Cullen relaxed against the railing, grateful he'd found a spot away from the visiting nobles. Despite his numerous attempts to shake the Orlesians, they were better at tracking than a bloodhound—the fact that Leliana had 'let slip' a rumor that he might accept someone's proposal if they came to the summit had not helped matters. He didn't care if it made the negotiations easier or not: waking up to a nobleman and three young women sorting through his underclothes was too high a price.
Letting out something between a sigh and a groan, his eyes drifted lazily through the room. He smiled at the clear divide between the two factions of the summit. The Orlesians were all glittering masks and laced dresses with silk pressed to their noses in thinly veiled disdain. The Fereldens were furs and leather and tankards of ale that made one laugh from the belly up.
Cullen grinned when his gaze fell on Ava. In the flickering torchlight, her hair reminded him of the pumpkins he used to carry to his mother from their garden. Surrounded by nobles on both sides, she hid her frustration well. She smiled in the right places, refused no one—but he saw the electricity sparking in the hand she kept behind her back.
"Didn't your hair used to be curly?"
"What?" Cullen's voice carried a snarl. He turned to glare at whomever dared to interrupt him but instantly straightened. "Your Majesty, I... please forgive me: I didn't know it was you."
Alistair waved a dismissive hand. "It's my fault; I was looking for a place to escape for a while and Leliana had mentioned—well, I won't bore you with the details. Besides, we know each other, sort of."
"Yes, I suppose we do." Cullen cleared his throat and looked away. He would've preferred it if the King had forgotten his involvement in the Circle. Shame pricked his ears as he remembered his desire for Annulment, his harsh words to the man and woman who would become his monarchs.
Alistair stood beside him, arms flopping over the banister. "So," he said, "your hair. It was curly, wasn't it? I'm sure it was. I remember standing there, wondering how many combs you'd broken trying to work out that mess."
"Only one and it wasn't my fault." Cullen laughed, his shoulders easing at the pleasant lack of questions he'd rather avoid. "How are the negotiations?"
"About as well as you'd expect. The Orlesians have fine cheeses stuffed all the way up their overly conceited noses. That ambassador of yours is a marvel though. She actually got one of the nobles to pet a Mabari." Alistair smirked, his voice dropping. "Never thought I'd live to see that."
"We are rather lucky to have her," Cullen muttered, his attention drifting back to the Inquisitor below. She was rubbing the scar over her right ear like she always did when she was stressed. He leaned further over and grinned when she glanced his way.
He loved the way the tattoo around her eye crinkled when she smiled.
Cullen turned towards the door, intent on pulling her to a more private corner—he jumped when he found the King's smirking face a few inches away.
"Not so anti-mage now, I see." Alistair's eyes flicked towards Ava and his smirk grew feral. "Or are your eyes glued to her swaying hips because you fear they'll summon a demon?"
"I–I wasn't," Cullen stuttered. "They weren't, I mean..." His cheeks burned. "Our Inquisitor is a very fine woman with very fine features—I mean, her features like her... her bravery and dedication and—Maker's breath."
Alistair slapped a hand on Cullen's shoulder, his body shaking with laughter. "I think you might be even worse than I was. Word of caution: never ask a woman if she's actually a woman. It doesn't sound so bad in your head but it turns out that they don't particularly care for it."
