#ch: anora mac tir

[vilnan]

i'd like to understand loghain better, if possible.

[masterskywalkers]

female awesome meme: ladies who are unfairly hated (1/5) | Anora Mac Tir 
‘I have ruled this nation on Cailan's behalf for many years. I am a great queen, and as beloved by my people as I love them‘.

[lavampira]

@visionmarred replied to your post “@visionmarred replied to your post “messing around with the other...”

Hfhfjfjf ngl that's EXACTLY why I made my Atreyan in the first place? listen Anora is literally so sweet and also teasing when you marry her it's great. 10/10 monarch of my heart

I literally cannot wait asdfhsgh I watched a vid of the m!cousland/anora content from pre-landsmeet to her appearance in awakening and it’s so adorable how sweet and flirty she is with a married warden?? and like. even if their agreement to marry is for political interests, she does seem to care about him to some personal degree by their private chat at the beginning of awakening, so the potential for headcanons to develop it into actual romance. so good.

[wiltf]

what we were

“I still called her ‘violent’.” Wrapped around a snicker of acknowledgement. Childhood’s past. “She kicked three knights and you said—” “That she was the most gentle horse I’d ever met.”

They survived.

ao3//

When they meet again, it would be so bold as to assume they were almost perfect strangers.

And perhaps it would be best if they were. For Anora moves left, and Fergus moves a perfect right. Mirror image, reflective of years since past and long lost youth. When he had run through the halls, little shorter than Maric’s chest, and she had been leading the charge.

Clearing his throat, Fergus steps back. Extends an arm, with a passably apologetic smile, and encourages Anora first. Even as their roads diverged, she was always two steps ahead. A conscious decision on his behalf, when they move into a private room. Magically sealed, carefully examined.

Quiet.

“You survived after all.”

Anora’s voice is unshakable, but her hands move to sit in front, wringing her fingers that betrayed her manner. Part of him would comment on it, how she would then go to move her hair, where that one curl always managed to get loose, but he holds back.

“Aye, Ano—your majesty. We were… incredibly lucky. I believe my brother told you about what happened.”

Do they still stand? Sit? Fergus isn’t sure if he should fold his arms, or hide his hands at his back. It was different, when Cailan was still there. Easier lead to follow, with that certain amount of jovial attitude that lightened the mood. Remarkably like his father, in that sense, from what Fergus could remember. Except Maric’s presence was always around the corner, and Cailan’s disappeared without a trace.

She was still dressed in black. He should not think of the deceased king in such a way.

Finally, Anora sits. Practiced and graceful and pinched. Too stiff in the shoulders, hands still clasped. Like she was meeting with any other dignitary. Ah, so he should follow suit. One hand on the arm rest, politely resting. Slower movements. Will the nerves back.

Such stunned silence would be the joke of Denerim, before she. Smiles. Right hand, going to cover her teeth. A reminder of when one would-be squire commented she had an ugly one, right before she kicked him in the shin. Kind of comment that stuck, never leaving. Fergus shouldn’t have been so relieved to see it, as she tries to force her face back into a mask of neutrality, but her muscles don’t listen.

“I’m so glad that you are here, Fergus.” And had he been anyone else, he might’ve commented on the slight gasp, hiccup, whatever other name some book might’ve called it. “I didn’t want to lose you as well.”

Leaning forward, it was bold of him to reach out for her hand. Something she doesn’t hesitate to offer. Calloused fingers, hers, his. Nothing that could be replaced. “I’m sorry for not being here. For the war, the Blight… for Cailan.”

“You couldn’t help it. It was his orders, after all.”

Neither comment on the lingering feeling there. Sore spot, still too raw, even years after she had told him of her betrothal. The night he had left for Highever, determined on never returning to Denerim again. Was it bitterness? Fergus swallows it down.

But she interrupts, fingers tightening around his. “I’m sorry. For Oriana and Oren. For letting Howe live how long he did. I knew, and I did nothing.”

“Anora, I—”

“I let them use me, all for the sake of being a good daughter, and a good wife. That’s not who I am, Fergus.”

Anora Mac Tir did not cry. And it was not merely a matter of being poetic or sincere. Time did not change that, even if her eyes narrowed and her nose ran red. There would be no tears for those who passed. Nor any spared upon seeing Fergus returned. In a manner of speaking, it seemed to settle his heart, if only a little. Things had not changed. She was still the girl who unseated him in a joust. Still the woman who did her duty.

“You have always been a lot of things, Anora.” Careful with her name. There was a time when he could shout it with a laugh. “But I hate to say it: you’ve never been a good daughter. Or wife. Do you remember when you hitched your skirts up, got on horseback, and had the guard chase you through the forests until you were blistered and bruised?”

Another smile, one not covered. Broken and true. “What was that horse’s name?”

“Lady Violet. You wanted to name her ‘violent’, but your madam refused.” And it was Fergus’ turn to laugh. “Fitting, almost.”

“I still called her ‘violent’.” Wrapped around a snicker of acknowledgement. Childhood’s past.

“She kicked three knights and you said—”

“That she was the most gentle horse I’d ever met.”

At some point, their fingers had intertwined. Right in left. The skin where her wedding band might’ve once sat was lighter. Fergus hadn’t had the heart to remove his, not just yet. Nor the necklace Oren made, of string and material, wrapped around his arm, safe and warm under layers of fur.

“How did you remember all that?”

“It makes quite an impression on you.” He does not mean to turn their hands, so that he was able to draw his thumb over her skin. Linger on the space where a ring should’ve been. “You’ve always been good at that.”

Fergus’ voice trails off, until all that was left was the sound of a crackling fire. One he had not even noticed. Where to from here? It had been more than a year, since they had last seen each other. When Oriana was still alive, at his side, and he had loved her deeply and sweetly. Still did, in that he felt cold, when she was no longer there.

“Will you return to Highever?”

The question of a lifetime. Only three times had he set foot in the walls, since they had emerged victorious from the Blight. To bury wife and son. To settle affairs. To find the brooch that Anora had gifted, all those years ago. It was not the place he remembered. It would never be the same.

“No, not for now… if you’ll have me, allow me to stay in court.”

When Anora says ‘yes’, it is with more than just sincerity. Fergus finds it comforting, when it was likely wrong to assume it to be. That there was still some familiarity in what remained. They made quite the pair, he muses, dressed in black, dyed a deep orange from the flames. Silence where there had once been nonstop chatter. When they were simply nothing more than the fostered noble and the future queen.

Now they sat, widowed too soon and too violently. No pieces to be held, no game to play. Anora looks through him, sees into a part he does not wish to touch. Not yet. Still too raw and open, wounded further with the pitying looks that he received. How his brother does nothing more than apologise, had he been stronger, had he been quicker.

But he was young, and he had learned. It did not matter if he was stronger or quicker, a coup succeeded in strength, and Fergus would be daft to overlook how Howe’s plan worked just so. All for his guts to be spilled, but that was planning and crafting. Years worth, for the one moment to strike. Perfect in execution.

“You always used to get lost in thought. The tutors would rap you on the knuckles for it, remember?”

“‘Fergus Cousland, it will be a wonder if you ever manage to find ground enough to rule one day’.” Voice pitching, mimicking the way that they had once talked. With a grin, right at the end. “I remember.”

“You haven’t changed.”

And, he breathes, thankfully, “neither have you.”

[silecouslandold]

characters of thedas | queen anora mac tir

Shall I try to shove my crown under the door? Do you think the royal family has a secret knock? 

[dragonologist-phd]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Female Cousland/Anora Mac Tir Characters: Anora Mac Tir, Female Cousland (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Gay yearning, thats it just a lot of gay yearning, I'm Sorry, pre-game Summary:

Anora Mac Tir knows what she wants- she wants to marry Cailan and become the greatest Queen Ferelden has ever known. But on the eve of her wedding, a visit from Sirena Cousland reminds her that there might be other she wants, as well.

(Alternatively, read below!)

It was the night before Anora was to be married, and try as she might she simply couldn’t get a wink of sleep.

Of course she couldn’t. How could anyone expect her to, with such a momentous event looming on the horizon? She’d known her entire life that she was meant to one day become Queen of Ferelden; tomorrow, with her marriage into the Therein family, that destiny would become official. And while any wedding had its share of preparations, the marriage of a future king and queen required a good deal more than a gown and a recitation of vows before a Chantry mother. There were public appearances to be made in front of the Denerim crowds, long speeches to be delivered beneath the Chantry roof, and of course a reception to be held for the visiting nobility who were traveling from all across the country to witness the union.

Anora had never been one to sit back and let others make arrangements in her stead; she had been involved in every step of the preparations, and had poured hours of effort into ensuring that everything would go exactly according to plan. Truth be told, she would be quite relieved when the whole thing was over and done with- the trappings of the wedding were important, a vital part of the image she and Cailan needed to display to the country, but Anora was long ready to turn her attentions to something a bit more stimulating.

She would have the freedom soon enough, she kept reminding herself. She just needed to get through the coming day. And although she knew a proper night’s sleep would help with that, that logic didn’t help as her mind continued to circle over the details she had so carefully planned out for her future.

The restless energy buzzed through Anora like a gnat she couldn’t swat away, filling her with the need to do… something. At last she threw her sheets to the side and rose from her bed, abandoning the pretense of peaceful slumber. What she needed was to move, to occupy herself, to do anything other than sit still and wait for morning. At the very least she could wander the palace gardens- perhaps the fresh air would be enough to free her mind until fatigue finally caught up with her.

As she pulled a warm woolen cloak over her shoulders, Anora told herself she wouldn’t be long. The last thing she wanted was for someone to come across her like this, with undone hair and tired eyes; or worse, for someone drop by her empty room and think her missing.

But as she stepped outside Anora was greeted by a gust of refreshingly chilled wind, and the night sky above was clear and full of stars, and for the first time that day she felt some of the tension leave her body. Even as the hour grew later and later, Anora found herself lingering, her thoughts drifting as she strolled aimlessly along the dirt paths. Perhaps there was no need to rush, after all. She’d memorized the guard’s schedules long ago, and knew how to avoid them; no servants had any business in the gardens this late; any nobles still awake were probably deep in their cups, just as Cailan likely was.

Just as Anora had convinced herself that her solitude was complete, however, a voice rang out across the gardens.

“Anora? What in the world are you doing out here?”

The sudden voice made Anora jump, and she heaved a sigh of annoyance as she realized she’d been spotted. The annoyance fled, however, once she realized who it was that had done the spotting.

“Lady Sirena? Is that you?”

A closer look revealed that it was indeed the Lady Sirena Cousland, who for some reason was perched on a garden wall, one leg hanging carelessly off the side. She laughed and leapt from the wall, heading towards Anora with a grin. “Oh please, don’t lead with the Lady. If you do, I’ll have to call you ‘soon-to-be Future Queen Anora of Ferelden’, and as lovely a title as that is, it’s quite a mouthful.”

Anora fought back a smile. Nobody else would ever speak to her in such a way, but this was Sirena- always ready with a teasing response, hardly worried about any offense she might cause. The Couslands ruled over Highever, and were, along with the Mac Tirs, one of the most respected noble families of Ferelden. That reputation, coupled with Sirena’s disarming smile and easy temperament, was a perfect recipe for the effortless confidence that constantly radiated from the youngest Cousland child.

That disarming smile was now turned upon Anora in full force as Sirena asked, “Really, what are you doing out here?” She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me I’m interrupting a clandestine meeting under the moonlight? And on the eve of your own wedding?”

A huff of laughter escaped Anora’s lips even as she rolled her eyes. “Oh, banish the thought. I was just thinking how pleased I was to see you, and now you’re making me change my mind.”

Sirena just laughed again and wrapped an arm around Anora’s shoulders, pulling her close for a hug. Her long dark hair smelled of rain, and she wore a thick fur cloak over plain traveling clothes; she must have arrived very recently.

“How was the journey from Highever?”

“Too long, as always,” Sirena answered with a shrug. “But you don’t want to hear about a boring carriage trip through the rain and mud. How are you? I am genuinely curious as to what brings out so late on this of all nights.”

Anora waved a dismissive hand in the air. “It’s not that late. And I couldn’t sleep.”

“Too excited?”

“Too preoccupied, rather. There’s so much to think about for tomorrow. Every time I close my eyes, I remember yet another detail that I want to check up on.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Sirena said. “But don’t you have people to do that sort of work for you?”

“Of course I do,” Anora admitted. “But if you want something done correctly…”

“Do it yourself,” Sirena finished. “You’ve been living that motto since we were children.”

“And it’s still true,” Anora pointed out wryly. “Anyway, I could ask the same question of you. How did you end up out here instead of in our rather lovely guest chambers?”

Sirena shrugged and looked back in the direction she’d come from, her gaze traveling over the garden, toward the training ground, beyond the towers that looked over the Denerim marketplace. “Oh, traveling always leaves me nostalgic. I was just wandering around, revisiting a few spots before they’re filled up with people tomorrow.”

Anora could guess as to which memories Sirena was reliving. They had both spent many days at the Denerim palace, watching their parents go about the duties of nobility, knowing that someday they would take their places.

That knowledge had been with Anora for as long as she could remember; her entire life, she reflected, was a preparation for rulership, and it had always been a perfect fit. Even as a child, Anora had loved listening in on the courtly proceedings and hearings, things that bored Cailan to tears as he dutifully followed her lead. In sharp contrast, the silly games and childish play of the other children had always seemed, to Anora, to all be horribly dull.

But even at a young age, Sirena was hard to miss. Always something of a troublemaker, she was direct and honest and said things as they were without layers of political machinations. Her friendship with Anora was something of a mystery, even to Anora herself. But she had to admit there was something about Sirena’s easy confidence and strangely insightful remarks that managed to hold Anora’s interest where few others could.

“It’s been too long since you’ve visited,” Anora remarked, and Sirena’s focus shifted from the palace grounds back to Anora. Her dark eyes were, for a moment, unexpectedly thoughtful. But only for a moment- they quickly brightened again as Sirena gave Anora a warm smile.

“It really has, hasn’t it? We should catch up. And you obviously need to relax a little.” Her grin took on a mischievous edge. “And I have just the thing for that.”

“I need to sleep, not drink myself into a stupor.”

Sirena gave a bark of laughter as she poured the liquor into two glasses and held one out to Anora. “Cailan and his buddies are getting good and drunk out in the courtyard as we speak. Why should they get all the fun?”

The two women were back in Anora’s quarters, having quietly returned after making a quick detour in the kitchens to pilfer a bottle of spirits. Sirena now sat cross-legged on Anora’s carpet, the very picture of temptation as she waggled the glass in her hand towards Anora.

Anora simply rolled her eyes. “You’re relentless.” And yet despite the scoffing she sat down anyway, gathering her skirts around knees, and graciously took the glass. Sirena had chosen a strong liquor, one of the more expensive selections from the wine cellar; today, the choice seemed appropriate. “But I suppose I can’t refuse a toast on the eve of my wedding.”

“Exactly.” Sirena turned her attention to her own glass, carefully measuring out the drink before holding it aloft. “To the bride, and future Queen of Ferelden.”

Anora brought her glass to meet Sirena’s with a soft clink, and then swiftly lifted it to her lips and swallowed the entire drink in one quick gulp.

Sirena downed her drink as well, then laughed in delight. “That’s the spirit I was looking for! I must say, I’m impressed.”

“Don’t tell me this comes as a surprise,” Anora said with a smirk. “Handling one’s drink is a requisite of Ferelden nobility.”

“Ah, yes, I almost forgot. They fit that right between the lessons on Andrastian recitations and history of the Fereldan Rebellion.

With a grin, Anora held out her glass for more liquor, and Sirena happily obliged. As they drank they fell into conversation, a simple rhythm of chatting and drinking between two longtime friends. It was, Anora had to admit, a situation that she was not particularly accustomed to. Cailan was the one who happily entertained others for hours on end, the one who brought about conversation and laughter. Anora was the one who already was known as serious, severe, domineering. This reputation rarely bothered her- it was a good reputation for a future queen to have.

But simply being a woman chatting amicably with pleasant company was nice, too.

“Tired yet?” Sirena asked eventually. She gave Anora a look that was half-joking, half-sincere. “You can tell me to leave whenever I start to get annoying. Believe me, you wouldn’t be the first to kick me out of a room.”

“No, no, stay,” Anora assured her. “If you begin to annoy me, I will certainly let you know.” She giggled- an effect of the drink, of course, for under normal circumstances Anora was most certainly not a giggler. “Believe me, you wouldn’t be the first I’ve kicked out of a room. I’m not exactly known for my gentle disposition, am I?”

“Oh, please,” Sirena said, rolling her eyes as she poured another glass. “Who needs a gentle disposition?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Anora agreed. “Better that they think my too hard than think they control me. I decided that a long time ago.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Sirena said, raising her cup. She was quiet for a moment then, and Anora thought she may be dozing off. But although her eyes held a distant look, they did not close, and eventually Sirena said, “Anyone who would try to control you is an idiot, by the way. You’re smarter than everyone in this castle combined. They should just…get out of your way and let you work your miracles.”

Anora smiled, surprised to feel heat rushing to her cheeks at the compliments. She blamed the drink for that, as well; she knew her own worth and was hardly unaccustomed to recognition. A simple compliment from Sirena Cousland shouldn’t have such an effect on its own. She looked away, hoping the redness in her face wasn’t obvious to the other woman. “Thank you.”

“And you’re going to make a marvelous queen!” Sirena continued. “Ferelden is lucky to have you. I mean that, truly. Nobody else could do a better job.”

“Well, I should hope not,” Anora said. “I have been preparing for this my entire life, you know.” She sighed, tilting her head back as she thought of all the work she had put forth, and all that lay ahead of her.

Lost in her thoughts, she almost missed the next words spoken quietly by Sirena. “Cailan is lucky, too.”

Anora blinked, startled by the apparent change in subject. Recovering quickly, she gave a thin smile. “Ah, yes. I’m certain he’s thanking the stars that he will have someone to handle the details of his future rule. He’s wonderful with people, of course, but try to talk to him about economics or resource distribution and he’s completely lost.”

“That’s true enough,” Sirena agreed, pushing back a long lock of hair from her face. “Although I did mean something more along the lines of…” She paused, and seemed to fumble for words for a moment. “He’s lucky to be marrying someone he’s actually fond of.”

“Oh.” Anora wanted to say more, but she didn’t quite know how to respond to that. It felt such an odd subject to bring up- but her wedding was tomorrow, after all. Perhaps it was a natural point of conversation, after all.

“Not to pry, of course,” Sirena said quickly, noticing Anora’s hesitation. She paused, chewing on her lip for short moment as she regarded Anora with curious, measuring eyes. “I mean, you are fond of each other, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” Anora said at once. Realizing her reply came a tad too quickly, she sighed and leaned back against the wall, resting her head against the cool stone. “I’m certain you’ve heard me complain about him, and he can be quite the fool at times. But he has his talents, and he loves Ferelden, and he knows better than to try and order me about. We make a good team, he and I. We know each other, our strengths and weaknesses. As far as arrangements go, it could have been far worse.”

