There was the disconcerting and entirely burning feeling of her heart leaping to her throat and staying there.
Her eyes were burning with unshed tears as her emerald gaze stared listlessly into the roaring fire. Her thoughts were running rampant, but nothing made sense. This had been her decision, right? She had asked him to do this, had begged him to break his heart and her own to save their lives. Oh, Maker, was she so selfish for sacrificing duty and honor for her own heart? The lump in her throat only made her choke back harder on the tears and the sob threatening to wrench from her lips. Her slender frame began to tremble-andohMakermakeitstop! She wondered what the two of them were doing, and whether he was enjoying it at all. The madness of the vivid thoughts were nearly causing her to erupt into hysterical giggles.
Her faithful mabari whimpered at the first sounds of her gasping tears and barely held sobs. His mistress had been beside herself for the past hour, and nothing he did could seem to calm her in the least. Her fingers were digging into her calloused palms, forming little half crescents that barely registered as painful in her mind. To imagine Morrigan with her Alistair was almost too much to bear, but she had been the one to ask him! Her pride and jealousies had been swallowed with the overwhelming terror at the knowledge Riordan had imparted upon them. Death and sorrow and so little hope of the dreams she had clutched close to her heart: of marrying the King of her heart and surviving the coming battle in the dawn. Had she not given enough to Ferelden?
An unbearable sob escaped her, and suddenly she was grasped with a terrible anger and sorrow that built within her breast. The fiery dread that had her standing in an instant, her blood boiling and pulse racing in her ears as she paced. Was it so wrong of her to be angry at Alistair and at herself? For her damned weakness in wanting to live, in wanting to cast away her damned Cousland pride for one moment? A Cousland always does her duty, but she had given so, so much in the past year, and now she was supposed to give up the one person who had stitched her bloody heart back together? The one person who had kept her from falling over the edge of insanity? Who had held her when the nightmares of the massacre of Highever became too much? Who knew her as no one did, and did not flinch from her blistering temper, her sarcastic words, or her overwhelming pride?
Ophelia stood there in that moment, trembling in rage as her anger soon shifted onto the dark haired temptress she had dared to call a friend. This had been Morrigan's plan since the very moment of their meeting in the Wilds, and she dared to offer this-whatever it was-as a means to save her? Frustrated tears burned at her eyes, and in that moment Ophelia almost wished to throw herself into the flames. To have the fire burn at her and to take away the boiling anger that filled her to the brim, and to turn into ash. In the next moment Ophelia realized she had tossed one of the wooden chairs against the wall, and all she saw was splintered remains as the proof of her rage. Fenrir was by her side in a moment, and pressed his cold nose against her bare leg, and all of the angry energy evaporated from her trembling frame in an instant. She dropped onto the hard, stone floor and threw herself at the one being who had yet to betray her. Even her own heart had turned traitor, and all she could do was sob into his black coat as Fenrir licked at her cheeks in an attempt to chase her tears away.
"I never wanted this. I never wanted to be a Warden, never wanted to fall in love, a-and now I have to be a hero, Fenrir. Always a Cousland, a Warden, but what about me? I just want him with me, not with her," she whispered just a little brokenly. Her voice was ragged and raw from her sobs, and Ophelia did not know how long she sat there, clinging to her mabari. All she knew that soon strong hands were gripping her, and Fenrir's place has been taken by one of the very people causing her pain. Blindly, she reached for him, because, by the Maker, she needed him so, so much. More than should be possible, but all she wanted was for him to live. Ophelia had been the dutiful daughter for all of her life, but this was the one thing she could not allow to slip from her. Everything else had been taken from her, but she'll be damned if Ferelden claims one more piece. There were no words to be said, and she merely stared up at his haunted hazel eyes. She realized that she was not the only one to feel the jagged edge of their shared pain, and so she curled around the King of her heart as he carried them to their shared bed.
Because in the morning, she prays, she will be strong enough for the both of them.
A/N: Um, yeah, I have not written a fan fiction in years, but I had to write something for myself and for my Cousland. I have been reading some truly beautiful stories as of late, and I wanted to add something of my own to the fandom. I know this scene has been written before, and even in a similar manner, but this is mine. My tale, my thoughts, and my Warden that has become such a part of my imagination that it is scary. I hope you enjoyed it, and if not that is fine. Feel free to review, and I welcome any constructive criticism, while flames are used to heat my hot chocolate.
My sincere thanks to my friend Rwaht for betaing my work even in the middle of the night. -smiles-