The baby was just shy of eighth months the first night she was parted from her mother.
Important business in Orlais. He didn’t like it, and he hadn’t agreed with it. The Inquisitor was a target now, and a valuable one at that. Orlais was not the most trustworthy of ventures either.
But still, Elicia had gone. A duty call, she had said. Just because the Inquistion was not needed so desperately did not mean she was not needed at all. His fears had become realised when they had lost contact with the party, and local scouts reported heavy fighting along their chosen path. Fierce storms had seized the hold, and his units had taken refuge for the night, unable to press ahead. He had paced holes in the flooring of his office waiting for any news, frantic and growing increasingly inpatient by the second, praying for even the smallest slither of information, yet none such had yet come.
And thus, he was in sole custody of the tiny bundle he and the Inquisitor shared. A baby girl; Imogen, they had named her, with tufts of blonde curls, and a gummy smile rumoured to command with ease the very Commander of the Inquisition himself.
Elicia had left enough milk to feed her (and half of Skyhold, Cullen reckoned on inspection) but still, she wailed and refused any more. She was clean (a cautious sniff to the napkin had confirmed that), warm (maybe too warm…or cold?!) and yet, he sensed that his growing anxiety was the culprit in this mess, that his own fear was terrifying her.
He had tried everything to calm her, Maker, to calm himself, but it was all to no avail. He paced the floor of their private quarters, bouncing the tearful infant over and over, shushing her as he did. So when his shaky voice managed to find the words to the Chant of Light, and she began to quiet from a scream to a whimler, it was a miracle. A sad sort of smile crept across his face as she finally fell silent, instead choosing to simply stare at him.
“I’m sorry, my little one. I’m not doing very well, am I? Most certainly not up to your mother’s standards. Maker knows what you are thinking right now.”
She continued to stare up at him from his chest, with a quiet hic, the same eyes he recognised as his own, locked to him.
“Actually, I know what you are thinking. What an awful excuse for a father, and for a husband. And you aren’t far wrong. I am not worthy, not deserving of any of this, and you and your mother deserving of something better. I pray you forgive me, little one, for all the instances I fall short of perfection in your eyes. I do not mean for it to be this way.”
He drew her to him, soft head tucking into the crook of his neck, and his cradling arms wrapped her in warmth, and in the sudden fierceness of paternal love.
“But, Andraste preserve me, I love you more than you will ever know. My child, the light of my life, you…have brought love into such dark places of my heart, with such ferocious power I did not know was possible. You and your mother, little love, you have given this sinful wanderer such purpose. I doubt you shall ever know just what you mean to me. And I shall never fail you, I will change it all for you and I will give my life before the Maker a thousand times before I see you come to harm.”
It had become a feverent, hushed muttering, and he pressed a shaking kiss to the side of her head, the wide, innocent eyes of his daughter seizing him once again as he whispered to her, leaning his nose down to rest against her own tiny one.
“This I vow to you, precious one.”
She nestled her head against him, her small body curling against his broad chest, a fist twisting with his linen shirt, and he felt his heart leap, a proud, moving warmth rising in him as her lips twisted with a peaceful sigh; “Da.
Cullen Stanton Rutherford did not often cry. He had long believed that it was for the weak; a fault, a failing. But that night, in the midst of the wild weather, and worrisome wait, he allowed himself a single exception - after all, there was no possible weakness that could have moved him so greatly.
