Title: The One that Stayed
Summary: For some, the Blight ended when the Archdemon lay smote upon Fort Drakon. For Ruairidh Cousland, it will never be over. Nightmares of the battle haunt him at every turn—nightmares that his brother-in-arms should share. But Alistair vanished after the Landsmeet. Now Ruairidh Cousland means to find him, and share in full the horror of the Archdemon.
Principal characters: m!Cousland, Zevran, Alistair
Genre: Hurt and betrayal, romance, friendship
Chapter: 1
Word count: 1689
Notes: Ruairidh is a Celtic name (keeping in the Cousland name theme) that is pronounced RO-urree. Also, I would love a beta reader if anyone has interest and spare time.
It was easy to forget how young Ruairidh Cousland actually was. Zevran had only ever seen him with a full, dark beard before the Blight, and he had assumed that it was the facial hair that matured the young man's face. But as Ruairidh Cousland stood before him now, clean-shaven, he realized it was something deeper. A heaviness weighed in Ruairidh's grey eyes, as if he'd lived a thousand summers. Ancient eyes. To have them upon you for too long was unsettling, and Zevran Arainai was not one to be easily ruffled.
Presently, Ruairidh was staring at him, like a wolf might a rabbit. The young man looked hungry, violent even, despite his new civil style. Since the end of the Blight, Ruairidh had been relieved of his boiled leather and plate, instead given velvets and silks. He did not look happy in velvets and silks, and Zevran had no doubt this was contributing to his frustration. The young man had been sullen, bordering on depressed, for the past few weeks, and now it was coming to a head.
"If looks could kill, yours certainly would. Alas, you may have to draw your sword, my lord." Zevran flashed a quick smile as he bowed.
Cousland looked away with a snort at Zevran's remark. "I am no lord, and I have no desire to kill you, Zevran. Not anymore, at least."
"I am flattered, truly. But I fear you are indeed a lord, for the queen's word is law. Who am I to contradict her Majesty? A teyrn you are, Bryce-son."
"Anora cannot violate Grey Warden law as she pleases in order to give me an unwanted title." Ruairidh turned to glare out the bay window of his bed chamber, some fifty feet above the reconstruction of Denerim. He did not need to add that there was little left of Highever over which to rule.
"She can, and she did, my lord," Zevran replied carefully. "But I suspect that this is not what has been troubling you of late. Your appetite is infamous, yet I have not seen you once take dinner. Words would never keep you from a meal."
Cousland did not immediately answer, instead studying the scene below intently. Most of Denerim proper had been turned around quickly, and a good portion of the shops and houses had been rebuilt in the noble district. But beyond the window's view, the Alienage remained in ruins without any government assistance. The idea of the elves living in the Blight's destruction was not improving Ruairidh's mood, so he faced Zevran again, crossing his arms.
"Do you ever think of old jobs?" Ruairidh asked. "That is to say, do they stay with you?"
Zevran was not quite sure what the Warden wanted as an answer. "Some of my work remains more poignant in my mind than others," he tried.
"But, do they stay with you? When you're talking to me, as you are now, are those jobs with you?"
"Do you speak of nightmares?" Zevran's brow knitted. While Ruairidh was tight-lipped, Alistair had talked at length about the Grey Wardens—at least, when he had ale in his hands. Zevran knew the grave significance of nightmares for the Wardens.
Cousland frowned, struggling. "Not exactly. It is not only in sleeping, but in waking that I speak of. Things that keep the mind occupied."
That was something Zevran understood. In Antiva, they called it solciomi. He did not know a Ferelden word that quite encompassed the whole meaning. Solciomi could be experienced in love, anger, fear, and sorrow, as those emotions manifested in the mind's eye. Zevran's longing for the familiar had been touched with solciomi, and it had manifested in his love for Antivan leather. "Haunting thoughts," he murmured, and Cousland nodded his head.
"The Archdemon is with me. He sits on my shoulder during the day and breathes fire on my neck. At night, he claws into my dreams and makes hellish walls of magma and stone. And always, I can feel his bite crushing my chest tighter and tighter until I am breathless." Ruairidh's face was pale, his hand clutching at the healing wound on his breast. "I have felled men and even more Darkspawn, yet they never burned me as the Archdemon does now."
Zevran placed a hand on the Warden's shoulder. "And this is what ails you, my friend?"
Cousland put his own hand over Zevran's, a rare moment. "May I be frank?"
"Of course."
"I should not be the only one with this plague. It is a Warden's duty to slay the Archdemon, which Loghain did with honor. But there should have been three Wardens on Fort Drakon for that battle, and there should be two living now with the Archdemon in their breast."
