#anyway? I should’ve left that miserable kingdom earlier! Life is so much better now that I’ve left that stubborn old fool

[tongues--and--teeth]

Guys I think his effigy is ready

[ventisquear]

A Tale of Orzammar

Because Bhelen needs some love, too. :) Written for a friend who asked for something that’s not usually written, an angle not exploited. 

"By the Ancestors! You look worse than a mud splasher!"

"Reeks like one, too."

He blinked at the blurred faces swimming in front of him. They both had the same half-amused, half-disgusted look. They shouldn't look like that. Not at him. "I am Bhelen Aeducan," he said loudly. "I am Bhelen Aeducan. You. You mustn't. Repssssect me!"

The men didn't look repentant at all. One of them wrapped Bhelen's arm over his shoulder and put an arm around his waist. "Come on. Keep your mouth shut. If you puke on me, I swear I'll drop you right at the front gate."

"A lava vent might be better," the other one muttered. He was carrying a lantern.

They shuffled over the bridge, blessedly empty besides a lone nug sniffing around a pool of dark liquid. Blood, most likely. The thought made his stomach churn and he heaved over the railing, accompanied by angry comments from his companions.

When they finally reached the palace, Bhelen tried to head to the main gate but the blurry faces wouldn't let him, dragging him to the servants' entrance instead, where the one with the lantern mumbled a few words to the guards to let them in.

A handful of servants were bustling through the corridors, but none of them seemed to notice him. He tried catcalling at a few maids but they were deaf and blind and dumb and not pretty anyway. Not like his Rica. Why wasn't she here?

" 'Sall his fault," he mumbled. "I wouldn't be miserable if she were here."

The men didn't comment. They arrived at his quarters and hurriedly ushered him straight into the arms of the maids who were waiting for them.

"Hurry up," the man who'd supported him said. "We only have two hours left."

Bhelen belched and tossed the goblet away. The maid - who'd been reaching to refill it with a foul-tasting mineral water meant to help his impending hangover - stepped back in alarm. Bhelen heaved an irritated sigh. The servants did all they could to freshen him up: bathing him in cold water, scrubbing him with sandalwood soap, dripping a tincture into his eyes to reduce the redness – a recipe the palace herbalist had secretly invented for Bhelen's needs – and dressing him up in the royal garments. They were working on the fine details now, one patting an eye cream around his eyes to reduce puffiness, another braiding gems into his freshly curled beard, and a third giving him a quick manicure.

When they finished not even his uptight prick of a brother would be able to find a single flaw. He would look regal and dignified, a credit to house Aeducan. And that was all that mattered. That he felt like shit and wanted to be anywhere else but in that pit of deepstalkers was utterly irrelevant. As always.

"Breakfast, my lord." The maid laid a tray on the table – a dish of garlic bread, eggs, and mushrooms, and another jug of cold water – and retreated to a safe distance, clearly worried he would throw something else. A soft chuckle escaped him despite his misery.

"I am glad you are feeling better, my lord," Frandlin Ivo said.

Bhelen glared at his friend, comfortably sprawled in an armchair and sipping brandy. Bhelen's brandy. "Do not think I've forgotten your disrespectful behavior earlier. Vartag's, too."

"I apologize if I offended you in any way," Frandlin said in an unapologetic tone, "although I am not aware of how. If you would be so kind as to enlighten me, I will strive to avoid such behavior in the future."

Naturally, he only said that because he knew Bhelen would never discuss his escapades in front of the maids. This was hardly the first time they had seen him in this state, and they were paid well enough to keep their mouths shut, but that didn't mean they needed to hear how the future greatest king of Orzammar had to be helped home by his men.

"Bring the strongest coffee we have, then leave us," he said, not unkindly. Being an ass to the servants was his brother's style, not his.

"What happened yesterday?" Frandlin asked once they were finally alone, sipping the finest Tevinter coffee in existence.

"Nothing."

"It's been some time since you got this wasted," Frandlin pressed. "All alone, too. Why didn't you say you were going out? We could've joined you."

And brought me home sooner and less drunk, Bhelen thought, adding in his mind what his friend wouldn't say aloud. "I didn't plan it. It was a spontaneous decision after my talk with our crown prince."

"What did he want?"

Bhelen gave him a humorless grin. "Since my behavior is unseemly and irresponsible, he took it upon himself to discipline me," he said, mimicking Trian's turgid manner. "It should've been our father's responsibility, but surely I understand that the king has many duties and cannot spare time on his libertine son who refuses to grow up."

Frandlin straightened. "He disciplined you?"

