#while im BOUND to my family (father side) and they always target me so that's a pretty neat deal than seeing my sister suffer the same

[sunlit-mess]

noticing in your vents—

is your sister okay too?

We laugh, sure, but we both know we're not ok.

[vanserraseris]

END OF PART VII - I’m not going to lie, this chapter and the next one are probably a little more on the boring side. It’s just sort of Eris spending some time with Lucien. Shit’s gonna hit the fan soon, but Eris is just going to spend some time at the beach, for no reason really. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!!!

no im SO excited for eris and lucien brotherly boring. BEACH EP BEACH EP BEACH EP BEACH EP

Prince of Ashes. Part VII.

masterlist.

“Give me your shirt.” 

“I don’t obey the orders of anyone below my station,” Eris tilted his head back, his fingers digging into the sand of the beach. He was leaning on his forearms, his eyes shut, the afternoon sun warming his face. Eris liked making snobbish remarks like that around his friends just as much as they liked reminding him that his status as heir amounted to absolutely nothing in their presence.

Micah repeated himself, “Give me your shirt.” 

With an exaggerated sigh, Eris undid the laces of his thin, light brown shirt, throwing it at his friend. “Shit, Micah, you should have asked sooner.” Micah’s nose and cheeks were a frightening red colour, the gold of his tattoos bright against the burned skin of his neck, all because he was too proud to admit that he burned when he stayed out in the sun for too long.

“I hate you all,” Micah declared, lifting Eris’s shirt and putting it over his head like a cloak, shielding himself from the rays of the sun. 

Eris knew Lagos was pouting, mocking, “Poor little Micah, can’t stay out in the sun.” 

“Poor little Micah is going to throw sand at you,” Micah muttered.

Widge smiled, lifting the brim of the sun hat he’d borrowed from his mother. While he looked ridiculous, Widge didn't seem to care. “Not all of us have exceptional magical abilities,” he huffed a laugh as Enya jumped up, licking at his face. Eris swore that hound loved Widge more than him. Lagos was sprawled on his back, pants thrown off to the side, using his own shirt as a pillow as he laid by Eris in his undershorts. He was faintly glowing.

Eris kept expecting Lucien to do the same thing, eyes following Lucien as he played near the water’s edge. Lucien hadn’t shown signs of any other Day Court magic since Lady Morai had suppressed it, but Eris still found himself worrying over it. Rufus was also by the water’s edge, boots off, pants rolled up, and shirt left unbuttoned as he watched over Lucien. Every so often, he would kick water at their youngest brother, laughing every time Lucien told him to stop.

“Your brother is perhaps an even greater menace than you were upon your arrival at my camp,” Micah declared. He awkwardly moved towards Eris, dragging his ass along the sand while still trying to keep the shirt over his head.

“He belongs in a circus,” Lagos added. 

“I like having him there,” Widge managed to get out as Enya continued to lick his cheeks.

“He’s doing alright?” Their father had recently sent Rufus to one of Autumn’s largest war camps. It was located in the South, near the Spring Court border; Eris had been sent there at two decades old with nothing but a sword, brown leathers, and a title he was pretty sure he’d never be able to live up to. Eris was proud to admit that over two centuries later, he could claim being a half-decent commander of his father’s armies - not fantastic at combat, but damn-good at military strategy.

Eris had heard that Rufus, despite his more care-free attitude, was doing quite well, but it was always Eris’s first instinct to assume that Rufus was going to get himself killed or cause some sort of international catastrophe. Especially with political tensions in Prythian so high lately, Eris found that he’d become quite the mother hen, constantly asking his friends how Rufus was holding up. “He’s absolutely mad,” Micah laughed, “I could throttle him sometimes.”

“Cauldron, does he write his reports backwards?” Eris smiled just thinking about it, “Rufus used to do shit like that to his tutors, you can read them in front of a mirror.” 

“He walks around the camp with a near-empty cognac bottle filled with apple juice, and makes bets on whether or not he can hit moving targets with his bow and arrows,” Lagos said. “He won 50 gold marks from me before I found out what he’d been doing.” 

“Serves you right,” Eris grinned.

“He also tells us the most interesting things,” Micah hummed. He nudged at Eris with his knee. “Things that you neglect to mention.” 

Lagos didn't sound too amused as he said, “Told us he was afraid for your life.”

Eris knew exactly what Rufus had told them. “If this is about Lizaveta—” 

“Of course it’s about Lady Lizaveta,” Lagos leaned up on an elbow. “Your choice in lovers is abysmal, truly.” 

“Don’t offend me,” Micah mumbled.

