Cullen is pretty sure he's going to suffocate. That's what the seemingly permanent constriction in his chest indicates, at least.
Mia is tired, and looks entirely too much like their mother. Branson isn't the scrawny brat Cullen remembers; he's taller and broader-shouldered than Cullen, he fills every room he's in and then some, and his sense of humor might actually be worse than Alistair's. Rosalie spends most of her time bent over sewing and patchwork, being as she (along with Bran's wife) prefers tailoring to farming, and every time she rubs her eyes Cullen is consumed with a wave of fury that they didn't get a decent pair of magnifying spectacles in Halamshiral. Even if he couldn't have known -- he should have known.
Cullen is -- scarred. Literally. Figuratively. And he feels as though he's drowning in all the noise, in his own fears of what can't be said to any of them.
It's easier to just -- not say much at all. It doesn't make any sense that not saying much should feel as though the words are locked in his throat.
I -- nightmares, he said to Mia, after the fuss and fury of their arrival had faded into getting ready to wind down for the night. We don't want to disturb --
He can't miss the shadow that crosses her face, but she nods, and points them to a spare bedroom they'd put on the big house two years ago: it's small, but nearly its own private quarters, seeing as it only shares one wall with the rest of the house.
The children make it easier. The only thing they demand of him is his undivided attention while they attempt cartwheels and the like after a late supper. He demonstrates that he can make clumsy daisy chains; that results in wildflower jewelry for all of the children, and (as they insisted) a crown for himself. Cullen isn't aware of the rakish tilt to it as -- the children having scattered for the evening -- he retreats to their room, and shuts the door.
There are days he misses wearing the armor. (It reminded him of who he was. What he was supposed to be, and to do.) This is one of them.
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Mia is tired, and looks entirely too much like their mother. Branson isn't the scrawny brat Cullen remembers; he's taller and broader-shouldered than Cullen, he fills every room he's in and then some, and his sense of humor might actually be worse than Alistair's. Rosalie spends most of her time bent over sewing and patchwork, being as she (along with Bran's wife) prefers tailoring to farming, and every time she rubs her eyes Cullen is consumed with a wave of fury that they didn't get a decent pair of magnifying spectacles in Halamshiral. Even if he couldn't have known -- he should have known.
Cullen is -- scarred. Literally. Figuratively. And he feels as though he's drowning in all the noise, in his own fears of what can't be said to any of them.
It's easier to just -- not say much at all. It doesn't make any sense that not saying much should feel as though the words are locked in his throat.
I -- nightmares, he said to Mia, after the fuss and fury of their arrival had faded into getting ready to wind down for the night. We don't want to disturb --
He can't miss the shadow that crosses her face, but she nods, and points them to a spare bedroom they'd put on the big house two years ago: it's small, but nearly its own private quarters, seeing as it only shares one wall with the rest of the house.
The children make it easier. The only thing they demand of him is his undivided attention while they attempt cartwheels and the like after a late supper. He demonstrates that he can make clumsy daisy chains; that results in wildflower jewelry for all of the children, and (as they insisted) a crown for himself. Cullen isn't aware of the rakish tilt to it as -- the children having scattered for the evening -- he retreats to their room, and shuts the door.
There are days he misses wearing the armor. (It reminded him of who he was. What he was supposed to be, and to do.) This is one of them.