AN: Ok, I don't want to cause any confusion with this story (which I already seem to have done to some people, sorry!) so I thought I would write a little introduction:

This story is meant to take place parallel to about a few weeks after Anders, Hawke and Callum have left Val Chevin and are still travelling north.

So really it's just a parallel tale from Cousland's point of view about what is happening in Ferelden during the time Anders is journeying towards the Anderfels (thus it is technically in the past, if we're being literal).

Sorry, it is a bit messy time-line wise. I had planned to write this story at the right moment, as in when the events would be synchronous, but I ended up not having the time. Now I'm writing it in retrospect so it might be a bit odd.

The note that Cousland recieves from Wynne is the note which Anders gave to her in Val Chevin and the plot deals with Ferelden's impending 'marriage' to Orlais through the royal bloodlines (as mentioned in the conversation in the chapter 'Respect' from 'A Life Less Ordinary')

Hope this cleared up any confusion and, if not, I apologise! I really should have put this note up originally but, of course, in my own mind it made sense while everyone else was probably looking at it with bafflement...

Maiko

He Who Dares

The storm drew over them early on, in the pitch dark of the winter morning. The lightning flash awoke him first, blearily from his deep dream, but the thunder sat him bolt upright, blinking into the dancing residual darkness left behind by the bright instantaneous light. It took a moments blinking and rubbing at his eyes to understand why the noise had not stopped, even after the thunder had trundled away through the clouds.

"Shadow!" Lien braked out authoritatively, "Here girl, quiet! Come on!"

He patted the bed and the whining growls which the mabari had been making stopped altogether. There was a muffled sound of paws on stone, of a long tongue lapping at panting jaws, and then the bed shook as the large dog jumped up onto the mattress.

"Lie down you silly mutt," Lien sighed in annoyance, "lie down! It's only bloody thunder."

The dog acquiesced after finding a suitable spot, namely curled up between her master's legs for warmth, and lay there in the dark with her ears perked. Lien only noticed this when he finally worked up the mental wherewithal to light the candle by his bed. The dog didn't move but he saw her ears flicker back and forth. Silly dog, he thought affectionately, although I'll agree that it is strange. A storm at this time of year? It's still so cold.

He lay back down, letting the thick blankets swallow him once more, and tried to reclaim sleep. From the moment he closed his eyes he knew it was a wasted effort. Not, as one would think, because of the flickering candle, loud thunder, bright lightening and intense whimpering, growling barks from Shadow. The demons in his own mind were far more potent than that.

The bed felt empty and cold.

He threaded his arm beneath the blankets and reached out to the right, running his fingers over the frozen sheets, and wished he could feel the warmth there.


"Oi, you at the back there! Wake up!" he barked out with well honed fake anger; yet despite his falsity the recruit still snapped to attention faster than a tamer's whip, "Do you think the Darkspawn will care if you're tired or not? No! In fact I'm sure they'd prefer you that way; easy prey."

It was raining lightly, another thing that made this encounter all the more unpleasant. The suddenness of his waking that morning and the dark, unhelpful thoughts which had plagued him since then, lying staring into the flickering gloom, had left him extremely terse and disagreeable. The storm had gentled down into a bank of heavy grey clouds and drizling rain but cousland found that the lack of dramatic thunder and lightening only served to reflect the dire and dull mood of the people before him.

He walked in front of the ragged line of young men and women, all new faces, some eager, some blank and some apathetic. They were nothing to write home about; a bunch of willing, or sometimes unwilling, new recruits from the scattered villages of the Bannorn. Not a soldier among them, Cousland thought with irrational spite fuelled by his black mood, peasants and farmer's children every one of them. It was as he passed the end of the line and turned back that he heard the whispered words.

"...be another Blight for a hundred years now, why should we..?"

He did not see red, he did not lose his temper, not as usual. Instead he saw an opportunity to vent his pent up anxiety.

