"Papa! My knees hurt, Papa!"
Loghain Mac Tir grunted as he straightened himself to full height, wiping the dirt and blood from his hands roughly across the front of his work trousers. These damned rose bushes of Celia's would be the death of him – he'd managed to tear apart his hands on every Maker-cursed thorn, or so it seemed. The bushes also looked considerably worse for wear than when he'd started, as evinced by the sad pile of mangled petals that lay scattered at his feet. Maker, he'd rather fight a legion of chevaliers than ever try again to prune these damned plants. He supposed there was nothing for it but to get her some new bushes, the next time he was in Denerim. Sighing in defeat, he turned to observe his stern-faced daughter tromping towards him with solemn purpose, her pigtails bobbing behind her as she willfully held back the tears that threatened to spill out of her eyes with every step. Her knobby little knees were skinned and bleeding beneath the hem of her dress, which was stained with grass and dirt.
"Look at you," he chided gently, kneeling down before her. "What manner of mischief have you gotten into, little girl? Your mother is going to be quite cross that you've gotten so dirty, you know."
"I was running but I fell. My knees hurt and I told them to stop stinging but they still hurt. Make them feel better, Papa." She sniffled defiantly, rubbing a fist across her watery eyes, still refusing to shed any tears. He smothered a tender smile – how like his bold little daughter to command her knees to stop hurting, as though nature itself would obey her very whim. Of course, he couldn't let her see him smile – Maker forbid he not take the issue of skinned knees as deadly seriously as the most treacherous foe in the land. Especially so when his little six year old daughter trusted him to be able to soothe her pain.
"Well then, you'd better let me take a look," he said, gathering her into his arms. She sniffled again and acquiesced to his embrace as he plopped himself down on the ground. He held her close as he made certain to examine first one skinned knee, then the other, with rigorous scrutiny. It was, as he'd expected, a rather typical childhood injury – a little bloody, a little painful, but nothing a little rest and salve wouldn't fix. Satisfied, he lifted her in his arms as he stood, her arms slinging across his neck instinctively as he held her close.
"Hmm, yes. Quite a serious case of skinned knees, indeed," he agreed solemnly. "Fortunately, I know just the cure."
"You do? What is it? I want them to stop hurting right now!" Once again he found himself stifling a chuckle at her ardent eagerness.
"Well," he drew out slowly, making his way back towards Castle Gwaren. "First we will go to the healer. I have it on good authority that she has a special salve that will make skinned knees all better." He shifted his arms to better bear her weight as he marched through the gates, nodding to his guards, who, if they had any reaction to their teyrn walking through the gates with his daughter in his arms, gave no outward indication.
The healer, a plump and cheerful woman named Lydia, happily supplied Loghain with the requested salve, giving him a knowing wink as he explained the dire situation with suitable dramatic flourish.
"Aye," she agreed. "Best not to let such things linger. Here you go, love. Best you be careful the next time you're out running about in the woods, aye?" Anora nodded, wide-eyed, as Loghain carried her from the room.
"Where are we going now, Papa?"
"Up to your room," he said, traversing the castle courtyard as he entered through the servants' door and made his way towards the castle's living quarters. "We'd best get you out of this dirty dress before your mum sees you, hadn't we?" he added in a conspiratorial whisper. That earned a shy smile, the first he'd seen out of her since she'd come to him full of tears and stout determination, and he smiled back.
He sat her gently on her bed and opened her armoire, finding himself greeted with a bewildering array of miniature dresses, frocks, and tunics. Picking one at random and deciding it would do, he carried it back to the bed, where Anora sat, picking earnestly at the scab that had begun to form on her right knee.
"You heard Mistress Lydia," he chided in his best mock-stern voice. "If you fuss at it, it won't heal as quickly. Here – you'd better put this on. We'll give your dirty one to the laundry maids and no one will be the wiser." He handed her the clean dress and leaned over her miniature desk, feeling the ache in his back flaring up again as he bent over to mix the salve. He was too young to be this bloody sore from a mere afternoon of pruning rose bushes. Satisfied that the salve was prepared as instructed, he returned to the bed, where Anora sat sullenly in her clean dress, the dirty one discarded on the floor in a heap.
"Careful, this is going to sting a little. That just means it's working and it'll make you feel better, all right?" he said gently, as he began to rub the salve into her wounds. She whimpered in pain as he treated first one knee, then the other.
"There," he said, standing up. "Now, there's only one thing left to do."
"What's that?" Anora demanded, balling up wads of dress with restless fists as she sat at the edge of the bed.
In response, Loghain leaned over and placed a firm, gentle kiss to the top of her head. "A get well kiss. Now you're all better."
Anora smiled brightly at her father, but then, brows furrowing in thought, she scowled.
"Well I don't feel better yet," she said, skeptical. "My knees still ache. I thought you said you'd make them stop?"
He laughed, once again kneeling next to the bed, taking one of her errant pigtails in hand and stroking her hair gently. "Patience, dear girl. You want everything to happen all at once. Sometimes that isn't how the world works. Sometimes you have to give things a little time before you notice a difference. Your knees will feel better soon."
"Promise?" There was a defiant edge to her voice, and Loghain knew he'd have to watch himself in the future – his little girl was one who would not abide false comfort.
"I promise." He absently stroked her hair, lost in thought. Anora was so unlike any of the other children – willful, prideful, and strong. He found it a bitter irony that she had inherited her mother's fair looks, but his own forceful and oftentimes blunt demeanor. It was not a personality that many valued in young noble ladies, and he feared her nature would one day bring her sorrow.
"Why were you running?" he asked. He knew she had few friends at Gwaren, and she hadn't mentioned playing with the other children when she'd come to him in her distress. She flushed at his question, though whether out of embarrassment or anger, he could not tell.
