Chapter Text
Dorian had never encountered a Templar, before the Inquisition. Rather, not a Templar as they were in the south. Back home, Templars were docile things really, closer to retainers decked out in fancy armour than anything else, always kept good and servile through the strict administration of lyrium and the machinations of the Magisterium. In his younger days, Dorian had enjoyed teasing their pretend authority at the various Circles he'd attended, flaunting their rules as a child and occasionally trying to seduce one or two as a teenager - to greater and lesser degrees of success. They'd entertained him, an interesting distraction from the stuffy pretension of daily academia, but beyond that he hadn't had very many interactions with them, all told.
Of course, he'd known the reputation of the militant order differed somewhat outside of the Imperium, but he'd had no opportunity to encounter the apparently oh so fearsome southern Templars in his meandering through Fereldan - not until everything went to the void in an instant, and Dorian had very nearly lost his life in the mad scramble through fire and chaos to the gates of Haven. His first experience of a real Templar, as he'd since come to think of them, had been when a Holy Smite had rent through the ranks of rebel mages in his path and Dorian had almost been caught by the vicious blast. He'd been knocked back, reeling from the nearness of power; the awful, implacable might of it. Stunned, gasping in the mud, he'd looked towards the Haven walls and first witnessed the cold regard of the Inquisition's Templar Commander.
The experience had certainly been educational.
Since then, he'd had to adapt rather rapidly to the notion of 'real' Templars, what with not being able to take three steps in Skyhold without tripping over one of them. It was something of an adjustment to his way of life, to be sure. Although he supposed none of them were actually acting in their official capacity as Templars - or at least they weren't supposed to be. After all, they'd been recruited as a military force to fight under the banner of the Inquisition, not to guard a Circle full of mages. Still, Dorian couldn't help but notice the impact their mere presence had already had on the mage allies in their ranks. How Solas had gone to ground in the safety of his painted den, and Hawke now haunted the ramparts and high towers of the castle like a spectre, never relaxing enough to come down. Vivienne's impeccable manners telegraphed habitual deference toward the warrior order, and even Cole seemed to have disappeared like the ghost he was. None of them were at ease under the Templars' watchful regard, no matter that the new heralded byline was equality among the factions. Only Dorian refused to let it affect him. He'd never learned that ingrained fear, and he didn't intend to start now.
That didn't stop him from being intently curious, however.
It was a rare occurrence to find the reclusive Commander Cullen lingering in any kind of communal space. In fact, Dorian had so rarely laid eyes on him since their settlement at Skyhold, barring the occasional inner circle war meeting, that the sight of the former Templar sitting alone at a table in the great hall actually brought him up short. Dorian had been returning from the kitchens, intending to take his measly lunch of a single apple and his bottle of pilfered wine back to the sanctuary of his room. Quite without his own permission, he instead found himself detouring, and before he'd considered the wisdom of such an impulse, he was sliding onto the bench opposite Cullen.
"Commander, how unusual to see you out and about. Do you mind if I join you?"
The other man looked up sharply from the papers he had spread out before him on the tabletop, and for just a second it was quite evident he did indeed mind the company. Some vague suggestion of distaste crossed his features, so fast that Dorian almost missed it. Then his expression smoothed over into something bland and polite. "I shan't be staying long, Magister Pavus. I'm only waiting for Lady Montilyet to return to her office and then I have business to attend to."
"Oh, don't let me interrupt," Dorian said airily, gesturing at the papers in a careless manner while automatically trying to get a glimpse.
Cullen's posture stiffened as he sat straighter, shuffling the papers back together and casually placing a hand in the middle of the top page to obscure the writing. For a moment he seemed stumped as to how to extract himself from the situation. It was more than obvious he wasn't happy about Dorian's presence, but rigid manners kept him from walking away without at least the pretence of an excuse.
Feigning ignorance, Dorian busied himself taking out a small knife from where he wore it concealed by one of the straps of his sleeve. The Commander's dark eyes fixed warily on the blade, before purposely flicking away again, back to Dorian's face with that same glacial lack of expression.
The mage gave a lopsided smile as he used the knife to slice a thin wedge from his apple. He popped it into his mouth, enjoying the way it forced the Commander to follow the motion. He chewed for a few seconds, indulging in the tart flavour that brought saliva to his tongue and made him lick his lips before speaking. "That's not actually my title, you know," he said conversationally after he'd swallowed.