"It was about time. I could not continue like this, living only for fun and pleasure. As a prince, I have certain duties I have to focus on. Therefore, the first measure he was regretfully forced to take - for my own good, of course - was to send my 'branded plaything' away." He tried to keep his tone light, but the slur brought back all the anger, hate and fear of the previous night. "She wasn't at home last night."

"Blighted ball-less pipe-cleaner!" Frandlin burst. "I wondered where she was. This is outrageous! He's not the king yet, it's none of his business who you take to bed. You should call her right back."

"I tried to, but the servants couldn't find her." Bhelen shrugged as if it didn't really matter – as if Rica truly was just a plaything. Both of them knew it wasn't so, but some things were better left unsaid.

"Leave it to me - I swear by my ancestors, if she's still in Orzammar, she'll be back in your room tonight!"

If she's still alive. Bhelen finished his coffee, washed it down with the last goblet of water, and got up. "Time to go."

"Don't go to sleep," Vartag hissed under his breath, nudging him in the ribs.

"I'm not," he hissed back. The searing white-hot pain behind his eyes made it impossible to focus.

And Trian's hogwash wasn't helping any. He was presenting yet another solution to turn around Orzammar's ever-declining economy. Even through the thick alcoholic vapors still clouding his brain, Bhelen could see it was poorly thought out, the main argument being that it was a traditional approach, and therefore the best. If they'd ask Bhelen, he would agree with Trian's opponents – but they didn't. They never did.

Father knew Trian was incompetent. Hardworking, yes. Perfect for minor tasks, if he had detailed instructions that could be followed. Anything that required diplomacy, however, was far beyond his capabilities. The few deshyrs that supported him did so because of Father's presence. It was becoming obvious that, unless something unexpected happened to Father, he would be replaced as a crown prince.

And Trian was painfully aware of it. That's why he always acted so pompous, why he demanded respect as the future king wherever and whenever he could. The deshyrs and servants had humored him so far, but it wouldn't last much longer. Not after the fatal error he'd made yesterday.

Not after he'd dared to insult and lay a hand on his woman.

If the world was fair, he would be the replacement. But while Father recognized Trian's flaws, he was blinder than a mole when it came to his pet, Duran. As the second son, Duran was destined to be a warrior. He excelled in that area, Bhelen would give him that. As a politician and diplomat, however, he was even more hopeless than Trian. Give him an army to lead, and he'd become a Paragon. Give him a kingdom, and he'd become a puppet controlled from the shadows. There were already a few blackguards around him, waiting for their opportunity.

Harrowmont, for example. Meek and compassionate on the surface, always going on about traditional values, honor and respect, but underneath the man was a shrewd and ruthless politician; he would wipe out half the commoners in the blink of an eye if it fit his purposes.

That wouldn't do. Regardless of what Father thought of him and his lifestyle, Bhelen was an Aeducan. He would not let these two cretins ruin their house – and his beloved city along with it.

The third son, unplanned, unnecessary, born in his father's old age and taking his mother's life as a prize; there was no destiny planned for him. Their biggest expectation was that he not make trouble. As a result, he had much more freedom than his two brothers, and he used it well. He didn't learn about the city's life from the Shapers, he lived it together with its people. How could Trian save the economy when he'd never spoken to a merchant longer than ten seconds? How could Duran lead a people he only knew as spectators in the arena?

"Say yes," Vartag hissed at him again, disrupting his thoughts. Trian's part was over and the Steward was recording the votes.

"Yes," he said in an arrogantly bored manner. It didn't matter. This was only the first reading. The second one would never happen.

Thankfully, the Steward didn't want anything else, and shortly after they were allowed to leave.

"You should go and get a few hours of sleep. It might be your last chance for the next few days." Vartag sounded almost cheerful as they strolled back to the Palace. "The time has come for you to stop your carefree life and take up your duties as a royal heir. After all, your can't just twiddle your thumbs while your brothers do their best to help the City and elevate the glory of your House. Trian came up with a wicked plan to fill the state treasury. Duran is going to be appointed the Commander of Orzammar-"

Bhelen stopped and glanced around. The street was empty except for a few young nobles loudly complaining about the incompetence of the latest Provings winner, paying no attention to Bhelen or Vartag. Or pretending not to. "It's official? Why don't I know?" he asked quietly.

"The king decided it only yesterday, the official announcement will be made tomorrow. You were supposed to be told by Prince Trian, but it must have slipped his mind. No wonder, with so many urgent and pressing matters he had to discuss with you first."

"No wonder," Bhelen agreed dryly.

"It is time to stop acting like a little brother and impress them with something they'd never expect from you."

"Oh, I already have some ideas about that. My brothers will not forget it for the rest of their lives - may they be long and blessed - and I am sure my father will be equally impressed." Bhelen grinned wickedly. "It was his own actions that inspired me, after all."

