Robert Cousland sighed deeply.
It was the sort of noise only a man well and truly exhausted was capable of making, signifying long hours locked in stuffy rooms filled to the brim with stuffier people. When he'd become prince-consort to Ferelden's Queen, Anora Mac Tir, the young Cousland had known that there would be days of horrible tediousness; meetings, dinners, council sessions and the like. What he'd failed to anticipate was the sheer volume of said occasions.
Today had been a particularly tedious session; the ambassador from Antiva had gone on and on about wine contracts, insisting Ferelden had promised them exclusive import rights. Simultaneously, the ambassador from Starkhaven insisted that it was they who were owed said contract. Robert was roughly two seconds away from taking his greatsword down and cleaving both of them in two, before Anora intervened. With her usual grace and tact, Anora deflected the objections of both men, twisted their thoughts about and found a way for both to trade wine, all within moments of opening her mouth. He'd seen similar performances time and time again after marrying her but it never ceased to amaze him.
She had many talents, Anora, Queen of Ferelden. She was brilliant, with a mind sharper than any razor; she possessed a dry wit that often left him guffawing even during the most tedious parts of court. Her sense of compassion moved him, encouraged him to be a better person; her love of her people, of her nation, inspired him to serve them with all his might. Her courage at times shamed him and her resolve bordering on stubbornness charmed him. She was beautiful as well, only a fool would deny it. Honey colored hair pulled back into a stern bun, eyes a soft, sea-green, piercing into his soul with their intensity, a nose chiseled by the Maker's own hand. Even with the heat of the room and the dull nature of the conversation she was still beautiful, in a hunting, aching, ethereal sort of way.
He'd been attractive once, he knew that, Bryce Cousland's youngest son. He was tall, strong and fit, his eyes a piercing blue, his face smooth save for a sharply trimmed beard and mustache of cool mahogany, matched by his shortly-cut hair. His toned body was lined with muscle and it wasn't hard for him to win the heart of just about any woman.
Then his family was slaughtered and he became a Grey Warden.
His body remained firm but worn, bags appeared under his eyes where none had previously existed. His face became a mess of scar tissue, nose badly broken then hastily re-healed. His left ear's tip was a raggedy stump, hacked off by some darkspawn. His right hand had lost its last two fingers, though the deformity was often hidden by his gloves. Worst of all was the general sensation of something wrong with him, a sense of slow decay. Women weren't so quick to fall into the arms of a dying man.
Despite it all, Anora had accepted his offer of marriage. His support had won her the throne, power and the influence of the bannorn; yet it was none of these reasons Robert asked for Anora's hand. It was love, pure and simple.
Robert had met Anora before, during happier times. Loghain had brought her to Highever with him once during a visit. The Warden had only been a young man then, but he'd fallen for her the moment he laid eyes on her. Every other woman in his life had been in some sense a comparison to her, an inferior copy of she who held his heart. However, time marched on and the memory of Anora faded from his mind. Then he saw her once again when he'd arrived at Denerim with Alistair in tow and all his feelings returned in a rush of emotion and hope.
After that moment everything had been a blur; the Landsmeet, the battle for Denerim, the ritual with Morrigan and finally his wedding. Throughout it all, his love of Anora never faltered; even when it became obvious that she didn't love him.
She'd been good to him, but she'd made it obvious how she felt by her actions. He'd never kissed her, not really. Of course they'd locked lips during the wedding, and they'd experienced the occasional contact as they made love, but not once had they kissed with the passion of two beings linked in their hearts. When they coupled it lacked any true intimacy, when she spoke to him it was without the gentle whisper of a lover. It didn't contain the same emotion his own voice did. Even so, he loved her, and Robert knew he always would.
The hallway towards the royal bedroom was mostly abandoned, which served Robert just fine, because he didn't intend to wear his doublet any longer. Unbuttoning the over-jacket, the prince removed the sweat-stained garment, tossing it aside. A servant could retrieve it later, but he couldn't currently be bothered, the blasted thing had confined him far too long. His jerkin soon followed, joining the jacket on the floor. Pulling his damp shirt up over his head, Robert groaned as the old wound in his side strained from the action. Soon he was naked from the waist up, his body a criss-cross of scars, particularly the side-wound old Rendon Howe had given him in the dungeons below his estate.
Without hesitating, he entered his chambers, boots and socks following the shirt. His bare feet made a soft padding against the floor of the bedroom, a cool chill playing up his sweat-stained skin. The room was darkened, lit only by a few candles and a single lantern. The bed took up most of the chamber, its sheets already pushed backward, comforter lumping in a way that could only be a body.
