning is leading him.

"I would suggest, if his Lordship is of the mind to proceed, to first speak with him even before the young lady. There is a chance," for a brief moment James eyes flicker out to the garden and Cullen's sly questioning falls apart at the knowing look in his help's eye. "They may not allow such a pairing."

Cullen purses his lips in a grimace masquerading as a smile. Doomed before even beginning -- the tale of his life. "I see."

"Shall I establish a meeting with his Lordship?" the Steward asks.

He could claim this is all a mental exercise. A curiosity to pique Cullen's interest on these hot summer days. Walk back from the foolish idea that he could ever bother to marry.

"Please do."

_________________________

The mad King is laid up in his death bed, his first son ruling in his stead. That puts both far beyond the reach of even a Duke. So it is to not the Prince Regent but the second son Cullen must appeal.

While the eldest son is known for being brash of action, slow to accept advice, and possessing a flight of fancy that keeps the House of Lords flustered like a hen house, the youngest is another matter entirely.

"Move a bit closer. Closer," Prince Alistair stands beside a line of perfectly fine targets, bow in hand. He waves at the man with a top hat perched upon his head, and an apple adoring said hat. Lifting the bow into position, he aims a non-barbed arrow. In an instant, the pedigreed man begins to tremble.