Summary: He heals a wound left bleeding for years, and in return she reminds him that happiness, however fleeting, is always worthwhile.
Overall Rating for: Explicit scenes of an adult nature (aka Smut)
Overall Spoilers for: Human Noble Origin; The Stolen Throne (Novel); The Calling (Novel); DA:O plot before Lothering; Grey Warden information; Alistair's history
Other notes: I fear Calla is going to be a character you either love or hate... I've tried not to make her a Mary Sue, but Maker knows how well I succeeded (or not). The later smut is much more explicit than anything I've posted on this site or indeed anywhere (for a while), so I apologise unreservedly in advance if it's terrible. Any similarities to Heartstrings are due to that fic being my inspiration for this – don't worry, the two (as far as I can tell) start along similar lines but rapidly head in their own directions.
This Chapter
Rated for: Mildly suggestive themes and violence
Spoilers for: Human Noble Origin; Grey Warden information; Alistair's history
#
He woke from the nightmare shuddering violently, retching - bile only, he'd not eaten the previous day, preferring to push onwards towards his destination rather than stare at dry rations that provoked no appetite. Duncan knew his days were numbered, but he could not travel to Orzammar now, of all times. He needed to find a successor first, a man - or woman - strong enough to take the burden of leadership, and the sacred duty of the Grey Wardens, should the rest of them fall in battle at Ostagar. Maker knew that six months hadn't been nearly enough to repair a lifetime of damage to Alistair's self-confidence, otherwise, Duncan thought, there would have been no better candidate.
It was that need for strength and leadership that had led him here, to the Castle of Highever - almost as far North from Ostagar as one could get without travelling by ship.
As the Grey Warden tasked with rebuilding the Order in Ferelden, Duncan had spent much of the last twenty years quietly recruiting each potential candidate that he could convince to join. Never had he resorted to the Right of Conscription, fearing that to do so would cause more harm than good - with one, notable, exception. Alistair, - the cocky, greathearted almost-templar who had quickly charmed his way into the hearts of Duncan and all the other Grey Wardens. Their burden was great, but Alistair could always lighten any gloomy moments - often unintentionally, it had to be said - and, to Duncan at least, he had become the son he'd never had. But perhaps that had more to do with having known the lad's real parents than he cared to admit. It had made him...soft, in some ways - selfish. Though he'd fought a couple of skirmishes against darkspawn patrols, Duncan had deliberately kept Alistair out of the major battles, keeping him safe. Everyone had noticed, even Alistair - though the lad no doubt thought it was something to do with who his father had been - but the fact that no one had commented... They all loved him; he had come to represent everything they fought for, everything worth saving.
Now, following the tales of Teyrn Cousland's youngest child, Duncan wondered if he would have to make another such exception. Though it was considered a privilege to be recruited into the ranks of the Grey Wardens, the Order had a very military heritage - surprising, considering that roughly ninety percent of the time a Grey Warden did very little besides train for the possibility of a Blight - and though it was widely known that they 'took all sorts', people very rarely followed that to its conclusion and included women. Especially strange when you considered that the Grey Wardens had been exiled from Ferelden entirely because of a rebellion led by a female Warden Commander. Or perhaps not. Perhaps that was the reason that Fereldens seemed to shy away from the idea of female Grey Wardens.
It was true, however, that even Duncan rarely approached women with an offer of recruitment. It was not because of any deficiency in their fighting abilities - women might tend to be the 'weaker' sex, but there were many fighting techniques that were not wholly reliant on brute strength, such as the techniques he himself used. Women...tended to have more ties - family or friends - and less willingness to give those ties up. They also seemed more aware that being a Grey Warden was not something they could just 'give up', even temporarily, to have a family or a normal life.
Teyrn Cousland's youngest child, rumoured to be as adept with a blade as with words - or in bed, as some of the more scurrilous rumours went - was a girl. A woman, really, since she'd passed her 18th nameday and was, some said, the Teyrn's preferred heir. Given that his older child was a son, and likely to be heading to Ostagar along with the other Highever forces, Duncan suspected that the Teyrn would be loath to 'let' the Grey Wardens take his daughter away.