"And if you're hoping that your services as a Warden will never be required in your lifetime," he said brusquely, keeping his eyes on the two whispering recruits, a teenager who looked barely old enough to be here and a girl with short, ginger hair, both looking terrified at being caught, "then I don't even know why the fuck you decided to show your pathetic faces here before me in the first place. Considering the things I've seen in the past few years I wouldn't be surprised if a hoard of Darkspawn rampaged over that ridge at any moment! So don't stand there, superior and cowardly, and whisper sweet reassurances to yourselves because no one knows what lies on tomorrow's horizon. If you don't want to take on the responsibilities that come with being a Grey Warden, one of the oldest and most honourable professions in all of Thedas, then pick up your things and get out of my Keep!"

Silence greeted him. Even the senior Wardens who had brought the new faces to him and now helped him to greet them, were giving him sidelong glances. Hannir, an older member of the caste, his dark hair heavily streaked with grey and his face heavily lined, was watching him carefully. The other, Andrew, was nearly a decade older than himself; usually a fiery, passionate man by nature, even he frowned a little at Cousland's out of turn behaviour. They both moved on their feet uncertainly, their hands resting gently on the pommels of their swords as they usually did, to look intimidating to the new ones. Of course to the recruits Cousland was sure that his men looked entirely unconcerned but, after working with and living with them for over five years, Cousland knew what to look for.

No one had moved from the line when he finally took notice of it again. Good, he thought bitterly, wonderful. I was hoping the cowardly little shits would be too ashamed to show their pissed pants in public and have left already. I would be so fucking lucky.

"Right then," he said at a more reasonable level but still with the authoritative lilt to his tone, "then if you're done gossiping for the day, perhaps we should see to getting you initiated properly. Girls, go with Andrew here, he will show you to the women's barracks, boys you go with Hannir. Get your things stowed away and then make your way back here so we can get started finding out everything that you don't know about combat, so we can start teaching you what you need to know."

They continued to stare at him, some with awe, some with resentment and some with that same blank look still stuck to their faces. Maker I hate my fucking job, Cousland thought harshly.

"Are you all deaf?" he barked, "Get going already. It's fucking wet out here!"

Yet the wetness was not what angered him, not what made him so touchy. He stood out in the mist like rain for ten minutes after watching the scrabbling bunch rushing after the two senior Wardens, looking around the Keep like bright eyed children. Even those who had seemed sullen or dispossessed still seemed to find something to be amazed at in staring at the strange, warlike architecture of Vigil's Keep. Or perhaps it was simply all of the stories they had heard about it. All the stories they had more than likely heard about him.

Cousland stared down at the mud building at his feet. The rain patted with infinitesimal softness against his forearms and the back of his neck.

I wish I could just eat my dinner in my bloody room alone tonight, he thought with a sigh, finally lifting his face up towards the grey, overcast sky and letting the moisture gather on his cheeks and brow. Sitting at the head of the table of recruits and elder Wardens, rallying them, talking to them, buoying them up...

...it wasn't something easy to do when you felt as if all your energy had simply drained away and was now impossible to refill.


Dinner had been neither akin to torture nor the pleasance of a chair by the fire. Keeping up appearances worked well on those who did not know him; they were easily fooled by his sharp smile, his witty tales and his bright laugh. His performance chased away the looming spectre of his first impression on them, of the dark, angry, war torn general they had all been told tales of. Instead they all left the table well fed and in far better spirits, despite how he had greeted them and how harshly he had judged their combat abilities.

Some of them had never even held a dagger before, never mind a sword or a bow. Finding their strengths was a useless strategy as many had none whatsoever. Blank slates, however, were sometimes easier to work with. They would do what you told them because they knew no better. No, what he disliked more than someone with no knowledge of weaponry was someone with vague knowledge of how to swing a sword or wield a spear. Those idiots thought they knew it all.

Some tried to act superior to their less knowledgeable comrades, some tried to impress them with their skills. He beat that out of them rather quickly, either with words or, if need be, challenging them to a very short, very ruthless duel. He did not hurt them , not permanently, but fifteen seconds in the arena with the Commander of the Grey was enough to show them that they knew nothing of combat. Some days he found it easy to treat them with more care and gentleness. Today was not one of those days.

Still, everyone was happy now. They were ready, or as ready as they would ever be, to face the next weeks training exercises before the true initiation began; before the Joining commenced and they all bore witness to who would stay and who would run in the face of true horror.

