Anora yawned emphatically, stretching her arms above her head like a happy cat. Smacking her lips several times the Queen sat upright, hair a frizzled mess, before glancing about the bedroom. Sunlight streamed in through the open window, bathing the chamber in a warm, oven-like glow. Her furniture was still properly arranged, the floor spotless and table clear, save two empty wine glasses remaining from the previous evening's festivities.
A quick glance at the rumpled sheets beside her proved what she already suspected. Robert Cousland, her husband, was gone. She knew he must have a good reason for the sudden departure, with both prince and Grey Warden carrying numerous responsibilities, yet she found herself wondering whatever that specific reason might be. Robert wasn't a stupid man but still she couldn't help but worry...
A slight, audible chuckle escaped her lips at that. Worry, about Robert? That was slowly becoming a habit. More and more she found herself picturing his rugged features, imagining his soft breath on her neck, those husky words he'd spoken on that morning months ago. More than once she'd caught herself daydreaming about her husband during a particularly boring session of court in a manner one could almost consider…romantic. He was unfailingly pleasant, noble in demeanor and tenderhearted at his core. She found his treatment of others, the simple way he spoke with children, beggars, and once, in a gesture she found entirely charming, a dog, inspiring, perhaps something more.
The nightmares had continued even since that morning months ago when he'd made his vow to her, but now when they began she'd stroke his hair, and sing sweetly to him without hesitation. The actions felt so natural and the effort proved positive as Robert's sleep, though still plagued with nightmares, was far deeper than it had ever been during the earlier stages of their marriage.
She'd initially married him for purely political reasons, logical ones. It was another step on the path towards Ferelden's best interests. After Cailan's infidelity shattered her heart she'd determined to remain aloof, never intending to find herself falling for any man, even her new husband. Yet now...she wasn't sure what she felt for Robert. Certainly she was fond of him, perhaps she'd even call him a dear friend, yet deep down, she knew that was selling him short.
Rolling out of bed and away from the internal struggle, the queen crossed the floor over to her closet, withdrawing a simple red robe. Wrapping herself in its soft warmth, Anora tied its belt and padded to her bedroom door, bare feet near silent on the mahogany planks. Her hair lay about her shoulders matted and tangled while she let slip another yawn. Leaning backward, she was rewarded with a satisfying crack in her spine, finally starting to feel awake. The effects of sleep were slipping away, the fuzziness of mind, tiredness of eyes and general fatigue, replaced with then normally sharp facilities needed to rule Ferelden.
Exiting her chambers, Anora moved into her private lounge. The small table had been set with a full set of silverware, a small mug of tea, a rasher of bacon, slice of toast, handful of fried mushrooms and two soft-boiled eggs constituting breakfast. Next to the still gently steaming meal sat a solitary red rose accompanied by folded note.
Knowing full well who had written the letter, Anora sat down to eat, the smell of freshly fried bacon filling her nostrils. Settling in gingerly before the arraigned breakfast, Anora cracked open the note, which in the crisp, orderly hand of her husband, read.
Dearest Anora, as you've no doubt noticed, I'm not here. Late last night, while you were sleeping, a messenger arrived from Vigil's Keep, carrying a note stating I was needed urgently. So I departed with him. It seems Brosca has his hands full and needs me to pull his fat out of the fire. Regrettably, I might be late for that meeting with the First Enchanter, not that I'd be much good at it anyways.
Anora paused her reading, chuckling at the truth in that statement. Robert had many good qualities, but diplomacy wasn't among them.
As a way of hopefully buying myself a reprieve from your displeasure, I had the servants prepare your favorite breakfast while I found a suitable gift as a sign of my affections. Don't worry about me, I'm in good company. Until I return to gaze upon your beautiful face, I remain true. Yours most adoringly, Robert.
The queen of Ferelden snorted. One of the talents her husband had managed to cultivate during his princehood was flattery. Still, she'd heard an uncountable number of courtiers complaining about every bit of her character and appearance since the day after she'd married Calian, so a few compliments from a man who meant them honestly did her no harm. Picking the rose off the table, Anora took a moment to inhale its fragrance. Instantly she recognized it as wild, truly Ferelden, not cultivated in some perfumed Orlesian garden. Robert, it seemed, knew her better than she'd realized.
