My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  But I also know you, Spud. I know that while I floundered and stumbled through what was all but locked around my neck, you flourished. You're good at this kid. You were good at it even before I... (He scratched furiously through whatever word he wrote to the point the vellum tore). I watch you directing advisors, running arls and banns off each other like it was a childhood game, ruling with a just hand and it makes me proud. Never once have I worried about leaving Ferelden in your hands. Never once did I stop and think that anyone else could do it half as good as you.

  But I worry about you. About all of you. My kids, my grandkids, because this unending void I forced upon all of you isn't easy. I wish it was. I wish I could kiss you on the cheek and take the pain away, but the Maker never got it to work like that. Bit of a goof up on His end, really. I'll put in a word or two when I get to the other side and see if I can fix things.

  You are strong, but don't break. Take the time you need for yourself. Love. Maker's breath, love your babies. Give Toffee and Kettle Corn all the kisses in thedas for me. Let them stay up late just once. Tell them Pampy said it was okay.

  And love Anjali. Look, I didn't call her assassin or anything.

  Crud. Should I scratch that out or keep going?

  The job will pull at you, constantly. The stress. The fear. The enormity of balancing an entire kingdom on your shoulders. Let her be there for you. You're a right stubborn pain when you want to be, all of my children are. And you think you're the only ones who can fix things, the only ones that can solve it all. Maybe you're right. But there comes a time when you fall back, when the burden grows too heavy even for your powerful arms, and you need someone to take the weight.

  She's good at that. Ten years on and I am amazed at how she sticks by your side. That isn't something you find often in another person, so don't let the crown keep her away.

  That's all I've got. I wish I had some wisdom to impart, maybe a few fancy aphorisms I stole off of signs hand painted on old barnwood. But this is me. Kid, I love you. I loved you the minute I pulled you into my arms, walked you around the castle, and gave you your real name.

  That's right, I'm telling the Maker your real name is Spud so good luck with that.

  You'll do spectacular. You all will.

  Take a breath.

  Enjoy life.

  And give my grandbabies a few more candies before dinner.

  Love for now and ever,

  Your Dad."

  Her eyes wept while her lips smiled. Even with the crushing weight of his loss pounding down her chest, Rosie couldn't escape the laughs always mixed in with the memories. Places where he'd carry her on his back, rooms that they'd duck into while pretending to escape armed bandits, secret nooks that they'd have tea parties in while old men in scarlet robes tapped their shoes in annoyance. He may have been the King, but he was her father first, and both were gone.

  All her life Rosie was allowed to sit at the desk, to get up to mischief as she dipped her finger in ink or scratched a letter opener into the top. To place her feet on it, or spill tea on accident. She always sat here, but never alone.

  For the first time in her life, she stood up from the seat of power with no one behind her, with no one sitting in the armchair, with no one waiting for her by the bookcase. Folding the letter up tight, she stashed it under her dress right beside her heart. While Spud wished she could lay here in his room, openly weeping for the gaping hole in her life, Rosamund couldn't afford it. She had a job to do.

  Closing the drawer, Rosie snuffed out the candles left burning the moment her father...ceased to be. No, that wasn't right.

  He was never gone. He lived in every scrape to this old castle room, in the rather odd taxadermied animals scattered across the halls, in the massive cheese cellar that would never run dry. And, most importantly, in the hearts of all who knew him. She may never have another day with him, but she didn't lose him.

  Licking her fingers, she moved to put out the final candle -- a fat one that'd been burning for seven days straight, when she paused and stared down at the old candy. It barely glistened in the candle light, dust turning its hard shell to ash. Curling her palm over it, Rosie's heart beat with the frivolity of such an issue. There were dozens of problems outside that door all waiting for her, perhaps more. She should leave the candy here. Toss it into the garbage heap. Ask someone else to deal with it.

  Take a breath.

