At the borders of Ferelden, there are roses.
It startled travelers, at first. Dirty, doggish Ferelden. To be greeted at the waypoints, the gateways with such a delicate scent.
Mostly red. Some white and pink. Climbing along fences, twining up guard towers. And…this is the important bit…full of tiny, viscious thorns.
Diplomats report that there was no decree sent forth. No edict from the palace in Denerim. Just one day, a bann here or there decided to make a pretty hedgerow. Fereldens don’t like their leaders to put on too many airs, so it was logical the common folk would add their own- to mark a gate or a path or a death.
They grow at the crossroads as well. If you see one bush, seemingly random along the road? Look up and there will be another, blazing color in the distance beckoning a weary traveler forward.
It seems odd here, in backwater Ferelden, where the streets are mud even in the towns, to find your path suddenly fragrant and peppered with petals.
It seems odd they don’t freeze in the terrible winters. It’s said the roses at the palace bloom all year.
A hardy variety, the locals will tell you. Pulled from the edges of the Kokari Wilds. Or the Brecillian Forest. No telling what the elves have bred into them. Or perhaps it was mages.
The crimson hips will sure carry you through a fever, though.
And as the king makes his processionals, he’s sure to stop and compliment the fish wife who feeds her scarlet climbers fish guts.
And it’s nice to be known to the king.
And occasionally, if the wind is right? He’ll pluck a blossom (usually with permission. He’s such a polite boy, Chantry manners you know).
He’ll take a bloom and shatter it in his hand and let the petals catch the wind.
You never know, he’ll say.
theartofmadeline
romaincrisis
