"What?" Cullen shook his head.
"Morning chores. He's addressing all the workers, giving out orders the way you do."
"I do not..." Slowly, Cullen glanced around at the stuffed animals and the one bored dog. A snort erupted in his nose and his head dropped down. "Okay, I do do that. Sometimes."
Lana turned to mouth silently to her son, "All the time."
"But he shouldn't stand on that, it's dangerous." He was trying to get back a modicum of discipline as both parents succumb to the adorableness.
"He's right, Sweetie," Lana wrapped her hands around Gavin and tugged him off the stool to plop onto the ground. "You can play Daddy on the floor."
"Yes, Mummy," he muttered, his eyes sparkling. Spinning while practically swaddled in his father's old coat, he eyed up Honor. "Sit, doggy!"
Honor glanced up at her true owner and Cullen waved his hand. Sighing, the dog rose up to her weary haunches and sat. Giggling, Gavin rushed forward to hug around Honor's neck. "Good doggy!" he encouraged, before quickly pecking his lips against her head in baby kisses. The mabari's tongue lolled out and took one long lap against their son's face. That was the highlight for him, Gavin breaking into greater giggles and he buried himself tighter into his servant.
Lana eased up to stand by her husband. His arms curled tight around her and she sighed in contentment when his chin landed upon the top of her head. Together they watched their boy patting the gentle mabari. Honor took all of it like a champ, never showing an ounce of getting weary of the child's affections and often trailing Gavin when he went on his adventures. They were inseparable.
"Should we let him play with the coat?" Cullen asked, breaking away from the sweet moment.
Lana nestled deeper into her husband, "Were you planning on wearing it again?"
"No, of course not," he shook his head. Somewhere in the world another fight to save it was raging while they remained safe in their abbey with their little boy and each other. "I was only concerned that he might trip and fall."
Gavin dipped down on his naked legs to tug up the long ends of the crimson wool and began to whip them back and forth. A few smacked into Honor's face, which she only rolled her eyes to Cullen and waited for it to pass. As soon as the assault began it ended. Gavin darted forward and declared, "I love you, Honor."
"Don't worry, Cullen." Lana hugged tighter to her husband's safe arms. "He'll grow into it."
#
Three Years Old...
Alistair began to categorize the various groupings of nobles he had to suffer over the years. Two Arls plus one Bann equaled a Ribald, because the Arls would talk shit about the Bann while he was left to grit his teeth and smile through it all. Ten or more Banns was a "Curdle" due to the nature of Alistair's entire face curdling in disgust like rotten milk. Currently he was suffering from a Half House. One Arl was in play, but it was a good one, while a handful of Banns and their spouses drifted in and out of the sitting room. This was supposed to be one of those off days, where everyone got together in their nice clothes, ate tiny portions of food, and didn't talk politics.
Which meant everyone was doing their cutthroat best to destroy their nemeses and get the King to wage war on whoever looked at them funny. Why did he agree to this? Not just attending the Pre-Wintersend luncheon but being King at all. To think, instead of being tucked and tied into a scratchy wool doublet while sweat pooled upon his tailbone he could be stuck in a darkspawn dungeon at the bottom of the deep roads. Maker, that sounded so much nicer. Add a few rats chewing on his toes and it'd be like a vacation.
"Sire?" one of the Banns caught on that Alistair was staring out the window paying no attention and tried to drag it back onto him. Not the wisest move, as this man was on the King's 'don't give an inch' list. Not for reasons as interesting as assassins or civil wars, more underhanded seizing of assets to hide tax deferments and other boring bookkeeping things. That's what was really going to be the death of him, some clerk's misplaced one instead of a poisoned assassin's blade in the kidneys.
"Yes, yes, still here. Spring sure is lovely, isn't it?" Alistair turned to yank up a flute of wine drifting around the gathered throngs. "All those birds chirping, and the flowers blooming, and other fertile things happening." He let his tongue run away with him, the Bann's cheeks lighting up, when he heard a very animated voice rising through a throng of the most stuffed shirtiest of them all.
