Dragon 9:26, Summer

Aedan awoke in his bed, rubbing his eyes as the gentle sunlight seeped in through the windows. He tugged on the rope at his bedside, connected to a bell just outside his room. The young lord laid there lazily, taking a moment for himself before the ravages of the day. It wasn't long until his Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Oswick, entered the quarters. The man was of average height and average build, with brown hair and brown eyes and twenty-eight years of age; physically unremarkable.

Seeing that Aedan was still lying on his bed, Oswick smirked. "Shall I return later, my lord?"

Aedan groaned, shaking his head as if were willing himself to depart from the comfort of his sheets. "No, no," he mumbled, "I'll get up." He hobbled out of bed.

"Are you certain? Because I am certain that those sheets look very comfortable indeed."

Glaring at his friend, Aedan did his best to straighten his posture. "Shut up." He turned his back to the servant, arms spread out wide.

"Very well, my Lord," said Oswick, clearly pleased with himself. He moved in closer, helping Aedan take off his white silk nightshirt. Out of the corner of his eye, on the bedside table, he spotted a rather fresh looking tome. "What leaves you in such a mess? A little too much to drink? A secret liaison with a tavern wench, perhaps?"

Aedan chuckled as he relinquished his nightshirt over the top of his head. "Very funny."

"A good book, then?"

"'The Art of the Flank' by Ser Winslor of Denerim. Newly published." The nobleman, now in his small clothes, turned to face Oswick. "It's really quite engrossing, actually, delving into the mind of such a genius strategist."

"Oh yes, very engrossing, I'm sure," the servant remarked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"No, seriously. Who knew there were so many different methods of exploiting an enemy's flank?" Aedan enthused. "I bet you haven't heard of the Penetrator's Gambit," he bragged.

Oswick's smirk grew wider. "Perhaps it truly is engrossing, after all." He offered up the towel in his hand.

Aedan raised a brow, his face impassive. His servant's meaning finally registered in his mind and he let out a small grin. "Very funny, again. Keep this up and you'll finally be able to fulfil your dream of becoming the castle jester, Oswick." He whipped up the towel and headed to the adjacent room, where a steaming hot bath awaited him.

Aedan dug into his breakfast with gusto, slipping the occasional piece of bacon to Paazuh, the family Mabari. Eventually, he noticed the now trademark fragrance of lilacs and faint lime approaching nearby.

"Good morning," Cateline greeted as she entered the dining chamber. Fergus, Adriani and Aedan returned the greeting as she served herself some scrambled eggs and took a seat opposite her betrothed. "How is little Oren coming along?"

"Almost there," Fergus replied through a mouthful of bacon, "Almost there. The healers say any day now the little one will pop out of her."

"You know, it might not even be an 'Oren'," Adriani pointed out.

Fergus shrugged. "It's a boy, Adriani, I just know it. The Maker has spoken to me," he joked.

"I hope you are indeed correct," the Cousland girl said with apprehension, "for the baby's sake."

"Well, either way, at least it'll be all over for poor Oriana, lumbering around with all of that extra weight for the better part of a year," Aedan remarked.

"How unromantic of you to say such a thing." Adriani sighed. "It's not just extra weight, you brute. It's a new life, growing inside of you."

Aedan squirmed at the thought. "Is that image supposed to warm me to the idea, dear sister, because I must say, it is having quite the opposite effect."

The young girl pouted and turned to Cateline. "You agree with me, don't you?"

"Of course, I do," Cateline replied to Adriani, before turning to Aedan, her gaze locking with his. "I believe it to be one of the highest honours the Maker may bestow on someone, to carry a life."

That familiar heat struck Aedan in that familiar place. He brushed the feeling aside, an act he was still in the process of mastering, although he was getting more than enough practice at it. Cateline had been living at Castle Cousland for a little over a year now, a gesture of peace between Ferelden and Orlais, which was the whole point of their pairing in the first place. But it was almost too much to bare; his betrothed was young and beautiful, and he was a fifteen-year-old boy, still forbidden from being together.

