Between Legends

Summary: Done for the dao_challenge prompt, 'Legendary'. Everyone's heard tales, legends of the Warden Commander. Few can say they've known him, personally. M!Cousland Warden. Between the legends lies the man.

Kellen had heard tales of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, a man who'd defied kings and the First Warden himself. A man who'd counselled the king of Antiva, who'd killed the archdemon and walked away to tell the tale, and then refused a summons to the Anderfels to explain his actions in letting the Architect live. A man who wielded the sword Vigilance which was said to burn with eldritch fire when darkspawn were near, who'd outmanuevered Teyrn Loghain himself on the battlefield and won.

A man who was supposed to be living in exile in the Anderfels now, above the tree line, in a small meadow where wildflowers grew, raising goats. Some stories said he'd passed into the Fade, while other rumours had him sighted in Antiva, in the Anderfels, as a lay brother in the Great Cathedral of Orlais.

When Kellen had asked the First Warden, the man had said, "A dangerous man. You're better off leaving well enough alone."

But when Kellen had pressed him, the First Warden had given in, and told Kellen about a small cabin, just above the tree line, and a sunny alpine meadow where goats grazed.

Zevran Arainai had heard tales of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, a man who'd defied kings and the First Warden himself. A man who'd counselled the king of Antiva, who'd killed the archdemon and walked away to tell the tale, and then broken the power of the Antivan Crows.

Zevran knew most of those stories were true; he'd been there for them. Matthias Cousland was an impossible man, and it took an impossible man to manage the impossible. Matthias had a way of doing that regularly.

Some stories talked about the Warden Commander entering the Fade to storm the gates of the Black City. That, Zevran knew at least, was false.

Matthias had the manners enough to take him along if he was going to do something as monumentally stupid as that.

He stared at the surveillance reports from his latest recruit and said, "Unacceptable." Watching the young man's face fall, Zevran thought that running the new Antivan Crows was just as fun as he'd thought it would be.

Matthias had given him that crooked grin and said, "You know you want to." It hadn't taken very much to talk Zevran into doing exactly that.

Sten had heard tales of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, a man who'd defied kings and the First Warden himself. A man who'd counselled the king of Antiva, who'd killed the archdemon and walked away to tell the tale. A man who'd stood on the farthest shores of the Tevinter Imperium and laughed in the face of the might of the qunari.

That last was a lie. Matthias Cousland had taken ship with him for part of the journey to Seheron. He'd spoken to the qunari warmaster, and they'd exchanged courtesies, and then the Warden Commander had left.

But Sten bore witness. He spoke to his people of the one honourable man he had met during his travels, the general, the warrior, and the man who saved a nation. The man who had somehow found Asala, his sword, even in his shame. The man who had given him a purpose again and had helped him fulfill his duty to his people, and who had then gone on to do his duty as a Grey Warden and lead an army to battle against the archdemon.

A man who had slain demons where the Andrastian templars had faltered, who was born for the sword and the blood and fury of battle.

Sten was not a storyteller. But still he spoke. And through his words, the story of Matthias Cousland told itself.

Leliana had heard tales of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, a man who'd defied kings and the First Warden himself. A man who'd warned and counselled the Empress of Orlais, who'd killed the archdemon and lived to tell the tale. A man who'd defeated the Empress' Champion in a duel and slain demons.

She'd told some of those tales herself, as she travelled across the world. She took a ship to the colourful markets of Antiva, walked the labyrinth of the Grand Cathedral in Orlais, breathed the cool, fresh air high up in the Anderfels, and took ship to wet Rivain. Matthias had accompanied her on some of those journeys, but in the end, he'd left.

Some stories she kept for herself; the way his grey eyes gleamed sword-silver in the moonlight, the feel of his callused hands, the way he strode and the easy way he laughed, the keen way he looked at her when she spoke and the quiet way he listened to her.