Lagos ignored him, “It’s like you dive headfirst into relationships that are bound to get you killed.” Eris sneered, mostly because Lagos was right. If his father ever learned of the countless male lovers Eris had been with over the centuries, Eris was almost certain that Beron would kill him. Or if he found out about the lesser faeries, or the females of common birth. Eris had been very good at ignoring his father’s rants about degeneracy when he’d been much younger.

But Lizaveta was a full-blooded noble, and Eris didn’t really see the problem. “How might this relationship kill me?” 

“You’re sneaking around with a female who’s rumoured to have killed her own husband in his sleep less than a decade ago. Does that seem like a good idea?” 

“I’m sure he deserved it,” Widge muttered absently, “Lots of lords in Autumn deserve it.” Everyone turned to face him, but he was looking off into the distance, no longer paying any attention to them.

Micah placed a gentle hand on Eris’s knee, “We’re just messing with you.” Eris knew they meant well, but his friends had a horrible habit of sticking their noses into Eris’s business, all hidden behind the guise that they “cared for his well-being,” as they so often reminded him. 

“Just make sure you’re not her next victim,” Lagos added, “And do try and keep your father from finding out.”

Eris scowled, “Your faith in me is astounding.” He’d had centuries worth of practice in keeping his lovers a secret from the rest of his family and ensuring that rumours didn’t make their way to the always-listening ears of Autumn Court aristocrats. It was exhausting. He looked away from his friends to make sure Lucien and Rufus hadn’t drowned while he’d been distracted.

Lucien seemed to have convinced Rufus to play some sort of aggressive game with him, spinning Lucien around in his arms before throwing him deeper into the ocean. Lucien landed in the water with a big splash, Rufus roaring with laughter. Eris would have scolded them both had Lucien not jumped up from the water with a huge grin on his face, looking very foolish as he struggled to run at Rufus.

“Just be careful, we quite enjoy your company.” Micah squeezed his knee once before moving his hand, his fingers now dragging through the sand. 

Eris finally looked away from his brothers after deciding that they would be fine, turning to face Micah again. “Let’s talk about what happened in Spring.” 

“Yes, let’s talk about how we’re on the verge of another war, Eris would rather talk about our impending doom than his lover.” Eris glared at Lagos.

Micah scoffed, “There’s not going to be a fucking war, both of them are too young - untried. They aren’t going to do something so stupid.” 

Eris considered this. Rhysand and Tamlin had just become new High Lords, perhaps they would start a war just to prove that they could. “If somebody killed my mother, I might start a war.” 

“You might start a war just for fun.” Eris kicked sand at Lagos, a crooked smile on his face that was becoming more and more rare. Eris knew Lagos simply meant well.

Lagos returned the smile, dimples showing. Lagos was perhaps the only one of his friends that constantly bothered Eris for being a cruel prince of the Autumn Court.  

“Cauldron, you wouldn’t do that either,” Micah seemed so sure. Eris sometimes wished he had that amount of confidence in his ability to make good choices. 

Widge furrowed his brows, looking up from what he was in the process of writing in messy, scrawled script in the sand. “Wait, what happened in Spring?”

Somebody would explain it to him later, Eris thought. “I wonder if Rhysand will be a better High Lord than his father.” It was no secret that the Hewn City was more horrible than any part of Beron’s territory. Eris had despised the place since the first moment he’d stepped foot in it. He’d take his own two-faced city of Calchas over that wretched city any day. 

“Probably not,” Micah adjusted the shirt over his head, “But at least he’s better looking.”

Eris would have to agree. With the dark hair and those star-lit, violet eyes, Rhysand was one of the better looking faeries Eris had ever seen. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud, “I like his general better.” 

Micah grinned, “What about the shadowsinger?” Eris grinned back, “Fancy the shadowsinger, do you?” 

“Who doesn’t?” 

“Those people are from the Night Court.” Widge looked confused, much like he usually did. 

“Very observant,” Lagos muttered.

“We’re talking about Tamlin and Rhysand,” Eris explained. “The new High Lords.” 

“Heard about that,” Widge said with a nod. “Sounds like a mess.” With a shake of his head, almost like he was clearing his thoughts, Widge went back to whatever he was writing in the sand without so much as a second glance in their direction. Eris shifted slightly so that he could more clearly see what Widge was doing. He’d drawn three interconnected circles in the sand, numbers and formulas surrounding them.

Eris had always enjoyed watching Widge work, liked trying to figure out what he was doing, and he wasn’t paying attention to anything as he tried to understand where Widge was going with this. Definitely not smart on his part, he hadn’t been expecting so much water to crash onto his head, leaving him completely soaked. Widge yelped as some of the water fell on him as well. 