The fire in his chambers was mainly blocked by the bulk of Shadow, lying before the blaze with her head neatly upon her paws, breathing deftly in and out as she slept. Not even his entering woke her. She had been with the hunting patrol all day, while he had handled the recruits, and, so he had been told, had brought in dozens of rabbits, pheasants, grouse and helped bring down a couple of dear before the darkness set in. She deserved her rest, Cousland thought as he fought his way out of his light and yet complicated armour, unlike myself.

He sat down heavily in the armchair, by his dog, and finally allowed the dark thoughts to rise from their isolated prison. What have I done that truly has a practical meaning such as hers? He thought dourly. What does this nameless war have to do with me? I kill and I fight and I keep others safe, all seems simple, and yet conversely I am forced to decide who lives or dies, who is saved and who is sacrificed, who is good and who is bad. What good am I in this, such grand plans? What good is some lost boy who, at the core of it all, can never truly let go of the family that was butchered or the brother who abandoned him?

I am not as I preach, Cousland thought as he stared into the flames and tried to will his muscles to relax, I am not detached and dispassionate. I am not a good leader except when I mimic what it takes to be a good leader. I am simply denying all of the blackness that makes up my being. I am nothing more than all that blood and gore that lined Highever's walls, no more than Fergus's blank stare. No more than the hideousness of war which I was exposed to so young, seeing those I barely knew slaughtered around me, seeing the darkest side of our own humanity rising up against us to devour the world itself.

In an oddly strange bout of lonely nostalgia he wished that he hadn't sent Nathaniel and his troops away to the North to investigate at the First Warden's demand. Howe would never have let him carry on like this. He would never have allowed him to fall further and further into such a black, brooding mood. In a way Cousland was already irritated enough that he had allowed himself to fall so far. He knew why, he knew what it was based in, but it was also something he was too deep in to easily pull himself out.

Cousland lifted his rights side slightly from the chair and reached into the back pocket of his under trousers to pull out the crumpled, creamy parchment he had stuffed there days before. He looked at it for a moment, running his eyes over the disfigured wax seal and the oddly yellow colour the material took as it was lit behind by the fire. The light turned it almost transparent. Through the fine, pastel glow he could make out the rough, rounded script held inside, the words jumbling over each other like confused beetles. He tried to narrow his eyes at it, he tried to lift his other hand, take hold of it and tear it in two, he tried to shout at it, he tried to unearth that normal, usual inflammatory ire which had always afflicted his personality.

It would not come. Instead he simply ran his thumb over the parchment with a familiar and yet entirely subdued sense of affection, before leaning forwards and throwing it into the fire. For some reason Shadow opened her eyes and snapped her head up, sniffing the air and watching the blaze as it consumed the parchment swiftly and greedily. Lien did as she did. They sat there, together, and watched the twisted and yet still recognisable royal seal of Therin bubble and hiss until its red wax became nothing more than fuel for the flames.


"I haven't the time for visitors," Cousland said roughly to the young Warden who had been sent to deliver the message, "tell her I'm busy."

The young recruit, only three months within the Keep's walls, obviously wasn't used to the Commander's rather blunt and dismissive behaviour when it came to authority figures. Especially when the person addressing her was still dressed in inappropriate sleeping clothes. The young woman stared back at the Commander, who was wearing only a lose shirt and his sleeping trousers, rubbing at the dark circles below his eyes, and did not seem to know how to respond.

"But Commander...sir," she tagged on the end, "it's the Senior Enchanter, how should I turn her away?"

"You do know there isn't a Circle here anymore," Cousland said cynically, raising an eyebrow, "she isn't Senior Enchanter any longer."

"But sir she was very insistent..." the young Warden said purposefully.

They always insisted, Cousland thought in annoyance. Why did everyone always think they knew better than he did? What use was his station if he couldn't command any respect from his own troops and have them, at least the basest rank of them, obey his commands without question?

"Fine!" he snapped out, interrupting her, "Fine, tell the old witch I'll be downstairs in a fucking minute. Honestly, can't get a decent lie in without someone turning up to..."

