My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  "Father," Rosamund said, her fingers digging into the skirts to lift them high as she emerged onto the landing of the big staircase to make their entrance.

  "Rosie!" the King gasped through a mouth crammed full of crackers. Crumbs shot from his lips like dust shaken off carpets and he smiled wide. Someone made their haphazard King dress properly for this in a doublet that was a bit stuffier than Cailan's but dapper none the less.

  "I see Charles put in a lot of hard work," Rosamund tipped her head to the clean and polished shine of her father's outfit.

  He ran a hand against his stomach and then smiled. There were few things that didn't make the beloved king smile. "You think? Maker knows I don't make it easy on him. Oh, do you want any of the... What were these called?" he turned to the servant who looked about to panic. They must have shipped in extras for the party, the in-house ones knew their kings quirks well.

  "I can't remember, Sire," the man gasped to his king, the tray rattling at his failure.

  But Alistair smiled, "Long name for such a tiny thing, but they're tasty. Give my compliments to whoever squeezed it out of the goose and scraped it across the cracker."

  The elven man blushed an even deeper red and tried to bow. No doubt her father spotted the man making for the ballroom and absconded him away. Who could say no to the King after all? Turning, the servant tried to offer up one to Rosie, but she held her hand up. "No, thank you."

  "Are you certain? I know they look like grey baby poop, but it's really good."

  Rosie slipped a hand over her father's to get into position and allow the servant to return to his duties. "I'm afraid if I eat a single cracker while wearing this the seams of my dress will pop."

  Below them, the band stopped and then a line of horns lifted to chapped lips. Her father, as always, took one step lower on the stairs before it was time. Rosie sighed and tugged him back up beside her. Shrugging as if it was all an accident and not him misbehaving when he could get away with it, the King -- with their crowned princess in hand -- officially stepped into the ballroom. All eyes turned from their drinks and dinner to watch the pair descend.

  Rosamund had done this probably dozens of times since the crowning ceremony. That was when her mother the Queen officially shifted to the other staircase with her son while the King and future queen stepped down to present a united front. With each step, the anxiety circling her ankles rose higher. What if she fell? Would her father catch her or would she take him down too? There were so many eyes dissecting her looking for a weakness to exploit. What if she crumbled into a weeping mess over nothing? It never happened before but there was a first time for anything.

  Fingers patted over top of hers and her narrowing vision twisted over to her father. He scrunched up a single eye, his assuring wink dredging up all the smile lines he'd accrued over his lifetime at this. "You're doing just fine," he whispered, "but if I were to trip and fall...."

  "I'd catch you," Rosie said certainly.

  "I was going to say you'd have the best seat in the house," her father winked at her to land his joke.

  Sucking in a breath that barely lifted the dragon bones pinching into her sides, Rosamund let her foot land upon the marble of the ballroom. Her father removed his guiding hand but didn't wander too far away. In truth, he seemed about as excited to be here as he would in a meeting.

  All the eyes that'd been sizing up her dress, her hair, and her poise now pivoted to the goofy king. Somehow that judgmental haze snapped away; no one expected much from Alistair, which suited him just fine. "Friends, Banns, Countrymen, that man back there trying to sneak away an entire shrimp cocktail in his trousers," he jabbed a finger towards the anterior ballroom to find this shellfish thief. All the guests turned to follow, the man trying to shrink in on himself even as cocktail sauce stains appeared like magic from the inside of his pants.

  Clapping his hands, Alistair drew them all back. There was going to be some big speech, a fancy way to draw together whatever reason they were celebrating into a neat package. Eventually the speeches would pass to Rosamund, but not for many years. Sitting in on meetings was one thing, but publicly summarizing an entire gathering in a few poignant sentences was beyond her.

  "Thanks for coming tonight and please do have fun," Alistair said before taking a small bow. Polite applause broke through the crowd, fingers gently thudding into gloves as her father turned away to, sure enough, eye up the cheese tray.

  "That was it?" Rosie gasped, trailing after her father in surprise. "Surely you had to announce something else, something about..."

