Dragon Age One Shots

Regency Cullen 22

His hands rest behind his back, the cheap hemp digging into his flesh as the scoundrel shoves him along. They trudge further down into a dripping cavern, lamps of whale oil splattering black ichor across the rocks. And beside him walks the woman he thought he knew. The one who lied to him from the moment she stepped foot in his house.

If they get out of here...

When they get out of here, he will have to--

A small chirp rolls off of Gwen's tongue. It's so soft it's doubtful any can hear, but Cullen turns to the woman who risked discovery by threatening her own life for them. She'd seemed calm and unflappable upon the shoreline, gathering wood while declaring herself to be an enemy of the crown. But walking into darkness, his heart sinks from its throne of wrath at the haunted look in her eyes. She fears whatever awaits them.

Those emerald eyes of his dreams flit over to Cullen and realization thunders through him.

No. She fears what he will do with the full truth.

What will he do?

"Keep moving, already!" A hand slams into his back, nearly buckling Cullen's already angry knee. He feels himself sinking to the ground, when a shoulder presses to his chest. She cannot offer her hand so she does her best. For a beat, Cullen wants to be the one to console her, to swear that everything will be alright.

But then he remembers she is a child of scoundrels and thieves. She's raided these shores he swore to protect. She isn't worthy of a title or lands or anything else his hand would gift her.

Cullen turns away from her, pretending he doesn't hear her gasp of pain at his cold shoulder. They slink past an obvious staging area for the smugglers, cargo taking most of the area, and boats floating upon a small tidepool while waiting for the next attack.

Handfuls of men in the same tattered vests and ripped trousers lounge about, the stench of tobacco and rum practically visible in the ar. Their captor nods at one man left to stand guard beside a frigate's sail turned into a curtain. "Boss'll want to see 'em," he says to the man, who leaps off his barrel and tugs the curtain aside.

A gasp rattles in Cullen's lungs as they walk from the splintery planks of the would-be pirates into the pillowed and perfumed world of a debauched marquis. The tobacco scent is replaced by fine perfumes of the Turks, though he notes the rum stench remains.

"Cap'n!" their captor calls and a figure disentangles himself from a mass of silks upon a reclining couch. His skin is a soft brown pampered and cared for as if he'd never seen a day on the ocean. The mustache is worn how an Orleasian would, bowed and curled at both ends, and the patch of hair below his lip allowed to curate. The eyes sweep across the pair almost dully, as if he's shrugging off penny dreadfuls at the stands.

It's the man's outfit that nearly sends the old Captain himself into stitches. Ruffles frame his exposed chest, the coat of a blue suede that wouldn't last a day on the sea, and his hat. God save him, but that hat fell off of a legendary pirate laid to rest in Davy Jones' locker thirty years hence. He looks like a right pillock with the jewels of his gains dangling off his neck, but Cullen has enough sense to know not to say as such to his captor's face.

"Well," the man stands to his full height, meeting Cullen eye to eye. "This is a surprise."

Cullen raises his chin, prepared for a battle of wits, but it's to Gwen he turns. "Little Sparrow, herself," he crows, "In my humble palace by the sea no less."

Gwen purses her lips tight but nods her head once to him. "Pavus." She knows him? Another arrow strikes through his heart as the reality settles upon him. His love truly was a smuggler.