Brave Faces

the policies confused her sometimes. sometimes neither monarch would understand but she put on a face that was one of regality instead of teenage loss. she passed on the few etiquette lessons she’d taken onto her now husband. they’d visit cities hit hard by the blight. little children without parents, wartorn families without children, mothers or fathers. she was expected to say hello, wave and look nice for the paintings. none expected her to stay and help in her trousers.

the balls were fun at the very least, her king spinning her around in the ballroom -- no air of tension, nothing romantic about it. they were two friends, genuinely enjoying each other’s company and the music that rose from the band. sometimes she’d listen in to conversation around, but she was more focused on who could keep up -- and who’d stumble and step on a toe first. then leliana would visit once everything died down, dressed casually but a grin on her face when she eventually saw her one and only love again, slipping through the door in the early evening and slipping back out again in the wee hours of the morning.

she believes, this is where she was meant to be. this is what she was always going to live up to. the crown rests gently in her fire red hair, golden and shimmering as the portrait is received. they glance at each other, wide grins on their faces. maybe this is what they fought for. and what they won, in the end.

but then, the years start to pass. one year becomes two. two becomes four. the crown grows heavier on her head as the pregnancy of a tense nation begins to grow. mages, templars, conspirators against her and alistair’s lives after anora’s claim to the throne was erased. her brave face is accompanied by a layer of makeup to cover the scars, lips impossibly red as she weaves in and out of social circles. spying, always listening. blackmail only a letter away to keep people from attempting a coup of her rule. they’ve decided so quickly their perfect queen is not all she seems. that the chantry is not her one true love -- and that she’s decided mages are people, just as anyone else in the court is. that concerns people.

and yet, she still smiles. she does not joke, she does not offer these same grins to the servants. a cold smirk, if that. every time the control feels like it is slipping from her grasp, she yanks harder on it. then she feels safe once again, until it inevitably falls once more.

alistair worries for her as she begins a slipping regime. it’s evident in his hesitant touches, the warmth he pours into every gaze, and she makes it worse by jumping. the trust had once been there, at one time she would’ve let him hug her as if they were siblings, but her paranoia is fraying the few ties she still has left. it’s been five years, rumors are beginning to circle that she’s infertile. that there will be no heir to speak of.

it takes a toll on her.

leliana’s visits are far and few in between those days. she begins to leave her bedroom door closed and locked, no sign of the bard following, knives hidden where she knows they are. she fends off one attempt in those four years, blood coloring the rug that had been imported from orlais when the body hits the floor. she shudders as the memories come rushing back from that fateful night in highever. blood soaking into her small clothes as she opens the door to call for guards. screams that aren’t there. a cry for help that lodges itself in her throat.

she does not accept alistair’s offer to stay with him in the following nights. she understands his intentions. she believes she trusts him. she thinks. things are so fuzzy these days. all she knows is that she needs to do something, needs to do anything. that one noble is cheating on another, that another is embezzling funds from a chantry. what support she could get if she plays her cards right, that’s all that matters to her. she discovers who sent the assassin. it does not matter that he is worried, she can fend this off herself.

everything, she can do herself. she does not need his assisstance, for she is not helpless.

her fist comes down hard and fast. the estate is liquidated, they are stripped of their position, effective of that morning. he seems surprised she even knew it was him. she retorts that rhosyn cousland is not a fool, and no one would treat her like one either. he spits on her name, and she spits back. fearful eyes are turned downward once the man is taken out in chains, no one looks at her directly.

ice feels like it encases her. she feels more and more alone as her wife’s letters stop being as frequent. alistair is reaching, reaching for the young and bubbly woman he’d married as she runs further and further away from the throne. replaced by someone else, someone who didn’t care who lived or who died as long as it kept the fragile peace fereldan was in.

a storm whirls inside of her, torrents of rain when she can finally be alone. heart pounding as she cries and cries and cries where is the old me? where is the one who would’ve relished the feeling of someone’s arms around her? please, please, maker give her back to me. this isn’t me, i want her back. please, please. please, i beg of you.

then kirkwall. kirkwall had always been a mess, she’d heard, but the explosion of achantry, the murder of grand cleric by a dissenting apostate? one that she’d conscripted into the grey wardens years prior? her position is questioned by her advisors, was it worth supporting people who were capable of that? she isn’t completely sure. but she doesn’t want to say otherwise. not to seem weak now, when people were already in an uproar in the court. she would have to see what the champion and now viscountess’ opinion of the events were, if she heard from the free marches.

the music continues to play. loud and fast and more chaotic as she focuses on the spiraling conversation of someone who disapproves of her. someone who mentions they have plans for her. another assassin then. she would remain prepared tonight, one of her sharper blades by her bed. she nearly catches the name before alistair spins her away, dress catching on her shoe. she’s frustrated, pressing her lips into a thin line. his concern etches into her soul, a brotherly worry for someone he’d watched fall apart for years. she doesn’t meet his eyes, the honey gold-brown eyes that would betray her true feelings to him.

