The mages in the research tower all blame each other for the rain and the strategy of its location. None can devise a counterspell. Thus, Cullen's lonely tower on the battlements is besieged.
He will not relocate. Perhaps he enjoys the nuisance, Leliana suggests. Certainly, he seems to enjoy being bedeviled by couriers and assistants--why would this be any different?
Josephine climbs the stairs with a pretty Orlesian parasol, walking on tip-toe in slippered feet. She has underestimated the intensity of the magical rain. Damp curls cling to her neck and forehead, the hem of her skirt plasters to her leggings. Gooseflesh rises when she is halfway up the stairs; by the time she reaches the top, she is out of breath and her feet are soaked and cold.
The office door is ajar, water steadily trickling out. She pushes it open and nearly drops the parasol when she sees the sheet of water streaming down from the loft.
The roof.
They never patched the roof. Cullen sent the workmen elsewhere, insisting other construction needs were more important, and in time even she, Skyhold's tender of favors and details and tiny dignities, had forgotten that the Commander of one of the largest armies in Thedas slept in a drafty loft with a damaged roof, exposed to the elements.
She hears his muffled exasperation and puts the parasol canopy-down in the water. It pirouettes around the office in a lazy circle. She climbs the ladder, her slippers squelching on the rungs, spatter from the waterfall dappling her courtly vestments.
Above, the loft floor is covered with water, shimmering with constant motion. The source is a roof gutter that has tilted inward under the weight of its magical payload. Cullen is attempting to divert it, but the relentless rain forces the gutter down, down, and it takes all his strength to hold it steady.
"Commander," she says, but he cannot hear her over the roar.
She slogs to him, reaching to help, but as her ink-stained hands grip the wood the heavens open anew, drenching them both, and the gutter gives way completely. Water gushes down unimpeded.
The bed on the opposite side is an island. They flounder to it, seeking shelter. She climbs atop first, holding out a hand to help him up. The mattress is comparatively dry. They perch there, and she wonders if they'll float away as the water eddies around them, lapping at the bedposts.
Cullen is always most apologetic for the things he cannot control. He is sorry for the rain, the broken roof, the wet ladder, her ruined slippers, the broken gutter. His first attempts to brush the droplets from her face are hurried, intent, but her face is comparatively dry when he brushes her cheek more slowly with the pad of his thumb, his index finger resting against the curve of her jaw.
"You'll catch cold, Lady Montilyet," he says, gravely. "You're sopping wet."
She tugs at his soggy pauldrons, squeezing a handful of fur, and wrings out a squelch of water. They both laugh quietly. "I am sorry about your roof," she says. "At the very least, the Commander of the Inquisition should have decent living quarters."
"No," he says. "It... it kept the walls from closing in. To see the stars." Abruptly, he seems embarrassed by the admission. He glances away, watching the water cascade out the door hatch. "I suppose I'll have to relocate to the main building. It was bullheaded of me to try to stay, with all this..." He gestures to the water swirling about them.
His hair is a thousand gold ringlets; she rakes her fingers through them, shaking droplets free, and he closes his eyes. When a drop runs past his temple, down his cheek, she leans forward and kisses it away.
He startles at the press of her lips. They bump noses. There is a moment when Cullen could reciprocate. He does not.
"Perhaps we should paddle downstream," he says.
She laughs, and he relaxes and smiles.
They squelch in harmony as they climb down the ladder.
Rain Through the Roof [Josephine/Cullen]
He will not relocate. Perhaps he enjoys the nuisance, Leliana suggests. Certainly, he seems to enjoy being bedeviled by couriers and assistants--why would this be any different?
Josephine climbs the stairs with a pretty Orlesian parasol, walking on tip-toe in slippered feet. She has underestimated the intensity of the magical rain. Damp curls cling to her neck and forehead, the hem of her skirt plasters to her leggings. Gooseflesh rises when she is halfway up the stairs; by the time she reaches the top, she is out of breath and her feet are soaked and cold.
The office door is ajar, water steadily trickling out. She pushes it open and nearly drops the parasol when she sees the sheet of water streaming down from the loft.
The roof.
They never patched the roof. Cullen sent the workmen elsewhere, insisting other construction needs were more important, and in time even she, Skyhold's tender of favors and details and tiny dignities, had forgotten that the Commander of one of the largest armies in Thedas slept in a drafty loft with a damaged roof, exposed to the elements.
She hears his muffled exasperation and puts the parasol canopy-down in the water. It pirouettes around the office in a lazy circle. She climbs the ladder, her slippers squelching on the rungs, spatter from the waterfall dappling her courtly vestments.
Above, the loft floor is covered with water, shimmering with constant motion. The source is a roof gutter that has tilted inward under the weight of its magical payload. Cullen is attempting to divert it, but the relentless rain forces the gutter down, down, and it takes all his strength to hold it steady.
"Commander," she says, but he cannot hear her over the roar.
She slogs to him, reaching to help, but as her ink-stained hands grip the wood the heavens open anew, drenching them both, and the gutter gives way completely. Water gushes down unimpeded.
The bed on the opposite side is an island. They flounder to it, seeking shelter. She climbs atop first, holding out a hand to help him up. The mattress is comparatively dry. They perch there, and she wonders if they'll float away as the water eddies around them, lapping at the bedposts.
Cullen is always most apologetic for the things he cannot control. He is sorry for the rain, the broken roof, the wet ladder, her ruined slippers, the broken gutter. His first attempts to brush the droplets from her face are hurried, intent, but her face is comparatively dry when he brushes her cheek more slowly with the pad of his thumb, his index finger resting against the curve of her jaw.
"You'll catch cold, Lady Montilyet," he says, gravely. "You're sopping wet."
She tugs at his soggy pauldrons, squeezing a handful of fur, and wrings out a squelch of water. They both laugh quietly. "I am sorry about your roof," she says. "At the very least, the Commander of the Inquisition should have decent living quarters."
"No," he says. "It... it kept the walls from closing in. To see the stars." Abruptly, he seems embarrassed by the admission. He glances away, watching the water cascade out the door hatch. "I suppose I'll have to relocate to the main building. It was bullheaded of me to try to stay, with all this..." He gestures to the water swirling about them.
His hair is a thousand gold ringlets; she rakes her fingers through them, shaking droplets free, and he closes his eyes. When a drop runs past his temple, down his cheek, she leans forward and kisses it away.
He startles at the press of her lips. They bump noses. There is a moment when Cullen could reciprocate. He does not.
"Perhaps we should paddle downstream," he says.
She laughs, and he relaxes and smiles.
They squelch in harmony as they climb down the ladder.