22 Haring 9:42
Starkhaven
My love,
Writing to you is my only relief in this prolonged disaster. It's lonely here. It's lonely everywhere we go. I don't talk to anyone. I can't stand most of them. Since Fiona revealed her true colors, I have kept my distance. The routine only makes it worse. Day in and out, riding, walking, eating, sleeping, just to do it all over again.
All this silence gives me too much time to think and worry. I fear daily something has happened to you, or that you've chosen to leave out of anger. When my thoughts are darkest, I fear you've done something drastic with the baby. I hate these thoughts and I hope they aren't true. Please, don't let them be true.
I want to come home.
We'll be in Ansburg in a few more days. A few more days of riding and we'll reach our destination. I hope this is over soon. Maker's breath, I miss you. It's painful sometimes. I'll write again when we reach the Marches Keep.
Your love,
A
28 Haring, 9:42
Snow and frigid temperatures marked the final days of the tumultuous year. Thick beds of snow lingered, too cold to melt and in turn, perpetuating the chilly weather. The persistent cold crept into Fereldan homes, causing residents to pile on their warmest clothing even in the comfort of their own homes. Stacks of smoke rose from every building throughout Denerim, showing citizens meager attempts to warms their houses despite the weather.
Bundled in layers, Caoilainn halted her walk when she realized the sad contents of Alistair's letter. Underclothes covered her legs beneath her shift and the extra fabric made her overdress snug. A hood draped around her shoulders. She regretted her decision to snag the letter from her desk on her way to the training yard.
Caoilainn's face burned. The note was painful to read and she did not grace it with a second review. Gloom had overtaken the usual fervor in Alistair's previous communications, contaminating his affection. It replaced love and confidence with doubt and dread, discarding his faith in her.
Again, Alistair lost his faith in their resilience. His worry that she would leave, abandoning him and the throne once again made her blood boil with indignance. Her body temperature rose in her winter attire. Did he forget that he left me here this time?
After her pleas for forgiveness and her admission of truth, he left her in Denerim to join the rest to Weisshaupt. The current situation, the cause for his ire so casually projected onto her, resulted from his decision to leave and divide them. Had he chosen to stay, these hardships would not plague them. Instead, she could prove herself.
'Do something drastic with the baby.' The words made her rapidly beating heart sink to her stomach. And in spite of her best efforts to find a less damaging accusation, she assumed the worst. He thinks I might seek a healer to end the pregnancy. He believes me unfit to mother his child. Alistair's casually delivered idea that would end the pregnancy out of anger with him — even after all she sacrificed, having gone through so much to conceive the child — made her light-headed. She leaned against a wall. Infuriated, she waved the folded letter against her face to cool herself down.
With a moment to catch her breath and calm her nerves, the sound of metal crashing against metal echoed from the practice yard. It subsided her anger, a familiar distraction from growing rage. Although she wanted to throw the letter away, Caoilainn stubbornly folded it and stuck it in her pouch. She would decide what to do with it and how to manage these spiked emotions when she was done consulting with Adalyn. After pushing through the double doors, she pulled her hood over her head as she hurried through the armory to the yard.
The oversight of the training took little time. Adalyn had requested Caoilainn observe the field in their meeting the day prior. The Lieutenant was open to any suggestions to improve their defensive techniques, and the communication only bolstered Caoilainn's trust in the woman since she had appointed her to the position. With some time to witness the army in action, Caoilainn spotted the delays in communication between soldiers. She gave her recommendation to Adalyn and ordered her to report back the following day.
The interaction was painless, simple, and she made an excuse to linger in the yard, offering individuals suggestions on their techniques. But the longer she stayed, avoiding her return to the palace, the more the cold crept beneath her clothes and into her bones. Caoilainn returned indoors.
Her return to the palace brought the return of resentment. The folded letter remained in her pouch, gnawing her to read it again, biting through the cold that had followed her inside. Quick steps took her to the large fireplace at the end of the grand hallway— the same hall she had walked on her wedding day and again during her coronation.
Now empty, only Caoilainn and the fireplace occupied by the long room. Occasionally staff rushed along the sides to the other wings of the palace, either not noticing Caoilainn or not wishing to bother her. She didn't mind. The steady crackling of the fire calmed her. She watched the large orange flames rise from behind their cage, and ash consumed embers when they fell from the burning log. The warmth was soothing.
All her compassion for Alistair's hardship— his personal misery to which she played a major contribution— could not pardon what Alistair suggested in the letter. As easy as it would be to explain away his poor choice of words with his deflated mood, she didn't want to pity him, just as much out of respect as frustration.
She took the letter from her pouch. Unfolding it, she glanced only at his signature. With a whisper, "I love you, Alistair," she let go and dropped the parchment into the fire without a second thought. It floated down, igniting before landing and disappearing, devoured by flames. The scratches of ink vanished before her eyes could be lured into reading them again, and the added kindling sent a wave of hot air to her face.
She felt lighter, her tension released as the evidence of Alistair's inconsideration ceased to exist, no longer haunting her with questions of his faith. With a sigh, she found herself humming, continuing to stare into the fireplace. One hand rubbed her belly and the other pressed against the mantle.
With closed eyes, suddenly tired from the emotional morning, Caoilainn allowed her hum to become an absent-minded song— one she had heard her mother sing to her countless times as a small child. The hum grew as her lips parted.
"Andraste, guide us
To the time of our freedom and honor.
To our baby, our young lady
Fair and noble maiden.
"Little baby, hear my love.
I'm beside you, bright maiden,
Our young lady, grow to see,
Your land, your own faithful land."
Morrigan's voice interrupted Caoilainn's solace. "'Tis a boy you are expecting, remember?"