Cullen blinked once, slow and uninterested. "No? Apologies."
Dorian cut into the apple again, this time holding out the fruit across the table. "Would you like some?"
"No."
"You're missing out, it's very fresh. A true rarity around here." He plucked up the green wedge and bit off a small piece, amused by the impatience he could feel radiating off the other man. As though he hadn't missed a beat, he continued, "'Magister' is a political title, a lofty height to which I haven't yet risen, I'm afraid. Although I must admit, it's a lovely boost to the ego having all you polite Fereldans laud me as 'Magister Pavus' wherever I go."
Cullen's mouth twitched at the corner in a poor imitation of a smile. "You'll have to forgive our ignorance, and take the title only in the spirit it's intended. Magister."
Dorian stopped, the slice of apple pressed against his front teeth. It was now impossible to miss the undercurrent of raw hostility in the words, and he realised Cullen had been making no such effort to even attempt to hide it. He'd known the Commander didn't exactly trust his intentions in joining the Inquisition; he hadn't realised the animosity ran quite so deep. A prickle of interest ran down his spine, and he grinned against the sweet, tart fruit at his mouth.
"And what of you, Ser Rutherford? Are you intending to resume your proper title of Knight Commander now that you have a gaggle of little Templars running about underfoot again?"
"I never held that title," he responded tightly, watching Dorian's careful table manners like they were something obscene. "Nor is the Inquisition a Templar or Chantry operation, so I believe the sole title of Commander will serve adequately, thank you."
"As you prefer."
Dorian took great delight in the spasm of annoyance that flashed over the man's face, and he waited curiously to see if Cullen would break his restraint and snap something at him. He realised abruptly that that was what he wanted. He'd never done well with being dismissed, and it was difficult to view the Commander's veneer of tolerance as anything else. Helplessly, he wanted to tease and needle until he got a real reaction, something that couldn't be passed off under the guise of bored small talk.
But again the man denied him, falling back on decorum as he gathered up his papers. "It seems Lady Montilyet has been waylaid, and I've wasted enough time as it -"
"Before you go," Dorian cut across him smoothly, forcing Cullen to pause in the act of rising. The mage waited, making a performance of lowering his eyes to the tabletop, pinching the tip of his knife between fingertips to occupy his hands. He was a master of the ebb and flow of conversation, knew how to make words soothe or slice on a whim. Knew, too, how to utilise the silence between exchanges as few people ever took real advantage of. So he let the moment stretch, indulgent and content for the Templar to wait awkwardly, his hands braced on the table where he'd pushed himself upright, bent slightly at the waist because Dorian had not yet given him leave to stand.
Something of his unwholesome satisfaction must have shown in his eyes when Dorian slid a glance upwards, because Cullen reacted as though he'd been slapped. He snapped fully upright so fast it looked painful, expression turning thunderous and hateful, and yes, there was what Dorian had been looking for. A thrill of brittle excitement cut through him, tightening his chest as he saw the Commander's hand stray automatically towards the pommel of his sword as though helplessly, murderously tempted by Dorian's prodding.
"I don't think I ever really thanked you for saving my life at Haven," Dorian said in a breathy rush, suddenly desperate to maintain his tenuous spell over Cullen's attention. "That's all I wanted to say."
The other man stood so rigidly he might be one of the Chantry statues he'd learned to model, except for the subtle sneer that tugged at the scar on his lip. "I'm quite sure I didn't -"
"Oh but you did," Dorian insisted, watching him earnestly. "I'm sure you didn't notice, of course, much less intend to, but it was appreciated nonetheless. You struck down the rebel mages trying to stop me getting through. Did you know, I'd never felt Templar abilities before that moment - can you imagine? And there I was, willingly running right into your arms anyway. Quite the introduction, I must admit." He was practically purring.
Cullen had regained control of himself enough that nothing untoward was betrayed in expression or gesture, but still Dorian could see he wasn't at all pleased by the revelation. He inclined his head so grudgingly that Dorian half-expected to hear the dull grinding of stone.
"Then you're very fortunate, Lord Pavus," the Templar murmured at last. "Had you indeed come to my attention in the heat of battle, I believe you would have been quite indistinguishable from any other abomination on the field, and I assure you I would have acted accordingly."