Where did he get this, I wonder? She pondered momentarily, slowly turning the wild flower around in her hand. Struck by a sense of whimsical, she tucked her husband's gift back into her hair with a little girl's smile. She was alone, what harm came from looking a little ridiculous?
Properly comfortable, Anora attacked her breakfast. She had plenty of appointments that day, though admittedly it would be slightly easier without Robert's earnest attempts to help. He was a brilliant man, witty and skilled in combat but a horrific diplomat. Anora currently lacked the time to teach him the finer nuances of court, so she simply let Robert continue on as best he could.
Smiling wryly as she recalled her husband's latest attempts at polite conversation, the queen reached down for the first strip of bacon. It was crispy, cooked to perfection and smelled...oddly horrifying. Taking a moment to realize just how disgusting she was found the scent, Anora shook her head
Must be morning droopiness.
Popping the bacon into her mouth, Anora began to chew. After a few seconds, her mouth rebelled and she spat it out. The meat assaulted her tastes while her interior boiled and gurgled in pain. Groaning as her stomach rumbled unpleasantly, the woman realized she was about to vomit. The smell of eggs wormed into her stomach, further tossing it.
Covering her mouth with both hands, the queen retreated back into her chambers, determined to find a chamberpot before she soiled her floors. Luckily, it seemed the bowl had been cleaned out the previous evening, so, as she bent low over it, no unpleasant sights met her eyes.
Gripping its sides tightly in both hands, Anora vomited. It was loud, messy and entirely unpleasant, continuing for quite some time. As she continued to upchuck her morning's breakfast into the bowl, Anora found herself wondering after Robert. If she was truly ill, which, as the chamberpot became increasingly full, appeared so, this would affect her performance with the visiting dignitaries from the Circle Tower. First Enchanter Irving was a reasonable man, but quite shrewd. The last thing she needed was any form of distraction; Robert had to be present, needed to balance that extra weight added by sudden illness. If he couldn't make it back in time...
"I swear, Robert. You'd best not be late." She growled to no one in particular. The grim nature of her words immediately spoiled by another bout of vomiting and the queen's entire attention became focused on surviving what she was convinced was the worst she'd ever felt.
The hurlock snarled up at him, ugly, twisted face mostly hidden beneath a rusty helmet. Perhaps it thought it was terrifying, that the Gray Warden would flee in terror from its howling visage, making some fatal flaw in human panic, allowing the tainted being to slip its crude spear between fleshy ribs.
Robert Cousland was not terrified and he did not make mistakes.
From the back of his massive warhorse, Black Fury, dragonbone plate gleaming in the sun, greatsword Yusaris clutched in his right hand, Robert felt invincible. He'd faced an arch-demon, armored ogres and werewolves, so one lone hurlock with a rusty spear generated a level of fear about on par with a pack of nugs. Riding towards the twisted monster, a smile splitting his bearded face, Robert swung the greatsword upward, powered by the momentum of his horse's charge. His blade sliced cleanly through crude darkspawn armor like paper, slashing bone effortlessly. The hurlock collapsed dead, a deep cut through the chest exposing badly damaged organs.
But Black Fury was already rushing towards the next darkspawn, ready to carry his master's wrath onward. This tainted group answered to a Disciple and, judging from the red he wore, that darkspawn's allegiance was to the late Mother. Though she'd been dead for a good long while, small pockets of her followers still remained. This particular mob was headed for Denerim and, if the Warden Commander hadn't sent a warning letter, could have caused some trouble before being stopped. Fortunately, Robert needed few excuses to saddle up and kill darkspawn, and even less to see his old friend, Malcolm Brosca, Grey Warden, Commander of Vigil's Keep, paragon of Orzammar and another survivor of Robert's joining.
