Chapter Text
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𝚔 𝚒 𝚍 𝚗 𝚊 𝚙 𝚙 𝚒 𝚗 𝚐
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Marriage among the Avvar was simultaneously more simple and more complicated than when it came to regular Fereldens. The Thane had stated his intentions to take Roslin as his bride, which had been the simple part. His terms were also simple; Roslin becomes his bride, his wife, and the village of Snowreach falls under the protection of the Lion-Blood clan.
But the arrangements were the more complicated part—there would be no walking down an aisle or pretty dresses or flowers or family and friends in attendance in a chantry. There would be, however, sneaking under the cover of nightfall and kidnapping. Avvar apparently did not merely just lay claim to a woman once their intentions had been made clear; they had to prove that they were worthy by infiltrating the hold she was a part of and stealing her away from her clan.
In this case, when Cullen left, he had made yet another promise to return.
Only this time, it would be for her.
He hadn’t been terribly clear on when he would make due on his promise and so Roslin had been left to fester to her own thoughts for several days after his departure. Even worse off was her father, constantly pacing the house into the wee hours of the night, back and forth, back and forth. Every morning, he would open the door to Roslin’s bedroom and peer in, half-expecting to see that she was no longer there anymore.
The waiting felt like both a mercy and a curse.
Tonight felt no different than the rest, plagued by uncertainty and caution, unsure if she should make things easy or difficult for the Avvar Thane that would be coming to steal her away. Yet worse than the uncertainty was the self-doubt that wound itself deep into the pit of her stomach, thorny tendrils tightening themselves into knots in her gut.
She had to wonder...why her? Of all the women in the village, she was most assuredly the one with the least amount of fire, the least impressive, and the least beautiful. The others in the village had made it clear that she was someone of little intrigue or interest to them, a baker’s daughter and nothing more. Merchants often looked over her when they rolled through the village, and on the rare trip to one of the larger towns many days away from Snowreach, she might as well have been invisible to any and all that she passed.
But Cullen had taken notice of her, and she couldn’t think of when or how or why. The ‘why’ of it sat most heavily on her chest, like an immovable boulder had been dropped to rest upon her. But lingering on the thought wouldn’t do her any good now. The decision had been made and she had been picked by, of all people, an Avvar Thane that ruled over a powerful hold.
And so, with little else she could do but wait, she rolled over in her bed, nestling deeper into the covers while sleep began to overtake her, swallowing her consciousness and plunging her into the land of slumber.
It must’ve been the late hours of the night when she awoke next, abruptly, as a hand pressed over her mouth and muffled the sudden noise of surprise that left her. Her eyes frantically fought to adjust to the darkness, and she let out heavy breaths through her nose until she registered the face that loomed over hers.
Leaning over her was Cullen, with a long, gloved digit pressed across his lips as if to signal her to be quiet. When she settled (though her heart did not), he leaned down to whisper into her ear.
“Not a sound. Understood?” She nodded. “Good girl.”
His hand peeled away from her mouth and settled on her hip. She was acutely aware of the size of his hand then, resting against her body, fingers pressing into her through her blankets. Her breath hitched in her throat when he leaned in close again, face hovering just above hers.
As he spoke, she could feel his breath on her lips. “Your things. Get them.”
And then much to her relief and disappointment, he moved away, up and off the bed with shockingly little sound. Frozen for a moment, her eyes followed him, where he stood beside the open window of her bedroom, unlatched—though she could’ve sworn she had locked it before sleeping.
But Cullen’s steadfast gaze stoked her into action, her eyes remaining on him for a lingering moment as she rose from the bed, feeling terribly exposed in nothing but her linen nightgown. Slowly, she settled her feet to the floor, and through the darkness, she slipped on her boots and old cloak, and picked up the small satchel of belongings that she had packed days before in preparation for this moment.
Silently, she moved towards Cullen, who gave her an almost appraising glance, visible in the moonlight that snaked through the open window. The chill cut through her and she shivered. For a moment, it looked as though he wanted to say something, but instead, he gestured towards the window with a nod.
Roslin dropped her bag out first, hearing it hit the snow with the softest of muffled thuds and she prepared to lift herself up and over when hands settled on her waist. Large and strong and firm, they encircled her around her middle and she inhaled sharply, barely suppressing yet another surprised sound.