High pitched but not soft, never ever soft, the voice bounced off the indented ceiling with more power than the greatest spokesmen of their generations. It was so strong it drew more people to circle around, blocking Alistair's view but he couldn't mistake the source or the very important words.
"It had two tails and was fuzzy. I wanted to pet it but Mummy said no."
A Bann tried to interrupt, "That's very wise of your..." But the voice's owner couldn't be cowed by such a simple maneuver.
"Mum says no a lot." Alistair scurried up on his tiptoes to find a break between locked in shoulders. Big green eyes rolled up to the man that tried to interrupt her. He had no recourse to come back with the fact that parents often told their children no. The gathered gentry all looked about to break away for freedom, when she began again.
"I like the tower. It's got scary ghosts in it. We chased one of them all over the palace."
"What a delightful fairytale," an older Bann tried to lean down to his daughter, about to pat her on the head and give her a sweet. "How does it end?"
"Wif my Daddy sticking a sword in its guts. It moaned and moaned, before goin' poof!" Myra parted her hands wide and waggled her fingers for the poof part. Then she folded them tight to her lace covered chest and slowly raised an eyebrow as if daring any of them to contradict her.
"That's, uh...a real ghost? In the palace?" the woman stared around at her fellow statesmen who hadn't seen either side of a sword in decades.
"Yup, an' there was a werewolf too, but she was real nice. Mum wouldn't let me pet her neither," Myra smiled wide as if she was describing a summer rain to the gathered individuals. Suddenly, she tugged up the frills upon her chest and asked, "Do you like my dress?"
"It's very..."
"Mummy picked it out special. I like it a lot. See," she spun on her heels to reveal sewn to the back was a small cotton ball done up like a rabbit's tail. Myra twitched her entire body as if trying to get the tail to wag, then broke into giggles.
"Like a little rabbit, how adorable," the older Bann must be a grandmother as she was unfazed by the dramatic change in topic while the others were blinking to catch up.
"I's a ferocious beast, rawr rawr rawr," she swiped at the air with her gloved hands, the claws well contained within silk he was surprised she kept on. The Banns all smiled politely at the mad little girl with long blonde curls who was attacking the air. A few laughed, assuming it was a game, when Myra stopped and in a dead certain voice informed them, "Don't turn your back on bunnies or they'll get you."
"That's so..." the tone struck as the Bann wearing more medals than a tin plate golem paled and he stared down at this little girl.
Myra seemed to transform from a silly child to a hardened warrior in an instant, her green eyes hooded as she stared out the window. "Never turn your back on 'em," she repeated as if she'd seen things in her short life that would turn their hair white.
"How, um, delightful?" the grandmotherly Bann tried instead, no idea where the girl was going with this. They all shuffled uncomfortably away, leaving a gap between the formal shoulders. It was enough for Myra to glance up and spy Alistair.
"Daddy!" she cried, leaping up onto the tiptoes of her pastel pink and yellow shoes. It took them hours for her to finally pick a pair, which her mother kindly pointed out were so small she'd probably outgrow in a month.
The Banns all turned, leaving a wide gap for their King to slide into the circle with a smile. Alistair nodded his head, then bent down to scoop up his leaping daughter. "Wheaters," he smiled at her as she tried to unwrap a small candy that was stuc
k in a dress pocket. While lace decorated the outside, someone was smart enough to go with thick cotton below, dyed as green as her springtime eyes.
"Your daughter was entertaining us, your Majesty," a Bann said, bowing his head lower.
"Is that true?" Alistair turned to her, "Were you..." With her tiny fingers, she jammed the candy into his mouth fast, Alistair having to roll his tongue in place to keep from choking. He bobbed with his baby girl, the panic of dying from candy fading as it settled safe on the top of his tongue. While sour lemon juice dripped down his throat, Alistair continued, "entertaining?"
Myra glanced around at the people she didn't blink an eye at. All strangers, all taller than her by yards, all in imposing dress and clucking tongues. But his baby girl marched in head held high and proceeded to inform them of her opinions on matters of rabbits and how to kill ghosts without pause. It was a rare person for Myra to shrink away from. Even when at the agency, she'd sometimes strike up conversations with people chained to desks and wanted for crimes. Alistair was worried at first, but Reiss explained that for whatever reason people opened up to the little girl with the blonde hair thick enough to hold a good dozen barrettes.