  Scooping it into her fingers, Rosie didn't place the awful thing in her mouth, but she dropped it into her pocket alongside the keys to the royal suites. Foolish as it may be to cling to something so ancient as a sentiment, her life could use a bit more foolishness in it.

  Her breath snuffed out the last candle, only holy smoke rising through the darkened room. Squaring her shoulders, Rosamund opened the doors to find a pair of guards standing right outside. Both saluted, their fists clanging against their chests.

  She'd wiped away all signs of pain on her face, reverting to a calm neutral, which both men were reading and finding comfort in. Still... Her hand dug into her pocket, rolling the last peppermint in her fingers.

  With certainty flooding her veins, she lifted her head, "I am ready."

  The guards fell in behind, both addressing her as she would be forever known, "Yes, my Queen."

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UN8oLGBNXpE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Dirge of Hope

  Instinctively, Gavin slotted his shoulders into position, the polished armor across his chest gleaming as it struck the sun. Which was when his son grabbed onto his dangling hand and shouted for everyone in the parade route to hear, "Daddy! Have potty."

  "Maker's breath, now?" he groaned, well aware of the various nobility whipping their glares over to the armored knight who had a hopping toddler to deal with. Sneers from below mourning veils tried to slice him into pieces for disrupting the atmosphere with a reminder of life. Taking a quick glance to find a spot, Gavin hefted his son up into his arms and found a back alley for him to use. Which was about when Gavin realized that 'have potty' actually meant 'I've already soiled myself, and you should solve that please.'

  "Great, just, perfect timing..." he moved to reach for the satchel that never left his side only to remember that it was now resting in his wife's hands. "And your mother has the change of trousers."

  Always trying to be helpful, his son smiled wide and took off bare assed through the nobility all trying to get into position before the march to the chantry. "No Duncan, wait!" Gavin tried, but he was far too slow to stop the determined two year old. Feet paddling against the stones, the boy giggled as he enjoyed the feel of freedom and fresh air on his derriere. A few of the more catatonic nobility clucked their tongues while those who'd dealt with toddlers recently smiled in sympathy.

  Duncan wrapped both hands around his mother's leg, suckering tight to her while he stared up wide eyed at her. "Mummy, potty!" he shouted for the world to hear.

  Myra had been stationed close to the head of the procession, necessitating his half naked son to more or less flash every single person on the way to her. Not that he cared, the child smiling wide at his mother who was barely clinging together. She ran her fingers over her son's head, the curly brown locks shifting before Myra sighed, "Go ask Daddy to take you, Dunny."

  "Too late," Gavin gasped, just catching up to the slippery eel. "He's already made a mess and you have the backups."

  "By the void, we haven't even started yet and you already..." Myra hissed, angry not at her son who couldn't contain his accidents, but the world. She buried her face into the massive baby satchel, words grumbling from her tongue while Gavin wrapped a comforting hand around his son. It was hard to say how much Duncan understood what was going on, though he seemed to know something was wrong. For the past week he refused to sleep in his big boy bed, his green eyes trailing each of his mother's heart wrenching tears.

  "Here," Myra waved at Gavin the backups that were nowhere near as nice as the first ones. He plucked the
m out of her fingers and got his son redressed and diapered in record time. It looked as if the procession was getting ready to move out and there was no chance a funeral would wait for a half-naked baby.

  When Gavin placed his son on the ground, he glanced back to his place in the march beside the rest of the Knights. "I should return to my men..." he began, his eyes swerving up to cradle Myra. She'd been two parts angry, to one part broken in half. He understood all too well the pain, but had no concept of how to help, and it was killing him piece by piece as she twisted and turned from any light.

  "Mummy," a little hand landed on her skirt, coating it in mud. The mother who'd barely been able to get out of bed much less dress or bathe herself didn't even glance at the mess. "Want Daddy!"

  "Duncan," Gavin folded to a knee, trying to get his boy to look him in the eye. He'd been on a daddy kick for awhile now, ever since Gavin returned from a small matter down the coast. Even when he was in the middle of making supper, his son insisted on being underfoot as if he feared that his father might vanish in an instant.