#
He approached the gates to the castle openly, and was received with courtesy and questions about whether he'd encountered a troop of Arl Howe's men on the road, to which he could only reply that, regretfully, he had not. The guard captain bid him make himself welcome whilst he informed the Teyrn of his arrival, before sending off a messenger and returning to his duties.
Though he had intended to wait near the gate for the messenger's return, Duncan found himself drawn across the courtyard to a small, set-aside training area. The tiny salle was already well-packed by Highever soldiers, the atmosphere noisy with good humour and teasing banter. Underlying it all, however, was the sound of clashing weaponry.
Cursing the disadvantage of his average height, Duncan peered over and between the heads of the gathered soldiers, catching a few glimpses of the two fighters at the centre of the commotion. They were using shield and sword, trading quick, furious blows as they manoeuvred, and neither seemed able to get the upper hand.
"Break!" Someone called, and from the murmuring of those around him, Duncan was finally able to work out what was going on. One of the Knights of Highever had, apparently, not believed the boasts of his more experienced comrades about their 'little lady's' skill in battle. He'd been unfortunate enough to voice his disbelief in earshot of said lady, who had promptly declared that 'he could see for himself'. Thus the current competition. As the (technically) challenged, Calla Cousland had chosen the initial weapons of sword and shield - the traditional weaponry of Highever's knights. The first bout, which Duncan had arrived just at the end of, had been declared a draw - the knight had been unable to comprehensively best Calla, and, to listen to the spectators tell it, Calla hadn't even tried to best the knight, simply taunting him and holding her ground. The second bout, which would start shortly, would be fought using weapons of the knight's choosing.
It didn't take long before the soldier refereeing the combat called the two combatants over. The crowd had thinned - Highever's soldiers were to march to Ostagar soon, and the units were forming up for final equipment and supply checks - and Duncan could see the combat area clearly, though he remained near the walls of the area, the easier for any messengers to find him.
"Choose your weapon, Ser Danin."
"Greatsword." The knight answered confidently. Duncan raised an eyebrow in surprise. It was clear that Ser Danin, a man much larger than his opponent, hoped to make that difference count in his favour. Duncan, however, thought that if Calla had managed to hold her own against such an opponent with a sword and shield, she would likely - assuming he didn't simply tire her out - run rings around him again. Possibly literally. Although there was the chance that a greatsword would simply hamper her too much.
But no, Calla, with a slight, secretive smile, nonchalantly picked up the weapon she was offered, tested its weight and then turned away to take her place. She refused the helm that another soldier went to place on her head, and Duncan was certain that her smile deepened ever so slightly when Ser Danin, not wanting to look either afraid or lacking in chivalry, was forced to refuse his own helm.
And then it seemed to be a waiting game. Calla stood, sword-tip resting on the ground, and simply stared at Ser Danin, the faint smile never leaving her lips - though it had never touched her eyes. He broke first, as Duncan had suspected he would. But the blind charge he made was never going to achieve anything. Calla simply waited, unmoving, calling his bluff - though it wasn't much of a bluff; sparring weapons might be blunted, but they still had all the mass of a real weapon, and her chain armour wouldn't prevent broken ribs. At the last moment, as Ser Danin's blade came sweeping down, she ducked forward, under the attack. She pivoted as she moved, putting the full weight of her body into swinging the heavy greatsword. Its tip whipping through the sawdust of the arena, the blade swung in a low, powerful arc, crashing into the back of Ser Danin's knees. Duncan winced as the large man crashed to the floor. Armour or not, if Calla's greatsword had been edged, the knight would have lost his left leg to that blow.
"Break!" The soldier refereeing called again, shaking his head as the knight discovered that his left leg would not take his weight.
"She must've got bored." The soldier next to Duncan cackled. "Normally she'll toy with 'em for two rounds, then finish 'em off in the third." He cackled again. "Like a whirlwind of steel with two blades, so she is."
"She's cross-trained?" Duncan asked, surprised. Though most of the rumours of her martial skill were vague, some had seemed contradictory, claiming that her skill was with sword and shield, or greatsword, or two blades - he'd never considered that they might all have a grain of truth to them.
