A/N: Now we get into some other characters. I'm filling up with ideas, and I'm actually getting really, really excited about telling these stories.
Today, we look at Isolde. I know that most people hate her with a passion that's a little scary, but I figure she's got a really intriguing backstory...and after looking up Isolde and Eamon as main characters, there's actually only one fanfic written about them. I haven't read it because I don't want to influence my own ideas, but I think someday I will write the story of Isolde and Eamon. Someday soon, likely. For now, this acts as an overview, and I hope it explains some of why Isolde might be the way she is.
"Do you think Eamon will like me?" Isolde asked, her worried eyes creasing in the reflecting glass.
"How could he not? You are stunning," Gwena simpered, and adjusted Isolde's veil for the third time. "It is too bad your father isn't here to give you away," the woman said in a careless tone, her words the slightest bit cutting. Isolde bit her lip.
"I wish he was," she said. "I miss them."
"They miss you, as well, dear. Being disowned…how do you manage?" Gwena's voice was light, but Isolde heard the implied insult behind the words, and her mouth twisted.
"Quite well, thank you. But Gwena, let us speak of you for a moment. Do you think you'll ever remarry? It must be difficult, no? Knowing you have so few good years left to provide children to a husband… " Isolde asked. Gwena's eyes narrowed slightly, and Isolde felt somewhat mollified.
Gwena was a friend, and Isolde didn't have many of them…being from Orlais and marrying Arl Eamon was two strikes against her. She was willing to put up with Gwena's snarky attitude in exchange for female companionship. And it really wasn't that different than anything she'd dealt with in Orlais...they wrote the book on intrigue, and Gwena was practically a breath of fresh air.
Isolde checked her reflection again, and pinched her cheeks once more to turn them pink. She tried to relax her eyes, seeing the beginnings of wrinkles forming on her still youthful face. It troubled her, losing her youth…but she supposed it happened to everyone. Teyrna Cousland was already greying. Isolde's hair was still lush and honey-colored, for which she was more than grateful.
Isolde Desmarais was born the younger daughter of an up-and-coming noble family in Val Royeaux that had been playing "the game" of nobility as long as she could remember. The Orlesian occupation of Ferelden had supplied many families with the opportunity to raise their standing, and when King Meghren had offered the arling of Redcliffe to anyone who could hold it for more than a month, Isolde's father Marcel Desmarais had leapt at the chance. The family traveled to Ferelden and moved into Castle Redcliffe, much to the displeasure of the locals.
Isolde was a dreamy, idealistic youth. She was thrilled at the chance to leave boring Val Royeax to live in Ferelden, and viewed the endeavor as an adventure of the best kind. Her eleven-year old self thrilled to the romance and intrigue inherent in such an undertaking, and her older brother Rene agreed with her wholeheartedly. The two spent the month-long journey whispering and daydreaming about the adventures they would have in Ferelden. Their mother Gabrielle was less enthusiastic about leaving the glittering city of Val Royeaux to live in what she deemed "fithy wilderness", but Redcliffe was beautiful in Isolde's eyes, and she fell in love with the land. And she couldn't help but admire the spirit of the Fereldans; they were so very determined to wriggle out from under Orlais's thumb.
It was a tumultuous few years that followed, but Marcel did what others had not been able to – he survived numerous assassination attempts and held Redcliffe in the name of Emperor Florian. As the holders of one of the most powerful arlings in Ferelden, things were looking up for the Desmarais family, and they climbed higher in the game.
Isolde expected to be sent back to Orlais to attend a ladies' finishing school, but the world began to change when she was fourteen. The rebels had a new commander, and Orlais began losing ground. After nearly an age of occupation, Orlais actually began to grow nervous that they might lose Ferelden, and every Orlesian noble was put on alert. Her family began planning an exit from the country if things should go badly. Marcel and Gabrielle were away at a meeting on the night she met Eamon Guerrin – a meeting that happened entirely by chance…a meeting which would change her life forever.
Isolde was alone in her parents' room when she heard the door open, and as she turned around a hand clapped over her mouth, pushing her up against the wall and warning her to be quiet. Her captor was a handsome young man with reddish-brown hair, and Isolde's heart leapt in fright…and excitement.
The young man was one of the rebels, and for that reason alone she might have been fascinated and charmed by him, but his good looks and the element of danger he carried with him made him beyond delicious to a dreamy, romantic, idealistic girl.
Eamon had slipped past the guards of the castle in an attempt to assassinate Arl Desmarais and his family and reclaim Redcliffe for Ferelden and the Guerrins. It was a move of desperation, and one that likely would have ended with his death had Isolde not been utterly charmed by the bold young man. They ended up speaking at length, and then Isolde smuggled him out of the castle, seeing the entire thing as a quixotic adventure. Two nights later, she received a coded message, and she snuck out of her rooms to meet her would-be lover in the gardens of Redcliffe Castle.
Isolde didn't just fall…she dove head-over-heels into love with Eamon, and he fell just as head-over-heels in love with the beautiful young orlesian girl. The fact that it was her own family that he opposed – and that it was her family that had deposed his – made their romance all the more forbidden, and all the more searing. Isolde was only fourteen, and her paramour eighteen…they were so very young, and impressionable, and filled with romantic ideas of the way the world should be, and this first honey-sweet taste of love altered them both in ways they would take years to fully discover.
