Disclaimer: Dragon Age belongs to BioWare

Perspective

The girl speeds up the slope to the castle, unmindful of the growing stitch in her side, the slap of her sandals a counterpoint to the panicky tattoo of her heart. Two days! Corum said she started her pains two days ago. And they couldn't be bothered to send someone for her own daughter – if I hadn't bumped into Corum – oh, blessed, sweet Andraste, let her be all right, it's too soon, she looked so tired. I begged her to stay home this week but she just laughed and said … A carriage rushes toward her, and she flings herself aside, noting the Redcliffe heraldry emblazoned on the coach as it passes in a great clatter of hooves. Mam never fails to make a comment about nobles and their "towers," she thinks distractedly, a grin tugging her lips in spite of herself, then sobers in a fresh wave of concern. Oh, Mam, I'm coming.

The kitchen staff swirls in the pre-dinner dance around the girl and the housekeeper.

"No…no, you're wrong…"

"Not likely I'd mistake such a thing," the woman snorts. "Too soon, too much blood, and she and the babe gone in a matter of hours, so the midwife said. Maker knows it took long enough to clean up afterward."

"But, why did no one tell me?" She chokes on the last words as her tears finally spill over. The housekeeper shrugs irritably.

"Am I a messenger service to the relatives of every serving slut in the castle?" she snaps with a touch of defensiveness. "And them nobles come sweeping in without a by your leave and order the remains whisked off with hardly a chance to cool. Though I suppose if the rumors about the father were true that would explain a few things…" this said with a conspiratorial glance at the weeping girl, who nods her head helplessly. "Hmph."

The housekeeper taps her foot and stares at the girl, who stands with her arms wrapped tightly around her skinny body as if fearing her sobs would shake her to pieces were she to let go, and relents.

"Child, it's a hard truth but there's no help for it now and no place for you here. Goldanna, is it? What are you, twelve, thirteen? Not too soon to begin making your way in the world. Go to the Chantry, the sisters should offer some charity to get you –" A crash of silverware overrides her, and she whirls and bears down furiously on a hapless footman standing in a pile of cutlery. Later, when she remembers to look around, the girl is nowhere to be seen, and the woman dismisses her from her thoughts with a certain amount of relief.

As soon as Goldanna loses the bulwark of the housekeeper's imposing presence, the bustling kitchen traffic closes in and shunts her from place to place as she stands lost in shock and grief. An aggravated "Move, your Grace!" accompanied by a shove rouses her to stumble blindly through the nearest doorway.

Mam. Oh, Mam. She struggles to breathe through the ache in her throat, her chest, her gut, mechanically placing one foot after the other, indifferent to her direction. I can't...what will I do without you? Save for a memory of pipe smoke and a rumbling voice, she barely remembers her father; it has always been Mam and Goldanna. Mam with her warm smile and easy laugh, whose presence could always be felt in their tiny rooms even after taking the position that required her to stay at the castle most days of the week. "We do what we can with what we're given," she would say serenely. "Now, you give me a hug and a love." And she would grin and tweak her daughter's nose.

I don't understand. You always said the king was so kind. Sad and kind. That everything would be all right. But they just...disposed...of you. The flagstones shimmer in a blur of tears. You and the little one...how could he...they wouldn't just let it...go...could they?

"What's your business here, girl? Oy! I'm talking to you!"

She raises her head, scrubbing at her eyes with the heel of her palm, and blinks at her surroundings. Two guardsmen, one dark with a long-since broken nose, the other with a startling shock of red hair, eye her curiously. Off-duty, judging by the dice cup in the redhead's hand. Or maybe not, she thinks with pain, as some of Mam's sardonic comments on palace life cross her mind.

"I'm sorry, I'm...I should find...servant's entrance...sers," she stammers. Broken-nose snorts and reaches for the dice cup, and Redhead squints at her speculatively.

"Are you new? Pretty thing. Seem familiar."

"Sers, my mother is-was...she worked in the palace. But she just...she's gone." Broken-nose raises an eyebrow. She swallows hard and looks back at the ground, disregarding their muttered comments in her effort not to break down.

"Huh. That one."

"What?"

"The royal doxy."

"Really?" Redhead stares at Goldanna with renewed interest, then looks back and grins. His companion rolls his eyes and shrugs.

