Prologue
"You selfish ass!" Aveline Elissa Cousland shrieked, lashing out at the Grey Warden Duncan even as they fled the burning remains of her home, her mabari hot on her heels. The wild punch actually managed to connect, despite the height disadvantage and her clumsy delivery. It was quite obvious the older man had let her hit him, though his jaw might regret the decision later.
The furious girl beat her fists against his armor in a tantrum of pain and loss and shock, until the ever-faithful hound Rollo nearly barreled her off the Warden, pushing her ever further into the forest, the jumble of discarded weaponry and family heirlooms on her back clanking furiously. She admonished the dog severely (she never yelled at her dog), cursing and sputtering and spitting blood, scrambling after that infallible warrior who never stumbled or was tackled by their own bleeding mabari. Not that he had one.
It seemed like ages of anger and mad dashing before he signaled for a stop and she nearly crashed into him bodily. The two of them crouched, panting, both well-exercised but winded from jogging in heavy armor for their lives. For his part, Rollo simply looked anxious.
Before he could move from his crouch and make it nearly impossible for her to reach anything close to vulnerable, Aveline lurched forward again, clumsy fist smacking just under his eye socket. That one was less than allowed, and much more satisfying, even as the man hit her in the chest, knocking the wind from her and sending her flying backwards.
Rollo didn't even help! Why have a mabari if they won't defend you?
Duncan pushed her down into the mud on her stomach, expertly wrenching her wrists behind her. She growled at him, all propriety forgotten. "You blackmailed a dying man! Would you really have left me there to die, if my father had refused?" There was only accusation and venom in her voice, then. And a little bit of wet dirt. "I had said before that I wished to join the Grey Wardens! Yet you shook down a dying man for what possessions he could have."
"I do what I must." Maker, she hated that even, calming tone. No fear, no anger, no sadness. Could the man feel nothing for what he had just done to her?
"You Conscripted me." Fact and accusation, he did not deny it. "I could have helped defend my father and mother, you could have helped, and—"
"And died, a wasted death, forgotten by all as the world turned towards the darkspawn. You are to be a Grey Warden, now, and you will go to Ostagar and perform your duty. I will drag you there kicking and screaming, if I must." Duncan said this as someone might say they were going to go into town, rain be damned. She snapped her head forward, attempting to knock into his. A subtle shift in his weight forced her to bounce her head off of the thick plate armor and Aveline reeled back, slightly dazed. When the spots cleared from her eyes, she realized Duncan had taken one of the myriad belts from around his waist, one of the smaller, suppler ones, and was using it to bind her wrists behind her.
Fantastic.
He finished, and initial testing showed it would take a clever rogue to undo such good work, and a rogue she was not. She was a warrior, and she wanted to simply knock his face in until he realized why she would never forgive him.
Thus the forced march from Highever to Ostagar began, Aveline walking most of the way with her hands bound, because at least that was a little more dignified than being carried.
Chapter 1: Necessity, Not Personality
Avi was sick of travelling now, thank you.
Endless walking, walking, walking in glowering silence as Duncan attempted to engage her in conversation and reason with her. And on many levels she knew she was being unreasonable, but bottling up mourning in favor of unreasonable anger had its advantages. She couldn't think of any at the moment, but there had to be some or she wouldn't be doing it. Unless she was a stupendous idiot.
Which was turning into the most likely scenario, especially as meal times and other necessary biological functions were rendered entirely overcomplicated due to being bound. Every time she thought she had calmed down, and it was fine for Duncan to untie her, some image would flash into her mind and she would try to brain him, and the bindings would go back on. And her faithful mutt was being far less than helpful.
It was perhaps a day from Ostagar before she got herself wound down enough to walk beside Duncan, unbound, white-knuckle gripping Rollo's collar in order to keep her fists to herself. This wasn't really like her, she told herself. She was not a violent person. Sure, there was a two handed broadsword strapped to her back, but that was necessity, not personality.
She felt dirty everywhere. Her long, straight black tresses were matted and grimy from travel, the bangs hanging in her eyes miserably. She hadn't had a bath in ages and probably reeked under all the scale armor, skin cracked and bruised all over, bleeding in some places. Her nose had started bleeding at one point when her hands were bound, and she was certain it had stained the linens under her armor even more before the flow could be staunched.
And then out to meet them, of all people, was the bloody King Caillan.
"Have we met before?" He asked, for all the world as if they had not danced at a formal function two years ago and she had not been at Anora's wedding, as one of her younger bridesmaids (a consolation prize for the teyrns who did not have their daughter wedded to the king).
"I am Aveline Cousland." She gave him a stiff head bow. He seemed startled; perhaps muck and grime had done more damage to her appearance than she thought at first.
"Bryce's youngest? It is surely a surprise to see he would allow one of his children to join the Wardens!" Caillan seemed enraptured by the idea, if understandably confused.
