Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Awakening and Dragon Age II. They belong to Bioware. I simply love it for what it is.
A/N: A simple note. This is my first Dragon Age story, the idea came after finishing the rest of Origins DLC and the second game. Just as well, there are spoilers in this fanfiction, so read at your own risk. Also, I will be using the characters I made/used during my play with games. Woman Cousland and Woman Hawke. If it bothers some I'm not using the names given by the game itself I apologize. But, rate and ewview and enjoy.
Chapter One
Sleep was restless against the dark pull of night over the sky. A warm bed left cold and empty with sheets twisted and coiled.
Blue eyes peered at the ceiling, tracing the soft, intricate patterns etched into the stone that lay over-head. The soft breaths of her companion the only noise next to the lulling coo of night.
Seven years on the throne, six years married to her fellow Grey Warden and five years since the terrible prophesy Morrigan had lain at their feet.
She had remained silent, coming back and playing ignorant at the whereabouts of their former Apostate companion— of Alistair's son who Morrigan had made reassurance of being safe, oblivious of his future. Licking her lips Annabelle sat up, feeling the thick cotton and silk fold and pile into her lap, it was something that plagued her dreams frequently. She shouldn't have kept all of this to herself, after everything she and everyone had gone through with the Blight, the war among the people and the dwindling Darkspawn.
Yet she was compelled into keeping her silence, Morrigan had slipped through that mirror, the warning heavy on her heart and mind.
Change is coming to the world. Morrigan had said, then the issues in Kirkwall, where the Qunari had attacked, the Templars and Mages causing the start of a frigid revolution and with it causing other Circles around Thedas to rebel, leading their counterparts— the Templars to do so as well.
The world was changing, and it was being thrown into chaos.
It made her sick to her stomach.
Even being partially aware she could feel it, the foreboding pressure that came in like a deadly, low fog. She had to do something, anything! But these years had put her back into that spoiled, comfortable space, like back in Highever before Arl Howe had murdered her family and Duncan spiriting her away to Ostagar.
Peeling back the covers she felt a shudder dart up her spine as the flats of her feet pressed into the plush carpet that tickled with every brushing movement.
What was she to do?
Wait for what was to come? When she would have to fill Alistair and the rest of the court of Ferelden on what was going on?
She remembered killing Flemeth, but Morrigan had believed her still alive. The more she pondered it, the more she tried to shove it out of her mind until she had the right time to tell Alistair— to tell everyone she was left with a gaping hole, like not all of her should be where it should.
Who was she to go too? She knew she couldn't tare Alistair away from the throne and she knew that if she left she could find a means, find out what all of this meant. But it was a simple conclusion on drawing upon the one person who could help her.
Alistair had mentioned he met her, the Champion of Kirkwall, her legends of defending the mages having stretched all the way to corners of the Anderfels and Rivian.
If Annabelle were to go to her— the Champion, would she be able to help? One could only hope so because that feeling, with each passing day was becoming worse. She couldn't sleep and eating was only there because she was in the presence of her husband and court.
It was irresponsible, not having told Alistair or anyone else sooner. What else could she have done? He would have asked every question under the sun and moon about the baby he had with Morrigan, to Flemeth and what impending doom the Apostate had spoken of, Annabelle didn't want to deal with it, not yet.
Maybe she wasn't that mature after all, since she was running from the drawing conclusion of that confrontation.
Turning her head at the sudden shuffle of movement her hues landed on Alistair's sleeping form, having rolled onto his back and body sprawled like a star Annabelle caught her lower lip and stifled a chuckle.
She decided she would miss him the most, since they were rarely out of each other's presence longer then a few days. She realised her dependency on him during his ascension to the throne, how because of their battle at Ostagar, being the only other one she could rely on had some semblance of a drug to her.
Shifting her weight Annabelle moved back to the bed, kneeling on it and trying to be as light-footed as she could as she moved to lean over him, mouth gingerly clamped against his own before pulling back. Such a deep sleeper and was normally the last one to be ready and moving in the morning. "Goodbye, Alistair." She whispered before pulling away from the bed and stepping to her dresser, reaching into her drawer to pull out what looked like a small book.
