AN: Hey all! I just wanted to make a quick note to say thank so much for the positve feedback for this story, I'm glad people are getting into Coulsand and Alistair's tale :) I've been really busy with uni coursework for the past month so I'm afraid that's why chapters have been in short supply (escpecially for 'War Less Just') unfortunately my exams are coming up soonish so I will be writing less still for a little while. However, I will try and get some things out when I can and will hopefully get back into the flow soon

Thanks again everyone!

Prick thy Vanity

He would not dwell on it. If he did he was sure to do nothing but sit staring into the fire while contemplating throwing himself into it.

Thirteen dead: Eleven subdued by the poisonous blood; two by his own hand.

Five lived.

Thirteen dead.

Two by his own hand.

The terrified eyes of the young blond woman stared at him when he closed his eyes in sleep. The stink of the young man's blood which he washed off of his hands and face would not leave him. The stinging in his eyes from the smoke of the mass funeral pyre, the sound in his ears of Hannah reading out the Chantry's lore to send their souls to rest.

He wouldn't think on it, he wouldn't think of the almost insensible loss of young life. He wouldn't think on it but, sickeningly, it was impossible not to be haunted by the lingering assault upon his senses.

Can I be called murderer? Slaughtering Darkspawn is no crime to us; the wanton genocide seemed nothing when compared to the deaths of thirteen women and men, daughters and sons. What is this that we believe is right and good, what is moral and what is immoral in this land ruled by death?

No, think not upon it. Save your sanity for the trials to come. Better it be simple, better it be life and death to contend with than political intrigue and hidden words.


"I'm not going," Meris said, "it's a stupid idea."

Lien Cousland had been raised as a spoiled child, even he would admit it when forced. His mother was a tough woman, trained in battle, wise and beautiful and strong, but she doted on her youngest son more than she ever did his elder brother. He was his father's 'pup', he was the youngest and the most coddled. He was not used to being told no.

Since losing the safety of home, the safety of his wonderful childhood, he would say he replaced the affection and indulgence of his parents with the adoration and awe created by becoming the Hero of Ferelden. So once more, he was not used to being told no.

"What the fuck do you think this is?" Cousland asked tightly, his arms folded as he stared down at the svelte mage, drinking soup from a bowl, "A bloody request?"

"I would assume that any request or order you would give to me," Meris said, pausing with irritating slowness to blow on his soup and then sip from the broth, "is perfectly open to critical analysis. I'm simply giving you my opinion."

"You said it was stupid," Cousland said as he took the chair next to the mage and set about venting his anger upon the large venison steak and boiled potatoes which sat before him, "that's hardly constructive criticism. I'm giving you an order; pack your things because you're coming with me. This is entirely your fault anyway."

"Such an inability to take responsibility for your own decisions," Meris said as if to himself while looking at the Commander critically, "I had nothing to do with your sudden change of heart. I merely pointed out the excellence of the advice you were awarded by another. That should neither make me responsible for your eclectic emotions nor responsible for chaperoning you to Denerim."

The dining hall continued to clatter and chatter around them, the host of Wardens consuming the hearty venison stew and enjoying the company and respite. Cousland had specifically asked for his meat to be served as it was, cooked in the vast ovens with the stew until it turned deep brown and dry on the outside but was still red and bleeding on the inside. It was a small consolation to the Commander as he stuffed the gamey meat into his mouth and chewed upon the flesh, savouring the rare flavour, but the good food could only cover so much of his irritation and, strangely, his nervousness.

"I am an obviously bad choice," Meris continued when he realised that he would receive no reply from Cousland, "I draw far too much attention, I am am still regarded an apostate by many no matter that you consider mages free and I'm quite sure you would like to remain as anonymous as possible when visiting the Royal Palace."

"Yes, yes, fine," Cousland spat after swallowing his mouthful, spearing a potato and sighing as he eyed it, "I see your point, or your many points. I'll ask someone else."


The Warden's name was Phillipa, the woman who had informed him of both Wynne and Meris's requests for council, which he discovered when he finally took the chance to ask her. She seemed far less rigid and confused than usual when he informed her, ad hoc after she returned from evening patrol, that she would be accompanying him to Denerim. Perhaps she was becoming used to his incongruous nature, or perhaps she was simply good at following orders. Cousland had not yet made up his mind.

