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Chapter Text

“No!” Camber screamed. As she knelt beside her wounded father, her dark eyes darted between Bryce and Duncan, a mix of fury and sorrow coalescing into tears that threatened to spill over. She threw her arms around her parents. “I’m not leaving them!” 

Bryce lifted his head towards his daughter. “Pup—” his voice hitched, and he began hacking into Eleanor's bosom as she cradled him. Eleanor's silvery hair hung wildly about her shoulders, and she, too, sobbed through clenched teeth. When Bryce lifted his head once more, Camber saw the crimson outlining every tooth, as well as that which now stained her mother's clothing. A punctured lung, then. He's... dying.

“You—you must go, now!” Bryce finally stammered.

“I won’t!” Tears now streamed down her face to the corners of her lips, and she involuntarily licked the moisture. It was a mistake, she realized, because she tasted not only salt, but oil and blood and dirt, as well. Behind her, Judex whined and nuzzled her foot. “You cannot make me! I shall die here with you, if I must!”

Eleanor strained against Bryce's faltering weight as she desperately tried to keep him upright. "Camber, please... be... reasonable." She paused, taking a moment to catch her breath. "Oren and Oriana have been lost to us already, do not succumb to their fate out of nobility." Her emerald eyes looked unwaveringly into Camber's deep brown ones, and she smiled sadly. "It's all right, my love. We're going to be all right." 

“A Cousland… always does her duty first," Bryce managed to declare between fits of coughing. "Defeat the darkspawn, aye?… and then see to it that Rendon pays for his treachery.”

Duncan looked down at the trio who sobbed and clutched each other as though... as though it would be their last chance to do so. And it very well might be.

Camber’s lips quivered as she struggled to breathe evenly. “Father, Mother,” she murmured, and kissed each of their cheeks. "I love you both... please don't leave me. Please.”

"I love you... my darling girl..." said Bryce.

Eleanor pressed her forehead to her daughter's nose before kissing her on the crown of her head. “And we love you. Now go!”

For their part, neither Duncan nor Lyra had made a sound during the emotional exchange. When Camber stood and turned to face them, neither of their faces betrayed emotion. It stung, to think that neither of them felt her grief. Well, fine. She did not need their pity. Camber waited for a moment, expecting Duncan to lead his two Warden-recruits. She then realized that they were waiting for her.

“The servant's exit is this way,” Camber stated flatly. “Come, Judex,” she said to her dog. She led Duncan and Lyra to the kitchens, and she snatched a burlap sack and began filling it with dried meat and produce, knowing full well that Judex would eat most of the meat. Camber voiced that was at least ten days on horseback to Ostagar, and they likely wouldn’t stop for a long time – perhaps until Kinloch Hold, or Redcliffe. Duncan nodded, and grabbed a sack; Lyra only followed suit after Duncan. She preferred to sneer at everything, it seemed. Camber then led them to the servant’s exit. Not bothering with the latch, she kicked the door open and stepped into the cool, night air.

That the Warden had been here had been a… complication. Rendon hadn’t intended on making enemies of the Wardens; but Duncan had shown up uninvited, so he would pay the price of his... discourtesy.

“Captain Kerin,” Rendon barked. “Where are they?”

Rendon had hidden himself in one of the offices on the second floor of the castle. He leaned forward onto a modest desk with fists atop a detailed map of the castle. Aside from three chairs, two bookshelves, and a potted plant, the room was otherwise sparsely decorated.

Kerin saluted his Arl. “Arl Howe, ser. The Teyrns Cousland were found in the larder." He paused before continuing, partly to gauge Howe's mood, and partly because he knew he wouldn't be pleased with the next part: "The Teyrn is gravely wounded, and the Teyrna has been captured.”

Rendon grimaced. “Bryce… was not… to be harmed.” Each word came out slowly, through gritted teeth. Rendon’s anger was on the verge of boiling over.

Kerin noticed it immediately, and he knew better than to let Rendon’s wrath manifest. “Rendon—my lord—the man who injured Teyrn Cousland has been dealt with already.”

“Good.” Rendon breathed deeply before speaking. “And what of the girl?”

Again, Kerin paused.“Camber Cousland… is nowhere to be found.”

“WHAT?!” Rendon grabbed the potted plant atop the desk and smashed it upon the ground. The shattered clay spread over the wooden floor, and dirt found its way into the cracks and crevasses. Kerin shook some of the soil from his leather boots and maintained a straight face. “How?!” Rendon seethed. “Nevermind that. Find her.”

Kerin waited for his lord’s composure to return... he knew from experience that Rendon needed time to process information, especially when that information was negative. “I have already sent scouts, my lord. I have instructed them to report to me as soon as she has been captured.”

Rendon sighed. “What of the Warden?”

“Unaccounted for as well, my lord.”

Damn that, as well. Nothing was going to plan! The approaching blight had presented the perfect opportunity, and despite his cunning, he hadn't accounted for imbecilic soldiers who couldn't control their own weapons. “Thank you, Captain," Rendon said with a sigh. "Take me to Bryce.”

“At once, my lord.” Kerin motioned for Rendon to follow, and he led the Arl through Highever Castle to the larder. Teyrn Bryce had been administered poultices to staunch the bleeding, but it wouldn’t be long before he died – not unless a mage were nearby, or the Maker himself intervened. Teyrna Eleanor had put up a fight and killed four of his men before she was overwhelmed. Her hands were bound, and she had been gagged – she had torn the flesh from one of his men’s arms with her teeth. She was spirited, Kerin gave her that.

When Rendon entered, he saw beads of sweat on Bryce’s deathly pale skin, and his breaths were shallow and uneven. Eleanor had given up on fighting, it seemed. Whether her will was sapped, or her strength had failed, no one could tell; but Rendon knew better than to assume either of those things were true.

“Leave us,” Rendon ordered. He knew his men wouldn’t give him complete privacy, but he could hope they wouldn’t overhear this exchange.

When Rendon had spoken, Bryce’s crystalline blue eyes had slowly opened. He looked at his old friend, and coughed before he spoke. “Rendon, why?”

