Chapter Text
Sunlight splits his parchment in two, catching the tail end of the only sentence he's been able to put ink to paper for, and he is miserably frustrated with himself. Not for the act of writing itself -- Cullen has never been verbose, whether he's communicating with someone face-to-face or devoting himself to the laborious task of composing a letter -- but for the timing of it all. Mia finds no end of pleasure in telling him that his correspondence, on the rare occasion it comes through, could put her children off to sleep faster than a knock to the back of the head, if only it were a little bit longer. He would be more offended if it weren't true, but even he can't deny that his letters home are dry and short, perfunctory at best, and have been for some time.
The world was ending, after all. And now that it isn't, he finds he still doesn't have much to say. Which, incidentally, says quite a lot about him.
Much as he loves his sister, however, this communication is not for her. With Corypheus behind them and the mess of picking up the pieces of the world and moving on, he has allowed many things to slip by the wayside, personal communications being near to the top of that list. Even so, if he is honest with himself (and he does try, these days, to be as honest a man as he can bear to be), he has put off writing to this particular friend for much longer than he ought to have.
Perhaps he would not be writing at all, had he not received a letter first. That shames him, because his friend deserves better than that, and yet...
"And yet," he mutters, dipping the tip of his quill into ink and squaring his shoulders, foolishly, for the battle ahead.
To his left, a single sheet of parchment, crisp and folded in three places, sits open. The message is clear and devastatingly to the point, and he winces even now as his eye catches it, tongue running over his teeth.
Commander,
Are we not to be friends, then? Do let me know, whichever way you lean -- I detest loose ends.
Eagerly anticipating your decision,
Dorian Pavus
He's not sure if it's better or worse that he can hear the words as clearly as if Dorian were standing at his elbow, knows the inflection and dip the do would take to round it out into sarcasm, biting and so very useful for shielding the more complicated nuances of this particular conversation. Were the man standing before him, Cullen could simply give him a look, dismiss the idea that a simple misunderstanding would be enough to shake the foundation of a friendship he's come to hold very dear, but that is not a luxury they have.
Well. It is luxury that Dorian has, he supposes, as Cullen imagines he's well settled back into life in Tevinter, but that's neither here nor there.
No, now he has the arduous task of attempting to communicate, and it's difficult enough for him to get his meaning across when he has tone and gesture to accompany it. Words on parchment look so stark, and so much harsher than he means them to.
He drops his quill back into the ink pot, shoving back from his desk with an annoyed huff, and tips his head back.
"Maker," he breathes, reaching up to massage his forehead. "Why is nothing ever easy?"
"Because that would negate the journey," Cassandra supplies briskly, frank and direct as she drops a heavy bundle of mail on his desk, bound with twine.
Cullen cracks open an eye, regarding her thoughtfully for a moment, and notes that her fringe has grown out a bit over her forehead. He's not the only one with too few hours in the day, it seems. "Yes, well, for once I think I would be fine missing out on the journey. I'm getting a bit too old for journeys."
Cassandra hesitates a moment, peering down at him, before crossing her arms and resting her hip against the corner of his desk. It seems rude to continue to slouch when she gives the indication that she won't simply be in and out, and so he straightens, grimacing faintly as the move pulls at his lower back.
He'd been joking about getting old, but Andraste's breath, he's not actually getting any younger, is he?
After a considerable silence, Cassandra notes, "You're fine," in a tone that's both dismissive and confident, somehow. It makes him smile, even as she leans over to observe what he's working on, and a frown line digs down hard between her eyebrows. "You are writing to Dorian?"
"Yes," he replies, his own eyebrow arching quizzically. "Is that a problem?"
"No," she says immediately, tossing him a look that would shame him were they lesser friends. "I am simply surprised. He has not been overly solicitous of anyone's attention since he left."
An uncomfortable itch settles between his shoulders, but Cullen ignores it. "I imagine he's rather busy." After a beat, he adds wryly, "And we both know that my letters aren't a burden for someone dear on time."
"That they are not," she agrees, a smile lifting lopsided on her mouth, as charming as it is asymmetrical. "Well, do give him my regards. It can be a lonely place," she adds, sobering, and pushes off from Cullen's desk.
"Tevinter?" He asks, brow pinching, and feels as though he's missed a step in the conversation somewhere along the way.
Cassandra pauses at the door frame, glancing over her shoulder at him, and her face softens fractionally. "Home."
Before he can think of a reply, she slips out, the door closing heavily behind her. Shame draws his stomach up tight, because Cassandra is rarely a subtle woman -- and he's certain she didn't mean anything by it -- but pressing her thumb so neatly on the pulse of the matter has exposed it to him nevertheless.
Are we not to be friends?
He grabs a fresh sheet of parchment, wets his quill, and hunches his shoulders as he bends to reply.