As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,
She should see fire and go towards Light.
The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,
And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.
-From Transfigurations 10
She Will Know No Fear of Death
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She was dying. She could feel it. Her body was thin and her bones were turning brittle. She hadn't seen a mirror in months but she knew her skin would be pallid and her eyes, hollow. She was dying.
Rowan, Queen of Ferelden, was dying a slow death from a wasting illness. After all she had sacrificed, it had come to this. As she lay there, weak and scared, her thoughts first turned to Loghain. Her first lover, the man who had forced her into the position as Queen. She had been content to live her life with him but the man had too much honour for his own good. He had wanted what was best for Ferelden over what was best for them. She remembered the way the coarse mat of hair that covered his chest felt beneath her fingertips. The way his lips felt, firm and unyielding, against her own. She could hear the way he would whisper her name, over and over, as they made love in those few stolen moments in the Deep Roads. And with the memory of those darkspawn-filled tunnels came the memory of Maric. Her husband, and her king.
She had been infatuated with him as a child but that fleeting fancy of childhood emotion had quickly soured upon the entry of an elven spy. But as the years passed and they raised their son together while ruling the country, a new type of love had grown in its place. A softer, tender love. One without the furious passion of her affair with Loghain, this was a love bound by the strength of bringing new life into the world. And she had been grateful for it.
Now, she wouldn't have the chance of seeing her son grow into a man and king in his own right. She would miss watching his first bout when he began training. She would miss his first win and his first lost. All the joy and heartbreak that was to come, and she would not be there to share in it all. Rowan felt a tear trickle out of her eye and she pictured her son all grown up; his golden hair shining and a smile that looked like his father's. She closed her eyes and as the life slowly slipped from her body, she dreamt of her son. She imagined every step of the years she was to miss so that her last thoughts would be of him. And maybe, if she wished it hard enough, her dying thoughts would reach him and he would not forget how much his mother loved him.