They weren't a part of the peasantry; they were nobles, whose blood was powerful and important, and yet, in a way, very fragile. People of his kind could not afford to risk bearing a child before a proper marriage sanctioned by the Chantry and, by extension, the Maker Himself.

"Indeed," Fergus said, saving his younger brother from some embarrassment, "I am just glad that I'm not the one who has to bear the pain." He chuckled, mostly to himself, before changing the subject. "By the way, Adriani, how is your painting coming along? The one of the castle."

Adriani's frown disappeared, replaced by something more pleasant. "Oh, it's my best work yet, if I say so myself. I've finally gotten the shadows just right, I think."

"We are happy together, you know," Oriana remarked as she rubbed her round belly, "Fergus and I."

Cateline, caught a little off guard, merely raised her eyebrows toward her sister-in-law sitting beside her. They were out in the fields by the castle, sitting on hard but durable wooden chairs. "Of course, you are." A careful smile touched her lips.

"I was very worried. Of course, father and mother had been put together in a similar fashion, and Fergus is the heir of the Teyrnir." Oriana sighed. "Still, living with a total stranger, spending your nights with him? A year early? Of all reasons, too."

At a loss for words, Cateline simply remained silent.

"To think that I would be as happy with my life as I am now, that I would love him as much as I do, I never would have guessed when I had first arrived here." Oriana smiled to herself, returning her attention to her husband and his younger brother sparring in the distance.

"I can only hope to be able to say the same in a few years' time."

"Oh, you will. I am certain of it."

Fergus landed a kick square in Aedan's chest, knocking him down onto his back, shield arm flung aside and rendered useless. The elder Cousland pointed his blunted training blade toward the younger, only a few inches of space separating metal and the winded boy's throat. "You are beaten." Fergus looked fierce, but his expression quickly warmed, replacing his sword with an outstretched hand. "Again," he added. The man hadn't broken a sweat.

Ser Windmore's training, all those hours spent practicing and sparring, it was no match for Fergus' speed and strength. Upset, Aedan ignored his brother's offer, raising himself to his feet using his sword as a crutch. "Why do I even," he complained, panting," Why do I even agree to these things? I've never won, not even once."

"Never? Surely, after all this time you would have bested me at least once?"

Aedan rolled his eyes. "You're twice my size, anyway." He was exaggerating of course, although Fergus, who was eighteen, really was larger in frame by no small amount.

"There may come a time when you are forced into combat with someone far more terrible than I, where running won't be an option. Where the only thing standing between evil and the ones you love is yourself." Fergus placed a hand on his brother's shoulder as they made their way back to the women. "I just want you to be prepared."

"I know," Aedan mumbled. He noticed Cateline's gaze as she drew nearer into his vision and the aching in his back lessened, if only a little.

Oriana looked a little cross. "You mustn't be so rough, husband. It's a sparring match, not a battle to the death." She chose her words carefully, so as to not sting Aedan's pride.

"His enemies will spare him no quarter," replied Fergus, a little roughly. Oriana looked mildly taken aback and he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. It's just," he hesitated, "well, never mind." Shaking his head, Fergus put on a cheery mask. "Anyone in the mood for some tea?" he asked, placing a hand on his wife's hip and leading them back to the castle.

Aedan and Cateline trailed behind them.

"You use a sword and shield."

Aedan looked to his sword, now safely sheathed in his scabbard, and his shield, the Cousland heraldry proudly on display. "Yes, I do," he said, confused as to why his betrothed would state such a truism.

"Have you tried anything else? In terms of arms, I mean." She wrapped her fingers together, pursing her lips.

"Oh, all sorts. Spears, battle axes, duel wielding swords. Bows too, but you already know how I am with those especially."

"Say, have you ever tried a single longsword, just by itself?"

Aedan couldn't help but raise a brow in surprise. "By itself?" Cateline nodded. "But then what about the offhand? Just leave it dangling?"

His betrothed chuckled. "How about this? Tomorrow, at dusk, meet me at the stables."

Aedan's eyebrows compressed together this time. "Uh, okay, but for what?" His pulse quickened.

