Chapter Text
Supper was simple fare, roast lamb and potatoes, and freshly baked bread. The smell wafted over three place settings—one left unoccupied. Celia pointedly did not look at Loghain across the table as she dished out their servings and buttered a slice of bread.
They ate in silence, only the sounds of chewing between them, until the door creaked open. Anora’s tutor, expression harried and wringing her hands, hurried down the length of the table. Nervously, she smoothed back wisps of hair that had escaped her scarf.
“Begging your pardon for interrupting, sers,” she said, “and a thousand apologies but—I’m afraid just can’t find young miss Anora anywhere!”
The poor girl was distraught, fingers twisting together in the pale gray fabric of her skirt. Her teeth worried at her bottom lip and her gaze darted frantically between her employers and all around the room. She’d only been hired a few weeks before; from the look on her face, she feared they would turn around and fire her on the spot.
But Celia just sighed, and went back to buttering her bread. “You can relax, Leah. It is hardly your fault.”
Across the table, Loghain stifled an eye roll.
“Oh, begging your pardon, my lady, but I’m afraid it is, you see. We were in the gardens and—“
“And she found a flower you needed a tome to identify? Or she nearly fainted and needed you to fetch water?” Celia spoke with resignation, but managed a perfunctory smile for the now-confused governess. “It is not the first time and I’m certain it won’t be the last. Don’t worry yourself overmuch—you’re not in trouble. If you keep watch at the front gate, I’m sure she’ll be along.”
“As you say, serrah.” Leah dipped a shallow curtsy and hurried from the room. As the door thudded shut behind her, Celia turned a derisive look on her husband.
Loghain popped a chunk of potato in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Well? Speak your mind.”
“Don’t play the fool,” Celia replied, cutting into her lamb. “It demeans both of us. This the third night this week that she’s been late for supper.”
“It’s the summer months. She ought to enjoy the warm weather before we’re all snowed in until spring. She’ll be in before the sun’s gone down entirely, I’m sure.”
“At which point she’ll be filthy head to toe, and the food will have gone cold.”
Loghain set his fork down and folded his hands, raising a brow at Celia over them. “Alright. What is this really about? Because you’ve never cared quite so much about having to reheat a meal.”
The teryna speared a bite of meat, but made no move to lift it to her mouth. She sighed. Anora won’t always be able to run away into the forest,” she finally said. “Better for her to learn now, when her responsibilities are no more than being on time for supper, than to suffer the lords and ladies of Denerim tearing her apart.”
With a snort, Loghain picked up his fork and began eating again. “Have we been raising the same daughter? I hardly think a few doddering old politicians will give her any trouble. And that’s now, let alone how she’ll manage them in a decade’s time. Or longer, Maker willing.”
“They will give her trouble, if she doesn’t learn to play their game.”
“She’s a child. The only games she needs to be concerned with involve dolls and jacks and her imagination.”
“That’s not true.” Celia’s voice had gone gentle, which meant her next words were sure to upset him. He stared pointedly away. “I know that you did not grow up at court, and you want that freedom for Anora.”
She took a slow sip of her wine. “But that’s not the life that she’s going to have. You need to accept that, so we can raise her to be fit for it.”
“I did not bleed for this country so that my daughter could be confined to a classroom like some stuffed Orlesian pastry,” said Loghain, knuckles whitening around his fork. “She’s Fereldan. We learn our lessons in the woods, and build our character in the field. That will serve her better in the future than anything a tutor could put into her head.”
A loud crack echoed through the room as Celia’s palm slammed against the table, rattling the unused place setting. “Do not forget that I am Fereldan too, Loghain. I may not have been a front line combatant, but I lived through the occupation, and the war against it. You are not alone in your pride for our nation.”
“And I know,” she took a deep breath, momentary ire seeping away, “that I am not alone in my wish that such suffering not repeat itself.”
Loghain scowled. “There is little I want less.”
“Then you must see reason. Our daughter will share the throne, one day. She must have the poise and skills expected of any noblewoman. More, in truth, or we leave Ferelden weak to foreign influence.” Her voice dipped wryly. “Certainly we can’t rely on Cailan’s whims.”
Loghain snorted into his goblet. “There’s too much of Maric in that boy. Even Rowan’s influence only goes so far.”
“Which is why,” Celia circled their discussion back pointedly, a smile ghosting over her lips, “we need a firmer touch. And she takes your insistence much better than she takes mine.”
“I don’t know about that.”
Celia looked at him expectantly and Loghain shook his head.
“I seem to remember fighting for my daughter to grow up in the Ferelden I loved,” he murmured. “But it seems she is part of the price we paid.”
The dishes were cleared and they were sharing another glass of wine by the tall window overlooking the garden courtyard when the door finally creaked open again. Anora scampered into the room, bright-eyed excitement outweighing the sheepishness in her face.
“Papa, Mama! Guess what, guess what, guess what!”
She skidded to a stop behind them and tucked her hands behind her back, trying and failing to stifle her grin. Her cheeks hollowed as she bit down on them inside and she bounced eagerly on the balls of her feet. Twigs and bits of moss clung to her braids; splotches of green and red marked her path from the forest and her knees were skinned and red.