The rest of his rant was lost on the young Warden who received, wide eyed as she was, a door slammed in her face for her troubles. Cousland took two steps into the darkly lit bedroom before stopping. He surveyed the mess; the ruffled bed, his strewn clothes and his armour which he had neither cleaned nor put away with any respect, the papers he had taken out in a rage and thrown all over the floor while he drank from the, now empty, bottle of whiskey lying down beside the fireplace. Shadow was already awake, sniffing at the displaced items and wagging her stumpy tail when Lien trailed over to her side and reached down to scratch between her ears.

"I really am a fucking mess," he muttered bleakly, "Aren't I girl?"

The whine he received in reply was not reassuring. He dressed quickly and, even he would admit it, a little sloppily. He pulled on his Commander's cloak to hide his rushed appearance, even though it seemed a little arbitrary considering it was looking to be the start of a sunny day outside. The bright sunshine, which he found directly in his sensitive eyes when he pulled back the curtains, blazed down from a clear and blue sky. Wonderful, Cousland thought, just wonderful.

He found her waiting for him in the courtyard, holding herself as she always had, with dignity and poise while one of the young recruits, whom he remembered as being called William, brushed down her horse with the harsh and yet practiced strokes of a well versed groom. In fact he was sure that was what the boy had been before coming here. The only way he knew it was the Senior Enchanter's horse was because he didn't keep any white horses in his stable. Ferelden horses were naturally black, brown or a mix of the two; the only horses in his stable with any white were a few patchy Clydesdales which were used for hauling the equipment wagons. Her horse was a rather magnificent beast, by aristocratic standards; pure white and elegant, daintily poised on long, slim legs, giving it an exotic Antivan grace. Cousland did not approve. Give him a sturdy Ferelden cob between his thighs any day.

"So," he said as he wound his way out onto the muddy ground from the hard stone, "what brings you here? And so early, I might add?"

"Well, it looks like I should feel some sort of remorse for being so early," Wynne smiled benevolently as she eyed him closely, "you look as if you've had a long night Commander."

"Don't call me that," Cousland said gruffly, coughing out a rough something in his throat, "you know I hate it when you all call me that."

"Cousland then," she shrugged, her smile turning too mischievous not to give away her prior knowledge of his dislike, "Actually I was just dropping by on my way to West Hill, to continue with the relocation of the mages there."

"Horse shit," Cousland said coarsely, even as he gestured with his hand to invite her inside; she followed him demurely, seemingly used to his rough language even as she tutted at him for his conduct, "I know you were in Cumberland for the Circle meeting, don't give me any crap about stopping here 'on the way'. You could have taken a boat straight to West Hill, or even Highever if you wanted to get a little closer."

They passed through the narrow corridors of close stone, Cousland saluting the guards who stopped snapped to attention in their patrols when they saw him or who were simply there on duty. He could hear the sound of the new recruits in the training ground in the east wing of the Keep as they passed on their way to his quarters. Thalmur, the bladesman, a harsh instructor, could be heard roaring at them soundly. Cousland looked to Wynne while they walked; she seemed to be keeping her reply to herself until they were probably alone. He noticed her smile at the sound of the, mainly obscene, shouting. Ah you wouldn't be smiling if you were his target, Cousland thought wryly, the man scares the piss out of me most of the time.

They arrived at his quarters and he led her to the small sitting room that was situated adjacent to his bedroom. He had let Shadow out for a walk around the Keep, enough to keep the dog entertained, and she knew well enough not to get into trouble or get herself lost. Without her, however, the room seemed somehow empty and even more slovenly. Wynne noticed the mess the room was in, hastily and not very well cleaned before he had come down to collect Wynne, through the open door to his bedroom. Cousland walked over and decisively shut the door to the room before she could comment. He offered her wine or mead but she refused it; she accepted the water.

"So," he said with a sigh once they were both seated at the small table, situated by the rounded window on the far wall, "why are you here?"

"I was charged with delivering this to you," Wynne said as she reached into her robes, beneath her outer travelling cloak, into a small concealed bag; there was something about a mages' clothing which Cousland had always found fascinating, the way they stored so many potions, herbs and remedies in what seemed nothing more than a long dress. I suppose they have become accustomed to hiding what they own, he thought dryly.

What she handed to him sent an irrational and yet perhaps fitting jolt of anger and pain through his mind. The letter was written on parchment, yellow and thick, and was sealed with familiar red wax. His reaction was so instinctual, in fact, that the words he spoke were out of his mouth before he thought about the ramifications.

