Author's Note: I took the title of this chapter from Threnodies, in the Chant, but also as a nod to EilonwyCousland QueenOfTragedy, who wrote a beautiful and heart-rending one-shot with this title, about the same situation, before I'd conceived of this chapter, and whose short story stuck in my mind as I came to this difficult moment in this story.

Chapter 6: She Shall Know No Fear of Death

The Chantry had sent Revered Mother Perpetua and acolytes to pray over Rowan. "The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace," she said, head bowed and arm outstretched over Rowan's body.

For her part, Rowan took this in stride, though she kept glancing at Maric, who stood nervously by the door. He was powerless, and it frustrated him. When Remille had suggested darkspawn taint as a cause of Rowan's wasting illness, he'd sent riders out to find the nearest Grey Warden outpost. It was a desperate gamble: the Wardens had been banned from Ferelden centuries ago, but Remille assured him that they knew of the taint better than anyone.

None of his riders had returned, and no word had come of their whereabouts. They may have fallen afoul of bandits, or had to go all the way to the Anderfels for all Maric knew.

"Maker's blessings upon you, my Queen," Perpetua said, crossing her arms over her chest and bowing before Rowan. "Please send for me if you require more spiritual guidance," she said. "I am ever at the service of the Crown in the Maker's name."

"Thank you," Rowan said in a soft voice. "Maric?" she asked, and Maric nodded his thanks to the Revered Mother as she exited, leaving him alone with his wife. These times were so few and far between of late. If he wasn't facing the increasing demands of the court, or the constant companionship of Loghain, there was a Chantry acolyte or a mage tending to Rowan. Was it too much to ask for a few moments alone with her?

He climbed into bed with her and gathered her into his arms. She had always been muscular from her years of training; motherhood had softened her curves. But whatever sickness lodged itself inside of her sucked her life away and made her willowy and delicate now. He feared his large and calloused hands would break her.

A lump caught in Maric's throat. Only three years ago he'd felt the same about his newborn son. Now Cailan grew into a vibrant toddler who was no worse for wear after his fall in the library. Maric still felt terror when he recalled that moment and the knowledge that life was fickle and could change without warning. He hadn't told Rowan about it. At this point, he was afraid anything could kill her before he'd had a chance to say goodbye.

Who was he kidding? He would never feel ready for that, no matter how long she lingered like this.

Rowan leaned her head against his chest. When he stroked her hair, a few strands came away. Her chestnut tresses had lost their luster, and seemed thinner. "The Chantry has good intentions," she began. "But they're not really helping."

"They believe that prayers help heal," he said carefully.

She laughed, a quiet chuckle that turned into a wracking cough. "Transfigurations is the prayer for the departed," she said. "Or those about to depart. You can't miss the emphasis on confession and cleansing."

Typical Rowan, always the analytical scholar. "Do you want to make confession?" he asked after a moment. It was the worst question he'd ever asked.

"No. I've made peace with almost everyone."

"Almost?"

She shuddered against him, but he didn't know if it was from a spasm of pain or a chill of regret. "I can never be at peace knowing that Cailan will grow up without a mother," she said at last. She shuddered again and her breath hitched in her throat.

"Oh, Rowan," Maric breathed. He tangled his fingers in her hair and held her fiercely to him and her thin shoulders shook under his arm. "Never regret what you couldn't control," he told her, rocking her while she cried.

At this point, even strong emotions tired Rowan, and as her sobs subsided she relaxed against him. Her breathing whistled in and out, and Maric felt each rib and each vertebrae beneath the linen of her night gown. He stared across the room at nothing, really, lost in his thoughts. A few months back he had been able to pretend that the Circle of Magi would be able to help, and when that failed, the Chantry would have some miraculous cure. He had even nearly suggested the Urn of Sacred Ashes, but stopped himself before he came across as insane. Everyone knew that was a myth, and Maric had no time left for myths. Only the stark desperation of reality.

Rowan stirred against him and he stroked one cool, papery cheek beneath his thumb. He regretted ever being unfaithful to her. He hated his youthful self and wanted to go back and throttle that oblivious young man into seeing what was before him.

A soft rap sounded against the door, and before Maric could move, Cornelia bustled in. He'd hired her on as Cailan's nursemaid just after the library incident, when he realized Rowan would likely never leave her sick room, and he himself could not do the job of king, husband, and father alone.

