Work Text:
The castle was never quiet before nightfall. Years of neglect had taken their toll and all the will in the world couldn't reverse the damage without time and money. As there was no money, it was taking a very, very long time. From first light until the last glow faded to inky blackness, there was a constant background hubbub of hammering, sawing and the shouts of busy industry. Loghain had realised, belatedly, just how much of a symbol Castle Gwaren was for the people of the town. Caer Oswin had only ever represented oppression to him, even before they fled their lands to live as fugitives. Watching people drift in when their work was done, to lend a hand or just to sit and be part of the reconstruction, moved him in ways he wasn't sure he understood.
Celia was at the heart of it, busy and industrious even now. Pregnancy had barely slowed her down, and even when it had forced her off the scaffolding herself, she was rarely away from the works, usually found deep in conversation with this architect or that artisan or those labourers. She made a fine Teyrna for them.
It was long after sunset, and the draughty corridors were lit by the guttering flame of torches burning in their brackets, but still there was the sound of busy labour from deep inside the castle. Loghain followed the noise to the eastern wing, where they had repaired the accommodations enough that they weren't a more miserable experience than his damp tent. Here the windows had glass in them, and shutters to keep out the winter storms that blew in from the frozen seas to the south and the wide fury of the Amaranthine Ocean. Furs and woven rugs lined the floors, and a fire roared in the hearth in their bedroom, where Celia stood at her desk with her back to the door, working by the light of a Rivaini lamp.
"You'll strain your eyes doing fine work by lamplight," he said, closing the door behind him to shut out the draught. The tapping of her chisel barely paused. "What is it this time? Horses, ships…"
"The forest." Celia finished whatever she was working on, brushed away the dust, and finally set down her tools. She rested her hands against her back and rolled her head back with a groan. "Our son will have to understand all parts of his lands if he's to govern it well."
Loghain smiled and came to her, wrapping his arms around her and resting one hand on the swell of her stomach. "Our daughter," he told her firmly, pressing a kiss to her neck, "will have the best teacher in Ferelden. You." When she leaned back, he took her weight and swayed to an unheard beat. Now he could see past her to the intricate decorations she was carving into the footboard of the cradle. The parts were all laid out on her desk so that she could work on them, a little every night, for as long as possible before the baby came. Their baby would lie with a map of Ferelden at their head, and a scene of crashing waves, grand ships and charging horses at their feet. "What are you going to carve when you run out of cradle?"
She laughed in his arms and turned, at last, to kiss him.