She smiled, her teeth stained blue from far too many sweets courtesy of the party and a candy maker that spoiled his children rotten. Myra tipped closer to Alistair as if she was going to whisper a secret, before she stopped and yanked up her dress, "Do you like it?"
"I do, it's lovely," he said, answering the same question she put to him a dozen times this morning. "Do you like my shirt?" he asked.
Myra gripped onto his shoulders tight and tried to peer down at the pastel green and yellow doublet hugging a bit too tight to his frame. She twisted her head as if this was a deathly serious question, taking into account all the angles, before glancing up at her father and admitting, "It's okay."
"Maker's breath," he laughed.
"Daddy, daddy," she tugged on his arm, then yanked up the hem of her dress, "I got pants on too!"
"Yes," he tried to smooth down the girl's attempts at flashing everyone. The Bann's horrified rictuses all faded to polite smiles, but they were doing their best to slide away from their King. "I know that. Who helped you put them on?"
Myra blinked a minute, staring up at the ceiling in full contemplation. Even he could see the resemblance to himself in the shape of her face and cheekbones, but when she'd flat out stop whatever she was doing to think she was all her mother. With one quirked up eyebrow, a finger to her chin, Myra suddenly whipped her head down and smiled wide. Hugging tighter to him, she squealed, "You did!"
"Because someone has a habit of rolling ass over end first chance she has," Alistair continued, feeling the need to explain why to his baby girl. The truth did little to sting her, Myra giggling as she nuzzled her mass of dark blonde hair against his cheek.
"Sire," one of Karelle's minions appeared as if from thin air to try and drag Alistair's attention back to matters that didn't involve his entire world.
"What?" he turned, Myra's eyes lighting up at the possibility of a new friend.
"The egg drop, your Majesty. You need to begin it."
"Right," Alistair tipped his head back to the sky. This was normally the better part of his job. Who didn't love hurling the first egg of the season at the grievance board? But what was he going to do with his baby girl.
"Wheaty?" Those massive green eyes stopped focusing on her dress long enough to stare up to his. "Why don't you go find your brother?"
Myra's tongue stuck out far, her entire face crinkled up as if she bit into the lemon peel. "No, he's a poopoo head."
"What'd Cailan do now?" Alistair groaned. For so long the boy'd been pro-baby, then pro-toddler, then suddenly six hit and it was as if a switch went off. Why did his children hate other babies when they became six?
Grabbing onto Alistair's starched collar, Myra tugged herself closer. Her legs dangled against his hips, the special shoes softly knocking into his old bones and she whispered, "He said girls are stupid and gross."
"Did he now? That'll change," Alistair chuckled to himself.
"I'll show him who's gross. I'll, I'll put a toad down his pants!" Myra declared. She moved to wiggle out of her father's arms, no doubt planning on making good on her threat.
"Wheater," Alistair clung tighter to her, "we don't put things down our brother's very expensive and fancy clothes."
"M'kay," she muttered, either trying to trick him into turning his back or not fully committed to her plan.
"We wait until he's in his play clothes, then throw mud," Alistair said as a lark, but he could feel two mothers who just shuddered at his words.
Myra lit up and hugged tighter. "Kay Daddy!" she all but shouted into his ear while tucking her arms tight to her body to turn into a slithering snake. Sliding out of his grip, she hit the ground fast and took off towards the doors.
Alistair watched her a moment before turning to the aide. "Let's go throw an egg. Where's Spud? She's old enough now, it's time for the future queen to get a go I think."
"The Princess is in the solarium with the Queen. I shall fetch her immediately," the minion bowed to him before scuttling off.
Spud was clinging to her lady-like training more and more, enjoying the chance to show off her newly learned skills by correcting her father at every turn. But he knew his eldest, she was going to love hurling eggs at things. The trick would be keeping it to only one, or two. And not at anything but the board.