Cullen effortlessly hoisted her up and onto the window ledge, and Roslin had never been more thankful that their home had only one floor, otherwise the drop into the snow would’ve been more terrifying than this. With Cullen’s silent, guiding hands, she quietly tossed her legs over the window and then out she went, landing in the snow with a shiver.
She’d hardly had time to grab her bag when the Avvar landed behind her. Large hands found her waist again and she couldn’t contain the gasp when he lifted her up and onto his shoulder, coiling an arm around her body to keep her effortlessly in place.
"It is dark," he said lowly, just loud enough for her to hear. "I would not have you falling into the snow and catching a chill."
He carried her as if she weighed nothing, all while easily scooping up her bag in the other hand.
He remained silent as he carried her off and into the thicket of trees. There in the moonlight stood his horse, cloaked in black furs, hiding her usual grey and white speckled body. Had her eyes not adjusted, Roslin easily would’ve mistaken the horse for a large shadow of the trees.
His voice finally cut through the silence. It nearly made her jump. “Your father is a troublesome man.”
“What? Why?”
Cullen paused, easily hoisting her onto the massive horse, who whinnied softly at the weight upon her back. Carefully, he tethered her satchel to the side of the horse before pulling himself up to sit behind Roslin, massive arms wrapped around her.
“He enlisted the help of several villagers to keep watch. When he was not awake in your home, he was prowling around the outside. This is the first gap in guard in days.”
She was acutely aware of the way his body pressed against hers from behind, hulking figure wrapping itself around her with a shocking degree of consideration and care with where his arm rested while the other took the reins of his horse. She tried to ignore the urge to sink against him. In the end, she submitted to it, settling her body against his warm chest.
“I’m…I’m sorry.”
Cullen let out a noise behind her, caught between a scoff and an amused huff. “What for?”
“For them making it difficult.”
“Hardly,” he answered. “But no matter. Even if it were a thousand times more difficult, I would have succeeded. Now shut your eyes and rest. There is a two day’s ride ahead of us and I suspect you’ll need the rest more than I.”
Roslin’s eyes shot open. “Wh-What?”
Cullen chuckled lowly. “You will see.”
By the end of the first day, Roslin was terribly sore from being on horseback all day, even though she had sat side-saddle. The cold had begun to cut through her linen dress and cloak, and she cursed having not changed into something warmer before they departed. So when Cullen set up a small camp for the night with a blazing fire, she brought her knees close to her chest and parked herself as close as she could get without setting herself on fire.
The entire situation had begun to sink in and as night fell, she realized this was her first time away from her father and village without the intention of returning. For as long as she had lived, she had known nothing but the four walls of her bedroom every night, nestled in her blankets and furs that her father had acquired for her. It hadn’t been a glamorous life, but she had always been kept apart from the elements, even when winds roared like a beast outside her window and rattled the shutters.
Now, she felt horribly exposed and lonely, and she wondered if she had made the right decision. But then her mind drifted to the children of her village, of their faces blooming of broad, toothy smiles, and their bright, excited laughter. Then it shifted to the others and her father; a variation of ages from young to elderly, and she wondered how they could possibly defend themselves when most of them had never even been in a single fight before. Especially against the Avvar.
The people of Snowreach were hardy and tough and determined; but while they lived to survive the elements, they were not warriors.
So she did this for them.
Though part of her couldn't deny the selfish want she'd had for more, for something to break the monotony. And the steady realization that this had been, more or less, what she wanted.
She lurched from her thoughts when a heavy pelt was draped around her shoulders.
“If you move any closer to that fire, you’ll turn to ash.”
“Sorry,” she murmured, pulling the bear pelt tighter around her.
Cullen dropped to the ground beside her, heaving out a sigh of what she assumed was relief. Beneath their bodies, he had unfurled a massive druffalo pelt that he had brought with him. It kept the cold from seeping too deeply into their bodies, and kept the dampness of melting snow at bay from their skin.
“You apologize too much, too often,” he pointed out, though his tone lacked any malintent.
“Sor—” Roslin cut herself off and shifted deeper into the pelt. “It is a habit.”
Cullen let out a huff of laughter. “You are unlike most Avvar women. They are,” he paused, hesitated while thinking of how he would describe Mia or Rosalie. Finally, he settled on, “Iron-willed. Fiery.”
