Game: Dragon Age
Pairing: Alistair/F!Cousland
Genre: Romance, Angst
Rating: T
The Queen for a Kingdom
~Prologue~
Black roots had sprouted beneath his eyes. They were faint, barely noticeable, but they were there nonetheless, ugly, seething lines of corruption crawling beneath what once had been healthy tan. It was only natural that the flesh that covered his bones would pale overtime, for he was nowhere near as active as he was in his youth—and at that he would have undoubtedly scoffed and said "In my youth? I'm still young! I barely look a day over twenty!"—his warm, sun-kissed skin dulling as years spent wrapped in regal garb and trapped indoors slipped by.
But this.
This.
This was not natural.
The Warden Queen stood above her sleeping King, soft beams of moonlight slipping in through the partially cracked window of their bedroom to alight upon his broad, naked chest that rose and fell with each deep breath of solid slumber he took. Every ounce of self-control she possessed was required to keep her from reaching out and running her fingers through the golden hair that trailed down his abdomen. A thin blue sheet was lazily draped about his hips, hiding his lower body from sight, though the Warden Queen didn't need to remove it to know what laid beneath. She knew his body as well as he knew hers—the spots that tickled, the joints that ached when it rained, the muscles that needed massaging, the scars that crisscrossed and marked wounds of old.
Something moist and warm spilled from her nose. On reflex, she wiped the liquid away, the soft material of the glove adorning her long-fingered hands brushing against her pale skin to absorb the thick, dark glob. The dull throbbing of a migraine in remission came with it, her vision splitting and refocusing with frighteningly wild abandon.
Thick-soled boots carried her across their modestly furnished suite to the writing desk littered with stacks of books, rolls of scrolls, parchment paper, quill pens, ink bottles, a variety of poultices and tonics, and the wax stamp of the Theirin family's royal crest. Purposefully ignoring the tear-splattered letter that neatly lay atop a stack of grievances, laws, tariffs, and all other sorts of official things requiring a King's—or Queen's—touch, she grabbed a vial of deep red, threw back her head, and gulped it down in one swig.
A heady rush swept through her even as the last drop was falling from the glass rim, numbing the tips of her toes and fingers, chasing away the darkness. Leaning forward, she closed her eyes, let the cool breeze of a mild summer night brush her fevered forehead. The scent of roses danced beneath her nose, though she could not smell them. All she could smell was rot, death, decay, the goo that had begun to seep from her pores far too frequently for her taste, accompanied by the low, breathy chant of the damned.
Darkspawn blood.
The Blight.
Green eyes snapped open, bright with fiery determination.
It was essential that she move quickly. Unburdened by her Warden-Commander armor—strategically left at Vigil's Keep years ago for this very occasion—she would move swiftly and quietly in the black bodysuit lent to her by a certain fair Sister, creeping undetected through the halls of her own castle like a thief.
The irony of the situation was not lost on her; of the two classes she could have chosen, she had gone the brutal, uncaring, loud route of the warrior, a Berserker no less. The combined efforts of her rogue companions had been enough to teach her how to tiptoe stealthily in plain clothes, but not in full armor.
Casting her gaze out the window, she watched the guards that marched the grounds of the Royal Palace. It would be hard to slip by them; training by a familiar former-Crow had seen to that. But slip by them she would. She had to.
Without a backwards glance, she strode towards the heavy wooden door that led to their chambers, making sure to tread lightly lest she wake her sleeping King as she moved across rug and stone. She was surprised at how easy it was—to leave him. Perhaps it would come later, the heartbreak, the longing. Perhaps it would remain at bay, her head overpowering her heart for a change.
Tugging her hood into place, she tucked her short-cropped red hair behind her ears. Sweat plastered her bangs to her forehead, a cold, clammy dread chilling her bones while her skin remained hot.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she pulled the door open, the hinges creaking in protest.
A groan issued behind her and she froze, waiting, waiting, waiting. For what, she wasn't sure. For him to wake up and call her back to bed, sleep fogging his brain and clouding his thinking, thus preventing the inquiry of, "What in the Maker's breath are you wearing?" For him to spring to his feet, claim that he had known of her plan all along and was hurt that she hadn't included him?
Neither of these things happened, and she loosed a breath from her tight lips. Instead, she heard the mattress groan as he shifted and mumbled incoherently, doubtless searching for her even as he remained oblivious to the world in sleep.
A lump in her throat spurred her into action, steeled her resolve. Heaving the great door open, she stormed into the hall boldly yet quietly. Torches lit her path, throwing her shadow across the red carpet lining the vacated passages she walked.
He would have gone with her. He would have abandoned his post, his people, for her. She couldn't allow that. Not when she had selfishly declared herself his consort all those years ago, when she had thrown logic and reason to the wind—you can't give him children, you're a Grey Warden, you can't give him children, you're a Grey Warden, you can't give him children, you're a Grey Warden—and let love rule her thoughts, govern her actions, be her motivation. In doing so, she had doomed her homeland, subjected it once more to petty squabbles of who would inherit the throne once the barren Warden Queen and bastard King died.
And so gone was the Queen, for what she did now was not for her people, though help them in the long run it would, one way or another. If she was blessed with success, an heir would they receive, Eamon's concerns of keeping Ferelden in Theirin hands eased. If met with a crueler fate she was, well…
Gone was the Warden, for what she did now—though potentially beneficial yet devastating for the order of warriors this quest might prove to be—was not for her fellow cursed brethren, though their sufferings she longed to quell.
Gone was the Cousland, for this was not a journey of vengeance that she embarked upon, nor one that required someone of noble blood.
All that remained was Miri, once a young girl, now a grown woman, still caught in the throes of love, desperate to save the one she could not live without.