A quick glance about the field located the dwarf easily enough. Rather that stay mounted, the stocky warrior stood his ground, flaming beard flying with each mighty swing of his axe. Several corpses lay scattered about the bloodstained weapon, and the Disciple, who currently traded blows with the former castless, would likely soon join them.
"This one will be having the Mother's vengeance!" Robert heard the sentient darkspawn scream hoarsely, following up his threat by bashing away with his club and shield, determined to beat the dwarf into a bloody pulp.
Spinning the double-headed weapon faster than seemed possible with his stubby arms, Malcolm deflected each blow. Twisting on his feet, the dwarf slammed the greataxe's pommel into the darkspawn's gut, staggering him backward. Jabbing upward with the weapon, Malcolm smashed the flat head of the axe into his enemy's face. The Disciple fell bleeding, and Robert lost sight of the brawl, his own encounters taking priority.
The whispered tingling in the back of his mind was his solitary warning. Wrenching sharply to the side in his saddle, Robert watched a crossbow bolt sail past his chest, disappearing into the forest alongside the road. The hurlock bolter who'd fired was rapidly loading another bolt into his crossbow, hate blazing in its red eyes. Knowing another near miss was unlikely, the prince-consort spurred Black Fury into action.
The warhorse thundered towards the hurlock, throwing up a trail of dust that partially obscured the oncoming warrior. The darkspawn tried to run, but was far too slow. Swinging Yusaris with all the elegance of a painter with a brush, Robert neatly decapitated it, the head bouncing away while body fell. Rounding his horse again, Robert's gaze fell upon a hurlock berserker, swinging furiously at a Warden recruit he didn't recognize. The boy was trying valiantly, but seemed clearly outmatched by the darkspawn's fury.
Riding towards the beast, Robert felt himself grinning again. He'd been in too many meetings, spent unnecessarily large amounts of time around politicians; it was the battlefield where he felt at his best. Anora was the better ruler, her weapons were words, but he was a warrior and here no man could rival him.
The berserker never knew what hit it. Driving the point of his greatsword clean through the hurlock's chest, Robert rode on, feeling warm blood splatter across his face and beard as the beast collapsed. The younger man gaped as the veteran Warden moved to another fight. Gripping the reigns with his left, three-fingered hand, Robert rode towards his old friend Malcolm, determined to slay the Disciple.
However, he wasn't needed.
A young female dwarf came rolling out of the brush, small axe in each hand. He couldn't see her face, but she wore the armor of a Grey Warden scout and a crude iron helmet, horns sprouting upward from each side. With butcher's precision, the woman hacked away at the Disciple's legs, crippling the massive darkspawn. The Disciple howled an otherworldly scream while limbs failed, dropping the beast to its knees. Without hesitation, Malcolm Brosca swung his greataxe with all the power in his compact frame. The axe bit clean through the Disciple's neck without slowing, leaving the hurlock headless. The sight of their leader dead was enough to send the few surviving darkspawn fleeing into the woods with all the speed contained within their blighted legs.
Robert watched them go, pleased that now one less band of darkspawn existed in Thedas. But still, the whispers in the back of his mind continued, accompanied by an actual sizzling sound originating from behind. Spinning Black Fury around, Robert saw the lone genlock emissary, staff held high while a burst of lighting formed before his eyes. The prince-consort knew he'd never dodge it, not like the crossbow bolt. If he was lucky he might survive the hit, but it was a fairly large "might." Gritting his teeth, Robert rode forward, intent to die sword in hand, face towards the foe.
Then, out of nowhere, an arrow flew through the air burying itself in the emissary's forehead. The lightning fizzled away, the darkspawn's eyes rolling back into its head. The monster collapsed limply, arrow sticking out its forehead like a macabre unicorn. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Robert turned to see who'd made the life-saving shot. Standing confidently, longbow in hand, a smug grin plastered across his face, was a hooked-nosed man Robert knew well.
"We're even now, Robert." Nathaniel Howe stated deadpan, managing to hold the laugh in with surprising effort.