"Did Alistair ask you to bring this?" he asked tightly, his eyes narrowed and his fingers disfiguring the parchment as he almost crumpled it beneath them.

"No," Wynne replied softly as Cousland tried to take back his words; her voice was gentle and understanding, so much so that Cousland became instantly suspicious, "it's from a mutual friend in fact."

He wanted to tell her that there was nothing to worry about, that everything was fine, but he couldn't bring himself to lie so very badly to such a close friend. Also he was sure that his emotion, so repressed and hidden as it was, would surely get the better of him if he were to try lying. He had tried to lie to himself the night before and his ruffled, miserable appearance that morning had been testament to how well that had gone. Instead he simply brought the letter over to his side of the table and set about opening it. Truthfully enough the wax seal was blank, making his heart slow at least. When he opened it, however, everything seemed to simply skip back into the gear he had tried to remove it from.

It was a very short and hastily scrawled note in a familiarly messy hand.

Don't let it happen. You never let anything just happen.

Go and get him. You'll regret it for the rest of your life if you don't.

You're the strongest person I know.

I won't believe that you would give up until I see it.

A.

Cousland stared at it. Where had it come from, this burst of inspirational scribbles? How did he even know what was happening? Matter of fact, how did Wynne know? What was happening here, some sort of conspiracy?

"You know about the King, don't you?" was all Cousland asked, quite aware that his voice was a little broken as he spoke, and that he was now refusing to use Alistair's name; he cleared his throat and swallowed down the burst of confusion and emotion which had rushed to the surface as he read. Wynne nodded, "How do you know?"

"I...well, it was through an unlikely source," Wynne said evasively, "an old colleague of mine, from the Circle."

"But no one knows," Cousland muttered, half to himself, before he started to rant uncontrollably, "this is...this is not acceptable! No one is supposed to know about this, let alone be spreading rumours. It could cause an incident, Wynne, a huge incident if this were to become gossip among the people. Have you any idea how hard Ferelden fought to evade Orlesian rule? How much they still praise Loghain Mac Tir's name even after he was exposed as a traitor to the throne? How intense the rioting would be if they discovered even the hint of an idea that their beloved King was set to join hands and skip merrily into bed with Orlais? This is serious! If word gets out then..!"

When he stopped it was because he became aware of the increasingly sad and pitying look in Wynne's eyes as she watched him. He couldn't stand it, that she wouldn't listen to the reason behind the situation, that she could only see what was right in front of her, only see the emotional side of the argument. He was fine, he didn't need her pity! Couldn't she see that there was more at stake here? That the political ramifications of this break in confidence could completely ruin the fragile connection that the Ferelden royals had forged with the Orlesian Empress?

That this could entirely destroy the stupid, foolish and selfish schemes of an idiotic bunch of old men who were forcing Alistair to follow their political lead? What on earth am I worried about? Cousland thought angrily, his mind in turmoil, I hate their fucking stupid plan anyway! To suddenly fall under Orlesian rule, just as they had found their feet with the freedom Alistair had instilled in creating their own democratic space within the kingdom, felt like the cold hand of oppression simply closing around them again; and Cousland hated it. But Alistair, he thought desperately, imagining the violence, the mindlessness, I can't ruin this for...

He stopped thinking. His mind surged with crashing, conflicting waves of logic, reason and emotion. Not a single one of them won out. His mind seemed to go blank. He fished for a neutral topic upon the calm sea.

"Are you staying for night?" he asked all of a sudden; Wynne seemed thrown by his question but quickly recovered.

"Actually I was hoping to be on my way by before noon," Wynne said conservatively, seeming to notice Cousland's need for distraction, "I'm planning to take a leisurely ride to West Hill, it should take about five days I think. So I'd best be off as soon as I can."

Cousland nodded, feeling the saliva stick in his throat as he was forced to think of more unpleasant issues. He stood from his chair by the table and wondered over to the fireplace to construct the beginnings of a fire, so he didn't have to do it later on.

"You'll be stopping at Highever though, won't you?" he said off-handedly while he piled the kindling, although even he could hear the bitterness in his voice.

"Well, I'm not sure if..." Wynne started hesitantly but Cousland cut her off.