He had sought her out after Meris's refusal, partly because he couldn't think of anyone else in the Keep whom he would trust to keep a secret if it came to that and who was also not indispensible to the Keep's safety in his absence; yet he was not vain enough to deny that it was mainly gut instinct that led him to discover Phillipa. Yet his gut was not only relaying useful information, but also niggling feeling that there was something strange and unknown grating against his nerves in the background. Not that he could explain it. In fact he had mainly put it down to his underlying woe and remorse. Somehow, even though he wished it were true, there was a little voice in his head that whispered to him of the dangers of doubt and lying to himself.

It turned out that his gut was, so far at least in regards to people, still in working order. The woman was not only succinct in her manner but blunt and pragmatic. Two days after announcing his plans to leave for the Royal City, after delegating his workload to the senior Warden's in his absence, he wandered down to the stables to find Phillipa was ready to leave even before he was.

"Ready to leave Commander," she said brightly, yet with an air of duty that could not be ignored.

He had nodded to her and they departed without further congress. As they trotted along the roughly hewn cobblestones onto the path that led to the main highway, Cousland felt his mind wandering. So impulsive, he thought in a derogatory fashion, how unlike me. No invitation to the royal court, no legitimate reason to abandon my post, and yet here I am, all for the sake of my own needs and wants, disobeying both my superiors and the crown. He lifted his head as his mare shifted beneath him into a steady walk. Phillipa adjusted her own steeds pace to suit.

It was true of him, he was normally not exactly subtle by nature. He was as careless and rash as he was calculating and careful. It was a flaw in his personality even as much as it was a boon to his leadership skills. Still, just as much as this sudden need to see Alistair could be attributed to his rash nature, so could it be attributed to more than just that. He had a bad feeling in his gut, something niggling and irrespective of his attempts to ignore it, it had become only more noticeable once he had decided to leave for Denerim. Cousland gripped the reigns tighter and shook his head before kicking at his horses flank. She whinnied disagreeably but acquiesced nonetheless, jumping forwards into a swift canter and then a flying gallop.

He did not listen to anything but the sounds of her thumping hooves, accompanied by Phillipa's steed struggling to catch up.


"I would say that we have precious little to hold dear Commander," Phillipa said seriously, her bright eyes focused not on his face but on the candle at the table's centre, "and that if you have to do something stupid to risk holding onto whatever it is you have left, then it's worth it."

How they had stumbled upon this bizarrely personal conversation, Cousland couldn't rightly say. They were only twelve miles from Denerim, staying at a local inn at the small town of Gratsow in order to give the horses a chance to rest and themselves a small respite before the final leg of the journey. Well, that's what Cousland liked to tell himself were his reasons. If he were to be truthful, and there were precious few he would ever admit it to, he had stopped them short of Denerim so as to delay the inevitable. He wasn't scared, not so much, not at all, in fact he was more agitated than worried.

When he thought of Alistair, of the throng of unopened letters he had received from the man, never a personal visit, never a spare second to touch on the importance of them over anything else, it made him...agitated. It made him sad, and he couldn't stand it. This wasn't him, he wasn't morose, he weathered through no matter what! And yet here he was...agitated. Sad. Brooding.

The journey, short as it was, had thus been mainly bereft of talk. Phillipa seemed to be a naturally quiet woman, talking only when necessary or when her superior asked something of her. She was pragmatic, sensible and very helpful; everything Cousland was looking for in a travelling companion. Normally, however, Cousland could make up for the lack of talk during a journey with his own relentless tongue. He could talk the hind legs off a horse when he was in the mood, or so he'd been told. So, considering both he and Phillipa stayed unreservedly tight lipped, the tension in the air, mainly deriving from Cousland's own agitation, was rather unbearable.

They camped out the first night, then the second they stayed at a Warden outpost in the north eastern fold of the Bannorn. Everything had gone as he thought it would; straight forward, no messing around, no complications.

Until the third night.