“Sorry…” She couldn’t help the apology that stumbled past her lips, shrinking into the bear fur.
“You misunderstand. Acknowledging a difference does not mean expressing disappointment,” he started, slowly, delicately. “You are simply different, that is all.”
“Ah,” she let out a breath, unable to hide the relief in the sound. The tension in her shoulders relaxed, but not entirely, arms still wrapped around herself almost protectively. There was a beat of silence between them and she fidgeted next to him, eager to change the subject away from herself. “Your Common is impressive…where…where did you learn it?”
Cullen shifted beside her, pulling the bastard sword from his hip and setting it down to the side. She noticed he kept it within arm’s reach, even as he grew more comfortable in his position.
“My father, who was Thane of Lion-Blood Hold before me. And his father taught him,” he nodded a couple times, as if confirming what he recalled. “It was necessary to cultivate trading relations with lowlanders and the dwarves.”
And apparently for finding a lowlander bride, she thought to herself.
“Will I be expected to learn your language?”
“Yes, though you will have help, and I suspect you will pick it up quickly when you’re surrounded by it.”
“I hope so…I don’t want to disappoint.”
“I doubt that you will, little poppy. Now, let us rest. We must wake early if we are to make it to the hold before nightfall tomorrow.”
Roslin opened her mouth to speak, but Cullen raised up from her side, moving towards his horse—Lìosa, she had learned the name was—and plucked yet another pelt from her side. He unfurled it then and returned to Roslin, wasting little time in laying his massive body out across the fur that he had laid out upon the ground.
Cullen gestured to the space beside him with a hand and Roslin felt a blush leap to her cheeks.
“It’ll be easier to maintain warmth with you beside me,” he explained when she didn’t move. In a way, she was almost thankful for the explanation, but then her mind drifted to how close they would be, pressed against one another. “If you would rather sleep apart…”
“N-No, it’s okay,” she murmured. “More warmth, like you said…”
And Cullen had not been wrong.
When she laid down beside him, his warmth immediately enveloped her, and the combination of pelts, the blazing fire, and his natural body heat had her feeling shockingly comfortable in spite of being outside.
Almost with a bit of hesitation, Cullen draped a heavy arm over her waist, pulling her body flush against his.
His voice was against her ear. “Not the most comfortable, but when we reach the hold, our bed shall serve much better.”
Our bed.
What an odd thought, that she would be sharing a bed with someone. An Avvar someone. For not the first time, she found herself wondering how her life had become this. She wondered what had captured his attention when she was nothing but quiet and even-tempered.
Roslin had always been a gentle, apologetic sort; a people-pleaser, her mother had called her. She never hesitated in running errands for her father when he asked, and before her mother had died when she fell ill, she never thought twice about taking over any of the domestic tasks of the home. She had a terribly hard time of saying no and she rarely complained, something her father often prided himself on when he told others about her.
She could still hear his words, echoing softly in the back of her mind, “It’s not just a learned child that is a blessing upon his parents and unto the Maker.”
And she loved children; they often were the ones that treated her kindly, not like she was some little mouse to avoid like the Blight. They enjoyed her stories and treated her just the same as anyone, a reprieve from the silent judgment she often received from the other villagers.
The quiet whispers of her lacking the Ferelden fire or being nothing like her mother hadn’t quite gone amiss, though she wished that they had. Being truthfully ignorant to the murmurs of others would’ve felt better than pretending to be.
Not to say that she was treated unkindly—just that she was often a source of constant comparison to her mother, a woman with a personality just as fiery as her hair, with a strong-hearted nature that none could shake or tremble.
So, really, it came as no surprise she had apologized when Cullen had pointed out she was unlike most Avvar women with the same qualities. She tried not to think about how disappointing she must be as something so soft and fragile as she was.
With a sigh, she closed her eyes, not wishing to think back on how vastly different she was compared to her mother, Avvar woman, or literally most Fereldens, so she allowed sleep to invade her senses.
The sleep has been relatively peaceful, considering they were out in the cold, until she woke at the incessant squeezing of Cullen’s large hand on her hip.
She had blinked her eyes open, prepared to return to sleep, but then there came a low growl and Cullen’s hand left her waist, seeking out the bastard sword beside their makeshift bed for the evening.
