Disclaimer- As much as I wish otherwise, I do not own DAO. I do not own any of the characters there-in, including the female Cousland origin character, though I would like to think my interpretation of her is my own. I expect and will receive nothing from this story but the joy of the thing itself. Nonetheless, I do work hard on my little stories, and I love them. Please don't repost or reprint them without my knowledge. Further, like all fanfic writers, I am fueled by reviews. If you like and want more, please encourage me by telling me so. If you see something you dislike or think needs to be fixed, I will be happy to learn...but please be gentle!
Note- This stand-alone is a fragment of what or may not eventually become a longer, more comprehensive fic. If I waited until that fic was in a condition to post, I would never post at all, and I wanted to post. This is a prologue chapter in the DA:O Fic Fragments collection, and fills in some background and events prior to Any Other Day.
Chapter-specific Note: Yes, I realize Gilmore tells Cousland he came to Highever (from elsewhere) as a squire, but, somehow in my own little world, it just didn't work out that way.
Title Origin Note: Northanger Abbey. "No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born to be an heroine. ...Writing and accounts she was taught by her father; French by her mother: her proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked her lessons in both whenever she could. What a strange, unaccountable character! — for with all these symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, she had neither a bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones, with few interruptions of tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild, hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the world as rolling down the green slope at the back of the house. ...But from fifteen to seventeen she was in training for a heroine…"
When a five year-old Elan Cousland accompanied her twelve year-old brother Fergus not only onto the Training Grounds, but into training, no one was surprised. In fact, given the time-honored tradition of women warriors within her family—hearkening back to a time even before the Throne itself, back, in fact, to the founding of the family itself by one such woman—it would have come as far more of a surprise if Elan hadn't been so determined.
As it was, the Master of Arms had been expecting this, and had a special set of practice weapons specially created to suit Elan's tiny frame ready and waiting. The men themselves were pleased and doting, looking on the presence of the teyrn's daughter in the midst as a boon, as if taking special time and care to play with this child in a way that was instructive without inducing either fear or frustration was a delightful game of honor rather than the nuisance most might have seen it as being.
At least at first. And by the time the novelty had worn off and the frustration might have set in, Elan was far too familiar a sight to raise much comment...and furthermore, she showed decided hints that, given time and patience, she might just develop the sort of formidable skills that had made her foremothers famous.
Fergus was a sensible lad, more than willing to see the men's favor of his sister as a sign they took her far less seriously than they took him. If anything, in fact, he was even more inclined to such habits than the rest, and took fierce pride in every parry and blow scored by his spunky, sassy, and adoring little sister. When all was said and done, he was absolutely delighted by her presence.
Even as she grew older and more skilled, it became obvious that Elan would never be a match on the field for men like her brother Fergus or his best friend, Gilmore, the Master of Arms' eldest son. At least, not using their methods. After all, she was not exactly broad-shouldered...or strong...or even tall.
Gilmore, in particular, began to fuss and fume about teaching her, worried she would come to harm, and the Teyrn would carve his hide. When he realized however, that none of his complaints, nor even his father's more gentle warnings, dissuaded Elan nor convinced her father to restrain her from the field, he felt it best to rethink his approach, and thus he began to think about hers.
She was small, and she must not be afraid to do what she could to even the playing the field. Even if this meant doing things that were...well...underhanded.
Her elbows were often at a perfect height to jab into soft and tender spots like armpits, kidneys, or stomachs...A good knee in the groin was more effective than any sword...though, for the sake of the Maker, she must remember to be careful not to break a bone on any heavy plate or mail! If her opponent got in close and tried to grab her, she could slam a foot down hard on his instep. If he was facing her, she could use the base of her palm, and strike upward, hard into his nose. If done particularly well or particularly badly, this might just kill a man, less often, but more usefully, it might break his nose. Even if his nose was sturdy, a solid blow would certainly sting enough to make his eyes water, and that might be enough both to loosen his grip and make it a trifle harder for him to catch her again. After all, if he couldn't see her, he couldn't catch her—or so they all hoped. Side kicks to the backs of the knees or roundhouse kicks to ass or stomach could really be quite excellent for throwing a man off-balance, particularly if he happened to favor a solid metal armor—plate or mail.
If she was small now and, in all likelihood, was going to remain small in the future, she must learn to use that to her advantage. To maximize her speed and her dexterity, to dart unseen places that someone larger or more ungainly would never be able to gain purchase without notice. She should always do her best to get the first strike in, and keep striking, without giving her opponent a chance to alter his defensive stance to an offensive one. And even if he didn't, she should do her best to stay out of reach...always out of reach... Move and parry, strike and kill—that was the new battle mantra Elan was given.
With that mantra, Gilmore, backed by Fergus and the Master of Arms, encouraged her to fight with what she had instead of what her enemies expected, and Elan was quite happy to oblige.
