[NEW!] Author's Notes: Hello all! It's been some time since I've updated this fic. I'm so sorry for the wait! Believe me when I say I'm still devoted to finishing this story! I heart Duncan, and I'm thrilled to see that there's so many more stories of him now!
Ahh, Duncan...you swarthy, commander rogue you~ X)
That said, I've re-written almost all of the chapters in some manner to fix grammatical errors and weird tenses, and just to add more to the scenes (thanks to those whom kindly critiqued my work). Hopefully this revision will make reading the story all the more enjoyable.
I'd love to hear your feedback and reviews on the story, so don't be shy!
Without further adieu~
Of Solace and Sacrifice
The sound of an arrow whistled cleanly through the crisp, Ferelden air before a distinct wood-braced thud hailed its impact upon an aging, weather-worn target dummy in the castle courtyard.
In the distance, a shout of jubilation from a young woman, echoed across the yard. The leather-clad archer let out a laugh as she approached the practice dummy, moving to stand next to her astonished companion. She smiled as she openly appraised her handiwork.
The arrow was lodged firmly between the dummy's eyes, or rather, what would have been eyes were there such indications on the pock-marked target.
She inclined her head towards the arrow and grinned cheekily, "Well now! I would call that a bulls-eye, wouldn't you agree Ser Gilmore?"
The flabbergasted knight stared at the lodged arrow with amazement. He hadn't expected her to hit the target at all, let alone hit it perfectly. He stroked his chin thoughtfully as a tinge of regret laced his voice, "It would seem so, Lady Cousland."
"...and?" The young woman prompted him with a sly grin.
Ser Gilmore returned an amused smile as he glanced once more at the target dummy.
It truly was a bulls-eye from well over one hundred and fifty paces. Such accuracy at so great a distance was unheard of.
The knight released a breathy laugh, born out of astonishment. With a smile, he pivoted towards Lady Cousland, and in a courtly bow placed a bracing hand against his chest. "...and you've won the bet."
Her brow arched in a playful look of satisfaction. "Well then Ser Knight...it would seem that you owe me fifty silvers, yes?"
Ser Gilmore spoke through a wide smile, as his arms tucked themselves across his chest.
"It would seem you need a lesson in humility, milady. Perhaps you would care to join me for a quick bout in the melee?"
Her light copper-colored eyes considered him thoughtfully, as she propped her chin against a curled hand. "Now, now Ser Gilmore. Let a lady savor her victory for a moment before wresting it away from her! I'm not quite ready to be embarrassed in the melee again so soon. I'll...ah, respectfully decline." she laughed.
The knight's eyes softened as he watched the young Cousland smile and return his gaze.
Avelle Cousland, second-born of the Cousland line, was quite simply...lovely. Her rich, brown hair fell below her shoulders, with a set of braids looped elegantly in a circlet across her crown. Her eyes were pools the color of summer wheat, with curves that could not be hidden under the weighted leather of sturdy, Ferelden armor.
Looking at her made him feel...light. He fought against the errant pull in his chest as it pounded nervously, heatedly, in place. Her playful gaze did more to unsteady him than he would ever care to admit.
He watched as a stray tendril of her hair came undone and billowed against her face.
He was completely lost in time, breathless in the gentile reverie.
"Ser Gilmore?"
The knight blinked, and his posture stiffened as he realized he was staring overlong.
He spoke quickly to hide his embarrassment, "Ah, my apologies! You know I only jest milady. I...ah...it's just such a shame for me to lose so decisively."
The knight looked at her for a heartbeat longer before pulling out a small purse of coins, extracting exactly fifty silvers. He moved towards her with coins firmly held between thumb and forefinger.
"Lady Avelle." He beckoned her to open her hand, to which she complied with an undeniably smug grin. "Congratulations on your well earned victory..." He leaned forward and added, "Mind you, I'll be winning this back soon."
With that, he promptly released the coins into her hand and stepped back.
"You are too kind Ser." Avelle provided a small curtsy and a gracious smile as she pocketed the winnings.
With a practiced ease, she planted the bottom end of her bow firmly into the ground, flexing the stave downward. "I'll have you know that this coin is going towards a very noble cause."
She sunk to one knee, as she worked to remove the string of her bow, releasing the tension off the stave.
"A noble cause you say?"
"Indeed! This will go towards a bet I have with Fergus. He claims that he can spit a chewed elfroot twenty-five feet on level ground, and I aim to prove him wrong."
Avelle shook her head with amusement at the thought of her brother sputtering in a cone of spit-laden green bits. She collected the coiled bowstring into a purse slung at her waist.
"A noble cause if I've ever heard one, Lady Cousland." Ser Gilmore replied.
Avelle grinned, "I thought you'd agree." She lifted herself off the ground and leaned back, with a hand placed against her stomach. "All this excitement has given me quite an appetite. I wonder if nan-"
"Your ladyship!"
A Cousland guard, dressed crisply in the white and blue tabard of Highever, quickly jogged towards them and stopped just short of the pair. He bowed apologetically. "Forgive the interruption your ladyship, but the teyrn has requested your presence in the main hall."
"The Arl has arrived?" Ser Gilmore questioned. "I suppose it shouldn't be a surprise, seeing how he is late by well over a fortnight."
Avelle slung her quiver across her shoulders. "Surprising...yet unsurprising." She commented idly. The young Cousland turned to the guard reluctantly. "Thank you for the message, tell my father I'll be along shortly."
"Yes, milady." The guard bowed once again before making a hastened march back to the castle.
Avelle quietly watched the figure of the retreating guard in the distance and sighed. "I hope that dreadful son of his isn't with him..."
Ser Gilmore's eyebrows lifted with amusement. "The lord Thomas does not please your ladyship?"
She soothingly rubbed a gloved hand against her temple. "He was half-drunk at the Denerim fair when we first met. It'd be a wonder if he even remembers who I am!"
Ser Gilmore looked at her with surprise, and spoke before thinking, "Lady Cousland, you don't do yourself a proper service. It would be hard to forget someone like you."
Avelle quirked her head to the side with a small, questioning smile. The faintest flush of color settled in her cheeks in a pleased blush.
Ser Gilmore was stricken with a quiet panic as he realized he had spoken out of turn. He amended quickly, "Ah, I-I mean your display at the marksman range at the fair had the crowd whipped into a frenzy. How could he have forgotten? Never a more skilled archer in all of Denerim for certain."
Avelle laughed. "You're overly kind Ser Gilmore," Her hand found its way to the knight's forearm, and she squeezed gently. "...as always."
Ser Gilmore was suddenly very conscious of the warmth of her hand, and the eyes that watched him.
His heartbeat quickened.
Her smile slowly faded, as she removed her hand, tucking it against her chest. Her eyes warily moved towards the direction of the castle. "I suppose I should make my way to the hall. I wouldn't want to give my mother another reason to flay me for poor manners."
Ser Gilmore struggled for words, still caught in the heat of that innocent touch. He hoped that their earlier exchange meant something. Anything.
He wished to ask, but his courage faltered. He nodded and fell into the same, tired pattern of knightly civility. He bowed formally and spoke, "Good luck then, milady."
The young Cousland smiled. "Many thanks." She tucked the ironwood bow beneath her arm and chuckled. " I shall need it if Thomas is there!"
With that, Avelle waved in farewell, taking reluctant steps towards the castle.
Ser Gilmore watched her retreating form, as a quiet sigh escaped his lips.
Unbeknown to the young Cousland, another, darker pair of eyes, watched the entirety of her display with keen interest.
.
.
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