#do I even know HOW an Orlesian army could conscript mages from the Free Marches to fight for the empress?

[rhetoricalrogue]

Fiction Type: Fanfiction Fandom: Dragon Age Prompt: "You have no proof"

Continuing @fictober-event with the AU of the AU of the AU @alittlestarling and I are up to our eyebrows in, this time focusing on my son Vincent.

Running and fighting. Fighting and running. Catch a few fitful hours of unrestful sleep, then repeat. It seemed that was all Vincent had been doing these past few months. First, there was the running and fighting that had been expected of him when he had been conscripted into Empress Celene’s army, then the running when a templar on their side had turned on their unit – Vincent was still healing from the many arrow wounds he’d received when the smite had hit him from behind, the barrier he had put up to protect the solders on their side crashing down at the worst possible moment – and then running from where he had dragged himself, almost near death, to heal and recover back to his side of the army out of fear that they would think he had abandoned his post and hunt him down to drag him back or worse, give him the Brand and use him as an example of battlemages who thought they could take advantage of chaos on the battlefield to make a run from the Circle.

There had been a brief respite from the fighting as he traveled back east, the days of interrogation he’d undergone to prove that he spoke the truth about what had happened that day finally paying off. Vincent knew that his noble birth was one of the main reasons he had been allowed to return to Ostwick, injured in the line of duty – if conscription into a war not of his making nor even in his homeland could ever be called duty – and he wasn’t going to argue with his commanding officers once they signed the paperwork for his release back to the Circle. He’d set a hard pace from the Exalted Plains to Jader, worry that word of his untimely death – once they couldn’t find a body, the army had been quick to declare him killed in action – had already reached those he cared for.

Maker, if Roz ever thought he was dead, it would gut him to think of putting her through unnecessary grief and agony, no matter how brief.

Travel back home was on a decent pace, then he heard word of a contingent of mages traveling to Haven, which was decidedly closer than boarding a ship to sail from Jader back home. Vincent’s mind was made up when he heard that there were mages from Ostwick in the company and joining up with them was far more preferable than sailing across the Waking Sea.

Vincent and boats went together just as well as oil and water.

And then the unthinkable happened. He hadn’t even been anywhere close to Haven when word got out of the explosion, rumors quick to jump to the conclusion that mages had been at the root of the calamity and had taken a page out of the apostate from Kirkwall a year or so ago and blown up the Divine to enact change. Vincent was fortunate that his physical build wasn’t what one stereotypically thought of when they pictured a mage, and he used that to his advantage to flee. Templars were suddenly everywhere, killing on sight. Whatever brief rest he had from running and fighting was well over, and Vincent found himself hiding among pockets of mages similarly running for their lives in the wilds of Ferelden. He lost count of the days, catching sleep when he could and helping as many mages as possible while looking out for himself. It was selfish and he would feel guilty later but running, even if running meant leaving people behind, was the only way that he would possibly ever make it back home again.

Back home, and back to Rosalind. The image of her was seared into his mind and it was one bright thing he had to cling to. He would be damned if he had survived everything that had been thrown at him so far only to succumb to a templar’s blade before he could see her in person again.

Who knew how many days later, Vincent found himself close to Redcliffe. There were rumors that the village was a safe haven for mages everywhere and it was the closest thing to hope that he’d felt since leaving Orlais. He didn’t know how much further it was, but there were abandoned crofter’s cottages dotting the landscape that he dared to take shelter in. He couldn’t risk lighting fires in the hearth, but fitfully sleeping with a roof over his head instead of out in the open was a welcome relief.

And then the demons came. The most direct route to Redcliffe was cut off and Vincent found himself running from shrieking monsters that he had only encountered during his Harrowing. The only positive was that the demons didn’t discriminate between mage, templar, or regular civilian, so if he were really looking to put a positive spin on an otherwise absolute shitshow, he told himself that there were fewer templars trying to kill him in the area.

He came across a group of mages one evening and they readily welcomed him into the shelter of the woods they had named the Witchwood. He listened halfheartedly at their more radical ideas, silently resolving to abandon them for the preferred safety of the nearby crossroads once daylight broke, when he heard someone call him by name.

“Enchanter Trevelyan?”

