Oswyn had arrived home from Varel's wedding to find a message from Anora waiting for him, asking if he'd be free to join her for dinner the next day. He quickly penned an affirmative reply, and sent one of his guards off to deliver it to the castle, then spent much of the evening picking out a suitable outfit for the next day, and inspecting it for any little tears or stains.
He slept in the next morning, and woke feeling well-rested and in a very good mood, looking forward to dinner with Anora that evening, and still feeling pleased over Varel's wedding the day before. He frittered away most of the morning writing a letter to his father about it, and saying that he was enjoying his visit to the city enough that he'd likely remain at least another week longer before returning home. He put the letter aside to seal and send later, had his lunch, sat reading in the garden for a while, then went off to have a very thorough bath before dressing for dinner, both of which required that he make use of the services of Peter, the manservant he'd brought from home.
It proved to be very trying for both of them. He supposed, in retrospect, that it might have been easier on Peter if the man had seen at least some of his scars before, rather then being confronted with the full extent of them all in one go. His first reaction was to stare, which Oswyn hated, and then once he realized what he was doing he tried to keep from looking at them at all, which was even worse. Peter also found it difficult to bring himself to touch them, which made it rather difficult for him to help with things like scrubbing Oswyn's back or drying him properly afterwards, neither tasks Oswyn could easily do for himself.
Oswyn judged that they were both feeling about equally upset by the whole process once it was finally over with, and he was safely covered in his good clean clothes. He thanked Peter politely, and only once the door was closed and locked allowed his own reaction to surface for a few minutes, sitting down on the bed and weeping in angry humiliation, a pillow pressed to his face to catch the tears and muffle any sounds he might make. After which he needed to go put cold water on his eyes, and just sit and think about happier things – like the wedding the day before – until his composure was what it should be.
The walk to the castle calmed his nerves further, even if walking by the ruins of the Arl of Denerim's estate was still unsettling. He kept his eyes firmly turned away from the mound of rubble as he and his guards passed it. He was back to being in a reasonably good mood again by the time he'd threaded his way through the maze of guards and protocol at the castle, and was being greeted by Anora just inside the door to her apartments.
"I'm so pleased you were able to come again," she told him, smiling warmly at him. "Hopefully we'll have better luck with having an uninterrupted conversation this time."
Oswyn grinned. "Have you checked the drapes for lurking assassins yet?"
Anora laughed. "Zevran has, thankfully, already returned to Amaranthine with Katy. So we should be safe from him, at least. But come, let us go and sit down somewhere more comfortable to talk."
She led the way through to her sitting room, where wine and goblets were already waiting, and the two of them were soon ensconced in comfortable chairs with drinks in hand.
"My messenger reported that you were out when he delivered my message, yesterday – was that to attend your elven friend's wedding?" she asked.
"Yes, it was," Oswyn said, and then found himself telling her about the whole thing, including his brief conversation with Mother Perpetua and what she'd had to say about most other priests thinking of the elves as little more than beasts.
Anora nodded, a pensive look on her face. "It is unfortunately a failing found not just among the priests of the chantry, but among many of our nobles and commoners as well. I fear it is a bit like a chicken and egg problem; it is hard to tell which came first." She fell silent for a while, then sighed. "I wish there was more I could do to help the elves; after what was done to them by Howe and my father... I owe them. A debt my father accrued, but that I must pay."
She paused, looking unhappy, and continued. "Yet it is not just the elves who are in need just now. So many of the inhabitants of Denerim are still without proper housing, and they would react poorly to anything that they would perceive as being preference given to the elves over themselves. I cannot afford to have the population of the capital rioting; things are still far too fragile for such an occurrence. Especially with another Landsmeet fast approaching, and my nobles pushing for me to remarry and bear an heir to the throne. Between keeping them and the chantry both satisfied, I find it difficult to move forward on the projects that I know must be tackled to keep Ferelden strong, and able to protect our own borders."
"You believe Orlais is still a danger then."
"Yes. I cannot believe otherwise, knowing how many chevaliers they tried to introduce to the country under the guise of an escort for Grey Wardens. Only a token force of wardens, and a great army of knights," she said, looking grim. "More, Katy tells me that she has received evidence that the First Warden was playing politics during the Blight; he sought in part to punish Ferelden for our long exclusion of the Grey Wardens following their treachery against the crown. She also believes, but has been unable to confirm as yet, that he used his prevention of aid reaching us from other Grey Warden establishments abroad for some sort of political gain with the Orlesians – a trade-off of some kind."
"That... is worrisome," Oswyn agreed, slowly. He'd never paid much attention to politics beyond the borders of Ferelden – other than the perennial problem of Orlais, that is – but that a foreign dignitary would see fit to use Ferelden's peril during the Blight Year for political advantage – that was certainly troubling. Angering, even, that anyone would dare.