"It will be a surprise," Cateline replied, her voice tinted with mischief. "Oh, and come in this," she pinched at Aedan's leather chest piece, "and bring your longsword."

Aedan's pulse slowed back down. Now he was just confused.

A night owl, Aedan made his way down to the castle library to fetch a book for some late-night reading, when he was surprised to find that the fire was still lit, a squint-eyed Fergus hunching over something. He was sitting in the leather couch by the fire.

"Is that a book you are reading?"

Fergus, who had been so engrossed in his book, almost jumped out of his seat. "Maker. You almost scared me to death." He sighed, composing himself. "Is it really that surprising for you to find me here?"

"I'm afraid so," Aedan said as he headed over to the shelf filled with books about naval warfare. He and Fergus resembled each other physically; their face, hair colour and at times even posture. The same could not be said for their personalities and interests. "More so, at this time of night. Which one is it?"

Another sigh escaped Fergus, heavier than before. He slouched into the couch, slamming the book shut. "The Fourth Blight, A Brief History."

Aedan had read the book in the past. "Ah. Tales of Grey Wardens riding on griffons, swooping in to save Thedas from succumbing to the darkspawn?"

"Yep, that's the one."

Fergus stared off into the fire, eyes uncertain. It was discomforting.

"It is obvious something is troubling you," Aedan said, taking the military treatise On Pirating from its place in the shelves. "What is the matter?"

Fergus hesitated. "I've been talking to Loghain, you see, and he has some concerns about a fifth Blight, says that it's more a matter of when rather than if, and he believes Ferelden is unprepared, to put it lightly."

"Another Blight? You should've skipped to the end of the book, like you always did for the readings Aldous gave you. The final days of the Fourth Blight was a massacre for the darkspawn." Aedan set himself down on the couch across his brother.

"See, that's just the problem. No one believes the darkspawn to be a threat anymore, even when we know so little about how any of it all works. Where does the Archdemon come from? Why do they appear? And think about it. This is Loghain we are talking about, one of the most skilled generals of Ferelden and the man you worship for his military insight."

"I do not worship him," Aedan denied, perhaps a little too quickly. "Although you may have a point."

Silence set itself between them.

"Perhaps I am being overcautious," Fergus lifted himself up, his tone convincingly light enough.

"I certainly hope so." Aedan put on his best attempt at a reassuring smile. "And what does the regent make of it?"

"He's excited, of course, although I suspect he may have read one too many fairy tales of griffon riders and Archdemon slaying. I fear he may be in for a nasty surprise if the darkspawn truly return."

"I see."

Aedan grimaced. Father had always said that there was very little glory in a real war. The last thing the nation needed was a mad ruler who was overly keen to throw themselves at the enemy after only hearing about battle in children's stories. It was more than just a relief to have someone like Loghain on their side.

"Anyhow, this highly irregular reading session has drained my mind of all its strength, and thus I am off to bed. Good night, dear brother," said Fergus, leaving Aedan in the library with his thoughts.

"There you are." Cateline was already waiting by a mount in the stable, her features hidden in the darkness of dusk. Aedan could make out her general silhouette, however, and it was clear that she was dressed in her leather armour, just as he was. It was strange, seeing the Orlesian lady out of her frilly dresses and her fancy shoes. "I was afraid you had decided not to come."

"Never," Aedan replied. "So, where are we off to?" He silently noted her longsword, sheathed in a scabbard by her hip.

"Down there." Cateline pointed to the woods in the east. Aedan raised a brow on instinct, despite the darkness. Somehow, she caught his apprehension. "We won't be going in too deep. Trust me."

Aedan nodded and mounted the horse, offering his betrothed a hand to help her up onto the saddle, behind him. She remained still.

"I was wondering if," Cateline hesitated. "Could you teach me how to ride? You know I've never ridden before, and well, if I get over my first go now, even if I embarrass myself, there would be no one else around."

"Very well, I will teach you. There is no need to be so embarrassed, you know. Let me get another mount for you." Aedan was about to slide off the saddle when his betrothed stopped him with a hand to his thigh.

"I don't think I'll be able to handle a horse on my own just yet."

