It was late when he finally rolled off of Marna.

She'd come to his room after everyone else had gone to sleep, under the pretense of delivering the fresh linens he'd requested. She was such a sly one.

Lance had taken his conversation with Fergus earlier to heart and made sure to keep her quiet while they did it, either with a hand over her mouth or by kissing her. It was an unusual amount of fun.

They lay there for a while, resting in the afterglow. Rarely did they talk; there was little they had in common. She didn't want to share with him the intricacies of scrubbing a kitchen floor, and he didn't want to describe to her the agonizing monotony of being a noble.

On occasion they did find something to talk about.

"Do you think it is truly a Blight?" she asked. He had one arm draped over her side and was playfully nibbling her ear.

"I don't know. They say it is. The Grey Warden said so."

"Aren't you afraid? For your family, I mean?"

"Yes. And no. I just can't really see either Fergus or dad dying out there."

"I'm glad you're here," she said. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

He didn't say anything. What could he have said to that? They never talked about feelings or emotions; for him it was just enough to be with her. He liked her, sure. She was a great gal, playful, and she was just really fun to be with. Not mention the fact that she treated him well.

"Do you love me?" she asked.

He felt his heart skip a beat. He liked her, but he wasn't sure he loved her. How does one know that they love anyone? He certainly wanted to be with her, to continue their nightly sessions. He was attracted to her, and she to him. Was that not enough? Did it have to be muddied with talk of love and a life together? Besides, what life was possible for them? He a noble, expected to rule his estate as his father and his father's father had done; she a peasant Elf, second class and treated like dirt. What would become of the Cousland and the Knife-Ear?

"Do you love me?" he asked. He could feel her tense up, feel her muscles tighten and he pulled her close, comforting her.

"I think I do, yes. I really want to be with you," she said. "I don't think I could live without you."

"It doesn't bother you? The differences in our status?"

"If you love someone, why does it matter?"

"And you love me?"

"Yes. Do you love me?"

"I… Yeah. I do," he said. He kissed the nape of her neck, trying to redirect the conversation to something they would both find preferable.

"Can you say it?"

"Say what now?"

"Say that you love me. I can say it: I love you, Lance."

"Do you need me to say it? Can't I just feel it?"

He didn't want to break her heart. He'd never been in love, he was sure. And he wasn't in love with her. For as much as he cared about her, he just couldn't love her. Lying to her would just make it worse when they inevitably parted.

"I'd like you to say it. If you love me then why not?"

He was about to come up with a good excuse, a reason not to. Something subtle, yet dramatic. Maybe start fooling around with her again. He leaned down to kiss her, hand sliding up to her breast.

He was stopped midway by the sound of something crashing in the hall.

Ajax, who had until this point been sitting quietly on the big rug that dominated the floor, immediately set to barking, growling, and scratching at the door.

"What the hell was that?" Lance asked, cycling through the possibilities. Something fallen in the hall? Nothing that could have made such a racket. One of the guards, drunk out of his mind? That wasn't exactly a better option.

"Your dog is really growling," she said, sitting up and hugging the blankets to her chest. "Is something wrong?"

"Someone in the hall, maybe," said Lance, reaching down to dress quickly. He would just stick his head out and see who it was. "Stay here a minute."

Marna was already dressing, not wanting to get Lance in any more trouble. He'd almost reached for the door when a second, louder sound echoed through the stone hallway just outside. It was unmistakable: a door being forced out of its frame, wood splintering. And then a scream, cut terrifyingly short. Oriana!

Lance hurriedly kicked open his chest, pulling the chainmail hauberk over his head and quickly donning his sword. He turned to Marna, to tell her to stay where she was, but he never got the chance.

The door burst open, the frame shattering and sending splinters spraying across the room. An arrow followed soon after, and Marna fell backwards. Lance realized the horrible truth, even as he stared in disbelief.

Reacting on instinct, doing what he spent years practicing, he drew his sword, waiting for the first of the attackers to enter, wondering why the Elf had been there and not the boy they were after.

And he struck out, lopping off the head of the man before pivoting in place to send his blade straight into the archer's neck, twisting for effect.