Sirena nodded, turning over Anora’s words in silence. She shifted her position until she, too, was leaning against the wall, close enough that their shoulders brushed against each other. “Do you think you could grow to love him at all?”

This time, the question did not take Anora by surprise; in fact, it was something she had often asked herself. “I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “But I hardly think that’s the most important thing in marriage. Especially between rulers.”

That earned her a chuckle from Sirena. “You’ve always been a pragmatic one.” Anora frowned, and Sirena gave her an apologetic smile before she playfully bumped her shoulder with her own. “And right, of course, I know you are. I only hope I’m that lucky if I ever get married.”

Anora was so relieved by the lack of judgement from Sirena that she nearly missed the implication in her words. Almost. Her brow furrowed, and she gave Sirena a questioning look. “If? Certainly you have your pick of suitors.” It only made sense- the Couslands were a family of wealth and renown, and Sirena herself was certainly not lacking in beauty. More than that, she was intelligent and skilled with a blade and easy to speak with; any lord would be lucky to win her hand.

But Sirena only shrugged, a playfully crooked smile on her lips. “Oh, there are plenty of men sniffing around for a chance at marrying into the Couslands. Some are even somewhat tolerable. But…”

“But none quite meet your standards?” Anora finished. Her tone was teasing, but she knew the feeling well enough. After all, if she hadn’t been promised to the future king at such a young age, she would probably have found herself in a very similar situation.

“They’re fine enough. Fine enough for flirting and dancing with at parties. But fine enough isn’t something I went to settle for in the long run.” Sirena sighed and looked down, tracing her finger around the rim of her glass. “It’s just that I grew up watching my parents, never realizing what a rare thing they had. They’re so in love that people have written songs about them. That sort of thing doesn’t happen often. Not when marriage is something for duty and politics and…”

“And pragmatism?” Anora asked pointedly, and Sirena gave her another apologetic grin.

“No offense. Like I said, you have the right of it. Eventually I shall likely choose someone, and I’m sure it won’t be as bad as I’m making it out to be. I know my parents would never marry me off to someone I dislike.” Her eyes flicked up to Anora’s face. “I just don’t think the odds of marrying for love are very high.”

Sirena’s voice was low and sorrowful, a startling change from her usual light tone. Without thinking, Anora reached out and put her hand over Sirena’s. “You never know. The future may surprise you.”

Sirena seemed startled at the contact, and Anora wondered for a moment if she was being too forward. But she didn’t pull away, and neither did Sirena- in fact, the other woman shifted her fingers, securing the grip. They stayed that way for a long moment, until at last Sirena recovered herself enough to straighten her shoulders and give Anora a bright smile. “I don’t know about that. But we’ll see.”

Something unfinished still lingered in her words, but for now she at least seemed comforted by Anora’s presence. Anora knew she wasn’t the most comforting sort of person, even at the best of times, but she was happy that she seemed to be doing some good. She gave a firm nod and continued, “And should you never get married, you would be just as well off. If I had been born to royalty on my own, well…as I said, Cailan and I make a good team. But he needs me far more than I need him.” Anora felt a small twinge of guilt saying that out loud, but it was true, and they both knew it, and saying it made Sirena laugh.

“You’ll hear no dispute from me,” she said. “In any case, I have far more exciting things to look forward to than marriage.” She stopped suddenly, and closed her eyes in apparent embarrassment. “Which is probably not what I should say to someone about to get married, is it? We’re supposed to be celebrating you, and I’ve gone and turned it bleak!”

“Oh, please,” Anora said with a laugh of her own. “I believe I’ve made my position on the whole situation rather clear. And I’m interested in hearing more of these grand plans of yours.”

Sirena still looked sheepish, but she obliged. “Well, Fergus will inherit rule of Highever. First-born gets all the perks. But I’ll still be around to assist. I’ll likely take command of our troops.” A small smile crept onto her face. “That’s something I’d be good at. I’d have them all whipped into shape in no time.”

“And if a lord swept you off your feet, you’d have an entire arling of your own to whip into shape. Troops and all,” Anora pointed out. Sirena looked unconvinced, and on impulse Anora added, “Or you could always come here to Denerim. Become a staple of the court. We certainly have plenty of troops that need the help. And I wouldn’t mind having a…”

Anora stumbled over the word friend. Even under the influence of the drink, it was difficult to let something like that slip out so easily. Anora was not accustomed to having friends. She had Cailan, of course; she had her father; she had servants and fellow nobles whom she trusted to varying degrees. But her friendship with Sirena was something different from any of that.

“…a confidante,” she said finally, hoping Sirena hadn’t noticed her momentary conflict. She glanced at the woman from the corner of her eyes, and was satisfied to see that she looked pleased at the notion.

“A tempting offer, I admit,” Sirena said. A smirk played on her lips. “What would my duties as a confidante entail?”

That smirk made Anora oddly flustered, and she had to glance away before she could respond. “Oh…this sort of thing, really. Keeping me company. Listening to me complain. Suppling me with alcohol.” She smiled and raised her empty glass in the air as an example. “You’re doing a splendid job already.”

“And those are just a few of many talents,” Sirena laughed. “I’m honored by the offer. I’m sure there must be fierce competition.”

“Oh, certainly,” Anora agreed. “But most of the other competitors care less about me and more about the power I will wield. They simply want to be close to the Queen.” She grimaced. “Or the King. It’s difficult enough to reign him in without my own companions making eyes at him.”

“Their loss,” Sirena said definitively. “All of them. Anyone would be lucky to have you as a friend, and as…well, Cailan is an idiot and a fool if he even looks at another woman when he has you.”

Maker, Anora could feel herself blushing. She straightened her shoulders, trying desperately not to show her sudden nerves. “I admit, it’s a pleasant change of pace for someone to rush to my defense like this. I certainly tell Cailan the same often enough. Honestly, I would hardly mind if he could at least be discreet about it. But he never thinks of things in such a way. And it certainly doesn’t help that he’s found so many who are ever so eager to indulge him. I’d be thankful to have at least one woman around who’s not chasing after him.”

It was a jest, but the possibility was a heavy weight in Anora’s chest, and she would be lying if she said it didn’t lighten when Sirena wrinkled her nose in obvious distaste. “Cailan? Maker, no.” Her expression faded into something more contemplative as she looked at Anora. “If I’m to be honest…I was always chasing after someone else.”

That was unexpected- it took Anora a moment to process her words. That same heaviness was back, which made no sense; why should she care if Sirena was holding a torch for someone after all, so long as it was not Cailan? “That’s an unexpected revelation if I’ve ever heard one. What happened to never finding love?”

“Ah. That.” Sirena looked abashed and quickly shook her head. “It would never have worked out. Not with me. They’ve got other things in their life. Other people.”

“Not married, are they?” Anora inquired. She didn’t know why she was still pressing. She didn’t want to know about this person, didn’t want to know who it was Sirena was pining after. But she couldn’t stop the questions from coming.

Sirena was quiet for a moment, although her dark eyes never left Anora’s face. “Engaged, actually.”

Anora’s breath caught, and when she spoke the words were soft and quiet. “Engaged?”

“But only for one more night.”

There was soft moment of realization, a quiet oh in the back of Anora’s mind, and before she could think better of it she whispered, “Then you still have time.”

And suddenly Sirena was kissing her. It was soft at first, uncertain, her lips barely hovering against Anora’s, but as Anora leaned in she became more confident and soon enough the kiss had deepened. Sirena brought a hand to Anora’s face, gently caressing her cheek, and Anora threaded her fingers through Sirena’s long hair as she pulled her even closer. It was like nothing Anora had ever experienced; this was no polite show of carefully cultured affection, no hesitant testing of what was expected of her. This was passionate and earnest and real.

Anora wanted more. She wanted to pull Sirena to her bed, to get even closer, to explore every inch of her body, to completely and utterly forget about everything else in the world-

And then it was over. Anora’s eyes fluttered open, and she realized Sirena and was hastily rising from the floor, muttering hurried, half-formed apologies. “I’m sorry- that was stupid of me- I didn’t intend-and tomorrow you’re-Maker, I’m sorry-”

Anora hurriedly stood as well, reaching out for Sirena as the woman was turning for the door. Her fingers brushed Sirena’s wrist, and although the touch was light Sirena froze in place.

“Sirena, I…”

Anora faltered. She was accustomed to knowing what to say. Knowing exactly what she wanted, and how to get it. But now…now she had no idea. She wanted to be the Queen Ferelden needed. She wanted to follow through on the promises she’d made. She wanted Sirena to stay. She wanted too many things, and those desire could not exist in the same space.

She couldn’t hold on to everything. And that wasn’t fair, not to her or Sirena. But it was the way things were.

“I’m sorry, too,” Anora whispered as she pulled back her hand. As she let Sirena go.

Sirena closed her eyes for moment, then nodded and left the room without another word. Anora numbly reached for the bottle she’d left behind and drained what little remained, trying to chase away the taste of Sirena’s lips. Then she went to bed, and once again she did not sleep.

Sirena almost didn’t show her face the next day.

But if she hid out all day she’d eventually have to explain why. So the next morning she dragged herself out of bed, threw cold water on her face, donned her formal attire, and watched Anora get married.

The ceremony passed in a blur, with the songs of the Chant and the words of endless speeches lulling the day into a hazy rhythm. The only moment that stood out was when Anora entered the Chantry. She walked in with her head held high, the picture of beauty and confidence draped in gold and ivory-white. Just looking at her sent a piercing pain through Sirena’s chest.

She was being ridiculous. Childish. Selfish. Sirena cared about Anora, and she knew this was what she wanted, and she had no right to the longing and jealously that burned through her.

What had she been thinking last night? She’d done so well all these years, fighting back those feelings, telling herself it was a passing crush…and then last night it had all come crashing out. Maybe it was Anora’s suggestion to come to Denerim. The idea of seeing her every day, of being so close to her…all while she was married to Cailan.

Sirena wasn’t capable of such cruelty towards herself. But oh, she’d been tempted.

At least the slip in her defenses hadn’t ruined Anora’s wedding. She was still here, betraying not a single doubt or worry as she recited her vows with clarity before the Maker.

And that was a good thing, Sirena told herself throughout the ceremony. The only thing worse than Anora rejecting her advances would be Anora risking everything she had and everything she wanted over her. That was what Sirena told herself during procession back to the palace. That was what she told herself in the reception held in the ballroom for the new husband and wife, when drinks were had in honor of the happy new couple.

Someone thrust a glass of wine in her hand, and Sirena realized with a start she was being called upon to make a toast. She wavered for a moment, looking across the room and meeting Anora eye to eye.

For the first time that day, Sirena thought she caught a hint of something mournful through Anora’s well-practiced mask of assured certainty. She remembered Anora’s lips against hers, wanting, drawing her in closer. She remembered Anora’s hand on her wrist, silently pleading for something she couldn’t voice. She remembered those whispered words. I am sorry.

Sirena raised a glass and gave the room a smile, big and bright, just what they expected from the ostentatious Cousland girl. “To the bride and groom,” she said, her eyes never leaving Anora’s. “To your bright future. I know you will do amazing things for Ferelden, and it is my truest hope that this life brings you every happiness.”

Anora smiled at her- a small, sad smile that that spoke volumes more than any speech and utterly broke Sirena’s heart. It was there and gone in an instant, wiped away as the next person stood to make their toast. But every now and then her gaze would return to Sirena, and that smile would come back. Never for long. Never noticed by anybody else. But Sirena saw it, and she knew she would never forget it as long as she lived.

[attanos]

sapphic aesthetics → ebris cousland & anora mac tir (dragon age origins)

”I've known Anora my whole life. Ferelden could ask for no better queen.”

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 19 - Shadows on the Mind

It is the spring of 9:32 Dragon, and Ferelden is gripped in the midst of a bloody civil war. Driven by fear of an old enemy, the traitorous Loghain Mac Tir has stirred the people against the king, and every day new factions vie for power, waiting to take advantage of the chaos now that it is certain a new peace can only be won with swords.

In the north, Arl Howe of Amaranthine has seized control of Highever, and only Rosslyn Cousland, last scion of a slaughtered noble house, stands in the way of his greed. Aided by King Cailan’s uncle and his bastard half-brother, Alistair, she is determined to seek justice for her family’s murder and right the wrongs done to her people.

But politics is a complicated game. War has a cost; nobility comes with obligation; and beneath the machinations on both sides of the conflict, an even deeper threat stirs, biding its time to come into the light and bring Ferelden to its knees.

Words: 2837

Chapter summary: His plans outmatched for the time being, Loghain plots his next move in Denerim.

CW: violent death (no gore)

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Twenty-seventh day of Drakonis, 9:32 Dragon

The large window in the king’s study had been installed during the rebuilding of Denerim, as the last black marks of the Occupation were being washed away. It offered an unparalleled view of the city, which Maric said was the point. He had once asked, rhetorically, what kind of king he would be if all he did was sit behind a desk making writs without seeing how they affected his people. The fact that many of these writs had been delayed over the years because of His Majesty’s tendency to be distracted by the goings-on in the streets below had been an endless source of frustration for his advisors.

Despite the tendency to let his mind wander, Maric’s dedication to his people could not be denied. In the years following the Orlesian retreat, trade deals with the Free Marches and Antiva had swelled the size of the capital’s harbour district, bringing in exotic goods, raw materials, and investment, and now the deep water port could accommodate even a Qunari dreadnought, should one ever deign to come so far south. With the increased shipping came the markets and the merchants and the bustle of dockworkers making their daily living. On an ordinary day, the streets would be busy with fishermen and hawkers lauding the goods they had for sale, and with them, sailors waiting for the tide to turn, and sometimes the more brazen madams trying to win their coin and their attention for an hour or two.

Loghain could see no loiterers today. He scowled out at the drizzle, one hand clutched reflexively at the heavy pendant hanging around his neck, stroking it with his thumb. The curious green crystal at its centre caught the light and made for an annoying reflection in the glass, but he barely noticed it. The last of his ships were making port, unscathed by the winter storms. In addition to the troops he had originally meant as a reserve, the three-masted vessels carried much needed supplies and equipment from the winter stores in Gwaren, and their addition to his rations would greatly ease the strain on the soldiers and on the general populace, who had so far taken to his presence with the equanimity to be expected of commoners. So long as they were left alone without privation, they would be unlikely to cause trouble.

Still, no need to be complacent. Even though he had outed Cailan as a traitor to his people, there were still those among the guard and the nobility whose loyalty remained steadfast to their monarch. An admirable quality, to be sure, but a dangerous one for a man whose success depended on his enemy not knowing his next move. Even now, the gates to the city were shut to all those without official business, and the massive netted chain that guarded the harbour against piracy was drawn in so that not even the smallest boat could pass and send word to the loyalists.

The sight ought to be easing his mind. Setting sail from Gwaren in the middle of winter with all of Cailan’s forces blocking the Brecilian Passage was a gamble a lesser man wouldn’t have risked, but he had seen the opportunity for a swift end to the conflict, and had taken his chance when the Southron Hills became clogged with snow. He had left port ahead of the storm, satisfied in the knowledge that Arl Leonas and others of his ilk would rest on their certainty, think him trapped by the southern winter. While they had hung their cloaks and settled by their fires to wait for the thaw, he had rounded the peninsular unmolested, with his soldiers safe from every enemy but the sea.

And yet, when he had pulled into port on that overcast, blustery morning a week ago, it was only to find his ultimate prize had slipped his grasp.

I underestimated him.

The capital hadn’t so much fallen to him as noticed the new pennants on the city gates, then shrugged and resumed its winter torpor. Loghain had the palace, and the royal guard, and control of shipping all along the northern coast, but without Cailan, the victory was a hollow one. The plan had been to curtail the king’s movements, to make him see reason or act for the greater good if he did not, and either way to end the war before the toll of innocent lives became too great. Instead, he had escaped, and taken his legitimacy with him. Although untested in open battle, the young man was skilled with a blade, and worse, he was likeable, sure to rouse support among banns easily swayed by pretty words. The loyalty Loghain himself had to fight for with threats and grim debate, Cailan managed with an easy smile and a witticism or two. No doubt it was such radiant charm that had ensnared Anora’s feelings, too – and those of that thrice-damned Orlesian harpy eager to supplant her.

A movement in the courtyard below caught Loghain’s eye. It was the wind, brushing against the limp body swinging by the neck in the courtyard, purpled and starting to swell from exposure. The sight calmed him. When he had led his troops onto the dock to find only the wizened Arl of Denerim waiting for him, in the depth of his anger he knew he had been betrayed, because how else would Cailan have known to flee? The purge of his ranks had been swift, the punishment meted out to the conspirators harsh but necessary.

The wind tugged again, and the dead soldier twisted on the end of his rope, so that the empty face turned upwards to the king’s window, staring at Loghain from dark eye sockets, tongue blue and bloated where it poked between his teeth.

Yes. A necessary sacrifice. A traitor. It was always I who made the harsh decisions to ensure victory. Maric, at least, understood that.

Loghain turned his attention back to the ships. The question before him was what to do now. Summer was swiftly on the march, and with it, the long, hot days traditionally given over to campaigning; the forces currently held at bay by freak snowstorms and boggy roads would soon be on the move, and without a clear advantage of numbers, open warfare would be risky.

And then there was the Cousland girl, this ‘Falcon of Highever’ as she styled herself. He should have known better than to trust Howe to take care of the teyrn and his family. The man’s avarice was outstripped only by his hubris, and the combination had allowed the chit to escape and raise a war across the North. Twice now he had read reports of her victories, and just last week a snivelling message from Howe saying his forces had been driven back by raids from ambush soldiers wearing the blazon of the Laurels. She had the makings of a formidable opponent – in some ways, one more dangerous to his plans than Cailan. Her style was reckless, her limited experience compensated for by the spur of revenge, the same knowledge of righteousness against cruelty that had pressed all the old guard to victory during the Occupation. Loghain knew that feeling well; he might have admired her in different circumstances.

Yes, it had been a mistake to let Howe have the Couslands. Bryce had been an honourable man, a fellow warrior, and a veteran of the Rebellion, always a level head in the Landsmeet unlikely to fall for rhetoric. In truth, he was one of the few who could be called noble without any sense of irony, but the loyalty commanded in Highever had made it necessary to remove him from the field before Cailan’s quarrel led to open war. If there had been time, he would have tried harder to persuade the teyrn to part ways with the king, even knowing it would never have worked. The Couslands were too loyal, too traditional, and proud to a fault. Loghain’s lip curled in a faint sneer at this thought, wondering if Bryce would have been so quick to dismiss this new threat from Orlais if it had been his daughter set up as the laughingstock of Ferelden.

And now she’s running loose, garnering sympathy and likely making eyes at that fool boy, looking to usurp my daughter’s place as Queen.

Behind him on the other side of the king’s desk, the members of his senior staff shifted nervously as his mumblings took on the timbre of a growl. He had always been a strict commander, demanding the best from those who served him, and their loyalty was rewarded in kind – as was disloyalty. The stresses of the past few weeks seemed to finally be catching up to the old general, however. He suffered from headaches, and this in turn made him more taciturn, less predictable, and catching his ire these days was dangerous. More than one mind veered to the body slowly turning in the courtyard. Loyalty held sway, but their respect was now edged by a creeping sense of dread.