She told them about the Unbound, and slaying the creature that had told stories of unspeakable horror throughout the years, luring people to a back alley in Denerim that vanished upon its death. She told them about the battle against the high dragon, the way Matthias had slipped on the ice and how Sten had roared and slammed straight into the claws of the dragon, distracting it so Matthias could pull to his feet and break his sword by jabbing into its guts…

And how she'd shot an arrow straight into its mouth and Morrigan had cast a bolt of lightning at the same time so the creature had died as Alistair had swung his sword, aiming for its eyes.

It had happened that way. The tales took on a life of their own.

He left at the docks in Orlais. He said, "Thank you," and walked away.

Oghren had heard tales of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, a man who'd defied kings and the First Warden himself. A man who'd played the game better than most nobles in Orzammar and had put Prince Bhelen into power – and kept Bhelen's political enemy alive with just seven words. "You don't want an enemy of me."

Words no one would have spoken to the King of the Dwarves, yet the man had spoken them and he'd been spared. And Bhelen had been frightened. The Warden had stones, Oghren knew. It took stones to say that to a king.

He'd heard tales of the darkspawn the Warden had slain on the doomed quest to find the Paragon Branka to break the political deadlock and to set a king on Ozammar's throne. He'd stood before Caridin himself and claimed the Paragon's crown and the power to choose the next king of Ozammar.

Stone, they'd slain a broodmother, and earned the respect of the Legion of the Dead and Oghren knew just how Stone-blessedly difficult that was. The Legion respected nothing but strength of arms.

The Stone remembered and the Stone whispered memories of heroes to those dwarves who could listen. The Stone spoke of the Warden who had defied the unspeakable things lurking in the dark places of the Deep Roads, buried and bound beasts that time itself had long forgotten…but the Stone remembered. The Stone told of the Warden at the gates of Bownammar, smiting ogres with the great sword he bore, striding among the shades and speaking to them. Sending them on to beyond their rest with nothing more than steel.

"He taught me what it meant to be a warrior," Oghren growled, slamming the tankard on the table. "And that's more'n what anyone in Orzammar can say, understand?"

The younger Grey Wardens nodded, eyes wide.

Wynne had heard tales of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, a man who'd defied kings and the First Warden himself. A man who had stormed the Circle when demons and abominations had walked its halls and had cut his way through the corridors of gore and slaughter where so many mages and templars had died.

A man who had freed them all in the Fade on pure stubborn will and stared down and defeated a sloth demon that had them all bound. Matthias Cousland had saved the Circle, and they all knew it. He'd rescued First Enchanter Irving and slain Uldred who had been taken over by a pride demon, no less.

And he wasn't even a templar. He was a Grey Warden.

And he was a good man. An honourable man. The bards told about how the Warden Commander had struck down the traitorous teyrn of Gwaren. Few of them spoke of how Matthias Cousland had extended a hand to Loghain, trying to save lives even after the duel by enlisting Ferelden's foremost strategist in battle against the darkspawn.

Or how he'd talked a demon into leaving a helpless child alone, before he struck. Or doing the impossible: finding the Urn of Sacred Ashes, and walking the halls of Andraste's tomb and then running the Gauntlet, where they'd fought their ghostly doubles.

He was supposed to have died there, fighting the archdemon. She'd sensed his life ebb, and then seen the powerful explosion of Fade energies as he stood up, the air rippling about him with flows of power and then picked up a discarded greatsword, spun it about with a negligent gesture. He turned back to look at them once, his lips moving.

His eyes wept azure fire as he went in hard and fast; feinted and then slashed with a burst of speed.

And then the world exploded, like a blasting rune cast properly and then set off. It shimmered violently at the edges and they were all flung back in the burst of power. Wynne could sense nothing but an explosion of unfocused mana, the raw spiritual energies of the Fade untapped and untrained, like the material of the Fade without a mage's will to give focus and shape to it.