This approach eventually led the Master of Arms to begin asking Elan to demonstrate at random the latest dance step she had learned and then pushing her to work that step into her sparring exercises. At first, Elan hated him for this, but at some point she couldn't quite identify, it had begun to seem so impossible it was funny, and then it began to be less impossible and simply fun...and then suddenly it began to be very, very effective...to the point that she eventually fought Fergus to the floor...and no one was more surprised than Elan herself. This made the Teyrna Eleanor even happier than it made her daughter, as Elan slowly stopped avoiding dance lessons in favor of slipping off to the kennels instead...though, somehow, more time spent in dance lessons didn't seem to add up to less time spent in the kennels when all was said and done.
Teyrn Cousland hired a troupe of tumblers to provide part of the necessary entertainment for the festivities when Fergus married. Something about the way they moved struck a chord—mingled notes of surprise and recognition –with Elan, who cornered her father and demanded he convince the tumbling troupe to tutor her. The teyrn was more than a little dubious, but his daughter was so vibrantly excited, he couldn't quite bring himself to refuse...though the teyrna did fret that Elan was still several years from coming out and already developing a bit of a reputation for being eccentric.
The tumblers remained at Castle Cousland for a year. By the time they left, it was a regular occurrence to hear members of the household shriek in startlement as Elan materialized in their presence, previously unseen and unheard. The Master at Arms himself had a much harder time tracking her steps in the midst of the bout...and she could also do some quite interesting jumps, spins, and rolls, but most of those she held in reserve for keeping her nephew, Oren, entertained...or for the occasional rowdy evening drinking with her brother and his friend. Their friend, really. Her father had to admit he had spent his money and influence rather wisely—if oddly—after all.
At first glance, or, rather, at first audience, Orianna seemed so damn proper and demure it almost set Elan's teeth on edge, but, somehow, the way Orianna's cool and composed voice and steady composed eyes gleamed with mischief around Fergus warmed Elan to the heart.
Even so, Elan was a bit nervous when Fergus married, afraid that perhaps he wouldn't be quite so much hers anymore, and perhaps he wasn't...not quite, but, as it turned out, that was okay, because instead of just losing some of the time and attention Fergus used to give her, Elan found she gained time and attention as well, from his new bride, Orianna.
Sometimes, when it was too damn cold to go to the kennels, as she always did, Elan would have tea with Orianna, and Orianna would tell her about the shores of Antiva, where women were just as dangerous with poison and words as Elan and her mother were with weapons.
It wasn't until much, much later Elan discovered how much she'd learned on those frosty afternoons without even realizing it, let alone understanding the value of what she'd been given.
Life couldn't be all about swordplay—or even about swordplay and wordplay. There were also endless lessons. Elan didn't mind history so much, as it was very much a series of stories, something her early years with Nan had predisposed her to enjoy, and even to appreciate. Many of the stories of which history was composed were rip-roaring good, though just as many were really rather lame. She wished fewer of the boring ones were about the Chant. She knew she ought to be interested, and was rather afraid her desperate desire to yawn might border on sacrilege. Oh, Andraste was all right, but so many of the other parts of the story were just so full of rules—and judgement...but, really, what drove her crazy and sent her running to the kennels...well, that would be the rules.
Which meant that she really, really hated it when her mother decreed she had reached an age where she could no longer avoid taking lessons in etiquette. Elan probably would have murdered her etiquette teacher, in fact, if she hadn't happened to love her so damn much...which was no doubt why Mother had insisted on teaching Elan herself to begin with. She was wily like that, Mother was.
Father taught her things, too. He taught her military tactics and strategy, though Mother—who had really handled Elan's lack of interest in hair-dressing, gowns, jewelry, embroidery, musical instruments and the like quite calmly—had protested at that. Oh, it was well enough in the mists of history, but Fereldan was—finally—at peace, and for once, no one needed to lead an army, not even Father or Fergus, let alone a girl who ought to be preparing for marriage. Family pride or not, Mother said, surely no suitor was going to appreciate a bride who was more prepared—and perhaps better suited—to lead an army than he was?
Father laughed and reminded her that just because Elan could lead an army didn't mean that she would want to try. She usually spent most of these lessons scowling and huffing heavy sighs. But, she was a Cousland, and Couslands always did their duty, and Mother knew just as well as anyone—and better than many—that in order to do one's duty, one must always, always, be prepared. Particularly for the unexpected. And Mother must have agreed. Because the lessons continued.
Father must have agreed with Mother, too, however, because the lessons in tactics were few and far between. Occasionally, instead, he would talk her with him on tours of the estate, or on visits to the most local of the Banns, and taught her to interact with the Banns, their wives and children, the stewards and seneschals that cared for the land. He taught her to keep accounts, which she hated nearly as much as she hated etiquette. Much more often he taught her about various laws and customs of the land, and how they dictated she should behave, and how she should uphold them, and how to decide whether or not they were just, and what to do if she thought they needed to be changed.
In other words, he taught her what her duty was and what it would be, and how she would be expected to do it, though, if she married her duty would be done somewhere else...and, as a result, might not even be the same or meant to be done in the same way.
The frustration of that thought sent her back to both the kennels and the training grounds, again and again. Elan Cousland liked her life as it was. She didn't particularly want it to change.