"It's alright to say," he bit out even as he kept his friendly tone, becoming well aware that he was being irrational; she didn't bring it up, Cousland reminded himself, you did. Just shut up now before you get yourself into an even bigger mess, "I mean, you should. I think Fergus would like that."

No, he though derisively, nothing is forcing you to think of it. You're just a glutton for punishment aren't you? Just shut your mouth if you can't think of something useful to say. He stood up once the piled wood was in place, brushing his hands off against his cloak. As he looked down into the cold hearth a thought blinked into his mind.

"So wait," he thought, with genuine curiosity, "when did you see Anders?"

"Oh, a week or so ago," Wynne said with a slightly odd smile, "in Val Chevin, actually."

"Val Chevin?" Cousland said in disbelief, "As in Orlais? That Val Chevin? What the flying fuck was he doing there?"

"As far as I understand it he was travelling," Wynne said vaguely.

"That bloody idiot," Cousland sighed tersely, "what was he thinking going that far out on his own?"

"Oh he wasn't on his own," Wynne corrected him quickly, "Serrah Hawke was with him."

Well I should have seen that one coming, Cousland thought with darkness in his mind, at least I should thank the arsehole for not letting him go off on his own like the irresponsible arse he usually is.

"That should have been more obvious to me I suppose," he muttered as he wandered back to the table but did not retake his seat.

"He did not seem exactly as hideous as you, well," Wynne smiled softly, "demonised him."

"Oh I'm sure he was very charming," Cousland muttered, shaking his head as he stared angrily at the table, "Bloody reckless pair of fools, the both of them. I swear if anything untoward happens to Anders and I find out about it, the Champion of Kirkwall won't know what hit him."


The letter stared at him accusingly. Cousland stared back.

The letter seemed to turn its back and fold its arms. Cousland sat back in his chair and snorted derisively.

The letter looked over its shoulder and its contents reminded him that he was making the biggest mistake of his so far fairly short but very eventful life. Cousland found he had no words or cocky gestures with which to disagree with it.

"Commander, sir," came the young voice from the doorway.

Cousland turned in his chair to face the door. He had been sitting in the main dining hall, at the head of the main table, empty but for the settings of rugged cups and plates and dull cutlery. The room seemed cavernous without the usually hustle and bustle of food being ferried in and out, without the constant stream of loud, obnoxious, concerned, happy, sad, sly, stern, bored, inquisitive and a myriad of other voices filling the dank silence in which he sat.

The door was open only a few feet, seeming heavy and solid like a wall within itself, bolted with thick rivets and dark, iron straps hammered into the wood. The young Warden, who had woken him a week before, stood just within the gap between the door and the wall. She looked at him with a strict sense of propriety and yet he could discern the concern in her hard eyes. He could hardly blame her, even if he would have loved to take his simmering anger out on someone, considering he had been acting very strangely ever since his last return from Denerim a full month ago.

"Yes Warden?" he said back, realising he still didn't remember the girl's name.

"Sir, Dewin Meris is asking for you," she said, keeping her voice level and straight; Cousland would admit to himself, later, that he really liked the way she held herself and the way she spoke.

As he walked down the long, deep set of spiral stairs into the Keep's extensive underground sanctum, he tried to force himself to remember to learn her name. There was something about her, she seemed like she would make a good Warden. More than most of the other churls he had been sent. Of which we will soon be either freed of forever or stuck with until the end, Cousland thought morosely. He chastised himself for the thought only moments after it had run through his mind. Fuck, when did I become so immune to the thought of death, Cousland asked himself, these are people, not cattle.

The sanctum was immense in length although low enough that you couldn't fit even a horse below the dirt ceiling; and yet, to Cousland, it still seemed less lonely and vast than the fairly small dining hall had. It was probably because this place was always empty, but for one man. The stubby pillars that lined the long expanse of emptiness, keeping up the flat roof and hiding the ornate walls into which were carved the legacy of the Wardens, stood gloomily just out of the reach of the burning torches which sat around the alter in the centre of all the pomp and ceremony. At the far end of the hall was a lone set of flickering lights, distanced from the sinister atmosphere of the alter space. Cousland walked towards it with no hurry to his gait, listening to the stilted echoing of his boots on the heavy stone floor, feeling the letter like an irritating lump in his back pocket.