Only the tall young woman stood at the centre of the knot of advisors seemed eager to draw Loghain’s attention rather than deflect it. Ser Cauthrien stood polished in full armour, clunky layers of plate and mail that were not quite padded enough to hide her narrow frame, her hands held stiff at her sides, a rapt expression on her thin face. Her shoulders ached from the strain of keeping her spine straight, her feet were numb, and a wisp of mud-dark hair fell into her eyes, but she made no move to brush it away. Since losing King Cailan, the worsening news about the rebellions in the north and west meant the way forward was now unclear, and there was much to consider before deciding on the best course. Would it be more reassuring to have a commander who made snap decisions without thinking through every eventuality caused by his actions? She felt a spike of contempt for those who shrank away from her master. After all, he had brought them all safe across the winter sea, caused the king himself to flee in fear, and now stood in Denerim’s palace, having won the city with minimal losses. She could not judge his actions executing the supposed traitor. The decision had been swift, for sure, and shocking to all those who had witnessed the man’s final pleas as he stood on the scaffold, but Loghain’s face had been grim as he passed the sentence, and in all her years of service, Cauthrien had never known him to be unnecessarily cruel. And what other reason could there be for the king’s conveniently-timed escape?

She licked chapped lips and waited.

“We cannot allow ourselves to grow careless,” Loghain said eventually. He still faced the window, and it was unclear whether or not he was speaking to the other people in the room.

“The weather is already improving,” Cauthrien offered. “We can be on the road in two days, if you wish it.”

He turned, his thick brows drawn down over his eyes in a dark scowl. “My wish is to see the people of Ferelden free of those who enslaved us for a century, and of those who would hand this country back to Orlais like a trussed boar on a platter.”

He stroked his thumb over the green jewelled pendant as he spoke, distracted. She tried to suppress the tiny shiver that trailed up her spine when his eyes locked on hers – it was the weight of expectation she saw in them, that was all.

“What is your command, You Lordship?” she asked.

“Everything I have done has been to secure Ferelden’s independence, and I will not see my efforts go to waste because of Cailan’s vanity and his foolish refusal to listen to reason. Rendon Howe’s ineptitude has cost us support, and I do not trust his loyalty to our cause. He will be dealt with, but not while his actions provide a distraction for our enemy.” He sighed, the corners of his mouth pulling down in a grimace. “So now I look to you, Ser Cauthrien. The nobility must be brought into line so that we may stand united against the Orlesian threat.”

“I will see it done, Your Lordship,” she answered.

Loghain nodded. “Our scouts report that the king’s army suffered heavy losses at West Roth, and because of that were unable to press north and retake Highever. Instead, they have retreated. If his commanders have any sense, they’ll go to Redcliffe to try and rebuild their forces in safety, but Cailan himself is reckless. His designs on Empress Celene are proof enough of that. Now is the time to strike.”

A ripple of anticipation wove through the officers behind Cauthrien.

“You will lead our forces south, and cut him off from his sanctuary at Redcliffe with whatever force you deem necessary,” Loghain continued. “Defeat his army, kill this upstart scion of Highever.”

“And the king himself?”

“Bring him back alive, if you can. I am not yet such a villain to want him dead, and I would spare my daughter more pain.”

“I understand, your lordship.” She bowed and turned to leave, but his voice called her back.

“You have come a long way, Cauthrien, and I trust your judgement in the field.” His eyes met hers again, pale and uncanny in the backlight from the window as he reached forward and offered her a packet sealed with the embossed image of the Drake in black wax. “Do not disappoint me.”

She nodded again and swallowed back the dread that chilled her bones as she took her orders. It wasn’t fear of him that made her pause – it wasn’t – it was fear of failure. If not for his generosity, she would be nothing more than another browbeaten farmwife with a clutch of bawling infants at her hip and no chance to better herself, to make a name based on her merit as a warrior. The other captains parted for her, scuttling back out of reach with envious looks.

When the door slammed closed, they shuffled forward, passing glances between each other, as if seeing who would dare to break the silence first. Loghain had turned back to the window.

“Well?” he demanded, when the silence stretched. “What have you to say – or are you all content to stand about like partlets waiting for wheat to rain from the sky?”

“Your Lordship,” said one, the oldest and most confident of the four. “I have reports here on the garrison, and on your proposal to –”

“Leave it here,” Loghain snapped. “I will read it later.”

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

“There was one matter that requires discussion,” interrupted another, who bore the rank insignia of a guard-captain. “It’s an issue of some delicacy.” He paused, trying to frame his words. “It has been wondered by some what your intentions are regarding the… the queen.”

Loghain turned at that, his eyes softening for a moment. “Anora is safe in Gwaren, where she will stay,” he said. “Did you think I would risk her in this venture?”

“Uh, no, Your Lordship,” the young man replied. “But the concern among some of the men is more that she…”

“Spit it out.”

The officer gulped. “There is nobody to watch over her in Gwaren, save her women. The worry is she may do something rash, may warn the king about –”

“You dare suggest my own daughter would betray me?”

“W-well, I…”

“Anora is loyal to me!” Loghain thundered, his lips peeling back from his teeth. “I would sooner trust her than any of you. Is that clear? If I so much as hear a whisper about this matter after today, the consequences for the one uttering them will be severe.”

The captains looked at each other, quailed, and mumbled their assent. A knock on the door disturbed the fraught atmosphere of the study, drawing Loghain’s scowl away from the faces of his officers.

“Come!”

“Good day, Your Lordship,” the messenger said as she poked her head around the door. “You told me to inform you when that magister arrived. He’s waiting out in the corridor, Ser. There’s another one with ‘im. Name of Erimond.”

“Very good,” Loghain replied. “The rest of you are dismissed. Send him in,” he added to the messenger, who nodded and retreated to carry out her duty. He glanced at the garrison report left on the very edge of his desk, but did not reach for it. Instead, he waited for the magisters. The chaos in Highever had forced his hand. Doing business with the Imperium was something Maric had always baulked at – a price costed too high, he said – but then Maric had never faced a threat quite like this one, and to lose his advantage now would be to lose the whole of Ferelden to its oldest enemy.

He would not let that happen.

[vilnan]

[camelliagwerm]

DRAGON AGE: ORIGINS REPLAY → 63/63

The tale of Valda Aeducan ended when she sank her blade into the Archdemon’s head and destroyed it forever. In her death, she fulfilled her promise to her father that she would meet a warrior’s death fighting the darkspawn until her last breath. And whatever follows, her sacrifice will not soon be forgotten.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 15 - West Roth

The winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart. In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start. In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood. And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.

Words: 2826 Chapter summary: After weeks of trying to hold her people together, Rosslyn finally meets Howe on the field of battle.

CW:  canon-typical violence, battle scenes, and gore throughout; animal cruelty in the first two paragraphs

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Seventeenth day of Drakonis, 9:32 Dragon

Sat atop her horse, Rosslyn watched the battle unfold with anxious intensity. She was hidden in the trees along with her house guard and a unit of mounted templars, waiting for the right moment to spring her trap. Across the river, the dust of the first skirmishes had settled, and the main force of the two armies slogged it out, shield-to-shield in the afternoon sun.

They had chosen their field well, on a flat plain tucked into a meander of the West Roth River so that their enemy couldn’t use his superior numbers to outflank them. Perceiving them trapped against the spated river, Howe had sent his cavalry thundering down the slope, with the war dogs baying and the troopers’ blades flashing, in the hopes of panicking Highever’s infantry into a rout. But that morning, runners had gone out beyond the battle lines and scattered a cloud of deadly-sharp caltrops just where the ground began to level out, and at full gallop the charge had never stood a chance. With a terrible noise of horses and dogs, Howe’s cavalry had fallen apart before it could even reach its target, a wall of muscle and steel that writhed and kicked and struggled, impaled on barbed iron spikes. Troopers had shrieked as their mounts crushed them. It had been horrifying, a tragic waste, but war was war and in one stroke Howe had been robbed of his swift victory, his army had been hobbled, and his soldiers had been made witness to the ruthlessness of Highever’s commander.

Even so, Rosslyn had been glad when Teagan ordered the archers to loose a volley into the line and put an end to the screaming.

Howe had learned caution after that. What remained of his cavalry had retreated, his pet apostates had cracked and frozen the ground to make the caltrops useless, and with a steady beating of swords on shields, the massive bulk of his infantry had advanced stolidly down the hill.

“Much good may it do you,” Rosslyn murmured now with a vicious grin. “There I am, you mongrel. Go and get me.”

She watched as Morrence, dressed in as much of Rosslyn’s armour as would fit on her smaller, slighter frame, wheeled Highever’s cavalry across the field like a flock of starlings, with Cuno at her side. They danced just out of Howe’s reach, strafing along the ranks of pike-defended archers and then propping away before the remains of the enemy cavalry could retaliate. The brow of the falcon helm flashed in the sun, drawing attention away from the almost too-easy advance of his infantry. It wouldn’t be long now. Lasan stamped an impatient hoof.

Down in the melee, the house standards of Highever’s allies stood out like butterflies against the dullness of leather and dust – the Storm Crow of West Hill, Loren’s Sunburst, and in the centre, the Tower and Stars of Rainesfere next to her own Laurels. Alistair was down there somewhere, holding the line of the shield wall.  A prick of worry needled Rosslyn’s gut before she could push it away, remembering when she had last seen him, when he had sought her out by the picket lines to deliver Teagan’s final report before Howe’s troops crested the hill. Most of her guards had been mounted already, waiting only for her to lead them into the woods beyond the camp.

“Are you set?” she had asked as she waved him over.

“Everything’s ready,” he answered. “We’ll stick to the plan, don’t worry. We know what we’re doing, and all we can do now is wait.”

She nodded, glancing over her milling troops. “I’ve never been very good at that.”

“The trick is to let your mind go blank and avoid thinking about anything at all,” he replied, with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Easier for some than others, I would say.” Banter she could do. It added distance to the churn of her stomach, knowing that she wasn’t just leading a skirmish, but commanding an entire force that was relying on her to see them safe.

“Was that an insinuation about my mental capacity?”

She gasped. “Such a suggestion is unwarranted slander.” The effort was too much. She had to steady her breath. “You’ll be in the thick of it – they’ll come straight for you,” she said.

“If you’re not careful, my lady, that noble façade of yours will crack and everyone will find out you do care.” But the tease fell flat and Alistair rubbed a hand through his hair, so it stuck up at odd angles.

She fought the urge to reach out and smooth it down. “Decent sparring partners are difficult to find these days.”

“Is that so?” His gaze flicked down to the Cousland sword belted to her waist, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You promised.”

Her fingers closed over the pommel. “I remember, but… Howe’s out there. This is my chance to –” She stumbled. Howe needed to die by her father’s sword, and she needed to be the one to do it, but explaining why either of those things mattered took more effort than she had when confronted by the hurt shining in his eyes. “My family deserves justice.”

Alistair’s scowl deepened. “I see.”

“I’m sorry.”

“If you were that sorry, you wouldn’t be doing it,” he snapped.

“Believe what you want.” She made to step away – it was a waste of time to try and make him understand, she should have known he wouldn’t – but he blocked her path.

“So that’s it, is it?” he growled. He took a step forward, looming in his coat of splintmail. “This is how the valiant Falcon of Highever keeps her word? The darling of the people, so desperate to show what she’s worth and too proud to use a common sword, even if it’s likely to get her killed. Is that what you want? Will it be worth having Howe’s head when your guts are spilling over the grass? You know it won’t bring them back!”

He blinked, then, mouth agape as if to catch back all the words he had not meant to say, but she had already marched past him towards where Lasan waited in the hands of a groom. After a final check that her horse’s tack was sitting properly, she mounted and gathered the reins, taking care to steady her temper.

“You’d best get back to your troops, Ser,” she said, when Alistair remained unmoving.

He shook his head. “It’s not worth your life, Rosslyn.” The look on his face…

“Gods go with you.”

And she had turned and ridden away, in too high a temper to appreciate that she might never see him again.

She couldn’t afford to think about that now. Howe’s infantry was beginning to spill around the edges of her own. The weight of superior numbers threatened to envelop the Laurels entirely, and with nowhere to run, it would only be a matter of time before they succeeded, but the scent of victory had drawn them far enough away from Howe to make them vulnerable. It was the moment she had been waiting for.

“Send the message,” she said to the runner waiting at Lasan’s shoulder. The young man saluted crisply and darted down the bank to where a team of carpenters and mages waited with ice spells and a drawbridge made of pallets and spare logs. Rosslyn watched him go, choosing to focus on that rather than the thrill of fury coiling in her stomach.

“Are you ready, Gideon?” she asked her commander.

“Right behind you, lass,” he replied, his white teeth flashing against his dark skin. “Wouldn’t miss this.”

“We’re all with you,” Irminric added from her other side. He and the two templars riding with him would be her defence against Howe’s apostates, while she went for the man himself.

Rosslyn laughed. “In that case, it’s time for some Bear-baiting.” She stood in the stirrups and turned to the troopers behind her. “Make ready! You’ve all waited for this; you all know what’s been taken from you! I promised you vengeance, now go down there and take it!” She drew her sword high, the weight of it a comfort in her hand. Two hundred blades flashed in answer, drawn with a wave of whoops and wordless shouts that drowned out the noise of battle below, and with a feral grin she gave the signal to advance.

Her cavalry poured down the hill. They clattered over the ice-anchored bridge at a trot, and as they climbed the other side, Rosslyn stood high in the stirrups, a piercing yell on her lips, a shriek like her epithet. Lasan whinnied a challenge, echoed by the other horses as the soldiers echoed her. They crested the bank at a ground-shattering charge, a wall of sound and steel appearing out of nowhere with the Laurels blazing as they split into two horns to smash the enemy left and right. Rosslyn saw the line of Amaranthine infantry pause in confusion – Morrence swept down on them, the first Falcon on the field – she felt the ripple of uncertainty, and when the spearpoint of her attack broke into their flank, it crumpled like wet paper.

The smack of impact jarred up her arm; momentum alone carried her through the first stunned ranks of the enemy. Men fell screaming under the flash of her blade, under Lasan’s hooves and Iriminric’s shield. She lost track of things, her head full of noise, her throat already hoarse from shouting and her eyes blinded by the westering sun. Howe’s soldiers tried to run, but the mages sent immolations over their heads, creating a line of roaring flame that pinned and panicked those it did not consume.

In seconds the balance of the fight shifted, and the defensive bend of the river became a killing field. Surrounded on all sides, with magic raining from above, the Amaranthine army was pushed towards the river as Highever’s ranks parted and reformed to block their enemy’s escape, with the cavalry sowing chaos enough to keep them from forming a defence, and the day began to turn. Heartbeats stretched. Rosslyn sank into herself, detached from the slaughter, the faces of those she struck down blurring as each next one rose to take the place of the one before, the one thought in her mind the drive to press out of the melee, north, to the hill where her family’s murderer sat smug under the fluttering orange and white of the Bear.

“House guard to me!” she yelled when she finally found an opening. She rode Lasan through the last line and saw a flash of blue and knew the Laurels followed her. Others stayed to corral the enemy but as she flew past, her soldiers cheered in salute and hurried to plug the space she left in her wake. Howe was turning, fleeing from the unexpected change in fortune, but the hounds bayed at her heels and her horse was a spark of fire, and she herself was the Falcon, who dived out of the sun and swept in death with her wings, and she would not suffer the traitor to live.

They were gaining.

“Ware, riders!”

The cry came from her right, and she looked, puzzled, drawing in Lasan’s speed to follow the trooper’s pointing finger to the bottom of the hill behind her. What she saw made her blood run cold.

A wedge of heavy horse, charging without banner along the river’s edge, the troopers’ blades high as they bellowed like bulls, straight for the exposed back of her infantry. A secret reserve? She couldn’t think.

“My lady!”

She saw Howe’s banner disappear over the hill, the coward running to save himself, taking her vengeance with him.

“Lady Rosslyn, what do we do?”

She saw her soldiers turn, saw their courage break even as Morrence dragged her wing out of the melee to meet the new threat.

“Which way, my lady?”

The goal was Howe. Without him, there would be no need for rebellion in the North. Without him, Highever could be free. There could be no second chance. If she lost him now, he would sit in comfort and let her break herself against her own walls and laugh as she spent her rage and her blood to tear him down. And yet to chase him down would be to abandon those who had laid their lives on her trust, to break the promise she had made them just like she had broken the promise made on her family’s sword.

Her army, or her home?

“My lady…?”

I’m sorry, Father. She squeezed her eyes shut and kicked Lasan into a gallop.

--

The ground trembled as Alistair braced against the oncoming cavalry. He shouted for the ragged shield wall to hold. They had found spears from somewhere, and the line in front of him dug them into the ground, the points levelled straight for the horses’ hearts. It wouldn’t be enough. The Amaranthine infantry clawed at the lines behind him, spurred by the appearance of allies and the panic it had caused among Highever’s ranks. Loren’s banner had fallen, the Templars were being overwhelmed, and Alistair himself had watched Teagan go down under a mace before he managed to stem the rout and rally the line. He didn’t know if his uncle still lived, didn’t have the spare energy to find out. He thought back to his only other battle, all the waiting he had done under the winter-sleeping pine trees, and after, when he had laughed until he choked to find himself still alive. There would be no survival this time, he knew; the only question was how long his strength would last. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the falcon helm flash in the sun as Captain Morrence led the Highever cavalry on a bloody path to rescue the mages, and readjusted his shield on his arm.

“Hold steady,” he growled at the soldiers next to him. “We can hold them.”

He breathed. The horses came on. Eight strides – five. At least Rosslyn made it away. At least she was safe.

And then, three strides out from the clash, a banner unfurled and blazed the royal War Dogs of Ferelden, and the cavalry propped and swung away, flowing around the Highever infantry like a river around a rock. In the confusion, Howe’s mercenaries pressed their advantage. The line broke. The cavalry washed against the melee without a clear target and was deflected for another pass, and between on heartbeat and the next Alistair lost track of the banner as the ordered fighting devolved into a writhing sea of steel.

His feet slipped in the mud. He smashed his shield into someone’s face, recognising only the orange and white of the Bear before whirling to the rescue of a boy with the Laurels on his surcoat. His breath sawed through his lungs but he kept pushing, kept slashing at anything that came within range of him, half-blind with other people’s blood.

“To me!” he gasped. “To the Laurels!”

Finally, the defensive line was reined into some sort of order, but a flurry of arrows hissed overhead and the man beside him was too slow to raise his shield. Alistair cursed. There seemed no end to the Amaranthine soldiers. The royal cavalry penned them in, driving them onto the battered and wavering shield wall. In battle with fresh soldiers, the tactic might have worked, but right now it was only going to get more people killed.

“Look, over there!”

The cheer went up and Alistair turned despite his better instincts. It was Rosslyn. She surged through the enemy like a scythe through summer hay, cutting off the advance of the Amaranthine infantry with a wall of swords and striking hooves. The pressure on the defensive line eased. They pushed forward, gathered up the wounded. Someone must have recognised her, or her horse, because the enemy swarmed towards her with renewed vigour, but by then she was already clear of the melee and arcing around to meet it again.