Gratsow was a small town but Cousland would admit that the atmosphere was one of the most welcoming and enjoyable in all the Eastern holds. He had passed through three times before and stopped over once, and on every occasion he would say that there was something about the town that lightened your spirits. The residents were oddly friendly and cordial, especially for the outlying towns of Denerim in which most tended to be grim faced and, on a whole, more miserable than most. Gratsow, in comparison, was a lively trade centre, due to its proximity to the vast Denerim port and fishery, and the extensive and fertile fields which stretched between it and Alamar island. It was always busy, bustling with life, and the inn was always filled with people, good, hearty food and a traditionally brewed, local ale affectionately termed 'King's spit'. Cousland didn't entirely know why they named it so unsavourily considering it was the best ale from there until Orzammar.

So perhaps Cousland did know how he and Phillipa had ended up sitting at a lopsided, wobbly table, unheard beneath the constant chatter and singing filling the inn's pub, talking about why the Commander of the Grey should not be allowing the King of Ferelden to marry. He was blaming the ale.

"Well I wouldn't say I hold him dear..." Cousland shook his head and sighed, rubbing at his face and trying to think how to change the subject.

"Please Commander," Phillipa said with a scathingly incredulous look, "I'd rather we didn't beat around the bush in regards to this. It was one of the first rumours I heard when I joined the troops at Vigil's Keep and it didn't take long to find out that it was more than just a rumour. Every one of the Ferelden Wardens I have met knows."

Cousland was glad that she had said her bit before he took a long swallow of calming, hoppy ale, otherwise he was sure it would have been spat all over the, admittedly dirty, table. It wasn't that he was worried, not really, if something were to come of he and Alistair's clandestine affair it would have happened already, but it was more the fact of being told straight to his face by a subordinate that everybody knew.

"Everyone knows," he repeated quietly while he smiled deprecatingly and shifted his mug around and around between his two palms, staring forwards into the shifting crowds of revellers.

"And yet they still respect and honour you Commander," Phillipa said strongly before taking a swig of her own drink; she wiped her mouth on her sleeve and looked directly into his eyes, forcing him to meet her gaze, "I'm sure that tells you all you need to know."

Cousland found, even as he opened his mouth to reply with something snappish before closing it resolutely, that he couldn't argue with her logic; or begrudge her acceptance of something that he wished he could still hold dear.


The Royal Castle in the wet, gloomy city of Denerim seemed oddly bustling as they approached, their horses breathing milky clouds into the cold air as they walked forwards, heads bent down towards the muddy ground. Richly dressed men and women were walking in and out of the main gate, the portcullis raised, with young elven servants currying after them. Horses and carts were ferrying crates and barrels in and out of the castle, large wicker baskets of foodstuffs, vegetables and imported fruits which must have been brought in specially as it was the wrong season here in Ferelden for most of what Cousland saw amongst the lavish host of foods packed tightly in straw. Some large event was clearly being prepared but what that might be Cousland had no idea.

The sky was overcast but bright, the sun struggling to break through the thick cloud. The guards spared him only a second glance before recognising his face, allowing both himself and Phillipa safe passage through into the courtyard. As they entered a harsh cawing brought Cousland's gaze up to his right, to the frosty wall of the castle's outer defences; there he found a sleek, black raven staring back at him. He frowned at the bird as he walked his horse onwards towards the stables, its pitch eyes following him as it cocked its head with seeming inquisitiveness.

He did not realise it when they entered the courtyard and he did not realise it when they left their horses with the familiar stable hand in and walked with impunity up into the castle's innards. He did not notice it as he walked the heavy, cold stone corridors, nodding to the guards on duty whom he recognised and receiving salutes in reply. He did not even notice it when he walked up the stairs and into the throne room proper, up across the rich, thick rugs which dampened the heavy tread of his boots. He did not suspect a single thing until he spied the two unfamiliar women standing by Bann Teagan and Alistair, who was himself standing beside his throne instead of sitting in it, accompanied by a heavy set, stern looking man whose gaze snapped to Cousland as he approached.