"Uh, okay, but then how are you going to-" Aedan stopped abruptly, finally understanding where this was leading.

He slid backwards, making room at the front of the saddle, offering his hand once more. Cateline took it this time, with a certain eagerness, Aedan noted, allowing himself a small sense of glee, and she mounted herself onto the saddle comfortably, legs astride and her buttocks pressing firmly against his parted thighs, where his armour was excruciatingly absent.

Even in battle gear, she smelled of lilacs and lime. It was only then, being so close behind her, that Aedan noticed that her blonde and usually elaborately styled hair had been tied up into a neat little bun. The way it revealed the back of her neck was almost too much to bare.

He forced himself to grab the reins, guiding them gently into her hands, prompting her to take them. He carefully guided the horse out of the stables, blabbering on to her about details of riding techniques that would be of no real help to her, if only to keep his mind off the situation he found himself in. Soon they were out and making steady progress toward the woods.

Once they were underway, however, it was surprisingly calming, blissful even. The cool air whipped by him, muscles that he hadn't even realized were tense, relaxing. It felt good and it felt right.

All too soon they arrived at their destination and Aedan helped Cateline slow the mount down to a stop, just by a large oak which they leashed it to. His betrothed patted the horse on its head, thanking it, before motioning him to follow her into the woods.

Eventually, they came upon a small clearing. The sun was starting to rise now, a faint brightness leaking into the woods. Cateline scanned the surroundings, nodding to herself in approval. "This will do."

"For what?"

She turned around. "Training." Aedan could almost see her face now, well enough to see the playful smile she wore. "You say you've never trained with a single longsword by itself. I would like to teach you."

"You're going to teach me?" Aedan blurted in his state of utter confusion. "You are going to teach me about blade work?"

Cateline fell silent, her expression growing serious. She spun a half circle on her heels, head down, and walked away from him.

Aedan pinched his brow. "Wait. If I have insulted you, I apologize," he called after her. "It was not my-"

He heard a blade unsheathe. A blur. Suddenly there was a longsword, pointed straight into his face, only inches away from contact. Aedan stumbled back on instinct, losing his footing, and he found himself down in the dirt on his backside.

For a brief moment, everything was still. He gazed into his betrothed's eyes, physically identical to every other time he had looked upon them, but his perception had changed. He now saw in them a hidden ferocity, tempered only through years upon years of exposure to Orlesian refinement, no doubt. He swallowed in disbelief.

"What is this?" Aedan managed.

The fierce expression evaporated into thin air, her face overcome by a sympathetic smile. She giggled softly. "I'm sorry," she apologised shyly, "but I wanted to make a point. You wouldn't have listened to a word I said, had I not given you a demonstration of my ability."

"Certainly not," Aedan admitted, shaking his head vigorously until he felt that he was himself again. He took her hand, raising himself onto his feet. "Where did you learn such a skill?"

"My uncle, well, he isn't a real uncle, but a close friend of my mother, nonetheless, is a decorated chevalier. He taught me."

"Is that a usual part of the curriculum for the schooling of Orlesian noblewomen?"

Aedan noticed Cateline hesitate briefly. "No, but Ser Gervante insisted that he train me. I have a talent for it, according to him."

"Obviously, he was correct, indeed, but what exactly is it? I have never seen or even read of such a thing."

"It was originally of the ancient elves, before the fall of their civilization, and they called it Vahshalli. Although no one can say for certain, it was apparently developed by the first of the arcane warriors, allowing them to fight with a blade in one hand and cast spells with their other."

It made sense to Aedan. The fighting style was obviously more dexterity than strength. A sudden thought popped into his mind. "Wait, wait. You aren't a mage, are you?"

Cateline shook her head, smiling. "Don't worry. Your betrothed is no apostate. The modern Vahshalli, adopted by us Orlesians, require these," she held up her offhand, wrapped in a dull metal gauntlet, "although they provide only a fraction of the utility magic would have provided for the ancients. Your leather will do for the time being, but that comes later." Cateline's expression turned into something equal parts playful and serious. "First, you must draw your weapon."

And he did.