"Majesty," Cornelia said with a curtsy. Her black hair shone in the low firelight, and Maric wondered when it had grown dark. "I did not wish to intrude, but the young prince demands your presence. He won't listen to reason, and will not take no for an answer." She kept her cool, but it was evident that Cailan's demands had probably been going on long enough to wear her down.

Maric nodded. "Thank you, Cornelia." He shifted and helped Rowan lay back against the pillows, which threatened to swallow her up. She groaned just a little bit, and he bent over to kiss her forehead. "I'm going to see to Cailan," he said. "But I'll be back."

"Bring him," Rowan said in a voice that was almost a whisper. She did not open her eyes, and the breath she took was shallow.

Maric strolled out of the room, but as soon as he was in the halls he took off at a sprint. Poor Cornelia was left behind. His heart thudded faster than he could run, and he realized he was worried that it would be too late. He skidded to a stop in front of Cailan's room, just off of the master suite Maric and Rowan had shared before her illness kept her confined in another part of the castle.

"Daddy!" Cailan said, jumping to his feet and running to fling himself at his father. Maric caught him and scooped him up in his arms. It was evident that Cailan had been crying, but at the sight of his father, his tears were forgotten. "I miss you, Daddy," he said, nuzzling into Maric's shoulder.

His heart nearly snapped in two. "I miss you too, little man," he said, ruffling Cailan's wild flaxen hair. It was getting long, and it swept over his forehead and fell into his bright blue eyes. Everyone said Cailan was an exact copy of Maric; but all Maric could see when he gazed into those blue depths was Rowan: her intelligence, her curiosity, her love for life. The way he walked, the way he looked at everything around him… his looks were Maric's, but Cailan's mannerisms were completely Rowan's.

The backs of Maric's eyes were hot and his throat hurt. "What have you been up to?" he asked, swallowing back his grief and taking a deep breath before pasting on a smile.

"I want to read a book with Momma," Cailan said. He had better verbal skills than most his age and Maric knew it was from more than just having the privileges of being a royal. Again, Rowan's influence: she insisted on reading to him all the time, and on speaking with him as if he were an adult, if just a tiny one.

"Show me," Maric said, setting his son down and fighting the constricting pain in his chest.

Cailan came back holding a slim book that had been permanently relocated from the library to his room. It was worn, and it was one that Rowan and Cailan read over and over again. "I practiced reading it," he said. He was smiling, beaming up at Maric and holding out the book. "I want to show Momma."

"She'd like that," Maric whispered.

Cornelia appeared beside him, breathing hard, and with a sheen of sweat on her face. "Sire, if you'd like me to accompany you, if the boy needs to…" her voice trailed off and she cast her eyes at the floor.

Maric could only shrug. What did you say when you knew your wife could very well be dead when you returned to her sick room, with a three year old child in tow? "I'll moderate my pace this time," he told her with a forced smile and a slight nod of gratitude. It was getting so hard to keep up the walls of courtly propriety. At this point, only the fact that Cailan was standing at his feet, impatient and tugging on his jerkin, made him retain what was left of his calm.

The walk back to Rowan's room felt like miles, and the feelings of dread crushed Maric like tons of stone and he felt like he was back in the Deep Roads once more. Cailan would run ahead around a corner and Cornelia would chase him, often casting a worried glance back at Maric.

Cornelia waited out in the hall when Maric approached Rowan's room with Cailan. "I'll be right here should you need me, Sire," she said. "And you, mind your ma and da, young man," she told Cailan, after fussing with a cowlick atop his head. Cailan squirmed away, but he was smiling.

"I like her, Daddy," Cailan said. "Daddy?" he asked suddenly, looking up. "Are you hurt?"

Maric blinked and quickly rubbed at his eyes. "I'm not hurt, Cailan. But I'm hurting. Someday I may be able to explain it to you."

Cailan flung himself at his father's legs and held tight. "There. Momma always hugged me when I hurt," he said, voice muffled. He looked up with earnest blue eyes. "Can I go hug Momma? Cornelia says she's hurting, too."

"Yes, Cailan. You can go hug Momma," Maric said in strangled voice. "She'd like that."

Cailan nodded resolutely. "Then I'll read her my book."

Rowan was still lying down when they entered, but she turned her head and offered a ghost of a smile when Maric and Cailan entered. "Hi baby," she whispered. "Did you bring me a book?"