A maid woke him up, with many apologies, because Lord Ivo wanted to talk to him and insisted it was urgent. It felt like he'd barely closed his eyes, but in fact several hours had passed.

"I found her," was the first thing Frandlin said when he entered the room. "Trian's men held her captive all day. They didn't hurt her, but they threatened her and her whole family if she didn't stop seeing you, and only let her go this morning. I took her to one of our safe houses."

"Give me a minute," he said, hastily changing from his expensive royal clothes into plain old leathers.

"I could bring her here if you wanted," Frandlin offered, surprised.

"No. The Palace won't be safe in the next few days. I don't want to risk anything happening to her or… You have to keep her safe."

Frandlin arched his brow at his little slip but didn't comment. They hurried through the secret passage going from Bhelen's workroom all the way down to Dust Town. Just like the good old days, Bhelen thought, when he'd been a rebellious young fool running away from his studies, just to spite Father. He hadn't cared about politics then, resigned to his fate as an undesired extra, always in the shadows of his older brothers.

The first time he'd visited Dust Town was because he'd heard Trian refer to it as a pit of vices and all that was wrong with Orzammar. He had no idea how right he was… Bhelen had expected a thrilling adventure - cutthroats jumping you at every turn, thugs wandering the streets looking for their next victim, carta smugglers pushing a cheap mixture of lyrium and deep mushrooms. And there was all that. What took him by surprise was the politics. To survive and elevate your position, you had to tread carefully, know the right people, do them the right favors or ditch them at the right time. The only two differences Bhelen had found were that the Dusters' games were more brutal - a misstep leading far more often to death rather than just lost business - and they smelled much worse than their Palace counterparts.

That did not apply to the noble hunters, though. He had been warned against their kind, told that they would only want his name and money - as if the young noble ladies wanted anything else! These girls were at least honest about it. He could respect that.

The more he'd visited Dust Town, the more he had wondered why these people, thousands of perfectly capable men and women, were branded and isolated as criminals. Unwanted extras, all that was expected of them was to not cause problems for their betters and take the blame for everything that went wrong. Because tradition required it.

That was when he began to believe that he should be the next king. Not bumbling Trian, who had already been earning snickers behind his back, not naive Duran who confused blind obedience to Father with honesty. Him. He knew what it would take - his two brothers had to die. It bothered him far less than he expected.

It was tradition, after all.

The safe house was in Dust Town, but the interior was as comfortable as his rooms in the Royal Palace, with embroidered draperies and thick carpets, soft armchairs and sofas with endless fluffy cushions, and a wide canopy bed in the bedroom. Once again, Bhelen had to admire the resourcefulness of his two friends. His right and left hands, indeed. Things would've been much more difficult without those two.

Rica was curled up on the sofa, reading a book; the soft light from the fireplace made her breathtakingly beautiful and he stopped, unwilling to interrupt this moment. She must have heard him because she looked up. Her expression changed into a surprised, pleased smile. No one else smiled at him like that. To think he'd almost lost her…

"Bhelen." She put the book away and got up. He closed the distance between them and pulled her into a brief hug before gently sitting her back down.

"Don't get up. You need to rest, you are too pale."

She smiled. "I will be pale and sick for the next couple of months, whether I rest or not," she reminded him.

Bhelen nodded, uncertain what to say. For the first time since his teens, he was unable to control the process or sway the results the way he wanted, reduced to a passive bystander, doomed to wait and see what fate would bring, and he didn't like it one bit.

"Those men said I'm causing problems-"

"Forget about them," he cut in. "They're as good as dead."

"But I would hate to give you any-"

"You already give me what I want."

She finally stopped protesting, even though he saw in her eyes that she was still worried. "Did you think of any good names?"

"I was thinking of naming him after your father if you don't mind."

Bhelen snorted. "And Kalah for a girl?" he teased. Rica's relationship with her mother was just as loving and warm as his relationship with Father.

"It would be a proper name for a failure," she muttered.

That made him bristle. "I do not make failures." Unbelievable - after all his reassurances, she was still on about this. A boy or girl, it would be his. He'd like to see someone suggest leaving his child to her fate in Dust Town, branding her - by the Ancestors, he'd kill them!

"I am sorry," Rica said timidly. He shook himself. She was not his target. She was the only person who didn't have to fear him.

"Let's not waste this evening arguing." He sat down next to her and took her hands in his. "I won't be able to come back for some time, but you have nothing to worry about. You'll be safe here."

Her eyes widened. "What is going on? Are you in danger?"

He laughed. "On the contrary. This time, I am the danger."

That didn't reassure her, but he didn't bother to explain. It could wait. Tomorrow, he'd shake the very foundation of their kingdom. Tonight, he had other priorities.