Sliding from the saddle, Robert sheathed Yusaris in one smooth motion. Walking towards Nathaniel, arms wide, the prince-consort wrapped the wiry man in a bear hug. "I had him," were his only words
"I'm sure you did." The two men embraced for several moments before disengaging.
"A little bird told me Fergus owes you his life." The younger son of Bryce Cousland, felt his eyes water as he spoke, "He's the only family I have left. Thank you, Nathaniel." He'd rarely stated something so completely honest. To think, one of his best friends had been the son of his greatest enemy; the Maker certainly held a rather strange sense of humor.
"I figured it wouldn't hurt to have the prince owe me a favor." Nathaniel chuckled warmly, returning the bow to his back. Turning to face the dwarf, the two Wardens began walking towards Brosca.
"I see being a Warden is suiting you." Robert observed with a wide smile. "I'm glad."
"There is no life I'd rather lead." Nathaniel responded honestly, keeping pace with the Cousland's broad steps with only modest visible effort. "The world needs its heroes."
Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "That it does, my friend, that it does."
Brosca and the lady dwarf reached them, chuckling quietly to themselves. As Malcolm got a better view of Robert, he waved a stubby arm happily. "Brother! Glad to see you still got some stones in you!" The dwarf chuckled loudly, fiery beard flapping wildly from the motion.
"When a Grey Warden shows up at my castle well past midnight and tells me Warden-Commander Brosca needs my help putting down darkspawn I can't say no. It's my one weakness." The two wardens embraced, laughing all the while. After a moment, Robert looked back towards his horse. "I probably should return to Denerim now. Matters of state require my attention and Anora will kill me if I'm late."
Malcolm looked at his friend with a smirk. "Can't you stay for one drink first?"
"When did the sickness begin, my queen?" Delvin asked solemnly. That was the only tone the mage ever took, regardless of the matter. He resembled more a wax candle than person, with his tall, gaunt frame and long white beard. The elderly man leaned against his oaken staff, body seeming to sag beneath the weight of his robes.
"This morning," Anora told the circle mage honestly. Delvin was an excellent healer when, ironically enough, working without magic. Colds, flues, fevers, things needing elfroot and chicken soup rather than some dramatic enchantment were his specialty. Taking the advice of Erlina, her faithful handmaiden, the Queen summoned Delvin to her chambers. Even as the mage administered various tests, Erlina was fretting, trying not to appear as if she was eavesdropping as she scurried about the room making work for herself.
"Were there any previous symptoms you can recall?" The old man wheezed out. "Have you experienced these feelings before? Were you exposed to rain? Cold?" Anora shook her head each time, face a mask of concentration as she tried to determine the possible cause of her illness. Whatever treatment could help her right herself in time to meet with the mages was acceptable. "What brought about the incident of sickness this morning, can you remember?"
Anora pondered the question momentarily, trying to pinpoint the exact second she knew breakfast was impossible. "When I sat down to eat and smelled cooked meat." She was certain of it. Anora was in control of herself at all times, a breach in her personal defense was worth remembering.
"Hmmm." The mage mumbled, as if that meant something important. "May I examine you, my queen?"
"Isn't that why you're here?" Anora responded bluntly. She still felt sick to her stomach and the mage's delays were starting to prove irritating.
Advancing with all the speed of a greased slug, the mage began his work. Gently, he lay the back of a weathered hand across her forehead, feeling her temperature. His skin felt cold and clammy to the touch. After what seemed an eternity, Delvin moved his hand to her cheek, feeling her breath against his skin for a moment, before taking that hand down towards her stomach. Resting his palm against the fabric of her gown, the old man paused, face taking on a curious expression. Clearly puzzled, the man removed, and then replaced his hand against the same part of her.
"What is it?" Anora asked haughtily, not fully understanding what about her figure proved so fascinating to the thin old man. His work was frustrating but she weathered it, as she weathered indigestion or her husband's attempts to assist her at court. She knew medicine was inevitable, but the sooner it was over, the happier she'd be.
"My queen, may I speak plainly?" Delvin probed, his voice sounding incredibly coy for a man of his age. There was something he was hiding, something he seemed almost nervous to announce audibly.
