Boredom failed to describe the state of Caoilainn in her mandatory bedrest. Morrigan had ordered the queen to cease her routine, blacksmithing, and wandering the palace in general. Left to travel from her bed to the washroom to her office, Caoilainn could only migrate around the royal floor with most of her time spent lying down.
Morrigan's instructions required Caoilainn to be gentle with her body. The bleeding had not alarmed the witch, but Morrigan admitted it a sign of a complicated pregnancy. Despite Caoilainn having now passed the date Morrigan stated as critical, the date after which Caoilainn could lessen her worry, the witch insisted on prolonged rest. As much as Caoilainn loathed the order, she obeyed. She had no desire to risk the pregnancy.
Forced to monitor what she ate, drank, the amount of time she spent on her feet and the position in which she laid, the details of pregnancy multiplied, along with the number of pillows she needed to rest comfortably. A single pillow for her head no longer sufficed. She also needed a one between her knees as she rested on her side, and another for her cling to for security. Other pillows supported her back, keeping her on her side as she slept. And when she woke, the nest stacked behind her, so she could sit upright on the bed.
When it came to her work, professionalism could not preclude comfort. She swapped one loose shift for another each morning and abandoned her notoriously complicated plait in favor of leaving her hair down. Meetings came to her, and she weathered the humiliation. Barefoot yet dignified, she sat at her desk as Adalyn or Teagan delivered news. When she noticed herself overcompensating, offering her input and instruction beyond what was necessary, she bit her tongue. Fears of appearing desperate echoed in the back of her mind, among other undisclosable worries.
When the meetings were over, and her other visitors gone, boredom returned and with it came anxiety. For ten days she tried and failed to occupy her mind. No book within the palace contained a plot engaging enough, nor was the paltry attempt at embroidery.
On the eleventh day, tired of biding time reading a book with half attention, she decided to write. Her meetings had ceased for the day and she expected no other visitors. The waning afternoon light provoked her to ignite more lanterns. She moved without rush from her daybed to her desk and eased back into her seat. Appreciation for the order of her workplace showed in the neat pile of blank parchment sitting beside an inkwell on one corner of her desk. A wooden divider sorted her mail rested on the other corner, its items separated by importance.
The crisp and clean scent of her stationary permeated as she placed a blank sheet in the center of her desk. Pristine in its imperfection, the unmarked tan paper was characterized by varying neutral shades. She inked her quill. The nib touched the parchment, forming the first letter without any preparation for the draft. A downward line formed at an angle, followed by another in the opposite direction; a horizontal dash crossed over them.
The other letters flowed from the first. Alistair.
Warmth filled her as she stared at the name of her letter's intended recipient. But when she continued the next line, no message seemed enough. Her love failed to conceive adequate words. None of it matter; any letter she created would not reach him.
She had still not received communication, no letter, and no verbal message to indicate Alistair's safety. Fears around the pregnancy were compiled by her dread around his silence. Worse, he was unreachable, potentially in danger, hurt or captured by raiders, injured by any of the creatures stalking the desolate Nevarran or Tevene countryside. Having never visited the other nations, she relied on memories of the sketches of deserts and dust storms, and vacant, rocky land that filled her academic books.
He could have nothing left to say. She thought of his last letter.
"Do you really think I didn't consider being with others while you were gone? I did. So many times, the opportunity presented itself. But I couldn't bring myself to do that. I wanted to prove you wrong…."
The section had hit her with a blow. Vindictive words succeeded in hurting her, but she rationalized his behavior. Without her to help him navigate his vehemence, she considered he might decide to give up. A final decision to end the relationship would not deserve a letter if he deemed her unworthy.
Or he could be dead. When the possibility had arisen in the past, she managed to focus on other fears. Returning to her concerns of the potential loss of respect from her army, and whatever dignitaries might visit the palace while she was bedridden provided a reliable method. But now it was fruitless, and she felt dizzy.
Caoilainn dropped the quill in frustration, and it landed on the parchment. Ink dripped from nib to paper, over Alistair's name. Gasping at her blunder, she licked the tip of her thumb and attempted to clean the large droplet, protecting the calligraphy. The delicate lines she had drawn, curves against paper, the crossed and dotted letters vanished. She smeared his name.
"Damn it!" She cursed herself and pushed the parchment away, letting her elbows set on the table. Her forehead fell into her palms.
Face hot and heart racing, she sobbed silently. Her body shook, and her crying escalated. Racking sobs expelled all air from her lungs and when she tried to breathe, a familiar panic set in. Like an approaching wave, coldness overcame her. This had happened before; bouts of anxiety so extreme, and each time she had fainted.
