This one's a monster- big and scary. I know the first few chapters follow the game almost to the word, but that should lighten up once our hero is out in the world and there's less chatting and more fighting and gameplay options.
Currently rated T, but it may become M as the story progresses.
As one last note, I am following the human noble storyline, but I am not using the default name of "Aedan." One, because every single other story on this site about the male human noble calls him that and I'd like my story not to blend in with the crowd, and two, I just don't care much for the name. Instead, his name is Derek. Maybe I'll explain why later.
Please read and enjoy. And do review! It helps me improve as a writer, and it motivates me to keep writing. Thank you.
oooooooooo
It was horns at the gate that woke him. Startled by the sudden noise, he jerked out of his slumber in time to hear a man outside calling out "The Arl of Amaranthine has arrived! Inform the teyrn!"
"Maker's breath," Derek murmured to himself, and rolled out of bed, pulling on a shirt and pantaloons hurriedly. As he did, he peered out the thick, rippled glass of his window to the courtyard below. Drill sergeants had the recruits hacking away at straw dummies with dulled swords, and to the side, archers were launching volleys of arrows at targets against the stone bulwark. Between them, platoons of soldiers already geared up and prepared for deployment were marching in and out of the yard. A procession of soldiers with the crest of Amaranthine approaching the keep marked the coming of Arl Rendon Howe, an old ally and friend of the family. It was late; noon at least. An unexplainable dread in the pit of his stomach had kept him turning all night long, and he only fell asleep a few hours before dawn. It seemed he had overslept because of it. A lot.
"Maker's breath!" he repeated more vehemently. His father was amassing an army for the King to fight the darkspawn that plagued the land, and his brother Fergus would be leading the force. Of course, his father had requested that Derek also help, and he was only too eager to assist. He was supposed to be there to greet the arl. And, of course, he was caught asleep in nothing but his smallclothes when the man arrived. Cursing his bad luck, he cinched his belt and began fastening his light leather armor over his underclothes with haste.
There was a knock at his door just as he was fastening the straps that held his twin daggers at his back. In came an elf servant, a light lunch of cold ham and bread on a tray in his hands. The elf placed them on a small table, and addressed Derek. "M'lord, Teyrn Cousland requests your presence in the hall, and the cook wished me to tell you that your hound is in the larder, again, ser. She's very angry, ser," he added as Derek wolfed down the pork. Mouth full, he turned to the servant.
"Of course she's angry. When isn't she angry?" The elf wrung his hands, unsure of what to say, but Derek swallowed, and spared him by continuing. "Thank you for letting me know, Merys. Tell her I'll retrieve him when I am able."
"Yes, ser," He said, and vacated the room. Derek left only moments later, jogging down stone corridors until he reached the great hall, where his father would doubtlessly be receiving the arl. He burst through the door to see his father standing next to a thin, graying man, laughing heartily. When he saw Derek approaching, he turned to him, still smiling from whatever joke the young noble had missed.
"I'm sorry pup; I didn't see you there. Howe, you remember my son?" He tuned to the other man, who fixed his beady eyed gaze on Derek.
"I see he's grown into a fine young man. Pleased to see you again, lad," the arl drawled. If he was pleased, he didn't show it. Derek nodded nonetheless. He had never found the man to be very pleasant company, but he was friends with his father and a great war hero, and that garnered the son's respect.
"And you, Arl Howe."
"My daughter Delilah asked after you," Howe continued. "Perhaps I should bring her next time." Derek arched an eyebrow.
"To what end?" Delilah was fair enough, he supposed, but she was much younger than Derek, and he didn't care much for her rather opinionated attitude. More than that, she didn't care for him- in fact, she probably disliked Derek more than he disliked her. The teyrn's son doubted she had asked after him at all, unless she was fishing for news of a grave illness or hunting accident. No, Arl Howe and Teyrn Cousland had been trying to arrange a marriage between them for years, and both children were tiring of their efforts to bring them together.
