Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

Rating: T+

Spoilers: May contain spoilers for Origins, Awakening, Origins DL content, and Dragon Age II as well as the novels The Stolen Throne and The Calling.

A/N: The story arc in my head took a left turn last night, which is hardly anything new for me. Now instead of living in the best of all possible worlds, only one piece of the Origins historical puzzle has been taken away, and we'll see as the story unfolds how that changes the whole picture.


Chapter Two: Fergus to the Rescue

Elilia left the training grounds without a word to Rory Gilmore and went to cool off and prepare for the festival. What a man carrying the shield of Gwaren was doing in Highever when the King and a handful of Arls and Banns were going to be visiting for Estiva was a bit perplexing, but at least his words, harsh as they were, held a clue for her. There were two groups of soldiers and knights who bore the rampant wyvern: the Gwaren Regulars, who stationed and trained in the south, and Maric's Shield, the elite corps of the Ferelden army, who stationed and trained in Denerim under the direct auspices of Teyrn Loghain himself. Her father had told her that regular army recruits in Highever or anywhere else went through what was called "basic training," but in Maric's Shield what they went through was called "breaking." The man must be a drill sergeant in Maric's Shield, which explained why he was so damned good with a blade, but still didn't exactly satisfy her as to why he was here. Unless he was a recruiter, perhaps.

She cursed herself for being foolish, and arrogant, enough to insist upon sparring today of all days. Her mother would have a fit; the strike he'd given her across the ribs was in perfect place for any bruise to show through the scooped-out sides of the flashy summer gown that awaited her back in her room. And there was no doubt in her mind that there would be a bruise. She wasn't entirely certain she hadn't a broken rib.

She sneaked through the well-known halls of the castle, hoping not to run into family or anyone who was likely to report her dirty, bedraggled condition back to the family. Oriana was the biggest worry: of all the people who were perpetually disappointed in her for being a scapegrace, her sister-in-law was the most vocal about it. Brother Fergus would just laugh at her, and father would probably be at least a little amused, as well. Mother wouldn't be amused. She might be proud, at least a little, of her daughter's battle skill, but with the memory of the disastrous Satinalia party at Arl Eamon's Denerim estate still fresh in her mind, and the King on his way to the castle, she would not be amused.

Which was a little funny, really, since no one would laugh harder than the King himself. Just as he'd laughed at that horrible party when Elilia slid into her chair at the banquet table, dressed boyishly in her breeches and vest instead of the fine crimson velvet gown her mother had chosen for her, and sporting her new tattoo done in the blackest available ink swooping low on her left cheek and high on her right, over her eye. He'd laughed so hard, in fact, that it seemed he might well fall out of his chair.

No one else really found it all that funny, unfortunately.

Although her father now treated it quite lightly, Elilia was still in very hot water with her mother. There was no getting out of wearing the all-too-revealing dress. She would just have to hope that the bruise didn't show, or was slow to rise.

And that Oriana didn't find out. Her Antivan sister-in-law did not think it at all proper that a girl be knocked around in combat training. She would suffer an instant fit of apoplexy if she knew Elilia had taken a stout blow from one of Teyrn Loghain's man-breakers. Elilia herself, however, felt a strong desire to have another go at that man. Not now, perhaps, with her side smarting and barely able to raise her arms to shoulder height, but soon. Her parents, of course, wouldn't really want her sparring with a common soldier, even if he was with Maric's Shield.

Her feet took her near the kitchens, and a gangly adolescent mabari war hound bellied out of the shadows nearby to join her. "Kiveal," she hissed in a harsh whisper, "have you been in the larder again?" The dog rolled its long, pink tongue out of its mouth and panted a happy affirmative. "Nan's going to have a hemorrhage when she finds out. Come on, but be quiet - I'm sneaking."

They made it as far as the family living quarters before they hit a snag. The door to Fergus and Oriana's sitting room, across from Elilia's bedroom, was open, and Oriana was there. Fortunately she was fussing with two-year-old Oren, and Elilia and her hound were able to make a break for it while her attention was diverted. They gained the sanctity of the bedroom and Elilia sagged against the door in relief.

"My Lady, where have you been? Her Grace Teyrna Eleanor was most aggrieved you were not present to stand with the family to greet His Majesty the King and the other noble guests upon their arrival."