  The boy was pressing on Myra because she was the real decider in the home, even as she bit into her lip and stared at nothing. Turning his son to face him, Gavin said, "You need to stay with your Mum. I'm going to be right back there...see, with the other knights."

  His boy shoved out his bottom lip, unhappy with the proper arrangement. "No," he shouted, then used the only blackmail at his disposal by throwing his arms around Gavin's neck to bury his little face into his father's chest. "Want you!"

  "Son, I know--"

  "Stay," Myra whispered, her voice cracking against the wind. "I mean, you're family. Married to me so it has to count. And...if anyone says anything I'll hit them." She folded up a fist and waved it, but there was no joy in the joke. It could very well not be a joke, she seemed to have lost all the laughter in her soul.

  Rising to his feet, Gavin curled a hand around Myra's back and tugged her closer. "Are you certain?"

  "It's what he wants, and Maker knows I can't get him to stop shouting for you when he's in that mood." She bit on her lip, crying the tears of a mother exhausted and worn from the past never ending days.

  "Myra," he whispered and with a finger pushed back the single hair that escaped out of the plaits she wore with bright yellow flowers in them.

  "Please," her lips quivered and there was no man or woman in thedas who could stop him from honoring her wishes. Nodding his head, Gavin plucked up Duncan's hand and pulled the boy close.

  "Of course, I only want to do what you need."

  Myra sighed and turned away from him to stare ahead where her sister waited to begin the procession. Behind the Princess, no, Queen, rested the litter holding the body. Gavin caught sight of it when he was trying to wrestle Duncan into place, his breath stopping in his throat at how unlike the man it looked. How strange it was to see King Alistair without a smile on his lips or a laugh in his heart. The soul truly had fled from his shell, the life fully dampened in a flick of the Maker's wrist.

  "I wish I knew what that was," Myra shuddered to herself.

  A blaring of trumpets arose from the sides and the royal guards chosen specifically for their valor and strong arms hefted up the King's body onto their backs. With a set to her head, the future Queen placed a foot forward and began the royal procession from the palace to the grand cathedral.

  The first line was family, the eldest child leading. To the side in the widower's position was the Queen Mother, her face veiled so thickly behind black lace it was hard for anyone to see how she was affected by the loss. For the other children it was much, much easier to tell. Cailan and Rosamund's husband Frederick stood side by side directly behind Alistair's litter, both carrying the torches. While Frederick looked stoic and prepared, Cailan was a besotted mess. His eyes were yet bloodshot, and Gavin had to be the one to fish him out of an old brothel near the alienage before stuffing the prince into a suit. While Gavin braced himself for the rancid brewery that would waft out of the prince's mouth, nothing came. The man didn't teeter or fall in drink; all of the wear on his body was due to grief.

  Behind them walked Rosie's children, hand in hand with Cailan's. The official royal line to continue on. The Queen's lover was given a guard position behind the children, though she'd forgone the armor to dress in her usual black and crimson. At least it fit in well with a funeral. While Anjali did what she could to grate upon the 'baby Knight' floating around near her life, there was almost no venom remaining in her barbs. She seemed to do it more out of habit than spite and Gavin couldn't bring himself to care.

  After the guards, the King's less immediate family were given preference based upon their nobility. It was into that mix that they dropped Myra. She was the King's daughter, no question, but she was also a bastard and they did adore clinging to precedent in such ceremonies. Gavin offered to talk Rosamund into letting her near the front, and he suspected the Queen would easily allow it for their father's memory if no other reason, but Myra refused. She wasn't in the mood to fight anyone, her heart broken.

  Lifting her chin up, Myra fell into place walking beside a pair of Banns who were cousins of the Queen Mother. Gavin sort of skirted in between the two rows, throwing off the parade's lines while hoping no one cared or noticed. He kept a tight grip on Duncan, well aware that it would take nothing more than a shiny glint of gold to distract his son away. As the procession walked past the castle gates, a song began to bleat from the trumpets. He'd heard it often in the chantry, his son sitting on his lap while Myra humored him. One of fear and sorrow in the darkest of days that was met by Andraste's love with hope and renewal.