"Oh aye." The soldier agreed. "Nowt more likely to 'appen when you might as well be the baby sister of 'most every soldier in the castle. All of us teach 'er the tricks we've learned the 'ard way - and there's more'n one of us been right glad of it when it's dropped in the pot." There was a pause, and Duncan realised the soldier was looking him up and down, assessing. "Thinkin' of challengin' 'er yourself?" A faint smile touched his lips as he looked back at Calla, who was apparently demonstrating Ser Danin's mistake to him. Cross-trained, charismatic, gracious in victory and with combat experience - now if only he could persuade Teyrn Cousland to let her join the Order, if she wished.
"Oh no." Duncan declined. "I have no doubts about her combat ability." He thought nothing about what he'd said until the soldier sniggered, and then it was too late to salvage the situation without making it worse.
"Well...mebbe you'll be lucky enough there." If he'd ever been grateful for anything about his parentage, it was that his skin tone hid the heat in his face at the soldier's insinuation. Clearly there was some truth about the other rumours as well. "But you'd best know this." He half expected a warning about hurting her, but the soldier's grim expression was fixed on Calla, not him. "We don't just call 'er sister. We call 'er the cold sister. Best you look in 'er eyes before you go throwin' your 'eart at 'er feet. Maker knows we all love 'er, in our way - but it's like lovin' a blade."
#
Thankfully a messenger came to fetch Duncan shortly after, but the soldier's warning echoed in his mind. Blades were what the Grey Wardens needed, strong fighters who would see their duty through to the bitter end. Love was powerful, yes, he was more than prepared to agree to that. But love was also dangerous, making otherwise sensible people do things they normally wouldn't even consider.
Left alone in a guest room to 'freshen up' from his travels, Duncan wondered how to broach the subject of recruitment with the Teyrn. Undoubtedly he would guess that Duncan was here to recruit, but how likely was he to guess the candidate upon which the Grey Warden had fixed his gaze? How likely was he to object, once he learned that, though he would reluctantly settle for another, if there was another promising candidate to be found amongst the knights of Highever, Duncan's preference was Calla Cousland? More importantly, what was Calla herself likely to think of the idea of becoming a Grey Warden?
They were questions that would only be answered in the fullness of time. It was about the only conclusion Duncan had reached by the time he'd washed the worst of the road from himself and dressed once more. A servant came shortly after, leading him to the entrance of the Great Hall and asking him to wait for a guard to bid him enter. With an outward patience that was scarcely mirrored inside, Duncan waited.
"Ser Warden?" Duncan nodded to the guard that had enquired. "Please, enter and be known to his lordship, the Teyrn Cousland of Highever." Duncan followed the guard up the long hall, finding a less formal meeting taking place than the guard's words had suggested.
"Ah, Duncan." The man who spoke, though dressed in the rich fabrics befitting a Teyrn, had a warrior's air about him, an air shared by his daughter, Calla, who stood to one side still dressed in armour and bearing a faint sheen of hard-earned sweat. "Let me introduce you to Arl Howe, and my daughter, Calla."
"It is an honour to be a guest within your hall, Teyrn Cousland." Duncan murmured, giving a respectful bow. His eyes kept slipping back to Calla, unbidden, returning just as quickly to the Teyrn each time.
"Your Lordship, you didn't mention that a Grey Warden would be present." Arl Howe protested, sounding almost alarmed. Duncan noticed that the arl's eyes remained fixedly, almost pointedly, turned away from Calla.
"Duncan arrived just recently, unannounced. Is there a problem?"
"Of course not," the arl hurried to reassure his lord, "but a guest of this stature demands certain protocol. I am...at a disadvantage." And advantage and disadvantage were everything to the arl, Duncan guessed. He had spent enough time in the royal court to recognise a power-hungry sycophant when he heard one.
"We rarely have the pleasure of seeing one in person, that's true." The Teyrn conceded. "Pup," it took a moment for Duncan to realise that the man was talking to his daughter, and he wondered if there was a story behind the nickname. "Brother Aldous taught you who the Grey Wardens are, I hope?" Given the excuse of waiting for her answer, Duncan watched closely as Calla tilted her head and regarded him, expression as subtly calculating and cold as the soldier had warned.