"Ha! 'To what end', he says! And so glib. The boy's a whip, like his father," Howe exclaimed. Bryce Cousland smiled slightly, and waved a hand at his youngest.
"See what I contend with, Howe? You can't tell my fierce boy anything these days, Maker bless his heart." There was still laughter in the teyrn's voice, Aidan was surprised to note, what with Fergus leading his army into battle. Was his father really so confident that the darkspawn could be easily defeated? All the tales Derek had been told before now suggested the contrary, that great warriors fell like any other before them. He worried for his brother.
"As uniquely talented as his father, I'm sure," Howe stated.
"At any rate, pup," Teyrn Cousland said, growing more businesslike by the second, "I summoned you for a reason. While your brother and I are both away, I'm leaving you in charge of the castle."
Derek blinked, unsure of what to say. Part of him had hoped he would be taken along into battle, but he knew better than anyone that his skills weren't suited for army tactics. He was no sword toting, armor laden paladin like Fergus was; rather, he preferred some well oiled leather and a pair of daggers for quick, precise blows. He wasn't above 'cheating' either, as some of the Highever knights put it. A handful of dirt in your opponent's eyes certainly makes fighting them easier, and in Derek's book, it is more important to live to fight again than to fight 'clean' and die. Unfortunately, his methods required room, and when you're packed like sardines with hundreds of other warriors… No, it was better he was not on the front lines. However, was he really suited for a task like managing a castle? His skills were better put to use as a tactician or scout, surely.
"Are you certain?" he asked dubiously. "What's involved with such a task?"
"Only a token force is remaining here, and you must keep peace in the region. You know what they say about mice when the cat is away, yes?" So it was a tactical job, after all. Still, it sounded a lot like he was being put carefully on a shelf so as not to be harmed. Derek started to protest, but his father cut him off. "There's also someone you must meet. Please-" Bryce Cousland addressed a guard standing by the far wall."-show Duncan in."
A moment later, the party was joined by an aging man in armor not dissimilar to Derek's, though clearly of higher quality. Two blades were fastened to his back, and the Teyrn's son wondered vaguely if their fighting methods might be similar. He had the air of a seasoned veteran, but it was clear that he still had the strength to fight- and win- many more battles to come.
"It is an honor to be a guest within your hall, Teyrn Cousland," the stranger said. His voice was deep and sure; a voice men rallied to and followed to war. Was this man a general, a commander? He was no noble; Derek would have recognized him from the functions his father had made him attend. Arl Howe, however, seemed to know of the man. He was visibly flustered.
"Your Lordship, you didn't mention that a Grey Warden would be present," he whined. So the man was a Grey Warden! Derek had only ever heard of them, and mostly in old tales dating back to the third Blight. Never had he met a Warden before, but then again, they had also been banished from Ferelden until he was a toddler. There weren't many around to be seen. Perhaps that explained the alarm Derek heard in Howe's voice and saw etched into his face. Howe had always been wary of foreigners, and when he was younger, Wardens were called traitors to the throne.
"Duncan arrived just recently, unannounced. Is there a problem?" asked Teyrn Cousland, eyes slightly narrowed.
"Of course not," Howe was quick to reply, "but a guest of this stature demands certain protocol. I am… at a disadvantage."
"We rarely have the pleasure of seeing one in person, that's true. Pup, Brother Aldous taught you who the Grey Wardens are, I hope?"
"They're an order of great warriors," Derek replied simply, hoping to hear more about the battle plans rather than discuss ancient history.
"They are the heroes of legend, who ended the Blights and saved us all," his father elaborated, as if trying to highlight the importance of this guest to his son. "Duncan is looking for recruits before joining us and his fellow Wardens in the south. I believe he's got his eye on Ser Gilmore," the teyrn added, almost as an aside. Derek and Ser Gilmore were friendly, and sparred together often.