  Turning on his heel, her father chuckled, "Spud, no one listens to what I have to say. It's just that I say something. Otherwise they're all stuck standing around trapped forever in a small talk loop while the wine gets warm and the food goes cold."

  "Oh," she felt her cheeks lighting up under the false rouge. It was so simple but...it had always seemed magical before. When she was little, she'd sometimes rush ahead or sit by her old nanny's legs while waiting for her father to appear. He'd say the special words and then a party happened, royalty casting its noble spell. Rosie was certain there had to be more to it than 'have fun, don't break anything.'

  Sighing, her father stretched his neck and glanced around, "Not seeing a lot of people I need to talk to." Need to him was code for 'Karelle would fricassee him if he dared to snub them.' Rosie turned to follow, surprised to find very few Arls or even Banns around. She wasn't 100% certain what the ball was in honor of, but there was always a great cluster of nobility hanging around. All the faces she saw were young, scrubbed squeaky clean, and dressed in their houses best. Curious.

  "Wait, I do see someone," Alistair made a beeline through piles of young couples all speaking to each other. When the king dipped into their circle, they'd all stop, attempt to bow and be polite to their majesty, while he kept on plowing past. Rosie tried to offer a few apologies but the people returned to each other without a thought. A ring of her father's Knights stood at attention around the exits. It was more a show of force than for any real security, but it did make Rosamund feel better to know they were around.

  She assumed her father wished to speak to one of them, but instead of a face perched above a neck of metal, he turned to one of the squires at the sides. This one was wearing a frock of forest green with three silver serpents fighting against a mabari on the front of his chest. Judging by how it strained against his frame looking about to shred to tatters if he sneezed, it hadn't been intended for him originally.

  The...it was hard to call him a boy, but that was what squires were. He stared at the distant horizon, seemingly unimpressed by the offerings of the rich and powerful mucking about. Seemingly so lost in his own world it wasn't until the King nearly trod upon his toes that he snapped awake.

  "Gavin!" her father shouted, actually throwing his arms around the lad and tugging him in for a hug.

  "Y...your Highness," this Gavin stuttered. His eyes darted over to his Knight who was suddenly very curious about why the King was hugging her errand boy.

  "How are you? Got you all settled in, I see," Alistair twisted his chin up to the woman glaring at them, "Daryan. She's not giving you the run around, right?"

  "No, Sir," Gavin shook his head, then suddenly grimaced and tacked on, "Sire, I mean."

  "You look...Maker's breath, you're tall. You're taller than me. Here..." Then her father pulled the poor, beleaguered boy away from the wall and stood back to back with him. Running his hands over the top of his hair, Alistair measured the distance between that and the boy's shaved head. "Damn, when did that happen?"

  "I, sometime a year or so ago," Gavin stuttered. He was so lost and frightened he began to crouch lower as if it was illegal for a citizen to be taller than his king. Unaware he may have caused any offense, Alistair slugged him in the shoulder and half hugged him back to his full strapping height.

  "Bet it's your mother's doing there."

  Gavin's eyes bulged a moment, those striking amber colors
darting all around as if the King just divulged a well hidden secret. "S...sire?"

  "You know, cause her family's either well, like her, or like your..." Alistair leaned closer to Gavin's ear, but Rosamund could still hear him whisper, "Qunari invasion stopping, mage rebellion starting aunt."

  "Ah," Gavin nodded as if grateful. "Yes. I forgot that you...you and my mother were, are friends."

  For a pang her father smiled wistfully as if something stung him. "We certainly try to be. But I'm probably taking you from your very important duties of standing in place and guarding that wall. We can get caught up later."

  The poor squire took a deep breath as the monarch he was devoted to serve slid away. Suddenly, Alistair's eyes darted back to his daughter and he slapped his forehead so loudly the sound broke over the small talk and music. "I forgot, Gavin this is my daughter Rosie. Rosie, this is..."

  "Gavin, I presume," she smiled and with a tender touch dipped her fingers into his palm. The man looked gobsmacked, his hand barely circling over hers in a handshake. All he could manage was to gawp while staring at her in terror.

  "Yes'm. I mean, that'd be me, my lady. Majesty. Um, princess?"