“What the fuck,” Eris growled.

“My circles,” Widge whined, the water having ruined whatever he was writing. Eris hoped he remembered what it was, it had seemed interesting. He heard everyone’s laugh. From the deep rumble of Micah, to the obnoxious cackle of Lagos, to the loud howl of Rufus. It should have come as no shock that Rufus would try and pull a prank on Eris, no doubt with Lucien’s help. He was rather disappointed in himself for not keeping an eye on the two biggest troublemakers in all of Prythian.

Eris looked up at Rufus with a glare, he could see the steam in the air around him as he used some of his magic to dry off. “Honestly, Rufus,” Eris sneered, teeth bared. 

“My mistake, didn’t see you sitting there.” He’d filled his fucking boot with water and thrown it at him. 

Eris ran a hand through his still damp hair, “You’ve disappointed me.” Rufus just smiled, tugging once on Lucien’s braid.

“Lucien told me to do it,” Rufus was very good at playing the part of innocent victim. His auburn brows were raised, his russett eyes wide. “No I didn’t,” Lucien instantly stopped cackling, defending his honour. “Eris, he’s the disappointment, I’d never.” 

“Little assholes,” Eris mumbled, shoving Lucien playfully. Lucien laughed again, dropping into the sand right beside him. Rufus sat by Lagos, winking at Eris before he sprawled on his back, Enya trotting over to lie down by his head.

Eris was glad for moments like this - when his father wasn’t in Autumn and he had the time to spend with the people he cared about. He knew it was a weakness, the fact that he cared about them, but he'd missed them all. Rufus was stuck at the war camp with his friends, Lucien was stuck in the Forest House, and Eris was stuck in his territory far away from them both.

Eris had been staying away from Lucien anyway, visiting less and less. It’d been months since he’d last seen the little runt, but Eris knew it was for the best. 

“This was really nice, Eris,” Lucien said with a small smile, his face turned towards the sun. He looked happy. 

Eris nodded once, closing his eyes and turning his own face towards the sun, “I thought it was really nice, too.”

Perhaps it was very foolish of Eris to be spending his valuable time frolicking on beaches, but all he wanted to do right now was pretend everything would be alright. Pushing all his worries aside, the sound of waves crashing along the shore, his toes curling into the white sand of the beach, Eris could almost forget he was the heir of the Autumn Court.

[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.

[imagining-eddsworld]