It was as open a declaration of his regard as Dorian could have hoped for, but he wasn't given much opportunity to revel in the minor victory, because the Commander turned smartly on his heel and left without further comment. Bemused and fascinated, the mage watched him go until he disappeared through the main doors and out of sight. Only then did he shake his head, wondering how in the Maker's name he'd managed to miss such a treasure trove of personal intrigue until now.
Dorian's gaze drifted upwards, and he blinked in surprise to see Vivienne's distinctive silhouette above him. She stood at her balcony, hands resting on the railing as she peered down at the hall below. She'd been watching the Commander's retreat as well, and now turned her cool stare towards Dorian. Their eyes locked, and the First Enchantress shook her head once, in clear warning.
Dorian snorted, rising from the table. He snatched up his unopened bottle of wine, and after a moment of deliberation raised it in mock salute towards her, before resuming the interrupted journey back to his room.
That Cullen disliked him so intensely soon became a source of fascination for Dorian. He couldn't stop thinking about it, and was amazed he hadn't noticed it before. Had he truly never spoken to the man enough for it to become apparent, or just not provoked him sufficiently before now? Was it mages in general he distrusted, or Dorian in particular? Or was the problem simply that Dorian was from Tevinter, and brought with him all the associated evils of his homeland? He supposed he could at least understand that prejudice, even if it was somewhat pedestrian.
Curious, he asked Vivienne for her impression of the good Commander, and suffered her withering stare in answer.
"Darling, I implore you, leave this be. You do no favours to our cause by antagonising that man."
"No one's antagonising! Who's antagonising? I swear, I was the very spirit of charm and courtesy."
"By all accounts, Commander Cullen is a good man. But he was also a Templar, and here in the south that warrants a healthy caution among our kind. Cease your interest, and keep your distance."
Such a warning was, of course, the nail in the coffin of any 'healthy caution' Dorian possessed.
He began watching the man with renewed attention, trying in vain to understand the source of his own obsession. He had to admit, by all outward appearances, Cullen was boring. Serious to a fault, reserved and unapproachable, and seemingly lacking any real personality that didn't revolve around the Inquisition war table or a Chantry shrine. And yet despite these obvious deficiencies, the man somehow seemed well liked by the majority of Skyhold residents. The soldiers spoke well of him, and the newly recruited Templars were happy to follow his leadership. They refused to speak openly to the likes of Dorian, but it was clear Cullen held a respected reputation among their order. The Inquisitor, too, clearly valued him as an advisor, and even seemed to quite like him as a friend. She enjoyed teasing his prickly dignity, often until he blushed like a schoolboy, if it were to be believed.
Dorian felt utterly baffled. It was as though everyone around him was acquainted with a kindly, benevolent version of the Commander, and only Dorian had happened to glimpse the sharpened steel he carried beneath his surface.
He even began to doubt himself. Wondered if perhaps he'd inadvertently caught the man on a bad day, and let his imagination read too much into the resultant irritability. Could it be so mundane? That Dorian had grated on his last nerve, offended his Chantry sensibilities with a passing comment, and nothing more?
Possible, he supposed.
But still he couldn't stop thinking about the way Cullen had put his hand on his sword like he'd longed to draw it, nor suppress the exhilarated shiver that passed through him whenever he revisited the memory.
Dorian was drunk, and had perhaps lost what few instincts towards self-preservation typically kept him from ideas such as this. He knocked on the door, biting his lip as he waited the brief second for a response.
"Come!" Cullen instructed from inside, in a voice clearly indicating he expected an aide or fellow soldier.
Dorian opened the door to the man's office and slipped inside, easing it closed behind him and leaning back against the wood.
The Commander had his back to him, distracted in the act of taking a book from his shelves. "Did you get the most recent inventory of supplies I asked for?"
Dorian braced himself, rolling his shoulders and forcing his posture to loosen. "Nothing so practical, I'm afraid," he admitted. Cullen whipped around in surprise at the sound of his voice, and Dorian met his blank stare by raising the wine bottle he'd brought with him. "And you may find that inventory one Aggregio Pavali short, if you care to join me?"
For a moment, Cullen appeared unable to decide how to react. He was expressionless, mouth slightly open on a stalled word. His gaze flicked over Dorian like he was assessing a threat - and then hardened into a glare as he reached his face.
"What do you want?"
Well, he certainly hadn't been imagining the hostility, Dorian reasoned. Now simply to determine its extent.