"If I might be so bold," Duncan interjected, stepping towards Derek and appraising him, "I would suggest that your son is also an excellent candidate." This surprised the young noble. Him, a Grey Warden? He couldn't imagine it, nor did he particularly want it. Yet, a great deal of honor was attached to the position, and he would certainly never come to much as the younger son of the teyrn. The teyrn himself seemed unhappy with the concept.
"Honor though that might be, this is one of my sons we're talking about," said he as he moved in between his son and the Warden.
"Is there a reason I shouldn't join them?" Derek asked, more out of curiosity than interest. The arl chose that moment to speak up again.
"You did just finish saying that Grey Wardens are heroes, old friend."
"I've not so many children that I'll gladly see them all off to battle." So the truth comes out, Derek thought to himself. That'll be why I'm to stay at the castle, then. He was both annoyed and touched. He could manage himself in a fight, he wasn't some Orlesian maid. Then again, his father wanted to keep him safe. "Unless you intend to invoke the Right of Conscription…?" added the Teyrn as an unpleasant afterthought.
"Have no fear," Duncan relied, holding up a hand as if to brush away the tension in the air. "While we need as many good recruits as we can find, I've no intention of forcing the issue." This seemed to appease the Teyrn, who addressed his son once again.
"Pup, can you ensure that Duncan's requests are seen to while I'm gone?"
"Don't strain my abilities or anything."
"And don't strain my patience," Bryce snapped back. "In the meantime, find Fergus and tell him to lead the troops to Ostagar ahead of me." Derek arched his eyebrows. There were servants and soldiers everywhere that could carry that message.
"Are you trying to get rid of me?" His father, the arl, and the Warden all stared at him.
"We must discuss the battle plans in the south. Be a good lad and do as I've asked. We'll talk soon."
Of course, just as things were getting interesting. It figures, Derek thought bitterly. I wish he would include me in more. Must I always be left in the dark? Before he left, though, he paused to talk to the Arl.
"Yes?" The man asked impatiently when he saw his friend's son still standing before him.
"I just want to wish you well, Arl Howe."
"I… thank you. That is… quite unnecessary." Derek frowned. Something felt amiss, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Shrugging the feeling away, he nodded to the arl and the Warden, and began heading towards Fergus' family's quarters. Behind him, he heard discussion of strategies begin, and wished he could join them instead. Still, he wanted to see his brother before he rode off with the army. Plus, there was still the matter of his Mabari in the kitchen to deal with.
Remembering that, he paused, and turned around, opting to take the long route and pick up the hound along the way. He strode quickly down the cobbled path, following the distance sounds of his baying war hound and the shrieking cook. As he neared the kitchen, though, a familiar knight came up to him, begging his attention. It was Ser Gilmore; a knight of good standing and skill, and a close friend of Derek's. The young knight had lived at the castle for several years, and he and Derek had grown up together. Still, though, Ser Gilmore insisted on the formalities, and refused to call him by name, opting instead for "My Lord." It had always irked Aidan. Such protocol had always seemed like a waste of energy to him.
"There you are!" exclaimed Gilmore, with the air of one who had searched the entire castle fruitlessly for him. He probably had. "Your mother told me the teyrn had summoned you, so I didn't want to interrupt."
"Good thing, too, considering Father's company," admitted Derek, adjusting one shoulder pad. He had been in such a rush this morning, they were somewhat ill-fitted at the moment.
"Yes, I saw the arl arrive," Ser Gilmore replied. He paused when Nan gave out a particularly loud shriek. "I fear your hound has the kitchens in uproar once again. Nan is threatening to leave." There was a hint of a smile on his face, but only a hint. He took his job very seriously.
"Oh, Nan is just blowing off steam. She's always been like that."
"Your mother disagrees. She insists you collect your dog, and quickly. You know these mabari hounds. The listen only to their master; anyone else risks having an arm bitten off."
"He knows better than to hurt anyone." I think.
"I'm not willing to test that," Ser Gilmore said solemnly. As an afterthought, he added "You're quite lucky to have your own mabari war hound, you know. Smart enough not to talk, my father used to say. Of course, that means he's easily bored. Nan swears he confounds her just to amuse himself.
