Title: The One that Stayed

Summary: For some, the Blight ended when the Archdemon lay smote upon Fort Drakon. For Ruairidh Cousland, it will never be over. Nightmares of the battle haunt him at every turn—nightmares that his brother-in-arms should share. But Alistair vanished after the Landsmeet. Now Ruairidh Cousland means to find him, and share in full the horror of the Archdemon.

Principal characters: m!Cousland, Zevran, Alistair

Genre: Hurt and betrayal, romance, friendship

Chapter: 2

Word count: 2237

Notes: Still in need of a beta. Reviews with constructive criticism are always welcome.

The following morning brought confirmation of what Zevran suspected had soured his Warden friend's mood. As was his custom, the assassin was up with the sun, and had slipped quietly from Ruairidh's chambers to break his fast. The great hall was empty of lords and ladies, and an infant fire was being provoked to life by one of the palace servants. He'd been contemplating goose eggs with hashed mulberries when a servant girl had brought him a folded piece of parchment. All thought of food dissolved as he read the message silently.

There had been talk of unrest in the east, of a certain large, raucous Theirin bastard stirring the smallfolk for a fight. People always took to Alistair easily, given his boyish honesty and humble origins. But Zevran had assumed talk of a rebellion had merely been outlandish speculation, far-fetched rumors the common people spread as a means of excitement. At least, that had been the assassin's hope.

He crumpled the piece of parchment in his right hand, and considered tossing it into the fire. After the Archdemon was slain, while Ruairidh was bed-bound, Zevran had hired some capable people to track the ex-Warden's movements and report on his involvements. This message was from them, and only served to confirm the quickly spreading tales of an uprising instigated by the bumbling man-child warrior. It would be easier to just toss the news into the flames and watch it dissolve into smoke. But Zevran knew Ruairidh would hear of it, regardless; the assassin was not the only one who kept his feelers out. He smoothed the paper out and tucked it into the breast pocket of his leather vest.

Appetite spoiled, Zevran pocketed a small loaf of honey bread for later and left the great room. It was not the best place for such sensitive musings; the queen had eyes and ears in the stones themselves, and Zevran preferred to operate without someone breathing down his neck. He made for the stable, which was also abandoned except for sleepy servants starting the day's chores. They brought him his stocky chestnut mare, a gift from the Orlesian Wardens to the companions of the Hero of Ferelden. Initially, the assassin had been wary of the large beast—elves were not known as the most capable riders. But the sure-footed little mare had proven herself reliable and steady, and the horse and the elf had been steadily building a rapport. He could hear the devilish creature the Orlesian Wardens had brought for Ruairidh, snorting and pawing in its stall. Cousland was only a passable rider, and he had not visited the stables since receiving that wild thing from his brothers-in-arms. Zevran was glad to have a less showy animal; he would exchange style for utility any day of the week.

With a little kick, Zevran coaxed his mare into the courtyard and through the palace gates. Denerim proper echoed with the sounds of construction, but his horse did not shy at the noise. He passed comfortably down narrow alleys and wider thoroughfares at a steady trot, and soon found himself beyond the city walls. He stopped the horse at a small pond, maybe half an hour away from the protective walls of Denerim. The assassin dismounted and allowed her to graze, while he sat beneath the shade of a young oak tree. A tiny paddleboat floated lazily on the still surface of the water, and a fisherman with his pole sat on the bench seat, considering the water intently.

Zevran called out to the man, "Gentle sir, have you caught any fish?"

The man looked at the assassin from under a broad-brimmed hat. "Aye," he replied amiably enough, "but only the one, and 'twere sold before you even come, mi'lord. Mayhaps you wait there at ease, mi'lord, and I'll catch another afore too long. I've a notion, should grab up a fish afore the hour is up."

At the fisherman's recommendation, Zevran waited beneath the tree and honed his daggers on a whetstone. After they were razor-sharp, he set in on his honey cake, a little crushed by the ride, but still delicious. And, as promised, the fisherman had a bite before the assassin had thoroughly licked his fingers of the crumbs. A man on horseback approached at a gallop up the thoroughfare, leaving a swirl of dust in his trail. The fisherman immediately paddled to a small dock, and hopped out of the boat to meet the now dismounting man. They exchanged curt words, and the rider reached into his leather coat to withdraw a folded piece of parchment. He loitered a moment to allow his steed to gulp up some pond water before quickly remounting and going the way he came. The fisherman waddled over to Zevran beneath his tree.

"We're agreed on the usual price?" the fisherman asked as he held out the piece of parchment.

In response, the elf pulled a drawstring leather pouch from an inner pocket of his vest. He tossed the jingling bag to the pock-faced man, who caught it with practiced ease. The paper was passed to Zevran in exchange. "Mi'lord will remember to think fondly of a humble working man," the fisherman said as he shoved off back into the pond.

"Mi'lord always does," Zevran murmured, bowing civilly to the fisherman's back. He tucked the parchment into an inner pocket of his leather vest, mounted up, and rode his trusty mare back the way they'd come. The grooms rushed out to meet him as he neared the stables, and the assassin allowed them to take the horse for care. He had far more important things to do, and now his mind was clear to do them.

By now, it was well into the morning. Ruairidh would be up, no doubt. Hopefully in a better mood than the day before. Zevran had done his best to unwind the man in bed, but he could never predict how the Warden would act. The mood swings had only gotten worse after the Blight ended, and Ruairidh hadn't exactly been stable to begin with. The loss of his entire family, especially his beloved older brother, had left him sullen and short-tempered. The family-like structure of their traveling company had seemed to help the grieving man slightly. But they were all gone now. Dead or else off to meet their own fate. All but Zevran. He told Ruairidh it was because he still owed a life debt, which was more or less true. But the heart of the matter was that, unlike the others, Zevran had nothing to go back to.

