after the Battle of Denerim
A bit beyond six sentences for this particular Sunday~ ^_^
Queen Anora Mac Tir learns of the Archdemon's fall and her father's death. Features forced-betrothal awkwardness with Alistair and a vulnerable moment with Heather Cousland.
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“My queen, I bring news regarding the fight against the Archdemon.”
The messenger’s hunched posture and inability to meet Anora’s eyes convey more than enough, but she must hear the truth from the woman’s lips. “Report.”
“The burst of light we saw did mark the creature’s death. The Blight is over.”
Over, at long last. But at what cost? “Who survived?”
“Most forces led into battle by Warden Surana remain with us, though many soldiers are injured.”
It is still strange to hear others refer to that mage as a commander. “What of the Wardens themselves?”
“Warden Riordan was killed mid-battle. Warden Surana yet lives. But Teyrn— Warden Mac Tir…”
Her heart twists. Her throat clenches. Her emotions do not—cannot show on her face. “I said, report.”
The messenger gulps. “According to Warden Surana, Warden Mac Tir died while delivering the final blow that killed the Archdemon.”
Surana did not claim the credit. Anora sets aside that detail for later consideration. “So it is defeated.”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“By my father’s hand.”
“That is what I was told.”
Then he fell protecting the country he loved. A mixture of grief and relief she will not reveal builds pressure behind her eyes. “Thank you for the report. Ensure what we know is recorded. Once Denerim recovers, we will celebrate this victory.”
“Yes, my queen.” The messenger hesitates.
Anora narrows her eyes. “You are dismissed.”
The woman bows and flees the room.
There is much to be done—Denerim still burns, soldiers and civilians alike are injured, and even the healthy will require rations, shelter, a place to sleep. Anora is not so naive as to believe that no hostiles remain within the city walls simply because the Archdemon was slain. And she did not spend nearly every waking moment ruling this nation in Cailan’s absence and after his death to watch it fall apart now.
Hour after hour passes. Only her steward’s intervention ensures she eats meals at reasonable times. It’s long past sunset when a gentle tap on her elbow startles her out of her focus. She glances up to find Alistair’s face creased with concern. “You should rest.”
“Later.”
He grips her shoulder. “I don’t think you’ll enjoy me being the one to remind you of your duty to our people.”
Anora shakes off his grasp. “I accept your point. I will retire for the evening.”
“I’m not sure right now still counts as ‘evening,’ Anora.”
A realization of weariness unexpectedly doubles the weight of her limbs. “I will retire for the night. Alone.”
He exhales and steps back, his hands raised in defense. “We aren’t married yet. I wasn’t going to ask.”
She blames exhaustion for her words, her tone. Exhaustion and repressed sorrow. “Thank you, Alistair. For checking on me.”
He blinks. “Of course I checked on you. And… you’re welcome.”
Anora nods once in acknowledgment. Then she pushes herself away from the desk and wraps herself in a veneer of weary calm en route to her chamber, offering tired greetings and words of thanks to those she meets along the way. But once she closes the door behind her, she slumps backward against it and sliding down to the floor, burying her head in her arms. Yet tears do not fall.
“I knew you wouldn’t relax until you were back here.”
Anora bolts upright, grabbing the nearby bronze candlestick—not much of a weapon, but it is preferable to empty hands. Then her alarm eases enough to recognize the woman seated on her bed. “Maker take you, Heather. When did you sneak into my room?”
Heather Cousland yawns while languidly stretching her arms above her head. “Some time ago. You kept me waiting.”
Anora opens her mouth to protest the absurd claim and then decides against it. Heather is goading her into a retort. “I asked you to support civilians in finding shelter. Why are you here?”
“Because after I heard about your father, I needed to be at your side.”
Admitting her selfishness instead of declaring she did this for my sake is unlike her. Moisture stings Anora’s eyes. “What game are you playing?”
Heather quickly crosses the space between them to grasp her hands. “No game, Anora. You’re hurting, no matter how well you hide it. When you hurt, I hurt. If you don’t want me here, say the word, and I’ll leave. But if there’s anything I can do to support you, name it, and it’s yours.”
Anora stands perfectly still as a battle rages in her mind. She must maintain her own strength. Any cracks will only confirm the belief that she should not be queen. Despite Surana’s surprising machinations, her betrothal to Alistair—and thus her position—is not set in stone, and she will not provide Arl Eamon further reason to argue against it.
But Heather’s gentle, earnest gaze overpowers her weakening defenses. She collapses into her arms, finally releasing her grief.
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