And then the death cry of the archdemon struck them all to their knees. The boiling mass of dark-and-scarlet up above in the skies slowly evaporated, and the spirit wrapped tightly around her whispered, listen.

And Wynne did.

These were what the stories mentioned, but could never really tell, she told her class of apprentices one day. Standing on the blood-and-rain-slick roof of Fort Drakon, and listening to the shout of victory, whispered in the death throes of the archdemon. Knowing that there was no way both of them had survived the final, fatal duel to the death.

Stumbling over to the piles and piles of battered and broken bodies to search for signs of life. And then his steel-grey eyes snapped open, burning bright cobalt.

Morrigan had heard tales of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, a man who'd defied kings and the First Warden himself. Stories, she told herself. They were mostly just stories. Flemeth had given her an appreciation for truth and tales and the grey dawn light that illuminated where they met.

Flemeth had taught her other things: that truth was best concealed beneath a compelling tale. Beneath lesser truths.

And so the tales were told, and written down. She headed north, before the passes would be sealed by the early snows, heading for the Free Marches…and whatever lay beyond. She thought she knew what she was doing. It hadn't quite gone according to plan. Not Flemeth's plan. Not hers.

She headed steadily north, miles and miles as the crow flies. And even there, they told stories of women and children and the man who had slain an archdemon and the Hero of Ferelden who led an army against the remaining darkspawn in Ferelden.

Amber eyes narrowed with concern, but it was none of her business, in the end.

He found her there, in the snow, just before the spring melt. He wore a thick, warm grey cloak wrapped about his shoulders, fastened with a pin in the shape of a griffon. Just leathers. He saw the direction of her gaze and made a face. "Too cold for armour," he said quietly.

He did not offer her the cloak. She would not have accepted it even if he had.

"Where are you taking the child?"

"North," she said, "And further still."

He stooped down to look at the infant in the bundle of cloth, and then observed, "The father does not know."

"No," Morrigan said, "And you will not tell him."

He regarded her, with those cold, quiet grey eyes, and the faintest spark of blue in their quiescent depths. He said, very slowly, "Will I?"

Shale had heard tales of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, a man who'd defied kings and the First Warden himself. It was peculiar, in the way the humans obsessed about it. It had come all the way to the village and awoken her, and then told her it released her, but she hadn't known what to do.

So she'd followed it into the forests of the elves, where the trees had claimed almost everything, even the stone. Its cause was hopeless, and yet still it fought. It told her one night that it would not know when to stop, even if it could.

Shale didn't think it really knew what it was saying.

It had freed Caridin, and for that alone, she thought to herself that the action deserved some gratitude. And then it had accompanied her to her thaig, and together, they squashed a path through the darkspawn that occupied her thaig and found the power-crystals. The thaig had little in the way of memories and direction, and the graven tablet brought back few memories.

It was said to have been made a Paragon by the dwarves, to be the closest friend of Lord Harrowmont and the greatest enemy of King Bhelen, yet the man who put him on the throne. Shale didn't see the difference between the two dwarves and did not care. In the end, they broke through the siege of Denerim and waylaid the archdemon on the roof of Fort Drakon. Its mind was broken, perhaps, in the way it thought about things and came at problems, and it had a messy way of leaving bodies in its wake.

But it had won, although Shale hadn't thought it possible. And after that all, it had asked her, "What do you want to do now, Shale?"

To her surprise, she had an answer.

Alistair had heard tales of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, a man who'd defied kings and the First Warden himself. There was even a story circulating his court, about how the Warden Commander had once gone looking for what he most desired in the Fade. To do that, he had to storm the gates of the Black City, and then he had to fight a demon to keep it.

They'd faced plenty of demons, and Alistair had spent most of the time wishing he was armoured by templar steel instead of just splint-mail. Slaying abominations was easy enough, but even he cursed inside his head when the demon slew Ser Otto with nothing more than a mocking pause for the mention of Andraste. And then Matthias had stepped forward and yelled and lying pinned, half-dazed on the floor and realising a pitchfork was protruding from his armour while Wynne hissed for him to stay still, Alistair thought he saw blue-white fire burning bright in a nimbus about his friend.