Two words—two words were all it took to nearly break him. “Because,” Rendon whispered, and turned his gaze to Eleanor. He stared into those brilliant green eyes, framed by her tender face and once-blonde curled hair. Eleanor's nostrils flared as she bit down on the cloth which kept her from speaking.

“You took everything from me.”

Chapter Text

The Cousland family, Nathaniel in tow, took a carriage to Amaranthine. As had become customary, Nathaniel had stayed at Castle Highever for the summer, and the Couslands would stay in Amaranthine until Harvestmere celebrations had concluded. The teen was glad to finally be going home: he missed his family.

Nathaniel sat between Fergus and Camber, opposite Bryce and Eleanor. Fergus remained silent, pouting… wishing he could go back to Highever and practice his swordplay. Camber, on the other hand, chatted endlessly, and Nathaniel indulged her. They talked about the weather, about the King, about whose life was more boring. It would take three days to get there, so they had to keep themselves entertained somehow.

“I spy… something... yellow," Camber said, suddenly changing the subject. 

Nathaniel looked at his betrothed with curiosity. “Seriously?”

“We have nothing else to do!" Camber exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air as she shrugged. "Now, guess!”

“Oh, fine.” Nathaniel looked around the carriage, taking careful notice of everyone's clothing and complexion. Each of them were clad in comfortable traveling clothes, with brown and grey the dominating colors. Eleanor rested her head on Bryce's shoulder as she attempted to sleep for most of the journey. Bryce was reading Orzammar as a Kingdom -- a study of the last known Dwarven Thaig, and a book that Nathaniel had recommended to him earlier this summer -- but a smile slowly crept up Bryce's face upon hearing the game begin.

After a moment, Nathaniel leaned forward so he could look out the window. A storm was approaching, likely, if the looming dark clouds and strengthening gusts of wind had anything to say about it. On either side of the road were farms outlined with fences and flowers. Farmers guided their livestock into barns for protection from the oncoming downpour. “Is it sunflowers?” he asked. 

“Correct!” Camber exclaimed with a clap. “But that was easy. Your turn!”

Nathaniel smirked, and his pale eyes glistened with mischief. “I spy something brown.”

“Okay, umm…” Camber looked around. There was a lot of brown. “Is it the benches?”

“Nope.”

“Is it… the dirt outside?”

Nathaniel shook his head.

“Is it my hair?” Camber tugged at one of the two long braids that hung in front of her torso. 

“Wrong again.”

Camber scoffed. “You picked a difficult color," she whined, sticking her lower lip out for emphasis. 

Nathaniel chuckled. “Keep guessing, Camber.”

“Can you at least tell me if it’s inside or outside?”

“Of course not! You gave me no such hints.”

“Yellow was easy, though. Pleeease?” Camber whined. Bryce glanced up from his book and briefly made eye contact with Nathaniel, giving him a wink. 

Not wanting to hurt Camber's feelings, Nathaniel relented. “Fine… inside.”

“Okay! Is it the wooden floor?”

“No.”

Camber grunted and paused before exclaiming, “Is it your satchel?!”

“No.”

"Is it my satchel?"

Camber looked around. “Is it the beams, holding up the cloth?” she asked, pointing upward. Nathaniel shook his head, and she sighed heavily. “I give up.”

Nathaniel smiled with satisfaction. “Your shoes.”

“Oh.” Camber sighed. 

“That’s two points for me! Shall we continue?”

“Yes,” said Camber, defiantly. She looked around the carriage, and outside, taking her time, as Nathaniel had moments before. Finally, she said, “I spy something grey.”

“The sky?”

“Nope!” Camber grinned. “You can’t even see the sky, silly!”

“The clouds?”

“Huh-uh.”

“Is it the ribbon on your dress?”

Camber shook her head.

“The Waking Sea?”

"No."

Nathaniel looked forward, scrutinizing the Teyrn and Teyrna. “Is it the buttons on your father’s shirt?”

“Nooo…”

Nathaniel whispered his next guess: “Your mother’s hair?”

Fergus, for the first time in hours, laughed. Camber giggled, but shook her head yet again.

“By the Maker! Is it the thread on my breeches?”

The younger Cousland giggled. “You’re wrong.”

Nathaniel relented. “What is it?”

“Your eyes, silly!”

He pursed his lips. “That's not fair, I can't see my eyes!”

“So? You should know your eyes are grey.”

"You know that is a point my parents disagree on--Mother says my eyes are grey, but Father insists they're blue." 

“Well, I think they're grey!”

Nathaniel sighed. Camber was still a child, in his eyes--be they grey or blue. They had been promised to each other since she could barely walk… but he was thirteen and she was nine. To think of her as anything more than a child at this point was ludicrous. She still had trouble walking, truth be told. She lacked the grace required of a nobleman’s daughter, and would rather climb trees than read books. He couldn’t fault her, though. He had wanted to climb trees at her age. Yet he was the eldest Howe, and he had responsibilities, as the eldest.

Responsibilities, including setting aside childish pleasures, learning how to defend himself in battle, practicing diplomacy and leadership… and marrying a Teyrn’s daughter.

Chapter Text

Rendon could hardly believe it… but they had won. Ferelden was free. It wouldn’t be free for long, however, if they could not drive the Orlesians out of their waters. And for that reason, Bryce, Leonas, and himself marched to Denerim with all their remaining men. 

One of the former banns, Fearchar Mac Eanraig, was bloody brilliant on the seas; and while their trio had done their part helping Maric on Ferelden’s land, Fearchar had been relentless in keeping Orlais’s ships from supplying their army. Rendon knew many of their victories should have been losses, but Orlais’s dwindling rations and arms had taken a toll on their morale and capabilities. Beyond that, it seemed like some of the soldiers had given up on the reason for the conflict. Let these Fereldans have their country, Rendon recalled a prisoner saying. It smells like dog.

True, Ferelden did smell like dog, but that was just one of the many reasons it belonged in the hands of Fereldans, and not Orlesians. 

They arrived in Denerim in the middle of the day. While they allowed their men to rest from the long journey, Leonas, Bryce, and Rendon continued to Denerim’s docks, to meet the renowned “Storm Giant.”