Anora frowned. "We are far from the Anderfels, and in the First Warden's opinion are likely a small, distant country of no real significance other than being the birthplace of Andraste. With the chantry being so heavily based in Orlais, he likely feels, as they do, that we should be a part of Orlais. But come, enough of politics beyond Ferelden; it is of politics within Ferelden I am currently most concerned about."
"The nobles," Oswyn said.
Anora smiled. "Yes, the nobles. Particularly the nobles of the bannorn, who have always been a bastion of conservative thought." Before she could speak further, a bell tinkled from elsewhere in the apartment. Anora's smile widened slightly. "But it is time to eat," she said, and rose to her feet, waiting for Oswyn to rise as well and then setting her hand on his arm so that he could escort her the short distance to the dining room.
Oswyn saw her into her seat before taking his own, after which the servants served the meal; a soup of cream and mushrooms to start, served with small buttery rolls of freshly-baked bread. That was followed by a large chicken baked in a crust of salt and cracked peppercorns, potatoes with butter and rosemary, and steamed greens dotted with sauteed onions and bits of crisp bacon. Only once that had been served and the servants had withdrawn from the room again did Anora finally return to the topic of their interrupted conversation. "You talked briefly with Arl Wulff the other day, as I recall," she said, looking at him questioningly. "Did he explain to you why he was here?"
"Yes. That he had come to bring you word of his choice of wife, as he planned to remarry."
Anora smiled. "Yes. Gallagher is just one of many of my nobles that is facing the problem of a lack of suitable heirs; our noble houses lost so many members during the occupation, and then so many more during the Blight, particularly in the south to darkspawn, and the northwest to both treachery and the civil war. Many of our highest families are down to a scant handful of members; Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan, for instance, Connor being unable to inherit. Arl Wulff, Teryn Fergus, Arlessa Katy... my own Terynir of Gwaren, which I am still Teryna for. Many of the bannorns are down to a single heir, as well – look at yourself and your father as another example of such. The problem of heirs is endemic to much of our country – as things currently stand, it would be frighteningly easy for Orlais to wipe out most of our remaining nobility. The line of Calenhad is down to a handful of threads."
She frowned and speared some greens, staring thoughtfully at them for a long moment before putting her fork back down again. "I have been forced to take the unusual step of formally requesting many of my unwed or widowed nobles to marry or remarry, and procreate, any who are still capable of it. Including your father," she added, looking up from her plate to Oswyn, blue eyes remarkably calm. "My letter to him went out several days ago. He is far from being too old to father additional children, and Ferelden desperately needs more children of our best nobles – not just best as in high in standing or bearing the blood of Calenhad, but best as in those lines who have most consistently done what was best for Ferelden over what was best for themselves. The family lines that therefore suffered the worst under the Orlesians, loosing most of their members to execution or death on the battlefield while families who chose to co-operate with the invaders prospered..." She broke off, and drew a deep breath, visibly calming herself. "The subject makes me heated. Many of the nobles who give me the most difficulties are those whose families risked little during the occupation, and lost few if any during the Blight. They think of their own advancement and aggrandizement first, and the needs of Ferelden second, if at all."
"The Bannorn," Oswyn said.
"Largely there, yes, though such nobles are to be found throughout Ferelden," she said, and picked up her fork, then set it down again. "I must marry and bear heirs as well. For political reasons, it would be wisest for me to marry someone who carries the blood of Calenhad. That gives me a very small pool of suitable candidates. And as short on heirs as many of my highest nobles already are, it would also be best if I marry someone who is not the sole possible heir to their terynir, arling, or bannorn, which rules out almost all of the most suitable candidates. Oswyn... do you see where I am going with this?"
His mouth was dry. He could see all too clearly. "I am my father's only child," he said slowly.
"Yet he is not too old to father more, and I have asked him to consider remarrying and doing so," Anora said, voice soft but very intense. "Oswyn, we have long been friends. My choices are so few... and you are the best among them, not just by blood, which I would judge fine even if you had not a single drop of Calenhad's blood in you, but best in terms of honour and loyalty. I would far rather marry a friend I can trust than a stranger whose motives I must ever suspect."
A silence fell. Oswyn stared down at his plate, considering her words. Considering how much he'd come to dread the very idea of ever wedding, of having to display his ruined body to some innocent young bride...
"I do not ask that you tell me yes or no right now..." Anora began.
Oswyn, for once in his life, was rude. He raised a hand, cutting her off. He blinked a few times, swallowing heavily. When he spoke, his voice was harsh with suppressed emotions. "I will agree to think on it. But I would not... I would not have you marry me without being aware of the full extent of my injuries," he said, and forced himself to look up and meet her eyes. "They are terrible."