Ah, that I don't doubt. Particularly since I may have occasionally encouraged his mischief, Derek mused, a bit sheepish but mostly amused.
"At any rate, your mother would have me accompany you until the matter is settled. Shall we?"
"Where is my mother, exactly?"
"She was entertaining Lady Landra and her son when I left her. Perhaps in the atrium?" There was a half second's silence before Ser Gilmore spoke again, uncharacteristically nervous. He was even fidgeting a bit, shifting his weight and wringing one hand in the other. "Err… before we go, my lord, might I beg a question? I've heard from several people that a Grey Warden is here. Is that true?" The teyrn's son smirked.
"You sound quite excited." More excited than ever. More so even than when he was infatuated with one of his mother's ladies-in-waiting.
"Awed, more like. The reputation of the Grey Wardens as mythical warriors is unsurpassed." The noble, seeing his enthusiasm, threw him a bone.
"His name is Duncan. I met him." This had Ser Gilmore hooked.
"Then… is it also true this Grey Warden was asking after me?" Maker, he was like a little boy on Feastday! A grin grew on Derek's face.
"I'm not certain. Maybe," he teased.
"Maybe? Have mercy! Is he asking after me or not?" The question was so heartfelt, Derek could not help but give in. He threw up his hands and laughed.
"Just joking, just joking! Yes, he wants to test you."
"Maker's breath! Are you certain? Can you imagine? Me? A Grey Warden!" He could imagine, actually, more than he could imagine himself in that position. "It would be everything I've dreamed of! Of course, I shouldn't get ahead of myself. Pardon my outburst." Derek laughed again as his friend's face flushed red.
"Shall we go collect Byron, then?"
"Yes, M'lord!"
It was only a short walk to the kitchen. When they opened the door, they saw Nan standing at the larder door, with a pair of anxious elves at her flanks. Inside the larder, Derek could hear his dog barking ceaselessly, and the occasional crash of dishes shattering.
"Get that bloody mutt out of the larder!" Nan barked at the servants. They both shrunk away from her.
"But mistress!" Pled the elven woman, Sylthine, "It won't let us near!"
"If I can't get into that larder, I'll skin both of you useless elves, I swear it!" Upon hearing that, Ser Gilmore jumped into the conversation.
"Err… calm down, good woman. We've come to help…"
"You!" Gilmore jumped as she jabbed a finger at him. "And you! Your bloody mongrel keeps getting into my larder! That beast should be put down!" Unable to stop himself, Derek argued back.
"He's not a mongrel! He's a pureblood mabari!" Beside the point, perhaps, but true all the same.
"A blight wolf is what he is! How am I supposed to work like this?" Sylthine tried in vain to calm the cook down.
"Oh, dear. Mistress, calm down, please-"
"That's it! I'll quit. Inform the teyrna. I'll go cook at some nice estate in the Bannorn." Derek rolled his eyes. He had heard this a thousand times by now. Although, the location did occasionally change. Sometimes she threatened to go to Amaranthine or Denerim instead.
"Nan, please!" cried Ser Gilmore. "We'll get the dog," he said soothingly. "Calm down."
"Just get him gone! I've enough to worry about with a castle full of hungry soldiers!" She turned on the elves, who were cowering behind her again. "You two! Stop standing there like idiots! Get out of the way!" Sylthine and Merys both leapt away from the door. Sighing, Derek pulled it open. Inside, Byron was sniffing around the floor, and barking at the corners of the room. Sacks of flour had been torn open, and shards of ceramic were strewn about.
"Aw, look at that mess," Gilmore said, peering at the carnage. "How did he even get in here?" It was a question Nan had been trying to answer for well over two years now, since the larder raids had begun. Byron whined, and looked up at his master. With purpose, he barked once more.