"They're an order of great warriors." She pronounced finally, and Duncan couldn't tell whether the statement was meant at face value, or implied something deeper - for better or worse.
"They are the heroes of legend, who ended the Blights and saved us all." The Teyrn expanded with a laugh. "Duncan, I presume, is looking for recruits before joining us and his fellow Wardens in the south."
"I am, my Lord." He agreed.
"Of the soldiers we're leaving, I would recommend Ser Gilmore." It was only because he had yet to draw his eyes away from watching Calla that Duncan saw the brief flash of anger that crossed her face. Interesting – was she angry because of who her father had recommended, or angry because he hadn't recommended her…?
"If I might be so bold," Duncan ventured, keeping his eyes on Calla as he spoke, "I would suggest that your daughter is also an excellent candidate." No reaction – unless he counted the defensive way the Teyrn physically moved to stand in front of her.
"Honour though that might be, this is my daughter we're talking about."
"Perhaps that would get me into battle." Came Calla's voice, waspish, from behind the Teyrn. He remembered the soldier describing her as being like a blade, and wondered, if a blade could think, or want, would it want to be used?
"That discussion is closed." The Teyrn's voice was firm, his tone flat and brooking no argument. It was clear to Duncan that he'd stumbled onto an old dispute. Arl Howe, however, chuckled – though he still refused to outright acknowledge Calla's presence.
"You did just finish saying that Grey Wardens are heroes, old friend."
The Teyrn's harsh expression softened to a wry grin. "I've not so many children that I'll gladly see them all off to battle." The grin faded. "Unless you intend to invoke the Right of Conscription…?" Duncan shook his head.
"Have no fear. While we need as many good recruits as we can find, I've no intention of forcing the issue." Doing so ran too much risk of repercussions down the line, for if the Grey Wardens were to continue gaining strength in Ferelden, they had to take a softer, less threatening approach. They had little political support, and though popular opinion was no longer filled with rabid hatred and fear – the result of decades of injustices being blamed on a failed 'Grey Warden' rebellion – it would take time, and the end of this Blight, before they began to be truly accepted once more.
"Pup, can you ensure that Duncan's requests are seen to while I'm gone?"
"Of course." Came the instant answer. There was no trace of indignation in Calla's voice, no hint of what she was thinking, but, Duncan realised, she was watching him with that slyly calculating look in her eyes again.
"In the meantime, find Fergus and tell him to lead the troops to Ostagar ahead of me."
"Are you trying to get rid of me?"
The Teyrn sighed – Duncan would have been surprised if the man didn't know, from the pointed question, that his daughter was upset with him.
"We must discuss the battle plans in the south. Be a good lass and do as I've asked. We'll talk soon." Calla gave a curt nod in Arl Howe's direction – the man still hadn't so much as glanced at her – a longer, deeper bow in his direction – and once again Duncan was grateful for his skin tone as he realised just how much of her cleavage she had flashed him with that move, deliberately, he was sure – and turned on her heel without acknowledging her father at all. The Teyrn watched her leave, and Duncan saw him visibly flinch as the door closed very, very quietly behind his daughter.
"You only have yourself to blame." Arl Howe muttered, but far from taking offence, the Teyrn turned back to them with a laugh.
"True, true." He agreed. "But at least I don't have to worry about bandits when she goes wandering off – worry for them, maybe." He grinned broadly and clapped his hands together. "Now gentlemen, let us get to business."
#
'Business' as the Teyrn had termed it, did not take long at all, for the situation in the south was relatively simple. The three of them had then gone their separate ways, the Teyrn no doubt to say farewell to his son and oversee the departure of his men, the arl back to his rooms - citing his need to write messages to his delayed troops, to warn them that if they were not present and ready to depart by the next morning there would be dire consequences - and Duncan himself returned to the courtyard and the training area.
