Work Text:
Dorian is all smiles after the test is completed. He says some words in Tevene which Cullen assumes are congratulations, then calls for one of the servants to bring wine — no, not that watered-down Ferelden piss, the oldest and most expensive vintage in the cellars.
Evelyn tries to be a bit more circumspect, blinking back her tears, but Cullen isn’t fooled. He remembers when he agreed to her proposal of marriage. He knows that she only cries when she is happy.
"Oh, Dorian," Evelyn breathes. "Thank you.”
"Think nothing of it. The House of Pavus had no use for that musty old heirloom back home."
The runestone that Dorian brought back from Minrathous had lit up like an ember when Cullen’s son touched it.
The little boy staring up at him is a mage.
"Ada?"
"Well, don’t just stand there." Dorian gestures at the toddler. "You can pick him up. He’s not suddenly going to start setting you on fire now."
Dorian is right, of course. Cullen should pick him up. The boy can’t spend the rest of the day sitting on the library table.
If only the capacity to move had not deserted him.
"I mean, I can see how he’d be tempted to lash out," Dorian rambles on. "Since I’m told that you inflicted that mop of hair on the poor little blighter. But cheer up, Commander! You get to wait until he’s a teenager for the real tantrums to start."
"He does look so much like you." Evelyn’s fingertips brush Cullen’s shoulder, and he hates how hopeful she sounds.
So Cullen sets aside his half-formed thoughts about taking his son out to the practice grounds, buying him a practice shield, giving him all the skills that Cullen had been forced to beg off of bored guardsmen. Those moments will belong to Evelyn, not him.
"Come here, then." Cullen lifts the toddler up and holds the warm, squirming weight of him against his shoulder.
He is more gratified than he cares to admit that his son still clutches the soft chevalier doll his nannies brought in with him.