Anora did not have time for guessing games. "Of course." She told him tersely, waving a hand in his direction.
"Have you heard of any children resulting from Cailan's unfaithfulness?" The question took her breath away with a sharp hiss. She knew the answer, of course. But still, to be asked something so personal, so hurtful, by a mere servant...mage or no...
"No." She was cold, blunt and vicious in her response, cutting into the mage with the carefully managed venom of a royal.
"My lady," his tone became somewhat apologetic, as if aware of simply how dangerous a position his comments had landed him in. "I understand you were informed you were infertile by a previous apothecary, thus the reason you and the late king were unable to conceive." Anora hoped he was going somewhere with the painful line of inquiry. If not, she might have him executed on principal. The man breathed out slowly, beard quivering. "That was incorrect. Based on my understanding of the symptoms, Cailan was infertile, not you. My Queen, you are with child."
In an instant Anora's emotions changed from stewing rage to uncontrollable disbelief. "What?" She blurted out, the word was laced with shock.
"You are pregnant." Delvin repeated simply enough, a smile on his bearded face, "It's in the early stages, easy enough to miss, but rest assured there is a baby growing within you as we speak. Allow me to offer my sincerest congratulations." From the back corner of the room came a thrilled squeak, quickly muffled by hands, suggesting Erlina had failed to keep her excitement in check.
"I can't be…" She murmured, gazing down at her flattened belly uncertainly. She gently ran her hands over it, feeling no difference in shape. And yet, the apothecary seemed convinced, and it would explain the unusual morning sickness. Glancing over towards Delvin, a new fear growing rapidly in her mind, she stammered out, "But the taint!"
"Will not harm the child," the mage assured her in a gentle voice, seeming to finally shatter his normally taciturn monotone with true compassion. "My spells have revealed a small, but healthy life force. He, or she, will make a fine heir."
"But I thought Grey Wardens incapable…" She continued, unsure why she seemed convinced an excuse for her condition was needed, even as her mind raced about trying for some order in a suddenly chaotic world.
"Your husband seems stronger than most," Delvin stated with a slyness and wink the Queen felt bordered on inappropriate. Still, in the conflicting feelings of the moment she sat unable to calculate an appropriately pithy response.
"What do I do?" She asked the mage, a question that rarely left her lips, and yet she knew she meant it. In that minute she needed some semblance of instruction. It was all so much, so fast, so…different.
Understanding her concerns the old man dispensed with the teasing immediately. "We shall monitor the child's development carefully to ensure continued and proper growth, and if all seems well you can make an announcement to the people. I'm sure Ferelden will be overjoyed with the news."
"Erlina," Anora stated, still gazing blankly down at herself. "Tell the First Enchanter that our afternoon discussion will have to be postponed until the morrow, something urgent has come up."
"My queen?" The Elf asked, seeming entirely unsure how to proceed, "The Circle…"
"Can wait." The sentence resembled, in one sense, Anora herself, entirely firm, with a hint of edge that suggested they shouldn't push the matter. "I need to think, leave me."
The mage nodded and addled on his way, Erlina bowed, before skittering outward, closing the door as she did. Anora, still clad in the red morning robe, was once again alone.
She was going to have a baby.
I'm going to have a baby.
With Robert, the father of her child was going to be Robert Cousland, scarred warrior, savior of Ferelden. She pictured it in her mind and what she saw warmed her heart. He'd be a great father, caring, loving and protective. He'd raise their son or daughter right, Anora knew without hesitation.
She felt strange inside, a veritable cornucopia of emotions rushing her all at once faster than she could process. She was suddenly glad that Robert, not Cailan was the father of her firstborn, but then she thought about Cailan again, and how he'd once made her feel. She thought about her own father, how he'd never see a grandchild, about her responsibilities as monarch. Yet, most of all, she thought about Robert.
It was too much and Anora found herself, uncharacteristically, bursting into tears. After having a good cry for a few minutes, the Queen regained control of her faculties, fully aware of the culprit. "Blasted hormones," she sniffled to herself, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her robe. It would prove an interesting nine months.
