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: 3
Word count: 2539
Notes: There is a sex scene in this chapter, but I have relocated the explicit details to a separate story, No Talking, Just Touching. That story will have all the explicit scenes from this story. I feel that they're not necessary to enjoy the story, and continuity flows fine when they're separated from the main rhetoric. However, they can be fun. So, if you want to read what goes on in the bedroom, look to No Talking, Just Touching.
The morning the council convened was overcast with a slight drizzle. The lords and ladies of Ferelden sat in the council chamber miserably, their finery damp and chill. A great fire crackled opposite a large bay window, but its heat didn't radiate to the entire table. Goblets of mulled wine were served, along with a selection of cheeses and breads, but the noblemen were too uncomfortable to consider stuffing their faces. They sat at their respective places around the table, silently condemning Andraste for the wretched weather. The only noise was the muffled sound of tiny droplets striking the thatched castle roof.
"Her Majesty, Anora Mac Tir, widow of King Cailan Theirin, first of her name, rightful queen of Ferelden," the herald announced at the southern door, and everyone rose from their chair with a loud scrape.
Anora strutted into the room like a peacock, looking down on all her sworn lords and ladies despite her diminutive stature. She liked to be late to council sessions; it was not for the queen to wait on her subjects. And it reminded them exactly who held the reins of the country. A pleasant smile was plastered across her face, and she graciously bade everyone to sit once she'd delicately placed herself at the head of the long table. She looked the part of queen, in a teal silk gown encrusted with yellow diamonds. Most notably, the dress was completely dry, and more than a few sodden ladies sniffed with contempt.
"My gentle lords and ladies," the queen began, regarding everyone with her cloying smile, "I thank you for braving the horrendous weather to be at this gathering. I have called you all here at this odd hour," odd being about five in the morning, "to hear my judgment on a matter of utmost importance. As you all well know, a usurper is rising in the east. Alistair, the Theirin bastard, and former companion to the Hero of Ferelden is trying to steal my rightful throne. The smallfolk are confused, and flock to him; after all, he has Theirin blood, however diluted, and can claim to have been a companion of the Hero of Ferelden."
She looked at each of her lords and ladies, gauging their loyalty by their expressions. Most looked tired and miserable, a few shining with agreement, and a few still looking very solemn. "This traitor to the crown needs to be dealt with swiftly and openly. The smallfolk need to know that treason is not trifled with, nor are those who commit it. I want these Bastard's Men dispersed and I want Alistair brought here for his queen's justice."
The room fell silent except for a few errant sniffles and the pitter of rain against the glass windows. The fire spat, as if to break the silence, and Anora looked to the herald expectantly. He caught her look and opened the same door the queen had entered through, announcing the arrival of, "Teyrn Ruairidh Cousland of Highever and Amaranthine, son of Lord Bryce Cousland, Grey Warden and Hero of Ferelden."
Nobody rose as the young man trudged into the room in full decorative plate. The chest plate was rough grey iron and carved with the likeness of the Cousland sigil, two olive branches crossed. The rest of the armor was likewise made of rough grey iron, although the helm tucked under his arms had been enameled with a grey griffon as the sigil of the Grey Wardens. Ruairidh stopped beside the queen and knelt dutifully. She bade that he rise and stand beside, which he did without a word.
As usual, his expression was grave, and a fearsome aura emanated from the young man, causing the other nobles to look away. His brow sat low, as if considering something unpleasant, and his lips were pulled heavily by gravity. He was clean shaven, as the queen liked him to be, but he'd allowed his hair to grow to an unruly dark mop. His grey eyes were narrowed and unseeing of the people before him, and they glinted onyx in the fitful firelight. The man was intimidating in his own right, but a heavy broadsword hung at his hip, nearly of a height with its master. The combination made Cousland simply frightful.
"There is only one man the smallfolk love more than Alistair, and that is the true Hero of Ferelden," Anora rang out in a clear voice, eyes burning with conviction, contrived or otherwise. "An army led by Queen Anora would be an act of tyranny, but an army led by Ruairidh Cousland, Hero of Ferelden, would be an act of patriotism. For these reasons, I give the command of my armies to Teyrn Cousland, and charge him to put down the rebellion in the east using any force necessary. Do you accept my orders, Teyrn Cousland?"