There were fewer sailors than Rendon had expected, and now he knew why Fearchar had urged for every able-bodied man to march to Denerim; and that was precisely why he was here, despite Eliane’s pleas. As they walked through the docks, searching for their host, Rendon couldn’t help but notice that every eye was on them. 

Father Slayer. 

Nonsense! They do not know who I am!

They do.

They’ve never seen me before!

That does not matter. They know what you are. Do you?

Rendon had slowed his pace, and Bryce turned around to see what was holding up his friend. Leonas crossed his arms and stood still, watching Rendon.

That one most of all—he knows what you are.

“Rendon?” Bryce placed his hand on Rendon’s shoulder. “Is everything all right?”

Rendon felt himself relax at Bryce’s touch. He doesn’t care. “No, it isn’t. But I can’t talk about it.”

Concern caused Bryce’s brow to furrow. “Are you sure? You’ve been like this for months, now.”

Rendon averted his eyes.

“This is about your father, isn’t it?” Rendon’s eyes darted back to Bryce’s. His lips parted; but before he could speak, Bryce continued. “Don’t try to lie to me. We’ve had this discussion before—if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine. But…” Bryce sighed, “I’m here, okay? Don’t forget that. Aye?”

“Aye,” Rendon mimicked. It gave Rendon no small amount of satisfaction to tease Bryce, and it was easy to do so by mocking his accent. He felt slightly better, but he knew he couldn’t burden Bryce with his demons. Not yet, anyway. 

Bryce rolled his eyes. “Come now, Fearchar is waiting.”

Rendon nodded, and walked beside Bryce and Leonas until they reached a dock house. Men bustled about, carrying ropes one way and supplies another. As they wove their way through the commotion, Rendon saw several men surrounding a table, on which charts and maps were laid. A tall man with grey hair and a moustache was bent over the table, his palms resting on the wood.

“Is that?” Leonas asked.

“Must be,” Rendon muttered. 

The men who were gathered around the table parted way for the three newcomers. The large man straightened, becoming even taller than Rendon imagined possible for a human, and smiled. Storm Giant, indeed.

“Welcome. Fearchar Mac Eanraig.” He clenched his right hand and placed that arm across his chest, bowing slightly. “You three must be Leonas Bryland, Rendon Howe, and Bryce Cousland.” He extended his hand. “I regret to say I do not know who is who.”

Bryce was the first to return the gesture. “I am Bryce. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Would that it could be under more pleasant circumstances,” said Fearchar. His hand now waited in front of Rendon, who shook Fearchar's hand firmly. His hand felt small in Fearchar’s grip.

“Rendon Howe, at your service.”

“Well, you look no worse for wear! The stories I have heard of White River said you were nearly dead.”

Rendon grimaced. He did not like to think of this battle… he blamed the defeat on himself, even though Bryce had told him countless times it wasn’t his fault. “I was, nearly. Leonas’s sister didn’t want me to come here. She’d prefer I stayed in bed a year to recover.” He paused. “But I had to see this through.”

“Admirable,” said Fearchar. “I hear you are a strategic mastermind. We will need that.” Fearchar turned to the last of them. “Leonas, then?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Ha!” Fearchar laughed, as shook Leonas’s hand. “We are all equal, here. No banns, arls, or teyrns until King Maric grants us our titles again.

“These are my sons, Erik… Rolf… and Olivier.” Fearchar had gestured to his left and right, pausing after each name to allow his sons to nod when their names were spoken. They all looked quite a bit like their father — thick moustaches, deep-set green eyes, above average height — and they all had blond hair.  “My daughter, Eleanor, is preparing the Mistral for our next raid. You will meet her soon.” 

That’s that, then, Rendon thought. It was rare for him to receive such a warm welcome, and even praise, from a stranger.

It would be one of the last times he felt appreciated.

Chapter Text

The three escapees were caught by surprise—there was a guard posted at the servant’s exit!

“Wh—” He opened his mouth to shout, but began choking. Every bit of air that entered his lungs was poisoning him. Camber drew her blade and slit his throat, and he collapsed to the ground.

Lyra snorted. “That was unnecessary. I had it under control.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Camber stated. After checking to make sure no one else was nearby, she whispered, “How do we plan on escaping? Judex can keep up with horses, but not for more than a few minutes at a time.”

“Not to mention,” Lyra added, “horses’ll draw more attention than we’d like.” She looked around. “Any way we can get out of here without being seen?”

“Amaranthine is east of here, is it not?” Duncan asked. “That way will be blocked, and they know we’re headed south. Can we go west, instead?”

Camber nodded. “The West Hill bannorn is west of here. I’m sure Franderel will aid us.”

“Let us hope,” Duncan whispered. “How long will it take us to get there?”

“On foot?” Camber sighed. “At least four days, if we’re lucky. But there are farms along the way: I’m sure one of the farmers will help us.”

“You’re sure of a lot of things, aren’t you?” Lyra retorted. “I hope you’re not wrong.”

Camber scoffed. “At least I thought of bringing food.”

“If I may interrupt…” Duncan began. He glared at his recruits. “We have to move. Take us west, Camber, and we can sort out the rest later.”

“Aye,” Camber confirmed. They snuck around Castle Highever and through the alleys of the terynir’s city, careful to stay out of sight of everyone. Who knew how many of these people had been threatened or bribed to report to Arl Howe? Camber wanted to believe that the people on her land were loyal to her family, but swords and silver could turn many men to betrayal…

She tried not to think about how many innocent lives were already lost under such circumstances.

They made it safely to the outlying farms, and kept going until they saw a carriage on one of the properties. It was nearly sunrise, by then. Many people were beginning to wake, now. Camber knocked on the door, and was quickly greeted by a woman heavy with child.

“Well, good morning. Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Camber began, “but I have urgent need of your carriage. Can we use it?”

The woman glanced between the three—no, two humans, an elf, and a mabari. She noticed the crest on Camber’s chest, and the griffon on Duncan’s armor. “Todd!” she called. “We have visitors.”

Camber held her breath. What if these people weren’t on her side any longer? Then again, she had barely explained herself. She waited until 'Todd' came to the door.

“My lady!” the man exclaimed. “You’re a spittin’ image of your pop, you are.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You know my father?”