And then the demon shrieked and writhed and then dissolved away where Matthias' sword had cleaved it and Alistair found himself thinking Maker, and wondering if tales had more than just a little truth to them.

They'd been two of a kind. Alistair was a bastard, and wasn't even supposed to be king. Matthias had been the second son of a teyrn, the spare who was meant to become a bann, supporting his older brother. But that was where it ended. They'd trained in swordplay, but Matthias had been trained in strategy, in the arts of warfare, of ruling. He'd been used to the idea he might have to be his brother's steward one day, and he'd adjusted to it.

And then the night before the Landsmeet that would change the future of Ferelden, before Matthias called Arl Howe out and slew him on the floor before the Landsmeet, they'd sat on the roof of Arl Eamon's manor and just talked and Alistair had fingered his pendant. His mother's pendant.

Matthias had done that too. He'd repaired the damage done by Jowan. He'd talked a demon out of a boy and then struggled with it and broke it and won. For that alone, Alistair would have given him more than a quarter of his kingdom. His adopted family was all he had left.

And then Matthias had said, "I'm with you. All the way."

And Alistair believed him.

Velanna had heard tales of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, a man who'd defied kings and the First Warden himself. She'd dismissed it, as she did most tales of shemlen. The shems couldn't be trusted to tell a tale as it should be told, much less tell a tale that was true.

The shems were good at twisting words.

And yet he had come, the shemlen, with nothing more than truth. The darkspawn were changing. Had used them both. She led them into the silverite mines, and he fought his way out with nothing more than his wits, wearing the armour of the dead.

He was different, for a shem. The other Dalish had said that. His word was good. They talked about the Grey Warden who had come among the clans to slay the werewolves. Sarel of Keeper Lanaya's clan had spoken of the shem who had sat and listened to the tale of the fall of the Dales and left without a word. The shem who had succeeded where the strength of the clan's finest warriors had failed. Who had walked the forests as if he was born to it, and still submitted to the clan's sentries when they had challenged him.

They said he was of the forest, as few of the shems were, or at least he walked the Unseen paths in the Brecilian wilderness where none but the bravest of warriors set foot. He had a way of knowing, this warrior with eyes like mountain-ice.

She watched him fight; the way he effortlessly turned situations on his enemies, the way he won with words, without having to draw steel. They told stories about the Warden and his skill at a bow, though not all stories were true. She watched the way he set arrow to string and loosed. He took far too long in the gap between concentration and focus; seemed keen of eye but his arrows hit their target just as often as they strayed.

The shems were stupid. That was all she needed to know, and that wasn't enough. They told tales of the Warden Commander, of his honour, of the value of his word, of his sharp intellect and the fearsome enemy he made on the battlefield.

The soldiers at the Keep talked about how the darkspawn had cast themselves from the battlements when the Warden Commander fought his way through the Vigil with just two men and turned back the darkspawn onslaught. She watched how they stood taller, prouder when they stood in his presence.

He told her, one dark night at the campfire, just before the stars came out, "I will do what I can for Seranni."

She half-believed him when they stood across from her sister in the shadows and he quietly exhaled and said, "Yes," to the Architect.

Sigrun had heard tales of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, a man who'd defied kings and the First Warden himself. Word had spread from Orzammar about how he'd put Bhelen on the throne and yet protected Lord Harrowmont, ensuring a check on Bhelen's power in a single, swift move.

She cared little enough for Orzammar's politics. The Legion of the Dead were beyond such concerns, but even Kardol's men spoke of when they'd fought alongside the Warden Commander, first at the gates of Bownammar, and then on the surface, battling the darkspawn. Kardol had said, "He was a warrior with honour," and they all knew Kardol was sparing with praise.