she cracks, a fracture running along her stability. barely there, but enough to give her pause. she needs a drink, she pulls away into the crowd. words comfort her, cushioning her retreat. what did alistair know? she was pulling strings, and they were all the right ones. what mattered if she felt a little jaded sometimes?

they were still alive. most of that, unapologetically was because of her. because she managed to convince him to make the hard decisions.

she still wanted peace. even though it was more common she would choose a less savory way of reaching her goal.

that she’s afraid. afraid of losing control again. afraid of losing the safety of having a say in everything that occurs in her country, in her life. if she no longer has it, what happens? will people die again? will it be her fault?

she doesn’t want to think about seeing alistair, dead in the same position as the dozens of bodies she’d seen in highever all those years ago. she won’t let it. that is why she does this, if not to preserve her own life, then his.

then the song. the careful melody that never stops playing just inside her skull. she doesn’t know what it is at first. it’s annoying, nothing that’s played or said over it takes it away completely, like the ringing in her ears after a loud battle. except it isn’t, and she eventually cracks.

her blood runs cold when she discovers that it’s a faint calling. pulling her. the connection that she could never sever. alistair hears it, she does. they’re fearful, she’s fearful. this, she can not blackmail into quitting. this, she can not stab a blade or shoot an arrow through it’s heart. it is marching, marching, marching along with the beat of her heart.

she decides that her control will not end with this. that she has come this far, survived a massacre. that this could not be the end of her. that she would not submit to such a thing. determined, she packs her bags one afternoon. pulling on armor she didn’t think she’d don again. it’s fits snugly, tighter than she remembers. but a sense of familiarity floods her. pulling the heavy crown off her head is a relief, a loss of the pain of ruling leaves her for a moment before rushing back and receding again. red hair falls to her shoulders in the mirror, for a moment it shows the blue eyes shining like sapphires instead of icicles, soft, warm, inviting. kind.

happy.

then alistair is there in the doorway, her trusty dog by his side cocking his head as he trots inside. her illusion breaks as she sets her face. confused, terrified. why the armor, why is she leaving so suddenly? rhosyn, you didn’t even tell me.

she can not let their lives fall apart because of some stupid calling. the notes are playing louder as the blood rushes in her ears, throbbing on the sides of her head. he asks her quietly if she thinks she can really find a solution as she paces around the room (where is her bloody helmet? what had she done with it last?)  -- something people for centuries have simply accepted. she doesn’t know. maybe. but if there is one, she will. she has to.

he asks her if this is worth it -- leaving fereldan right after the mage rebellions have begun attempts to form properly. that sends a stake through her chest, leaving fereldan proper. her mabari whines at her side, nudging her knee as she finally looks into his eyes. golden brown, small wrinkles around the corners. caring, soft. worried about her, and finally not taking no as answer when he holds her hand in his firmly when she turns to pull away.

there is no anger. there is only a faint sadness. he knows he can’t turn her off this path, not now. so he won’t try.

she opens her mouth to start again, if only i had the time, i could do this and you and me would not have to worry, alistair, i am doing this for us and-

he hugs her, arms tight around her smaller form. at first she’s stunned. her eyes wide, panicking. no one had touched her in such a manner for some years now. she had expected some pushback, but instead she feels the ice thawing the longer she rests there, tears welling up in her eyes as she leans her head against his chest.

she’s not ready to die. she knows that she still has years but she doesn’t want to die. pretentious, maybe arrogant but she can’t. she can’t. not before she’s made a proper difference.

she was supposed to die in highever. she didn’t.

she was supposed to die in the blight. she didn’t.

if she were to die from a calling, one thing that she couldn’t control, couldn’t opt of, she isn’t sure what she’d do. she feels so out of control, spiralling as things fall apart around her. her own relationships, not having seen fergus in at least a year by now with no correspondance wishing for it. she misses leliana dearly, there has been no raven for sometime now. the politics are becoming too much, mages versus the templars always on everyone’s minds. her support of the arcane earning her more enemies than allies. she could only protect the circle so much before everything went to hell.

that she could not yank back into place. this had been many years coming now. she could not glue her and fergus’ relationship back together. she couldn’t force leliana to respond or to even find the woman anymore. it’d been a long time since a raven had been by properly.

but alistair -- he had always been by her side. even as she tried and tried and tried to distance herself from everyone. he kept gently tugging her back, chipping at the shields she’d set up around her heart.

and so she cries. hugging his form and clutching the back of his shirt, don’t let me go, not now.

rhosyn is good at brave faces. by then they’re an art form. but the hug that lingers when she steps out of the castle that evening, under the cover of darkness and a black cloak, it breaks her masks into shards. her face is free of the caked on makeup, her head is lighter without the crown and she can move nimbly once more without the petticoats and corsets underneath. her bow is dutifully on her back, her dog running after her.

but her brave face is long behind her. she no longer needs it. flames lick her insides again.