Ruairidh drew his blade with a hiss and laid it at Anora's feet as he knelt again. "I am honored, your Grace. I will see you and your lands safe. I will disperse the enemy armies. And I will bring Alistair for your justice. This I do swear upon my life."
"Rise, Teyrn Cousland," Anora exclaimed. Her court applauded as if on cue. "I graciously accept your service. And now, I must insist you take your place at the table. A feast has been prepared in your honor. Enjoy the company and the fire, for I would have you march on the morrow."
Ruairidh was ushered to the only empty seat at the table, the one that had been reserved for him since the end of the Blight. He'd managed to dodge all council meetings to this point, but could hardly escape this affair. He was forced to sit between two banns, one old and coughing, the other young and nervous. They chatted incessantly and asked him questions throughout the meal. He did his best to answer as tersely as possible; he was not here to make friends. They did not seem to grasp his discomfort, and continued asking questions about the fight on Fort Drakon. When a Qunari slur followed a statement about Sten, Ruairidh grew angry. He muttered an excuse and stalked away from the table, all the eyes of the court following him except for Anora, who continued to nibble on a turkey leg. They all flinched as he slammed the north door behind him.
The door opened onto a small landing at the top of a staircase. Another flight ascended higher next to the first set of stairs. The landing was sparsely decorated with a stained glass window of azure and gold, a rusty candelabra, and a wooden bench, upon which sat an elf industriously whittling a woman's buxom figure into one of the bench legs. He did not pause to look up as Ruairidh stormed out of the council chamber, and approached in all his might and fury.
"What are you doing here, Zevran?" Ruairidh snarled.
The tan elf kept his eyes on his work as he smiled demurely. "I am carving."
"I can bloody well see that," the warrior muttered. "Why are you carving here?"
"The light is good. And this bench was looking very… Ferelden. I thought to improve upon it."
"There is plenty of other furniture throughout the castle to vandalize. Why are you vandalizing this specific bench?"
"I told you, my dear Warden: the light is good."
Ruairidh fumed for a moment as the elf continued to calmly etch a curvy thigh into his work.
"Perhaps you should ask me directly if I was eavesdropping," Zevran suggested, brushing some shavings out of his view.
After a begrudging grumble, Ruairidh asked, "Were you eavesdropping?"
Zevran smiled widely as he looked up. "Of course."
They looked at each other in silence for a moment, the tension nearly palpable. Finally, the warrior sighed and crouched beside the elf, examining the wood. "It's good work," he admitted, looking at the flow from chest to belly. "Where did you learn to carve?"
The elf hummed to himself in pleasure at the compliment. "I have never formally learned to do much of anything outside of being an assassin. What I know of carving, music, poetry," he tapped his head lightly with the knife, "comes from there." He returned his eyes to the woman and began stroking a navel out of her fecund belly.
They were silent for several minutes as Zevran finished his work, blowing the dust and shavings away once done. Now, one of the bench legs was a very voluptuous woman from neck to toes, twisting with some unseen pleasure. He rarely had an opportunity to express his creativity, but when he did, he never included faces in his human studies. It was a little off-setting that the woman didn't have a head, as if she had gotten up to dance after a rendezvous with a guillotine. It was beautiful nonetheless, if a little eerie.
"Come, my dear Warden," Zevran commanded gently as he stood and pocketed his carving knife. Ruaridih stood beside him, his expression curious but thankfully lacking mistrust. "I have something for you to see."
The pair snaked through the castle and into the courtyard while they exchanged pleasantries. Ruairidh was sufficiently calm by now; clearly, today was a good day. All memory of the unpleasant council meeting seemed distant in his mind as they chatted about the drizzle, the progress of reconstruction, and the prospect of buying a new pair of boots. It was almost like before the Landsmeet, where he and Ruairidh could rib and jest for hours on the road. Almost. A dark shadow still clung to the warrior, even if it was temporarily at bay.
They entered the stables and instantly Ruairidh grew suspicious. "I'll not be riding that shriek of a horse, Zevran," he growled, setting his chin at a stubborn angle.
The elf grinned wolfishly. "I did not know you to be afraid of Darkspawn. But I must insist you give your beast another try. You will find him somewhat… relaxed."