“Cullen, wh-what—”
He pressed his lips against her ear. “Shh. Not a sound, Roslin. Stay put.”
She obeyed, remaining perfectly still even as Cullen slowly shifted from beneath the warmth of the fur blanket. She lamented the loss of his warmth, of the feel of his body molded against hers, but she voiced not a single complaint, mind racing at what the sound could’ve possibly been. Though part of her already suspected.
There was the crunching of snow as Cullen stood, and Roslin kept her eyes on the fire, even as they began to burn into her vision, spots of white dotting across her field of view. But then her eyes caught something beyond the fire, two specks of yellow glowing in the darkness, prowling closer and closer.
Roslin opened her mouth, but Cullen had already moved, a sweep of his sword cutting through the air to startle the creature back and away. Fear sent her rocketing upright, fingers coiling around the pelt and bringing it closer to her chest, trembling from fright rather than the cold.
Several wolves stepped into the clearing alongside the other that Cullen had slashed back, his massive body inserting itself between the wolves and Roslin.
Her heart pounded frantically in her chest and Cullen remained steadfast in his stance, boots expertly moving along the ground as he seemingly waited for something. Of what, Roslin wasn’t sure.
At least until it happened.
One of the wolves lunged at him, a mistake poorly made, for Cullen’s arcing blade made short work of it, a yelp and then a pitiful gurgling could be heard over the growling and crackling of fire. Red began to stain the snow.
The wolves moved in and Cullen raised a fur-lined boot to kick one back, but not before it caught its maw around his ankle. He let out a roar of annoyance before he booted it to the head, hard, the sound of cracking echoing through the clearing. Roslin winced as its body slammed against the ground, hard, twitching, until it eventually ceased all movements.
There was a yell of pain from Cullen, a roaring growl as he blocked a snapping maw from his face with his arm, and Rosling watched in terror as it bit down and began to try and shake his forearm, over and over again. But Cullen was no small man and the assault that would’ve easily sent any other down to the ground barely made him lose his footing.
In a flurry of motion, he drove his blade down into the beast, its jaw loosening around his arm as it, too, slumped to the ground among the others.
The last wolf let out a whining bark and growl, inching back and back, until darkness began to shroud its body, and then it was gone. And silence followed, nothing but silence, save for the crackling fire and Cullen’s sighing breaths.
Her senses slammed back into her and she was able to move again, no longer petrified by fear or terror, no longer mortified into all but a flesh statue on the ground. Roslin scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping around the fire to move over to Cullen, small hands resting against his right arm.
He registered her touch. “Roslin,” he sighed her name, though he was hardly short of breath. He hunched down, wiping the sword in the snow, smearing crimson red along the blanket of white. When he stood, he stuck the blade into the ground, letting it stand free without his grasp. “Are you alright?”
She blinked at him, dumbfounded by his question. Meanwhile, red streaks trickled down his glove, dripping slowly into the snow at his feet.
“Me?” she asked incredulously. “I’m fine, but what of you?”
Cullen glanced down at his left arm, flexing his fingers and appraising the bite marks that cut through his leathers. “A small bite, nothing more. A small price to pay to keep my bride safe.”
Roslin felt her expression soften, and a blush crept across her freckled cheeks. It was an odd thing to hear him say aloud, though it was the fact of her life; she was his bride, solidified the moment that he had successfully stolen her away from her home.
In spite of how that statement made her feel, heart throbbing inside of her chest, she bit her bottom lip. “Would you at least let me wrap it? The wound. Did the wolf get your leg?”
“One did,” he answered slowly, watching her expression carefully. “But it didn’t get through the leathers.”
Roslin heaved a relieved sigh. “Good. N-Now, please…let me wrap your arm?”
Cullen lingered there staring down at her for a couple of moments, eyes boring into hers, almost as if he were searching for something. After a beat, he finally nodded his head and gestured towards Lìosa, who whinnied from her place tethered to a tree.
It didn’t take Roslin long to find the bandages in one of the satchels; they looked familiar to the ones that she had seen used in her village, noting that they were likely traded for. Meanwhile, behind her, she could hear the shuffling of clothing as Cullen freed his arm for her to see.