Elilia's eyes flew open and she stared at Chloe, the elven ladies' maid who had replaced Nan as Chief Nag in her life after her début last year. "The King is already here?" she asked in a very small voice.

"Yes, My Lady. He and all the noble guests have been here ever so long already, and the Teyrna is very angry with you."

Elilia's groan was heartfelt. "I thought they weren't due until this afternoon."

"It is this afternoon, My Lady. Now please, hurry along into the bath. You must get dressed immediately."

Elilia allowed herself to be chivvied out of her armor and into the bath. She knew there was now no real hurry: the guests would all have gone to change and rest themselves before the festivities. In disgrace with her family, Elilia would probably be left to her own devices for some time before being called to join whatever social gathering preceded the actual feast, if she were called at all. But failing to greet the King was quite the offense, even if the King himself wouldn't be at all offended (which was likely, with Maric), and even Fergus would scold. She recognized that the punishment her mother had chosen for her was more effective than almost anything else she could have done: she would have to wear the horrible gown and fussy hairstyle for the rest of the day, no matter how late she was called to the party.

And Maker save her if she got the dress dirty or mussed her hair.

She sank into the tub and tried not to think about the long, dull afternoon ahead of her. Easier by far to think of the match she'd just fought, thanks to the pain in her chest. As she'd feared, a dull red mark across her ribs below her breasts was already turning to livid purple. She didn't think as much of it would show as she'd feared, but some would surely peek through the dress, with its ridiculous Rivaini cut.

The cut of the dress bothered her, a lot. Peep-holes along the sides of her lower torso were one thing, and what purpose they served she had no clue, but the plunging neckline, and the way the padded silk bodice pushed her bosoms up and out, had a clear intention. Given that a number of young, unmarried noblemen would be in attendance, it was obvious that she was still being advertised, tattoo notwithstanding.

Eleanor Cousland was very eager to find a suitable husband for her harum-scarum daughter.

Andraste's ass, don't think about them, all the little noble bastards who pressed for her hand, ofttimes solely at the behest of their fathers. Thomas Howe certainly didn't want her - he was only twelve, for crying out loud! No no, think instead about the match; replay the bout in your head and find where you went wrong, the things you should have done instead. If you ever face him again you don't stand a chance in hell of beating him, but maybe you can at least make it tough enough for him that he breaks a sweat.

An odd thing, but lying in the tub scrubbing her naked flesh seemed to put a different spin on the memory, one she didn't expect at all. The big soldier carrying Loghain's heraldry…he was old, older perhaps even than her father, but…the skill! He made sparring look like dancing, and she'd never had such a graceful dance partner. And then his eyes…her trainer taught her to watch her opponent's eyes for intent, and she'd seen nothing in his beyond simple intent to beat her into the dirt with not a single move betrayed in advance, but how arresting they were! She felt no attraction at all when she looked into the supposedly "dreamy" brown eyes of Vaughan Kendalls, the apparent heartthrob of the few girls of the nobility she associated with (by choice or otherwise), only a sick sort of revulsion at what kind of man she suspected him of being, but those cold grey-blue eyes…the eyes of a man who wouldn't show so much as a flicker of fear if he was watching the charge of an Antivan bull when his hands held only a dagger…

"Andraste's ass," she groaned, and ducked her head under the water. Oh, wouldn't her mother be thrilled to learn that, after doing everything in her power to sabotage every suitor who came calling, her daughter was getting all hot and bothered over an old soldier!

She quickly finished the business of washing hair and body and got out of the deep basin as quickly as possible, before she could start having more fully-fledged fantasies. She suffered Chloe to stuff her into the strange foreign-style gown and style her hair with braids and ringlets and a pair of silver hairclips in the shape of the Cousland family heraldry of a wreath of laurels. She couldn't even begin to imagine how she must look in the dress, which was pale blue-lavender in color and of silk so light that even the parts of her that were covered felt rather bare. The skirt, particularly, was so sheer it was a good thing the trimming featured a beaded tippet that hung down in front of her inner thighs or she would probably have had to spend the rest of the day making very certain no one saw her backlit by any torches or hearths or even the sunshine. Chloe had insisted she not wear pantaloons since, she said, it would destroy the smooth line of the silk over her hips. The lack of undergarments was disconcerting, to say the least.