The mage wiggled his friendly offering, the wine sloshing inside the bottle. "Somebody confided the great tragedy to me that you haven't graced our quaint tavern since we settled here. While I quite understand an aversion to our charming riffraff, it really doesn't do to deprive yourself, Commander."
"I'm not," Cullen said automatically. He looked bemused by the whole exchange. "I don't drink."
Dorian stalled, the wine bottle bumping against his thigh as he drooped. "Of course you don't," he muttered, mostly to himself. Naturally a sip of alcohol might too closely resemble a spark of fun for Cullen's tastes. Heaving a sigh, he forced himself to rally. "Well, you can at least take it as the gesture of friendship in which it was intended." He crossed the room, setting the Aggregio on the corner of the desk with a heavy thunk, and taking the opportunity to perch himself there as well. He sat at an angle, one thigh lifted to rest against the desk, hands settled in his lap as he watched the other man.
Cullen looked deeply unimpressed by both his offering and his very presence. Still, for a moment, it seemed as though he'd continue his inane attempt at frigid politeness, as he eyed the bottle like he was trying to figure out how to be gracious about it. Dorian placed a finger atop the wax-sealed cork, tilting the bottle playfully as though he could tempt the performance along faster.
He overplayed his hand. In a visible flash of annoyance, Cullen dropped any pretence like a mask falling away. "I have no interest in your friendship," he said, shrugging. "You'd do better to take your wine to enjoy elsewhere." And with that pointed remark, he started toward the door to his office as though intending to usher Dorian back through.
"Is it all mages, or just me that you despise?"
Brought up short halfway across the room, Cullen offered him an unreadable stare. "Not all mages come to my quarters to make an irritant of themselves."
"They're afraid of you," Dorian pointed out blandly. "I'm not."
Dorian wasn't even sure what he wanted from this doomed idea of a conversation, only that he couldn't help himself. Cullen was so uptight, so tightly reined, with all that barely restrained aggression Dorian could sense just beneath the surface. He wanted to pick at the carefully crafted veneer until it cracked, and see what came spilling out.
"Be that as it may," Cullen drawled, "I'm busy and I'd like you to leave -"
"I asked around, by the way," Dorian mused abruptly, interrupting the easy dismissal. "Your title was Knight Captain in Kirkwall, not Commander."
"What?" Cullen frowned, thrown by the swerve in topic.
"I was curious when you corrected me," Dorian admitted, glancing around the small room as he spoke. He wondered if it might offer him some insight into the man, but it was only barren militant professionalism wherever he set his gaze. Perhaps that was insight enough, he supposed. "Imagine my surprise, hearing the rumours you trail behind you."
"What rumours?"
Dorian flashed a sharp-edged smile, pleased at the little victory. Cullen cared what people said about him, that was interesting. "Templars really are a different breed down south. Tell me, does the Inquisitor know of your history? Would she be quite so tender-hearted if she did, do you think?"
Cullen sneered. "If you're attempting blackmail -"
"You have such a low opinion of me, Commander. Nothing of the sort, I merely came for an honest heart-to-heart. Would you like me to share something of my own sordid past, to even the score? Or is it enough to invent it yourself?"
"Stop this," Cullen snapped at him. "I have no wish to play this game with you, whatever it is. Stay out of my way, and I'll endeavour to afford you the same courtesy."
Dorian huffed a surprised, humourless laugh. "My, what an eloquent way to tell me to go fuck myself."
"I can use smaller words, if you prefer."
And if it wasn't for the obvious dislike dripping from the tone, Dorian would have been delighted. He hadn't expected to be met with such wonderful, cutting honesty, and found himself grinning in answer. "No need, I'm rather enjoying the foreplay."
With that, it seemed they reached the limit of the Commander's patience. Cullen reached for him, apparently intent on bodily dragging him from his lounging state. No Templar Dorian was accustomed to had dared lay a finger on him back home, and a lifetime of ingrained entitlement shaped a reaction he hardly thought about. He lifted a lazy hand to flick aside Cullen's grip, allowing a crackle of purple electricity to flash in stinging warning.
It was a mistake.
The threat of magic set fire to the already smouldering hostility between them like a lightning strike. Dorian had no time to register the change - or indeed to recall that he was baiting a veteran mage-hunter well skilled in his field - before Cullen had hold of him by the collar, hauling him up from the desk. His expression had shifted from surface annoyance to something deeper, something dangerous, and it was instantly clear this was no longer a petty scrap of words.