So he stayed.

The great hall was populated by a few lesser ladies breaking their fast, Zevran noticed as he passed through on the way to his chambers, but Ruairidh was still absent. It was hard to tell if a late morning was a good or bad thing for the turbulent man. Perhaps he was finally getting some much needed rest, despite his exclamations to the contrary. The idea of the large man sprawled out in bed, snoring, made Zevran smile.

Once in his chambers, he called for some wine and seated himself before the hearth in an over-stuffed chair of burgundy. When the servant had come with his wine and gone, door closed behind, Zevran slipped the parchment from his pocket to read the message.

As he feared, it once again concerned Alistair. Apparently, he now had his own army, a mob of mercenaries and smallfolk that liked to call themselves the Bastard's Men. Zevran sighed and took a pull of wine straight from the bottle that had been left. A thousand men were in this army, the Bastard's Men, at the time the note had been written, but it had doubtless grown in the days of transit.

One thousand men, especially the untrained part of that force, were not a particular threat. But people liked Alistair. One thousand was just the beginning. Dismiss him now, and he would soon have a formidable horde. If Anora was to keep her crown—and, more to the point, her head—this rebellion would need to be put down swiftly, and without mercy. And he had a sneaking suspicion of whom the queen might send to lead this mission.

Zevran gulped down some more wine, but even the fine vintage tasted sour on his lips. He snarled and threw the bottle into the fire, watching the flames dance as the glass shattered. It was hopeless. Ruairidh needed to heal. He was so broken, and nobody seemed to see it but Zevran. At the very least, the man needed some time to lick his wounds. However, the assassin was beginning to doubt whether Ruairidh would ever be whole again. Whatever shreds of humanity he had left were precarious at best, and being forced to hunt down his old brother-at-arms might undo that.

Zevran wanted to cry for the futility of it all, but he was not in the habit of crying. Ever. He stared stonily ahead, not seeing the fire licking up the expensive liquor.

He could never pinpoint when he actually started to care about the Warden. Of course, he'd always tilted both ways, and Ruairidh was an attractive man. But at some point, it had meant more than sex to the assassin, and it had scared him. It still scared him. Presently, it made him more angry than scared. He was used to being able to detach himself from a situation, but it was impossible to detach himself from Ruairidh's fate now. And, to that end, Zevran would feel all the acute misery that the Warden felt.

As if thinking about him too much summoned him, there was a knock on the door, and Ruairidh poked his head in the chamber. He hadn't shaven this morning, and the lower half of his face was covered in dark, scratchy stubble. He was wearing one of his old, brown wool tunics, held in place by a worn leather belt. "Mind if I..?" he asked, voice husky from disuse.

"Please, come in." Zevran gestured to the matching chair beside his, and the Warden sat lightly on the edge, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He was silent, but his expression was thoughtful, and his eyes bright. Knowing that Ruairidh was not one to initiate conversation, Zevran began, "You looked like Mabari shit yesterday."

"Mm," the Warden agreed.

"Which is to say, I find you much improved this morning, my dear Warden." Zevran gave one of his cat-that-ate-a-canary smiles as he openly checked out the other man. "I am glad of it, for I mean to allow my gaze to linger today. And tonight."

Ruairidh raised his brow and his lips thinned, nearly a smile. "Tonight?"

"Si, you do not remember all the steps. We must practice, practice, practice. This is the Warden way, no?" Zevran sighed extravagantly, as if he were terribly burdened by the amount of work ahead. "How is a humble assassin to keep up?"

"I'm sure the right strokes will keep him up all night," the Warden murmured, his words dulled by his distracted gaze into the fire.

"Surely it is so," assented the assassin. "But this is not why you have knocked on my door this morning." Ruairidh's silence was confirmation enough. Zevran sighed again, this time in earnest, and tried to catch the other man's eye, but was unsuccessful. "You know," he started, hesitantly, "you have not requested a boon of the queen yet. If there are things you would not do, ask to be officially assigned Warden Commander. Anora cannot order the Warden Commander as easily as she can brandish about the Hero of Ferelden. You will be free of politics." Free of her ordering you to kill Alistair.

"I supported Anora as queen, and I will not break my vows to shy away from unsavory orders."

"Asking to be reassigned before an order is issued would not constitute breaking your vows!" Zevran snapped, growing frustrated with Ruairidh's strict sense of honor.

"It would, given that I know an order is inevitable," he bit out, jaw clenching.

Zevran wanted to hit the Warden. "The queen has other men that can do the job serviceably. You don't have to do this!"

"Given your brigand's morals, I can understand why you don't value the sanctity of vows. But I am a Cousland, and more importantly, a Grey Warden. Honor is all I have, and I have given a pledge to obey and defend the woman I endorsed as queen. A highborn man knows his duty."

"Oh, si, Howe demonstrated a highborn man's sense of honor quite well on the night he betrayed your family."

Ruairidh froze in his chair, fists clenching at the arms. Suddenly, he stood, the chair flying back and smacking the foot of the bed. He turned to glare down at Zevran with wild eyes, and spat, "Never speak of that filth again." Without another word, the Warden stalked from the bed chamber, slamming the door behind him.

Inside his chest, Zevran's heart was ramming against his ribs. The moment those words had slipped from his tongue, he'd been afraid. Of what, he was not entirely sure. Ruairidh would never actually hurt him. Would he? With hands shakier than he would have liked, he grasped the slender crystal goblet the servant had brought for the wine and swallowed its contents.