The horrible thing was, she might have been very happy indeed to wear such a…suggestive…gown if only there was someone out there (cold blue-grey eyes, thick black hair, proud profile like a hunting hawk, shoulders like a hero of legend) worth wearing it for. She could imagine big hands at her waist, resting partly on silk and partly on her own silken skin, and the heat of close presence while her heart fluttered like a bird in a cage. She wanted that, wanted someone with whom to spend the rest of her life, but what she wanted was a man of strength, honor, and skill, and who would love her as she was and not seek to change her. Her mother said she had impossible standards, but that was what she'd found with father, wasn't it? Somehow, mother claimed that was different. A different time, a different world. Were there no such men left now that peace had two and a half short decades to alter Ferelden?

Not amongst the younger nobility, Elilia very much feared. Badly spoilt, most of them were, and some outright wicked. Some of them, she was appalled to see, acted very much like the worst she had heard of Orlesians. She supposed she could deal with being married to one of the over-privileged snobs, if she had to, but she would see herself exiled before she'd marry one of the fully wicked ones.

Chloe finally finished with her and she left her rooms. There really wasn't much point to it, there was nothing she could really do except perhaps wander down to the library, where she risked an impromptu study session with her tutor, Brother Aldous. The only other option open to her was a slow, careful walk inside the castle, for fear of dirt and mishap and the pinch of her matching slippers, which didn't hold much appeal to her or Kiveal, but was preferable to a long day of tatting and needlework in her bedroom.

The guests, if they weren't in their own quarters, would undoubtedly congregate in the centrally-located Great Hall. She would have to avoid it until she was summoned, which meant her path would pretty much be a wide circle round and round again, ducking into alcoves or side chambers whenever it seemed her presence might be detected by a guest on their way to a chamber pot or to sneak a preview of the banquet tables in the dining hall. Tedious. But that was the punishment she'd earned.

Kiveal padded solemnly at her heels until they first approached the Great Hall, from which issued the sound of musicians playing sprightly tunes from the minstrels' gallery above the main floor. A sudden loud burst of merry laughter, muffled only slightly by the door, meant King Maric was inside. Kiveal's head came up at the sound, his pink tongue lolled out, and his stumpy tail wagged so hard his entire rump shook with the effort. Elilia looked at him in dismay.

"Kiv - you know I can't go in yet, mother would kill me! No, I know how you feel, I want to see His Majesty, too, but I just can't."

Kiveal hanged his head and whined low, then it seemed a sudden thought struck him and his ears perked. He walked to the doors and pawed them open a crack, then looked back at her as if to ask permission.

"You would actually leave me, your imprinted mistress, alone to my boredom and misery while you go in and enjoy the party?" Elilia asked incredulously. Kiveal chuffed a happy affirmative. "Oh, all right, faithless dog. Go ahead. I hope someone feeds you chicken bones. Just thought you should know that. It's your fault I'm in trouble to begin with, anyway, since if you hadn't been so busy stealing food from the castle larder you could have come and warned me the King was here, like a good mabari would do."

Completely unconcerned with her threats and emotional blackmail, Kiveal slipped into the Great Hall, from which issued a renewed burst of King Maric's infectious, boyish laughter. Abandoned and very lonely, Elilia trudged on alone.

She poked her head into the various rooms as she walked, the ones she knew ought to be empty or at least be in the process of being cleaned by the castle's many servants. She had no reason to do so, she was merely bored and tried her hand at inventing a game as she walked, for she was very much a little girl still in many ways. The rooms were caves, and may contain treasure, but surely the dragon was somewhere about, too.

On her second roundtrip, she detoured off to a branch corridor on the eastern side of the great hall, down from the kitchens. The only rooms down here were for storage, and jam-packed with lumber and other useful but not continually necessary objects. It was a good spot to pick when playing hide-go-seek, as she'd often done with Delilah and Nathaniel Howe as a younger girl. She didn't dare poke around too much; it was exactly the sort of place where a fragile, flowing silk skirt was apt to catch on something and tear. But that was no reason not to peek in. She was on an inspection tour, ensuring everything in the castle was shipshape for the King's visit.