"Don't you dare, mage," he spat, voice low with fury, right up in Dorian's face. He still had his fists bunched in Dorian's clothes, and used the purchase to turn him, roughly pushing him backwards towards the door.
Incandescent outrage blazed in Dorian, and without his conscious permission he felt his magic rise with his temper. It spread across his skin, sparking and ready, eager to defend him against the perceived affront. Barely perceptible, Cullen flinched back from the visible glimmer of power, and Dorian sneered as he twisted fully free. His fingers curled as flames licked at his palms, and he -
Cullen's fist connected sharply with his mouth.
It was an efficient, economical movement that sent the mage stumbling back a step, his concentration shattered. Stunned, Dorian reeled in shock as much as sudden pain, dazedly lifting a hand partway to his mouth. The moment stretched and went utterly still, the sluggish ooze of blood like the whisper of a knife unsheathed between them. Dorian felt it well up against his stinging lip, felt it overspill into the stubble of his beard. Cullen watched, unhappy and vigilant, flexing his hand open as he fought to regain control of himself.
Then came the instant he registered the spilled blood as an entirely new source of danger, and sucked a quick breath as his eyes fixed on it, bright with what might have been old fear.
Dorian parted his mouth just so, darting his tongue out to wet his lip. He was careful not to swipe away the smear of red, letting it linger there like glittering condemnation, and just the suggestion of threat. "Do you truly think I would?" he asked eventually, voice holding steadier than he'd expected.
Cullen's gaze snapped back to his as though caught. A muscle in his jaw clenched twice before he managed to speak. "I've learned any mage might, given reason."
"A good slapping from the Commander reason enough, do you think?"
An ugly flush of embarrassment and guilt spilled across Cullen's fair skin, and he tried to take an unsteady step away.
Dorian didn't know quite what had come over him, only that he refused to allow the attempt at distance. He made a clumsy grab for the man's cloak. Just as instinctively, Cullen knocked aside his hand, following it up by slamming his forearm into Dorian's chest and driving him backwards until his spine hit the unforgiving stone wall. The mage grunted as all the breath left him. Pinned, he scrabbled at the metal vambrace crushing him in place, not trying to get free so much as test the strength of his restraint.
"Stop," the Templar hissed, as concise a warning as he seemed able to articulate. "Just stop."
"Could you stop me, do you think?" Dorian managed to bite in return, voice strained with effort. He was almost gleeful with victory as he felt them both careening towards the limit of the other man's impeccable self-control. He felt positively drunk on adrenaline, more inebriated than anything the alcohol had done for him.
"Yes," Cullen answered, full of certainty like bedrock.
Dorian grinned, blood in his teeth. "Ah but Commander, not a real Templar anymore, are you? Sobriety looks good on you, don't think otherwise, but word on the grapevine says you've stopped taking your lyrium like a good Chantry boy."
He hadn't expected the strength of reaction that taunt earned him. In truth he was half-speculating, wildly throwing together snippets of rumour and guesswork and his own observation that the ozone smell of lyrium no longer lingered around this particular Templar. He hadn't been sure it was true - not until Cullen jerked back like Dorian had hit him, eyes wide with something like betrayal.
The mage went still, sensing the blow he'd just landed. His smile started to get wider, and he opened his mouth to crow victory.
The Commander's Silence slammed down on him like a physical weight, and Dorian couldn't breathe. His connection to his magic withered in an instant, fraying in his grasp when he reached for it and igniting panic like he'd never known. He wrenched a breath like he was drowning, clawed uselessly at the other man's armour. His chest felt at once cored hollow and too tight, drained of his mana and vitality until he might as well be one of the corpses he animated. He didn't think he'd be standing if Cullen hadn't been relentlessly holding him up.
Cullen leaned into him, a crushing weight against Dorian's chest. He was too close, watching the mage struggle like some distant curiosity.
"I could stop you, Dorian," he said again, a promise spoken like a verdict. "Still Templar enough for that."
At last, Dorian gathered himself enough to fight in earnest. Outrage and terror giving him strength, he twisted suddenly against Cullen's hold on him, bringing his hands up into the other man's face. The Commander jerked his head aside, and Dorian took the moment of imbalance to shove him, as hard as he could. Cullen took a heavy, stumbling step back - but rather than let the mage take the advantage, his hand closed on Dorian's collar and dragged at him. Dorian was hauled almost off his feet, tripping past the other man as they turned together. He couldn't catch himself, falling inelegantly across the desk. Cullen's books and a stack of papers tumbled, and Dorian hissed in pain at the collision. The wine bottle he'd brought slowly toppled and rolled away across the floor, loud in the sudden silence.