“Aye, we fought together during the Rebellion. ‘Course I’ve put that behind me, as you can tell. What can I do for you?”

Camber briefly explained that they urgently needed transportation to West Hill. “But… I don’t have any money to give you,” she said sheepishly. “I’m asking for a favor… will you take us to West Hill?”

“Aye, my boy can handle the carriage. Don’t you worry none about the money, I’m happy to help.”

Todd and his son began hitching the carriage to a couple of horses.

“Listen to me,” Camber whispered to Todd, so that his son could not hear. “We… are on the run. Highever was attacked.”

“Maker’s breath! By who?”

Camber’s lips curled. “Arl Howe.”

“Rendon? But—”

“—My parents are dead,” Camber interrupted. “And I would be, too, if we hadn’t escaped. Now listen, please. If anyone asks if you’ve seen us, just tell them the truth.”

“My lady?”

“I cannot ask you to put yourself in harm’s way, for my sake. If anyone—anyone—asks if you’ve seen us, answer honestly. Because if they find out you lied, I cannot imagine what horrors would befall your family.”

Todd nodded. He thought it would be better to lie, and probably would if he were asked. But he wouldn’t tell Camber that. “Thank you, dear girl. I appreciate it.”

“Thank you, ser.”

And with that, they were headed to West Hill.

Chapter Text

Rendon saw the blow—too late. The air was knocked from Bryce’s lungs, and Rendon felt immediately ill. With renewed fervor, he danced around his enemy, sinking his pair of daggers deep into the footman’s back. He looked to his... friend... again. Bryce fell to his knees.

No…

The soldier who had struck Bryce stood over his pain-wracked body, grinned as Bryce choked and gasped for air.

No, no, no!

Rendon snarled, the nostrils of his hooked nose flaring as he did so. He withdrew his daggers from the man he had just killed, and ran toward his friend. He leapt over one corpse and stumbled over another in his haste, paying no heed to the duels taking place around him.

I’m coming, Bryce. Hang on!

He felt as if he were moving too slowly. His heart beat against his chest, and it was all he could hear. The clash of iron against iron and the cries of his countrymen were but echoes compared to the rhythmic pounding in his ears. They would not win this battle, he knew. White River was lost. But Rendon would make damned sure he and Bryce got out of there alive.

Hang on…

Rendon tucked his head down and, placing his left shoulder first, used his momentum to knock over the Orlesian who had stood over Bryce. That’s going to leave a bruise, he thought as he rolled his shoulder after the impact. He repositioned the daggers in his palms, and stood in front of Bryce, guarding him.

“Where is your honor?” Rendon taunted. “Face me instead!”

The Orlesian swung his longsword in a horizontal arc. Rendon ducked under the blade, and tumbled to avoid the incoming shield bash. He slashed with one dagger and stabbed with the other, but was parried and blocked by his foe.

Bryce stood, his legs shaking beneath him. He picked up his longsword and waited for an opening. Rendon relentlessly attacked, but gained no ground in the fight. He moved around the Orlesian quickly, and kicked the helmet off him. His enemy grunted, and swung down with his sword… and Rendon did not dodge in time. He shrieked as the blade cut deeply into his shoulder. Bryce saw his opportunity, attacked the Orlesian’s shield arm, but the blow did little against the chainmail armor.

“Back for more, are you?” asked the soldier. He yanked his blade from Rendon’s shoulder, which caused Rendon to cry out again. His attacks immediately put Bryce on the defensive, and Bryce did not know how long he could keep this up. The Orlesian staggered Bryce with a shield bash, and lunged with his longsword, intending to end the young noble’s life. But… the blow never came.

Rendon jumped between Bryce and the Orlesian, and the sword pierced through Rendon’s leather armor.

“NO!” Bryce screamed. “No, no, no!” Before the Orlesian could pull his sword from Rendon’s abdomen, Bryce slashed his foe’s neck, and watched as he slumped over to make sure he was dead.

“Rendon? Rendon!” Bryce slapped his friend’s cheek, but Rendon’s eyes wouldn’t focus. He was losing a lot of blood.

Rendon! Hang on!

Chapter Text

Camber took Nathaniel’s hand in her own. “Come with me!” she exclaimed as she pulled, beckoning him to follow.

Nathaniel had been sitting in the library in Castle Highever, thumbing through one of Genitivi’s writings on the dwarves. He had always found dwarves fascinating. Completely unable to conjure magic, unable to dream… both blessed and cursed, he supposed. The library in Vigil’s Keep was not nearly as well-stocked as the Cousland’s… indeed, there might be more books here than if one gathered every book in the whole arling of Amaranthine. I will have to ask father to invest in a better library… but I doubt he’ll agree. He sometimes envied the Couslands. There are some benefits to arranged marriages…

He placed a marker in Stone Halls of the Dwarves and set it on the side-table. “Where are we going?” he asked the eight-year-old.

“That’s a secret.” Camber pressed her finger to her lips for emphasis.

Nathaniel smirked. “All right. Do I need to close my eyes?”

“Hmmmmm, no. You might bump into something.” Camber giggled thinking about it. “That’s funny.”

“Oh? My pain is amusing to you?”

Camber smiled and nodded her head.

“In that case,” Nathaniel paused to dramatically cover his eyes with his free hand. “Lead on.”

Camber carefully led him from the library and down a flight of stairs. Miraculously, he hadn’t tripped; but perhaps it was more miraculous that Camber hadn’t tripped. She was quite clumsy, even for a child. Sunlight on his skin and the scent of embrium told Nathaniel that they were in one of the castle gardens.

Camber began giving Nathaniel commands. “Turn… no! Turn that way. Wait! A little back. There.” She giggled, pleased with herself. “Open your eyes.”

Nathaniel removed his hand and winced in the bright daylight. They stood directly in front of a well in an herbal garden. “Why have you brought me here?” he asked.

“There’s a legend about the well in this garden. Legend says if you toss a coin over your shoulder into the well, your wish will come true.”

Nathaniel snickered. “Who told you this legend?”

“Fergus,” Camber said without batting an eyelash.

“He—” Nathaniel paused. Fergus was probably messing with his little sister, but Camber was young and gullible, and her trust in her older brother was absolute. Then again, maybe there was a local legend about this well. In either case, he did not believe in superstition, but he didn’t want to shatter Camber’s innocence. “Did he tell you which shoulder?”