"Are you trying to tell me something, boy?" People had always said mabaris were smart, but only somebody who had one as a companion could truly attest to their impressive intelligence. Fergus occasionally teased him for it, but Derek was sure that Byron understood every word he said. And often, he responded in doggy fashion. In reply to the question, Byron was now bouncing in circles and barking even more insistently.
"It does seem like he's trying to tell you something," Ser Gilmore admitted, staring curiously at the massive hound. "Wait- do you hear that?" Something rustled in the far corner of the room. Byron growled, and pounced at the noise, flushing out a dozen huge rats. The rodents, panicking, charged at Derek and Gilmore, chewing at their boots. Derek punted one into the far wall, and crushed another underfoot. Gilmore had drawn a hunting knife from his belt and was stabbing at the small mob by his feet. Derek followed suit, drawing his daggers and hacking at the wild creatures. Byron gladly helped, as well, crushing them in his powerful jaws and clawing at them with his forefeet. Eventually, they all lay dead around the larder.
"Giant rats? It's like the start of every bad adventure tale my grandfather used to tell." Ser Gilmore seemed a little shocked by the experience. Neither of them had really been expecting a rat offensive. "Your hound must have chased them in through their holes. Looks like he wasn't raiding the larder after all," the knight remarked. Byron barked happily, licking the blood off of himself and his master.
"It certainly looks that way," affirmed the noble's son, patting his hound on the head.
"Those were rats from the Korcari Wilds. Best not to tell Nan," advised his sparring partner. "She's upset enough as it is. But seeing as you've got your mabari well in hand, I'll be on my way. I'm to prepare for the arrival of more of the arl's men." The knight bowed to Derek and left him in the larder with his dog. Byron seemed to be grinning, very proud of himself. Derek patted his shoulder, and led him out of the larder again. The cook stopped them before they could get very far, and waved a ladle at them threateningly.
"There he is, as brazen as you please, licking his chops after helping himself to the roast, no doubt!" This made Derek scoff, and instinctively stand up for Byron, against Gilmore's advice.
"Actually, he was defending your larder from rats. Big ones." There. That ought to do it.
"W-what? Rats? Not the large grey ones?" whimpered Merys. "They'll rip you to shreds, they will!"
"See? Now you've gone and scared the servants! I expect those filthy things are dead." Cook narrowed her eyes, as if she would whip them both if they weren't.
"My faithful war hound made sure it's safe," Derek continued, hamming it up.
"Hmph. I bet that dog led those rats into there to begin with." Byron whined and put on his big brown puppy eyes, but Derek wasn't sure Nan was far off the money. His hound could be downright cunning when he wanted to, and he wouldn't put it past him to lead rats into the larder to vex the cook. Clearly, Nan agreed, since she then said "Oh, don't even start with the sad eyes! I'm immune to your so-called charms." Byron whined again, louder, and wore the saddest face he could manage. Finally, the cook gave in with a sigh. "Here, then. Take these pork bits and don't say that Nan never gives you anything. Bloody dog." She looked up at Derek. "Thank you, my lord," she said tersely. "Now we can get back to work. That's right, you two, quit standing about!" The elves rushed to work, and Nan immediately began ordering them around again as if nothing had happened.
Derek shook his head, and left the kitchen. He still had to go talk to Fergus. As he rounded the corner, however, he was delayed again. The teyrna was standing in an alcove with a regal looking woman, as well as a younger woman and man. This must be Lady Landra. If Derek remembered correctly, she was the one who wouldn't leave him alone at one of his mother's social functions. She kept trying to tempt him 'somewhere more private.' She had been drunk on the wine, then, though. Perhaps she would be sober this time, and therefore more bearable. At any rate, she and his mother were blocking the way to Fergus' rooms. It seemed there was no avoiding it.
Somewhat self conscious that he was the only one in armor, Derek approached the well dressed quartet. His mother, Eleanor, beckoned him closer.
"Ah, here is my younger son. I take it by the presence of that troublesome hound of yours that the situation in the kitchen is handled?"