They continued to meet and make plans for two years, and then Rowan, Eamon's sister, found out about Isolde. She bluntly told Eamon that he was insane if he thought he could marry an orlesian. With Ferelden's freedom a thing that was barely secured, and Isolde belonging to the very family who had held Redcliffe in Orlais's name, it would be suicide – political and literal. At Rowan's insistence, Eamon ended his relationship with Isolde, and her family fled to Orlais before they could be murdered by rebel forces.
Isolde was heartbroken. She understood logically why they couldn't be together, but it didn't make it easier to bear…she felt cheated of her happy ending, and her sixteen-year old self mutinied. She refused to eat, bathe, or do any of the other things that would make life bearable for those around her, and even her brother Rene couldn't draw a smile from her for months.
Back in Orlais she worsened, and Gabrielle had to put off her entry into the fine finishing school as Isolde would not leave her bed. Six months later, Isolde attempted to escape to Ferelden, intending on throwing herself at Eamon and begging him to take her back – as a concubine, if need be. She was quickly discovered, and a series of locks installed on her door as punishment. She stormed, cried, threw things, and then retreated into a deep depression.
Isolde's parents were mortified. They berated her, threatened her, bribed her, and nothing helped. Isolde locked herself in a shell of isolation, writing in her journals and sometimes playing on her harp. She was convinced that if she tried hard enough, she could die of grief, and leave a beautiful young corpse for her parents to cry over.
Unfortunately, life was not so kind.
Finally, finally Isolde seemed to grow up a bit. She began to interact with the outside world again, and attended the fine finishing school her parents had intended for her. She met Gwena Farel while at school, and the two became fast friends. Isolde returned home a proper and refined lady, aged twenty-one, and her mother began parading her before nobleman after nobleman. But nothing ever worked out. Isolde was quiet, refined, graceful, and beautiful – and completely uninterested. When the young men attempted to grow serious, she grew cold and put them off. She intended to spend her life alone rather than with someone who was not Eamon Guerrin, although her parents had no inkling that she was still suffering from love lost.
When Isolde passed her twenty-fifth birthday, her father gave her an ultimatum – marry, or find a trade. He refused to keep his willful spinster daughter at home any longer, and Isolde took up residence with her friend Gwena, who had married a successful cloth merchant by the name of Dubois. She sewed and helped with running the household, and Gwena treated her somewhat like a poor relative…but it was better than being at home with her judgmental parents. She spent three years with Gwena, and then…
She received a letter. From Eamon.
He missed her. He loved her. He wanted her.
She packed her bags.
Gwena was properly horrified that Isolde would leave Orlais and return to a backwater country like Ferelden, where they slept with their dogs and wore boots every day, even to the chantry. Isolde didn't care. She had been dreaming of being with Eamon for half of her life, and now that he wanted her, she didn't intend to waste another second. She found passage to Ferelden with a merchant who specialized in Mabari, and spent a month traveling to Redcliffe. She showed up on Eamon's doorstep bedraggled and worn out, smelling like a dog and feeling like a limp rag.
Their reunion was beyond spectacular.
It took several more years to navigate all of the politics involved with marrying an orlesian woman. Old hatreds still ran deep, but Eamon was determined, and now, today, their dreams would finally come true.
Isolde was thirty-one – a woman beyond her prime, a woman who had lived in a fantasy world for longer than she cared to think about. She had loved Eamon her entire life, and to become his wife was the greatest desire of her heart. She had wanted it for so very long, and had gone through hell to get it – and nothing was going to stop her now. Not the letter she had received from her parents last month, stating that if she did this she was no longer a Desmarais. Not the nasty letters from anonymous sources, threatening her life just for being orlesian. Not the whispers, not the stares, not even the rumors that Alistair was Eamon's bastard son, although that one hurt the most of all.
A knock at the door took her attention from the mirror, and she gestured for Gwena to answer it. Her friend sniffed, and flounced toward the door.
Gwena wasn't taking her new position well. She had arrived in Redcliffe several months ago, homeless after her husband was killed in Orlais for fraudulent dealing. Isolde had taken her in, and Gwena had made herself Isolde's lady in waiting. Their social positions had been reversed, and Isolde might have felt sorrier for Gwena if the woman wasn't so very nasty. But she was a friend, and she was from home, and so Isolde put up with her haughty attitudes.
"Are you ready?" Maric said from the doorway, and Isolde nodded, and hurried to take his arm. The king of Ferelden was standing in for her absent father and walking her down the aisle.
.oOo.
"Who gives this woman to be wed?" the Revered Mother said.
"The crown gives this woman," Maric said, and a whisper of interest flew from tongue to tongue around the gathered nobility. Maric's stamp of approval on the marriage was the final bit that Eamon needed to legitimize Isolde in Ferelden's eyes…but the whispers made Isolde's face flush, and she wondered if she would ever find acceptance in her love's country.