She'd heard the stories, at the embers of banked Legion fires in the night about the Warden slaying broodmothers. They all had laughed in the nervous, speculative way of legionnaires who knew exactly how deadly and difficult to kill a broodmother was. Quietly, just to herself, Sigrun admitted the thought frightened her. The implacable man who strode unbothered into the dark places of the Deep Roads and battled the menaces he found and returned alive to the surface was a story. Just a story. Legionnaires knew the Deep Roads weren't easy to survive, Grey Warden or not.

And then he'd come, the Warden Commander himself. He'd said, "Come on," and kept walking, as if he'd expected her to follow. Much to her surprise, she did. She followed him against a pit of writhing broodmothers, long past when she'd expected to scream and throw up and run shrieking to somewhere where she'd forget about all of this for good.

She watched as he calmly collapsed the ceiling on the pit of broodmothers, killing them, and wondered what the stories would make of that. They'd have him wading into battle with the broodmothers, no doubt, like heroes.

And maybe they were heroes. There was something about him that made her want to stand her ground and fight like the legionnare she was.

In the end, Sigrun joined the Grey Wardens. And once again, she stood against a tide of darkspawn with a legion at her back.

This time, she did not run.

Justice had heard tales of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, a man who'd defied kings and the First Warden himself. Spirits heard whispers, even in the Fade, and once bound into Kristoff's body, he found himself curious about the world that lay beyond the vagaries of the Fade.

Men talked about the Blackmarsh, a place dessicated of life and drained of hope for years. The villagers had simply vanished one day; not an oddity in the war Ferelden had recently fought against Orlais…and yet. Demons, some said. Others said that there were unquiet spirits in the area and the Chantry should send templars to look into the problem.

But the marshes were silent and few returned.

The rumours flew wild, even before they'd returned to the Vigil. A woodsman, they said, had witnessed a great dragon crying out as the Warden Commander drove a huge sword into its rib cage. The dragon had taken to the air, spitting blue-purple fire but the flames had not touched the Commander. He had walked calmly through the parting sea of fire, untouched, unharmed, and driven the sword straight into the dragon's heart, and so deep that he could not retrieve it.

Others said the Commander had walked into the darkness of the marsh to quiet the spirits and to bargain with the demons. That was what his sword Vigilance was for, for ordinary steel couldn't have hoped to touch spirit-flesh. Some said the Blackmarsh was a doorway into the Fade; long ago rent by the Orlesian occupiers and that woodsmen could hear a woman's laughter, drifting on the wind. The Warden, they said, had entered the gateway to bring back a lost companion, and wasn't that his fellow Warden beside him?

The man had been half-devoured but the Warden Commander had him restored and brought him back, through the gateway, to the world of the living. Andraste herself had guided them, and he had found the lost sword of Hessarian.

Justice heard all these tales and more. What he saw with his eyes, Kristoff's eyes, was what he saw in the Fade. Deep cobalt-magenta, swirling heavy and faded. He stood in the fading twilight, the greylight of the two worlds, but there was another.

Later, the stories talked about the Commander carrying a ring of unrefined lyrium on a locket above his heart. In truth, the Commander approached him one day, and before he spoke, Justice could hear the soft, enthralling song from the closed gauntleted fist.

Despite himself, he reached out and turned over the Commander's hand and worked the fingers open, and there it was. A single ring of pure, untouched lyrium. Indescribably potent, and weaving songs of the Fade in delicate harmonics. He looked up at the Commander, whose face was expressionless, but he knew, and Justice said, "You can hear it too."

Nathaniel Howe had heard tales of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, a man who'd defied kings and the First Warden himself. He'd rehearsed the moment time and again in his head, what he would do, and what he would say. I am Nathaniel Howe. You killed my father.

And I'm going to kill you.