"Alistair."
Ruairidh's face crumpled, his eyebrows knit. "Yes," he hissed. "Alistair. I carry this burden, but it could have been shared if that craven had upheld his duty. He should have equal part in this pain. But he fled, and I remained, and now it is I who must suffer for it. I cannot sleep, cannot eat, cannot even think. And that cursed wound on my chest won't close."
Mention of the injury set Zevran's imagination to work, as it always did. Cousland had forbade him from joining the battle on Fort Drakon. He'd only allowed his Mabari, Sten, and Loghain to accompany him, and they had paid the ultimate price. Ruairidh had not spoken of the battle in detail except to Anora and her court when she'd demanded it. The account had quickly circulated like wildfire, although each time it was told it gained new embellishments.
What remained with each telling was thus: Sten had fallen first. He'd blinded the Archdemon with a thrust of his great sword, but the dragon had smashed him full in the plate with its tail, sending him reeling off the tower. Ruairidh had been baiting the beast, setting Loghain up for the killing blow. But in its blind thrashing, the Archdemon had knocked Cousland from his feet. He'd stabbed its forked tongue and the roof of its maw, but the dragon would not be deterred from snatching him up and piercing armor and flesh with its searing teeth.
His screams had incited his Mabari, which had launched itself at the Archdemon's weak under throat in defense of its master. The hound's vicious tugging and tearing had finally gotten the dragon to release Ruairidh, but the Archdemon had no sooner released Cousland than it unleashed a river of hellfire from his maw to consume the dog. It was at that moment, as the Archdemon was turning to finish the young Grey Warden, that Loghain struck, driving his blade between the dragon's vertebral column and its skull.
Zevran recalled the bright light coming from the top of the tower, a beacon of victory. At that signal, the men had started cheering. But the assassin's heart had stopped. He'd thrown down his weapons so that he could run faster, and made for Fort Drakon. Apparently that beautiful victory light had transferred from the Archdemon and into Loghain, killing him instantly. Survivors of the queen's army that had been battling their way back into Fort Drakon arrived at the top of the tower first and found the only survivor, Cousland, unconscious and crushed, crumpled near the dragon's massive corpse. His entire rib cage had been shattered, most of his internal organs punctured or ruptured. Zevran arrived at the top of the tower as healers were beginning to pry off his deformed plate and leathers. Twenty bone-deep tooth marks wrapped around his misshapen torso in a perfect crescent. Fresh blood painted his flesh, and violent bruises quickly flowered all over his skin.
"These injuries would have killed a lesser man," an elderly healer had told him. "The lad is lucky to be alive."
Zevran had numbly agreed with him at the time. Now he was not so sure. Some wounds never healed.
The assassin sighed, freeing his hand from Cousland's to stroke the man's smooth cheek. "I should have been there with you," he murmured.
"You'd be dead, Zev. And then your debt to me would be paid. I cannot abide losing free service while it's in my power to do something about it." Ruairidh was not sentimental, but ever practical. He did offer a grim smile, which was more playful than he'd been of late.
"Your concern is truly touching," Zevran answered, "I don't think I ever fully repaid you for it."
Cousland's grey eyes searched the assassin, questioning. But when the other man went to plant a gentle kiss on his lips, his question was answered. Ruairidh slammed the elf into the nearest wall and began deeply kissing him with fervor. He had been bed-ridden for two months, and he had been confined to the great hall and his bed chamber another month. The first two months, he'd been as weak as a kitten, and sex had been a laughable notion. The third month, though, he was feeling strong enough to enjoy himself a little. But Zevran had acted the chantry boy, and denied him at every turn.
"I have been in agony," Zevran moaned as Ruairidh bit and kissed the curve of his neck. "It has been simply tortuous. Three months without a body writhing with my own—I am a fiddle in need of tuning."
A deep growl reverberated from Ruairidh's throat, which turned into a chuckle as he continued his ministrations to Zevran's pointy ears. "The queen has many fine fiddle tuners in her employ. They could have seen to your instrument."
"Ah, yes, this is true," he hissed, arching into the heat of Ruairidh's body. "But our orchestra must suffer in solidarity; I cannot get tuned while you remain dusty."
"That savors strongly of commitment, Zev," Cousland warned, backing him toward the bed.
The assassin laughed. "Fear not, my dear Warden. I am only committed to your bow on my strings." He collapsed onto the bed under the weight of the warrior man, and allowed himself to get lost in the warmth of the embrace.