No Bull From the Big Bull, Volume One, by Varric Tethras, a Humble Storyteller

Excerpt: White Rose

Two years. Anora had not seen her father for two years. He'd sent gifts, fairly regularly in fact, and sometimes he sent messages to her mother - terse updates, characteristically bereft of any emotion. But the last one…it said he was coming home. Not permanently, only for a month or so, but still…

He left when word came from Denerim about Queen Rowan's death, word from Mother Ailis that King Maric needed his help. He didn't say goodbye when he went; he never did, he didn't like goodbyes. Anora, young as she was, had a strong feeling that he'd had to say too many goodbyes, of the permanent variety. He just patted her on the head, mounted up, and rode away.

That was shortly after the incident with mother's rose bush. Even though she was just a child, Anora's instincts were very keen and rather sophisticated. She understood what happened in her father's mind when that wilting flower died beneath his touch. The rational part of his brain, the only part he would ever admit to, knew it was ridiculous to assume he'd killed Celia's white rose bush, but a deeper part, the part that bought into the old superstitions, the part that fed the part of him that hated himself, believed that he spread death like a plague. And Anora knew that part was what kept him running away from his family.

She was excited, hopeful, and a little afraid to see him again. Her mother fed her on tales of his heroism and all that Ferelden owed to him, and Anora revered her father. When he allowed her the luxury, she loved him as well. She hoped that when he next returned to Denerim he might take her with him; she was old enough now, at thirteen, surely. She loved her mother dearly, but her father was special; they were very much alike, and she shared more kinship with him than her quiet, retiring mother. She was eager to see the big city, too, and the palace.

She had been there once before, six years ago, with father and mother both. That was the last time her mother went to Denerim. Celia did not like the city, it made her feel closed-in, and the nobles, either at the Landsmeet or in social circles, made her nervous and self-conscious. Anora had enjoyed it; she liked the crowded markets, the beautiful clothes, and even though the palace was not as pretty as such an edifice ought to be, she liked the massive presence of it. King Maric was a kind man, though he treated her with a humorous, comradely condescension that was hardly her preference, and Prince Cailan had been a willing accomplice in her schemes, nicely malleable even if, as a boy, he was hardly an ideal playmate. He was more or less her only playmate, though now she was old enough to know that matters between them would be forever complicated by that marriage contract King Maric had insisted upon. She wasn't exactly eager to marry anyone, it seemed a disagreeable sort of union for a girl of her independent nature, but at least Cailan didn't have warts on his face or fingers, like a lot of boys she knew. Her overall impression, at this point, of boys as a species was that they were remarkably prone to warts and usually smelled bad.

There was no way of knowing exactly when her father would arrive, so life had to go on as usual in the meantime, much as was possible. She tamped down her impatience and continued her daily regimen of exercise, schoolwork, gardening, archery practice, and pleasure reading. She enjoyed working with her mother amongst the flowers - the nasturtium and tulips especially were their "together flowers" that mother and daughter both tended lovingly. But mother's roses…those were her especial province, and Anora did not intrude upon Celia's work when she was among them. It was not something she could ever remember having been told, it was simply accepted in her mind that mother worked the roses when she wished to be alone with her thoughts and the beautiful blooms she loved. Anora sat on a bench nearby and read instead.

That was what she was doing when she heard the dull clop of hooves coming up the dirt track from the nearby entrance to the Brecilian Passage. She did not look up at first. Riders from Denerim were never exactly common, the Passage was dangerous, but there were enough of them yearly that the sound did not automatically make her expect her father. When the hoof beats kept getting louder and closer, however, she knew that someone was approaching the Keep, someone with a good-sized retinue.

She looked up as the Gwaren banner-carrier rode through the gates. She was not at all surprised to see that father had set Imrek to carry the flag, rather than the usual herald. It made the self-important jackass feel more important, but it also kept him several riders away from her father. Guards rode in next, in heavy plate, and then Cauthrien, looking more grown-up than Anora remembered her, and then…

How very typical of her father to ride at the back of the line, rather than surrounded by guards near the front as he was supposed to. Oddly, he was not wearing armor. Nor did it appear as though he'd worn it at all through the long trip; his leather trousers were filthy and his rough-weave linen shirt showed signs of heavy weather. It rained nearly every day this time of year, brief but drenching downpours that were chillingly cold, but which her stubborn sire would undoubtedly press on through regardless. The entire line of men and women looked decidedly sodden. The retinue moved their horses carefully through the Teyrna's garden with respectful hails, and her father brought his mount up and climbed off.

Celia and Anora both rose to their feet when the riders came in; they stood and watched in silence, tense and a bit nervous, as Loghain emptied his saddlebag of its overflowing contents. A rose bush, half-grown, and although it was very early, a single white rose budded on it. Anora was in a good position to see her father's side, the side that took the damage from the rose's thorns; his shirt was ripped and bloody. It was a lesson for her that she never forgot; beautiful as it was, the delicate flower had drawn blood from the mighty warrior.

He stepped forward, flower in hand, and silently offered the rose bush to his wife. There was an expression on his face Anora puzzled over momentarily: it was patience, apology, sorrow, and fear all mixed together, but mostly it was apology. It took some time before Anora knew exactly what he was apologizing for. Not the dead rose bush, or even for having been gone two long years, but for not being the husband and father he knew his family needed.