Movement distracted him from the sight and he flinched as a broad-headed axe swiped for his head. He raised his shield just in time, cursing himself for forgetting the first rule of combat, but the axe caught it at a bad angle and with a deep crack pain shot through his arm into his shoulder. He managed to parry the next blow and staggered backwards, but his feet slipped again. Exhaustion took him to his knees. His opponent prowled forwards, a giant in armour that was hard-used but well-maintained, with a neatly trimmed moustache beneath his helmet. Alistair supposed it must be the shock that was letting him see such fine details. He bared his teeth and brought his sword in close. The axe came swinging for his head.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 13 - The Sword, part 2

The winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart. In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start. In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood. And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.

Words: 4528 Chapter summary: Alistair has a bad day, then Rosslyn challenges him to a duel.

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Alistair had a difficult morning. After a hurried breakfast, he was waylaid by Ser Nevvis, the aide-de-camp in charge of the archers who had arrived two days before from Waking Sea. The man was incorrigible, inflated by the fact that Bann Alfstanna had personally put him in charge, and it took twenty minutes before he could ease the man’s bluster and sort out the problem of billeting. Then, he was forced to deal with a complaint from the quartermaster, and then the head blacksmith – and then the chief of the impromptu merchants’ guild came to see him too.

The only break in the fog was the two minutes where Rosslyn had spoken to him, had actually looked pleased to see him. He had worried for her while she was gone, perhaps more than proper, though he didn’t dare entertain the idea that she might have spared him a thought in return. He was only an officer, and only elevated that high because Teagan had taken pity on him as a child. Still, the bashful smile she had offered as she joked with him, with the star-white flowers in her hair, left a peculiar kind of lightness in his chest, and for a while – though he knew it was ridiculous – the image created a wall between his mood and all the people who seemed to have nothing better to do than shout at him.

And then Teagan found him arguing with a drayman whose horse had come up lame, and in a rough, exhausted voice, told him to find the errant teyrn’s daughter and check on her. He didn’t give details, but Alistair guessed easily enough that it had something to do with Franderel.

He tried her quarters first, but the local woman employed as her new maid shook her head and returned to the arrangement of daffodils in a vase on the windowsill. The dog, evidently returned from breakfast in the kennels, snored fitfully on the bed. As he rand a hand through his hair to work out where to go next, he noticed the sprig of Andraste’s grace that had been woven into her hair stood in a pill bottle on the table, next to the plate of food he had had sent to her. It relieved him more than it should to see it was scraped clean.

“You might try the training grounds,” the maid offered when he still lingered.

“Thank you,” he replied, already marching back into the corridor when the young woman curtseyed prettily at him.

He almost missed Rosslyn in the lists, too. When he finally caught a flash of steel beyond the ranks of training recruits, he hung back, unwilling to interrupt. An area had been cleared for her near the horse paddocks, away from the soldiers drilling under Arms Master Grint, and when he realised what she was doing, Alistair felt a coil of anticipation stir in his gut.

The exercise was known as the Orchard, an advanced technique designed to teach precision and fluidity in battle against multiple opponents. She stood surrounded by twelve thin poles, all set at different heights, topped with cabbages worm-eaten from winter storage. The goal was simple, if difficult to achieve: instead of following a set pattern of steps, the student improvised their movements to glide between the poles and strike each object from its plinth without touching the wood it rested on, in as few steps as possible. The ground was already scattered with the crinkled remains of previous rounds, and whole motley crate of vegetables awaited their turn to be on the receiving end of Rosslyn’s frustrations.

She shifted into a beginning stance, guard up, shield held close to her left side. His own fighting style lacked the finesse to perform such an exercise well, but as she wove through the poles, he started to understand why her army held her in such high regard. Her footwork was impeccable, her grace undeniable. When her sword flicked out, the action opened from her centre rather than her arms, which loaned more power to the stroke, and control enough that she could withdraw and change direction like a leaf turning in the breeze.

He stopped noticing the mechanics of her form when the fourth cabbage dropped in two pieces before the third even hit the ground. The sun flashed on her hair, gathered into a bun at the nape of her neck, the effort of the exercise bringing a pink blush to her cheeks that set her grey eyes dancing. But after the sixth cabbage a frown creased her brows, drawing down over her eyes as a snarl of frustration pulled her lips upwards over her teeth. Her strikes lost their polish. With the instincts of a soldier, he saw the sword gaining momentum independent of her control, swinging wide on the outside edges of her strokes, creating chinks in her defence when she had to overcompensate with her shield arm.

The exercise ended with the dull slam of metal on wood and a hissed curse as the last cabbage bounced off the ground and rolled away, untouched. Alistair let out the breath he had been holding, his mouth dry. Rosslyn yanked the blade from where it was wedged in the pole and stepped away with a growl, pushing hair and sweat carelessly out of her eyes – until then she spotted him. Her face flushed a deeper red even as she rolled her shoulders back.

“Is there something you need?”

He gulped. “Do you, uh, want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

“There’s nothing bothering me.” She stalked away from him towards a low table laden with a water pitcher and a cloth, discarding her shield as she went. The sword she treated with more care, taking the cloth to the flat of the blade so she could wipe away the sting of cabbage juice.

“Clearly.” He dared to step closer. “You know, if you’re planning to do this until the kitchens run out of vegetables completely, you’d probably get on better with a different sword.”

She paused. “Did Teagan send you?”

“Well…”

“Tell him he’s wasting his time. I’ve had enough of being patronised today.”

Alistair frowned. “He’s only trying to help.”

“Feel free to tell him what a marvellous job he’s doing.” She delicately picked a speck of cabbage off the hilt of her sword, her mouth curled with affected disdain.

“There’s no need to get tetchy,” he grumbled. “And just so you know, Teagan’s the only reason we’re not already marching to Denerim, so you might show some gratitude.”

She levelled an incredulous stare at him, and too late he swallowed back his impertinence. He had forgotten protocol, as he so often did in her presence, but realising he should have known better didn’t lessen the cut of that look. He cleared his throat and looked down to the scuffed toes of his boots, a mumbled, formal apology dragging over his tongue. When he glanced up, the haughty glare was gone and she was biting her lip.

The silence between them grew awkward.

“Look…” He sighed. “Whatever Bann Franderel said – he’s very good at getting under other people’s skin, but that doesn’t mean what he says is true.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “Whatever that weasel did or did not say to me,” she snarled, “it’s no concern of yours.” With a shake of her head, she turned away from him again and sheathed her sword, intent now on resetting the poles for another round, but after the first few steps she halted, the cabbage she had failed to cleave before now held loosely in her palm.

“What’s wrong with my blade?” she asked, without looking at him. Her voice still held an edge, but the anger bunched in her shoulders had softened.

Alistair huffed. He shouldn’t be opening his mouth, but he had never been very good at shutting up at the proper time. “It was made for someone with a longer reach than yours. The weight is balanced too far towards the point and it swings wide.”

“Perhaps that’s why I’m practicing.”

“Ignoring ill-suited equipment might work in the tilt yard, but in a real battle it’ll get you killed,” he snapped, forgetting protocol again. “Excuse me for trying to help.”

For a long moment, Rosslyn didn’t answer. Her thoughts were her own as she eyed the sword girded at her side, the white steel shaped like a willow leaf in an ancient Alamarri style, from a time when forging techniques produced chunkier, less sophisticated weapons. A muscle ticked in her jaw.

She faced him again. the cabbage dropped to the ground with a dull thud. “Show me.”

He blinked. “You want to spar – with real weapons? Now?” So much could go wrong. He might injure her, and then he would be in trouble, and what if –

“Unless you’re not a match for me?” A militant gleam shone in her eyes now, a challenge without even a hint of mirth. But he had his pride, too, and the world shrank to the bare ten paces that separated them as he squared up to her.

“If I do match you, you’ll admit I’m right – find another sword to use?”

Her head tilted to the side, that lop-sided smirk of hers enough to make his insides squirm. “If.”

--

Word of the fight spread through the barracks within the time it took for the runner to reach the officers’ quarters with instructions to retrieve Alistair’s weapons from the glorified box that served him as both bedroom and office. By the time the poor lad returned, laden down with a sword and shield that together probably weighed about the same as he did, he had to battle his way through a mob of soldiers five deep around the ring who had drifted in to watch the spectacle. Silver glinted between palms as bets were taken, passed along with good-natured insults between Cousland loyalists and staunch Rainesfere men.

In the centre of the commotion, calm and quiet, the two warriors padded up in practice gear.

“Honour must be satisfied, Madam Enchanter,” Rosslyn said, without looking up from the buckles on her cuirass. “That sour look does nothing.”

“I have enough patients already without you two clobbering each other senseless, my lady,” Wynne shot back. “If this is about satisfying honour, I’ll eat my own boots.” The old woman’s arms were crossed over her chest, the expression on her face unchanged since she had first noticed the gathering and come to investigate.

Rosslyn tightened the final strap on her vambraces. “Your objections are noted.”

She picked up her sword from where it had been resting against the closest ring-post, and checked the bark sheath on the blade to make sure it wouldn’t come loose. Such bindings were reserved for high level training, light enough not to impede balance or add extra weight, but strong enough to protect the blade from blunting – or from fatally lacerating an opponent if a fight got too enthusiastic. On the other side of the ring, Alistair was doing the same, his skullcap already in place over his tawny hair, and his shield hefted on his left arm.

“Just so you know,” he told her when they met in the centre of the ring, “I bruise easily.”

Flint-eyed, she squashed her own cap onto her head and fastened the chinstrap. He imagined he caught a faint twitch of humour on her lips before the movement obscured her face, but he couldn’t be sure.

“You both know the rules,” croaked the nervous recruit who had been picked as a referee. “No weapon strikes aimed above the shoulders; no interference from the spectators; the fight ends when one competitor yields, or… or is too injured to fight.” He glanced at Rosslyn and licked his lips. “Hopefully it won’t come to that. Do you both swear to abide by these rules?”

“Yes.”

“I do.”

“Then begin!”

They tapped swords as a formal salute, and stepped back out of range, circling slowly. Alistair brought his shield up before his face, his sword held point-forward at his shoulder in readiness to lunge, while Rosslyn, cautious about his superior size, held hers swept to the side for a better chance at deflection should he close for a strike. Her gaze dropped to the centre of his chest, the better to anticipate his movements; faces, after all, could lie.

Shouting grew into an excited buzz around them, then faded out of hearing, useless.

She struck first, a whirl of blows that sent them both spinning to opposite sides of the ring. Cheers rose from the Highever soldiers, but this initial flurry was just a test of Alistair’s defences, probing for weak points she could exploit. It wouldn’t be easy; his strength foiled her speed and he had the solid bearing of a shieldmaster in training. She had to rotate the hilt in her grip to release the jangle of nerves the impact sent down her arm.

“Get ‘im telt, lass!”

With the second attack, she sliced forward at an angle, faster, cutting crosswise so he was forced to overreach. She caught his sword on the outer edge of her shield and he jumped back as she swung her right arm in a reverse arc that would have disembowelled him had the fight been real. The move seemed ungraceful, but he had left the opening on purpose, to see if she would take it.

“Don’t insult me,” she snapped. “You could at least try to kill me.”

“If I do that, I’ll get executed,” he retorted. Now that his battle-blood was rising, he found himself enjoying being the sole object of her attention, antagonistic though it might be. The fire-hot fury that had consumed her earlier was gone, and in place of her scowl a frown of concentration, and maybe just the faintest hint of a smile. But he had to focus, or the fight would be lost, and his argument along with it.

So he came at her without warning, driving her towards the rail, shield to shield before she could get out of the way, but in an instant the pressure against his shoulder vanished. She sidestepped neatly and turned along the length of his off-side, delivering a swift elbow to his ribs before disengaging to circle again, to whoops and jeers from the spectators. He had not meant to let her do that, and he stumbled, knowing that if she wanted, she could have ended the fight there. Payback for the opening he had given her before. When he looked, he saw a grin pulling at her lips, but it vanished quickly.

They became more serious. The blows they traded were fast and brutal, the two of them evenly matched and equally invested in winning. Soon they were both breathing hard and fighting the itch to dash the sweat from their eyes. Rosslyn kept their engagements brief, making Alistair do the work of closing to a distance where he could use his bigger size to bear down on her, but she had grown up training against her father’s guardsmen, and she had learned how to turn her blade to redirect the force of such blows, to combat reach with flexibility.

She swiped low for his legs and used the distraction to dance away again. Alistair turned and trailed after her, dogged, and doubts began to creep into her mind. All her injuries from the road ached from his unrelenting attacks, which often came over the top of his shield and meant she had to raise her arm to deflect them. She might have expected some leniency from a different opponent, but Alistair wasn’t Gilmore; he respected her skill enough to give her all of his. He saw the way she rolled her left shoulder to ease the strain of her injury from Glenlough, and he noted it only as a weakness to be turned to his advantage.

But he was starting to tire, as well. She saw it in the slight drop of his guard, how he hesitated to close the gap between them. The onlookers had quietened, sensing the match was nearing its end and eager not to miss a moment of it.

“Give ‘er what-for!”

He rushed her. She was done running. Her stance braced to hold her ground, and their shields locked together with a hollow smack, their swords trapped at crossguards in the middle. For an instant they stood close enough to feel the ragged edge in each other’s breath, silver eyes caught on amber, but then Rosslyn dove left with a growl and Alistair stumbled forward. His right arm overextended, exposed between her shield and his own. Her sword was already swinging in a backhanded arc above her head – he could see its path down across his shoulders, a killing blow to the back of the neck – the crowd now at a roar –

He ducked and twisted on his heels. His loose arm dropped and he exploded upwards with a last burst of strength that broke against her shield just as she reached the apex of the Coachman’s Cut. Unbalanced, she was knocked clean off her feet, the sword flying out of her hand as she instinctively reached out to brace against the fall. Alistair tumbled after, and together they hit the ground with a muffled thud that sent a shock of force through Rosslyn’s teeth. Disbelief settled on the crowd with the dust, and those at the back peered over the heads of those in front to see what would happen next.

Alistair stared down impassively, the point of his sword resting flat against Rosslyn’s neck and the weight of his shield heavy on her chest. She had managed to get one elbow underneath her, but she was pinned, caught out of reach of her sword with his bulk pressing her into the dirt. The silence stretched; time was measured in racing heartbeats. Her eyes darted between her blade and the one at her neck, searching for some way to save the situation, to change the odds, to fight. Alistair tried very hard to ignore the warmth of her breath on his cheek.

Finally, she sagged, her voice choked and tiny. “I yield.”

“Ser Alistair is victorious!”

At the announcement, Alistair scrambled to his feet, all traces of the merciless warrior gone. He caught a flicker of vulnerability in Rosslyn’s eyes before she rolled gaze away from him to the sword lying inches from her right hand, and he watched as she hesitated, then snatched it from the dirt like it was a snake about to bite.

“Here.”

She grasped the hand he offered to pull her up, her grip strong, her back and entire right side dusted with sawdust. She hardly seemed to notice, and did not look at him as they touched shields to signal the formal end of the bout. Cheers and groans rippled around the ring with the chink of coin, but to him it was muted by his confusion, the feeling that in his victory something had gone terribly wrong.

“My lady?”

“If you’ll excuse me –”

Rosslyn bowed and left, letting the crowd part before her like iron filings before a lodestone. By the time he caught up with her, she had reached the equipment tent and flung her sword on the workbench, half her training gear already unbuckled. At the tramp of his footsteps, her hands stilled on the straps.

“I… didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked.

“Only my pride,” she joked, but it was unconvincing. “You’re impressive – your fighting skills, I mean.”

Alistair felt heat creep up the back of his neck. “I could say the same. You almost had me a few times there.”

“But not quite.” And there it was again, that flash of hurt smothered as quickly as it emerged. She scowled down at the sword on the workbench. “I apologise for taking up so much of your time – you must have duties to see to.”

He recognised the dismissal for what it was, but sympathy made him hesitate. Now that the anger had drained out of her, away from the crowd, she looked exhausted, leaning against the table as if the responsibility on her shoulders were too much to bear alone.

He had never been very good at keeping his mouth shut.

“You know, I know better than you might think how hard it can be to – to live with a legacy hanging over your head.” He fiddled with a stray thread in his shirt. “I can see why you would want to hold on to anything you can.”

She turned and stared at him for a long time, her expression inscrutable. “Your parents had high expectations for you, then?” she asked eventually.

“I… no.” It was his turn to avoid her gaze. “My mother died when I was small and my, uh, father barely knew I existed.”

She frowned, irked by this information for a reason she could not define. “So who raised you?”

“Dogs,” he said, shrugging.

“Dogs?”

“Yup. Giant, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels, a whole pack of them, in fact. In the winter we’d all sleep in a big pile and play wicked grace for ram chops.” He grinned, and was pleased to see an answering smirk on Rosslyn’s lips.

“I see,” she hummed. “That explains the table manners.”

“Oi!”

“And was it the dogs who taught you swordsmanship?” she asked. “Or, swordsdogship, I suppose.”

“No, that was Duncan.” His smile broadened into something more genuine at the happy memory, and the warmth brightened the honey of his eyes. She had called him impressive, she was joking with him again, she was funny. “He’s a Grey Warden, he used to stop by when he was recruiting sometimes. He’d take me out and teach me, first with sticks, because you might not have noticed but I’m terribly clumsy, and then later he’d bring real practice swords with him.”

“He sounds like a good man,” Rosslyn said.

“He is. He’s Commander of the Grey now – or he was, last time I heard anything about him.”

“Hm – you have friends in high places.”

He chuckled. “I suppose I do.”

“I hope…” Her smile faltered. Her fingers danced along the edge of the workbench. “Oh, never mind.”

Concerned by how she turned away from him, Alistair edged closer, stretching out a tentative hand, only to spring backwards when the tent flap whipped aside to reveal Teagan, his cloak awry and his face creased into a disapproving glare.

“Would either of you care to explain what just happened?” he demanded. “Why did I get word from Captain Rothby that a fight had broken out in the lists? Well?”

Rosslyn and Alistair glanced at each other like children caught stealing pastries.

“You’re expected to set an example – there are recruits out there who have barely been with us a week! And now they’ve seen two of their superiors decide to hash out their differences in a glorified brawl.” Teagan rubbed a finger along his jawline. “I expected better of you, Alistair. I thought you had more sense.”

“Yes, my lord. I’m sorry.”

“Teagan, the fault is mine,” Rosslyn interrupted, stepping forward. “I goaded Alistair, and he was honour-bound to respond.”

“With due respect, my lady, if he allowed himself to be goaded by you, then he has yet to learn the lessons I have tried to teach him. Such childish behaviour is a disgrace to your positions, and provoked or not you should both have had the presence of mind to conduct yourselves with a greater amount of decorum. Do you think your father would be proud of your little fit of temper today?”

“It’s a shame he’s not here to be asked his opinion.”

