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Sometimes Anora begrudges the Maker for not making her a boy when she was born. Being a much more competent ruler than your spouse would have been much less of an issue and way less exhausting had she been the man and Cailan her wife. Cailan could have just looked pretty and smiled at people, while she would have been taken seriously by nobles and no one would have blamed her for being unable to produce an heir.
People wouldn’t have more than raised an eyebrow if she took a lover, either. Especially not if said lover was a woman.
When Anora looks at Ylsa Aeducan she can see so much of herself. Passed over to rule despite her competence, thrown to the wolves by the schemes of politics around her, still clinging to a place she rightfully belongs to but that slipped from her grasp through no fault of her own.
Does she want Ylsa? She finds that she very much does.
Can she justify following her desires even when she already stands at the edge of everything she’s built? Hour long conversations and cultural exchange, lingering glances and the brush of a calloused hand against hers have made her feel almost reckless.
She looks at the broad shoulders and the short cropped, dark hair, the facial tattoos and the intelligent, black eyes and curses the Maker for what feels like the hundredth time. Ylsa might be of noble birth, but she’s neither a man nor a human, so what good does it do Anora?
What if she just throws herself headlong into a scandal, abdicating the throne and allowing herself the freedom she always lacked? It is the dream of a foolish young girl, Anora knows. There is no future for Anora and Ylsa, but that doesn’t mean that she cannot wish or dream or curse the Maker for not giving her a single thing she wants.
As she stands in the courtyard to officially see the Grey Wardens off, Ylsa’s heavy armour glitters in the sparse sunlight on an otherwise grey day. She really looks like the Jewel of Orzammar, even though she doesn’t wear a fine silk dress or her hair in custom long braids. Anora wonders what it would feel like to have these rough hands push up her skirts, to have Ylsa fall to her knees in front of Anora before making her fall to hers.
Instead she stands silent like a statue, pose perfect, face pleasantly neutral, her blue dress immaculate and her hair done up by Erlina as it has been every morning without a strand out of order.
The wind makes her dress billow in the wind around her ankles and she watches as Ylsa says something to one of her companions before turning around and walking back towards her. Anora’s heart skips a foolish beat before restarting at double its former speed. It feels as if those eyes can see straight through her, but maybe that is just wishful thinking.
Oh, how Anora longs to be seen.
They stand in front of each other for just a moment, but that moment feels like an eternity. Then, because the Maker is cruel and so is Ylsa, she reaches for Anora’s hand and bows her head, pressing her lips to the back of Anora’s hand, setting her entire body aflame.
“Be well, my Lady,” Ylsa says with her deep and steady voice that threatens to unmake Anora. Ylsa holds onto her hand for a little bit too long before pulling back and looking up at her, a tight line around her beautiful mouth, telling Anora how hard it is to say goodbye.
It would have been kinder if Anora was the only one who felt the tugging desire.
“And you too, Grey Warden,” Anora says with a slight nod of her head.
She does not throw her life and dignity to the wolves and her arms around Ylsa’s neck. She does not tell Ylsa to come back to her safely, does not make promises or voice wishes, no matter how much she wants to. She remains, even in the face of utter desolation, calm and poised, the perfect picture of the dutiful Queen and Widow.
Ylsa bows to her and Anora understands intrinsically that Ylsa would not bow to anyone else. Not to Cailan, not to her father, not to King Maric before him or to Earl Eamon. She bows to Anora as an equal and someone who understands.
And Anora, bowing her head in shame in the face of her courage and cowardice, lets her go.