Except she evidently wasn't the only person who realized that the storage rooms were a good place to hide. A man stood in the corner behind a stack of unused mabari cages, his back to the door, and he was…doing something…to a young elven girl Elilia recognized as one of the castle's laundresses. He had her lace-front bodice quite thoroughly unlaced, her breasts exposed, and he had his face buried in them. Elilia recognized the sandy blond hair and fine velvet doublet - the man was Vaughan Kendalls, one of the most persistent and aggressive of the young noblemen who pressed for her hand, the Arl of Denerim's only child. And Elilia knew he had a reputation where young elven girls was concerned.

Horrified, she thought to intervene in some way, but what stopped her was the fact that this particular elven girl didn't appear at all displeased to be the focus of the young lord's attentions. In fact, she plunged her fingers into Vaughan's hair and urged him on. He raised his face from her bosoms and hiked up her skirts.

Whatever else she ought or ought not to be doing, Elilia knew for a dead certainty she shouldn't be watching this. Heedless of her trailing skirts, she turned tail and fled.

It took awhile, but after pacing the western corridor for a half an hour or so she began to cool off and her rapid heartbeat settled into a normal rhythm. She even began to feel the humor in the situation; what would His Majesty say if he knew one of his Arls' sons was screwing an elven girl in a supply closet not sixty feet from where he stood? She could just imagine his laughter. Poor Arl Urien would die of the shame - and it would take the focus off her own disgrace. Not that she was going to tell anyone about it.

Not wanting to run into Lord Vaughan returning from his illicit assignation, she found her route suddenly halved. She kept to the western corridors and prayed her mother would relent and send someone to find her soon. Now that the anxiety of having witnessed something she shouldn't had passed, she was once more deathly bored.

There was nothing to do but walk. She couldn't turn cartwheels, handsprings, or backflips. She couldn't even skip, not with the silk dragging out in a flare behind her. Since her invention was limited to games of knights and dragons, she let her imagination wander down a path she rarely allowed herself to take, more suitable to the way she was garbed. She put a little sashay in her hips, making the heavy beaded tippet slip from one thigh to the other as the light silk skirt swayed and swished against her legs in a way that felt almost strangely pleasant. She imagined that she was a beautiful young lady of court, sneaking out of the castle to meet with her forbidden lover. A low-born knight, or perhaps a soldier. If they were caught, her family would undoubtedly have him killed, and might cast her off.

The scenario in her mind grew fairly intense, and when the strong arm crossed around her waist there was a moment where she reacted as if it were part of her daydream. But then reality smacked her upside the face. Wet lips connected with the nape of her neck from behind and with a strangled cry she broke free of the embrace. She spun around and the skirt wrapped her legs tightly. She lost her balance and fell straight into the arms of Lord Vaughan Kendalls.

"Go easy, my pet," he said, with a self-satisfied smile curving his too-full lips. "We have plenty of time. Old Howe is telling one of his interminable stories, about the Blackmarsh, I think, and all are pretending to be enthralled by it because our fool of a King asked him to tell."

"I am not your pet," Elilia said, and attempted to extricate herself from skirt and arms both. But the skirt that had seemed so loose and free before now clung tighter than a hobble and without her feet she could not get away from the lecherous lordling. "And His Majesty is no fool."

"Still playing coy even in my arms? Such a vixen you are." He brought his mouth close to her ear. "I know you saw me. It excited you, didn't it? That's why you came here, dressed in this most provocative garment, to wriggle your little hips and draw me out. You want your turn."

"I want nothing to do with you, Vaughan Kendalls," Elilia said. She tried to push back from him, not caring a whit if she were to fall, but he held onto her and pushed her back up against the wall. His leg pressed in between hers, and the skirt loosened a trifle, but she was now in worse position than before. She saw the look in his eyes, and began to be afraid.

"Your lips say no, my pet, but your body…oh, your lovely body…says yes."

One hand kept tight control of her against the wall, and the other reached for her breast and squeezed hard as he mashed his mouth against hers. Until that moment, even in her fear, Elilia hadn't really believed Vaughan would dare much more than insinuation - she was the Teyrn's daughter, after all, and this was her own home castle! - but now she thought it very likely that unless she could manage some defensive maneuver, fast, she very well might find herself taken quite against her will; used, abused, and abandoned. If only Kiveal would come, she was sure the dog would attack immediately. And hopefully he'd aim his teeth straight for the lordling's balls.

"What the hell is going on here?"