She met his gaze calmly, unflinchingly. After a long moment, she nodded, once. "Very well. Would you prefer to show me now, or at another time?"
It took him two tries to speak. "Now, before my courage fails me," he said shakily. He had to look away then, and close his eyes for a moment. "Do you wish a witness, so there can be... no suggestion of anything untoward between us?"
"No," she said, voice gentle. "Unless you yourself prefer one."
He shook his head. "Where?" he asked, looking back at her again.
She tipped her head slightly to one side. "My private study," she said finally. "It is not as intimate as my bedroom would be. And the door locks," she added with a slight smile, then rose to her feet. Oswyn rose as well, and she led the way to her study, where she closed and locked the door, closed the drapes, and then took a seat – not behind the desk there, but in one of a group of chairs near the fireplace, turning herself so that she was not facing toward him. "When you are ready," she said quietly.
He nodded, even though she could not see it, then undressed, hanging each item of clothing over the back of a chair. He debated for some little time over whether or not to remove his leggings and socks, and then in the end removed everything. Let her see it all; let her see the worst of it. "I am ready," he said at last, voice cracking. As she began to rise, he abruptly closed his eyes, not wanting to see whatever her initial reaction was.
There was a very long silence. He realized he was holding his breath, and forced himself to resume normal breathing, or at least as normal as he was currently capable of. He heard the faint scuff of her slippered feet against the carpet as she walked closer, then began to circle around him. She stopped briefly, behind him, then continued on again, back around to the front of him. "You may re-dress," she said calmly. "If you would, please leave your shirt off for now. I would like to examine some of your injuries more closely, if I may, but the, err... complete nakedness is rather distracting," she said, an edge of humour creeping into her voice.
The humour almost undid him; the lack of repulsion or distaste, the acceptance that it implied. When he opened his eyes she was still standing nearby, facing away again with one hand resting on the back of a nearby chair. He dressed hurriedly – or at least as hurriedly as his injuries allowed, which when it came to things like pulling on stockings and leggings was not particularly fast. "I am decent again," he said when he was done.
She turned back to face him again, blushing somewhat as she met his eyes, then to his surprise stepped close and took his hand in both of hers. "If I ever had any doubt before that you are a brave man, it is entirely gone now," she said, and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. "Not for having endured what you have, which was forced on you, but for being brave enough to show me the extent of it. Come, sit down with me," she said, and gestured for him to sit down in a nearby chair. Once he'd reluctantly taken a seat, well-aware that protocol said she should sit first, she dragged a chair over and sat down beside him but facing him, leaning forward to look at his arm. She reached out, stopping with fingers a short distance from his skin. "May I handle you?" she asked, voice carefully neutral.
He nodded, and she took his arm in hand, guiding him into lifting it up while she studied it, frowning at the scars that dappled the skin around his elbow and shoulder, touching fingertips briefly to the scars that circled his wrist. "Can you bend and lift your arm?" she asked.
"Yes, but not far. Not without pain," he said, and flexed his arm through its limited range of motion, at least as much as he could while seated. She reached out again, setting hand to one of the thick scars that restricted the stretch of his muscles. "This did not heal this way naturally," she said.
"No," he admitted, and had to pause for a long moment again before explaining. "I was kept bound at times, so I couldn't move, so that things would heal awry from what they might have otherwise. And he had a mage who he would sometimes use to heal me faster, so that he..." he broke off, unable to explain further.
Anora frowned darkly. "A terrible perversion of what should be beneficial magic," she said, then leaned down to examine his elbow again. "When you were recovering afterwards, did your father ever have a healer in to try and ease any of these?" she asked, setting a finger carefully on one of the scars.
"No. There were no mages available."
She sat back, looking thoughtful. "Katy has recruited a healing mage or two since the Blight Year. With your permission, I'd like to write to her and ask her to loan us one. I cannot guarantee anything, but I think some of this might be capable of... well, not being healed or removed entirely, but at least made less restrictive, and hopefully less painful as well. Will you permit me to do so?"
He drew a deep breath, blinking back tears. "Any help that would make the scars any less debilitating than they are, I would gladly accept, save it came from a demon."
Anora smiled, amused. "I will write her, then," she said, and rose to her feet, walking determinedly over to her desk. "Put your clothes to rights, and then we will go have our dessert, and perhaps a good stiff drink."
He nodded, and rose to his feet as well. Getting his shirt back on wasn't too difficult, but he struggled with the jacket, until she abruptly rose and walked over, and helped him into it, doing up the buttons and smoothing down the lapels. It felt strangely more intimate than being naked and then half-dressed in front of her had.
It was only much later that evening, while walking home again, that he realized why; she'd done it so efficiently, as if it was something she'd done countless times before. And likely she had, for Cailan.