"Nan's head exploded," Derek replied gravely, "and my hound ate the kitchen staff." Eleanor did not smile, but there was a twinkle in her eyes. Lady Landra arched her eyebrows, unsure what to make of the situation. The beautiful elf woman by her side put a hand to her mouth, and giggled softly. Derek smiled slightly at her. She was a pretty little thing.
"Well, at least one of us will have had a decent dinner. Perhaps your hound left something I can feed my guests. Darling, do you remember Lady Landra? Bann Loren's wife?"
"I think we last met at your mother's spring salon," Lady Landra elaborated in an attempt to jog his memory.
"Of course. It is good to see you again, my lady." She smelled like a vineyard. He was pretty sure this was the same woman from before.
"You're too kind, dear boy. Didn't I spend half the salon shamelessly flirting with you?" Yes, this was she. And just as drunk as she had been then.
"Right in front of your family, too," the young red-headed man mentioned, embarrassed.
"You remember my son, Dairren? He's riding with your father tomorrow." Derek looked back at the man. Yes, he was vaguely familiar. An accomplished archer, if he remembered right. Decent with a sword, too, but if he recalled right, he had beaten him quite easily in a sparring match once upon a time.
"It's good to see you again, my lord."
"And you, Dairren." Derek's eyes slid back to the young woman with the yellow hair. She blushed slightly and averted her gaze.
"And this," Lady Landra said, noticing his interest, "is my lady-in-waiting, Iona. Do say something, dear."
"It is a great honor, my lord. I have heard many wonderful things about you." Iona's blush deepened, and Lady Landra let out a tinkling, feminine laugh.
"Don't look now, Eleanor, but I believe the girl has a crush on your lad."
"Lady Landra!" cried Iona, utterly embarrassed. Eleanor came to her rescue, seeing her distress.
"Hush, Landra. You'll turn the poor thing scarlet."
"Perhaps we should speak alone sometime, Iona?" Derek suggested, genuinely interested, and at that, Iona did turn scarlet.
"As it… pleases you, my lord." Eleanor gave her son an odd look, as if to ask what he was playing at, and Landra shot him one much more knowing and entertained.
"I think perhaps I shall rest now, my dear," Landra said. "Dairren, I will see you and Iona at supper."
"Perhaps we'll retire to the study for now." Dairren seemed to speak for both himself and Iona. Perhaps they were an item? That would explain why Lady Landra seemed to throw Iona at him. Of course she wouldn't want her noble son wedding a commoner, or even worse, having an affair with one. And an elf, at that! He had no such qualms, though. Perhaps he would hunt her down, later, and see if she didn't want some company tonight…
"Good evening, your Lordship," Landra said to Derek, curtsying slightly and excusing herself, leaving just the teyrna and her son.
"You should say goodbye to Fergus while you have the chance." As she said it, the pleasure of meeting Iona wore off, and was replaced by the gnawing worry of before.
"I have a bad feeling about all of this," he admitted to his mother. She glanced around them, and replied.
"As do I. Your father and brother are marching off to fight Maker-knows-what. All the assurances in the world don't comfort me. But it wouldn't help for us to take up arms and follow. Fergus and your father have their duty, and we have ours." He nodded, still not placated. He wasn't comfortable with his father and brother at the front, battling an enemy with such a reputation. Instead of dwelling on it, he changed the subject.
"Did you know there's a Grey Warden here?"
"Yes, your father mentioned that. You haven't gotten it into your head that you want to be recruited?" He thought of his brother, and Ser Gilmore, and then of himself. He just didn't feel he would be the type, and he didn't really care for the idea of dedicating himself to war in the first place.
"Definitely not."
"Keep it that way. You've enough to do here at the castle without chasing darkspawn."
"Are you staying at the castle?"
"For a few days. Then I'll travel with Lady Landra to her estate and keep her company for a time." She didn't seem to savor the idea. "Your father thinks my presence here might undermine your authority." Derek wasn't sure if he should take it as a compliment from his father or not. Did his father want to give him his opportunity at leadership unimpeded? Or was he trying to say that the teyrna would always command more respect than he would, trying or not?