"My father is dead. As well as my mother, and Fergus's wife and child." There was no preamble, no Sire, I bring grave news. "Murdered by Arl Rendon Howe's men in the night. I escaped with the help of Duncan after he Conscripted me."
All she heard after that was that Howe would be hanged for his treason, and how sorry the King was, and Duncan could this be true, and Fergus was not in camp at the moment and would not return til after the battle. Avi excused herself then, biting down on the harsh words that threatened to spill out (what could you know of my grief). She wanted to gut Howe herself, not watch him dance in the wind.
Duncan caught up to her, informing her where the Grey Warden tent was, and she nodded and memorized the information, striding in that direction with Rollo, intent on avoiding the Highever encampment. Later, familiar faces would be a comfort. For now, all they did was make her feel as if she needed to hit Duncan more, especially after his final words included warnings not to vent her anger on bystanders.
The anger was going to kill her, and she needed to fix it. She needed to do something. Besides the quick scrub down of her body in a sectioned off area of the massive tent, the wringing and combing out of her hair, and the scrub down of her armor. Maker but that felt so much better, to be clean.
But there was still so much rage left. It pressed on her chest even more than the now-scoured scale mail that did not fit as properly as it should. Too wide in the shoulders and not proportioned correctly for her chest; she'd have to trade it off for something more her size later. Duncan had mentioned that Grey Wardens would be outfitted for a small fee. The few sovereigns in her pocket felt ridiculously inadequate. Not even a week's allowance.
Avi stepped back out of the tent, tying her hair back with a slim cord. Her bangs still cut into her eyes, but that had never bothered her before and it certainly wasn't significant now. She whistled to Rollo, stalking about the camp, looking for something to entertain herself. And block out the incessant anger.
She found it among the ash warriors, one calling to her. He was younger than the others and less severe, and wanted to compliment her on Rollo's impeccable breeding. His mabari, a bitch named Marron, apparently agreed, if anyone was to judge by how she sidled up to the large male.
As they got to talking, Avi found it was pleasant enough to drift into. The man had a well-formed face, and was likely a year or so younger than her, and his voice was a light baritone. He could have been more charming if he wasn't reeking of khaddis, but she would take what she could get in the area of 'distracting company.' And then, she asked what made an ash warrior an ash warrior.
"We value our hounds with our lives, and they do the same in return. Long ago we were taught by Dwarven berserkers how to harness battle rage and use it in tandem with our hounds." He said easily, apparently enjoying her company as well. They had walked a circle around the encampment, hounds at their heels. His admission made her…pause.
"Berserkers? Battle rage?" She mulled this over. "Is there, perhaps…some way you could teach me…?"
"Um…" And that was where he balked. Avi hissed inwardly. Should have known. "No, I'm sorry. I'm not even supposed to really talk about it with non-initiates."
"Well, I'm a Grey Warden recruit. Is that close enough?" In another lifetime, she may have flirted with him, smiled at him sweetly, and purred, but she couldn't muster the right state of mind for it at the moment. All she could do was test his limits.
"No, it's not." He said decisively. She scowled. "I can tell you it's about using your anger instead of suppressing it, and not in a stupid way as to get you killed. Anything else and you'd have to be an Ash Warrior. And…" The young man looked at her sideways. "We really don't take women often. If at all."
"I am getting the impression that many elite corps do not often take women. Everywhere it is a surprise that the new Grey Warden recruit is female. One would think we were not in Ferelden and women were simply ornaments to trot out at every ball and festival." Avi bit back in disgust. The man shied away from her, put off by her snappishness. But she found she didn't care so much anymore; he couldn't help her, wouldn't help her, and she would take that little tidbit he had given her and repeat it like a litany, but it was rather useless otherwise. Now there would be no more distracting conversation from him; she was too focused on being cross.
The two drifted apart and she went off to the Grey Warden encampment area to sulk. Really, it could be nothing but a sulk, as it had far too much glowering for a mere pout and it involved kicking innocent stones in a huff. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she was acting like a child, but who gave a damn anymore?
Rollo flopped at her side, whining in ernest. Well, at least he gave a damn, it seemed.
"You have been entirely unhelpful, you know. You haven't even bit Duncan." Avi said peevishly. She was responded to with an annoyed whuff, as if she hadn't known where his allegiances lay anyway. "Fine. Be that way."
"…it's about using your anger instead of suppressing it, and not in a stupid way as to get you killed."
She mulled it over. How often had her practice instructors told her that her anger threw her off balance? That giving into taunts was tantamount to handing your blade over to the enemy and offering to impale yourself upon it? Yet, dwarven berserkers, ash warriors…they all used anger. Something she had in abundance. And what had King Caillan told her?
"Vent your grief against the darkspawn."
Very well, then. Whenever the opportunity arose, it would be time to test out this advice.