He did not suspect a thing until he heard the thick Orlesian accents that snapped quickly to a halt as he stopped at the bottom of the pair of steps which led up to the Ferelden throne. Teagan was the first to speak, even if he was not the first to notice him.

"My Lord Cousland," he said, eyes stark and countenance clearly betraying his surprise, "what...I mean, your arrival is most unexpected."

His reply would have been more succinct if at that moment Cousland hadn't been staring rather hard at Alistair who, on hearing Cousland's name mentioned, had snapped his head swiftly to the left and stared right back. There was an awkward pause, during which the two ladies, with whom Alistair had been conversing until he was distracted, eyed Cousland with cold interest and Cousland did his best to ignore them in return. He blinked, moved his hard eyes away from Alistair and focused on Teagan. One thing he had not missed was Teagan's overly formal speech which he only used around Cousland on official occasions.

"Sorry for the surprise," Cousland said with a forced smile, flicking his eyes towards the ladies, "and for the interruption."

"Not at all," Teagan said with a strained, casual tone, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder as a rouse into leading him away from the royal chamber and out into the adjacent corridor; Cousland played along, following Teagan as he walked towards one of the large sitting rooms in the east wing, Phillipa following her Commander closely, "but you really should have informed us of your visit, we would have made preparations."

"Oh I don't know if that was necessary," Cousland said as he stepped aside while continuing to walk, allowing three men carrying heavy looking chests to pass them by, "looks like you're already quite prepared."

To say that he was still simply agitated would be a drastic understatement. Cousland could feel that antagonistic itching shivering not just in his hands but over his entire body, as if a fire had been kindled within him. Here, he thought darkly, they have the nerve to come here. They did not speak another word until they reached the empty sitting room and Teagan had closed all of the doors, informing the guards outside both entrances not to allow anyone inside while they were within. His paranoia even seemed to extend to Phillipa as, when Teagan turned to begin talking to him, he eyed her distrustfully. Cousland would have argued for her to stay but, knowing Teagan, he would never be convinced.

"Phillipa, would you mind waiting outside please?" Cousland said politely to the other Warden.

"Of course, Commander," she said, saluting sharply before walking, without preamble, out of the door through which they had entered.

"So," Cousland said with as much falsified normality as he could cram into his dull tone, "the prospective bride to be has come for a visit, eh?"

"I wish you would keep your voice down," Teagan said irately, placing his hands upon his hips before beginning to pace beside the large, unlit fireplace; Cousland stood beside one of the heavily brocaded armchairs that faced the dark fireplace and leaned against it, his arms tightly folded, "not everyone is as privileged as you to this sort of information."

"I think you underestimate the sensibilities of both your employees and your loyal subjects," Cousland couldn't help but say the last words with a hearty sense of sarcasm, "you haven't made this meeting exactly secret, now have you? I mean really, openly ferrying Orlesian princesses into the Denerim court, Teagan! Have you lost your mind?"

The older man stopped his pacing as Cousland's voice rose, only to find the Commander staring at him angrily. He sighed and shook his head as if in subjugation, but Cousland knew better than to underestimate even those he considered friends in times like these.

"I wish it were as simple as refusing them," Teagan said tiredly, "but this is a delicate time, of which you are well aware. There are certain conditions that must be met before anything solid can be formed between our two countries."

Cousland suppressed a shiver of distaste, instead opting for a light sneer and averting his eyes from Teagan whom, up until a few months before, he had held in high esteem. He found it difficult to continue his respect for the man when he spoke so openly of the farcical marriage of their foolish King and an Orlesian princess.

"This visit is a vital part of that plan," Teagan said in what could have been taken as a pleading voice.

"Making you jump through hoops like good little dogs are they?" Cousland replied with stalwart bitterness, "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."

"That isn't what this is," Teagan said with a heavy frown, "and this isn't out of the ordinary. Any royal pairing takes preparation. Take that in concurrence with having to be very careful about how this is handled, considering the rather rocky nature of Ferelden's past with Orlais, and it becomes more protracted than usual."

"Don't lecture me on history I am well aware of," Cousland said with a sharp sigh, pushing away from the armchair as the fire under his skin momentarily flared, making him jittery and restless, "look, I'm not here to discuss who is bloody well doing what for whom and vice versa, alright?"