"You wanted to see me, Meris?" he said once he had reached the other side.

Dewin Meris was not someone who, at that specific moment in time, Cousland wanted to see. The Warden was not a new recruit but he had only been stationed at Vigil's Keep for the past six months, transferred from Orlais, where he had apparently only been stationed for three months, before which he had been further north in an outpost near Wiesshaupt and many other posts before that. Although it only took one look at the man to see he wasn't someone who would exactly fit in; in fact it only took one look too see that he didn't exactly fit any description of any race in Thedas, despite informing Cousland that he was originally from Antiva. Cousland liked to foster the idea that Meris wasn't even of this earth at all, although even he would admit it was a little farfetched.

The Antivan sat, straight backed and unconcerned, at a large, ulcerated table, on which he was dividing up the hideous black blood of fresh Darkspawn. It had been brought in as a package, picked up by Hannir and Andrew from a set of Wardens returning from Orzammar, whom Cousland had sent for the very specific task of obtaining their blood for the Joining. It seemed grizzly to Cousland somehow that Hannir and Andrew were already carrying with them the instrument of the new recruits torture when they recruited them from their homes, before the very eyes of their parents and loved ones. Meris wasn't making the thought any easier to bear.

His hair wasn't black, per se, but it seemed to shimmer slightly blue in the candlelight, dancing about his eyes and ears. His eyes were black, even the whites were black, due to an experiment gone wrong or so Meris told him, and large like the elves were famous for. His face was slim and his features delicate, his lips thin and pale. His demeanour and his appearance would have been rather gothic if it hadn't been for the wonderful, bronze colour of his skin and the vividly dark, tribal tattoo which started at his collarbone and disappeared tantalizingly below the neck of his robes. Also the strange, almost incongruous smiles that graced his lips, usually at unwise or immoral moments, were another factor that stopped him from being stereotyped as the brooding weird man who sat in the basement creating spells and potions. Strangely enough Cousland couldn't tell if he was an attractive man or not; physically yes, personality wise...he had no idea. Sometimes he couldn't help but admire and appreciate Meris's dark and twisted sense of humour and other times it sent shivers up his spine. Still, Cousland thought, he's the best mage we've had since Anders was here, and probably, oddly enough, the one I would trust most after Nathaniel. When he asked himself why, most of the time he didn't have a good answer in reply.

"I remember when we had to hunt this down for ourselves," Meris said as he picked up a vial of sticky, dark blood; he started his conversation obliquely, as he usually did, "two of the recruits I travelled with died during the hunt. The other three were killed by the Joining. I was the only one to survive."

"Sounds familiar," Cousland said, folding his arms to stave off the chill of the stale underground air.

"You were also the sole survivor?" Meris asked as he replaced the vial into its wooden holder along with the others.

"Yes," Cousland replied, wondering why he was talking about a further depressing topic; this is what I get for continuing a conversation with him, he thought irritably, "although one wasn't killed fighting, he was killed trying to desert, when he learned the secret of the Joining."

"Ah, a wise man then?" Meris said, stealing out one of his sarcastic and yet disturbingly amused smiles, "I must say that the Warden sense of honour does nothing for effective breeding. If you aren't slaughtered for being smart you become infertile. Wonderful tradition really."

"Says the man who deals out the poison," Cousland said with a dry look and blank eyes.

"Touché, as the Orlesians would put it," Meris said with a shrug, "but we digress, I'm sure. Don't let my scintillating company distract you Commander, may we discuss business if you would be so kind?"

"Of course," Cousland said, shaking his head as he took the one other, rickety chair by Meris's table.

And they talked business, as Meris so tactfully put it. They discussed the time and the specifics of the procedure itself. Meris talked Cousland through any number of useful ways to keep control of the group when panic set in, which was a given considering the ritual could very well, and would very well, end in many deaths. Of course Cousland had done this before, quite a few times now, but it never became any more pleasant or simple. In truth Meris's low, rather sultry tone was entirely soothing as he suggested tactic after tactic of what could be considered crowd control. Then they repeated the words of the joining together, more as a way to put Cousland at ease, to distract him, than for any practical purpose. He knew the words off by heart without the mage's reminder.