“Hmm, no. Is that important?”

“Probably not, but I want to get it right.” He winked at the young Cousland. “Have you coins for us?”

Camber’s eyes lit up. “Yes!” She reached into the pocket of her green dress and withdrew two copper pieces. She turned around and waited for Nathaniel to do the same. “Close your eyes, make a wish, and toss it in!”

Nathaniel chuckled, and did as he was told.

“What did you wish for?!” Camber asked, after the ordeal was finished.

He smirked. “If I told you that, it wouldn’t come true.”

Chapter Text

--Rendon! Hang on! 

Fuck! You, we--aye, you! We need to get him to Eliane, now! Help me carry him. 

It’s--it’s going to be all right, Rendon. Stay with me. 

Stay with me... 

Rendon awoke as a single hoarse cough escaped his lips. His eyes were heavy with lethargy, but he fought them open. He took in his surroundings, allowing his vision to focus slowly. 

The first thing he noticed was the dull yellow-and-brown interior of the tent above him. Shadows above him wistfully danced as people passed between the outside fire and the tent’s open entrance. He began to hear murmurs of low conversation and stamping of boots on hardened ground. The stench of elfroot and alcohol hung heavily in the air; yet Rendon’s keen nose also picked up sweat, smoke, and stew. 

Stew. He was famished. Imagining a meal other than war rations was enough to make a man dance. He wet his dry lips and swallowed, desperate to clear his parched palate. 

Rendon broke into a fit of coughing. The phlegm in his throat hitched. He attempted to sit upright but pain wracked his body as his muscles strained to follow his commands. 

There was a gasp, followed by a footstool toppling over. “Oh, dear, let me help you!” 

The soft voice belonged to Eliane Bryland, Leonas’s sister, whose outstretched arms cradled Rendon as she assisted him to a sitting position. Despite her gentle touch, Rendon’s injured shoulder screamed, but even that was nothing compared to the agony he felt in his abdomen. Rendon hacked and heaved for another moment before the fit subsided. Everything hurt . 

“Water,” he not so much said as mouthed. “Please.” 

“Right away.” Eliane helped him swing his legs off of the raised cot before she departed, so that he could keep himself up. “Stay there.” She scurried out of the tent. “Leo! Bryce!" 

Rendon sensed previously unrecognized tension between his shoulder blades release at the sound of Bryce’s name. He's alive. Praise the Maker. His two friends nearly tripped over each other in their haste to see him. They both beamed at him. 

“The Hero of White River!” Leonas announced. “No worse for wear.” 

Bryce chuckled. “Joking, are you? Look at him--he’s falling apart!”

“A scratch.” Rendon played along, and made a feeble attempt at a shrug with his left shoulder. 

Eliane re-entered, holding a waterskin in one hand and a bowl of stew in the other. She placed the bowl upon the ground and held the waterskin up to Rendon’s mouth, encouraging him to drink. 

“If that is your idea of a scratch,” teased Bryce, “I hope I never see what a gash looks like.” 

After Rendon exhausted the waterskin, he snorted. “Speak for yourself.” Eliane walked towards a basket that held ointment and clean bandages--presumably to redress Rendon’s wounds. Bryce sported a newly-stitched slash from his right ear to his nose. One of Leonas’s eyebrows was so badly scabbed over, one couldn’t tell if there would be any hair left once it healed. “And ‘hero’? There’s no fucking way we won.” 

At his retort, time seemed to stretch endlessly. The smiles on Bryce’s and Leonas’s faces faded; and Eliane froze. Rendon could hear everything all at once -- Leonas swallowing, Bryce fidgeting, spoons scraping against bowls, fire spitting and cracking, wind whistling through leaf and branch. 

The gory scenes from the battlefield came flooding back to him. He remembered his unit being decimated by well-aimed archers, who had the advantage of sun at their backs. He remembered ordering them to regroup and join with Bryce’s men higher in the valley. He remembered Leonas’s own archers covering their flank, only to be ambushed by chevaliers. And then, he remembered the behemoth of a chevalier nearly butchering a defenseless Bryce, before he sacrificed himself to save his friend--his best friend--his... Maker, why was this so hard? Just tell him.

“Well? Out with it.” 

Bryce was the first to speak. “Counting ourselves and Eliane, forty-seven soldiers escaped from White River.” 

Rendon’s jaw went slack. “We went from eight hundred fifty strong, to now, we’re barely two-score?” He popped his thumb and forefinger on his left hand.  

“To call it a slaughter would be too forgiving,” said Leonas. He rubbed his stubbled face and sniffed. “Our best hope now is to send word to Maric and await orders.” 

Rendon mimicked Leonas, noting the beginnings of his own thick beard. How long have I been out? he wondered. “As much as I’d like to turn our luck around, I’m more interested in learning how the fuck we failed. Need to prevent that in the future if we’re ever going to kick the pompous pricks out of Ferelden.” 

“I can appreciate that,” Leonas said with a nod, “but we’re sitting nugs here. We need to move.” 

Rendon sighed. Surely they hadn’t camped in one place this whole time? “How long was I...” he paused to steal a glance at Bryce. “...You know...”

“It’s been about eight days,” Eliane said softly. She had finished preparing fresh bandages and medicine for Rendon’s injuries, and brought them over to the cot. “You’ve been in and out of it, but this is the first you’ve held a conversation.” 

Rendon grunted. He looked down at himself for the first time. His right shoulder was wrapped and the arm bound across his chest to keep it still. Now that he thought about it, his fingers were numb. There were multiple layers of linens around his torso, through which the crimson of fresh blood had just begun to seep through. His earlier exertions had not been without consequence. 

“Not to sound ungrateful,” Rendon began, “but can I eat first? I’m starving.” 

Eliane smiled at him. “Of course.” She retrieved the bowl from the ground. 

“We will be back,” Bryce said, giving Leonas a look. “Eat up--you’re looking gaunt.” 

“Aye,” Rendon said, almost reflexively. Bryce rolled his eyes and grinned, and then he and Leonas withdrew from the tent.