Regardless, he didn't like the idea of his mother traveling while the threat of darkspawn attacks on the road were very real. Her guard could manage the odd bandit, but a throng of evil, corrupted creatures dead set on killing them all?
"I don't think you should go," he finally told her.
"Don't worry, my dear. It won't be long." It wasn't what he wanted to hear, and she knew it, but neither pushed the matter further.
"I should go. I need to talk to Fergus." Derek began to head up the path, but Eleanor touched him arm to stop him.
"I love you, my darling boy. You know that, don't you?" Derek frowned, confused.
"What brought this on?"
"You've grown up so fast. And now Bryce is leaving you in charge of the castle..." They were quiet for a moment, and the teyrna stared down at her clasped hands. "I suppose there's no point in dwelling on it. Go do what you must, then. I will see you soon." He smiled at his mother reassuringly and nodded, then trotted up the path towards the living quarters. He was running dreadfully late at this point, he knew, but there was nothing to be done about it.
A few minutes later, he arrived in his and his brother's wing of the living quarters. He heard Fergus' booming laughter in his room, and entered. Inside, Fergus seemed to be saying his farewells to his wife Oriana and son, Oren. Oren, curious as ever, was asking him about the war.
"Will you bring me back a sward?" he asked, eyes huge. Derek leaned against the doorframe and chuckled to himself. His nephew had recently begun expanding his vocabulary, but words often got messed up along the way. It always proved entertaining. Fergus seemed to be of the same mind, since he laughed again, and ruffled his son's hair.
"That's 'sword,' Oren. And I'll get you the mightiest one I can find, I promise. I'll be back before you know it." Oriana frowned at his confidence.
"I wish victory was indeed so certain. My heart is… disquiet." So his sister-in-law felt it too. It seemed everybody but Bryce and Fergus themselves felt it, a tension in the air that was all but tangible.
"Don't frighten the boy, love. I speak the truth." Fergus looked up from his son, and saw Derek perched in the doorway. "And here's my little brother to see me off. Now dry your eyes, love, and wish me well." He tenderly wiped a tear from his wife's cheek with his calloused thumb.
"Should I wait outside?" The younger brother asked. Fergus shook his head.
"Stay. I'd like to say farewell." Derek walked further into the room.
"Do you really think the war will be over quickly?" he asked, brows knitted together.
"Word from the south is that the battles have gone well. There's no evidence that this is a true Blight- just a large raid." Oriana placed a slender hand on her husband's chest.
"Could that be true?"
"I'll see for myself soon enough," Fergus reassured her. "Pray for me, love, and I'll be back within a month or two."
"You'll be missed, Brother," Derek told him, and Fergus chuckled.
"If it's any consolation, I'm sure I'll freeze in the southern rain and be completely jealous of you up here, warm and safe."
"I'm positively thrilled that you will be so miserable, husband," Oriana stated dryly, clearly unamused.
"There is something else. I bring a message: Father wants you to leave without him."
"Then the arl's men are delayed. You'd think his men are all walking backwards." Delayed? This is the first Derek had heard of it. He had assumed they would be arriving shortly after the arl. Blast them all! Nobody told him anything! "Well, I'd better get underway. So many darkspawn to behead, so little time!" Fergus kissed his wife, drew back, and seemingly on second thought kissed her again. Then he squatted down and embraced his only son in a bear hug, the boy squirming and begging to be let go, but laughing all the same. At long last he released the boy, and clapped Derek on the shoulder in a silent 'goodbye.' "Off we go, then. I'll see you soon, my love."
"I would hope, dear boy, that you planned to wait for us before taking your leave?" The brothers spun to look at the door, where their parents stood. Together they joined the small gathering, and Eleanor hugged her oldest tightly.
"Be well, my son. I will pray for your safety every day you are gone."