It was as he stood to leave, stretching out the crick that had formed in his back as he sat tensely in the uncomfortable chair, that he let his mind wander back to the awful task that lay before him. You're not attached, he said again and again, they're just people you don't know, people who you have kept under your roof for a week alone. You should not care for them, you don't care for them. You can start all of that nonsense once they are initiated, the practical part of his mind told the emotional part, you can start to look after them once you know they aren't going to be dragged out and burned on a pyre.

The thought made his stomach churn a little. He let his arms drop as he stopped stretching out his back. A sound behind him like rustling paper made him turn out of vague interest. What he saw there made him blanch white. Meris looked up at him, a very sickeningly familiar letter resting open between his slender fingers. Cousland's hand immediately rushed to his back pocket which he found empty. His next move was to rush forwards and grab the note forcefully from Meris's hands, in which he found no resistance.

He wasn't sure what look his face was contorted into; he guessed a mix between mortification and sheer fury. He could feel the ire and lust for violence building up in his system, a mix of his own inflammatory nature and the repressed feelings he had been harbouring for weeks and weeks. Meris seemed to notice the impending eruption in Cousland's burning eyes and, as normal, opened his mouth and defused the situation with an entirely unexpected statement.

"It's good advice," Meris said casually, "Maker knows it isn't going to be enough for you to have only my wonderful self to look forward to every day. Something tells me that King Alistair is a far more tempting morsel. This A, as they call themselves, seem to know what they're talking about. You should go."

"You..! I mean what..?" Cousland bit out hesitantly through gritted teeth, his mind jumping about like a confused rabbit, "Meris you little shit don't read my letters!"

"You dropped it," Meris said, cocking his head as he returned unconcernedly to his work, "and it was open. I merely looked down at the words. It was subconscious instinct which took in the semantic meaning."

"Fucking semantic..!" Cousland shouted; his anger boiled over the top and, as usual simmered back down to a simple, confused sense of impotent irritation, "oh you better fucking think yourself lucky I'm in a good mood, mage."

"No you're not," Meris looked up at him with a frown, "I'd rather you didn't lie to me so blatantly. I'm good with people. I can read them."

"You're not good with people," Cousland informed the mage tersely, rubbing at his forehead and closing his eyes, "you've been transferred over six times in the last year because no one can stand to have you around them!"

"And yet I've been here for six months," Meris said as if he was only just now contemplating his situation; he looked up at Cousland with a strange look of affectionate wonder, "does that mean you like me, Commander?"

Cousland opened his eyes and looked at the large, dark eyes staring up at him. Meris, for once in the half year Cousland had known him, looked strangely innocent despite his unnerving eyes. The dark pools stared at him and Cousland, for some inexplicable reason, felt the need to smile. He reached down and scratched at his neck, shaking his head as the smile rose unbidden to his lips. He looked back to Meris, still sitting patiently in his chair, and licked his dry lips before answering.

"Yes Meris," he said, "it means I like you."

"...Oh," Meris eventually replied with a look of casual innocence, the succinctness of which made Cousland laugh a little at the strangeness of it all, "that's nice."

Lien left the sanctum with an oddly conflicted sense of what was right and what was wrong; of leaving well enough alone or of rushing into the situation like a reckless fool and making a mess of things like he normally did. Or perhaps that doesn't apply here, Cousland thought, perhaps there is no such thing as black and white when it comes to what you feel. You feel what you do without consequence, you do it because you know it is only yourself you are punishing with dark thoughts. But here, he thought, but here it is also another I am ruining with my apathy. How can he know what this means to me if I don't tell him? How can I expect Alistair to know that it's killing me inside to see him used this way, see him taken away from me while I just sit back and watch it happen?

How can I expect him to know unless I kick him in the fucking balls and remind him just how bloody irresponsible and cold hearted he is being? Yes, Cousland thought as he climbed the stairs, the air lightening and the sunlight filtering down into the stairwell. He looked down at the crumpled, yellow parchment which he still held in his hands as he stepped up and up and up.

Some advice was hard to swallow and, when told to you, seemed absurdly obvious and simple; and sometimes you still just had to take it. This, Cousland thought as he shoved the letter back into his trouser pocket, was one of those times.