Chapter Text

“No good. Again.” 

Rendon grit his teeth together so tightly he cringed when he heard a squeak as his jaw shifted under the tension. He looked across the courtyard of Amaranthine’s keep to see his short and elderly father closing the distance between them. Why couldn’t he have just stayed inside? 

It was a crisp day in Amaranthine -- not unusual, given its geography. Yet the gathered sweat on Rendon’s brows threatened to spill into his eyes. Under the leather cap he wore, his short, dark hair clung to his scalp. He had been practicing this maneuver for the better part of an hour and thought he’d been doing it correctly. 

Well. That’s usually where Tarleton said the mistake began: with Rendon, having thoughts. 

“I’d like to see you do better,” he muttered through clenched teeth, before resolving to try again. Rendon positioned the wooden targe between himself and Pilar, his instructor, and readied his wooden longsword in his left hand. He envisioned the maneuver playing out before executing it. Feint right, strike right, dodge, move to flank, block, strike. 

He relaxed his jaw and nodded to Pilar, signaling them that he was to begin. And by all accounts, he executed it perfectly. 

Then, why was the world spinning? 

Tarleton grunted as he sunk his own wooden greatsword into the earth, after striking Rendon’s temple with the pommel. “You left yourself open,” he said, answering the unspoken question. “You must always be prepared for the enemy to take advantage of your distraction.” 

Rendon clutched his throbbing head and desperately willed himself to a standing position. “Isn’t it better to master one thing before tackling the next?” He knew he shouldn’t have argued, but he’d already been hit for doing what was asked... How much worse could it get? 

His father yanked the practice sword out of the dirt and waved Pilar away. “Get up, boy. Anticipate, don’t react.” 

Rendon did as he was told, and, after picking up his sword, he stood with a groan. His ears were ringing slightly, but he positioned the targe and sword as he’d been trained. 

Tarleton gave no warning before he began the onslaught. 

Despite Rendon’s youth and Tarleton’s age, he was still no match for his father. The old man could still wield his greatsword better than anyone he’d ever seen, and Rendon resigned himself to dodging and blocking. He could never hope to land a hit on him, even though he sorely wanted to. To give him a taste of his medicine. To stand over him just one time. 

One of the blows left Rendon’s shield arm feeling numb, and within seconds, Tarleton slammed into the ribs on his left side. He brought the greatsword around to Rendon’s opposite side and struck his ankle, and smirked when his son yelped. Without hesitation, he swept Rendon’s legs from under him, and held him at wooden-point. 

“Worthless.” Tarleton discarded the practice sword next to his son. “Pilar, I expect improvement by next week’s end.” 

Pilar stole a glance from their Arl to their charge. Rendon was clutching his side and had turned over so that his face was hidden from everyone. “Of course, milord. If I may offer a suggestion?” 

Tarleton grunted. Despite--or perhaps because of--Pilar’s previous service in the Orlesian army, they were one of the best swordsmen in the arling, and Tarleton valued their opinion. “That is?” 

“I think Rendon is not suited to the shield. I have been instructing him for nearly two years, and I think he may perform better with other weapons. To be specific: daggers. He possesses good instincts and good aim, and with lighter weapons, I think he will succeed.” 

“Hmph,” Tarleton grunted again. He looked at his teenage son, still writhing in pain. “He can’t get much worse. Fine. See to it.” 

“At once, your worship.” 

Tarleton turned on his heels and headed back to the keep. 

Pilar waited until they were certain Tarleton would not return before they made their way to Rendon. Rendon still lied, curled upon the ground. Pilar noticed his breathing was unsteady, ragged, as if he had been silently sobbing. They decided to wait a bit longer, allowing him to compose himself.  

“That... could have gone better, no?” Pilar finally said, after Rendon's breathing steadied. 

Slowly, Rendon rolled over onto his back. “No shit.” Pilar had guessed correctly about the tears. “Do you know how many times I’ve asked to try daggers and he’s rejected me?” 

“Four. You told me.” Pilar knelt and extended their left hand to the young lord, offering to help him stand. “And it took my intervention to allow you to train left-handed, too.” 

Rendon guffawed. “Not that it’s helped much.” He accepted Pilar’s hand, and kept his shield arm tucked against his chest as he stood. That’s going to bruise badly. He sniffed, and wiped his moistened cheeks. “Thank you.” 

“Of course, milord.” Pilar mustered a smile that didn’t reach their eyes. “Let us start again in two days, yes?” 

“Sounds good.” The corners of Rendon’s mouth pulled up into a quarter-hearted grin before dropping almost immediately. His eyes wandered towards Amaranthine's keep--towards the window he knew belonged to his father’s chambers. One day, he thought, I’ll outclass you. 

Chapter Text

In the days that followed their escape from Highever, Lyra, Duncan, and Camber traveled by carriage to the sparsely populated West Hill bannorn. By invoking her name and the tragedy that befell her family, Camber easily secured fresh horses, rations, and a carriage that would take them through the bannorn and to Ostagar, though she did not make their destination clear to anyone but their coachman.

While they would have made better pace each day following the Imperial Highway, the distance through the bannorn was shorter and more direct. It was also less likely for them to encounter any of Howe’s men, since much of the bannorn swore their fealty to the Cousland Teyrnir. In practice, though, Camber knew the banns preferred to keep their independence and were more swayed by promises of protection and settlement of disputes, which meant their ‘sworn’ fealty could change at a given moment. Still, she had watched her father and mother work diligently to build trust with their banns, so Camber felt assured they would be safe enough taking the more direct route. 

It was not so easy to convince Lyra and Duncan that this was the best course of action, however. Both insisted that they should ride on swift horseback to Ostagar, reducing their travel time by one-third. Camber argued against it because, as she had said before, Judex would not be able to keep up, especially without ample breaks--and she refused to leave him behind. Furthermore, they could hide better in a carriage, and Arl Howe posed a danger to them all. When Camber suggested that Duncan and Lyra split and make for Ostagar while she traveled with Judex, Lyra accused her of waiting for an opportunity to turn back and enact her vengeance.

It took Duncan’s physical intervention to keep the two from coming to blows, and he made the final decision to continue by carriage. 

