"In this California king bed, we're ten thousand miles apart.
I've been California wishing on these stars, for your heart on me,
My California king."
She felt the silken bed-sheets rustle beneath her, rousing her from a light slumber. She instinctively slid a hand to the other side of the bed, feeling nothing but a warm impression of an absent body. The discovery made those gem-blue eyes she was known for snap open wide. They zoned in on a lone figure in the dark. The shadowy shape was rummaging through the armoire, clearly dressing itself.
She hadn't missed him. He was still there.
Raising herself up into a sitting position, she clutched the cool sheets to her naked breasts. Wispy blonde curls tumbled haphazardly down her body in a soft cocoon that reached the base of her spine. She thought she could feel herself trembling and tried to lock her joints into place. Alas, it was to no avail.
"Liam," she called softly, almost imploringly.
The half-dressed shadow of her husband turned towards her. She could not see his expression in the dark and it secretly distressed her.
"Is something the matter, husband?"
She waited as he fastened his belt, noting the scabbard attached to it, and did her best to be patient.
Liam did not keep her waiting long, sheathing his blade and pulling a chair up to the bed. Clear, leaf-green eyes studied her thoughtfully, his expression otherwise unreadable. It had always irritated her how easily he could shield his true feelings. One might consider it almost offensive, the way he regarded her sometimes, that impenetrable courtiers mask on his face. She was his wife and his queen. She didn't deserve such…scrutiny.
He startled her when one warm, calloused hand cupped her face, his thumb rasping gently across the smoothness of her skin. She leaned into the touch without even realizing it, a careful smile on her face.
"Come back to bed," she murmured. "It is far too early for you to be training, especially in this weather."
"I am afraid that I don't have time to rest longer," he replied, tactfully not reminding her that he trained in all forms of weather, both ill and fair.
"Oh? Is something amiss?"
"Perhaps, but you know it as well as I. Don't play the fool, my dear. It does not suit you."
She bristled at his reply, despite the fact that he had said it gently, almost affectionately. "I beg your pardon?"
She heard him sigh and that irritated her further. She shook her head out of his hold, eyes blazing defiantly. "So you plan to abandon me, do you? You seek to make me a laughing stock before the entire country; the entire civilized world, even," she snapped.
His gaze hardened with the insult to his honor. "You know that's not true."
"It is!" she retorted, "I know why you're leaving! I know that witch—"
"Not another word, wife." His tone was dangerous; it brooked no argument. "We shall discuss like civilized—"
"Civilized," she drawled, that regal demeanor she used at Court taking over, "is hardly the word I would use. Perhaps coercion is a better description?"
"By the Maker, Anora, just list—"
"I do not have to listen, ser. I am queen. And I say that this conversation is over." She waved him away in dismissal. "Do whatever it is you want. I'll not sit here and be insulted."
She almost expected him to protest; part of her wanted him to. But Liam Cousland could be a stubborn man when he wanted. With muttered oath, he deftly rose from his chair, exiting the bedchamber in six long strides, mahogany hair whipping behind him.
When the door shut with a resounding click, Anora Theirin Cousland neé Mac Tir slumped heavily onto the goose-down mattress, a shaking hand covering her face. It was a rare moment of fragility and she couldn't decide what was hurting her more; her pride, or her heart.
She had tried so hard to be the perfect daughter, only to watch her father run mad with his paranoia and nearly topple the entire country into ruin. She had tried to be a pleasing wife, yet one husband carried on affairs and the second was only faithful physically, all the while pining for an absent lover. She had finally found her salvation within the love of her people, excelling in her role as queen. And now, because of her body's own betrayal, she could not even cling to that single, frayed thread of validation.
A wretched sob tore through her entire being and she quaked in the violent storm of her desolation. A hand, pale and slender, clutched desperately at her abdomen. She could feel her finely tapered nails biting into the skin, imagining the red welts that would rise. Dear Maker, it was agony in its rawest form. Tiny, white teeth bit harshly into a knuckle as another broken shriek escaped her.
Blurry eyes drifted to the other side of the room and, on weak legs, Anora nearly crawled to the little altar that she had installed for her own private devotion. She collapsed to her knees, naked and bare before the effigy of the holy prophet, Andraste. Tears dripped down her cheeks and the tip of her nose, and she did not bother to wipe them away. With shallows breaths, another quiet sob, and a hand still gripping her stomach…
…she began to pray.
I'm not sure what I was going for with this, but I had to get it out of my brain. I think it's all right. I also took liberties with Anora's name. I'm not sure if she would keep the Theirin part or not.
As always, I do not own any of the copyrighted materials. The lyrics above are ©Rihanna and the Dragon Age franchise is ©BioWare. This work of fanfiction is my own.
Thank you for taking the time to read this. :]
~RequiemStargazer