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((OOC: Drakonis 9:33 - The Trestlebridge Estate, Gwaren - @Quinton Yorath))
One year.
A little over one year Constance had been wed to Thomas Howe when he died. One year and a month she had been married to Roderick. Now, like Thomas, he was gone. The nobility of Ferelden stood about what was nothing more than a ceremonial pyre. There was no body to commit to the flames. Roderick had been lost at sea; all those on his vessel presumed dead.
Many came to pay their respects but Constance was no fool as to believe there was any actual respect meant within their words. They bowed their heads. They offered their condolences. They lied each and every one of them. Roderick would not be missed, not by any really but herself, Peter and his Aunt Elaine.
Roderick was the first father her son every truly known. He doted upon Peter, reading books to him each night. He took him on hunts with that insufferable hawk of his. Peter took the news particularly rough, crying himself to sleep that night. Constance allowed him his grief that evening and into the next day. If he was to be Teyrn someday, though, he could not wear his emotions so openly. She did not wish to raise a Fergus Cousland; a man she had no doubt was coddled as a youth. The lesson was a hard one for Peter to learn, but like all things the boy was challenged with, he stood to the challenge. Stoic, he stood at his mother’s side during the services.
Roderick was the first husband Constance had truly known. Theirs was not a love match and to admit even such love came to form in time filled Constance with more anger than affection. Roderick made her weak. He made her feel things she swore to never feel, to keep tamped down in a place where only her lessers resided. But she had loved him, more than perhaps he deserved. And she was quite sure, in his way, he loved her as well.
None of that mattered now as she milled about the wake the Trestlebridges insisted on hosting for Roderick. If there were two in all of Gwaren Constance was sure was dancing upon Roderick’s watery grave, the Trestlebridges were them. Still, she could not refuse the offer and allowed them to hold what one spy in their household had already reported they called a ‘grand celebration’.
One year.
A little over one year Constance had been wed to Thomas Howe when he died. One year and a month she had been married to Roderick. Now, like Thomas, he was gone. The nobility of Ferelden stood about what was nothing more than a ceremonial pyre. There was no body to commit to the flames. Roderick had been lost at sea; all those on his vessel presumed dead.
Many came to pay their respects but Constance was no fool as to believe there was any actual respect meant within their words. They bowed their heads. They offered their condolences. They lied each and every one of them. Roderick would not be missed, not by any really but herself, Peter and his Aunt Elaine.
Roderick was the first father her son every truly known. He doted upon Peter, reading books to him each night. He took him on hunts with that insufferable hawk of his. Peter took the news particularly rough, crying himself to sleep that night. Constance allowed him his grief that evening and into the next day. If he was to be Teyrn someday, though, he could not wear his emotions so openly. She did not wish to raise a Fergus Cousland; a man she had no doubt was coddled as a youth. The lesson was a hard one for Peter to learn, but like all things the boy was challenged with, he stood to the challenge. Stoic, he stood at his mother’s side during the services.
Roderick was the first husband Constance had truly known. Theirs was not a love match and to admit even such love came to form in time filled Constance with more anger than affection. Roderick made her weak. He made her feel things she swore to never feel, to keep tamped down in a place where only her lessers resided. But she had loved him, more than perhaps he deserved. And she was quite sure, in his way, he loved her as well.
None of that mattered now as she milled about the wake the Trestlebridges insisted on hosting for Roderick. If there were two in all of Gwaren Constance was sure was dancing upon Roderick’s watery grave, the Trestlebridges were them. Still, she could not refuse the offer and allowed them to hold what one spy in their household had already reported they called a ‘grand celebration’.