In the dim light of the barn, a stable boy emerged leading the tall, black creature. It snorted at the sight of the warrior, but otherwise proceeded without issue. The groom stopped him in front of Ruairidh, and the two forces eyed each other.
"Why isn't he trying to bite me?" the warrior asked, narrowing his eyes at the animal.
Zevran chuckled. "He is actually a fair creature, given some training and… physical modification."
Ferelden had a strange disinclination for horses, so most of their hardy people didn't know how to handle them. There were more horses in Antiva, but it was Orlais that truly loved the hoofed beasts. Once it was clear to Zevran that he would be unable to convince Ruairidh to escape hunting Alistair, he decided to at least improve the mount he would inevitably have to ride into war. It wouldn't do any good to have the general thrown from his horse and end up with a broken leg before the campaign began. So he found an Orlesian horse master and employed his services.
"Modification?" Ruairidh echoed. Of course he would get caught up on that.
The elf shifted on his feet. "It is hard to find a delicate way to say this. It is ancient Orlesian horse wisdom that a stallion with too much fire must be made a gelding. That is, your poor horse is a eunuch now."
Ruairidh stared at Zevran with typical Ferelden horror. "You had my horse castrated?"
The assassin shrugged. "You were not going to put him out to sire. And you will find him a much more suitable mount now. Come, ride him a turn and, if you disagree, feel free to punish me in any way you see fit." A mischievous smile followed.
Ruairidh's pupils dilated, and Zevran feared for a moment that it was not the horse that was presently going to be ridden. But after a stiff moment, the warrior swung up gracelessly into the saddle and gave the horse a kick. Both the elf and the stable boy backed away as horse and rider became a black streak and disappeared thundering down the street.
A nervous laugh escaped Zevran. He and Ruairidh hadn't had sex since the first time after the Warden's recovery weeks ago. They had passed each other in uncomfortable silence and spoken only when necessary. Zevran had tried a few more times to convince Ruairidh not to go, but that only led to fighting. Since admitting defeat, Zevran had been spending more time preparing for the journey, trying to stay proactive. His preparations were not limited to the Warden's horse. He had been gathering a small group of private mercenaries, and once he finished testing their loyalty, he would have them act as Cousland's personal guard. The assassin didn't trust the men in the queen's army; those men had been Theirin men, and he could see how easy it would be to send a stray arrow through Ruairidh's heart. They didn't want to fight Alistair, and they certainly didn't want to kill him. That might put Ruairidh in jeopardy. The elf knew the young man wouldn't agree to have a personal guard, but Zevran had a few ideas on persuading the stubborn Warden.
The clack of hooves alerted him and the groom that Ruairidh had returned. The man's face was whipped red from the wind and rain, but he was grinning fiercely and patting the horse's thick neck. The beast was snorting eagerly, clearly ready for more. Ruairidh slid from the saddle when the stable boy grabbed the reins and snatched Zevran up into a big, crushing hug. It was uncomfortable to be smashed against decorative plate armor, but the assassin was elated that the Warden was this happy.
"That was bloody amazing!" Ruairidh exclaimed as he gestured to the horse being led away. "He is still a devil, but now he's my kind of devil!" The Warden released him and clapped him on the shoulder, scrunching his nose with mirth. "All horses should be castrated!"
Zevran grinned cheekily. "Then there would be no more horses, my dear Warden."
They silently enjoyed the moment before Ruairidh straightened and gazed at Zevran thoughtfully. "You've accepted that I'm going," he stated.
The elf nodded. "I have accepted that you're going, and that I'm coming with you." Instantly, Ruairidh's expression dropped. He was going to protest, but Zevran cut him off. "Someone has to protect the men from you, and I have quite a bit of experience in this matter. Besides, I have been missing my flea-ridden bedroll. I'd grown rather attached to it during the Blight."
Ruairidh wrinkled his brow in frustration, but didn't say anything. Instead he leaned into the elf and pressed his lips to his. The contact of skin was blazingly hot, but everywhere else was miserably cold from the misty rain. Zevran curved his body into Ruairidh's, trying to nestle in the larger man's warmth, but instead found himself pressed up against wet armor. The movement provoked a growl from the warrior and they both parted to stare at the decorative plate in irritation.
"This is why I prefer leather," Zevran murmured, and Ruairidh chuckled in agreement.
