Cassandra thought often about pregnancy and motherhood, but tried not to indulge in romantic fantasies too much, knowing her duty as the Right Hand couldn’t be so easily ignored. Still, part of her always desired to have a family, to be a mother - a word that made her tingle pleasantly inside when she imagined it being directed at her. It was a secret, a well hidden wish, kept in the safest corner of her heart, mixed with fear, curiosity, longing, resignation. But when she finally has a small, crying bundle in her tired, sweaty arms and the Inquisitor is sniffing happily next to her, she realizes the wish came true, that she will soon be called “mother” by a child with her lover’s eyes and her same strong jaw. The pleasant tingle in her chest becomes a rich laughter.
She will let the dwarf tell them bedtime stories.
Blackwall holds the baby for a long time, observing every shift of their tiny face, the way their fists move and their wrinkled brow slowly soften. He listens to their coos, keeps them close. He delicately rests a calloused finger upon the little one’s chest, feeling the gentle thrum of their heart. He finds redemption, peace, salvation in those beats and he lowers his head until his forehead touches the baby’s.
Thank you, Maker, thank you, thank you.
Dorian knows nothing about children. He never had much contact with them - except for boring family meetings and parties - and he never let his mind wander too far, fearing the inevitable stream of mental images depicting a scaring, hollow, shallow future with a child and a wife he didn’t want. He closed his heart to this particular topic, he laughs at it when the Inquisitor mentions it, but then he sees him playing with the kids of the refugees and his heart skips a beat, his mind is filled with another future, with other scenes, beautiful, happy, not impossible anymore. And when he finally finds the courage to say “yes”, he dares to imagine one, two, three, four brats running around and calling him and his Inquisitor “Pater”.
He knows nothing about children, but now he is willing to learn. He will have to read some new books.
Solas stares at the baby, hot tears streaming down his cheeks, a joyous smile on his face, eyes sparkling with love, bliss, awe. For a moment, he fears he is dreaming, that this isn’t happening, that he is in the Fade living a lie, an illusion. Then the child makes a funny, high-pitched sound and his Lavellan - ma vhenan, so kind, so strong, so brave, so beautiful - laughs softly and rests her head on his shoulder. And Solas knows this is not a dream, that she and the baby are real and he is not alone anymore, that he, the Dread Wolf, is loved and can love without fear, without holding back. He laughs with Lavellan - emma lath, ma sa’lath -, pulls her closer and together they admire their child, who has her same hair colour and his same cleft chin.
“Hello, da’vhenan.”
Josephine, still in bed, the baby in her Inquisitor’s arms, is already planning everything: the room, the clothes, the toys, the letters they will have to send, the official announcement, the party, the food. Fortunately the name has been chosen two months ago - it required a methodical, long research - and she repeats it more and more times, basking in the way it feels on her tongue, putting all her love into the tone. Names are important, she knows it, and she wants her child to feel loved and respected every time theirs is pronounced.
Hair stuck to her forehead, she signs one last letter and smiles when the baby babbles in her love’s arms; their first toys will be her dolls.
Cullen doesn’t know how to hold a baby. A baby is not a sword, a baby is not the set of lyrium he used for years, a baby screams, cries and laughs and he is scared, terrified, but also so, so happy, because this is his baby and they are alive, telling the world of their existence with powerful wails and small legs kicking in the air. And their father found a purpose, now, their father is well and ready to protect, love, cherish them. He awkwardly lulls the child, following his Inquisitor’s instructions to keep their head up, and grins.
His sisters are already coming to Skyhold, Mia’s tear-stained letter filled with happiness laying on his desk.
Iron Bull takes the baby in his big hands with all the gentleness in the world. He can almost fit them in his palm and he smiles, a powerful fire burning in his eyes as he watches the child mewl and move. He imagines their strength and courage, their beauty and strong will, and he wishes them health, good dreams and sane ambitions, a life without doubts, a life with choices, a destiny personally crafted.
The Chargers congratulate him and his Inquisitor, then the little one has their complete attention; Krem gently pokes their chubby cheek with a finger, Skinner and Rocky come up with cute nicknames, Stiches and Dalish grin cheerfully and even Grim’s lips curl upwards.
Sera collects any sort of stuff to give to the little one her Inquisitor found abandoned in the Hinterlands. Scraps of fabric, tiny, fancy hats from Orlais, gems and stones - not too small, though, she doesn’t want them to choke -, flowers and ribbons, necklaces and rich scarves to keep them warm. She never leaves the baby; she observes the fragile body safely tucked into a cradle she stole in Val Royeaux and wonders how they will grow up, what and who they will become, if they will call her and her girl “mom”. She tries not to swear in front of them and when she does, she hurries to cover their ears and whisper the curse through gritted teeth.
One night, while the Inquisitor and the baby are sleeping, she writes down all the pranks they will do together in the years to come.
tangentwithtanner
blakekathryn
origamiaround
vaporwave
pixelskylines
areudirty