Even in the darkness he could see her glorious form. Anora sat up, covering herself with the blanket. She raised one hand and beckoned for him to join her; love or no, Anora had needs and Robert could fulfill them. Dropping his pants, the youngest Cousland crawled into bed with his wife. Gently, he cupped his rough hand, the one with all its fingers, around her cheek. Without a word, Anora placed her own hand over his. Her hand was soft, like silk, a stark contrast to his own weathered flesh. In that moment, as their hands touched, Robert was happy.
Then it ended.
Anora blew out the candles and he took her.
The sheets were soft against Robert's naked form, the finest silk money could buy. The pillow was stuffed with goose feathers, softer than a cloud against his head. Beside him, Anora was curled up, seemingly as fragile as fine elven dishes, though Robert knew better. Anora was stronger than anyone he'd ever met, himself included.
He wanted to wrap his arm around her, to pull her tight against his chest and hold her close. But he knew she'd wake up and roll away from him like she always did. So he let her rest beside him, longing for more intimacy with she he loved, yet fearing he'd drive her away if he tried.
The bedroom was completely dark, the only source of illumination coming from the light of the moon, along with a gentle breeze, streaming through the only window. Robert gazed down at his hands, morbidly counting the number of fingers he had left. Silently, he chuckled, considering how much longer he'd get to keep the ones he still had. Even now, as prince-consort, he did his fair share of combat, his skill with a blade the only thing between him and an early grave. Vigil's Keep stood as a testament to that skill, to the time spent in practice, to the strength remaining in his battered body. Yet despite his fine armor and talent with the sword he would die, if not of combat than the taint would get him; no Warden could outfight the steady march of corruption.
Anora knew it of course, she was well aware of the price a Grey Warden paid for their powers; Robert hoped she cared enough about him to shed a few tears when he went for his Calling.
He was brooding over his possible future when he heard the sounds of struggle from outside his room. A few muted voices reached his ears, loud enough to cause Anora to stir. The woman brushed aside a few blonde hairs from her face eloquently. "Who's that?" She muttered, her words slurred by early morning sleepiness.
Robert shrugged dramatically despite the nighttime stupor and stiffness of his limbs. "Donno, I'll go take a look." Pushing himself out of the bed, Robert retrieved his slacks from the floor, pulling them up swiftly. It wouldn't do for whoever was at his door to see the prince-consort of Ferelden naked.
Striding across his bedroom, Robert shouted loudly enough to be heard through the door, "I'm coming, keep your voice down."
Throwing the old wooden portal wide, Robert realized his first mistake; not waiting for the guards to answer him. The reason for that became obvious, both were dead. Each lay on the ground, throats cut, blood staining the hallway floor. For just a moment, Robert failed to notice the human standing in the corridor. For a moment longer he couldn't place the face of the man holding the blood-soaked axe and dagger; which was strange, because it was a face he never forgot.
Standing there in that hallway, bold as brass, sharply angular face covered in blood and split with a wolfish grin, was Arl Rendon Howe. For a dead man, Howe seemed in remarkable shape. His lanky frame was coiled into an attack position, both weapons held in a defensive stance. He licked his lips like a hungry wolf, as if Robert were some form of prey.
The Grey Warden moved, but he was far too slow, Howe swung his axe faster than the eye could follow, burying it deep in the man's stomach. Blood bubbled from his mouth, dribbling down his chin like a fountain; the cool chill of the axe's steel was all he felt, not the pain, not the fear and certainly not the knife blow that followed. The blade carved a gash deep into his arm even as he fell, his blood mingling with that of the two murdered guards.
Howe cackled manically, stepping over the fallen Cousland without even a glance in his direction. The man moved towards Anora, weapons drawn with obvious murderous purpose. Coughing up blood, pitifully flopping about on the ground like a fish out of water, looking up towards the ferret-faced man who'd haunted his dreams for so long, Robert managed to cough out a few words. "Rendon...but how?" Blood ran freely down his chin, staining his beard with streaks of red. "But I killed you..." His voice was full of shock, his tone dead. He simply couldn't comprehend the man he saw before him.
It was Iona all over again.
He couldn't save the elven girl from Howe and now he was going to take Anora and there was nothing Robert could do to stop him. He was useless, helpless and he was about to relive the worst night of his life as Rendon Howe killed yet another person he loved. "I killed you!" Robert screamed, loudly enough to wake the dead, his voice hoarse, mingled with sorrow and pain.