Currently stranded on the upper floor of the palace, she dreaded the same outcome.
Panting, Caoilainn desperately trying to gather air as her heart pounded in her ears. Scared for her wellbeing and that of her child's, her sobs seemed uncontrollable. It felt an eternity, stuck in a loop of shallow inhales and frantic thoughts. She shut her eyes and pleaded. Maker help me.
A knock came at the door, startling her from the panic-stricken cycle. She gasped.
"Your majesty," the voice spoke from beyond the door, "your messages have arrived."
Eyes still closed, she paused and caught herself. "Come in." The attendant brought the small stack of letters to Caoilainn and bowed. "Thank you," Caoilainn said, managing to hide the shaking in her voice.
The attendant left the room, leaving the door open, and Caoilainn relaxed. She left the stack of letters on her desk. Nearly three weeks had passed since she received her last letter from Alistair, and she dreaded the disappointment. Afraid of her own fear, she settled on reading the letters the next morning.
But the postmarked T on the top letter caught her eye. Tevinter Imperium.
Her brow furrowed as she picked up the envelope, carefully breaking the blank wax seal and unfolding the parchment.
1 Haring 9:42
Tevinter
C,
I'm sorry this took so long. I'm sorry for a lot of things. I can't believe by the time this reaches you, you'll be 3ish months along. How do you feel? Can you see any changes? I have so many questions and I'm left only imagining you.
We've finally made it to Tevinter after losing our path in the Silent Plains, thanks to the keen directions of the Warden Commander. The longer we travel, the more I see I am nothing like him. He's prideful, arrogant, definitely a Howe. I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted by whatever you saw in our differences. We are decidedly different.
The sentence was crossed out multiple times, but she could still decipher the words. Frowning, she rolled her eyes, annoyed that Alistair would continue to dwell on his anger and target her through his letters. But in his distance, she could not hold onto disdain. The stricken words held less bite and their effects quickly faded. She continued to read.
That doesn't matter. Something happened in the Plains, nothing important, but I realized I have not been myself. I've made mistakes. I seem to be good at that. I regret my poor choice of words in the last letter, among others, and I'm sorry for all of them.
You are what matters to me.
I wish I had put my hand on your belly, given it a kiss even once before I left. All I can do now is dream of you both. Maker's breath, even in my dreams you are beautiful.
Yours,
A
By the time she reached the end of the letter, a smile had crept onto Caoilainn's lips. Tears welled in her eyes, and relief washed over her. Ignoring the remnants of his resentment, she read the letter twice more, bypassing the section mentioning Nathaniel each time.
What happened in the Plains? The section jumped out at her. Alistair hid something, but she couldn't discern any subtext or hidden meaning. She settled on asking him when he returned.
With her mind at ease, the prominent stab of hunger pangs summoned her. With the first three months of her pregnancy over, Caoilainn's morning sickness had subsided, but she found herself hungry most of the time. Ten years as a Grey Warden did not prepare her for the insatiable hunger of pregnancy. Her food aversions had disappeared, but unique cravings continued, and it seemed no matter how much she ate, she was left unfulfilled.
Given the obligation of bedrest, she was forced to wait for food to be brought to her. On rare occasions, she pulled the ribbon in the hallway which connected to a bell on the main floor. Castle Cousland had a similar method of calling for the castle's staff built into the walls, and Caoilainn had vowed never to use it, but her recent predicament had required the exception in Denerim's Palace.
Unable to tell if her stomach grumbled from hunger or if the seedling was moving, she rubbed her belly. As the small bump had grown over the last few weeks, she found the act of applying mild pressure, caressing contact with her stomach soothed it. The pain subsided, and she sighed, closing her eyes as she mumbled to herself, "Thank the Maker."
The Maker. A presence she had accepted without question from an early age, she acknowledged Chantry doctrine and applied the aspects of religion she found useful. Though she adhered to prominent Andrastian traditions more out of habit than faith, she refused to abide dogma. Alistair had always practiced his faith with more commitment, though she had valued his pragmatism.
In her solitude and desperation, when she had asked for the Maker's help in her state of panic, she found a fragment of relief. The results of admitting herself powerless and surrendering her pride contradicted her assumptions. It calmed her rather than harmed. Though the temptation to connect the small prayer with the arrival of Alistair's letter teased the edges of her mind, she refused to be gullible. It was nothing more than coincidence.
