A is for Arrow

She could scarcely draw the bow a month ago.

Now the baby fat on her arms is gone, replaced by lean muscle; her glove and armguard no longer chafe, and the deep purple welt on her forearm and split skin of her fingertips, reminders of her first stubborn attempts to go without, have finally healed.

(Father refused her requests for healing potions, and Cailan just tried to wrap her whole arm in messy poultices that smelled of herbs and sheep fat. She appreciates the effort, of course, but she had to soak her handkerchiefs in lavender water to cover the odor, even after she washed her arm.)

Her aim is better, too, and she hits the target nearly every time- sometimes nearly in the center.

Mama rests in the shade and watches, offering cool drinks and encouragement, but Mama was always a proper lady even before her sickness. Proper ladies embroider, read poetry and romances (the Orlesian ones are the best, but still banned with the war not truly over), dance galliards and branles and voltas. Proper ladies don't practice with bow and sword and shield until their arms ache.

Anora learns the proper things, too. Cailan's still at that gangly growing-up age- all long limbs and floppy feet like a Mabari pup- that makes dancing terribly awkward, but he tries because he knows it pleases her. She always remembers to compliment him when they've finished, even when he steps on her toes.

They're old enough to mostly understand what betrothed means, now.

Betrothed means that someday, she and Cailan will be married.

"And you will be a princess," Father says, when he kisses her forehead to bid her goodnight, "and someday after that, you will be Queen."

So she practices, in the heat of the courtyard, her dress clinging to her back and sweat beading her forehead, launching arrow after arrow at a tattered target of paper and straw.

The Queens of Ferelden are warriors, too.