Celia took the offering, smiled at the pale beauty of the single bud rose, and set the plant aside in order to throw her arms around her husband's strong shoulders and hug him; no thought of forgiveness in her mind because it never occurred to her to suppose her husband had anything to apologize for. They were a bit of an odd couple, Anora supposed: her mother, quiet even when she spoke, small and delicate and beautiful even though that beauty was unadorned, and not given to question her simple faith in the Maker, in her nation, and in her husband. Her father, quiet only until he spoke, big and brash and beautiful only in his strength and skill, and given to question any and everything, most especially himself, though he never let his questions stand in the way of what he saw as his duty. They came together and created her, somewhere in between the two of them.

When next her father returned to Denerim, Anora went with him. On that occasion, she continued to indulge the youthful mischievousness she had enjoyed previously, though with a slight edge of flirtation added to it. Then they returned home and stayed in Gwaren for another year and a half…and then her mother died.

It was rather unexpected; though she was small and appeared fragile, Teyrna Celia was a strong country woman and the picture of health. But Anora's birth had been difficult, and three other pregnancies had ended in miscarriage. She desperately wanted another child, a son to carry on the Mac Tir name for the next generation. The final attempt at making that wish a reality ended not in life but in death, for both her and the baby she carried. Had the child lived, Anora would at last have had that brother her mother wanted so very much for her to have. Anora was fifteen at the time, an age when daughters are generally actively pulling away from their parents - their fathers perhaps particularly. Celia's death brought her closer to him. He needed looking after; he was capable but oddly impractical about some very basic things, like his health. Then, too, the household needed care and attention, and her father was completely oblivious to the running of such things. She threw herself into the task of being the new Lady Mac Tir with all the poise and skill King Maric's fancy tutors had drummed into her, and charmed not a few people with her grace and beauty.

Some little while after her mother's death, long enough for the first shock to wear off but not nearly long enough for the deep ache of grief to subside, they returned to Denerim together, there to put the hard memories behind them and heal. The nobility, who had scarcely acknowledged Teyrna Celia, and indeed had very nearly forgotten all about her, crowded round to offer half-honest condolences. Anora did her best to avoid this first crush of well-wishers and curiosity-seekers. She did, however, overhear something that stayed with her long after.

It was Bryce Cousland, not exactly a friend of her father's, if he could be said to have friends, but at least a man he respected and who seemed to have more than the usual respect for him. He gave his condolences, more genuine than most, and then commiserated on the loss of the son who never drew breath.

"I know it must be a wrench, losing your heir."

"I have an heir," her father had said.

"Well, yes, but not really, right? Anora is set to marry Prince Cailan; she won't inherit Gwaren. And even if she did, the Teyrnir would fall under the name of her husband. I know it's too early to consider it now, but you really ought to remarry and keep trying for that son. Now that the Mac Tir name is one to be reckoned with, it should be perpetuated."

"My girl is enough."

Anora overheard those words, stated as simple incontrovertible fact, with a little thrill of pride. It hardened her resolve to be a woman of substance, with pride of place in the world.

The pinnacle came at one of King Maric's diplomatic fetes, held in honor of a visit from Empress Celene - a tense affair for all involved. As the only woman available to represent Gwaren, and as the King himself had no Lady to represent the Crown, Anora was called upon to act as hostess of the event, side-by-side with Eleanor Cousland of Highever but with, perhaps, slightly more office in the event than the elder stateswoman. She was, after all, the daughter of Ferelden's greatest general, representative of the future generation of men and women capable of overcoming the crème de la crème of Orlesian's chevaliers, and betrothed to the Crown Prince. She was meant to be highly visible on this occasion.

It was well that her place was near the head of the table, for while the heir sat to the right hand of the King as was traditional, she sat in her father's usual seat to his left. Her father sat, for this occasion, to her left, and this put her in excellent place to keep close tabs on him. He glowered throughout the entire affair with a terrible fierceness even for him, but he was allowed no other vent for his feelings. Each time he opened his mouth to make some cataclysmically undiplomatic statement Anora, who knew her father very well indeed, deftly popped some choice tidbit from the banquet into it with a mild, "Try this, father: isn't it sumptuous?" The food was Orlesian, and Loghain didn't like it for more than merely patriotic reasons - why on earth did everything have to be slathered with sauce? The clear and present threat presented by the nearby platter of escargots quickly taught Loghain, who had eaten far less pleasant things than snails in his life, to keep his mouth clamped firmly shut.

Despite these machinations in the name of preventing a diplomatic incident and potential bloodshed, Anora did not like Celene, who she found both superficial and highly artificial. Several years younger but already one of the most powerful women - the most powerful people - in Thedas, she was overprivileged and greatly overindulged, and also an incorrigible flirt who practiced her childish wiles on every man at the table, with special emphasis on Cailan who was regrettably susceptible. Celene even made some cute comment about the attractiveness of the "strong, silent type," with a coquettish twinkle in Loghain's direction, but Loghain merely scowled his fiercest in return. So no, Anora was not pleased to play court to such a creature, but she had mastered the art her father knew of but had never learnt to employ: grace and courtesy that was be at least as effective as blades for destroying your enemies. By the end of the evening, her sparkling presence caused the Empress to burst out with the only unscripted remark she'd made the entire time: "Anora of Ferelden is a solitary rose amongst the brambles." The comment made Anora smile. Roses were beautiful, graceful, attractive…but they were hardly defenseless. She thought that Celene, childish and silly-headed as she seemed, was fully aware of that very fact when she said it. Anora wanted her to be aware of it. One day she would be Queen, and while she would be as beautiful, graceful, and attractive as she could be in that office, she would keep her thorns sharp. She was a Mac Tir; she was dangerous no matter how prettily she was packaged.