"Just tell her the truth, that's what a woman really wants!" Malcolm urged, taking another swig from the provided mug. The Amaranthine attachment had been unsure how long they'd be away from Vigil's Keep and, therefore just to be safe, brought with them a rather nice sitting tent and cask of ale. Robert never let himself be without at least one barrel of the drink resting his is cellar, for no one beat the signature Grey Warden version of the drink, not in his mind. One mug had followed the next, leading to a riotous conversation that, as expected, turned towards Robert's love life.
"I concur," Nathaniel added, taking a far more genteel sip than Brosca managed. "Nothing good ever came of unnecessary delays."
"I know," Robert responded, looking down at the swirling mass of dark ale in his finely made tankard, seeing the reflection of the badly broken man staring back at him. His nose in particular really was in atrocious condition and he cursed his misfortune at letting some Carta thug break it so thoroughly. "But there are…issues." He continued, finding more and more everyday to avoid actually confronting the situation in his heart beyond some entirely ineffective flirting.
"Like what?" Malcolm guffawed, slamming his empty mug down on the sturdy traveler's table. "Speak freely man! I sent Sigrun and Carver out on patrol so it'd be just us officers! You can tell us."
Nathaniel smirked, evidently pleased with himself for earning a promotion before Sigrun. Robert remembered his time with both Wardens when he'd reorganized Vigil's Keep and was floored the signature helmet hadn't given Sigrun away in his mind during combat, but chalked it up to mere battle fatigue. Still, it was hardly surprising Nathaniel got that promotion first. Though Brosca was proving a fair commander the former castless was hard, wanting nothing but the best from his Wardens and, as Robert secretly suspected, did so out of an innate paranoia to avoid favoritism. Oghren had been a good friend and Sigrun…well, Robert was sure those intentions went well beyond platonic.
"I don't want things with my wife to become uncomfortable," the Prince-Consort admitted, kicking the dirt with a platemail boot. "I'm afraid of driving her away. We have to live together and frankly I treasure what we already have, and I thank the Maker every day in my prayers for putting her by my side, love or not. What if I push too far and lose that?" Perhaps the ale loosened his tongue somewhat, or perhaps he'd been pent up for too long, so desperate to finally tell someone, but regardless, his feeling burst out before his two friends. "She's sophisticated, brilliant, kind, fair, beautiful…" He shook his head, "I was a political gain, nothing more. I don't want to try for the impossible. I love her and that is enough…"
"Robert," Nathanial insisted stubbornly, looking at his friend with a mixture of compassion and dismay, "You're tormenting yourself with this. You know how you feel, now go tell her."
"What's the worst that can happen?" The Dwarf responded with a chuckle, "Get a divorce? Kingdom can't afford that."
"Don't joke, Malcolm!" Robert hissed at the sound of his most irrational fears voiced aloud. "Any number of things could happen! Divorce is one of them." Looking suitably chastised, Malcolm glanced down towards the ground.
"But really," he said from around his crimson beard, "Just tell her how you feel."
"Besides," Nathaniel stated casually, "I'm sure she's started to warm up to you. Maybe she feels differently than you think…"
The trio of friends bantered on about various differing topics until the sun began to sink in the horizon. Horrified and mortified at how much time he'd taken and how very late he was, Robert bid farewell to his companions, saddling up Black Fury and ridding hard for Denerim. Images of his wife's furious expression at his tardiness left him both nervous and admittedly somewhat aroused as he did his best to make up lost time. The hour was well past Irving's arrival and without a doubt he'd missed that meeting, but he knew Anora had plenty of other work that day and, with luck, perhaps he could assist with something, or, if luck were really with him, he could sneak in unnoticed and avoid the worst of her inevitable peeved speech regarding tardiness.
The Stars were vaguely visible in the sky when he entered Ferelden's capital and stabled Black Fury with his brethren. The horse had performed admirably during the morning's combat, and Robert spent more time than necessary feeding him a few extra carrots for his troubles, due to a combination of appreciation for the steed's valor and fear of returning home late.