Though when she turned around, she hadn’t expected to see him without anything on his torso, bare in the firelight save for the many furs that hung around his waist. She inhaled sharply.
Cullen was a marvel to behold in that moment and she couldn’t stop the way her eyes danced across his bare chest and arms.
She had never seen someone so muscular or toned before, looking as if he had been cut straight from stone, a perfect statue of a man. A light sprinkling of hair dusted itself across his chest and down his stomach, right where the v-line of his hips dipped, a trail of slightly darker hair dipping beneath the furs.
But what impressed her the most were the arcing swipes and swirls of deep red that had been etched into his skin. Far more than mere warpaint, he had his entire left arm decorated with the swipes and slashes of a massive tattoo. They were clearly tribal in nature, and continued across his pectoral, then ventured down his ribs and side, vanishing beneath the line of furs at his waist.
Cullen cleared his throat, garnering her attention back to his face. A flush darkened her cheeks yet again, something that was hastily becoming a regular occurrence over the last day or so. Meanwhile, the Thane simply smirked.
Roslin quickly dipped her head down and shuffled over until she stood before him. “S-Sorry.”
“Again with the apologies,” he chuckled. “It is…sweet.”
“Sweet?” Roslin couldn’t help but ask, gesturing for him to join her on the pelts upon the ground. Cullen joined her, but only after offering a hand to help her sit before him, and for the first time, she felt his calloused fingers against hers, and her heart pulsed wildly inside of her chest.
“Endearing,” he corrected himself. “But you need not apologize so much around me. Especially not to me.”
“Right, of course,” she stumbled over her words as another apology fought to escape her mouth. She only barely wrestled it back before it reached her tongue. “I’m just going to wrap this now.”
“You have my cooperation.”
Quietly, they sat together, while Roslin slowly, carefully, and somewhat clumsily wrapped his arm. Cullen sat perfectly still while she did so, watchful amber eyes following her every move with an expression of patience on his visage. Fortunately, it didn’t take very long until she was done, looking over her handiwork for a few moments. She had probably wrapped it too many times, but it had never felt like enough, especially not when she saw the crimson stains begin to rise through the bandages.
And yet…
“Well done,” came his praise, which had her eyes meeting his in surprise. “Your help is appreciated, little poppy.”
The nickname sent a shiver skittering down her spine and her hands quickly retreated into her lap to tangle her fingers together. So many weeks ago, when he had promised to return the first time, he had called her that.
Little poppy.
Every time she had thought of the nickname, spilling forth from scarred lips, it made her heart and mind both race. Little knots formed in the pit of her stomach yet again, and she struggled to decipher the way that he made her feel whenever he leveled that hard, amber stare down upon her.
And all she could do was avert her gaze and look off to the side.
“Thank you.”
Cullen reached for his furs, pausing to cast a glance her way. “For what?”
“For stopping the wolves. You injured yourself to keep me safe.”
“Again,” he stated as he began to shrug the leathers back onto his person. She very nearly lamented the loss of his bare chest. “A small price to pay to keep my bride safe. Now…”
He paused his fastening of the leathers into place, reaching out a massive hand to brush alongside her cheek before he dipped long fingers into her fiery red hair. His hand explored further, until it wrapped around the back of her neck, squeezing gently, firmly. And then he pulled, bringing her onto her knees and closer to him, so effortlessly and quickly that her hands settled on his chest to stop herself from tumbling against him.
Then his lips were upon her forehead, pressing against her skin and she could feel the tickle of his stubble as it itched across her flesh.
“Get some sleep,” he spoke against her skin. “I will stay awake to keep watch. No harm shall come to you so long as I am here.”
Inside her chest, her heart was causing a ruckus and riot, beating and pounding so hard, fast, and loud, that she almost swore he would be able to hear it with how close he was to her. And she could smell him, the sweat, leather, and smokiness from the fire, with hints of elderflower and oakmoss.
And she sunk into him, against him, eyes fluttering shut as she simply savored the feel of being close to someone that, apparently, wanted her to be close. All the while, she couldn’t help but feel something that made her heart race, to crave for his mouth to dip lower along her flesh until their lips met in a fiery union of breaths and sighs.
She hardly knew the Avvar, and wondered if how she felt was wrong, and yet…
With his lips pressed to her forehead, she found it terribly hard to care.