Annabelle had gotten into the habit of documenting her life since her deliverance to Ostagar, the pages old and withered and smelt of Darkspawn and forestry decay. Flipping threw the thick, manual sized book a fond smile curled the ends of her mouth, making her feel more weepy then she should.
What she was looking for fell into her hand, and carefully she lifted up to inspect it in the moons light— a wilted, carefully compressed rose. Leliana having shown her how once the redhead knew that she treasured the flower. Alistair had given it to her, the first gift, expressing a puppy-love crush for her.
She'd leave it for him, a token of remembrance for her and that she would be returning. It broke her heart but she couldn't sit around anymore.
For years Annabelle had been silent, helping rule when she could, to try and produce an heir for the throne, to support Alistair when she could. All of it for the greater good of Ferelden, which was why she was going to leave without a word. They had dubbed her the Hero and she should do best by that title by finding out what Morrigan could possibly mean, and with the Mages and Templars on a rampant Alistair needed to be here, helping the people as much as he could be.
Setting the rose on the ledge she closed the book and set it back inside, hiding it back in the depths of her drawers. Next she made sure to grab what she needed for her trip to Kirkwall, clothing and a brush. All the while trying to be as careful as she could, going into the additional room meant for her fashions, the vanity set up delicately.
Annabelle could fully remember what it was like to live out a sack and sleep on the hard ground; she wouldn't need much, a messenger bag filled with what she could carry and what wouldn't be a burden to her.
Peering at herself in the mirror she fingered the long, chestnut auburn strands of hair. How she loved having longer hair, it made her feel more like a woman, instead of the rugged Tomboy put to sleep when she had married Alistair.
But it was in the way, she didn't want to have to maintain long, thick hair on this journey, which lead her to shift around the vanity, plucking up a pair of silver scissors, used to trim her mane when it had gotten long enough. Taking a deep, sharp breath Annabelle gripped her hair in her hand, pulling it back before dragging the sheers through her hair, shredding and cutting until it fell in a pile at her feet, lifeless and ugly as she set down the scissors and fingered the ragged, choppy locks that brushed against her chin.
Silently she mourned the loss of her hair and femininity, since the two sort of went hand in hand at the moment. She'd have to discard what she learned as a queen and bring back the Cousland Rouge. Feeling a small tingle of excitement she picked the scissors back up and moved to even it out, leaving it in a backwards bob, bangs swept to the side and as much as she was going to get to mimic her old hair-style.
It would have to do.
Giving her head a quick shake she would have stood, moving back into the bedroom where her bag was waiting, as Annabelle knew she would have to be as quiet as she could. During her battle with the Blight she had kept everything, having grown an attachment to it, her pieces of armour stashed away and the blades she shined and sharpened every morning.
Moving to the closet she moved to quietly unclasp the latch on the chest and push it open, moving to gingerly slide out everything, laying it out before stripping the nightgown from her body and tossing it inside of the closet.
It didn't take long for Annabelle to dress. She had to be quick and quiet. Her armour fit like an old glove, Rouges armour. Fashioned to make sure she could be fast on the battlefield and not get stabbed or shot at and die, at least not right away.
It felt weird, being in her old armour, but a good sort of weird. All the dresses and frocks, the parties were natural but to a degree, which was why she savoured her alone time with Alistair, who would spar or love her body, anything leaving to the imagination of being herself.
Pulling a cloak from the closet she shrugged it on, it flared about the sleeves and was tight on her midriff, as it floated down and poked at her ankles. Making quick work she snapped a belt around her waist, keeping the cloak attached to her body before shrugging the straps for her daggers on her back like a bag, tightly compressed she slid her twin daggers into the hilts, making sure they were secure.
Kneeling down she pulled the messenger bag up and shrugged it over her shoulder, settling it against her side before she moved to the desk, pulling a piece of paper free Annabelle would fumble around for ink, hearing Alistair stir she stiffened, turning her head she turned to peer at him, having rolled over, facing her and taking up her portion of bed. That figures.
Shaking her head she scrawled a quick note and peeled it free, throwing the quill down she headed back to the dresser, pulling the preserved rose and moved to set it on the paper, in reach of his hand when he woke.
Sweeping one more wondrous look over his bare, battle torn body and she felt her heart break a crack. Gaze softening she would have turned away, pulling the hood from her cloak free and tugging it over her head Annabelle left. Fleeing the room.