"A good shield would be more useful," Derek muttered, garnering dark looks from both Eleanor and Oriana. They were both very faithful to the Maker, but Derek had always theorized that the Maker would help those that helped themselves. Besides, weren't the Chantry folk always talking about how the Maker had left this world? What good was it to pray at all, if that was true? Still… It couldn't hurt.
"The Maker sustain and preserve us all. Watch over our sons, husbands, and fathers and bring them safely back to us," Oriana said, leading the prayer.
"And bring us some ale and wenches while you're at it," Fergus added gaily. Oriana glared daggers at him. "Err, for the men, of course."
"Fergus! You would say this in front of your mother?" Oriana gestured violently at Eleanor, who only scowled briefly. She was used to it, by now, living with three men of a similar humor.
"What's a wench?" Little Oren chirped from somewhere below them. "Is that what you pull on to get the bucket out of the well?"
"A wench," the teyrn told him, "is a woman that pours the ale in a tavern, Oren. Or a woman who drinks a lot of ale," he continued, winking. Eleanor slapped her husband's arm.
"Bryce! Maker's breath, I swear it's like living with a pack of small boys." This roused roaring laughter in all of the men, and only deepened the women's scowls.
"I'll miss you, Mother dear," Fergus told Eleanor when he had caught his breath. "You'll take care of her, Brother, won't you?"
"Mother can handle herself. Always has," replied Derek, crossing his arms and smiling. Fergus nodded with mock sincerity.
"It's true. They should be sending her, not me. She would scold those darkspawn back into the Deep Roads."
"Well, I'm glad you find this so funny," huffed the teyrna. Bryce grinned, and pulled her close.
"Enough, enough. Pup, you'll want to get an early night. You've much to do tomorrow." The younger son was about to speak when Oren beat him to it.
"Mama says you're going to be watching over us while papa is gone. Is that true, Uncle?" He winced at the title.
"I wish you wouldn't call me that."
"But you're my uncle! What else could I call you, silly?" Oriana laughed for the first time since Derek had entered the room.
"Your uncle no doubt thinks it makes him sound too old, Oren." It was true. Derek was nearly a decade younger than Fergus was, and he had only been a young teen when Oren was born. Being called 'Uncle' had never agreed with him.
"But he is old!" Oren was protesting. "But not as old as you, mama." Oriana turned to her husband, who was smiling into his hand, trying not to look so amused.
"This is your influence, Fergus."
"What? I didn't say anything."
"Are you going to teach me to use a sword, Uncle? Then I can fight evil, too!" Oren began bouncing around, wielding an invisible sword and striking at intangible foes. "Take that, dire bunny!" he cried out, pretending to stab Byron, who played along and rolled onto his back, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Derek laughed. Dire bunny? "All darkspawn fear my sword of truthiness!"
"Truthiness?" Derek asked his brother. Oriana smiled, and shrugged.
"We're teaching him about honesty." Fergus knelt down at his son's level.
"Don't worry, son. You'll get to see a sword up close real soon, I promise."
"You should be on your way, pup. Long day ahead, tomorrow," Bryce prompted his youngest again.
"Getting sent to bed early, are we?" Fergus asked, grinning. And with no dinner, either, Derek mused.
"Have fun on the long march. In the cold." That gave the older brother pause.
"Hmm. A warm bed doesn't sound so bad now, come to think of it. At any rate, I'll miss you. Take care of everyone, and be here when I get back."
"Consider it done," Derek promised, and crossed the hall to his own room. He may have only arisen an hour or two ago, but he could use a nap, at the very least. He had gotten very little sleep. He closed his door and began pulling off the leather plates of his armor. Byron lied down at the foot of his bed. And, as it had last night, an unnameable dread began to creep into Derek's heart.
"I really have a bad feeling about this, boy," he addressed the war hound. Byron whined from where he lay, as if he agreed. The noble carefully placed his armor at the ready on a trunk in his room, and began to head to bed. As he pulled back the covers, though, he paused.
"Maker, if you are there- please… watch over us."