At once he recognized the heraldry on their shields, the distinctive bear emblem. Arl Rendon Howe had betrayed his family.

Lance felt the sword drop from his hand, clattering on the stone floor. He stumbled to Marna, watching helplessly as blood oozed out of the wound in her chest. She was gone, dead before she hit the ground.

"Oh, Maker," he muttered. "I'm so sorry, Marna. I…"

He heard more men coming from the hall, and he felt himself overtaken by rage. Arl Howe had betrayed him, for no reason. He had spilled blood in Castle Cousland, had waited to ambush father when Fergus and his men had left.

"I… I will kill him," said Lance, cradling Marna's head. "I will kill him for you. I promise."

He stood, and took the sword.

He was sad at her passing, wishing that he had been able to protect her, to have been the one to take the arrow and not her. He couldn't reverse time, and as much as he wished her back to life, he knew the only justice to be found was at the tip of a sword.

And he stepped out into the hall, facing two more of Arl Howe's traitorous men.

He set upon them before they realized what was happening. Lance's training paid for itself with interest. He struck low and hard, impaling the lead man at the base of his plate armor. The second, a panicked archer, struggled to ready an arrow before having Lance's sword dance across his throat.

The door to his parents' room opened, and out stepped his mother, clad in a full set of leather armor. She had a bow slung over her shoulder, and looked like no woman Lance had ever seen.

"My son!" she cried, hurrying to his side. "I heard a scream and bolted the door. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, but I heard a scream from Fergus' room."

"Oh, Maker, no! What if they went into your brother's room first? Hurry!"

Lance went to the door, noting with a tinge of pain and fear that the door was ajar, the frame broken. He pushed it open; looking away even as he saw the bodies, smelled the blood.

"Don't look, Mother," he warned."It's too late."

"Oh, poor Fergus," she said, tears sliding down her face. "My poor Oren! Why would anyone do this? Did you see those shields? Howe's not taking prisoners; he means to kill us all! Why would he do this?"

"He attacks while our men are away," said Lance, blood burning hotter. He couldn't get the image of Oriana, dress torn and bloody, out of his head. Oren had his throat slit, and had probably died a long and painful death. He imagined Howe, his smiling face and the cordial manner in which they'd exchanged pleasantries. And then he imagined gutting the man.

"We have to find your father," said Eleanor, drawing her bow. "Quickly!"

"Stay behind me, mother," said Lance. He called for Ajax, and the three left their chambers, headed out to find Bryce, wherever he might be. And Lance hoped that there were a lot of Howe's men between him and his father.

"Do you hear that?" asked Eleanor as they walked out into the warm night air. The sound of battle echoed in the distance; metal clanging and men shouting. There weren't very men left in the castle, just a minor guard force. Fires burned in various places, lighting the night clear as day.

"The battle is down there," said Lance, he stepped forward, raising his blade, eager to kill every soldier ever to have come from Amaranthine.

"No," said Eleanor. "It is hopeless. You can't win."

"We can't let Howe win, either," Lance countered. "We need to take the fight to him."

"You will die if you do," said Eleanor. She reached out to touch his shoulder. "You must live. We have to find your father and make for the servants' entrance in the larder. We can escape there."

"Is there anything we can do? I can't sit idly by!"

"The Cousland Family Blade," Eleanor said. She reached for the key hanging from her neck. "It is in the treasury. We can't let Howe get his hands on it; it should cut off his traitorous head."

She gave the key to Lance, squeezing his hand. "Hurry son."

Lance ran down the ramp, sword at the ready. A serving Elf ran around the corner, heading up the ramp.

"They're everywhere!" he shouted. "The Castle is lost!"

"Have heart, man," Lance challenged. "Find your courage and fight!"

He wavered, looking over his shoulder at the approaching troops and back at his Lord and Lady. He drew his dagger.

"Here they come!"

Lance moved even faster, pushing past the Elf and confronting the first Howe soldier to approach.

In a blur Lance parried, reversed, and countered the swordsman, shoving his shoulder into the man to knock him off balance driving his sword into the attacker's belly, punching right through the iron plate.