The man turned away momentarily from his deadly march towards she who Robert loved and grinned at him. "Did you check for a pulse?"
And to his horror, Robert realized he hadn't.
It was the screaming that woke her.
Anora's eyes snapped open and she first realized she was swimming in a pool of sweat. The second thing she comprehend was it was Robert who was screaming. The queen knew he had nightmares of course, considering all he'd been through and the nature of his occupation, it was surprising he coped as well as he did. She'd heard him whimpering from night to night, seen him tossing in the dark but it wasn't her place to speak of it. Despite their marriage and the time they'd spent together, Anora knew very little about him. His nightmare were clearly a private thing, a battle he himself must win for he'd made no mention of them to her.
Yet this was different, he'd never been so strongly affected, at least, not in her presence, by a dream before. He was roaring, his body contorting horribly. Anora looked down at him, a strange feeling of protectiveness she didn't really understand coming over her and she grabbed him by the shoulder.
"Robert," she whispered, shaking him gently, "Robert, wake up, you're only dreaming."
She continued shaking him, tightening her grip on his shoulder. His eyes fluttered for a moment, but remained closed, his screaming descended into a quite mumbling of "no, no, no,no" and his thrashing turned to trembling.
Not even fully understanding herself, Anora pulled the man tightly into an embrace, resting his head against her shoulder. Cradling him like a child as he cried, Anora slowly rocked him back and forth. "It's all right, Robert," she breathed in his ear, holding him gently, "I'm here, it's alright."
Patting his back gently, the woman began quietly humming a simple tune, continuing her swaying. Though in some sense he were a stranger, her heart went out to him. He and the other Wardens had sacrificed much to stop the blight, to save her and her people. To see the proud, strong, admittedly handsome, charismatic man who'd led Ferelden to victory reduced to a babbling, damaged, mess by his nightmares filled her with a sorrow she couldn't comprehend.
Robert continued crying quietly into her shoulder, gripping her tightly in his arms; whether he was awake or asleep she didn't know. For a brief moment, she thought she heard him whisper something to her before it was swallowed up by the sounds of his sobbing.
Unsure of why, Anora gently took the prince-consort's face in her hand, stroking his cheek softly, the smoothness of her skin contrasting against the coarse hair of his beard. Lowering her lips towards him, Anora kissed him gently on the forehead. "There, there." She cooed, the rocking continuing, "I'm here, Robert, I'm right here."
Robert's sobbing slowly faded away, his muscles no longer tensing. He gripped her tightly, his rough beard brushing against the sensitive skin of her shoulder. "Anora?" He murmured against her, his words slurred. "You're here?"
Anora kissed his forehead again, brushing his damp mop of hair aside, "Of course I'm here." Her words were soft and gentle, almost motherly. "I won't leave, not now."
"Not ever?" He whisper back almost childlike. The grip of his nightmare seemed to linger, seemed to dominate his mind.
"Not ever." She whispered back to this man, badly broken hero that he was and, oddly enough, she knew in that moment she meant it.
Robert Cousland awoke to the gentle singing of birds and sunlight streaming through the open window. He stirred slightly, feeling the stiffness of his body and the dried sweat before anything else. After a moment, he noticed the sound of gentle breathing beside him, soft and feminine. Then he felt the arm, a woman's, wrapped tightly around him.
He was stunned to discover the arm belonged to Anora.
The woman had rested her head gently against his shoulder, snuggling up in the crook of his arm, her own arm was draped around his body comfortably. Her hair shifted mesmerizingly with each breath. He realized after a moment it was a position he longed to find himself in but never had, a level of intimacy known only to few. Looking down at her unconscious form, Robert felt himself moved to speak.
"I know you're afraid." He told her softly, though he knew she couldn't hear. "After how Cailan acted I don't blame you." He gently ran his arm up and down her back, feeling the softness of her skin with his hand. "I know that I can't force you to feel what I feel, and I shouldn't hope your mind changes unless you want to." He absently twirled a lock of blond hair, gazing down at her face. "No other woman would do for me what you have done." His voice dropped until it was almost inaudible. "My queen," he took her hand up to his lips, kissing her knuckles gently. "I will always strive to be the husband you deserve; if you never love me as I you, that won't change anything." He closed his warrior's hand around hers, his words a solemn vow. "I will never leave you."
His mind spoken, the prince-consort rolled gently back into his position, arm still around his queen. From his position in the bed he missed the sight of her eyes closing gently, a very slight smile on her face as she returned to sleep.