“The soldiers were pleased,” Alistair said hurriedly. “The bout was a boost to morale and it gave the newer recruits a demonstration of the level of skill they might be able to achieve one day.”

Teagan rounded on him. “Do not try to justify this action. I am still Commander-in-Chief of this camp, and that display showed a flagrant disregard for rules put in place for the benefit of all.” He stepped back, suddenly weary. “Lady Rosslyn, I apologise for the comment about your father. I’m sure he would be happy to know you can hold your own against such a skilled opponent. He taught you well.”

Rosslyn swallowed. “Thank you, my lord.”

“I will speak to the quartermaster. Both of you will spend this evening helping the normal rotation clean the practice equipment, since you’re so eager to behave like common soldiery, and maybe that will teach you a lesson about settling arguments with steel.” He turned on his heel before either could muster a protest and marched out into the gathering dusk, the silence left in his wake a palpable thing.

“Well that could have gone worse,” Alistair muttered eventually.

“It could have gone better, too,” Rosslyn replied. “Why didn’t you stand up for yourself when Teagan stormed at you?”

“What else could I do?” he shrugged. “Without him I’m just a stablehand or a farm grunt living hand-to-mouth. He took me in, so to speak.”

“From the dogs?”

Alistair’s head snapped around at the new, probing lilt to her voice, and scowled. “He’s not my father. My father’s dead, and never wanted anything to do with me in the first place.”

She started. “Forgive me – I shouldn’t have pried.”

After that, they lapsed into silence as they finished stripping off their practice leathers and laid them out for cleaning, but Alistair’s mind resounded with the weight of the secret he had never revealed to another living soul. Never before had he even wanted to, and yet in the last few weeks he had caught himself wondering what might happen if he did. On better days, he imagined what it might be like to be raised to princehood, how many people he could help if given the power to do so. Soon enough, however, he would hear Isolde’s tittering laugh ringing in his ears, mocking him for thinking his father’s name would ever outshine his mother’s common blood.

“Alistair? That’s a very thoughtful expression on your face.”

He did his best to smile. “Just trying to work out what I want for dinner.”

She smiled back, remembering their earlier conversation. “It would have to be something filling, to last through all the gruelling hours of work Teagan has in store for us.”

“Maybe not something with cabbage in it, though.”

“I doubt there are many cabbages left for the refectory to get their hands on.”

“And whose fault is that?”

The smile turned into an outright chuckle. It was brief, but he heard it. He watched as she gathered up her gear and placed it back in the racks, wondering what it might be like to make her laugh properly, every day.

“I’ll see you later,” she said, pausing on her way to the door.

Only once she had gone could his thoughts scramble enough sense together to answer, but by then there was nobody to hear but himself. “I look forward to it.”

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 11 - A Struggle Just Beginning

The winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart. In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start. In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood. And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.

Words: 2696 Chapter summary: In the aftermath of Highever’s defeat, the mood is grim.

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Twelfth Day of Guardian, 9:31 Dragon

Darkness fell slowly over the redoubt at Deerswall. A grey day into a formless dusk into a black night lit only by greasy torches that spat at the drizzle. It made things easier in a way; soldiers huddled out of the cold, unwilling to disturb the Canticles sung for the dead, even if there were few with enough heart to listen to the Maker’s words. Instead, they sat in closed-off circles around their campfires, trying to ignore the stench of smoke from the pyres clinging to their hair. They drank from shared flasks as they played Gammon, with their cloaks tucked in at the corners to prevent draughts, and with their weapons within easy reach, waiting for orders that some grumbled would not come.

After all, few had seen the Lady of Highever since she had marched out of the funeral in the middle of the revered mother’s litany, teeth gritted and knuckles white on the hilt of her father’s sword. Since then, she had been seen walking beyond the encampment into the murk of the forest with only her mabari at her heels. The guardsmen sent in after her had yet to return.

Some said she had gone to find a place where water and earth ran together, in the old Alamarri way, to find wisdom among stones and trees that came from an older source than that approved by the Chantry – to find gods who kept faith with those who gave it. As her absence lengthened, however, the rumours grew darker. Perhaps she had simply abandoned them, using the weather and the thickness of the forest as a cover to escape the weight of duty. Those with least faith muttered that she had gone to make peace with Howe, and had betrayed them all.

Such uneasiness penetrated even into the ring off officers’ tents, pitched on raised ground in the middle of the camp. Before the end of the Orlesian occupation it had been designed as the foundations to a grand castle that never saw completion, but now Teagan’s quarters spilled light and warmth over the stones, the mood inside deliberately easy and filled with the comfort of crackling braziers and snoring dogs. He hosted two of his captains, the only members of his senior staff who had so far returned from the tasks assigned at the war meeting that morning. At his elbow was a decanter of brandy, and across the table, maps were spread with annotations and potential actions that had yet to be finalised, but the conversation had long since moved on from official matters.

“She blames herself, poor girl,” sighed Captain Astillo, who had inherited his dark eyes and good humour from his Antivan mother.

Next to him, the short, broad-shouldered Captain Rothby harrumphed. “We can’t afford that. She’s the only thread holding Highever together. Without her, we might as well rename the place ‘North Gwaren’ and have done.” She tipped her head back and drained her glass, exposing the knife scar that cut a diagonal line down her throat.

“No doubt that was Loghain’s plan,” Teagan replied quietly. When he tilted his glass, the amber liquid in it shimmered and caught the firelight. “He chose an effective pawn in Howe – I remember his ambition, but this… nobody could have seen this.”

They fell silent. The march from Highever had consumed any spare thoughts about what happened, but now, a safe distance away from their enemies and with nothing left but time for reflection, the brutality of the Couslands’ fate could finally settle, which was the point. Teagan had known Bryce and Eleanor personally from time at court, had found Fergus to be level-headed and his wife charming, and had no doubts about their son, though he had never met the boy. They had not deserved such deaths.

“Never a bad word came out of the North,” Rothby said, as if she had read his thoughts. “Nought was said about Bryce Cousland that wasn’t that he kept his people fed and his lands prosperous.”

Astillo nodded. “I saw them at Denerim, at the siege, you know? I was just a sergeant at the time. We’d cleared the walls of Feathers, and all that was left was the battle in the harbour – and the Mistral came about from behind a tower, cutting the water like summer swift, and you’d never seen anything so fine.” He smiled and reached for the decanter so he could refill the empty glasses, then raised his own. “To the Soldier and the Seawolf,” he declared. “Maker rest them.”

In the corner, Alistair lifted his head from the disciplinary report he had been reading. He was content to stay out of the way and unnoticed by Teagan’s officers, but hearing them talk about the Couslands only brought back how fragile Rosslyn had looked when he had last seen her, forehead crumpled, lip chewed to bleeding, with her knuckles white on the pommel of her sword. She had thanked him for bringing her the maps and supply list she had asked for that morning, and her frown had softened at his offer to get her anything else she needed.

“Still taking care of me?” she had asked.

“Well, it gets me out of the barracks.”

He regretted such a joking tone now, but at the time, he had been at a loss to better express his desire to help. He remembered the crack in her voice when she had revealed her father’s fate to her soldiers, and how she had sat tall in her saddle regardless, and kept her gaze on the horizon ahead.

He blinked away the image and forced himself back into the present.

“…her inexperience will make people uncertain what to expect. The mood among the men isn’t good,” Teagan was saying.

“She’ll show us her mettle, sure as snow in winter,” Astillo countered.

“As long as she shows it soon, or there’ll be nobody left to see it.” Rothby shook her head so that wisps of ash-blonde hair fell in her eyes. “Highever’s put a shock through everything. To destroy it so completely… It reeks of the Game to me, more than anything His Majesty may or may not have done with their empress – I’m no politician trading words across borders so I can’t speak for that. But without Couslands to stand against him, Loghain would have no uniting force to take him on if King Cailan died, not without another heir to the throne.”

Alistair shifted in his seat, ducking his head to avoid the look Teagan sent his way.

“Bah! Politics!” Astillo scratched at the silver edge of his neatly trimmed beard. “It does nothing but make cowards of honest soldiers.”

He reached out for the decanter again, but before he could offer more brandy around the table, his hand was stalled by a growing commotion from beyond the tent, out of place for the time of night. Voices welled in anger, then seemed to find a rhythm in the way random applause finds a pulse. With a worried glance at Teagan, Alistair rose from his chair and went to investigate, slinging a fleece-lined cloak around his shoulders as he traded the warmth of the tent for the damp Guardian night.

He didn’t have to go far into the common ranks to find the source of the disturbance. At the edge of the parade ground a clump of soldiers heaved against the dim torches in a single mass of shouting, cursing shadows. Surrounding them were stragglers who, like him, had emerged from shelter to find out what was going on, calling to one another over the din in obvious confusion as they were drawn towards the fight. Alistair grabbed the closest by the arm.

“Go find Ser Gideon,” he ordered.

The young soldier blinked, surprised at being addressed directly, but when she recognised Alistair she shot him a crisp salute and dashed away to find the commander of Rosslyn’s house guard. Some of her officers were already in the fray, and as he approached Alistair could see that they were beginning to get people under control. The chanting was dying away into a ring of silent spectators, and all that was left of the actual brawl was a small group of men locked together despite best efforts to separate them.

Eventually the last two combatants were ripped apart and stood panting, one with a split lip and the other sporting a bloody nose, while the officers holding them kept wary holds on the soldiers’ tunics.

Rosslyn’s cavalry captain stepped between them, her arms outstretched in a warning that belied her slight figure.

“That’s enough,” Morrence snapped, rounding on the younger of the two, who wore a cavalry uniform - the soldier who had been tied to Rosslyn’s backafter the escape from Glenlough. “I expected better from you, trooper. You’ll go on a charge for this.”

“But Captain, he called Lady Cousland a coward!”

“No more’n what’s true!” his opposite spat. “Bitch might’ve taken you up in Wythenwood, but she left my brother to die on the road like a dog. She abandoned her place and now she’d have us sit here like old biddies – or maybe we’ll all just run away again, and again, until there’s nothing left of the North!”

“Sergeant, take that man’s name,” Morrence growled.

But the comment had roused the crowd again. They pressed forward, jeering at the reprimanded soldier, and Alistair was pushed out by the sheer weight of people in front of him.

“Fuckin’ sot!” someone called. “Diven’ ye have enough brains to realise the lady saved your life too?”

“We’re Cousland’s men!”

“Being a Cousland doesn’t give a lass the balls for knifework,” another voice retorted. “Couldn’t even stick a lot of traitors, and now we’re stuck with ‘em! And we’re not listenin’ to any mongrel knife-ear, neither!”

The words sparked an angry hiss around the circle, loyalists searching for the source of the treacherous comment while others murmured their uncertainty. Morrence’s cheeks darkened but she held firm as three of her lieutenants dived cursing into the throng to drag the offender out into the open. At the other side of the circle, Alistair finally broke through the line.

“The next soldier to throw a punch gets twenty lashes!” he barked. “The one after that – thirty!”

Recognising him, the soldiers quieted, but the threat did nothing to dispel the tension, and the realisation that all of that hostile energy was now directed at him made his palms sweat. He glanced at Morrence, who waited with luminous eyes to see what he would do.

Right then.

He cleared his throat, tried his best to glare. “You all know the rules. Brawling in camp will not be tolerated, and neither will dissent. You are to follow your orders and save your strength for the battlefield.”

The soldier who had started the fight spat on the ground again, muttering. “If we ever get to see one.”

Both Morrence and Alistair turned to confront him, but before they could do anything but open their mouths, a sharp voice rang out over the assembled company.

“What’s going on here?”

The crowd scurried apart with a startled murmur. Rosslyn’s tall figure loomed out of the night, wrapped in shadows, with the torchlight glinting on the rain-matted strands of her hair. As she prowled forward, the ragged edges of her appearance became easier to spot – the aurum greaves stained from kneeling in the mud, the streaks of grime on her face cut across by tear-tracks. Her poise, however, remained absolute, that of a basalt cliff determined to stand in spite of the sea. Alistair felt something unpleasant snake in his gut, remembering the bright young woman who had shared her breakfast with him only a few days before.

Her glare was focussed on the soldier who had started the fight, her brows drawn into a fierce scowl that shadowed her eyes. “Do you have something to say to me?” she asked him. “Well?”

The soldier glanced to the mabari at her side, then to her sword, and then as high as her chin before his nerve failed and he fixed his sight on her boots instead. “No, my lady.”

“No,” she repeated slowly. “Hm. And what about the rest of you?” Her eyes slashed through the crowd, sharp as flint. “Do any of you have the courage to say to my face what you were shouting behind my back?”

Some shuffled their feet or stole looks at those next to them, but none spoke, and none would meet her gaze. Rosslyn waited, but when nobody stepped forward she shook her head, an ugly sneer twisting her mouth.

“To think my father used to speak of his army with such pride.” She swallowed. “And now look. Does none of you realise this infighting is exactly what Howe wants? Why do you think Highever was razed, if not to make us doubt, to break our courage so that he can destroy us without having to face us in a fair fight?” She laughed, the sound brittle in the dark. “To see it working so well is a disgrace.”

“And what else are we supposed to do?” someone called.

“We supposed to just sit here?”

Rosslyn cocked her head in the direction of the shouts, but otherwise did not move. Her eyes passed over Alistair, lingered on him for the briefest instant before she steeled herself to reply.

“Soldiers who cannot follow orders are of no use to me,” she growled. “Hotheads who start brawls in camp are only a danger to themselves on the battlefield. So you can go. Home’s that way. Have fun storming the castle.”

The soldiers glanced at each other. Dressing-downs they could handle. Sergeants who shouted orders and commanders who sent them into battle stone-faced were to be expected, but this speech was too raw, too full of hurt and anger and hollow grief for them to know how to respond.

“And look at that,” she hummed, glancing around at the circle of waiting men. “Not one of you has moved. Does this mean there’s still some courage left in the North?”

Breaths held, no one answered. The only sound was the crackle of the torches.

“We start in the morning,” she told them, turning away. “And you can find out first hand whether a lass has the balls for knifework. Dismissed.”

And that was the end of it. Mud sucked at Rosslyn’s boots as she stalked across the open ground, pausing only to order latrine duty for the instigators of the fight, and whatever punishment Morrence willed for the one who had insulted her. Lacking the will to stay out in the cold without orders, the crowd melted away to their tents, and within moments the parade ground was all but deserted. Relieved, Alistair ran a hand through his hair, a low breath puffing out his cheeks.

“You showed up just in time, my lady,” he joked when she stopped next to him. “I was afraid they were going to eat me.”

“Surely our stores aren’t quite that low?” she asked dryly. Now that nobody was watching, the careful façade slipped, and grey fatigue pinched the corners of her eyes. “I’m glad to be of service. Since you’re here, would you mind coming with me? I need to talk to Teagan.”

Despite himself, Alistair grinned at the familiarity of the words the lack of pretention in the request. “Of course – lead on.”

Together they wended through the camp, his stride shortened to keep time with her limping pace, until they were among the officers’ tents and he finally plucked up the courage to ask, despite the impropriety, if she was alright. She halted mid-step, turning to regard him with furrowed brows. For an instant she struggled to find the right words, her lips framing concepts that stalled on the tip of her tongue. He regretted asking, tried to stammer out an apology, but before he could manage more than a few stumbling words she swallowed and shook her head, trying for a smile.

The effort faded quickly.

“There’s work to do,” she said instead, and headed for the light spilling from Teagan’s tent.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 12 - The Sword and the Hand that Wields It

The winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart. In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start. In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood. And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.

Words: 4372 Chapter summary: Rosslyn makes a triumphant return after weeks of battle, but things don't go quite as planned.

Art in this chapter by the amazing @allenvooreef 

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Fifteenth day of Drakonis, 9:32 Dragon

“They’ve been busy.”

Rosslyn glanced at Morrence, who grinned widely atop her gelding, and shook her head in exasperation. Now that they were within sight of Deerswall, she felt the tension in her shoulders ease a little, but she lacked the energy for anything more. The sun was barely above the horizon, and already her cavalry had been riding for over two hours.

Almost a month ago, she had sent small units of fighters into Highever’s heartlands with orders to disrupt Howe’s takeover of her home in any way they could. The rogues blocked roads, stole supplies, and showed the people there was still a fight to be had, if they wanted one. When had she followed barely a week later to raid the weakened Amaranthine patrols, stories of her tragedy had already spread and grown so that, wherever she went, the people rallied into open defiance and Howe’s soldiers swiftly learned to keep their hands to their sword hilts.

It was never enough. Stories whispered in taverns told how, wherever the enemy threatened, she swept in like a falcon out of the sun, never leaving anything but death in her wake, and the epithet stuck. She liked it. She had decided, in the grove at Deerswall, surrounded by the smell of damp moss and the whisper of her mother’s gods, that she would make Howe regret her escape, make him fear the very shadow of her name before she took her vengeance, and what better way to become the raptor most beloved of the Lady?

But the weeks of guerrilla fighting had taken their toll, and now the guards at the outer gate scrambled to salute as they called ahead to let everyone know of her return to Deerswall.

She had to admit, the work was impressive. Where before there were only lines of muddy tents, now there was a palisade, barracks, stables, training yards, and at the very centre a wooden keep still under scaffolding, crowned with the fluttering colours of all the vassals who had answered her muster. There were fewer than there should have been, but then again, word of her family’s murder had spread, and the Bannorn could not be blamed for deciding to wait before they committed themselves, especially when she had so few soldiers to protect them.

She shook the thought from her mind, smoothing the worry from her face to sit taller in her saddle. People – mostly refugees, by the look of them – were gathering along the main road to get a look at the troopers as they filed past. Rosslyn nodded to Morrence and within moments the cavalry settled into parade columns three abreast, trotting towards the keep with the Falcon of Highever proudly at their head. Lasan arched his marbled neck and flared his tail, and Rosslyn smiled at the way he flaunted himself for the crowd. The curved raptor’s beak moulded into her helmet hid the expression from the people watching, but it also hid the dark circles beneath her eyes and the stiffness caused by her bruises, so she kept it on. As all eyes turned to her, she felt glad that she had heeded her captain’s advice and already sent the injured ahead to the infirmary; in such uncertain times the people needed to see her victories, not what it cost to achieve them.

The main gate of the palisade groaned open ahead of her. The odours of sawn wood and animal dung, hot metal and baking bread, spilled out with the first glimpse of the keep, and the murmurs of the crowd grew louder. Someone was singing, though she didn’t catch the words. Teagan stood at the top of the steps that led into the hall, his expression too far away to see, while around him clustered the bevy of lords who had answered her call. She scanned the dais, out of mere idle curiosity, but twinge of disappointment fluttered in her gut nonetheless when nobody else appeared. Of course, it was silly to think –

“Lady Falcon! Lady Falcon!”

She caught a flash of yellow. Lasan caught it too and baulked, a catlike leap sideways that almost carried him into the crowd. Rosslyn might have reined him in, might have found her seat again and calmed the beating of her heart, but as her horse danced against the bit to face his unknown enemy, a man came barrelling into his path, yelling as he threw himself between the little girl and the threat of flailing hooves.

