Genitivi lies open, with a few crumbs along the page.

Some of the ache soaked out of him, and he's still -- much as he hates to admit it -- exhausted. His boots are lined up neatly on the floor. The wool blanket is draped over his legs. Cullen himself is curled on his side, facing the middle of the bed. One hand, palm up, fingers curled, rests by the book.

Clearing his mind, he'd say, if asked what he was doing. Old templar training exercise.

(One mastered by every toddler in Thedas.)