The light was dim in the cavern, but he didn’t need it to recognize one of his favorite pupils. “Noemi?” He made to get up from where he had sat on the floor but didn’t even make it to his knees before the fourteen-year-old girl flung herself in his direction. He muffled a pained grunt as her arms wrapped just a little too tightly around his shoulder, the last of his injuries having to heal on their own as he used whatever magic reserves he had to fight off daily attacks instead of tending to himself. “How are you here?”

“How are you here? They told us you were dead!” Vincent froze. Oh no.

“Noemi, who else is here with you? Did you come with the people going to the Conclave?”

She wiped at her face, her tears making clean tracks on dirty cheeks. “No. I ran when the Circle fell.”

His eyes widened. “What?” Reaching out, he gripped her shoulders in his hands and focused on her. “Tell me everything. Where’s Roz? Is she here?” Maker, please, he begged, his pulse roaring in his ears. I’ve never been a devout man, but please, let her be safe.

“We were heading to dinner after lessons when she took me and a few of the little ones aside and told us to head to the greenhouses for a special project. She said that she would be there as soon as she could, but there was something that she had to do first. Then all at once, there was a lot of yelling and fire and…” she swallowed. “The last I saw of her was when she was running to the greenhouses. She told me to take the little ones and run.”

He couldn’t breathe. “What do you mean, the last you saw of her?”

“Ser Barnabas grabbed her by the hair and hit her with a smite.” Noemi’s lips trembled. “She screamed for me to run, so I ran. I ran and I ran and I haven’t stopped running.”

No. No, he refused to believe she was dead. “Did you see her fall?”

“No, but…” She scrubbed at her face. “We were all scared of Ser Barnabas, you know that. You know how much he liked to threaten hitting us. I didn’t see it, but Vincent, I think she’s dead.”

Vincent shook his head and sat back against the cavern wall. There was something building in his chest, a wail that wanted to break free and rip past his throat. “You have no proof though,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm as to not scare her. “You thought I was dead, but here I am. Roz is strong, and she’s clever. She had to have made it out of there alive. We have to hold onto the hope that she made it and she’s somewhere out in the world, just like we are.”

He took one look at Noemi and knew that she didn’t believe him, yet she nodded. “Okay.”

“We’re leaving here tomorrow morning. There’s a town, Redcliffe. Have you heard of it?”

Noemi shrank back from him. “No, you can’t make me go back there!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I was there. I took as many of the little ones as I could find after we scattered and we got on a boat. The older instructors said that Redcliffe was safe, but something in that town feels wrong. I made sure that the little ones were looked after, but then I snuck out in the middle of the night to find somewhere safer. I thought that I could go back, take the children with me to wherever I found, but…” she spread her hands as if to silently express the chaos around them. “They’re safer where they’re at for now, but I don’t want to go back. Please, don’t make me go back.”

Vincent winced as she huddled at his side, her entire body shaking. “Okay. Okay, we won’t go there, I promise.” He wrapped his arms around her, his mind whirring, desperately trying to focus on Noemi instead of the great yawning grief that threatened to swallow him whole. “Have you heard of the Crossroads? I don’t think it’s very far from here, we can make our way to that in the morning, okay?”

She nodded. “And look for Roz?”

Vincent squeezed his eyes tightly. There was no way that she was dead; she was such a fixture in his life, a lifeline even in the most peaceful of times. He loved her so completely that he was certain that he would have felt something, some sort of connection that tied his heart to hers sever, should she be truly gone.

He ran his hand soothingly over his former pupil’s back while trying to speak over the lump of unshed tears that had built in his throat. “Yes. And just you wait. We’ll find her.”

Maker, how he almost believed that.

[gremlinquisitor]

For dwc: Camellia (I'm thinking bellwall but doesn't have to be!)

Camellia: My destiny is in your hands

For @sulevinblade​ and @dadrunkwriting​

~2000 words, Bellial Adaar/Blackwall, good for all ages

Read it here on AO3

Bellial is sitting on her bed, knees drawn up to her chest, in darkness, staring out the open doors and past the balcony at the mountains beyond. There’s been a storm around Skyhold since she came back from Orlais, thunder rolling around the fortress even as she pardoned Blackwall, mixing with the grumbles and gasps of those who had assembled to watch her judge one of their own.