The world upended. Lasan reared, bellowing. Rosslyn grabbed for his mane, cursed as it slipped through her fingers, lost all sense in the one weightless instant when the sky lurched and blurred with the scared, shocked faces of the people behind her.

“My lady!”

She clung to her seat with only iron will, the specially designed prongs of the cavalry saddle digging into her thigh. The reins bunched in the hand gripped against the saddlebow. The other splayed as a brace against Lasan’s trembling neck. Through the thrill of her nerves, her nose filled with the sharp, dusty odour of equine sweat, the scuffed balsam of pine chippings from the path churned beneath his hooves. Distantly, under the ring of silence and snorted breath, she heard the sound of someone crying.

“Lady Rosslyn?” Morrence’s voice. “Are you alright?”

“Gabh air do shocair,” she muttered in Clayne as she slithered inelegantly the rest of the way to the ground. Her legs shook as her feet touched earth, but she kept her voice steady, soothing. “Bhith ciùin. Chaidh am blàr a tha thairis.”

Her charger’s ears flicked towards the sound of her voice as she came to his head. Every bunched muscle stood tense, his neck arched and eyes rolling, and her arms were barely long enough to reach up to his cheek, but by degrees her words reached through his training and his panic – calm, be calm, the battle is over – the proud head lowered, and Rosslyn allowed herself a breathy chuckle. “There, now that was silly of you, wasn’t it?”

Lasan snorted and gave her shoulder a good-natured shove.

“You can stand down, I’m fine,” she told the waiting Morrence, and glanced over at the man who had caused the uproar.

He flinched. His brawny arms wrapped more tightly around the child he had dived to protect, the fear in his expression betraying the soft reassurances he tried to whisper in her ear. The girl sniffled and buried herself deeper against her father’s leather smock, her sunshine yellow dress stained and the sprays of white Andraste’s grace braided into her hair thrown into disarray. A pair of guards stood on either side, grim-faced but resolute, waiting for orders.

She’s younger than Oren, Rosslyn realised, and had to push aside the clench in her chest. The people were watching. Lasan nudged her arm again.

“Is the child hurt?” Sawdust caked the back of her throat.

“N-no, just shaken.” The farrier darted a glance at the armoured men looming next to him, then back to his daughter, and finally to Rosslyn, earnest. “Please, Yer Ladyship, she meant no harm. It’s her name day, y’see, and she wanted’a see ye…” He faltered. “I shoulda kept a closer watch on her, I’m sorry.”

Around them, the crowd buzzed, waiting to see what Rosslyn would do. Her reputation as a warrior might make them cheer for her, her lucky escapes might be fodder for stories, but it was her response in this moment that would win or lose their loyalty forever. Easing out a slow breath, she reached up and undid the clasp that still held the falcon helmet in place, welcoming the cool air against her forehead when she removed it so the implacable mask of the Lady of Highever could fall away.

“What’s your name, girl?” she asked, as gently as she could.

The farrier’s eyes widened. He jiggled her on his hip to get her to look at him. “Are ye going te answer Lady Falcon?” He smiled encouragement, half-turning her in his arms so she could face Rosslyn directly.

The girl flushed, red as her hair. “M-Molly…” she answered, and hid herself away again.

“Your Ladyship,” her father prompted.

“… Y’ Ladyship,” Molly repeated dutifully.

Rosslyn’s frown softened. “Molly. You scared my horse.”

“Din’ mean to.” The girl sniffed. “Y’ Ladyship.”

“He’s a big, silly beast, and he meant nothing by being startled,” Rosslyn mused, taking a tentative step closer. “Would you like to make friends instead?”

Molly peeked out from her father’s shoulder, eyes wide, and nodded. Like something out of her bedtime stories, she watched as the towering roan charger plodded towards her, led at the lightest touch by the proud warrior maiden her father had said would save them all. The stallion’s ears pricked forward, a cautious regard that eased as every beat ticked by and nothing leaped out to attack him, until at last, with a greeting whuff of breath, he lowered his head to accept the feel of tiny, hopeful fingers.

“He’s so soft!” Molly’s giggle broke the bated silence of the onlookers. “Good horsie!”

The ghost of a smile touch Rosslyn’s lips. “His name is Lasan.”

“Lasan.” Molly smiled and repeated the name to herself, babbling compliments while the adults talked in serious voices and the horse basked in the attention, as if he hadn’t been preparing to kill everything within range of his hooves just moments before. She traced the velvet lines of his nostrils and the uneven white snip splashed between them, and beamed when he lipped at her palm, looking for a treat.

“I canna apologise enough, Yer Ladyship,” her father was saying. “I just panicked. She – she’s all I’ve got left.”

Rosslyn nodded, stroking a hand along her horse’s neck. “I understand.”

“Aye, I know.”

Stiffening, Rosslyn pressed her lips together and cleared her throat. “I’m glad she wasn’t hurt, at least. And that’s enough pampering for you, I think,” she added to Lasan, who swished his tail and grunted at the unexpected twitch in the reins.

“But he likes being petted!” Molly whined.

“He needs te go to the stables, pet, and have some breakfast,” her father explained. “He’s very tired.”

“Oh.” The girl sagged in his arms. “Alrigh’.”

“H’oway then, and say goodbye te Her Ladyship.”

Rosslyn smiled. “It was good to meet you, Molly.”

Suddenly shy again, Molly ducked her head and clung to her father’s shoulders, but smiled out as she mumbled, “Good’a meet ye too, Y’ Ladyship.”

“That’s it, now let’s –”

“Wait!”

Rosslyn turned, blinking in surprise. Molly wriggled on her father’s shoulder, fidgeting with her hair until a stalk of wilted white flowers came away in her fist. Not quite understanding, the farrier waited while Rosslyn bent her head to allow the gift to be knotted behind her ear.

“How does it look?” she asked when Molly leaned back to survey her handiwork.

“Good.”

“Thank you.” She straightened. “I will treasure it.”

“There’s a good lass. Let’s let Lady Falcon be on her way now.”

The little girl’s farewell followed Rosslyn all the way to the bottom of the keep steps, where the cluster of nobles had gathered to greet her. Though they all gave her respectful bows as she approached, only Teagan seemed genuinely pleased to see her alive and whole and untrampled. She passed Lasan’s reins to a groom with a final pat and nodded to Morrence, who took charge of dismissing the company.

It left her to deal with the nobles, all standing in a line: Bann Loren, watery-eyed and bald as an acorn; Telmen of Aidanthwaite, with wisps of grey in his dark hair; Crestwood’s Bann Auldubard, who could still be called a youth, if only just. And there in the centre was Bann Franderel, who had always given her father such headaches, his thin arms crossed over his thin chest, looking her over the way a polecat might regard a fledgling bird. It was he who had summoned her, like she was a dog to come to the whistle. Like she had nothing more important to do.

“Well met, my lords,” she said brightly, with a smile she didn’t feel. “It’s a lovely morning, don’t you think?”

“Made all the lovelier by your return, my lady,” Loren replied. He had always been a sycophant.

“It was perhaps more eventful than we were expecting,” added Teagan.

Auldubard nodded his agreement. “A very fine entrance, indeed.”

“It was lucky the situation resolved itself as it did,” Franderel sniffed over the mutterings of agreement, his arms still crossed. “Destriers are always unpredictable, and when added to a teeming crowd… well, we are all just relieved my lady came out of it unhurt.”

Rosslyn nodded acknowledgement of the sentiment, if not its lack of sincerity. “Your letter was urgent, wasn’t it?” she asked sweetly. “I rode all the way from Tarleton to be here – I thought it best to come directly.”

Franderel’s eyes narrowed. “Such matters are best discussed inside, my lady. Away from prying ears.”

“Then by all means, lead on.”

“If you would like to freshen up first,” Auldubard offered, “we would be more than happy to wait.”

“Of course,” said Franderel. “All the way from Tarleton – the journey must have exhausted you.”

It was a test. Rosslyn could tell by the way his lip was curling, but he gave nothing else away. On the one hand, a rest would grant her a precious hour or two in which to compose herself to properly face the inevitable back-and-forth, but in so doing she would admit her fatigue – or it might suggest she valued her vanity over whatever important matter they needed to discuss. The other option, to go with them immediately, would show her willingness to put business before her own comfort, though that in itself might paint her as too obliging, lacking her own will.

In the end, she was decided by her desire to be away from their politicking as soon as possible. Tugging off her gauntlets, she mounted the steps, knowing they would move out of her way.

“I’m a little tired, maybe, but still perfectly capable.” She smiled blithely at Franderel. “After you, my lords.”

They could not refuse such an invitation, and one by one they filed through the double doors and into the keep. Auldubard hesitated for a moment, but when she kept her attention on the arrangement of her gloves over her arm, he followed after the others. Franderel might have scuppered her chance for a bath and a meal, but she was determined to at least set the pace of the meeting.

She was about to follow when she noticed a familiar figure standing in the shadow of the doors. Alistair was making himself busy by riffling through the pile of papers clutched in his arm, as if to give her the opportunity to walk past him without acknowledgement, if she wanted.

“I see you’re keeping well,” she said instead.

He looked up, caught, and cleared his throat. “Lady Rosslyn.”

“Ser Alistair.”

There was a pause.

“I am well, thank you. Um.” He frowned. “No furry shadow today?”

“I’m afraid not,” she replied, with a faint quirk of her lips. “As you know, Cuno rates his breakfast more highly than his loyalty, but he’s fine.”

“And you?” Alistair asked. He ran a hand through his hair so it stuck up at the back, sneaking a shy look at her from the corner of his eyes. “Are you… alright?”

Rosslyn snorted. “How do I look?”

He looked at her properly, then, with a care that squeezed on her chest, taking in every detail of her appearance from the tangles in her hair to the bloodstains that mired in the crevices of her armour.

“Honestly?” he asked. “You look exhausted. But,” he added, perhaps noticing he had taken a step closer to her, “uh, you seem a little bit more graceful than usual.” His eyes flicked to the white flowers in her hair.

Her hand followed the movement before she could check the impulse. “You have a terrible sense of humour.”

Alistair shrugged. “It can’t be that bad, if it’s made you smile.”

“And in just a few short moments Franderel will do his utmost to ruin all your good work,” she teased, biting her lips together to control the spread of her grin. She sighed. “You wouldn’t happen to know what this is all about, would you?”

“Nobles only, I’m afraid, and I don’t count. But I could take those, if you like,” he added, nodding to her gauntlets and helmet.

She shook her head. “You look overworked as it is. It’s alright, I’ll –” She was interrupted by a loud, unladylike rumble from her stomach. Heat flooded her cheeks, but Alistair only chuckled.

“Looks like someone should have followed the example of their dog,” he said. “Let me at least have a servant bring something to your rooms. Long, boring meetings always go by faster if there’s a hot meal to look forward to at the end of it.”

“So speaks the voice of experience?”

He winked at her, making her smile again. “Don’t let on.”

“Food would be welcome. Thank you.” She fiddled with the buckle on her helmet, realising she had lingered outside long after she meant to – and people were looking. “I should go.”

“Of course.” He gave her a crisp bow. “It’ good to have you back.”

He retreated, and she watched after him as he descended the steps towards the armoury. Her thoughts had wandered to him every now and then on the road, when things were quiet, but she had forgotten how much lighter she felt just being in his presence. A lingering reaction to the circumstances of the night they met, no doubt.

If only dealing with the banns could be so pleasant. They were gathered in the war room, arranged on the opposite side of the table to the door – to her – their contention disguised as deference. As she looked at them, Rosslyn understood the trap Franderel had set for her, and she fought the urge to spin on her heel and run from the embarrassment. Outside, it had mattered little that she was wearing armour and they more genteel clothing, but indoors, surrounded by soft fabrics and clean floors, she looked out of place. Sweaty, muddy, clanking.

She glared at the maps on the table, wrestling down the sudden lump in her throat that tasted bitterly of homesickness. At Highever, if her father had showed up fresh from the battlefield, he would have commanded attention and respect, rather than contempt and backbiting; she herself would have stood in his shadow, quietly learning how to manage armies and nobles and everything else that was a teyrn’s duty, and if she had mis-stepped, he would have been there to intercede.

None of this should be happening.

She lifted her chin. Be fearless, her mother always said, and it will make them unsure what to do with you.

“Is my lady ready to begin?” Franderel asked.

“I’m eager to see what was so important it took me from the field,” she replied. “From the tone of your letter, I’d guess there’s been a change in our circumstances.”

“Indeed. I have the letter here.”

Franderel withdrew a folded piece of paper from his belt and passed it over. It was addressed to ‘The Commander of the Loyal of His Majesty in the North’ but when Rosslyn turned it over, she found the green wax seal had already been cracked open, the Portcullis stamped across it split down the middle.

“The contents are quite straightforward,” Franderel told her as she unfolded the page. “Arl Leonas sends word of a blizzard moving over southern Ferelden – the courier only just made it out of South Reach in time. As you can see, the letter was dated five days ago, and the storm itself is not expected to pass until tomorrow.”

“The Southron Gap is blocked,” Rosslyn mused. “The way the wind blows down there will make travel difficult through the Brecilian Passage for weeks.”

Auldubard nodded, smiling. “Loghain is trapped in Gwaren.”

“Indeed,” added Franderel. “We must seize this chance and make for Denerim while we can.”

Rosslyn frowned, but before she could open her mouth to reply, Loren interjected. “This is the Maker’s will, my lady. Surely you see that. Once we are in Denerim, nobody will doubt the king’s legitimacy.”

“And with your recent actions, as you yourself have said, Howe will struggle to foot a sufficient enough force to challenge us.”

“It will serve as a firm base from which to finally put down Teyrn Loghain and his rebels.”

The lot of them seemed too enthusiastic in their arguments, and too certain of their effects. Rosslyn felt her temper flare. They had already decided their course of action, and were trying to sway her to their side, to control her actions with a few pretty words. She looked to Teagan, who had yet to speak and was staring down at the table as if he thought by scowling at it hard enough, it could make him invisible.

“What about the refugees?” she asked. “Are you saying we should abandon them?”

“They can go south, or west,” Loren replied with a shrug. “The shores of Lake Calenhad are sparsely populated.”

“There are elderly and children out there,” she pointed out. “People who can’t move as quickly as an army. The instant we leave, Howe will swoop down on them and do as he pleases.” Broken families like Molly’s would be torn apart further, and from what she had seen in recent weeks, death would be the kindest outcome for them.

Telmen raised an eyebrow. “What makes you so sure he would waste his energy on civilians, my lady?”

“Tired, hungry people are easier to kill than trained soldiers.” Rosslyn spoke slowly, to be sure he understood. “Howe has already proven he has no conscience, and Rillside’s declaration of support has shown him what he might gain from wholesale slaughter.” She could imagine it, how many other banns wold side with Loghain out of fear for their lives or their people’s wellbeing; his cause would gain momentum like a rockslide and bury their own. “He would kill them out of spite, if nothing else.”

“And who provoked him in the first place?” Franderel asked with a pointed look in her direction. “We’ve seen the reports from our scouts. Who is it has been crowning his fallen captains with laurel wreaths for him to find like this is some sort of children’s game?”

“Who has been drawing Howe’s gaze so he does not turn his attention further south?” she retorted. “You’re welcome to try and stand your militia against Amaranthine without my soldiers acting as your shield.” Her gaze flashed to the other banns. “Crestwood and Oswin, too, while we’re at it.”

“Then what do you propose?” Telmen asked. He spoke to the floor, though the buffer provided by West Hill meant his lands faced a less immediate threat from an attack from the north.

“Retake Highever.  Use the blizzard, draw Howe out and beat him before reinforcements can arrive from the south.”

“A waste. We have no siege engines. The breathing space this weather provides will be better spent reaching Denerim to better protect the king,” Franderel insisted.

“And then what? While we remain outside the capital we have the advantage of mobility, something we will lose if we trap ourselves within Denerim’s walls. All Loghain would need to do is wait until we run out of food.”

“All Howe will need to do is wait until we run out of men to throw against the gates of Castle Cousland.”

Rosslyn fixed the banns with a steely glare. “It can be done.”

“There are several options that could be discussed, if only we could all calm down,” Teagan suggested. He was ignored.

“I wonder at the true reason for my lady’s hesitation,” said Franderel silkily. “Inexperience is understandable, and hot-headedness is often paired with youth.” His smile widened, and Rosslyn felt her temper heating further. “Perhaps you cling to the rumours that have emerged regarding surviving members of your family. We’ve all heard them. Is that why you were so adamant to lead the cavalry yourself, my lady, why you are so eager to put your pride above loyalty to the king? Do you think to make yourself a hero with a daring rescue? Do you think if you swing your sword hard enough, it will allay the guilt of your parents’ deaths?”

The slam of Rosslyn’s fist on the table reverberated on the walls, and in the echoes, the weight of her breathing was the only sound that remained. The impact tingled all the way up to her elbow, but she didn’t care. Her heart punched against her ribs, every muscle held tense just on the edge of control. She could do it. She could cross the room; she could take Franderel by the back of his greying, thinning hair and crack his condescending smirk against the table like an egg.

“That’s enough,” Teagan snapped, but the damage was already done. “Lady Rosslyn, you –”

She shrugged off the placating hand he laid on her shoulder. “You forget your place, my Lord of West Hill.”

Franderel’s smile turned beneficent. “My lady forgets that without my generosity, she would have no place at all.”

“And I will remember that generosity in the future,” she ground out in reply. “For now, know this: I will not sacrifice my people for some ill-conceived attempt to woo the king’s favour. Go to Denerim if you must, but you will go alone.” She straightened, pulling her shoulders back far enough that her joints popped. The movement brought back the ache in her muscles, the groans she had heard from those of her soldiers who had been wounded in the field and had to be put out of their agony along the road. “This meeting is over.”

Without another word she turned away from them all, poised as a cat, and swept from the war room into the narrow corridor beyond.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 8

The winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart. In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start. In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood. And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.

Ferelden Civil war AU Words: 4275 CW: gore, surgery, wounds Chapter summary: After hours of waiting, the last of Highever's forces finally make it to Bann Teagan's camp. But this doesn't set Alistair's fears to rest for long.

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Seventh day of Guardian, 9:31 Dragon

The camp hidden on the edge of the Marl Plain was quiet, awaiting orders, hidden from its target by the skirt of a low hill. The restlessness of earlier hours had subsided with the last treasonous gasps of those hanged for insubordination and incitement to mutiny. They had been the most vocal in their dissent at the plan to take Highever, but the example made of them had stopped any greater action by the others. As Captain Lowan strode through the rows of low tents towards the horse pickets, he saw resignation in the faces of those huddled around their campfires, and was satisfied. Men more terrified of their commander than the enemy were easily led, and far more easily controlled.

Something nagged at his well-ordered mind, however. As Arl Howe’s right-hand, he wielded more power than most, but his lord had waited long years plotting this campaign and what he would do when he finally had the Couslands in his grasp, and on this subject he was like a terrier with a rat in its teeth. He was deaf to any caution that the man they had plucked still breathing from a knot of Highever dead might be a threat to the plan, refusing to listen even after their prisoner had been caught attempting to escape and warn the castle.