  His near on panic oddly soothed Rosie's and she couldn't stop the smile of gratefulness at having it washed away from her. "Do you have a family name, lord Gavin?"

  "It's, uh," he gulped again, seeming to not want to spit it out. Strange. It wasn't beyond the realm for her father to make friends in the oddest of places. He somehow owed nearly fifty sovereigns to the head cook. But it wasn't as if the King would befriend a person with a dark past, much less invite him to the palace.

  Alistair slid in next to his daughter and said, "He's Lanny's boy. You know..." her father tipped his head towards Fort Drakon and Rosamund gasped.

  How did she miss it? "Maker's breath, of course! Your mother is...and your father, both are beloved and good people."

  "You know her?" Gavin seemed surprised at that.

  "In fact, little Rosie here was at their wedding." Her father wrapped an arm around her and smiled, "As I remember she stole a bunch of flowers, grabbed half the cake with her frosting-coated hands, and then fell asleep during the first dance right on the floor."

  "Da-ad," Rosamund groaned, trying to peel away his grip and treacly sentiment. It was so hard for him to see her as anything other than a six year old girl.

  Alistair chuckled at her embarrassment, but released his hug. "I believe that's my cue to get the void out of here and let all you young people have fun. If anything big happens -- orlesian invasions, dragon attacks, a Bann gets drunk enough to jump off a three story ledge, I'll be in my rooms. Oh, and Gavin, do stop by when you have a moment in the next few days. I'm...around." Sliding away without a care in the world, the king of Ferelden snuck a few cheesepuffs off a tray before he slunk back up the stairs he descended only five minutes before.

  "Were you, did you really attend my parent's wedding?" Gavin spoke to her before he shut his eyes tight as if that was the wrong thing to say to a princess.

  Rosamund smiled, "Yes, though everything else my father claimed was...an elaboration on his part."

  "He does those often," the Knight beside Gavin huffed.

  He may be foolish at times, but he was still her father and their King. Rosamund felt indignant, as if she should rescue her father's reputation, when she caught Cailan gliding through the throngs on the arm of their mother. There was something she needed to ask him before he did vanish deep into the casks.

  "If you will excuse me Ser Daryan and squire Gavin," Rosamund plucked up her gown and moved to slide away.

  Behind her, Gavin gasped out, "You look lovely this evening, your Majesty." He looked as if he'd been trying for days to spit that out, his entire chest collapsing in on itself while he held his breath.

  "Thank you," she tipped her head, uncertain what to do with the sentiment. Shaking away the strange encounter with the boy, Rosamund pirouetted around the piles of young people. All of them were her age or slightly older. It wasn't the Banns and Arls who'd normally attend, but their children all herded together into the ballroom for some reason.

  As she reached close to Cailan's side, her brother clinging to their mother's arm, she whispered, "I need to speak to you."

  "Rosie, the belle of the ball herself," Cailan chuckled, enjoying this far too much. "Why are you wasting your breath upon me?"

  She was about to ask what was going on, when her mother turned to her. Queen Beatrice was not a cold woman, she wasn't strict or harsh, but she was neat. A lot of Rosamund's early memories were of her mother pinning things in place, washing out spots, and taking the time to hide away any imperfections. Her father was the exact opposite, he all but relished in the unfinished wood or brushstrokes of life.

  For this dance, the Queen spared no expense. Her grey hair, once as dark as her children's, was pinned up so tight it was doubtful even air could get in. The dress was stuffy but elegant, cornflower blues and ochre golds circling her trim waist as they expanded off her hips in a gigantic circle. No doubt the scaffolding under her dress could make a dwarf weep in joy.

  "I assume your father has already abandoned the ceremonies," Beatrice pursed her lips together in annoyance. "This should not come as a surprise and yet I'd hoped..."

  "Mother," Rosamund slid closer to her to be able to hear her soft voice. She was a few inches taller than the petite Queen, but in the scheme of things it wasn't much. "What is going on? Why are we celebrating? What are we celebrating with a ball?"

  Beatrice patted her daughter's gloved hands as if she should have figured it all out by now.

  It was her damn brother who sputtered out a laugh, "Can't you see? It's your betrothal market show."