Between the arguments and tense small talk, Camber stayed lost within her thoughts, stroking Judex’s short tan-and-black fur to keep herself calm. She shed silent tears throughout the journey, gazing into the wheat fields which were due for harvest in the coming weeks.

There was so much--so much--she wished she could have said to her parents. What would Fergus think? Oren and Oriana... his family... gone.  Would King Cailan respond to her plea for justice against the Howes? How long would she be away fighting darkspawn before that justice could be dealt? Blights could last for years, decades, even... surely she would not need to be on the frontlines for its entirety? What would her father and mother have said if she did not give this her full effort? What did becoming a Grey Warden mean, exactly? 

What she had read in her history schooling mentioned a secret ritual, and it suggested that becoming a Grey Warden was a lifelong commitment. Not only were there few records on the Grey Wardens, but the records that did exist were specifically vague. That kind of secrecy usually meant one of two things, given the circumstances: one, that they did not want others to be able to become a Grey Warden on their own, thereby broadening the order beyond control; or two, that widespread knowledge of the inner workings of the Wardens would sow distrust among the populace. The Wardens had been banished from Ferelden since the early Storm Age, and only twenty years ago did King Maric rescind that command. In fact... the timing was convenient. Peculiar, at the very least.

King Maric lets the Grey Wardens back, then he disappears, and now there is a Blight. What if they are planning a coup d'état? Finishing what they started two hundred years ago? 

Camber stole a glance at Duncan. Could the man across from her be a part of that? What if the attack on her family was the first step towards their goal, and sparing her was a strategic move? Or was she letting her mind run wild in the wake of recent betrayal? 

“Prepare for the worst, but expect the best, from everyone. Nobility is born from character, not from blood,” is what Father always said. It was a two-fold lesson he had worked to instill in his children, and in those who looked to him for leadership. Usually, he was talking about settling domestic disputes, and giving each party a fair chance before making a judgment on their motives.

But the second part was what he most wanted those with power to understand--that titles meant little without character, and even the lowest soldier could be the noblest among the land. Nobility was a responsibility, not an obligation, and not authority to be wielded as one wields a sword. 

Perhaps, Camber thought, she should expect the best from the Grey Wardens, too. 

She prayed it would not be her undoing.

Chapter Text

The same evening after Rendon had come-to, Bryce ordered the remaining rebels to pack camp and move under the cover of night. Only a handful of horses remained from the thorough trounce at White River, so the soldiers could only move as swiftly as their slowest member--which was why Rendon was pulled by horse-drawn wagon. 

It wasn’t sitting in the wagon that was embarrassing, no; it had been when he tried to take more than three steps in succession--despite Eliane’s insistence to wait for her to return--and he fell face-first into the dirt. His muscles were stiff from disuse and apparently did not remember how to perform basic motor function . Eliane instructed Rendon in a series of stretches and exercises to perform during the march, and she kept a careful eye on him as she walked alongside the wagon. 

Rendon’s right arm was in a sling, now, rather than tightly bound. He could move all the fingers and form a fist, but was struggling to rotate his wrist, and couldn’t lift his arm at all. His left arm--thank the Maker--wasn’t having any trouble, and neither were his toes or ankles. There were knots in the muscles between his shoulders that desperately needed worked out; but for now, he made due with rotating his shoulders and neck to stretch that area. As he looked up at Thedas’s closer moon, Eluvensis, he was both grateful for the gentle white light it provided and apprehensive that it would give away their position to Orlesian scouts. He scanned the overgrowth on either side of the path they traveled, hoping to provide any help he could. 

They were headed west toward the lands below Redcliffe, which had been retaken by the South Army several months prior, to await orders from Maric. Eliane had already hinted that Rendon should remain there to recover, and let Leonas and Bryce carry on without him. That wouldn’t do. Rendon would not leave their sides, and definitely wouldn’t let Bryce out of his sight on the battlefield again. He would protect him. He had to. 

He also had to speak with him before he would miss his opportunity forever. 

Something about that need--that resolve--made him feel light-headed. It made him nervous. It made all the hairs on his body stand on-end as he shuddered with anticipation. It made him sick to his stomach. Rendon took several slow, deep breaths to prevent his heart from racing out of his chest.  He had to do this. 

The South Army--or what remained of it--continued into the late afternoon of the following day. When Rendon wasn’t dozing off (between his surprisingly tiring stretches), his mind raced with ideas of how to broach the subject with Bryce. His friend valued honesty and compassion above most other tenets, so Rendon knew Bryce would listen to him; but it was the timing and nature of the confession that caused him so much anxiety. He’d fallen for Bryce many years ago and had hoped he would come to reciprocate on his own, but... Perhaps Bryce’s been too preoccupied with the war to consider it. Or maybe I haven’t been forthright enough? 

When the army stopped to set up camp, Eliane helped Rendon to his feet. Though he was tired, the exercises had proved helpful enough that he could walk on his own, albeit slowly. He made his way toward the front of the assembly. When Bryce and Leonas spotted him, they smiled. 

“Look at that! A sight better than you were yesterday, aye?” Bryce winked at him with enthusiasm, but the dark circles beneath his eyes hinted at his exhaustion. 

Rendon smiled in return. “ Aye , but it’ll be some time before I can stand on the frontlines.” 

“I don’t doubt that,” Leonas chimed in. “We’re still one week away from Redcliffe, at this rate. You’ll have time to recuperate.” 

Rendon nodded, and took a deep breath. One week, yet. Should I tell Bryce tonight, or wait until we make it to Redcliffe? What if he doesn’t feel the same? What if the rest of the journey is fucking awkward afterward? 

No, no. No talking yourself out of it this time, Rendon. He looked into Bryce’s clear blue eyes. 

“Bryce, uh...” 

“Yes, my friend?” Bryce’s brow furrowed with concern. Rendon's heart fluttered. 

“May--may we speak tonight? Privately?” 

Bryce still looked puzzled. “Of course,” he agreed. “Before or after camp is set up?” 

“Err--a--after.” 

It was done, then. All Rendon had to do was be honest and open. 

No going back now...

Chapter Text

“ 3 Guardian. 

To the Arl and Arlessa of Amaranthine. 

