The way his name rolls off her tongue ion confusion gives him pause. Is he not himself? Is heâ oh. She speaks in a relieved tone and the man is far too fuzzy to understand her confusion. He remembers bits and pieces, nothing that is enough to grasp onto. Eyes slip shut once move, gathering what little strength he has to force them open again; the weight of her palm in his own makes him feel more solid than he cares to admit. He feels more put together than he had before the battle before when promises were made only to be broken by him.
  When will anyone learn his promises mean nothing? He is not worth of their trust or confidence to even deem a promise from him worth the steadily building anxiety that he may ( he will ) throw the vow to the dogs and let them feast on his honor.
  His hand, instinctively, grips harder as she attempts to leave. Panic bubbles for a split second before he realizes how stupid he is to think sheâd want to stay. A colleague, nothing more. She wants nothing more than his safety because he doubts theyâll find anyone that plays so perfectly into Orlesian hands. He is a hammer to a nail while her fingers curl around quill and draw ink with flowery words that puts his own attempt at poetry to shame. Heâs a soldier to her nobility, he plays a part in keeping her in status and that is all that is. That has to be itâ and he loosens his grip before nodding; not trusting the roll of his voice to be steady. Not when what he wants sits so pleasantly in his palm but this is inappropriate and he cannot fathom the idea of being alone with her while he is like this.
  Cullen will slipâ he is a weak man; time and time again heâs shown she is not interested and yet⌠he wants what he cannot have.
  He slips, he thinks, in and out of consciousness a few more times as he attempts to focus on keeping awake long enough to see the extent of his injuries. Itâs hard to focus with the coy feeling of sleep tugging like a weight on his eye lids nor does he fight it when itâs far too easy to want to slip from this conversationâ from her eyes so wide and worried but wanting to put space between them. The man doesnât keep her, he canât. He doubts anyone she settles with will not be able to keep herâ sheâll keep them with her soft smiles and laugh that can drag a smile even from the hardest of men. He could wax poetic about her lips if he felt it would do anything to ease this ache in his chest not born of physical ills. Itâs easier to give into the ache of his skull and the burn on the side of his ribs.
  Cullen, vaguely, wonders how long heâs been here for these aches to simmer ( could be less time with a competent healer ) but finds he doesnât want to ask for fear of pushing too hard too soon. Heâll hate the too how his body punishes him for this later. Push himself too hard and heâll break; he knows this. Heâs slammed a bloody lyrium kit into a wall ( barely missing the inquisitor ) during an episode. The commander can only hope Josephine is not around to see him break. He can only hope he does not break within these walls.
Her palm had barely begun to slide across his when she felt his fingers close around hers, encasing them in an abrupt grasp. The fleeting exertion of pressure causes her to jolt and stop in her movements. It could mean anything, she tells herself. One who has suffered the degree of injury such as that had been inflicted upon him could not be held accountable for the gap in senses that it had caused. Simply put, she fears that his actions may not have been preceded with forethought of any sort.
     Josephine turns, at length, and places a free hand gently around his, ignoring the frightening leap of pace that her heartbeat had taken. âIâm not going anywhere, Cullen.â She eases the captured hand out of his grasp (regretfully; for his touch is comforting, despite the roughness of his palm and the toughened pads of his fingertips).
      There is, fortunately, some water left in the pitcher that the acolyte had brought her. When she returns, she finds him struggling between consciousness and the loss of it, and her steps quicken as she hurries to his side. If he slips, there is every chance that he will not be able to find his way back.
       âIâm here,â she breathes as she catches himâfiguratively. The cup filled with water is momentarily abandoned as Josephine attempts to steer him back to wakefulness. Without thinking, one hand moves to rest on the unscathed part of his face, with as gentle a touch as she can manage. Her thumb instinctively grazes across clammy, stubbled skin, born out of yearning for tenderness between them. For now, sheâs content to leave behind all thought of meaning and consequence; her primary concern is Cullen and Cullen alone. She watches his face anxiously for any sign that her efforts arenât working, and in the back of her mind sheâs already calculating the amount of time she would need to find the healers should his condition worsen rapidly.
       Their gazes lock, and her breathing is embarrassingly audible. But itâs the first time she notes the golden flecks in his eyes, half-lidded as they are, and wonders why she hasnât noticed them sooner.
       âAre you all right?â Anxiousness bleeds into her voice, usually so painstakingly calm and composed, and she realizes that her lower lip is trembling. âShall I go fetch the healers?â