Despite her skepticism, she desired calmness again. With stabs of hunger subsided, she took advantage of the moment. Caoilainn walked to her bed and grabbed a pillow, something she had seen her mother do when she was young. Placing it on the ground at her bedside, Caoilainn knelt. The shift in her weight awoke the intermittent pain in her back and hips. It was dull and achy, but a break from the other instances when it felt sharp and deep. She placed a hand to her lower back as she lowered.
Elbows propped and hands clasped on her bed, she leaned in. Her forehead relaxed onto her entwined palms, and her neck eased. I look like a fool. Self-doubt and the certainty that she didn't know how to pray infringed upon the humbling moment. The posture attenuated the pillars of her successes, pride, strength, and fortitude. She felt small. Her arms twitched, preparing to plant on the bed to help her rise, abandoning this feeble attempt at homage, but she paused.
Eyes closed, she inhaled. I'll try anything. Amidst the boredom and madness from being stuck in her room, the need to alleviate her fears held a higher value than her pride. Her muscles loosened, she admitted her symbolic powerlessness, and the questions of her foolishness abated.
"Thank you."
She muttered aloud, unsure if it was directed to Andraste or the Maker or both. The two words sufficed to capture immense gratitude- for the pregnancy, including the literal growing pains that associated, the letter from Alistair and his apparent change of heart, and simply knowing that he was still alive.
What do I do now? With a pause, she listened to her breathing, waiting for some response, an indication her message was received. None came. She held her position, noticing the pillow accommodating to her knees and feeling the dense rug beneath. If she held the position too long, her knees would be sore.
Reciting the few sections of the Chant of Light she could remember seemed ingenuine, failing to capture the purpose for her prayer. Instead, she let the truth fall from her lips.
"I need help," she whispered and continued to her recurrent anxieties, exacerbated by her confinement. As she spoke, the sting in her eyes returned, relieved tears welling and sliding slowly down her cheeks. She settled back into silence.
In her improvised reverence, Caoilainn didn't hear the steps of someone entering her room. "Didn't Morrigan limit you to sitting or lying down, not to overexert yourself?"
Caoilainn's eyes opened and she looked over her shoulder to see Fergus in the doorway. Plates of food occupied both hands, bundles of napkins and silverware were tucked under his arm, and a moment later, the smell of seasoned chicken filled the room. The rumble in Caoilainn's stomach returned.
She exhaled in annoyance and put her hands on the bed to push herself up. The ache in her back called for support and she pressed her palm against it. She sneered in Fergus' direction. "Getting down here was easy. If you'll help me, I won't have to exert myself standing up." The bite in her tone revealed her annoyance with his arrival.
Fergus chuckled, setting the food down on her desk and walking to Caoilainn's aid. "Bedrest must be that bad if it's brought you to pray and all. You look comfortable, at least." He scanned her sloppy attire and messy hair.
She snapped at him while he helped her, supporting under her arm and guiding her up from the floor. "What do you think, Fergus? I've been stranded up here with nothing to do, aside from the embarrassment of meetings with Teagan and Adalyn. I'm hungry all the time and the only thing I have to look forward to is when you, Morrigan, or the staff brings me meals."
"It was just a question." He gave a kind smile and gestured to her seat at the desk. "I don't know you to be the type to pray, that's all. Consider this meal a peace offering."
She huffed, sitting down and pulling the plate closer. Her mouth watered. "Fine, but only if you keep me company while I eat it."
"That was my plan since apparently, we only meet over food. I happened to bring the second plate for myself. Though I would not doubt you could eat all of it on your own." He sat down across from her.
"Shut up, Fergus." She rolled her eyes, as she separated the meat with the edge of her fork. "What took you so long today? Usually you come in the morning."
"If you must know, I was helping Lord Eddelbrek's...daughter move some things to her new home in Highever." Fergus' spoke matter-of-factly but kept his eyes on his food. She noticed his pause before disclosing the patron of his help.
"Oh… Maya or Mia, isn't it?" Caoilainn's brow arched. "I thought she lived in Antiva?"
"Maya, and yes. She lived there with her family until her husband passed away last year. He was in Orlais helping the Inquisition." He put a fork full of food into his mouth. Caoilainn assumed it a deliberate way to stop himself from talking.
"Lord Eddelbrek and father were close." The initial rush of hunger subsided after the first few bites. She took her knife to help her section her food.
"I'm sure that's why he asked me to help her." He nodded as he glanced up. It might have been the lighting, the setting sun shadowing her room, but it appeared Fergus was blushing.