She hears the creak of the stairs when he comes in but doesn’t turn to look. She’s surprised it’s taken him this long to follow her. Bellial cut his chains with a flick of her wrist and left him standing before the throne when she’d turned away from his declaration, marching straight into her chambers and closing the door behind her. He was not the only one standing there with his heart laid bare, and she was not about to let the gawkers watch her crumble. Everything she has within the Inquisition, she has fought for, and she can not allow a single crack to show.

“Bell, you need to stop this.” His voice comes to her through the fog of her anger, as if he’s in other room and not at the top of her stairs. “You’re not finished yet, he’s still out there, and… and you’re scaring people, making it thunder like this.”

Purple-white lightning crackles down to the balcony, striking it without leaving a mark on the stone. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. And the correct form of address is ‘Inquisitor’.”

His coat rustles as he steps closer to the bed, and she has to fight to keep from turning to look at him. Bellial has worked hard on this anger, honing it to a fine point, and she’s not prepared to let it soften and melt yet. She hasn’t finished wielding it.

Thom–Blackwall, whichever he is– clears his throat. “I would never presume to tell you what to do, my lady.”

“No, you wouldn’t, would you.” She curls her toes in on the blanket. It’s cold in the room, but she can barely feel it. “That’s the thing - you didn’t tell me to let you go to Orlais. You just left. You walked away to die and didn’t care what that would do to me.”

He has the decency to lower his head and look ashamed. “I did care,” he mumbles, taking a step closer. “I still care, Bellial. I told you that.”

“You also accused me of planning to have you shot.” And now she does turn to look at him, one foot sliding to the floor, the other still hugged to her chest. “Let me tell you, here and now, Thom Rainier. Blackwall. If anyone in this Inquisition is going to kill you, it’s going to be me.” She snarls as best she can, but her voice betrays her, cracking at the end. He makes a move towards her and she shakes her head, waving him off.

“That’s not what you do to someone you care about,” she continues. “You don’t leave them in the dark, alone, frightened. You take away everything they’ve come to trust, to–”

“This was my burden to bear.” His voices rises even as she fights to keep hers even. “I couldn’t ask that of you, of the Inquisition.”

Bellial surges to her feet, her dressing gown trailing behind her as she moves to stand in front of the open door. She needs the cold air on her skin, needs to feel the lightning spark in the air. “Don’t you know I would’ve fought off the entire Orlesian army to keep you from them? And you delivered yourself right into their hands.”

“I couldn’t let him die in my place. I couldn’t let anyone else die for me.”

He comes to stand beside her, and she lifts her chin and looks away.

“No one else would’ve had to die,” She replies. “Look at where you’re standing. Do you really think that we had no other options available to us? The stroke of a pen, and your man was conscripted into the Inquisition. He’s a good soldier, and we need good soldiers. Now more than ever. We need good men.”

“I’m not a good man,” he protests.

“No, you’re not,” she fires back. The sky crackles, and she turns to face him, folds her arms across her chest and shoots out her hip. “You’re selfish, obsessed with regaining some honor you think you lost–”

“I did lose it!” He yells, equal parts anger and desperation, as if he thinks there’s something here that she doesn’t understand.

“And that honor, with those people, was more important than your honor with me?” She leans down to look into his eyes, pointing off in some direction that might be Orlais, then stabbing at her chest with her finger.  “Your place with me, in my heart. That was worth sacrificing, to swing from a rope in front of people who will not feel better when you’re dead.”

They each let out a frustrated sigh and turn away from the other. She tips her head back and breathes, trying to clear her head. She doesn’t want to say something that she’ll regret later, something that’s not true and thrown at him in anger.

“I wish you hadn’t come to get me.” He’s standing with his arms crossed, and he looks almost like himself again, chest puffed up and eyes clear, full of intent. “I made my peace. I never wanted to let this affect the Inquisition. Now everyone will know that you’re corrupt.”

The laugh bubbles up inside her, and her throat hurts when it comes out, as if she’s coughed too hard or choked on a drink. “We’re an organization of heretics, led by a Vashoth mercenary mage, of all things!” She stalks towards him as she counts off on her fingers. “I’ve killed for coin, lived as an apostate my entire life, never so much as set foot inside a Circle. My closest advisers are, let’s see, right: a disgraced former Knight-Captain who followed a Commander who recommended genocide in Kirkwall, the Divine’s personal assassin, and poor Josie, trying to put out the fires we all start.”

“Do you have a point, Inquisitor?” He spits the word out, and she turns her head to glare at him out of the corner of her eye. She will not be made to feel like less by him. Not a chance.