Damned nobles and their damned hubris.

He turned a corner and almost walked smack into the conscript set to guard the makeshift gaol where the prisoner had been moved.

“Captain!” The sentry jerked crisply to attention, fear lancing though his expression. “What’re you doin’ here?”

Lowan nodded towards the darkness in the cell. “Is he awake?”

“Hard’a tell, Ser.” The sentry stamped his boots to try and scare some warmth back into his feet, relieved that he hadn’t been singled out for a reprimand. “He in’t moved, mind, and he in’t gannin’ naawhere, not on them legs.”

The captain levelled a cold glare at such lax discipline. In the early morning gloom, the stark light of the cell’s single lamp cast harsh shadows over the planes of his face, deepening the orbits of his eyes and carving the depression of his mouth into a grin like a skull’s. With nervous eyes, the sentry traced the grizzly line of the scar that cut a chasm up his superior’s left cheek and across his forehead.

“I mean, not that I haven’t been watching him, like,” he added hastily. “But, I mean, Ser, look at ‘im. He’s out coald.”

“You’d better hope so, soldier.”

“A-aye, Ser.”

With a measured grace that belied his age, Lowan crouched on his heels to better examine the prisoner, the first trophy of Arl Howe’s conquest. The man lay heaped on his right side on a dirty pile of straw, bound in thick chains under a scraggy blanket, his once-gleaming armour dented and soiled with filth that masked the sigil of the Laurels embossed across his chest. His dark hair and face, too, were streaked with gore, his features now all but unrecognisable under the swell of purple bruises. He did not move, not even when poked in the ribs with the iron toe-cap of Lowan’s boot.

To one less cautious, such a pitiful sight would be convincing, but Howe’s right-hand knew enough of Cousland pride to know that one heavy beating and two cracked femurs would not be enough to smother it. He reached for his belt and slid his dagger from its sheath.

The sentry licked his lips. “Orders were to keep ‘im alive, Ser.”

“Do not tell me my business,” Lowan snapped. He lowered the flat side of the blade to the prisoner’s mouth. For a moment, nothing happened, but then the faintest mist of condensation collected on the steel, and Lowan rose to his feet with a grunt. “He’s alive. Get him up. His lordship thinks this toff will do nicely for –”

“Captain Lowan, Ser!” A sergeant in patchy mail stumbled into the lamplight, panting. “I was told to find you here.”

Lowan glowered at the newcomer. “Report.”

“It’s the Red Iron, Ser – the mercs what went after the Cousland girl.” The sergeant gulped. “They’ve sent a message, Ser.”

“Ah, finally.” Lowan flexed his fingers on the pommel of his sword. “Are they bringing back her head, as they were told?”

“Ah, um, no, Ser.”

“They’ve taken her alive then? That’s a feat – Arl Howe will be pleased.”

“Uh, no Ser,” came the hesitant reply. “They – they’re not bringing her. She, er, got away.”

“I see.” Lowan’s grip tightened. “And the wounded from Glenlough?”

“Didn’t catch them,” the sergeant answered. “It seems she used what was left of the cavalry to harry our men and give hers more time to flee. They caught up yesterday morning, but she escaped again. They’ve, uh, broken off pursuit, Ser. The messenger says she reached Bann Teagan’s forces near Wythenshawe, and they’re not being paid enough for such odds. His words, Ser,” he added, noting the scowl darkening his superior’s expression.

For a moment, indecision coiled in Lowan’s limbs. His eyes flicked from side to side, his lips pursed as he worked out his next move. Employing the Red Iron had been his suggestion, a solution to Amaranthine’s pitiful number of professional soldiers, which had been meant as a shortcut for taking Highever… and they had failed to remove the youngest Cousland, a mere chit who should have been easy to kill. Having survived, she would return to her homeland bloodthirsty as only nobles could be, with the might of a new army and all the authority of the king behind her, implacable as an avalanche. Howe might escape, but those lower in the pecking order were never so lucky. He wouldn’t be that lucky.

As if to undermine the downward turn of his thoughts, from somewhere nearby the first blackbird of morning began to sing. Time was marching on. Cursing inwardly, Lowan straightened and barked for the sergeant to help carry the prisoner while he marched ahead to where his lordship was making final preparations for the attack on Castle Cousland. If they could take the keep, then it wouldn’t matter what the girl did; she’d be free to break her armies against the walls and follow the rest of her family into the Maker’s grace.

He did not look back, so did not notice the smile that cracked across the prisoner’s face, as wide as his injuries would allow. He would be able to do nothing but watch, crippled, as everything he loved was put to the sword, but for an instant exultation burned through the mire of his grief. Rosslyn lived. Even if nothing could save Highever now, he knew with certainty that it would not go unavenged.

--

By the time Alistair reached the eastern edges of the camp, the last of Lady Cousland’s retinue were already being tended, for which he was grateful. Horses were dotted throughout the clearing, heads drooped with their coats matted and stained from the road, most too tired for even a cautionary jerk as the healers all but dragged the troopers from their war saddles. Globes of blue-green light flickered here and there as the most serious injuries were treated with healing spells, and Alistair was glad to see that, at least in an emergency, the mages from Kinloch Hold were able to overcome their suspicion of the large, unpredictable animals.

Or not. A furious series of barks drew his attention to a group of four or so young mages clustering like geese a wary distance away from an impressive roan charger that had been roused from its torpor. It pawed clods of muck from the earth, warning the strangers away with an uneasy roll of its eye. One of them seemed to have been on the receiving end of its teeth already.

As he came closer, Alistair noticed the rider, her skin pallid with sweat and expression pinched with fatigue, trying simultaneously to rein in the horse and keep the wounded soldier at her back from falling. An arrow had pierced her left shoulder, leaving the arm limp across the front arch of her saddle, but even under the sheen of blood and a tumble of loose black hair he could still make out the pattern of laurels embossed on her armour. This, then, was Lady Cousland herself.

“Cuno!” The word hissed through gritted teeth, followed by a garbled string of words in a language that might have been Clayne.

The dog, a pure-bred mabari judging by the deep chest and wide head, immediately turned his attention away from the ‘threatening’ mages towards his mistress, a high, worried whine beginning at the back of his throat. His head tilted back, trying to get a proper look at her, and when that didn’t work he crowded closer, heedless of the horse’s stamping, fretting when she failed to notice his yipped entreaties to dismount. Already agitated by the smell of blood and the lack of direction from its rider, the roan shifted its weight into its powerful haunches, though they trembled from exhaustion. It was still held in check, but only just, and that control was slipping.

“I’ve got you,” Alistair reassured her, dodging forward to catch hold of the bridle before the horse could bolt.

The lady’s gaze rolled over his without focus, her whole body listing as she searched instead for her dog to calm him down.

“Cuno…”

Even without the rasp of her laboured breathing or the sunken hollows of her eyes, it was easy to tell she was in a bad way. He had to get her down, or Teagan would kill him. He noticed the knotted leather that bound the arms of the second soldier around her waist, swollen with rain so that it would be impossible to untie.

“You two!” he snapped at the only mages who lacked the presence of mind to find easier patients.

“Ser?”

“Get over here and help me. I need you to hold the horse,” he instructed. “He’ll be quiet, just do as you’re told. As for you,” he added, turning to the second mage. “Surana, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Ser.”

“Get ready to catch him.” Alistair drew his knife, thankful that he had sharpened it that morning, and cut through the strap before helping to brace the unconscious man as the quivering elven mage hauled him to the ground, healing spells already sparking from his fingers.

Lady Cousland sagged as the weight dropped away from her. “Is he…?”

“He’s alive,” Surana answered.

Her eyes slid closed with a heavy sigh.

“Now for you, my lady.”

Alistair reached up, uncertain of the best way to help her without jostling her injury, but she waved away his hand and tipped forward, clearly intent on dismounting without assistance, despite the grimace it stretched across her face. Her years of training served her well, and she kept her balance, keeping the horse steady with murmured entreaties in the same language she had used on the dog, but as she touched the ground her right leg buckled and sent her backwards with a yell. He reacted instinctively, scooping his arms under her shoulders to take just enough of her weight to prevent her from sprawling. With a grunt, she turned in his arms. His shoulders acted as a brace so she could drag herself back onto her feet. When she looked at him, he caught the impression of high cheeks and a thin, straight nose, and fever-bright eyes the grey of cracked ice on the sea. He swallowed.

“My people, are they safe?” she demanded, her voice choked with strain.

“They’re being tended, my lady,” he replied, tentatively letting go of her. “Your other forces arrived a couple of hours ago, and are being settled in.”

She straightened, then doubled over again with a yelp as the movement pulled at the torn muscles in her shoulder. “I need – need to see Bann Teagan.”

“You need a healer.”

Setting his hand under her uninjured arm again, he glanced around for a mage not immediately engaged. Not far away, an older woman had just sent a pair of healers away bearing a stretcher between them, her hand to her forehead, seemingly unconscious of the fact that the ends of her white hair were matted with blood. He waved her over.

“No, th’others first,” Lady Cousland slurred, rousing as Alistair beckoned the mage over. “Have to get…”

His grip stiffened as she tried to twist away, ignoring the dog, who chuffed in warning but seemed hesitant to intervene. “How are you going to help your people if you run yourself into the ground?”

The words had their intended effect, though he had no doubt the impertinence in his tone would have been less well received if the lady had not lost quite so much blood. Winded and dizzy, her struggles faded as Wynne approached, but even though her legs trembled, she refused to bend her dignity by leaning on him. She watched blearily as the old woman checked her over, tutting first over her shoulder and then her right thigh, where a scabbed-over sword wound throbbed beneath a hastily applied, grubby bandage. Even the slightest press of Wynne’s fingers to examine the wound made the patient jerk away, snarling.

“Enough!” she snapped. Shivers wracked her body, but her expression had for the moment lost its dazed, absent look. “I will see Bann Teagan now. My father… is… He’s…” Sweat trickled down her forehead. Her right hand fumbled for purchase and found Alistair’s shoulder, her complaints subsiding into incoherent mumbles as he once again angled himself under her arm to better take the weight off her injured leg.

“So this is Bryce Cousland’s youngest,” Wynne commented dryly.

“Will she be alright?” It would be just his luck for the only daughter of one of the most powerful men in Ferelden to die under his care minutes after being rescued. Would they merely hang him, or would the grief-stricken Teyrn of Highever wish to draw out his execution? Maybe the dog would get there before anyone else had a chance, and simply maul him to death.

“Yes,” came the measured reply. “But these wounds require more attention than simple spells, and it’s a miracle the blood poisoning hasn’t overtaken her already. I’ll need light, and heat, and somewhere to lie her down.”

“Teagan’s pavilion is closest.”

“I’ll get my equipment.”

The mage turned with a swish of long robes and headed for the sloping marquee that served as the infirmary, leaving Alistair to heft the semiconscious noblewoman into a more comfortable position.

“Can you walk, my lady?” he asked. She was almost as tall as him, strongly built, and still girded to the neck in layers of aurum plate – even having discarded her undercoat of mail it would be a bugger to have to carry her.

“Yes,” she replied, as though the question was offensive. When she staggered, her head lolled back against his shoulder and she flashed him a tiny, derisive grin. “Ugh, mostly.”

Unable to entirely control his hysteria, Alistair chuckled. “That’ll do. Come on, easy does it.”

Tightening his grip on her waist to keep her from slipping, he helped her limp the slow path towards the officers’ quarters. When a sharp curse drew through her teeth he paused, nerves jumping, worried he had knocked her, but it was only Cuno, the mabari, who had responded to the whisper of his name by bumping his muzzle into the palm of her hand with a brief lick for reassurance. Care softened the pained lines around her eyes, and for the next few laboured steps she muttered blandishments at the dog, until her words grew more disjointed and then faltered completely. Concerned, Alistair edged a glance at her out of the corner of his eye, and was surprised by the degree of relief he felt to see she was still awake, even if the muscles in her jaw were clenched hard enough to grind stone. Less welcome was the crushing pinch of her fingers into the back of his neck as she fought to keep her balance.

Wynne preceded them into Bann Teagan’s tent with the elven healer, Surana, following closely on her heels and carrying a surgeon’s bag that had seen a lot of use in recent weeks. He tried not to think about that as he followed the mage’s direction to set Lady Cousland on the edge of the cot, easing her down slowly enough to keep her bad leg straight. Surana came forward with a goblet filled with some dark green, viscous liquid. She scowled at the taste when urged to drink, but complied, until she lurched sideways and violently retched it all back up again.

“No, don’t try to give her any more, what are you thinking!” Wynne chastised. “She’ll just have to deal with the pain, Andraste help her. The armour needs to come off,” she added to Alistair as she took a rolled leather pouch from her bag. It contained a range of metal tools that gleamed viciously in the torchlight.

“What?” Alistair glanced down at the swaying noblewoman, the tips of his ears reddening. “I can’t do that! It would be – I mean…”

“Maker’s breath, young man, you’re hardly a voyeur,” the old woman snapped. “And would it be more or less chivalrous of you to leave her helpless like this, hm? That’s what I thought,” she added, when he cursed and dragged a hand through his hair.

Having dimly followed their exchange, Lady Cousland’s hand drifted to the buckles that held her cuirass in place, but found her fingers too clumsy to grasp at the leather straps. Alistair shook his head and kneeled to help, but quickly noticed another problem – the arrow in her shoulder had punched through pauldron and cuirass both and pinned it to her flesh.

“This is going to have to come out first,” he warned her, trying to work out the best angle from which to draw it. It must have been shot from a crossbow to have impacted with such force. Surana heard and bustled over with a wad of hard leather that he set between her teeth.

“Are you ready?”

She stiffened when he shifted her hair out of the way and braced a hand against her back, but nodded. The dog shuffled closer and laid his head in his mistress’s lap, offering an uneasy wag of his tail as she stroked his ears. Before he could change his mind or let her think about it too much, Alistair gripped the shaft and pulled.

The bolt came free with a wet ripping noise he heard even over the lady’s muffled cry and the dog’s frantic growls. It transfixed him. The dull iron was slicked with the same blood that spurted over his hands, its barbed point designed with an unnecessary cruelty that was sickening.

“Is this really the time to gawk?” Wynne demanded.

Surana had already taken over the removal of the lady’s armour, working quickly to access the wound before her blood loss became critical. But he had little experience with such complicated layers, and wasted more time than he saved trying to work out which strap to undo next. Losing patience, Alistair pushed him out of the way and stripped off cuirass, vambraces, and padded gambeson in quick succession, his embarrassment entirely overlooked in the face of the scarlet stain blooming across the noblewoman’s linen undershirt.

She had doubled over, fingers tangled in her dog’s ruff and head pressed tightly against his neck. Her breath came in uneven, shaking gasps, but it quietened when cool green magic met her fevered skin and began to knit her muscles back together.

“You’re alright,” Wynne soothed. “There’s a brave girl. There’s no lasting harm done – you’ll be right as rain soon enough.”

Before Alistair’s eyes the ugly gash shrank, the pale glisten of bone disappeared, and the ragged skin around the edges smoothed until all that was left was a livid, uneven starburst of scar tissue. He had no doubts that if not for Wynne’s skill with healing magic, the injury would have permanently limited the use of Lady Cousland’s left arm. Even arcane knowledge wouldn’t be enough to completely heal it, and already Wynne had swapped her spells for a pot of elfroot salve, which she smeared liberally over the closed wound before withdrawing to allow Surana to bandage the shoulder tightly enough to keep the newly-formed muscle from splitting. Time would do the rest.

“Well, this has been a fun way to spend an evening,” Alistair breathed, giddy. His hands were still stained with blood, which darkened and turned sticky as it dried. “And here I was planning to do some light reading with a glass of wine.”

“Don’t leave yet, Ser,” Wynne warned him. “I still need you to help hold her down.”

He frowned. “For what?”

“Her leg.” She guided Lady Cousland to lie flat with gentle presses of her hands. “It’s festered, so it will need to be cleaned before I can heal it.”

“I see.”

Surana busied himself setting out his mentor’s instruments as she began to unwind the bandage. Even that caused the lady to flinch, her eyes whirling beneath contracted lids as she whimpered and clutched the sheet beneath her. The sound distressed the dog, who pushed in close and huffed, but was sent away with a snapped command. Something about the calm, disinterested movements of the mages – the way Wynne sliced through the seam of Lady Cousland’s trouser leg to expose the infection – brought bile to the back of Alistair’s throat, as if to them the warrior lying at death’s door before them presented nothing more than an academic exercise, a puzzle to be solved –

“Please,” Wynne urged him. “She needs you.”

The sight of the wound decided him: swollen red, the skin stretched to a shine with pus under a crusted yellow scab.

“Right – right.” He stepped closer and dropped to his knees, setting his palms on the lady’s shoulders so that his body blocked her sight of Wynne heating the blade of a sharp silverite dagger over the fire. Her head turned at his touch. Sweat glistened on her forehead.

“Surana, are you ready?”

The young mage shuffled forward. Lady Cousland tracked the movement until she realised what was happening and dropped her head back against the pillow, eyes turning from Alistair to fix straight upwards, biting down on the leather strap she had been given. Still, she was unprepared when Wynne lifted the knife from the fire and slashed open the wound.

She jerked upward. She screamed, though she tried not to. She fought, tears streaming down her cheeks. The screams turned to sobs, and then to gasps as her consciousness ebbed away and her struggles weakened, allowing Wynne to set a healing spell against the flesh, and in minutes the battle was over. Both Alistair and Surana were exhausted from trying to keep Lady Cousland pinned down, their ears ringing as they tried not to gag on the sour odour of bile and blood that underlay the tang of white-spirit and elfroot. Their patient lay limp on the cot, barely conscious and sheened with sweat. Only Wynne retained her composure, practiced enough in her art that, at least on the surface, the grisly ordeal had no effect.

Alistair turned away from the sight, uneasy. Before he could fully process his motivations, he found himself sweeping aside a lock of dark hair stuck to the lady’s forehead.

“Unh…”

“It’s over now,” he told her gently. “You can sleep.”

Her eyes opened, searched for him. “You… You’re Bann Teagan’s man?”

“His right-hand. My name’s Alistair.”

She hummed, frowning as if committing his name to memory. “Alistair… ‘m Rosslyn.”

Across the other side of the tent, Wynne was already discussing her patient’s care with Teagan, who had arrived following the sound of screams. With a last final check to make sure she – Rosslyn – was asleep, Alistair pushed himself away from the cot just in time to hear the mage’s instructions to keep her warm and quiet.

“And someone will need to watch her,” she added. “I haven’t put her under a Sleep just in case she takes a turn, but I feel the worst of it is over now, and Surana and I are needed elsewhere. When she wakes she’ll need food and plenty of water.”

“That’s a tall order,” Teagan answered with a ghost of a chuckle. “What do you say, Alistair, are you up to it?”

“Me? I mean, yes Ser, if I can help, I’d be glad to.”

His uncle clasped a hand to his shoulder. “Good man. Can I see her?” he asked, turning back to Wynne.

“She’s asleep.”

