U is for Unexpected
Her belly aches from retching, her throat worn raw from the constant roil of acid; she curls up on one side, with the sheet cool against her cheek and a little porcelain bowl within reach on the bedside table.
"I will never, ever, as the Maker is my witness," she mutters, "eat clams again."
Anora lifts her head half-heartedly at a chuckle from the doorway, where the Warden-Commander stands clutching a teapot and cup. "I told you not to eat anything that came out of the lake, you know. They threw near a thousand darkspawn corpses into the water before I stopped them. That water won't be safe for years."
"I know." Anora sighs- and reaches for the basin again. "But I was having such a craving. Are any of the others still ill?"
The elf shakes her head. "All recovered, except for you. I brought you some tea." She lifts the teapot in one hand.
"No, thank you. I've had nothing but tea and bread for ages."
"You haven't had this." She pours a cupful and perches on the side of the bed. "Keeper Marethari taught me the recipe when I was da'len; it's simple, really, a few garden herbs. Good for stomach sickness. Elyana drank it for months, when she- hm." For a moment the Warden's eyes go vague and distant, and when she shakes her head her hair falls forward over her eyes. "How long have you been ill, exactly?"
Anora considers, and reaches out her hand to take the cup, as she lifts herself to sit half-propped on a small mountain of pillows. "Near two weeks. Long enough." She takes a tentative sip, then pauses. "You aren't trying to poison me, I hope."
The other woman snorts, one eyebrow raised. "If I was trying to poison you, Anora, you'd be dead. Drink your tea."
"I suppose you have a point." She sniffs- it smells good, at least, and when she drinks it tastes of mint and sweet citrus and spices. "Mm. I almost feel better already. You'll have to write- ah, I'll have Erlina transcribe the recipe, if you wouldn't mind?"
(A month after the Blight, she had asked the Warden-Commander to draw up an invoice for all the equipment Father had destroyed. Two months later she still hadn't received the document, and it took another two weeks of maneuvering before Anora learned why.
"You should have asked me," Alistair told her that night.
She scowls, pulling her robe around her shoulders. "The bannorn won't agree to reparations if the request comes from you. It needs to come from the Wardens directly, without any evidence of our involvement."
"Send her a scribe, then."
"She can't write it herself?" Her hand on the door, she pauses and turns back toward him.
He looks up at her from the bed, hair mussed and eyes tired, and sighs. "She's Dalish, Anora. No, she can't."
She reassigns a junior undersecretary the following day.)
"I'd be happy to copy it for you." The Warden's expression doesn't change, though the tips of her ears color ever so slightly. "I've been practicing. With Alistair gone to Highever for the inspection, he's asked that I update him weekly until he returns."
She nods and smiles until another wave of nausea takes her; she's barely able to grasp the bowl, and Mahariel's hands hold her hair back as she coughs and gags. When she looks up again, she finds the elf regarding her, head tilted.
"Anora, may I ask you a personal question?"
Anora wipes her mouth on her last clean handkerchief. "Mmph."
"When did you last bleed?" The elf crosses the room and empties the bowl into the chamber pot.
She blinks. "Maker, that is rather personal- oh, dear." With a frantic gesture, she waves her back across the room just in time to vomit once more.
They sit, waiting together, until her stomach calms, and the Warden rests a cool cloth across her forehead.
"It was just before the Summerday festival." She counts the days in her head. "Four weeks- no."
Wordlessly, Mahariel refills the teacup and raises it to Anora's mouth; she takes a long sip, and rests one hand on her belly.
"Six weeks."