Behind him, the Commander gave an inarticulate snarl of frustration, his breath coming hard after the small scuffle. Dorian was braced to be grabbed and manhandled again, but Cullen remained where he was, a good distance across the room.
"Move yourself," he spat, sounding furious. "Stand up."
But Dorian lingered where he'd fallen. His hands pressed flat against the Commander's desk, tip of one finger smearing through a puddle of spilled ink. His chest pressed into the wood with every rough inhale. Some last semblance of reason was howling in the back of his mind to get up, to rise with as much dignity as he could still muster, but still he didn't move. He was bent at the waist, one knee threatening to give out at any moment with the awkward angle at which he held himself, his cheekbone resting atop the mess of disturbed papers. Practically presenting himself, he thought with faint hysteria - and wasn't that just the most crass, doomed endeavour yet? He almost laughed, but suspected he wouldn't stop easily if he started.
"Dorian. Stand up."
His mana was trickling back into him as the effects of the Silence slowly faded, and with it a visceral relief that left him trembling. He clenched his fingers to stop them shaking, smearing ink into the palm of his hand. His head was swimming drunkenly, and he sent a swift, desperate prayer to the Maker that he wasn't about to throw up.
He heard Cullen cross the room towards him, and half-expected to feel the other man's hand press down in the centre of his back, pinning him where he'd been thrown. And to Dorian's eternal, private horror, an awful kind of eagerness crept up his throat at the thought. He braced his forearm on the desk, wanting Cullen to have to force him down if he was going to try and hold him. Dorian would make him fight for it.
Instead, Cullen's hand landed on his shoulder and tugged him upright without ceremony. Dorian let himself be pulled and spun round as the other man held his upper arms too tightly. He felt unable to offer resistance even if he'd wanted to.
The Templar's eyes flicked over him critically. "Are you hurt?"
His ego was so deeply wounded it might never recover, he thought dismally. "Don't flatter yourself, Commander."
"Then get out."
And before Dorian could utter another word of protest, Cullen had him by the arm like a disobedient child, steering him towards the door. He swung it open with such force that it rebounded off the frame, clattering loudly and drawing the attention of everyone in the near vicinity. Dorian was thrust across the threshold, and his humiliation crystallised as he practically tripped over the aide who'd been waiting outside the Commander's office. There was an awkward scuffle as Dorian stumbled past, catching himself on the rampart wall and having to bat away the young soldier who automatically reached to steady him.
Furious, he turned to throw a parting remark, only to find the heavy door slammed decisively in his face.
"You know, if you'd wanted a bit of rough, you could have just asked," Bull said, somewhere between pitying and amused. He took a drink from his tankard, eyeing Dorian speculatively over the rim. "I'd have taken you upstairs for a tussle without needing the performance you put on for -"
"Would you kindly fuck off," Dorian hissed, crueller than he'd intended in his lingering mortification. He'd had to beg a cloth-wrapped bundle of peas from Cabot at the bar, casting a small Winter's Breath on them and now sitting with the pouch of frozen vegetables pressed to his swollen lip in the vain hope of minimising the damage. It certainly wasn't his proudest moment, and he was painfully aware of the fact. It seemed half of Skyhold had witnessed his disastrous attempt at a peace offering, by Dorian's reckoning. Or more likely, had been present for Sera's dramatic retelling, which Dorian himself had caught the end of when he'd finally limped his bruised pride back into the tavern. She hadn't even been sorry, cackling ruthlessly as she'd swooned from the table in an impression of Dorian's recent spectacle atop the castle walls.
The qunari snorted, unimpressed by his flare of temper. "Now are you going to leave him alone?" he prompted.
"Of course," Dorian snapped, incredulous that he even had to defend himself. He had no intention of being where he wasn't wanted - was apparently quite despised, in fact - for reasons inscrutable as they were unjust. He scoffed at the very notion of inflicting Cullen's savage company on himself again for any feasible reason, let alone actively seeking it out. With that thought, he shot back the last of his wine, managing only a mild wince at the burn of alcohol against his split lip.
The Iron Bull raised a sceptical eyebrow, but refrained from further comment.