"I don't know. I just was," she said stubbornly. So – she didn't want to tell him. She could be secretive like this sometimes, as though she never wanted to share anything vulnerable, not even with him or with her mother. Perhaps the other children had been cruel to her, and she did not want to admit it, or perhaps she had been playing alone, and equally ashamed to admit that she had not been with the other children. For such a young child, she could be a cipher even to him.
"When are we going back to Denerim?" she blurted out, whatever pain or embarrassment she'd been feeling forgotten as she gazed at him with bright, eager eyes. "I want to go back to Denerim. I want to play with Cailan again."
Loghain smiled – his daughter was fast friends with King Maric's young son, much to the two old friends' mutual satisfaction. Cailan was younger than Anora and barely more than a babe himself, but he followed Anora around as though the sun, moon, and stars themselves revolved around her. It was likely the only positive relationship with another child she had, even if Cailan was more of a devoted puppy than a true friend.
"In fact, I was planning to return to the city in a fortnight," Loghain said truthfully. "Would you like to come with me? Perhaps your mother will come, too." That was unlikely – Celia hated Denerim, hated the crowds and the court and the bustle. She never said that she hated the way the other nobles looked down their noses at her, a simple cabinet-maker's daughter, when they thought she wasn't looking, but she never needed to. Loghain knew, and it filled him with simmering resentment – but the court would never dare to treat him with such open disdain, not as long as he maintained Maric's clear favor. His wife, unfortunately, was another story. He knew why she preferred to remain in Gwaren.
"Yes, please, Papa! I want to come! I want to go to the royal castle and play with Cailan!" She jabbered with excitement, the drama of her skinned knees forgotten as she lost herself in childish excitement over her planned reunion with her friend. "Sometimes we play king and queen. I'm the queen, of course. Cailan lets me do whatever I want. I pretend to be the brave queen who saves Ferelden from dragons and monsters. He gets to be the king but he always lets me make the decisions, so it's just as good as being the king, really. Cailan's just a baby. He wouldn't make a good king anyway. He cries too much. He needs me to tell him what to do all the time. Sometimes we go down to the kennels and pretend the mabari are great war steeds. Oh, Papa, please, I want to go with you, can I please?"
Somewhere in the midst of Anora's chattering, an icy cold settled into Loghain's chest, his hand still idly stroking her neatly tied pigtail. The last time he'd seen Maric, his friend had gently broached the subject of betrothal between Cailan and Anora. It would be perfect, Maric had gushed. There were so few suitable noble-born girls near Cailan's age, and who better to be the future queen than the daughter of his best friend? Her loyalty would be beyond reproach, of course, which was always the peril of making a betrothal to a foreign-born princess. They were already fast friends, so of course they'd be perfect together – they already knew and liked each other, and what better foundation for a successful future marriage? Loghain had nearly retorted that such a childhood betrothal had not worked out so wonderfully for Maric and Rowan, though he'd said nothing – they did not discuss Rowan, by mutually unspoken agreement. He had instead kindly but firmly discouraged Maric's notion. He did not want to imagine his little girl, who, precocious though she was, remained but a child who could not possibly begin to understand the politics of kingmaking, involved in such machinations. She was not a younger child who needed a noble marriage to secure her position in the world. Gwaren was her inheritance. He did not want to hand her future over to the royal court – not when he knew the same people who looked askance at Celia would have no love for a 'common born' queen. Maric had been disappointed, but he seemed to believe that Loghain would come around eventually – that he would realize that he could find a good, friendly match for his daughter and increase her station all at once. Loghain had shrugged off the suggestion, and after a couple of glasses of brandy, any tension between the two friends had been forgotten.
It had truly never occurred to him that Anora might actually want to be queen. He immediately dismissed the thought as ludicrous – she was a six year old child! She hardly had the maturity to want for anything besides playtime and a plateful of sweets after dinner. And yet her words nettled him, crawled under his skin and refused to stop gnawing at the back of his mind. He'd resisted Maric so stridently because he refused to write his daughter's future for her, because he did not want to trap her in the gilded cage that so many nobles eagerly accepted for themselves. But what if being queen was what she truly wanted? What if he was doing her no favors by resisting his friend's overtures?
"Of course you can come with me, sweetling," he said, placing another soft kiss atop her head. "We'll ask your mother tonight at dinner. If she says you can come, then you can come." Anora giggled with delight, and she hopped off the bed in excitement, the salve – or simple childish joy – working its magic as the pain of her skinned knees seemed utterly forgotten.
"Thank you Papa! I can't wait! I'm going to take Cailan to the gardens and we'll build a fortress out of flour sacks. It will be a secret castle and no one can come in unless they know the password. I'll put sticks at the top in case anyone tries to invade so they can't get in!" She continued to describe, in excruciating detail, the particulars of her sack fort, but Loghain's attention wandered as he watched her, swept away by the excitement of her own imagination, her childish innocence precious and fleeting and ephemeral. One day, she would no longer be a child whose only cares in the world were skinned knees and sack forts and sweetbreads. One day, she would have to navigate the court in Denerim, the court that disdained her mother and tolerated her father only because of his fast friendship with the king. One day, she would have to make her own way – and he would not, could not, let himself stand in the way of what was best for her.
Perhaps he needed to revisit that conversation with Maric soon. Perhaps he should start to think about her long term future and security. Perhaps he would have to consider his friend's proposal more carefully.
He dismissed the thoughts with a rough shake of his head. Nonsense. She was his little girl and she would continue to be his little girl. Everything else could take care of itself later. Right now, she was just a six year old with pigtails and skinned knees who needed her father to make everything all better.