"Fine, whatever. I'll be at the tavern." He stands and brushes past the girl, shaking his head.

"Come on," Redhead says, taking Goldanna's arm, "I know a shortcut." She nods and obediently follows the tug on her arm, grateful for his help as another wave of loss smothers all other thought.

"Here we are."

She looks around the storeroom in confusion and rising alarm. "This isn't...no, I should go-"

She tries to pull away and whimpers in pain as his grip tightens.

"Relax, just going to have some fun." He kicks the door closed & drops the bar.

"No...don't. Don't!"

He tightens his belt and adjusts his trews. "Well, that was not what I expected, even from a virgin" he says disgustedly. He glances over to where the girl huddles against the barrel, unmoving since sliding to the floor after he finished. "Guess the king got the talented one. Still..."

Frozen, her entire being focused on a chip in the wall in an attempt to block out the ordeal and the hurt and the shame, she flinches violently when something hits the clay next to her. Don't! She is vaguely aware of him leaving, but feels incapable of moving even if the building were to collapse. She wishes it would.

Her eyes drift downward, and it takes several minutes to register what the object is. Round. Yellow. A sovereign. Guilt, or payment for services rendered? She turns her head and tries not to retch.

I want my Mam...

Seemingly she is going to live. Somehow. She looks back at the coin, and after a long moment slowly reaches for it. We do what we can with what we're given, she thinks dully.

Little is left of the sovereign after paying the healer. She can scarcely bear to go back and ask for Mam's back wages, but need drives her to steel herself. To her humiliation, she is dismissed like a beggar. When it becomes obvious the landlord wants a more distasteful form of payment, she abandons her and Mam's home and uses the remainder of her funds to make her way to Denerim.

After weeks of sleeping on doorsteps and eating garbage, she is taken in by old Mistress Farley to assist with her cleaning and mending service. In time, she becomes accomplished enough that when the old woman passes on a few years later their few customers willingly return.

She is gently and persistently courted by Will Goeder the stonemason, who is slow of wit but kindly in nature. Eventually she is won over, and with him she discovers a fragile contentment she had despaired of ever knowing. Somehow his simplistic understanding of life is a comfort, something to shield her when at night in the Fade faceless demons in nobles' garb torment her and steal away all she loves.

Together they have four children whom they adore, although to Goeder's puzzlement and the midwife's exasperation she suffers an anxiety bordering upon terror each time her labors come.

Shortly after their youngest's first birthday, an overloaded scaffolding collapses and Goeder is gravely injured. The healers do their utmost and he survives, but with a mangled body that will never work a trade again. What little they have saved goes to the healers.

The family's well-being now rests solely upon her shoulders. Her business sense and her tongue sharpen alike. Once avoiding the notice of the upper-classes, now she stifles her discomfort and solicits their custom when the rare opportunities arise. She and her competition develop a friendly enmity, slyly attempting to undercut each other's customer base but closing ranks in face of corrupt Guards and other troubles, of which there are plenty. Times are tough, and she is always weary to the bone.

Not a day goes by that she doesn't miss her mother.

The bell over the shop door jangles. In the back room, Goldanna rubs her aching eyes as she sets aside her stitching and, peering through the privacy screen, pauses in surprise.

Oh, no. Mercenaries? I should think they'd want a leather worker or Wade's Armory, not a seamstress. In fact, that looks to be some of Master Wade's best work, perhaps even finer. Killing for hire's certainly doing well for them. She wrinkles her nose as the draft from the door reaches her, bearing a rank odor of stale sweat, old blood, rust, oil, and...and cheese? Ah. Right, of course.

She walks briskly forward as the taller one is hesitantly calling out, "Err, hello?"

"You have linens to wash?" More a statement than a query. Odd, who does he remind me of? "I charge three bits on the bundle, you won't find better. And don't trust what that Natalia tells you, either. She's foreign and she'll rob you blind." Light from the partially opened shutter falls across his face as he turns, and the shock hits her like a physical blow.

Maker's breath! He looks just like the king! Who...? Tension winds up her spine and into her gut, and she misses the first part of his response.

"...of strange, but are you Goldanna?" He shifts awkwardly under her gaze, and speaks rapidly, his accent cultured. "If so, I suppose I'm your brother."

For a moment all she can do is stare in dumbfounded silence.