Some tavern stories had said the Warden Commander was ten feet tall, and could kill darkspawn by summoning bolts of lightning and fireballs. He had a great sword wrought of dragonbone, which was given to him by the mages of the Circle and enchanted to cleave through enchantment and made to bite as deep as the wind on a winter's night.

They talked about how he was another Teyrn Loghain, another cunning strategist who had sent the vastly outnumbered forces of Ferelden against the darkspawn and had managed to pull off a victory. They talked about how the Warden alone had rallied the pockets of resistance in the occupied city, how the Commander had carefully, neatly trapped the archdemon on the roof of Fort Drakon until the archdemon had no choice but to face the might of the Grey Wardens at long last.

And the soldiers talked about the trial of Arl Rendon Howe. They told about how the craven Arl had been called out for his treacherous slaying of the Couslands in front of the entire Landsmeet and had been challenged to justice by single combat on the spot. The Warden Commander had taken him easily, and executed him before the Bannorn. They mentioned, with satisfaction, how the Arl had tried to cheat in the match, and how the Commander had slain him anyway and claimed his rightful place as the teyrn of Highever, more than a match for Loghain's falsehoods.

The bards were making songs about it. As if there was little else to do.

It was easy to listen to the stories of the Cousland Warden. It was far more different to find his childhood friend sitting on the other side of the bars in the flickering shadows of the dim lamp, storm-grey eyes watching him. Waiting. Grim.

Nathaniel said, "You killed my father."

It was the same voice he remembered that answered him. "Your father killed my family." And then, later, "What will you do if I set you free?"

"I'll kill you," Nathaniel promised. "One day."

Matthias said, "Plenty of people have tried." In the faint light of the lamp, Nathaniel saw the outlines of the man's form waver for a moment, as if seeing indistinctly through smoke. So this is the difference between the stories and the truth, he thought to himself.

Sleet-grey eyes gleamed faint blue.

Anders had heard tales of the Warden Commander of Ferelden, a man who'd defied kings and the First Warden himself. He heard the stories left in the Commander's wake at the Circle, though the Commander had long departed by the time the templars had hunted Anders down and dragged him back to the slowly-rebuilding Circle, long before he had joined the ranks of mages mustered for the war.

At first, the stories were of the Hero of Ferelden. And then slowly, they changed. They spoke of the last descent of the Warden Commander, into the Deep Roads to fight the last pockets of darkspawn in Ferelden. They spoke of how the Warden had slain the leaders of the talking darkspawn and sent the darkspawn cowering in fear far below the surface. They spoke with wonder of the quiet in the Deep Roads, the trade between the surface and Orzammar now that there was little to fear.

Little to fear but silence. Shadows. Intangible things.

Dangerous things. Anders had learned respect for the claws of shrieks, and the way they blended seamlessly into the shadows.

There was a demon. There was always supposed to be a demon.

Anders was tired of being told there were demons everywhere he looked. Bards seemed to love tales of valour, of courage, of bravery and steel. And they loved stories about demons. None of them seemed to realise that the Commander was a dangerous man, the way he made people do what he wanted them to. It was words, in part, and sheer force of personality.

It was something that didn't belong, even in a tale.

There was nothing about defying the Chantry, for one. It didn't carry beyond the men, the way the Commander had stood up to the templars and demanded Anders' phylactery. It didn't carry, the way he'd challenged them to go to his immediate superior, the First Warden in the Anderfels if they wanted Anders back. And none of them spoke about the night after, the way the Commander had traced Anders' phylactery using his blood, and the way they'd swapped the phylacteries without the Chantry realising what had happened.

"We're alive," Matthias grinned, as they emerged from the ruins, tired, blood-caked, and dusty. "C'mon. Celebrate."

Anders knew what he meant. He glanced at the tiny vial of blood, the one he'd been keeping with him all this while. He let go, and watched it shatter into tinkling little pieces on the rough courseway.

And at last, for the first time, he was free.