Dearest Friends. 

In order to strengthen Ferelden and her nobility; In order to strengthen ties between Highever & Amaranthine; In order to strengthen family bonds extending to South Reach, Gwaren, and the neighboring Free Marches. ”

Eliane paused to sip her tea, inhaling before she did so. The aroma was pleasant and floral, and equally satisfying was the knowledge that she had cultivated many of its ingredients herself the year before. She adjusted her position in the leather-upholstered armchair which stood atop a bear-fur rug, itself not far from the fireplace in the study. Rendon stood facing the flames, with his hands clasped behind his back and his head held high. He waited patiently for his wife to continue. 

“ We extend a commitment to arranged marriage between our daughter, Camber Cousland, heir-second to the Teyrnir of Highever, and your son, Nathaniel Howe, heir-first to the Arling of Amaranthine. Excepting extreme circumstances, the proposal contained herein will be considered binding before the Black Hall courts. ” 

Eliane quickly scanned ahead. The document had been drafted using fine parchment and ink; there was not a single blemish to be found. “It continues with sums of land-holdings and ships that would become property of our Arling after the marriage; half of those sums become our property immediately upon accepting the proposal. Shall I continue?”

Rendon shook his head once. “Formalities,” he stated. This was not the first proposal they had received, but it was from the most formidable family by far. Had Maric not carved out the Teyrnir of Gwaren after the occupation, Highever would’ve been the last standing teyrnir. Second only to the throne in power, and often wealthier than its coffers, receiving a proposal of marriage from teyrns was not a thing to dismiss. Yet, none of that mattered. He would have accepted the offer without the generous gifts. 

He turned to face Eliane, whose grey eyes sparkled in the firelight and whose lips played a slight smile. Despite her serene expression, she was studying him. They had expected this proposal would come -- held out for it, in fact. After the war, marriage proposals had risen in popularity, both from the nobility and the freeholders. Everyone was vying for the opportunity to establish their family's prominence, even if they had been nobody before the war. What that had meant for the Howes was scores of proposals for Nathaniel over the years that they had had to politely decline in hopes Eleanor would bear a daughter. Nathaniel would be seven, soon, and Camber was almost three, and they would not have been able to hold out on proposals for much longer. Thankfully, their patience had paid off. 

Rendon returned the smile. “A union of the Howes and Couslands seems most fitting, don’t you think?” 

Eliane continued smiling, but a touch of sorrow reached her eyes. “Most fitting, yes.” She gently folded the parchment and stood on the soft, warm rug, relishing in its comfort before crossing the room to place the letter on the desk. She turned around to find her husband watching her. Eliane smirked, and locked the only door into the study. When she returned to the fireplace, Rendon drew her to him. 

“Most fitting,” he repeated. He held Eliane in his arms for a few moments, both of them allowing silence to fill the space. Bryce’s family and his own, finally together, as it should be. 

“Tell me, darling,” said Eliane, breaking the silence, “do you still love Bryce?”

“Always, my dear.” He placed his hooked nose on the crown of her head and inhaled deeply. She smelled faintly of roses and lavender. 

Eliane looked up at him, her hand slowly working its way up his arm to the back of his neck. She pulled him down for a tender kiss. Another tender kiss, and then another, and slowly Eliane craned her neck, guiding Rendon’s lips down her jaw and onto her collarbone. He obliged her unspoken request as her fingers danced in light circles across his back, encouraging him to continue. Rendon sucked on her collarbone and Eliane’s breath caught. She moved her hands down from his shoulder blades to the small of his back, and pulled herself closer to his growing erection beneath his trousers. 

He growled, then, and began to grind his hips against hers--slowly, intimately. Eliane took control by unfastening the buttons on Rendon’s blouse, kissing his hairy chest down to his navel. Rendon looked down at his wife affectionately, his hands resting on her dark hair which loosely framed her shoulders. Eliane returned the gaze as she glided her tongue along his skin back up to his pectorals, and Rendon shivered under the sensation. He grasped her hair and planted a bruising kiss against her lips. She parted her lips and allowed his tongue to explore her mouth before returning the favor. Each fought for dominance without truly trying to win. 

Eliane untied her skirt and let it drop to the wooden floor beneath her feet before doing the same with her smallclothes. Rendon’s hands brushed lightly against her hips, feeling the stretch marks from childbirth beneath his fingertips. Eliane moaned quietly into his mouth as she once again thrust her hips to meet his. Rendon moaned, then, and as Eliane began to unbelt his trousers, he pulled on the ties of Eliane’s shirt to undo them. Their kisses continued to grow more feverish as they undressed completely. Eliane placed a hand on his chest and guided him backwards towards the rug. 

Rendon knelt on the soft fur and placed his hooked nose  beneath her navel, kissing and breathing and driving her mad. She pulled down on his dark hair to guide him lower, lower, until he placed the tip of his tongue between her folds. She gasped each time he curled his tongue to flick in and out of her cunt; it was making her dizzy. He plunged his tongue deep inside her, tasting and feeling her around his mouth, and relishing in the shudders and soft moans escaping her. He brought his fingers up to her entrance and inserted one, then two inside her until they were soaked with her arousal and his saliva, and then began rubbing his cock with his slickened fingers.  He continued to elicit moans from Eliane until she shuddered and withdrew from him, her breath uneven. 

She guided Rendon down onto his back and positioned herself over him. She watched Rendon close his eyes and swallow hard as she slid her wet cunt over his hard cock, teasing him, before finally lowering down and filling herself with him. They moaned in unison, quietly, feeling each other’s bodies and listening to each other’s breathing. She rocked on him slowly, enjoying how good it felt to have him inside her. Rendon opened his golden-brown eyes to find his wife smiling at him, though the smile didn’t reach her eyes. He winked at her, and began fucking her in earnest. 

These moments were bittersweet for them both, and always had been. Both knew she could never fully satisfy him, not really; but Eliane had known this from the beginning. Duty came first--duty to country, most of all--and that had meant nearly everyone married immediately after the war for the purposes of securing alliances and repopulating Ferelden. It had also meant Rendon settled for Eliane, because there was only one person he had loved in the whole world, and who did not return the sentiment. 

Bryce.