#* response.

if she knew the truth, she would be UNBELIEVABLY pissed. and hurt.

she’d understand... how ferociously protective loghain is of ferelden. they were in a war together! she knows! she was there! but everything he did was far from okay. first of all, she would feel utterly betrayed by his decision to retract from cailain’s army because, lol, that resulted in the death of her son. and while she knows loghain can be a pragmatist, and she understands the decision to actually withdraw if the battle was a hopeless one, but instead of abandoning her son to die, she thinks he should have made cailan see the error of trying to combat this at ostagar and should’ve tried to move them all elsewhere. 

letting him die is a betrayal to her, and a betrayal to maric. 

secondly, his perpetuation of civil war would infuriate her. she knows loghain to be a better political strategist than that -- letting the country tear itself a part when a blight was coming is the dumbest thing he could’ve done, she thinks, and as she is a queen with political experience under her belt, she would’ve felt that every move he made was flawed and ignorant.

a sickeningly twisted curl of his brows.

inquisition.  |  accepting.  |   @vhenadhal

this  relationship  budded  slow.  marriage  was  marriage  –  a  political  station  to  wedge  the  guerrins  into  the  royal  line,  she’  sure;  the  only  ferelden  noble  family  of  any  real  standing  anymore,  loyal  to  the  theirin  line  to  the  end.  rowan  had  been  told  this  is  what  it’d  come  to,  once  the  usurpers  were  cast  out.  she  simply  hadn’t  believed  it,  then,  and  spent  her  days  unhorsing  silly  boys  or  biting  her  sword  into  dummy  wood,  or  sometimes  just  trees.  

maric  was  a  bloody  idiot.  or,  that’s  what  everyone  had  said,  anyway.  rowan  heard  them  talking  before,  some  fragile  little  boy  in  comparison  to  his  wicked-strong  and  commandeering  mother,  promise  with  a  sword  and  wears  his  armor  well,  but  untrained,  letting  the  intricacies  of  politics  fly  past  his  youthful  head.  

rowan,  in  comparison,  had  always  listened.

she  knew  it  would  come  to  their  marriage,  in  the  end  –  only  putting  it  into  action  was..  odd.  more  difficult.  she’d  not  wanted  it,  when  it  came,  spent  her  time  keeping  up  appearances  at  his  coronation,  and  only  wishing  loghain  would  somehow  take  her  to  gwaren.  

that  never  happened.  and  now  she  is  with  child.

she  doesn’t  resent  maric.  that  stiff  betrothal  took  time  to  unfurl  like  this,  but  it  had.  she  found  herself  reaching  beyond  their  friendship,  and  understanding  why  someone  like  katriel  had  truly  adored  him.  he  was  undermined,  and  –  quite  foolish,  at  times,  but  never  truly  stupid,  and  never  cruel,  or  callous.  vengeful,  yes,  but  it  was  a  price  that  had  been  owed,  and  rowan  had  been  happy  to  pay  it  back.  

months  had  blended  into  years.  his  laugh  is  always  kind.  and  he  cherishes  her,  in  a  way  she  hadn’t  anticipated.  (hands  across  her  hard  abdomen,  soft  now  with  the  gentle  bump,  reminiscing   in  laughter  as  if  they  were  a  hundred  years  old,  and  their  battles  were  far  off;  childish  games,  their  bed  sheet  wrapped  around  her  figure  as  she  pulled  it  off  of  him  and  dared  him  with  a  devious  grin  and  finger  to  come  and  take  it  back).  

it  was  different  with  loghain  –  less  silly.  more  serious.  she  could  always  feel  her  heart  in  his  hand.  but  with  maric,  it’s  more  like  he  is  living  every  day  alongside  her,  instead  of  being  apart  of  her. 

it  isn’t  bad.  just  different.  

he  touches  her  growing  belly  now.  rowan  has  traded  steel  for  dresses,  and  dresses  for  gowns  –  and  though  this  is  the  place  they’ve  reached,  her  insecurities  rise  like  wild  dogs.  is  this?  what  you  want,  maric?  the  question  is  right  there,  unspoken,  if  had  been  me,  instead  of  her  –