"Then why are you here?" Teagan bit back, obviously fairly troubled himself if he was losing his composure this easily.

Why are you here? It was a good fucking question, Cousland thought, and its one I should most certainly not have to explain to anyone except Alistair. If you haven't figured it out by now Teagan, he thought, then you never will. Although even he would give Teagan the benefit of the doubt, considering Cousland's rather unstructured, impromptu plan had no real actual plan behind it...it wasn't something he thought anyone would have been expecting. Still, that didn't make it any less obvious. Teagan, considering he knew better than most exactly how much Alistair meant to Cousland, should have known better.

"I need to speak to Alistair," he said coldly, "that is all. You don't need to worry about anything Teagan, I doubt I'll be missed if we leave tomorrow. I'm sure you can spare myself and my subordinate a bed for the night at least, can't you?"

"O-of course we can spare you rooms for the night but..." Teagan's frown only deepened as Cousland retreated under his icy shell.

"Good, then I ask that you have someone show us there immediately," Cousland said, unfolding his arms, "I will speak with Alistair this evening, if he is not too busy that is."

He made for the door, outside which Phillipa would be waiting. He heard Teagan asking him to wait but ignored him. This strategy would have prevailed if not for Teagan's closing words. Cousland had opened the door and made to leave as Teagan laid yet another piece of cold, hard news upon his shoulders.

"Wait Lien!" he said urgently; Cousland should have known it was serious if Teagan was using his given name.

"What is it?" he spat coldly, uncaring as to who heard them, turning around harshly to glare at Teagan as he stood importunately in the middle of the room.

"Your brother, Teryn Cousland, is also visiting the King," Teagan said, making Cousland stand stock still, his heart leaping into his throat, "he's staying here in the castle. I...thought you should know."


News of a fight breaking out, a riot in the streets, an invasion of hideous monsters or blood mages or dragons or Darkspawn...he would have taken anything over the prospect of running into Fergus. The mere mention of his brother's name had sent the Commander of the Grey, with Phillipa at his heels, hurrying along behind the pageboy who showed them to the guest quarters on the second floor in the west wing of the castle.

He stepped inside and closed the door against both the page boy and Phillipa's confused expressions. Cousland did not care for their own concern for his actions. All he cared for, as everything slowly slid down and down towards the nightmare situation, was his own ability to hide from it all. Of course that didn't stop people from knocking upon his door, continuously.

Phillipa was the first. She seemed to skirt around the issue nimbly as they spoke, seemingly trying to both put him at ease while ferreting out the cause of his unease. Cousland rebuffed all attempts, even when Teagan visited his chambers and tried to continue their conversation from earlier. He was so very reasonable that it only served to make Cousland even more irate. Next came the stable hand with his saddle bags, filled with his equipment, then a maid to ask if he would be coming down for dinner. When the next knock came, only a few minutes later, he was so on edge that he merely snapped out,

"Come in!" as he stood and rooted through his bag, looking for the fresh shirt he had kept there just in case, adding in a grumble, "everyone else has."

The door opened. The silence that lingered there, as he faced away from the door towards the bed and looked down into his bags, was the first clue. Then the door closed. Cousland took a deep breath and straightened up, placing his hands on his hips. The silence continued. He turned around decisively, wishing that he could feel as confident as his gesture suggested.

"I'd say I can't believe you didn't write ahead," Alistair said, his fingers twisting around each other in a flagrant display of nerves, "but I think I should be used to you springing up unexpectedly."

"...Right," Cousland replied awkwardly after a pause, simply staring at Alistair in reply.

"Umm, yes, well," Alistair said, placing his hands upon his hips and not moving away from the closed door, "did you...did you get my letters?"

"Yes," Cousland said, omitting that he had never opened a single one before tossing them onto the fire.

"I...see," Alistair said slowly when Cousland did not elaborate, "well, I mean, are you staying?"

"Just tonight," Cousland said; he could feel himself curling inwards, refusing to react, forcing up a cold exterior as defence.

