Yet Broken Still You Breathe

Felines and Fates

"I shall be waiting for you. You know that when you come home, weary, with blood on your hands, I shall be waiting there among the birches. You will rest your head in my lap, and I shall kiss your burning forehead and wash the blood from you. I shall be waiting, and I shall love you." -Pär Lagerkvist

The role of consort was never something Gwen would have imagined for herself. With her strikingly non-human features and wild, untamed nature, she was an unlikely candidate for royal life. Her conversations were brief and forced, her intense stare often resembling a glower, and her hands restless at her sides - longing for the comfort of her daggers - whenever a visiting noble made an ignorant remark.

It was beyond reasoning why Alistair wanted her there, in the capacity that she had. As an official consort, she did not hold much power, but her influence was undeniable. Alistair's advisors had insisted she trade out her plain bandana for a fine, intricately embroidered veil. It hung over her lower face, similar to the bandana, but it was made of much higher quality material. The veil flowed like a delicate mist obscuring her features, and adding a sensual quality to her appearance. In the few months since her recovery and brief introduction at court, she had noticed several noble women attempting to mimic the veil. Little did they know it was out of necessity, not fashion.

The Game, the political scheming and backstabbing and all the disgust the nobles instilled within her didn't hold a candle to her reason for staying. Her sweet Alistair, the man who held her still-beating heart in his hands, who loved her and lost her and loved her again. She stayed for him - and for herself. She had spent so long believing herself to be a monster, a creature undeserving of love. But it had been a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Now, she'd done her best to shuck off the invisible shackles that had bound her to her miserable fate. She lived and she loved and she was happy - as Lucy wanted her to be. As both she and Alistair deserved. And when Gwen had told him of Lucy - once he'd gotten past his disbelief - he'd been most pleased to hear what she'd had to say.

This was not to say that there were no hard times, no relapses in her self-perception. Nightmares plagued her as they always had, vivid memories twisted with violence and terror that left her crying out, her body drenched in a cold sweat. But she was not alone, not anymore. Alistair was by her side, warm and soft, his strong arms pulling her against his broad chest and whispering soothing words against her scarred skin.

But being king meant he had duties that took him away, and he could only put them off for so long. Gwen had begun to recover from her eight-year-long slumber, slowly regaining her strength and independence. She could now take short walks around the castle grounds and attend a few royal functions, but she was not yet ready for a long journey across Ferelden. She had little interest in meeting with Orlesian dignitaries, but would have gladly joined Alistair just to keep him company. But perhaps this time apart was good for them - healthy, even - to have a moment of separation that didn't end with years apart and hearts broken.

Unless he died on the way. Assassinations, banditry, sharp rocks and poorly placed roots, one could never fully prepare for the dangers of travel. But he'd promised her he'd return - in one very alive piece - and Gwen held onto that promise like a lifeline.

Shaking her head, she rose from her seat, heading out of the stuffy space. The breakfast table in her rooms was about all she ever used since she'd woken and been strong enough to leave her bed in favour of Alistair's. The book that lay in front of her seemed to mock her with its swirling letters, it's confusing text. Alistair had insisted she learn to read - much to her chagrin - he'd given her his pleading puppy dog eyes and she'd caved, like she always did. A tutor came by daily, a stern woman with grey hair pulled back in a tight bun, and gnarled fingers that tapped at the page with increasing impatience. She reminded Gwen of Wynne in a way, and it endeared her to her tutor - Eudora - and her disapproving frown.