"Right. He would ask you, the Teyrn of Highever, to help his adult, recently widowed daughter move into her new house," Caoilainn said, her words coated in teasing sarcasm.
"It was really nothing." He patted his mouth with his napkin. He dipped his head to the glass on her desk. "Where can I find water up here?"
Caoilainn pointed him in the direction of the washroom and he followed. Glass cups sat on the countertop, and she heard him fill one with water from a pitcher near the basin. Morrigan had required the staff provide Caoilainn with constant access to clean drinking water.
A sinister smile spread on Caoilainn's lips, flashing the whites of her teeth as he sat back down. "So, Maya… is she pretty? She's not much older than you, right?" She took another pointed bite of food.
"Nosy," he scoffed. "But yes, she is very pretty and only two years older." His forced frown turned to a smile. "But I didn't come here to talk about her or myself. Are you all right?"
She thought about the question, looking past Fergus to the windows. The sun had almost set, shades of a deep purple bled to black. The lanterns in her room now seemed brighter.
"In some ways," she answered, her gaze traveling from the window to her brother. Knowing no other answer than the truth would help her or appease him, she admitted her difficulty. "In others, I am absolutely terrified."
Fergus reached across the table for her hand. "You and the baby are healthy. Morrigan said so herself. You have nothing to be afraid of."
Caoilainn shook her head to interrupt him, pulling her hand away. "It's not that, at least not now. The hunger, the back pain, the inconveniences all remind me that it's true. I'm still pregnant." By the end of her sentence, her eyes glistened. "But he might not come back."
"Alistair's alive, sis. I got a letter from him today." Fergus looked toward the pile of letters on her desk with concern.
The concept had not occurred to her, that Alistair might write letters to the others he summoned to her aid while he was away. But her curiosity for whatever communication the men might hold did not press her to question Fergus on the subject. She respected Alistair's privacy.
"I did too." Her somber words echoed. "But it could be the last, or the next one. I have so much to say to him and I might never get the chance. I despise this silence, not knowing, isolation. It's unbearable."
"It will be over soon." Fergus pressed his lips together, considering his response. The look comforted Caoilainn, reminding her of their father.
She waited, not disrupting the distant look in his eye.
Sniffing, his nose twitched. "When I left for Ostagar, Oriana feared I might not come back. Every time we would be apart she listed all the ways I should keep myself safe."
"I'm sorry, Ferg. You don't have to-"
"It's fine, Caoilainn. This actually helps." His response was stern but caring. He nodded to her. "Oriana knew that I could take care of myself, but that's not why she insisted on the reminders. She was telling me to come back, that she loved me, that she couldn't see her life without me. Maker." He laughed, quickly blinking away tears as he glanced toward the ceiling.
Witness to her brother's pain, Caoilainn felt her eyes watering. The depth of his hurt was palpable and resonated within her now more than ever. But she swallowed her paranoid and preemptive grief for Alistair, making room to be with Fergus in his loss of Oriana. Her hand reached across the desk toward him this time.
Fergus sighed, a teary chuckle escaping him as he squeezed her palm. "But I already knew those things. I had already seen the words in her posture, the way she carried herself. I felt it in her kisses for days preceding when I left."
His gaze glossed over and found the wall behind Caoilainn. She recognized the bittersweet longing reflecting in his eyes. Still unfamiliar with the tender side of her brother, Caoilainn remained silent, unsure the most appropriate reply.
Her answer was unneeded. Fergus blinked again and returned to her. "I know you two were fighting before he left. But believe me, Caoilainn, as much as I don't want to think about it," he smirked through his tears and wrinkled his face in playful disgust, "if Alistair's love for you is even a fraction of my love for Oriana, there's nothing you could profess in a letter or aloud that he doesn't already know."
If only that were true. Her brow furrowed, considering all the secrets and lies she kept from Alistair over their years together. Too many times, she had confessed ugly truths that could not be left hidden, witnessing the disappointment on his face. The look had ingrained in her mind, and her heart ached recalling it.
Fergus squeezed her hand, calling her back to the room. "We all make mistakes. It just takes some of us longer than others to learn from them. Fortunately, love has an incredible way of helping us all understand that. That's why he keeps writing you." Releasing her hand, he picked up his silverware again. "Now we should probably eat the food I so generously brought up for us, so I can go get you another plate."
Unable to resist the shred of hope his words planted in her fears, she smiled and wiped away the moisture from her eyes. She returned to her plate and their conversation carried on to lighter topics.
The next day, Morrigan lifted Caoilainn's bedrest sentence.