"My what? I am Goldanna, yes...how do you know my name?" Wait, anyone could have told him that, don't be stupid...My brother? Anger begins to burn through the confusion. Cruel, cruel...you stinking hulk, you think that's funny? "What kind of tomfoolery are you folk up to?" she snaps.

His companion – a woman – touches his arm and they turn aside to speak in an undertone. Goldanna's thoughts churn. She tries but fails to see any resemblance to her blood in this youth. What if it's true? I know they had healers in the castle; they could have saved the babe. And just...taken him away? Then what about Mam? No... no, of course not, she was beneath their notice, wasn't she... can't have common trash raising a prince of the blood, can we? Oh, sweet Andraste, they probably didn't even try to save her... or they even...made certain...Bile rises in her throat as the man begins talking.

"Look, our mother...she worked as a servant in Redcliffe Castle a long time ago, before she died. Do you know about that? She-"

"You!" she bursts out before the bitterness can strangle her. "They told me you was dead! Them's at the castle said you was dead! He-they throws a coin at me and just sends me on my way all on my own!"

He looks taken aback. "I'm sorry, I...didn't know that. The babe didn't die. I'm him; I'm...your brother." This...stranger...sounds as though he expects her to fall into his arms for a joyful embrace. If so, he is sorely disappointed.

Years' worth of rage and pain and loneliness boil over and she spits venom, not so much at the unfortunate youth but at the king whose likeness is stamped in his face ("You killed Mother, you did!"), at the high-handed nobles whose accent she hears in his voice ("They ran me off!"), at the vicious guardsman she sees in his profession ("And who are you? Some tart ...?"), at the Maker-be-damned unfairness of it all.

The boy is stammering and embarrassed, when his companion interjects quietly, "Goldanna, Alistair came here hoping to find his family."

Silence.

"Well, so he's found it," she says wearily, utterly drained after her outburst. "I'm his sister. But what are you to me, boy, except the one who took my mother away?" She would say more, but her throat has tightened and chokes off her voice. That's all I've known 'til now- my life's shape; there is no happy cubbyhole labeled 'Grown-up Little Brother' ready and waiting for you to just drop into, don't you see? While she regains control he is already answering.

"You think I wished her dead?" (What? Of course not.) "I never wanted that. I didn't have the life you think I did, Goldanna." This is said with a touch of sulkiness.

Yes, I expect you picked up that posh accent running with the other sewer rats. But never mind. "I suppose not. A bastard is still just a bastard to the nobility, isn't he?" Why couldn't they leave us alone...

She remembers the piece-work waiting that must be finished before the light fails, and looks aside.

"But...brother or no, I've got five mouths to feed, and no time to spare until they are."

He draws himself up. "Then let me promise you this, Goldanna: I'll do whatever I can, speak to whomever I have to, to ensure you and your children are taken care of."

Ah, Maker, just what the king told Mam...is there something in the blood? Nobles and their promises...Her lip curls in spite of herself.

The boy, crushed by her open skepticism, finally gives up, mumbling a farewell and hurrying out. His companion casts an unreadable glance at Goldanna and follows.

And that's that.

She makes no move toward her work.

Unfair.

I didn't deserve this.

No more did he.

He sought me out.

My brother.

Wait...

Anxious and ashamed, she has taken three long strides and has her hand on the latch when through the partially open shutter she hears:

"Well, that was not what I expected..."

She freezes, shoulders hunched, knuckles white. Her vision narrows to the warped wood directly in front of her, like the slats of a storeroom barrel. The roaring in her ears drowns out the street noise.

...don't...

Minutes - eons – pass before she gradually comes to herself and gingerly rests her forehead on the door, eyes closed. With a deep breath, she straightens and hesitantly pulls it open.

The two are nowhere to be seen.

She remains standing in the doorway for a time, the sounds and movement of the busy plaza lapping round her like wavelets on a lake shore. Nearby, a covey of market brats, her own amongst them, are playing with the abstract concentration of the very young. Eventually, as the afternoon shadows lengthen, she turns and goes inside, firmly pulling the door closed behind her.

A/N: I know there's a lot of Goldanna-hate out there, so I may not be making a lot of friends with this, but I always felt a certain amount of sympathy for her situation. My initial thought was simply to write the Alistair encounter accompanied by her internal dialogue, but her back-story took me over as soon as I started. These plot-bunnies can certainly carry a lot of baggage!