The voice was so loud, and angry, and harsh that Elilia didn't recognize it. Strong hands pulled Vaughan off her and she lost her balance, pulled down by the twisted skirt and knocked askew by the violence of the maneuver. From her new position on her bum on the cold cobbles she realized that it was Fergus, her wonderful, magnificent big brother, who had ripped Lord Vaughan off of her. She'd never been so happy to see him in all her life.

Fergus' usually bonny blue eyes shot lightning bolts at Vaughan. "How dare you? Just what the hell do you think you're playing at, Vaughan Kendalls?"

"Lord Fergus. I can assure you, this is not what it looks like. Your lovely sister and I were…were just…"

Fergus shoved Vaughan back, and the ponce ended up sprawling out across the cobbles and landing in Elilia's lap. She shoved him off of her with a cry of disgust. "Spare me, Vaughan. I know what you are. Know this: you had better never lay so much as a glance upon my sister again, or I'll feed your balls to the mabari. Now get out of this castle and go cool off outside. I don't want to see your supercilious face around here again before the feast, do I make myself clear?"

Vaughan scampered away like the rat he was, and Fergus reached down and pulled Elilia to her feet with a startling lack of gentleness. The gratitude on her lips died off unspoken when she looked into her brother's eyes and realized that he was actually angry with her. He gripped her tightly by the shoulders and gave her a hard shake, for the first time ever in her remembrance. "What the hell were you thinking, sister? Father and mother and the King himself are just down the bloody hall!"

"You…you think I wanted him pawing at me?" she said, shocked beyond all comprehension. "Fergus, I despise Vaughan Kendalls! You know that - you know that I got this bloody tattoo on my face in hopes his father would withdraw the marriage proposal! You're the one who told me where to find the tattoo parlor, for Andraste's mercy!"

Uncertainty flickered through Fergus' eyes then, and his grip loosened fractionally. "You mean the bastard actually…forced himself on you?"

"Yes! Fergus, I was just hoping Kiveal would come and gnaw his balls off when you showed up."

He held her out at arm's length and looked at her doubtfully. "If he forced himself on you, why didn't you fight him off? You know how to defend yourself."

"I tried to, but this stupid gown tripped me up," Elilia groused. "And…well…I didn't realize he'd take it so far. I thought he'd leer at me and drop laden comments, that's no less than he's done before, but I never thought he'd actually…"

Fergus took in the condition of her clothes and hair then, and seemed to satisfy himself that she was telling the truth. "If Vaughan ever so much as stands ten feet from you again I'll kill him," he said conversationally.

He helped her untangle herself from the skirts, which had wound up with the beaded tippet, effectively shackling her. Once he had her to rights he stepped back and looked her up and down. "I could have wished mother would have put you in something less…provocative," he said, and shook his head. Elilia heard the ghost of Vaughan's own words and shivered. Then Fergus' gaze lit upon the deep purple bruise on her abdomen and his eyes bugged out alarmingly. "Andraste's knicker-weasels, sister - did that bastard do this to you?"

Elilia had forgotten the bruise in the flurry of the moment. Her face blushed beet red. "No, Fergus - training accident."

"Oh. Well, given what just happened, I doubt mother will scold for spoiling the dress."

"Fergus - you can't tell mother and father what happened," Elilia said, terrified. "They'll be mortified. Father will be dreadfully angry. He may shout and curse at Arl Urien, and it's certainly not his fault. We can't ruin Estiva, especially not with His Majesty here."

Fergus sighed heavily. "You're right, I suppose. I don't guess Vaughan will bother you again, anyway, and I'll be keeping a close eye on the scurvy bastard from now on. But you've reminded me, sister - I've come to fetch you, at His Majesty's own request. It seems Good King Maric remembers Satinalia quite fondly, and wishes to see again the 'young firebrand' that spiced up the occasion so for him. Do you think you can join the party, or shall I tell His Majesty that you've taken to your bed with sudden illness?"

"His Majesty…asked after me?" Elilia said, dumbfounded. "I…I must go, of course, but…oh Maker, do I look all right?"

Fergus smiled and began the act of re-pinning the curls and flounces of her hair. "You shall in a moment, sister. How many times have I had to fix you back up after some scrape or other, so you wouldn't get in trouble with mother? If the family falls on hard times, I could make a career out of doing up ladies' tresses by now, thanks to you."

Elilia interrupted his work briefly with a hearty hug and a kiss on his stubbly cheek. "Thank you, Fergus. You're the best brother in the world."