Caoilainn had either been so lost in her reverie, or Morrigan walked so silently, she hadn't heard the footsteps. The Witch of the Wilds came to Caoilainn's side at the fireplace. Different from Morrigan's usual attire, the woman wore a heavy floor-length cloak and long.
Caoilainn grumbled her reply, "I have not forgotten. It happens to be the only children's song I know."
"Quite fitting for a maiden as noble and fair as yourself." Morrigan jabbed, knowing the meaning of Caoilainn's name and the woman Eleanor had expected Caoilainn to become. Morrigan's sarcasm softened and she extended a hand to Caoilainn's on the mantelpiece. "Are you feeling well?"
"I'm better now." Glancing back into the flames, Caoilainn saw no remnants of the letter she had burned.
1 Wintermarch, 9:43
Crisp winds brought in the new year and failed to down out the commotion in the Denerim square. Yelling and clanging resounded off city walls and rattled the windows of the palace, waking Caoilainn. She smiled. The town did not wait to begin their celebrations of First Day, and she planned to join them.
She rose from her bed and readied; memories of another First Day came to mind.
1 Wintermarch 9:33
Music reverberated from somewhere in the commotion. The city was alive, vibrant, active, and far more crowded than a typical business day. Merchants and townsfolk celebrated at the sight of every person they saw as if they hadn't seen each other the evening prior. Dancing erupted at random when songs called for it, and the chilly breeze carried scents of cake and cooked meats based on which direction it blew. Happy shrieks of children unable to resist the urge to play, even within the confines of the crowded streets, broke through the hum of festive noise. Heaps of snow pushed from walkways created barricades along the streets.
Bright-eyed and eager to reap the benefits of her hard work, Caoilainn squeezed Alistair's hand as they waited for the gate to the city to open. He returned her gesture lovingly. She noticed how small her palm felt in his.
The city had recovered while she defended Amaranthine, giving them the chance to safely celebrate First Day for the first time as King and Queen. A fresh start, the holiday symbolized more than she could tell Alistair— the chance to set aside her misdeeds and step away from her guilt. She would be the wife and Queen she intended when she agreed to marry him.
Crowns donned, dressed in red and gold, the pair emerged from the palace gates to the city's market. Streets were lined with food and drink vendors, people dressed in their warmest attire, and bands playing music suddenly stopped. A moment later, the city uproared. Citizens closest to them kneeled and cheers for Alistair emerged from the back of the crowd.
With a sheepish grin, Alistair leaned his head to whisper in Caoilainn's ear. The pure heat radiating from his body joined his hot breath and tickled her ear. "I have no idea what I'm supposed to do now."
She hid a giggle behind her smile and tilted her chin to indicate she wanted to whisper back. He lowered his head so she could speak. "I'd recommend saying something a king would say."
They were both too young to take on this responsibility. She knew that when they assumed the roles, but there had been no other options. Only a few months her senior, Alistair had a greater disadvantage, raised without the guidance of Teyrn and Teyrna for parents. Caoilainn understood his reluctance to take the throne even though he was the rightful heir.
Alistair chuckled and shrugged. The red of his hair highlighted the red in his cheeks, illuminating the subtle freckles of his tan skin. "And what would that be, exactly?"
Rolling her eyes, she curled her finger for him to lower his head again. "I think you should thank the Maker or something like that, your majesty." She kissed his clean-shaven cheek.
He nodded and tapped his finger to his nose before pointing to her— a sign of approval for her recommendation.
With that, he stepped forward to the crowd and waved his hand for those closest to stand. Only Caoilainn sensed the trepidation in his words. Alistair yelled, "Thank the Maker for the wellbeing of Ferelden! We have endured through hardship, time and time again. May this new year be blessed with peace and prosperity!"
The crowd cheered again, louder than before, and a prideful beam spread across Caoilainn's lips so wide it hurt. At the same time, she felt an uneasy knot in her stomach tighten.
She shook her head to forget the bittersweet memory, staring into her reflection in her mirror as she braided her hair. Alistair's blooming confidence as King shared little with her memory of the bashful young man.
Caoilainn finished dressing and prepared to find Morrigan and Fergus— her escorts into the city. But as she reached the bottom of the staircase, the early arrival of the messenger stopped her. The young man bowed and reached into his satchel.
"Your majesty," he nodded again, "Blessed First Day to you." The messenger handed her a single letter and exited the way he came.
It was from Ansburg.
28 Haring, 9:42
My Queen,
I'm sure by the time this reaches you, it will be First Day. I should be with you, my love. I'm sorry that I am not. I promise when I return we will never spend another new year apart.
In the meantime, I thought you might appreciate an update. We've reached the Warden Base of Ansburg. I'll have you know, the Marcher Wardens don't treat their Keep the way you did. The walls are bare, and it makes the emptiness seem worse. There are about a hundred Wardens remaining, only a few are from Weisshaupt and Orlais. We've met with the High Constable, and a few other leaders from Orlais and the Marches.
I am not fond of Ansburg's Warden Commander. He's not very nice, to say the least. I'll tell you more when I can.
We have a plan of sorts. It looks bleak— I'm not going to lie. I don't want to give too many details in a letter, but I'm not sure if I like what we have in mind. I don't trust the Philippa woman as much as I'd like. But she helped us, I cannot deny that. Let's hope something works.
Did I mention Fiona disappeared? When we got here she just vanished. I wish I was more surprised, to be honest.
In spite of all that, there's something familiar here and oddly enough, I like it. Even though it's nearly empty and the Keep is undecorated, it's still very much a Warden Base. It makes me miss the bond. Do you ever miss the bond?
I miss you the most.
Maker bless this new year.
Love,
A