Cailan stood still, suddenly uncertain despite all of his earlier confidence. "I brought the story about the three Mabaris," he ventured at last. "Can I read it with you?"

"I'd like that," Rowan said. "Come sit with me."

Maric nudged Cailan's shoulder gently, and Cailan slowly approached his mother. Maric lifted him up and set him on the bed, then joined them. Cailan climbed into his lap. He took a deep breath, then cleared his throat a little bit before opening the cover of the book. "Three Mabaris," he said, looking down at the first page.

He began the story and Maric was amazed at the rate his son could read; but soon Cailan was telling the story and flipping pages and filling in information that was certainly not in the tale of the three Mabari pups, and he realized Cailan had memorized it from the multitude of times Rowan had read it with him. But he didn't stop him. Cailan's small voice babbled on about how the pups' mother would be sad if anything happened to them, and how they would be sad if anything happened to her…

Next to him, Rowan's eyes were closed, but her lashes were wet. Still Cailan prattled on and neither of them stopped him. Maric wished he could freeze this moment forever, only with Rowan well enough to sit up and turn pages with Cailan.

"And that's the end," Cailan suddenly announced, but he hadn't come anywhere near the last page. "Did you like the book, Momma?" He looked over at Rowan. "Momma? She must have fallen asleep. It's okay, I fall asleep when Cornelia reads me stories at bedtime. Is it Momma's bedtime?" He twisted in Maric's lap to look up at his father.

"I think she just wants a nap," Maric said, even as he looked to be sure that she was still breathing. He swallowed against the lump in his throat.

Cailan affected a large yawn. "I want to nap, too. Can I nap with you both?" he asked, and Maric could not refuse.

"Maric."

Rowan's whisper cut through Maric's doze and he snapped awake. "What is it, love?" he asked, gently shifting a sleeping Cailan off his lap and to the mattress between them.

Her eyes were still closed and when she tried to talk she winced. "Get him a dog," she said, quirking up one corner of her mouth in an attempt to smile. "He'll be king one day. A Fereldan king should… should have a Mabari…" Her head lolled to one side, and her breathing was labored for a moment, but evened out. "So… tired," she whispered.

"Then rest," he murmured back, brushing her hair off her forehead and planting a kiss there. "I'll be here. With Cailan."

"He shouldn't be here."

"He's sleeping now. You know how cranky he gets when he's woken," Maric reminded her. His eyes were hot and his vision blurry from unshed tears.

"Worse than you," she said with another attempt at a smile.

"Rowan, I love you," he said. He couldn't even pretend to feel any levity anymore.

"I know," she said. She reached over to Cailan and rested her hand on his hair. "Love him, too. He's your firstborn. He'll need you. More than ever." She took a deep breath sighed before falling into sleep once more.

I need you, Rowan, Maric thought. But he was fighting a battle he would never win. Rowan knew it, and even to some extent Cailan knew it. He swallowed against his tears and reclined, one arm over Cailan and his hand resting on Rowan's shoulder.

He called Mother Perpetua for last rites the next night as the hour drew near to midnight. Cailan was asleep in his arms.

"These truths the Maker has revealed to me: as there is but one world, one life, one death, there is but one god, and He is our Maker," she chanted, head bowed and one arm raised out over Rowan's body in blessing. "All things in this world are finite. What one man gains, another has lost."

Cailan stirred against Maric's chest and he hugged his son fiercely to him. Mother Perpetua looked up at Maric, her face a mask of empathetic pain for her king and prince. Maric made no show to hold back his tears any longer. They flowed in hot trails down his face, burning worse than acid. He closed his eyes and nodded.

"She shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction. The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next." The Revered Mother's voice trembled. "For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light." She paused and Maric heard her breath hiss in and out.

He clung to Cailan and buried his face against his son's shoulder, no longer caring if he woke him, or if anyone heard or saw. He swayed back and forth in rhythm with his heartbeat and his tears and nodded once for the Mother to continue.

"The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword. I commend you, Queen Rowan Theirin, to the Maker in the name of Blessed Andraste."

Maric barely heard her footsteps, barely felt her light touch upon his shoulder. "It is finished," she said. "Would you like me to pray for your comfort and that of your son?" Her voice was choked, and all Maric could do was nod as he stared into the tear-stained blackness of his closed eyes.

"O Maker, hear my cry: guide me through the blackest nights…"