Finally, realizing he was, in fact, an adult and not some chastised schoolboy, Robert returned to the Castle fully intent on facing Anora. He'd not made it three feet past the entrance hallway when Erlina approached him. Her face appeared flushed, ears quivering with an emotion that was perhaps nervousness, excitement or some combination of those two. "Your highness," she stated cordially enough, bowing respectfully to the Prince.
"Come on, Erlina," Robert responded with a sly smile, "You know you can call me Robert." The maid seemed curiously unsure what to make of it, despite the number of times he'd sated it. Glancing past her up the stairs, he asked, "How mad is she?" He chuckled, confidently projecting a care-free aura to calm the flustered maid.
"She is in your chambers, Robert, you should speak with her immediately." The tone was stiff, businesslike, and left no room for quips or jests. Not so thick as to miss the implications of her words, Robert nodded and began his slow ascent up the stairs.
He still wore his armor, though he'd done his best to wipe it, and his skin, clean of blood before his return, still, as he unbuckled the gauntlets, it wouldn't hurt to remove it. He'd see what Anora wanted, then slip into something more comfortable.
Fastening his dragonbone gauntlets to his belt with the practiced ease of a warrior, despite missing fingers, Robert observed the door to the bedchamber had been closed. Rapping his knuckles precisely against the wooden portal, Robert asked, "Anora? Are you in there?"
"Yes," came the unusually shaky reply, his wife's normally firm voice replaced with something resembling legitimate doubt.
"Can I come in?"
"Please."
Robert opened the door slowly, the object swinging inward without a sound on finely crafted hinges. Anora sat in a comfortable high-backed chair on the far side of the room, wearing the simple red robe Robert so loved to see her in, golden hair a tousled mess, accompanied by a curiously nervous expression. "Robert…" She said softly, "We need to talk."
He broke after seeing her face, so convinced something was horribly wrong with his beloved. "I came as quickly as I could, but Darkspawn were raiding, and Brosca needed me, you know I can't turn him down, and I'm sorry I missed the meeting but I'll be back I swear it, I'll contribute more to court…" The words tumbled out his mouth like a veritable river, as he said anything and everything to please her and end her sadness.
However, she cut him off and said simply, voice trembling, "Robert, I'm pregnant."
The Prince-Consort stopped suddenly as if an ogre had punched him. "What?" He asked, managing to get his faculties together long enough to manage the syllable.
"I'm pregnant," she repeated, a smile breaking through her radiant features; fear seemingly replaced with joy as Robert's own face lit up, "You're going to be a father."
He realized his eyes were wet with tears, images of his father storming into his mind suddenly. "That's… that's amazing," he fell to his knees before her, unarmored hands reaching outward towards her still flat stomach. Glancing up at his wife for approval, he noticed her eyes were brimming with fresh tears of joy. Nodding her affirmative, Anora watched happily as Robert rested his hands against her. Leaning in close, he whispered gently to his child not yet formed, "Hey there little one, I'll always be here to protect you…" His own child, with Anora, to love and raise as their own, no witch needed.
"Robert…" Anora stated softly, voice wavering, clearly struggling by way of response.
"I love you," he told her bluntly, suddenly looking up at Anora and staring her dead in the face, "I've loved you since the day we first met, and I will always love you."
A look of panic crossed his face as he immediately realized what he'd said and that there was no way to take it back.
All that changed in an instant. "Robert, I love you." Anora said firmly, holding his bearded chin in her smooth, unscarred hands. "I'm sorry it took me so long to figure it out, but the truth is, I was scared and confused. But this baby has reminded me of one thing, you aren't Cailan, you'll never be Cailan and I'd be a fool to let so fine a man leave my side when the Maker sent you to me. Robert, I truly do love you, and, deep down, I think maybe I always have too." Then she kissed him, the true kiss of the lover he'd always sought. With her actions more powerful than words, Robert knew it was true.
Before he sank away in a sea of bliss his beloved managed one last sly comment, "I suppose it's better to realize this later than never."