If Teagan was surprised by Alistair’s interruption, he didn’t show it. “Then I’d best leave it – if she’s anything like either of her parents, she won’t be kept down for long. Come find me in the morning, and don’t let her bully you just because she’s pretty,” he warned, with a good-natured clap on the back. “After you, madam enchanter.”

Alistair watched the pair if them leave, his head sagging. It took a moment, but he gathered himself and ordered Surana to stay put while he went in search of someone among the kitchen staff who might still be awake. If he was to be in charge of Lady Cousland’s recovery, he would do it right – if only so that nobody could say otherwise if everything went pear-shaped and he ended up on the execution block after all.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 10

The winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart. In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start. In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood. And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.

Words: 3985 CW: gore, character death Chapter summary: Highever’s forces return to the city, only to find that the enemy has gotten there first

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Ninth Day of Guardian, 9:31 Dragon

The city smouldered.

Before dawn that morning, the diminished army of Highever had set out under the proud gaze of Lady Cousland herself. They went to repay the loss at Glenlough, expecting to relieve a siege or sweep down upon their unknown enemy like before to win their glory. There had been jokes, and marching songs to keep time as they climbed the long slope of Harrowhill.

And now they stood between the two stone circles that flanked the crest of the hill, struck to silence with shock. The rain dripped down, soaking through metal and leather and cloth, unheeded as the wind lifted the veil of cloud to reveal the blackened husk of Highever huddling beyond the Marl Plain, with the river twisting through it like a strike of silver wire. A few ships still listed in the harbour, belching out thick dark smoke from broken hulls, but there was no sign of people, or of a battle before the walls of Castle Cousland, which still stood, unperturbed by the destruction that lay at its feet.

“This isn’t right…”

Rosslyn’s wounds ached. She still felt weak, and her knees were shaking so badly she doubted she would be able to mount Lasan again without help, but that concern was faraway. At her back, she felt the restlessness of her people as shock ebbed into anger – from Hobbs, who had been a wheelwright; from Morrence, whose father had been so proud of his tailor shop on Thistle Street – but it blurred, because all she could do was stare at the castle and the out-of-place banners draped over the battlements. Her home, and her family’s colours nowhere to be seen.

“How did this happen, Gideon?” she asked when the guard-commander shifted his weight next to her. “Where is my father?”

“I don’t know, my lady.”

She turned at the growl in his voice, remembering how he had begged her to go after the teyrn and his men. “Are you going to say I told you so?”

Gideon blinked in surprise. “No, lass,” he said quietly. “No, I won’t do that.”

She nodded, numb. On her other side, Teagan stood holding a bronze spyglass to his eye. With every beat that passed, the corner of his mouth pulled lower.

“My lord?”

Teagan hesitated, glancing to her outstretched hand. “It might be best if you didn’t, my lady. You don’t need to see this.” His eyes were bright with sympathy, even more so than his voice, and she recognised it as the same desire to protect that her father had left with her at Glenlough, the last time she had seen him.

Her jaw clenched. “Give it to me.”

Reluctantly he passed the spyglass to her, but even despite her burning need to see what had become of her home, she wavered as she brought it up to see. She glossed over the corpse of the city, with its snapped timbers and piles of smouldering rubble, needing to be sure instead that the quartered orange-and white banners weren’t just a trick of light and distance. She knew the shield well – the Bear of Amaranthine was a common sight enough since the Howes were neighbours and old friends – but to see those colours in place of the Laurels…

Rain dripped cold down her spine. There had to be something, anything, a tiny piece of evidence to tell her this was nothing more than a nightmare. But as she scanned along the walls, she found nothing to indicate a battle, not the scar of magefire on the stone nor cracked mortar on the battlements, only banner after banner snarling with the Howe Bear, her own family’s presence entirely erased, swept away like smoke. The image wobbled as her hands shook.

And then she saw the two bodies hanging from the arch of the barbican by thick, dark ropes – no, not ropes. Twisted cords made from rich blue cloth and fastened into nooses. The sound of the wind on the hill died away under the ragged pull of air through her teeth, the hollow thunder of blood in her ears, the creak of her leather gauntlets. The spyglass pressed hard enough against her skin to be bruising.

Gilmore. Canavan. She recognised his red hair. They must have been loyal to the last to have suffered such humiliation, for now they were nothing more than squabble-fodder for the crows, stripped of armour and honour with their beaten flesh greying and bloated where it wasn’t cut to the bone. Had they fought so hard expecting her to come? Had they looked to the horizon with hope even as Amaranthine’s forces overwhelmed the castle and cut them down?

Rage surged through the roaring disbelief in her ears. At Glenlough, her father had said no word had come from Howe, and now she knew why. He had done this. He had planned and schemed and betrayed and destroyed and entire city, for – what? Greed? Jealousy? She almost tore the eyepiece away, but then movement fluttered at the edge of the lens and drew her gaze to a smaller commotion over the castle’s west gate. Crows and gulls flocked on the battlements, though the distance and the mist left them nothing more than whirling black and white flies; the two objects they circled were small and round, pale, propped up on long poles against the weather and the depredations of the birds –

Rosslyn’s hand clapped over her mouth. Bile that churned in her stomach, clawing to be up her throat. The spyglass clattered to the ground and cracked against a rock. She wanted to run. She wanted to fold against the earth and turn her face into the rain so it could wash away the image of what she had seen. Too late too late too late, her heart mocked in its two-step dance. You ran away and now this is what you have done.

A hand closed over her own, its warmth making her flinch.

“I’m sorry,” Teagan said. He had picked up the spyglass. “I can’t make this any easier.”

“I didn’t…” She stared at him blindly. “This wasn’t…”

“’Ware, riders!”

A flurry of movement. She saw Alistair a little way away put his hand to his sword and step between her and the shout, even as her soldiers formed a shield wall and behind them Teagan’s archers knocked arrows, waiting for the order to loose.

It was just a scout. He waved Rainesfere colours as he trotted towards them on a rangy little pony, and the order was given to stand down. Rosslyn straightened, her lessons as a noble’s daughter dragging her out of her haze, though her ears still rang and beneath her armour her skin felt clammy and feverish. Alistair relaxed, though she noticed his sword stayed loose in its scabbard as he went forward to meet the scout and find out what was going on.

They conferred. Behind the scout came three others mounted on horseback, leading a group of a dozen or so bound men whose surcoats were emblazoned with the snarling Amaranthine Bear. It filled Rosslyn’s vision, leering at her as if in mockery, but the soldiers who wore it all looked exhausted and battle-stained; their gear was patchy and singed, and none dared lift their gaze above their cracked, mud-caked boots. After a few moments, Alistair shrugged and led the scout towards the waiting officers.

“Cam, isn’t it?” Teagan asked as the scout bowed.

“Yes, my lord.” A wisp of corn-yellow hair slipped from its place behind his pointed ears.

“Tell us what happened.”

The scout raised his head to speak, but started at the sight of the Laurels embossed on Rosslyn’s cuirass. “You’re her,” he whispered. “I mean, um, Lady Cousland, it’s an honour to meet you, I –”

She cut him off. “I don’t need flattery. What happened here? All these people…” She swallowed. “The castle. How was it taken?”

Cam struggled to meet her gaze, glancing at Teagan for reassurance before he worked up the courage to begin. “My lady, we didn’t arrive in time to watch events here unfold. My partners and I came from the east, following the ravens from another battlefield along the Culodhne Road… two days old, by our guess.”

“Who made up the dead?” Rosslyn asked, trembling. She could hear the restless shift of the army at her back. “Who?”

“Highever men, my lady,” Cam replied in a steady tone. “But surrounded two to one by Amaranthine soldiers and Marcher hirelings.”

“And my father?”

Cam licked his lips. “We… couldn’t find his body.”

She heard a sharp hiss, and realised only when nobody else spoke that the sound had come from her. It had to be real, then, all of it. Her father must be dead. He had known what would happen when he left her at Glenlough, and fell to Howe’s spite, selling his own life to buy her time, and she lost in the wilds – and the thing standing sentinel above the western gate…

“Thank you for telling me this,” she said when she again trusted herself to speak.

“We did find something, my lady.” Cam stood and went to his pony, extracting an oilskin package from behind the saddle that he unwrapped with greatest care and presented to her.

What strength was left in Rosslyn’s body fell away at the sight of the sword, as bright in its grubby wrappings as it had been on the day it had left Highever belted on Bryce Cousland’s hip. She was drawn towards it, reaching out for the wire-wrapped hilt even as she rocked under the tumble of memories the sight unleashed. She recalled its place above the mantel in the study, and in bedtime stories where it was the faithful companion her ancestors had taken to battle and adventure. Once, when she was still so small she needed to stand on a chair to reach it, she had taken it down in secret to see if she could measure up to the legends, and had barely been able to lift it. And now? She frowned and pulled her hand back, curling it into a fist as her vision blurred.

It should have gone to Fergus.

An anxious hum drew her attention downward, to where Cuno nuzzled his wide, blunt head against her side. For once, however, her dog’s lolling smile and steady eyes could do nothing to comfort her.

Cam cleared his throat, glancing to Teagan once again. “There is more, my lady.”

“More?”

“These men,” he said, gesturing with a jut of his chin. “They claim to be Amaranthine deserters. They know what happened in Highever, and gave themselves up willingly. They said – my lady, they said they wished to throw themselves on the mercy of the last Cousland for their actions, if she still lived.”

Rosslyn looked over to where the prisoners cowered, then back to the sword nestled in its wrappings like a viper. The last Cousland. The last.

“Bring them here,” she commanded, and this time when she reached out, there was no sign of hesitation as her hand wrapped around the hilt. She felt rather than heard Teagan and Gideon close ranks behind her, but didn’t turn around, too busy assessing the condition of the blade – at least the scouts had thought to clean off the grime of battle before giving it to her.

Teagan’s hand fell on her shoulder. “Whatever you intend to do, my lady, I suggest we do not linger. Our position is exposed, and it’s too much to hope we haven’t been noticed already.”

She shrugged him away, blinking back the sting in her eyes. “Let that bastard try me if he dares.”

She ignored the prisoners as they were dragged before her and forced to their knees in the mud, their quiet grunts of pain less of a concern than the effort it cost to keep her hands steady as she worked the buckles of her sword belt loose. Her padded gauntlets became a hindrance, so she tugged them off with her teeth and tucked them under her arm, then passed her own borrowed sword into Gideon’s waiting hands before seeing to the straps of her new weapon. The scabbard didn’t fit properly.

In the rigid silence, the fine rain condensed on her skin, leaving her fingers cold and clumsy. She used the time to choose her words.

“Highever lies smouldering on the order of the man whose crest you wear, and you have come to ask me for mercy,” she said at last, pulling her gauntlets back over calloused palms. She checked the fit and looked up. Her gaze was keen, her voice trembling on the edge of control. “Not many would be so daring, unless you aren’t really deserters, but men sent to finish what an entire company of mercenaries couldn’t.”

One of the younger men, whose hair was the same dull brown as the dirt streaking his face, shifted in his ropes. “Do we look like assassins?” he spat.

The sword flashed into her hand like a shard of lightning. The man yelled and threw his bound hands over his head, jerking away from the deathblow. But Rosslyn turned the blade as she struck downwards. The balance of it was unfamiliar, the swing less controlled than she wanted, but even so the man felt nothing more than a heavy slap where he should have been cleaved to his stomach. He squinted upwards through his overgrown fringe when he realised he could still breathe, his eyes travelling along the glinting length of steel to the imperious figure towering over him.

“You will tell me the truth,” she warned.

The soldier gulped, but nodded.

“You were part of the force that confronted the Teyrn of Highever after he set off from Glenlough.”

“A-aye, my lady,” he answered.

“You saw my father fall?”

A nod. “Arl Howe said we was to go through them no matter the cost. We hammered the teyrn’s men, and the Red Iron went ‘round at the sides. There were some of us – after – it didn’t sit right, even though the arl said as your father was a trait– ah!”

Rosslyn watched the thread of scarlet blood well along the sharp edge of the blade. “Be careful with your accusations,” she snarled as she pressed it deeper against his neck.

“No – please!”

“Lady Cousland!” Teagan once more lay his hand on her shoulder, squeezing until she calmed enough to relax the tension in her arm. “You would have regretted it,” he assured her in a low voice.

“Tell me how the castle was taken,” she growled, with the merest glance behind her. The sword fell to her side.

“He…” The soldier took a shaky breath, glancing between the two nobles who held his life in their good graces. “He asked protection from the keep, said the enemy was close on our heels. We were let through the gate, and then when the teyrna was distracted, I don’t know what with, that blighter Lowan ordered men into the guard towers. Most of yours were dead before anyone twigged.”

Rosslyn sucked in her bottom lip. “What – what happened to my mother?” she managed.

“Sh-she fought back, my lady,” came the slow reply. “She got a sword from someone, and wouldn’t go down, not until she were a pincushion.” The soldier paused, wincing in sympathy for her sharp draw of breath. “After that, the order came down to burn the city, to – I don’t know why, that’s not for grunts like us – only we tried to help, to stop it happening, and Lowan caught us. Us and others – we’re all that’s left.” For a moment he fell quiet. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my lady. We’re so sorry. Please.”

The weather closed about the silence left in the wake of the soldier’s voice, a haze of spitting cloud that stung the eyes and left any exposed skin damp and chilled and itching red. The wind whined through the long silence. Rosslyn wanted to lash out. These men deserved death for their actions – the certainty of it pounded in her ears – but if she gave in to the impulse, it wouldn’t be justice that guided her hand.

“Have them taken to the quartermaster,” she muttered to Gideon after a moment, turning away. “They are to be outfitted according to their skills, and integrated into appropriate units. Those are my orders,” she added when it looked like he was about to protest. “See them carried out.”

“I – yes, my lady.”

Still on their knees, the deserters watched this exchange with a mixture of confusion and barely concealed hope, but even so they flinched away when Rosslyn approached them again, her face set in grim lines.

“You wanted my judgement, so here it is,” she barked. “I will not do Howe’s work for him and execute the mongrels who have slipped his leash. Nor will I spare you based on your word alone – the word of a deserter is worth nothing, and the word of a spy even less than that. My soldiers – the ones whose homes have been razed to the ground, whose families you had a hand in slaughtering – they will be the ones to see you for what you truly are. You will post with them, train with them, and fight with them, and if they find you worthy of forgiveness, that is what you will find in turn. If not,” she added, “then the Maker’s will be done with you.”

She turned away as Gideon called on the house guard and had the prisoners hauled to their feet, finally sheathing the sword. Teagan stepped into line next to her before she could work out what that meant, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“That was well done,” he said. “Bryce couldn’t have done better.”

She swallowed past the bitter lump in her throat. “That doesn’t make me him.” He would have known what to do, would have known how to fight back against this madness, how to inspire his soldiers to do the same. She lacked experience, a formal title, everything except an uprooted family name, and she knew with certainty that Howe would come for her. The last Cousland was the only obstacle between him and unquestioned authority in the North, a prize worth having if he could use her to legitimise his claim. The thought was sickening.

“Teagan.” Her voice cracked. “For the moment, I cede control of Highever’s forces to your greater experience – if you’ll accept.” It was the only option she could see. “You’re the king’s representative while he remains in Denerim, so… it’s only right.”

Teagan nodded his understanding. “For the moment. I accept. We need to get away from here, before we’re discovered. Howe will know we’re vulnerable, and we can’t answer his treachery if we’re dead.”

Retreat. She gritted her teeth but did not object.

“The secondary camp is at Deerswall,” Alistair suggested, having followed their conversation. “It’s where the western Bannorn were originally supposed to muster before going on to Denerim. We could be there in two days.” For an instant he met Rosslyn’s gaze, but she flinched away as if scalded. There was too much sympathy in the rich brown of his eyes; it made everything too real, too much to bear.

“It’s a good idea,” she said instead, and looked behind her. “The soldiers won’t want to leave.”

“You’ll need to tell them.”

“Me?” Panic scratched at her throat as she stared at Teagan. “But –”

“You’re their figurehead,” he replied calmly. “You’re the one they’ll look to.”

She swallowed. Tried to speak, but found herself holding back tears instead. Barely a week ago, she had resented being left behind. She had jumped at the chance to charge off to Glenlough and prove her mettle, and yet all she could think of now was the library and the smell of baking bread in the kitchens and her mother’s warm laugh.

We do what must be done, Pup, her father had said before riding away on that last morning. And I’m leaving you in charge, because I know you’ll keep them safe, no matter what.

“No matter what…” She steadied herself with a breath. “I understand. I’ll do it.” Whether she spoke to Teagan or to her family’s ghosts, it barely mattered. The last Cousland was still a Cousland.

Lasan pawed the ground as she mounted, picking up on the turmoil quivering through her hands, and with barely a nudge he broke into a flashy canter that carried her to the waiting soldiers, so that her standard bearer had to hurry to keep up. They stirred as she approached, having watched the interrogation of Howe’s men with undisguised interest and worked out at least part of what had happened. Rumour was already filling the gaps, and anger fizzed below the rigours of their discipline. When the front ranks were pressed forward by those behind, she realised they expected her to rally them for a fight – they thought she had a plan to save the day, to charge in like she had at Glenlough. Would they even listen to her when she told them otherwise?

With so many eyes on her, it was hard to think. She had been trained for leadership, to address halls of people on feast days, but she had never imagined… this.

“Listen.” Her voice emerged as a croak and the soldiers didn’t hear. “Listen!” Lasan shied at the volume of her shout, but she reined him in. She had promised to do her duty.

“I won’t mince my words,” she told them. “But I know you won’t like what I say. What lies before us is a fight we cannot win – not now – and we must retreat.”

Mutters greeted her words and she found herself growing angry again. Did they think she wanted to run away?

“Highever is lost! The castle has been taken through treachery by Arl Howe of Amaranthine, and every one of my family is dead save me. My father – my father’s head sits atop a spike on the castle wall. Rotting next to my mother’s.” The gruesome image reared in her mind, screaming with the imagined cries of gulls and crows, but she pushed it aside, because she had to make them listen.

“There will be a time to grieve,” she said. “But it isn’t now. Now we must respect the sacrifices others have made for us and live so we can bring vengeance another day. And that means we go to Deerswall. But we are not running away.”

It seemed like a petulant way to finish a rousing speech, but Rosslyn didn’t know what else to say. Her father would have said more – and her mother’s bo’sun told her once about the war cries the Seawolf had hurled in the faces of the Orlesians as she chased them down – but her officers moved in and began chivvying the soldiers back the way they had come, and the moment passed. She sat quietly on Lasan’s back and watched as they marched away, trying to look in control even as grief threatened to tear a hole in her chest.

Teagan rode up next to her, but didn’t reach out.

“We should forego a rear guard,” she managed, not looking at him. “At least then they might feel this retreat is a matter of choice.”

“I’ll see to it.” He wavered, as if he wanted to say something else, but then changed his mind and kicked his horse after the infantry.

Only when every soldier had walked past did she guide Lasan into line at the head of the house guard – her house guard now – her shoulders squared and her chin held high. As they stepped once more onto the road, she finally closed her eyes and let her face turn into the rain.