"Alright," Alistair said, nodding helplessly as he breathed deeply, "I see. Well, I suppose I should leave you to your unpacking then, not that you'll need it though considering your only staying for tonight, thus common sense dictates you were just trying to do something to make ignoring me a valid thing, but then surely you wouldn't..."

It was an odd mix of sheer, aggravated tension, caused by Alistair's rambling, mixed with the deep, lingering, need to touch him which drive Lien to turn, stride across the room in two swift steps and slam the wide eyed King up against the stone wall. The kiss wasn't exactly pleasant, more rough, biting, carnal, more savagery than love. Alistair's hands seemed to have leapt up reflexively, clinging tightly to the soft fur of his armour as Cousland's hands jerked him closer, curled around his waist. He hadn't even been truly aware how rough he was being until Alistair let out a muffled sound of pain and quickly shoved them apart.

They stood there, panting, a few feet apart, the space between them both electric and paradoxically deadened. Alistair wiped at his lip and his hand came away bloody. Cousland drew in a long breath and let it out as a weary sigh, lifting his hand to rub at his forehead. This wasn't how it was supposed to be, he thought tiredly, this was meant to be...to be...

"Well, oh, I think I..." Alistair was saying a little dazedly before stopping to suck at his split bottom lip; he managed, somehow, to have lost his shyness in favour of looking entirely stunned "...I completely lost my chain of thought...no, wait, there it is."

Oh how he had missed that childlike, witty sense of humour that never failed to make him smile. He would have, smiled that is, if he hadn't been so horribly torn between his traitorous feelings and his sense of honour. He watched Alistair like a hawk, waiting for him to continue, hoping beyond hope that he would say something profound or sweet or something he needed to hear...

"We're feasting in the main hall," Alistair said, "just thought I'd let you know the food is being brought out. I, well, I saved you a spot."

Then, with that, he turned and left without further adieu. The factual statement held none of the declarations Cousland had been hoping for, even if it was still so very distinctly Alistair. He stared at the door as it closed and felt his entire body relax. He hadn't noticed, until that point, just how tensely and rigidly he had been holding himself. Fuck, he thought harshly, fuck! What in the Black is wrong with me? I'm not here to...to maul him into fucking submission, I'm...I'm here to, I mean...to convince him that, well, that I'm...

Sometimes, when he was a little boy, he had been struck by certain feelings which others seemed either immune to or unaware of; one had been the ability to tell when an endeavour was fruitless, in vain, hopeless. He would get a strict feeling of nausea in his gut and the thought of going on, of continuing through towards an end that would surely never come, only made the experience all the more unbearable. He had always been sensitive to this aspect of failure, something both personal and intrinsic to his nature. Right now Cousland couldn't tell whether the roiling in his gut could be attributed to that feeling or simply to his own highly strung nerves which were keeping him constantly on edge.

I said I wouldn't give up, he thought even as he sat down heavily on the edge of the simple bed and put his face in his hands, but it seems so bloody petty now. I should be better than this, better than my own base nature. I need to think of Ferelden, think of her future, the future of my homeland and her survival. Not my own desires. Shit, I've been sacrificing my own happiness for years now, he thought bitterly, why stop just because it's taken the last thing I truly give a damn about? The thought made him wince at his own insensitivity; flashes of his mother's pleading eyes, his father's face splattered in his own blood, the bodies of his friends burning, his family, Darkspawn, Warden's, the young woman's pleading face, the young man's blood on his hands...

He pressed his fingers against his tightly closed eyelids until he saw stars dancing behind them. Quiet, he thought morosely, please just be quiet. He pulled his hands away from his eyes before pressing them to his mouth, holding his breath until the raging torrent of maddening feelings rushed too close to the surface. No, he thought, no I won't do this to myself. Get up, he thought strictly, following his own orders as he stood and quickly pulled the shirt from his bag, put your shirt on, get downstairs and act your part. There's more at stake here than your blasted, petty fucking love.

As he stepped lightly down the stairs towards the main hall, Phillipa his silent companion, he wished it were true.

Even more than his desires becoming reality he wished that, at the very least, he could fool himself into believing it.