Celia’s look was pointed and stern as Loghain set his glass down and turned around. But at their daughter’s eager face, his heart—and whatever resolve he’d borrowed from his wife—faltered.
He raised a brow. “Well? Are you going to say?”
“No, you have to guess!”
“Aright let’s see…” he tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his chin. “Has old Lessie had her calf?”
“Nope! Guess again.”
Loghain furrowed his brow. “Have you found a burglar in the larder?”
“No.” Anora giggled, hands clapping together with glee. “Guess again!”
“Has the Amaranthine Ocean turned purple?”
Anora shook her head, giggles growing into outright laughter. “You’re never going to guess!”
“Well, you’ll just have to tell me, then.” Celia coughed pointedly, and Loghain stemmed her insistence with a raised hand. “But first—“ Anora’s joyful expression fell and his heart twisted—but Celia was right. Anora would have to make hard choices, and that meant they had to have hard conversations.
He knelt down so that his stern look was at her eye level. “First, you need to explain why you missed supper again, young lady.”
“Well, I was out in the forest and couldn’t see the sun moving until it was almost down and I didn’t mean to and—“
She trailed off as Loghain held up a hand. She’d gone from bouncing to slouching and her fingers twisted with shame, rather than joy. It made his heart ache.
“Try again,” he said firmly. “Why did you miss supper, young lady?”
A soft sigh escaped Anora’s lips and her posture straightened. “I should have been tracking time and I wasn’t. I’m sorry, Father. I’ll do better.”
“You will.” His voice brokered no argument. “There is time in the day for your responsibilities and your studies and having fun. Sometimes you can trade time from one for more of the other, but most days we have to do the things we must before we can do the things we want.”
Anora’s head drooped, but Loghain caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger before it could fall against her chest. “Never hide your face from your troubles,” he said, softer but still firm enough to make the lesson stick. “They will not go away, and you will never solve them if you cannot see them.”
Her lip wobbled; the tears she’d wanted to hide slipped down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled. “I’m so sorry, Father.”
“I know you are,” he said, and he smiled the small, soft smile that only she could bring out in him. “And that matters. But it doesn’t change things; so, what will you do going forward?”
“Keep track of the time before I’m late.”
“Good girl.”
Celia stepped forward then and Anora’s eyes flicked to her apprehensively, but Loghain’s reprimand had satisfied her and she held out a handkerchief for their daughter to wipe her eyes.
“Now then,” said Loghain, standing and retrieving his wine. “I believe you were holding out on some interesting news. Are you going to share?”
At once, Anora’s face lit up, guilt and shame forgotten but for a bit of red lingering in her eyes. “I met the neatest girl in the forest today! We’re best friend now.”
Loghain smiled even as he saw Celia open her mouth, concern in her brow. He winked at Anora and laid a hand on his wife’s arm to preempt her objection.
“Are you now? Well, if she’s your best friend, you must know everything about her.”
“Well not everything, not yet, but she’s so pretty—the same colors as the forest, and she has drawings on her face and a shiny clip in her hair and…”
As Anora spoke, Loghain whispered in Celia’s ear. “There’s no one living in the forest.”
“There’s Chasind and other barbarians, as you well know,” she hissed back from the corner of her mouth. Both of them kept nodding along, half listening for anything more concerning in Anora’s chatter.
“They don’t come so close to the keep, or the city, that she would run into them,” he soothed. “Imagination, remember? It’s good for her. If it makes you feel better, I will send a party of scouts to clear the immediate vicinity beyond the town. But I think we can safely let her have this one.”
Celia nodded, looking mollified if still unconvinced.
“…had a bow that was as tall as me. Do you think I could have a bow that big? I want us to match, since we’re best friends.”
“As tall as you, hm?” Loghain tapped his chin and smiled. “I think we’ll have to ask Hamish if there’s enough in the coffers for such a project.”
“Why don’t we start with a late supper, instead?” Celia held out a hand that Anora readily took, though her eyes remained on her father. He nodded.
“Go with your mother. And if you’re consistent with your studies, I’m sure we can work something out.”
A smile wider than Satina at crescent broke across Anora’s face. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“If you mind your studies,” Celia chided. They parted ways outside the dining hall, mother and daughter heading for the kitchens as Loghain caught one of the guards in the hallway.
“Send the captain to my study,” he said, nodding at the guard’s salute.
He believed what he’d told Celia. Though there were clans that lived and traveled through the Brecilian, Gwaren was too big and too well-known as a human settlement for them to come close enough that Anora would find them. The child lacked for companionship—they had questioned the decision to raise her isolated in the keep for that very reason. It was far more likely that she’d invented the friend she desperately needed, and believed her to be real.
Still—he’d been wrong as often as Celia had been right. His study door opened and the guard-captain saluted with a short bow. “Ser?”
“Gather a patrol, Carson,” Loghain ordered gruffly. “I want a sweep of the Brecilian outskirts.”
It wouldn’t hurt any of them to check.