In the crowd, Lyra wiggled in her seat, and looked around for Alistair. Fergus poked her.
"Be still. It's almost over, Pup," he whispered, and she did her best to quiet her restless body as her mother sniffled into a handkerchief. Other women were crying, too, and Lyra wondered exactly what was so sad about two people getting married.
At the front of the chantry, Bann Teagan was seated beside Alistair, who was watching the ceremony glumly. Isolde didn't like him, and he didn't know why. He had a feeling that things weren't going to get easier.
"Cheer up, lad," Teagan whispered. "Isolde's not such a bad sort."
Alistair didn't answer, but kicked his foot against the leg of the chair in an attempt to vent energy. Small boys were not made to sit so still and be so clean.
The ceremony was completed, and Isolde and Eamon shared their first kiss as husband and wife, arl and arlessa. Applause from the crowd brought a smile to Isolde's lips. Perhaps she was wrong…perhaps not everyone was prepared to hate her.
She and Eamon made their way back down the aisle and stood outside the chantry, where they were surrounded by well-wishers. The people of Redcliffe brought them small gifts – baskets of fruit, a soft wool wrap, a bundle of flowers. The nobility had delivered gifts that were much finer, but Isolde was touched by these small gestures, and she smiled graciously at all of them, her heart filling with happiness at the love that her husband's people displayed for their arl. And for me, she thought. They cannot hate me now.
Eamon turned from her side to speak with someone, and Isolde continued to greet the folk who had come to her wedding. She was happy…everything was beautiful, and everyone was kind…
"….orlesian whore," she heard whispered in the crowd, and her heart crashed in her chest. She looked around, trying to see where the slur had come from, but everyone was smiling and Isolde tried to cover her dismay at the ugliness she was hearing.
Lyra Cousland came sprinting out of the chantry, followed by Alistair, and Isolde's lips twisted in distaste as she watched his red-gold head bounce through the crowd. The rumor mill was churning with all of the nobility present, and speculation was high. It seemed to most that Eamon must be the boy's father, and Gwena had told her there was a growing pool over who the boy's mother had been. Bets were even – people were certain Alistair's mother was either a deceased castle servant, or a foreign dignitary.
People could be so stupid.
It made her stomach clench to think of Eamon with another woman. He assured her that Alistair was not his child, but how was she to know, really? It was unrealistic to assume that he'd been celibate all these years – men were different than women. The boy's hair might have a touch more gold in it than Eamon's, but that could just as easily be attributed to the mother. If he wasn't Eamon's, then why was he here?
Oh, Eamon had told her that the boy was Maric's, and that Maric had asked him to keep Alistair. She also knew it was likely true. But the rest of the nobility did not, and they were not allowed to know. And that's where the rumors began, and where Isolde held no power at all to rebuff them. Without the truth to arm her, she was left swatting at speculation, and no one believed Eamon would take pity on an orphan out of the kindness of his heart. Some were even whispering that Eamon intended to make the boy his heir – but Isolde was determined to give Eamon a child of their own. It was the one power she had as a woman, and she would be damned if it was taken from her. She wasn't that old – she could bring a child to birth and provide him with the only heir he would need.
Of course, it would help if Alistair were safely out of the way. Out of sight, out of mind.
"My congratulations, Lady Isolde. You look lovely," Eleanor Cousland said, and brushed Isolde's cheek with her lips. The arlessa smiled automatically and thanked her, and then Eleanor leaned close.
"I hope that when Bryce speaks to Eamon, he'll consider our proposal," she said softly, and Isolde's eyes creased in confusion.
"Your proposal?" Isolde asked.
"Yes, regarding Alistair…well, this isn't really the time. We'll speak about it later," Eleanor said, and moved off.
Isolde's eyes darkened. Couldn't she just forget about the bastard boy for one day? It was her wedding!
"…I hear she's too old," she heard someone say behind her. She focused on the words, concentrating on singling out the sounds from the general crowd noise.
"…looks young. But…seventeen years since they met." She was only catching bits and pieces. She tried to let it go, but suddenly the voices were clear.
"…pity. Eamon had other opportunities, to be sure. There must be a reason he'd choose an orlesian. Maybe Loghain is right."
Eamon finished his conversation and turned to smile at her, and Isolde tried to return his happy gaze, but her eyes were filling with tears.
"My dearest love…" Eamon brushed her cheek with his fingers. "You aren't crying? On our wedding day? Can it be that you regret marrying an old man, after all?" Their old joke brought a smile to Isolde's lips, but one traitorous drop slid down her cheek, and then Eamon was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief pulled from his sleeve.
"What is it?" he asked.
"You love me, Eamon?" she trembled, and his eyes softened.
"More than my own life," he said softly, and the tears began to pour from her eyes, relief unclenching her stomach.
"Isolde," Eamon said worriedly, and she threw herself into his embrace.
"Alistair…he's going to Denerim, yes?" she whispered, and Eamon nodded as his arms clasped her tight.
"Maric has agreed."
"Thank the Maker," Isolde sighed, and Eamon's arms promised support and love.
The one thing she had craved for seventeen years was hers at last.
Nothing would make her let it go.