It was virtually deserted now, save for a few younger boys mock-sparring with wooden weapons, overseen by an older soldier. Duncan made himself comfortable in a conveniently shadowed nook and watched. Having seen that brief flash of irritation, he was almost certain that Calla Cousland would, alone or with company, return to the training area to work off her frustration. There was, of course, the possibility that there was another training area he was unaware of, but from what the soldier had told him about all of them passing on tips and tricks, he suspected that she most often came here deliberately for their words of wisdom.
An hour passed, perhaps two. The sparring boys had long since left along with the soldier overseeing them. Finally Duncan heard voices heading towards the area – one of them he recognised as Calla, the other, a man, he didn't recognise.
"Oh please," Calla was saying, "if he thinks I'm Grey Warden material surely he'll think the same of you. Anyway, my father recommended you."
"Yes, but it's not the Teyrn who decides, is it?" The male voice, Duncan guessed it to be that of Ser Gilmore, thanks to Calla's reference to her father's recommendation, sounded despondent. "Besides, you beat me on a regular basis now."
"I don't know – you've managed to surprise me a time or two." They walked into Duncan's view at that point, so he was able to see the suggestive nudge in the ribs that she gave her taller male companion. Ser Gilmore grunted and edged sideways out of elbow range.
"I'm not repeating that approach, not after the questions your mother started asking me."
"Ha – coward!" Calla vaulted over the training arena's low fence with deceptive ease. Ser Gilmore, wearing heavier plate armour – and lacking an audience – rather more sensibly walked around to the gate and entered. He was carrying a sword and shield, whilst Calla now held two daggers in a ready stance. Duncan started paying more attention; most of the rumours of her prowess were with two blades, but she had not used them in the fight he'd witnessed. Ser Gilmore, even from this distance, looked apprehensive enough that Duncan was intrigued.
Calla attacked first – probably because Ser Gilmore looked in no hurry to go on the offensive. Not that he was a pushover – the clang and screech of metal and wood, coupled with the number of times Calla backed off and then came in again, probing and probing for weaknesses to exploit, made that clear. In fact, as she had reassured Ser Gilmore, Duncan found himself impressed by them both. True, they obviously trained together frequently, but they were genuinely trying to defeat each other – or if they were performing, it was an extremely impressive performance.
It was Ser Gilmore who found an opening first, and he was clearly suspicious of the fact, for when Calla staggered backwards, clipped in the temple by the edge of his shield, he didn't stop and ask if she was badly hurt, but neither did he charge blindly in to try and 'finish' her. Duncan's eyes narrowed. If he had not heard their banter as they entered the arena, he could easily have thought he'd stumbled on an honour duel. Ser Gilmore advanced, pressing harder and harder as it became clear that Calla was struggling to focus and deflect or avoid his attacks.
But for all she was being driven backwards round and round the arena, constantly giving ground, Calla Cousland would not yield. She was starting to recover now and, no doubt also seeing it, Ser Gilmore made a last, all-out attempt to overwhelm her. It was his undoing – and had, perhaps, been Calla's plan all along.
As Ser Gilmore's shield swept out it was met by the dagger in Calla's left hand. The blade drove deep into the wood, and Calla used it – and the shield's remaining momentum – to pull herself out of the way of Ser Gilmore's charge, simultaneously throwing him off-balance. As she whipped around, now behind her opponent, Duncan half expected her to strike the metal backplate and declare it her victory. She did no such thing. Instead she slammed into Ser Gilmore's back, the length of her body against his, her arm curling up across his chest and bringing the dagger's tip to his throat beneath the helm.
Ser Gilmore, understandably, froze.
The knight's armour, Duncan realised, hadn't been for protection, but because Calla was practising fighting against a heavily armoured enemy. Sensible, really, but still surprising.
"See." He heard Ser Gilmore groan as Calla released him.
"I warned you to get a metal shield." She shrugged. "It's not my fault you didn't listen."
"I know, I know." Ser Gilmore pulled off his helm, muttering something else that Duncan couldn't hear. Calla laughed in response, then reached over and patted the knight's armoured shoulder.
"Come on, I'm sure there's one going spare in the armoury."
"I couldn't …" the knight began to protest as Calla almost dragged him out of the arena.
"Father left me in charge of the castle – I'll be damned if I'm not going to make sure he thinks letting me go with Fergus is the better option next time."