His mother fired a single arrow, stopping dead a soldier that meant to kill Lance while he was busy with the first.

Ajax performed the most admirably, a trained mabari warhound. He leapt at the attackers, viciously gnawing on legs and feet, pulling them down to be torn apart while they floundered helpless.

More of Howe's men came, and Lance went to meet them. Even as his mother fired arrow after arrow at them, Lance was amongst them. He slashed left and right, lopping off arms and legs and heads. He cut away one soldier's leg and brought his sword down into his chest.

"Come on," he shouted, challenging every soldier to fight. There were none left, however, all having been torn to shreds.

"My son, the treasury," said Eleanor, pulling on his arm to turn his attention away from the carnage. She led him to the family treasury, where he unlocked the door and entered, sealing it behind them while they went for the armory.

He worked the lock, pushing the heavy wooden open to reveal a room stocked full of weapons and armor. He ignored the less fine implements of warfare, the ones that any guard on the wall had access to, instead heading straight for the Cousland family chest.

He opened it, reaching inside to withdraw a set of scale armor, specially designed for father's use in battle. He stripped off the chainmail and leather piece he wore, his mother quickly helping him to don the scale, fastening and tightening the pieces to fit his frame.

She reached into the chest, taking out the sheathed family blade, an ornate silver weapon, with an equally astounding scabbard.

"Here, take it," she said, handing him the sword. He threw off the older blade he carried, putting the pristine Cousland sword in its place. "You will need this, too."

She took a heavy leather satchel from the bag, swollen with coin. It was a significant portion of the family fortune, and something that Howe should not ever be allowed to have. He threw the satchel over his other shoulder, taking a moment to adjust to the weight.

"Your father must be at the gate," said Eleanor, taking a moment to regard her son in full armor. "We must go to him at once."

The gate was adjacent to the treasury, and none of Howe's men stood in the way. They had, however, managed to enter the gateway where Ser Gilmore led a valiant defense.

Howe's men didn't last long.

A mage, likely an apostate raised outside the Chantry's purview, fired magic into the defenders, searing right through armor plates and ripping up the men within. Lance sought her out. He drew the Family Blade, marveled at the clarity of it, and he struck out.

The mage tried to defend herself, raising up her staff to deflect the blow, only for it to be sliced neatly in half the blade continued through to its target, slicing her arm away. She screamed, reached out vainly. He cut her through.

A Howe soldier rushed him from behind, bring his sword down. Lance reacted, dropping to a knee and raising his sword to block the blow. He pushed it aside, forcing the blade to the ground and bringing his own up into the man's throat. He twisted the sword.

Another pivot and a swing and a soldier's head flew free. A quick slash and a man lost his sword along with his fingers. The Cousland Blade sang, calling upon blood and bone, cutting men apart. Armor did little to stop the blade, and Lance was at once rendered a God.

And then the battle was over, a half-dozen men at his feet. Blood stained his armor and his sword.

"My Lord," said Ser Gilmore, running to Lance's side and ushering his remaining men to brace the gate even as the enemy pounded at it. "I was afraid you had already fallen."

"It takes a great deal more to kill me, Ser Gilmore," said Lance. "Where is my father?"

"Last I saw the Teyrn was searching for you. He was badly wounded and went to search for you in the larder."

"He knew we would try for the servant's exit," said Eleanor. Ser Gilmore nodded to her, and looked anxiously at the gate, knowing it would not hold.

"Let me stay and help you," said Lance. Ser Gilmore shook his head.

"I could not. You must escape from here."

"Then come with us," Lance pleaded, working to fight off images of his father bleeding to death in some cold larder. Ser Gilmore shook his head again.

"If I did then you would not make it to the larder."

Something cracked against the gate, causing the men holding it to shout in surprise and push harder against it.

"Go," Ser Gilmore urged. "Now, before it is too late."

Eleanor tugged Lance away.

"Why?" he muttered. "Why is this happening?"

He thought of all those times he'd resented Ser Gilmore's presence, all those times he'd made a game out of evading him, trying to spend as much time without him as possible. Now he'd do anything to keep from losing him.

The door to the gateway shut behind them.