  Gavin began to hum the words to himself, when a great cacophony of voices rose from the see of Denerim. Every person who lived in the city flocked to the streets, crowded them out to watch and mourn as their King passed from this world into the next. And all of them, from the oldest woman who survived the blight thanks to their King, down to the tiniest tot clutching a golden coin with Alistair's face minted on the side, carried the song in their throats.

  The air itself grew heavy with a million unshed tears, a thousand heartfelt sobs. Grief on this magnitude reached up and blotted out the sky. Even though the sun shined with nary a cloud to puncture the blue sky, the raw mourning escaping from hundreds of thousands of people -- perhaps all of Ferelden itself -- twisted the air around them. The blue took on a morose grey tinge, the sun shuddered away from their view, unable to fight against that much pain.

  Ahead of him, even through the voices singing for their lost King, he heard a single cry. It was brief, a quick gasp like a breath snuffing out a candle, but he winced and reached forward. When his hand cupped against his wife's shoulder, she gripped tight to it and let herself go. Gavin could feel the walls inside his own mind begin to shudder. It'd been hard to be her rock for the past week.

  Against all common sense and self preservation, he came to think of the man as kin. He did not call him Dad just to humor him, Gavin meaning it in his heart. And to lose another one in such a short amount of time was...unthinkable. But Myra needed him to be strong for her, to keep a tight watch on their boy who was having troubles understanding why he couldn't sit on his grandfather's lap anymore. It wouldn't vanish once he was released to the pyre, that pain lingered in every breath, every thought. It was etched deep into the bone, but it could lighten. He'd found joy in the most unexpected of places with her, with his boy, with his friends, and with the man they were all keening over, from the streets of Denerim to the peaks of the Frostbacks.

  Feredelen was crying.

  "Daddy," the hand tugged on Gavin's, Duncan attempting to both get free and his attention. Suddenly, his boy's body went slack as if he lost all control of his legs, "No walk."

  Gavin grabbed onto both of Duncan's arms, lifting him back to stand but the two year old was nearing ever closer to launching into a tantrum. Which was exactly what he did not need now. Perhaps ever, but that seemed to be impossible to hope for. Glancing
around at the crush of people, one eye darting down to Duncan's lip that was perched out far enough for a pigeon to land, he sighed.

  "Climb aboard," Gavin decided, dropping quickly to a knee so Duncan could scurry up onto his shoulders. The boy's tiny hands smudged against the metal armor before finding purchase between the breast and back plate. Behind him, Gavin felt a royal shoe knock into his heel. He nodded his head to acknowledge that the procession was leaving without him, while internally snarling. Could they not behave and act like civilized people even during a funeral?

  Too much of his father inside.

  Wrapping a hand around the back of Duncan to keep him steady, Gavin darted forward to stand near Myra. She cast an eye back, making certain her family were near, but didn't say anything. The bags under her eyes told him enough.

  With a turn of his head, Gavin honed in on the street ahead. He was an expert at staring at nothing after too many days left guarding unimportant things if only to give the knights something to do. Sadly, his two year old boy was not as well trained. Inching higher, Duncan wrapped his hands around Gavin's forehead so he could get a better look at the people. No doubt that was what he really wanted, always scurrying up as high as possible to see what adult bodies eclipsed.

  Maker save him for when Duncan would be able to climb as well as Myra. Gavin was not looking forward to having to brave the heights he was at best okay with in order to fish his son down.

  "Daddy," the voice shouted near his ear, Gavin wincing at the noise, when he felt his son's entire body sway. A hand snapped up instinctively to pin to the boy's side and keep Duncan in place, while Gavin tried to see what he was up to. Wiggling wasn't surprising, there was no way his back of cold metal could be comfortable to sit, but...