Duncan smiled to himself. Though the Teyrn had refused to listen to the idea of Calla being tested or recruited, and though it would undoubtedly sour relations with Highever, Calla was of an age where she could disown her family and personally request that the Order recruit her. Perhaps, once the Teyrn had departed for Ostagar, he might find himself following with not one, but two promising recruits.
#
But alas, few things in life ever went exactly to plan, and Duncan's hopes of two recruits were dashed that night, when Arl Howe's men stormed Highever Castle.
#
Duncan and Bryce Cousland had withdrawn to the latter's study after the evening meal and Fergus Cousland's departure for Ostagar. Several hours later, they were discussing things of little consequence when the sounds of a commotion reached them. Surprised, but not yet alarmed, the unarmoured Teyrn went to the door – and an arrow pierced him in the gut for his troubles. Duncan leapt to block the doorway with his own, armoured, presence as the Teyrn staggered back, so it was he who first saw the insignia on the armour and shields of their attackers, and he who first understood what was happening.
Arl Howe's men had been deliberately delayed.
Fury at the cowardly attack made Duncan see red. The handful of Howe men who'd made it to Teyrn Cousland's study made it no further into the castle. But already now Duncan heard the screams and the sound of combat echoing through the stone passageways. With the castle stripped of defenders, this was a battle already lost.
"My wife and…children." Bryce gasped behind him. "We must…try to reach them." Howe's men had likely already beaten them there, but Duncan knew that it would be a useless protest. Then again, he had seen Calla Cousland fighting, and it was well known that Eleanor Cousland had been a fierce warrior in her own youth. Her husband, unfortunately, was already dying – and both Duncan and he knew it. Neither of them had any bandages or medicinal supplies on them, and even though Bryce had broken off the arrow's haft – as much so it didn't impede his movement as to let him better wad his clothes over the wound – he was already pale from blood loss and shock. Despite the cloth he held firmly over the wound, it was clear that he was in no shape to fight. It hadn't stopped him from taking one of the maces – Duncan had assumed them ornamental, but covered in the Teyrn's blood it looked solid enough – from a display.
Looping one arm around the Teyrn's shoulders, Duncan let Bryce direct him through the castle, travelling along servants' passageways that Howe's soldiers seemed to have overlooked. Though the Teyrn tried to hide it, it was clear that he was weakening quickly. He abandoned the mace, and Duncan found himself taking more and more of the other man's weight.
"Wait." Bryce gasped at last, as they reached a junction between corridors. "I'm…slowing you down. Go that way." The Teyrn pointed down the new corridor. "Family quarters. Get them to the larder – I'll meet you there."
Duncan wanted to ask where the larder was, and why they were meeting there, but the Teyrn needed to save his strength as much as possible, and time was not on their side. With a curt nod, Duncan departed in the indicated direction.
He found surprisingly little resistance. There were the odd few soldiers bearing Howe's insignia, but they fell swiftly to Duncan's twin blades. He made note, as he passed the corpses of Howe men he had not killed, of how they had died. It looked as if two people – perhaps three or four even – were fighting back with quiet skill, at least one archer and one melee warrior, perhaps a rogue. His suspicions of who those people were solidified to certainty once he reached the family quarters Bryce had sent him to. The corpses of a young nobleman, two noblewomen and a young boy told the heartrending tale of a cowardly attack in the dead of night. The corpses of six of Howe's men, and the neatly-ransacked state of the bedrooms, told the more heartening tale of opponents underestimated, and vengeance begun.
Daring to truly hope, now, that Calla at least had survived the initial attack and was somewhere in the fighting elsewhere in the castle, Duncan set out, following the trail of bodies as much as the path of least resistance that had been cleared. He found himself at the armoury, where the door had been unlocked with a key that only the Teyrn or the Teyrna would have possessed. Having seen no sign of Eleanor's body, and remembering the tales of her as a young warrior, Duncan felt his hope grow.