A few of the Banns lifted their glasses in a seeming toast to their King, which Alistair blanched at. Sure, they were all waiting for the real festivities of Wintersend to kick off, but it was strange at times to have so many people caring about his little family. Cailan had sat in his lap while he carved the traditional ham, trying to sneakily snatch a piece off to feed to that always gawping stomach. Spud was mostly by her mother's side, clinging tight to the skirts when too many eyes landed on her, but she still took time to let her old Dad swing her around in the fresh grass of the meadow. And there was the littlest one.
With no duties to attend to, not even in name, Myra flitted from hand to hand asking questions with a ferocity that could only come from an investigator created toddler. It wouldn't be long before Myra would be writing down all the answers she got in her own little notebook. On occasion Alistair would stop whatever fancy speech he was giving to feel Myra tugging on his hand. Whenever he'd lean down to her, she'd slip a candy in his mouth seeming to be concerned her father needed to keep up his strength. She may not belong to the crown's circle, but she was his daughter.
He caught a blur of blonde hair tumbling in the air as, sure enough, his Wheaty tipped onto her hands and performed half of a cartwheel. When she landed flat on her bottom, she laughed uproariously for Teagan and his wife then turned to find her father.
Her arms flapped like mad as she declared loud enough to drown out the party, "I love you, Daddy!"
#
5 Years Old...
"What happens next?" she asked, trying to sneak a peek over Anders' shoulder. Most wouldn't have been able to make it clear over a kitchen counter but Hawke wasn't like other people.
He huddled around the book, not about to give up on his only usefulness to this...whatever they were doing. Normally he'd be all for breaking into a templar kitchen and throwing things around, but Anders was well aware of the thin line he walked every time they visited. Turning to his love, he asked, "Is this wise?"
"Wha'?" Hawke had on an apron that declared her "Thedas' Best Lover" with rather horrifying doodles across it. He had no idea where she got it from, but he'd put the odds at either Varric, Isabela, or the two in cahoots together. That alone should be enough to concern Anders as he jerked his head to the extra body in the kitchen with them.
The Commander's boy stood upon a stool, his little sweater rolled up to the elbows while he kept patting at a mound of flour Hawke spilled. At first the pokes were exploratory, almost cautious, when the exuberance of childhood took o
ver. Gavin slapped his hand down into it, white powder erupting to coat her kitchen's walls, ceiling, and the two not as brown as they should be Aunt and Nephew. Hawke, being Hawke, broke into peals of laughter while the child smooshed his hands through the remaining flour, leaving furrows in the counter.
"Are we allowed to be...making a mess with their kid?" Anders asked his words pointed at Hawke while he kept an eye on Gavin. He wasn't going to be anyone's go to babysitter, but Anders knew if anything bad happened to the child he'd be the one dangled off a cliff.
After wiping flour dust down the front of her shirt, and leaving great white handprints of evidence upon her breasts, Hawke chuckled, "We're not making a mess, right Gavin?"
"Yes, auntie Haw!" He could probably say Hawke now, but Auntie Haw stuck, the Auntie part of it finding it adorable and doing her best to encourage it even when the Hero tried to correct her son.
"What are we doing?" Hawke scrunched her face up closer to her nephew, the two practically meeting floured nose to floured nose.
"Cake!" the kid cried, "Making a cake."
"Tasty cake," Hawke laughed before patting the boy on the back. "Who can say no to cake? That's...got to be a sign you're a demon. 'No cake, I don't like it.' Evil demon, kill it!"
"Demon, stab stab!" Gavin snatched up the spatula and pretended to jab at the air. "I'm a big demon slayer."
"See, he gets it," Hawke jerked her head at the boy who then proceeded to lick the flour coated spoon. At the taste his face crinkled up and he spat out his tongue.
"Right, cake. We're making a cake. And hoping that the templar doesn't find out and get it in his nobby head to pull out a branding iron," Anders muttered, turning back to the book.
"So, what do we do next?"
"To the flour add baking soda, sugar, and salt," Anders read off the old book covered in crispy blots of ancient dough. That was usually a sign it was a good recipe. Never trust clean cookbooks.
Twisting in the stool, Hawke glanced over at her nephew. "Did you hear that Gavin? Add in baking soda."
My Love Page 269
