I wonder what people would say about me when I die.
Would they look back and think about how I was Queen of Ferelden and my accomplishments were a success? Would they look back and remember in history that my father was the great general that saved Ferelden? Would they think about Ferelden when they think about me?
I sit here, my hands caressing the soft fabric of my dress, on the golden throne of Ferelden. The wide arched windows brought in the warm sunlight and glinted off the heavy crown that rested on my blonde head.
This was what people will probably remember me by.
The pretty Queen of Ferelden, sitting like a frozen statue, staring ahead at nothing yet people would romanticize as "looking at Ferelden's future."
But, that's not it. That's not what I want people to remember me by.
It's funny, you know. I didn't want this. If you told sixteen-year old me that this was my future, I would've laughed at your face. I would've shoved my beloved greatsword up your arse and tell you to shove it.
Yet, here I am. Staring at nothing, yet worrying about everything.
"Your Highness, news from—" an elven servant cut off as I raised my hand. Impatience and tension written on my face as I look at the letter in her hand, my heart beating fast as I took it.
"Thank you, Leah." I said, dismissively. Leah gave a slight curtsey and took her leave. I sat there, prim and proper, except the slight tremble of my hands as I held the closed envelope in my hands.
I closed my eyes, letting out a small cold laugh. If only the people knew that by making me Queen, they made the great Anora Mac Tir a coward.
How did I even get here? Well, that's a story that dates back to a sixteen-year old girl locked up in a tower in Gwaren.
In that tower, she planned to fly.