  "What?!" Rosamund shot up, trying to scan the mass of bodies. This time she noticed how many male eyes turned to her as if she was the only strip of meat on a lonely buffet.

  "You parade around from arm to arm, get a bit flirty -- assuming you can flirt -- while all the men here attempt to win you over. How in the Maker's name did you not know?"

  She ignored her snake of a brother to hone in on her mother who no doubt schemed exactly this. "Do not pull that face, young lady," Beatrice scolded her. "You are twenty four, nearing your twenty fifth year. You need to find a husband to put on the throne beside you."

  "Twenty four is not that..." Rosamund began, but her mother clucked her tongue.

  "Your father is not getting any younger. And the entire bannorn would feel much more secure if you were to be officially wed and be on your way to producing an heir before you reach twenty five."

  Blighted hell! "Twenty five? Not just married but with child already? Is it not enough for me to be a good Queen? To rule properly and learn how to manage the kingdom with a just hand?" She felt the corset constricting, cutting tighter into her chest with each breath. This couldn't be happening. She had time, lots of time. Her father didn't have her until he was in his thirties.

  "Rosamund," her mother chastised her, "you must do all of those things and also bear the next fruit in this tree. That is how this works."

  "Ha," Cailan chuckled, "and all you were hoping for was the shiny hat and chair."

  "You as well, young man. They will want a larger royal family to expand upon."

  Rosamund rolled her eyes wide, "Pretty sure Cailan's way ahead of me on working at that goal."

  Their kind, normally shrewd but sometimes too trusting mother blinked in confusion. "What do you mean?" she tipped her head as if she was under the delusion her little boy was yet a virgin.

  "Never mind," Rosie waved her hands in the air to dismiss the thought. "You can't be serious. To, I haven't prepared anything. I don't know these men. What are their credentials? Have they ever shown an ability to govern?"

  "My dear child," Beatrice wrapped a hand around her daughter and sighed, "there is little preparing in this matter. Speak to them, charm them, dazzle them with your wit. A good match will in turn bob to the surface."

&n
bsp; Rosamund pursed her lips, her toe tapping into the floor. They wanted her to be the pretty princess wrapped in jewels and good fortune for the man that claimed her. The beautiful woman who glided from arm to arm and all without any prep work. She didn't just walk up to someone without being briefed, it never worked that way in her entire life. And now she was being sent out into the shark infested waters armed only with a smile.

  "I..." Beatrice's assuring smile chipped away, as her usually genial mother all but hissed at a man sliding along the edges. Unlike all the men she had shipped in for the night, this one was older. Perhaps in his late 50s, with a bald plate at the top of his head. When he caught the Queen's eye he tipped his head and then shifted through the crowds towards them. For a moment, Beatrice gripped so tightly onto Rosamund's hand the princess yelped in pain.

  "Good evening, my Queen," the man said, bowing deeply in Beatrice's direction. When he snapped back up, his ice blue eyes burned in their mother's. It felt strangely intimate, as if the rest of the ballroom faded away while these two strangers stared at each other. Shaking it away, the man turned to both Rosamund and then Cailan. At the boy he blinked a bit, his lips falling slack.

  "And who are these two?"

  "The crowned princess Rosamund," Beatrice waved her hand at Rosie, who at her mother's look grabbed onto her skirts and did a small curtsy so this stranger wouldn't touch her. "And the prince Cailan."

  While Cailan was far too enraptured watching one of the girls skipping around the edge to notice the hungry way this strange man stared at him, when he turned back he grabbed onto his hand and shook it. "Who might you be?"

  "I am, I was Brother Cordell," he said with such gravity it felt as if it should mean something to them. Cailan and Rosie shared a look, both feeling it, then Cailan shrugged. The man narrowed his eyes and added, "I am also..."

  "Here to see me," Beatrice spoke up, wrapping a protective hand around the once-brother's arm. When she gripped down, Rosie watched the shirt and brother's arm muscle bulge. "Come along, sir. Let us leave the children in peace." With her death grip, their mother tugged this stranger along into a side room. Not even a lady in waiting trailed her, all of them too enraptured in the goings on of the dance.