It Takes Two- Chapter Twenty One

“Papa? Could you tell me a story?” The thick browned man looked at his daughter, who was about eight at the time. “Sure.” He walked over to the small bed, sitting on the side. He pulled up the covers for her, so she could be warm. “Once upon a time, there was a girl named Carla.” “That’s my name!” “Carla it’s time.” Said the voice on the phone. “Target the accountant. Find out their weakness, get the information they have about the army’s money use.” “Carla was a very kind and nice girl, everyone loved her.” “Was she a princess?” “Yes.” Carla got off her bed, and made her way to the accounting room. People tried to not walk into the 13 year old. “Carla also hid a secret. She couldn’t tell anyone about her status as a princess, because people wanted to hurt her, so everyday she had to hide as a peasant. She had a lot of friends who were kind to her so she wouldn’t be lonely.“  Carla continued walking as she passed (Name) and some of their shared friends. She gave them a little wave and continued on. “Carla had hid this secret since she was very small.” Carla continued walking, until someone stopped her. “Oh hey Carla, what age were you adopted by my uncles?” (Name) asked. “I was five.” She responded, with a small smile. “It grew harder and harder for her to continue hiding like this. Some days she thought she would could come clean to her secret or run away.” Carla continued walking, and looked out the window as she slowed down to take in the sights. It was snowing again. “It was a snowy day when she was caught. She made a mistake and people reported her.” Carla walked into the accounting room, and nobody was in there. She closed the door behind her. The computer was still logged in. She pulled out a small USB drive and plugged it into the computer and started to download files. It was going pretty fast. She didn’t hear the door open behind her. “I knew we had a spy. But I didn’t think it was going to be you Carla.” A voice behind her spoke. “She tried to run and hide. But in the end she was caught.” Carla grabbed the drive and tried to run out the other door. It was locked. “Really Carla? Trying to run? Pathetic.” The voice said, coming closer. When Carla turned around she could see who it was. It was the accountant. “You’re coming with me.” They continued, grabbing Carla by the shirt and dragging her to Tord’s office. “Once inside, Carla looked around. People she once trusted, and those who once trusted her, wouldn’t look at her. In the corner of her eye she saw the people who took her in when she was small. They were like parents to her. And yet, even they would not look at her.” Carla was thrown into Tord’s office. “I caught this one trying to steal information from us. What are we going to do Red Leader?” “The person who caught her asked the person in charge what they should do. He only came up with one punishment suitable for her.” “Call Pauel and Patrick in, tell them we have another execution to begin.” “No! NO! IM SORRY! PLEASE! NO!” Carla cried as she was dragged into the holding cells. “Oh we are telling a story are we?” Patrick smiled, walking in and sitting on the bed as well. He held Carla in his arms as they listened to Pauel continue. “The young princess was brought to the jail cells, and in there, she saw her birth parents, all dirty and old, them having being treated like old toys who have been under the bed for too long and forgotten. They looked up at her, and started to cry.” Pauel and Patrick were in the simulation, when they were called to go down to execute a traitor. They sighed and walked. “Hey Pauel, do you know what we are going to have for dinner tonight?” Patrick said as they walked. “Yea, its gonna be lasagna, Carla’s favorite.” He smiled. “I already have it making in the oven right now.” They held hands as they walked into the interrogation/execution room. A person was there, wearing a hood. A loaded gun was on the table. “They look young…. about Carla’s age.” Patrick mumbled, he was getting worried. “Yea…” Pauel agreed. Tord was in there too, and came up behind the person who was bound to the chair. “Do you want the hood to be off or on?” He asked them. “….” they didn’t respond, when they noticed the necklace around the traitors neck. “Off it is then.” He tugged the hood off. Pauel and Patrick gasped in shock. “Carla?! Baby what happened?!” Pauel tried to run over to her. She had a gag in her mouth and was crying. Tord blocked him. “She betrayed us. That’s all you need to know. You have a job. Now do it.” “Tord no please.” Patrick begged starting to cry. “Please Tord! Give her another chance! DON’T MAKE ME KILL MY CHILD!” He screamed as him and Pauel started sobbing. Tord walked over to Carla, tugging the gag out of her mouth. “Tell them what you did. Maybe I’ll let you free if you confess.” “…I… I tried to steal information off of Fawn’s computer…” “Why.” Tord glared at them. “So I could give it to the Maroon Revolt….” “The parents cried and cried and did their best to reach out to her, to hold her and dry her tears. The leader of the government was a bad man. When the day of her execution came, her parents were given a task. They h-” Patrick cut him off. “Pauel, dear, are you sure this is a good bedtime story?” He nervously laughed. “Dad it’s ok, I like the story Papa’s telling.” Carla said, hugging Patrick’s arm. “Alright… continue Pauel.” “They had to either execute their daughter, or die with her as well. But it wouldn’t be quick, it would be a painful and slow death.” “She confessed she confessed! Let her go please!” Pauel screamed. “…Pick up the gun Pauel.” “TORD NO! YOU SAID SHE WOULD GO FREE!” Patrick yelled, anger and sadness mixing together, Pauel had to hold him back from chocking Tord. “I never promised anything. Now pick up the gun, or I’ll let everyone in this base know that this family was a family of traitors. Now pick up the gun before I shoot you with this. And besides, taking a life for two to live is a great deal.” He exited the room. “Papa…” Carla cried. Pauel ran over to his crying daughter and cupped her face in his hands, trying to comfort her while they tried to think of what they could do to save her from this fate.

“On the day of the princess’s execution, her parents told her how much they loved her. But they knew they had a job to do.”

Either way, part of their family would be gone forever.

Patrick picked up the gun. “Carla… Daddy’s sorry…” He sobbed. Pauel looked at him.

“Dad? What are you doing? Dad?! DAD!” Carla yelled as he pointed the gun at her head.

“I-It’ll be quick, I p-promise…” He sobbed more and more and his vision blurred.

Pauel got up and stood next to him.

“Carla daddy loves you…” His voice shook.

“They tried to do it as quick as possible, and the mother couldn’t do it alone. The father had to help her lift the axe and bring it on their little one’s head. And that was the end of princess Carla.”

“That was kind of gruesome, dear.” Patrick nervously laughed again.

“Papa, why didn’t you make it a happy ending?" 

His aim was off, way off.

Pauel readjusted it for him. "Papa loves you too baby.” He said, trying to not scare her. Both of their fingers held the trigger.

“PAPA! PAPA PLEASE! DAD DON’T! PLEASE! IM SORRY! IM SOR-”

Bang.

“Because there isn’t always a happy ending.”