He continued on, his path leading into the Great Hall when all other routes proved blocked by flaming debris. Fortunately stone castles did not burn well, but that was scant consolation in this situation. A half dozen soldiers, Ser Gilmore amongst them, were fighting to keep the doors into the hall closed. From the corpses on the floor, Duncan surmised that there had already been one break-in, pushed back – unless he missed his guess – by unexpected, but welcome, reinforcements.
"Where is the Teyrna?" He called, parade-ground voice cutting easily through the muted sounds of battle from the courtyard. Ser Gilmore turned, wild eyed, relaxing slightly when he saw who had spoken.
"Ser Warden." There was a pause as the knight gathered himself. "They went that way." He gestured across the hall – a wise move, considering the enemy might also hear any directions he shouted. "Hurry – we can't hold much longer!" He added, his words punctuated by the ominous crack-thump of magic against the wooden doors. Duncan nodded his thanks and hurried onward.
#
By the time he found his way to the larder, Duncan knew that getting out of the castle was the least of their concerns. As he had been searching for the correct area, he had passed a high window, from which he had been able to assess the situation outside. Arl Howe, if he didn't know of a concealed exit, certainly suspected one. His men had formed a cordon that looked like it encircled the castle and its grounds – not a thick cordon, it was true, but a mix of men and mabari hounds that would be nigh on impossible to evade, even without the dying Teyrn.
"I'm afraid the Teyrn is correct." Duncan confirmed, sheathing his weapons as he walked in on the heels of Bryce telling his wife and daughter that the castle was surrounded. "Howe's men have not yet discovered this exit, but they surround the castle. Getting past will be…difficult."
"You are…Duncan, then?" The older woman – Teyrna Eleanor Cousland – guessed. "The Grey Warden?"
"Yes, your Ladyship." He confirmed. "The Teyrn and I tried to reach you sooner."
Her laugh was brittle – no doubt she already knew her husband's life was forfeit. "My daughter helped me get here, Maker be praised."
"I am not surprised." Duncan murmured, trying to judge what Calla was thinking. But her face was impassive, her eyes cold and hard. For a moment it looked as if she might say something, but instead she looked back at her father, silent.
"Whatever is to be done now, it must be quick!" Eleanor burst out. "They are coming!"
"Duncan…I beg you…take my wife and daughter to safety!" Bryce gasped.
"I will, your Lordship." Duncan agreed. "But…I fear I must ask for something in return." Perhaps it was cruel, or unfair, to take advantage of the situation in this way, but Duncan was nothing if not practical, and his duties as a Grey Warden were important enough that 'fair' or 'cruel' did not matter. Nothing mattered, save defeating the archdemon and the Blight – and to do that, the Grey Wardens needed numbers.
"Anything!" Bryce groaned, as Duncan had known he would. He was aware of Calla staring at him again, her eyes still cold, but a faint, wry smile touching her lips.
"What is happening here pales in comparison to the evil now loose in this world. I came to your castle seeking a recruit. The darkspawn threat demands that I leave with one."
"I…I understand." Came the Teyrn's reluctant whisper. "So long as justice comes to Howe…I agree."
"Then I offer you a place within the Grey Wardens." Calla's expression was inscrutable. "Fight with us." He urged and wondered again, if he had not imagined the flash of eagerness at the word 'fight', whether a sword would thirst to be used – if it could feel such a thing.
"I accept your offer." Her voice was steady.
"We must leave quickly, then."
"Bryce," the Teyrna's voice was hesitant, "are you…sure?"
"Our daughter will not die of Howe's treachery." The Teyrn stated firmly. "She will live, and make her mark on the world."
"Darling, go with Duncan. You have a better chance to escape without me."
"Eleanor…" It was the Teyrn who protested – Calla's expression, though showing a tightness around her eyes, was impossible for Duncan to read.
"Hush, Bryce. I'll kill every bastard that comes through that door to buy them time. But I won't abandon you. My place is by your side, to death and beyond."
"Maker watch over you both." Calla murmured, touching first her mother, then her father on the shoulder before standing and turning away. Duncan found himself hurrying after her as she opened the servants' exit with practiced ease and led the way out of the castle.
She didn't look back once.
#
AN: Very many thanks to Thessali for betaing this for me – any remaining mistakes are my fault :P