A small group of Howe's men were approaching, having sated their bloodlust in the servant quarters.

"There, get 'em," shouted their leader, a man wearing thick armor. Ajax shot out, leading the fight. He descended on one of the soldiers before he could react, tearing and ripping.

Lance wasn't far behind him, countering the leader's massive hammer with a tackle. He drove the knight to the floor, smashing his head with a deft kick. The knight's thick armor worked against him, keeping him pinned to the floor, unable to maneuver.

Lance sent the point of his sword into the knight's visor.

The other troops were dead, unable to stand between Ajax and Eleanor. Lance was breathing hard now, staring at the dead knight. If this was the battle he'd so long desired, he could live the rest of his life without swinging another sword.

They entered the kitchen, aghast to see poor Nan slain on the floor. Lance regretted having been so immature with her earlier, and wished he had the chance to go back. He couldn't believe himself; here he was, his castle burning around him, and he was wishing to go back to stop himself from saying something stupid.

"Come on," said Eleanor, guiding him to the larder where they could escape. "We have to go."

He stumbled into the larder, barely registering the smell of blood, or his father lying on the floor.

"Oh, Maker, Bryce!" Eleanor cried, rushing to her husband's side. He groaned and coughed, frothy blood at the corners of his mouth.

"I… tried to make it here, to find you," said Bryce, holding his side, blood seeping out from between his fingers. "Howe's men found me first. Almost did me in right there."

"Father, come on, we have to go," said Lance, pleading with his dad, refusing to believe for an instant that Bryce Cousland could die. It was impossible.

"I wouldn't survive the standing, I think," said Bryce. He groaned, leaning heavily against the wood pile on the far end of the larder. "You have to go."

"I did my best to get him here," said Duncan, suddenly behind them. He was sheathing his sword, covered in the blood of Howe's men. "I'm afraid I was too late, however."

"Thank you, Duncan," said Lance. "Can you help us escape?"

"Our fates are tied," said Duncan. "Arl Howe has seen fit to order his men to kill me, too. I will help you."

Bryce gurgled blood, struggling to thank Duncan. "Duncan, you are in no way indebted to me, but if you could save my wife and son, I would do anything."

"I will, My Lord, but I must ask something in return."

"Anything."

"The Blight in the south grows in severity every day. The threat of the Darkspawn demands that I not leave without a recruit to bolster our numbers."

"I understand," said Bryce and he looked at Lance, eyes growing distant and drooping.

"I can't," he replied. "I have to find Fergus, to take revenge on Howe."

"The Couslands have never shirked their duty, my son," Bryce told him, struggling with every word. Lance knew that he was dying, that his wounds were deep, though he refused to accept that fact. "The Blight threatens everything, everywhere. You will become a Grey Warden and fight the Darkspawn, and then you will take vengeance."

Lance stared in disbelief. The irony of it all; just hours ago he was entertaining thoughts of becoming a Grey Warden only to be forced into it.

"Will you join us? Will you become a Grey Warden?" asked Duncan. Lance closed his eyes tight.

"Yes," he said. "I will do it."

He felt a lump in his throat, and tried to swallow it. His hands were shaking and he had the terrible feeling that he would never see his parents again.

"Go, my son," said Eleanor, cradling Bryce in her arms. "I will stay with your father."

"No, mom, come with me," said Lance, trying to keep from crying. "We can escape."

"You'll have a better chance without me, and I am not leaving your father's side."

"Eleanor," Bryce mumbled, wincing in pain.

"Hush, Bryce. I will kill every bastard that comes through that door to buy them time, but I am not leaving you."

Lance didn't know what to say. All at once he'd lost more than he'd ever known was possible. He was all alone now.

"We've lived a good life," said Eleanor. "We've done all we could. Now we leave it to our son."

Somewhere distant, a great gate crashed, and shouts and clashing steel echoed. Heavy boots sounded throughout the castle, and Lance knew they'd lost.

"We must go now," said Duncan, pulling on Lance's armor to get him moving.

"Go, my son," Bryce said, coughing as he did. "Go; make your mark on the world. We will always love you."

And that was the last time he ever saw his family, ever again.