Dresses Are Optional

Saira hated dresses.

As a child, her mother dressed her in the most frilly, girly dresses a child could get
away with. Her aunts also gave her dresses and bonnets, small-heeled shoes and
be-ribboned socks. And they would coo and fret on how cute she looked, a little
lady; her brothers would laugh her disgruntled expression; and she would smile
politely and indulgently turn for their benefit. At least, the dresses werent pink.
Saira hated dresses.
Few girls were born to the Trevelyans so they tended to spoil them a bit. She was
the first girl, in direct descent, to be born. Her cousins would hover around her
during parties, while her brothers played knights who guarded a princess in the
tower, still teasing her of course. She had little patience for it all and when it
became too much, particularly when Henry pulled her ribbons, she would chase
them all over the estate which always culminated in mud-wrestling. When they were
called in, her mother dismayed at their state she, slathered in mud, her hair dirty
and wet and her beautiful dress ruined. She was ecstatic, not only because Henry
got his mouth full of mud but also she would never wear that dress again. It was
itchy.
Saira hated dresses.
She was twelve years old when her mother passed away. Her dying wish, whispered
to her husband, was that her daughter would never know the life of a Circle mage.
The bann, who was just as in love now as the day of their wedding, promised. Her
magic developed late, years after her brother and, then, it wasnt enough to warrant
the attention of the Circle. They buried her mothers ashes in the family mausoleum
carved into a hill overlooking the Waking Sea. Her mother always loved the water,
she mused as a sea breeze ruffled the capped sleeves of her black, mourning dress.
She burned it that night.
Saira hated dresses.
But she tolerated the robes required to be worn by those who study in the Circle.
They were swishy, loose, not itchy and she could wear them over her tunic and
pants. She could still kick the mage boys who got too touchy-feely. Then again,
Maxwell could always fry them. Her father couldnt fully fulfill his promise to her
mother. It was probably the emotional loss, but her magic eventually grew steadily
after that windy day on the hill. It was just a different bit of magic than the
traditional signs the templars looked for that it wasnt acknowledged at first, even
by her Uncle Nicky. When Uncle Nicky did find out, he and her father had a terrible
row. Uncle Nicky loved his niece. The Ostwick Circle was the most lax of all Circles
but he still acknowledged it as a prison for those gifted with magic. His nephew,
Maxwell, seemed to thrive in it but he was more even-tempered than his sister.
Modest in temper was the part of the family motto that she struggled with. But
untrained magic was more dangerous than an unknown one, therefore Uncle Nicky
and her father, who was adamant to keep his promise, compromised. She would

study and board at the Ostwick Circle, as a scholar, her magic hidden, during the
weekdays and would be at home on the weekends. The dresses were locked in a
trunk and robes and pants and tunics dominated her closet.
Saira hated dresses.
They certainly werent practical when training with things with pointy ends. Her
mother used to despair during her lady lessons, since her attention was always out
the window on the castle grounds where her brothers were training with their
swords and bows and arrows. Embroidery, which she was horrible at, was all well
and good, but she would always pay Henry a silver to create a distraction. The
moment the big bag of horse manure was dropped in the hallway leading to the
drawing room, she opened the window and jumped out to the veranda. Her morning
dress was slipped off and she would snatch the daggers from Cedrics hips. During
her years at the Circle, she continued sticking things with the pointy ends of the
daggers gifted to her by Uncle Bryce.
Saira hated dresses.
She thought her mother and her Trevelyan aunts were the only ones who insisted on
making her try even just one dress. Auntie Eleanor delighted in dressing her in
fashion those dresses with long sleeves that molded to her upper body and a
narrow skirt that hung straight down. She tolerated it at best. She understood the
novelty of dressing a girl for a change instead of her two boys. Auntie Eleanor
relished the time whenever Sairas mother brought her two youngest children to
visit her brother in Highever. Fergus and Aedan, with Maxwell in tow, were always
off with the teyrns soldiers and Auntie Eleanor would gossip with her sister-in-law.
She, on the other hand, would sit quietly and devour Brother Genetivis Travels of a
Chantry Scholar which the library at home didnt have beyond the first volume. At
least, Fereldan dresses were not itchy.
Saira hated dresses.
The teal dress Auntie Eleanor loaned her was not itchy but the bodice was still
restricting air to her lungs and she regretted ever sleeping in it. She regretted ever
wearing it at all, even when it pleased Auntie Eleanor during Lady Landras visit,
when she tripped on the skirt in her haste to get off the bed. Shouts were heard
outside her door along with pained cries and the incessant barking of Barkspawn.
She cursed colorfully, when she couldnt get to the row of buttons on her back. She
took a dagger from under her pillow and proceeded to slit the dress from collarbone
to waist.
Fuck dresses.