“Do you really think you’re the only one in the Inquisition who’s lying, who sees this as their new start? You are brave and noble and kind, and your past can’t change that. But how you acted, with me, running away… The man I fell in love with would never have run away like you did. Blackwall would have stood his ground and told me and let me help him, but he didn’t get the chance because the coward Thom Rainier dragged him off to die.”

Thunder booms so that the glass in the windows rattles, and she rakes a hand back through her hair.

“Is it corrupt to save the lives of good soldiers by conscripting them into the Inquisition instead of letting them hang? Is that really corruption? The Grey Wardens can conscript whoever they like, and you seem happy to be one of them!”

He frowns, something in the set of his brows softening, as if her pain is just now starting to register with him, as if he’s beginning to see the full consequences of his choices. “I don’t understand what you mean, Bell.”

“Inquisitor,” she snaps. He nods, resting his hands on the small of his back.

“I let Venatori sink a Qunari longship to save my friends. I traveled through time to save my friends. Conscripting your man and keeping you safe would’ve been the easiest thing I’ve done so far this week, and you didn’t even think to ask for my help.”

Tears make her vision swim, and she lowers her head, pinching the bridge of her nose until her lower lip stops trembling and she trusts herself to speak again. “You care about honor more than I do,” she whispers. Outside the window, the thunder stills as quickly as it had started. “I’ll grant you that. I’m a mercenary; we have different rules.”

She turns away from him and walks to sit on the edge of the bed again. The fire in her is starting to go out, and she doesn’t want it to but she’s too tired to keep it lit, even though her anger is all that’s been protecting her from her pain. “But what good is any of this if I can’t use it to help those I care about most, those I love. Isn’t there honor in that? Is that really so corrupt?”

Boots appear in front of her, and she lifts her head enough to look up at him.

“I do hate to see you cry,” he sighs.

“Then don’t look,” she growls. “Take your newfound freedom and go if you don’t want to see it.”

He furrows his brows as he looks at her. “You really would let me leave. I really am that free?”

“That’s what the word means,” she replies dryly, rolling her eyes to look away from him. “Obviously what I want you to do doesn’t matter, so you might as well just do what you want.”

He reaches out towards her cheek and Bellial sits back, hands falling into her lap. She glares at his hand, her gaze cutting up to his eyes until his arm falls back to his side. He’s lost that privilege for now.

“If I stay,” he starts, shifting his weight and looking down at his feet. “What happens to us?”

That’s the question she’s been asking herself since she found him. There was no way she could leave him there, even if it was tempting in the moment. He’d fallen to her knees in front of her and it had taken all her strength not to reach into the cell and whack his head against the bars so she could haul him back to Skyhold over her shoulder, leaving Cullen to deal with the Orlesians.

“Will you stay?” She wants him to, and she hates that she wants him to. All her life she’s been careful with her heart, and this one time she lets her guard down, lets someone in, and look what happens. But there’s a place inside her now that’s shaped like him, and if he walks away forever, she’ll collapse into it.

“I’d like to, yes.” He sighs. “I know what you said out there, but my destiny is still in your hands. I don’t know who Thom Rainier is anymore, but I know who Blackwall is, the Blackwall you– Your Blackwall. He’s a man who loves you, and wants to keep fighting by your side, if you’ll have him.”

If this was one of Cassandra’s books there would be a tearful embrace, kissing, and a night spent together mending each other’s hurts. Life is so rarely like books, however, and so she stays sitting on her bed, elbows resting on her knees and her hands clasped out in front of her.

“From the moment I started to want anything out of this other than to survive, he was what I wanted. You.” Bellial shakes her head gently as she looks up at him, incredulous that she has to state it so plainly. “If you stay, you must promise me that you’ll never leave like this again. You know now that I will find you and bring you back. Your leaving would only delay our mission. Do you want that?”

“No, Inquisitor.”

She nods, not remotely satisfied, but enough for one night. “Good. Your things are still in the barn where you left them. I’ll be out early to check that you’re still there.”

He nods again, standing at rest, waiting to be dismissed. “Understood, Inquisitor.”

She sighs. “You can call me Bellial, Blackwall. Now go get some rest.”

He lingers for a moment, then steps away towards the stairs. “Thank you, Bellial. Good night.”

[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.