みんな大好き！

Rooks featured in this pack:

Gigi - @handsignals

Callie - @seaglassmelody

Zea - @redaresss

Mina - @tarasmom

Ronnie - @woundedsoul12

Tofana - @waxlyricalmoon

Rook - @sunny374940

Tuelartha - @griffongrey (photo credit for her card goes to griffon too ❤️)

The sharp rap of knuckles on the door is still rattling through Cullen's aching skull when the door opens. He sighs, though at this point wouldn't consider himself unused to interruptions.

"Where is the Inquisitor?" Cassandra demands as she marches through the door. It thuds closed behind her, his refrain from flinching at the sound is due only to a great deal of proficiency in the matter.

Still, he pinches at the front of his brow for several moments, alleviating the pain only briefly before he looks up. "What?"

Cassandra glares at him, arms crossed over the all-seeing eye on her chest plate. "The Inquisitor. I know she is here."

"I…" Cullen begins, and then, finding himself unable to decipher her meaning, shakes his head as though it could shake the clouds. "Was unaware she had returned from the Wastes." Though as he squints at Cassandra, he's relatively sure that she, too had been away until…well he's not certain.

"We returned late early this morning. I received notice that Nevarran Nobles," she sneers the words with an almost shocking display of disgust. "have seen fit to grace us with their presence. Lyria swore to me that she would be there to greet them."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Cullen notes the use of the Inquisitor's given name. He'd long been aware of the fact that Lyria considered the two of them friends, though Cassandra was often inscrutable enough that he'd never been sure how reciprocal the assumption had been. Arguably, the forefront of his mind is more occupied with the accusation in the glare Cassandra levels at him.

"Where is she?"

Cullen lets out a laugh of pure exhaustion, "Cassandra, I swear to you I do not know."

When she doesn't move, eyes still narrowed on him with undeserved suspicion, Cullen throws up his hands. "Do you think I've got her hidden beneath my desk?" he demands.

Given the color that seeps from her face and the look of pure horror that flashes across it, it's the wrong thing to say. Cullen realizes his mistake moments later, the color which drained form her face now floods his. He quickly gets to his feet, knocking his chair and hammering his knee into the edge in his haste.

"I didn't—I mean, we haven't—I would never—" He offers Cassandra a placating hand as he sputters over a thousand different denials before he finally settles for saying: "She is not here."

The curl of Cassandra's lip says she doesn't quite believe him, and the way her eyes flick down says he isn't freed from suspicion, despite his attempt to earn exoneration.

"If you see her," she says through a pinched expression. "Tell her that I am looking for her."

As she slips out of the door, Cullen sinks back into his seat like a reprimanded toddler. His hands rise to scrub over his face as he makes several attempts to remind himself he hadn't actually done anything wrong. Most days he's sure he manages to maintain the level of professionalism he's always aspired to. Other times he's sure that Lyria has unraveled him completely.

It was odd—not that they'd returned early, but that he shouldn't have heard about it. They'd returned early this morning, though not so early that Lyria or Cassandra had come to the War Room. Cullen had done inspections immediately following, and hadn't heard a whisper of their return. Of course, he'd retreated to his office when the ache had spread from his neck up into his head, and hadn't left since the pain had started seeping into the space behind his eyes. Still, he feels sure Lyria would have come to see him, especially if they've been back at Skyhold long enough that the Seeker had lost track of her.

He blows a long breath from his nose as he studies the graying wooden planks overhead—and then frowns. Perhaps he hadn't been entirely honest with Cassandra.

His joints groan even louder than the wooden rungs underfoot as Cullen hauls himself into his bedroom loft. Sunlight pours in through the break in the roof, muted from the cloud cover. Still, it washes his bed in a soft golden light, highlighting the bronze and gold and burnt umber splayed over his pillow. He creeps closer, mindful of the many rickety floorboards underfoot.

One of her hands is pressed to her face, the other fisted in the corner of her pillow. Her mouth hangs slightly open, eyelashes casting long shadows over her nose. Asleep, despite the daylight spilling over her.

She looks peaceful. And in this light he's reminded how much younger she is than the rest of them. Maybe five years wouldn't seem so much a difference, in other circumstances. As it was, she often seemed older—certainly wiser and more level headed—than most of them. Too young to bear the weight of all Thedas on her narrow shoulders.

A rare spear of rebellion rips through him.

Nevarran nobles or no, she should be allowed to rest. They depend on her for too much already, and as time goes on, the demand for her attention only increases. She'd increasingly exhausted upon her returns to Skyhold. It hadn't escaped his notice, though it was difficult to encourage her to rest when that so often led to a gentle reprimand of his own hypocrisy.

Until one of them had learned to rest, he suppose they would remain at an impasse. Still, he considers the merits of keeping this secret. He turns to go with such decisiveness that he forgets his earlier caution. The dilapidated wood complains loudly as he makes his escape, better reason for repairs than any he'd previously considered.

Cullen grimaces as a sharp metallic scent momentarily fills the air, raising the fine hair at the back of his neck. He turns to find Lyria up on elbow and squinting in his direction.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he admits, already retracing his steps.

Lyria sinks back onto the pillow with a little grumble that sounds a little like an apology. Cullen perches himself on the edge of the bed, reaching over to brush a few stray coppery strands from her face.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," she tells him. He refrains from any arguments which involve the presence of her boots by the foot of the bed, or the way her staff had been carefully set against the wall. Her lips split into a wide yawn which she doesn't finish before attempting to form the words: "So tired."

Her eyes are already drifting closed, so Cullen doesn't try to hide the smile creeping in at the corners of his mouth. "You wouldn't rather sleep in your own quarters?"

One of her eyes cracks open, and if he didn't know her so well, he might have thought she was pouting. "They know to look for me there."

His knuckles graze the slight flush over her cheekbone, passing over the trio of freckles by her eye.

He has a moment to decide, because it's clear by the twitch of her nose and her curling fingers that sleep is already tempting her once again. Cassandra is sure to castigate him if she discovers his treachery—and he expects Lyria will hardly be pleased. His eyebrows pull together as he attempts to tuck hair behind her ear, mindful of the way it so often tangles in the gold rings and chains which decorate them.

Cullen says her name once, too softly to be considered a true attempt. She lets out a grunt that says she registers the sound, but her eyes don't open. As his thumb swipes again over her cheek, he allows himself a moment to revel just a bit in the fact that she’d wanted somewhere safe to go, and she’d come here. A decision made perhaps more in desperation than conscious thought, but all the same, he doesn't plan to spoil it.