"I'm glad that chevaliers aren't like that anymore," Cailan commented as the lieutenant handed him the first skewer of horse meat straight off the fire. She had field-butchered the horse she killed during the fight. He had watched her do it with some disgust, for horses were noble animals. He had often watched huntsmen and gamekeepers do the same to his kills while hunting, mildly interested, the same as if he watched ants build their mound. They had wound up at Ostagar after all, because it was a ruin and deserted, she said.

"What makes you think they're not? Your Majesty." She added the last words as almost an afterthought. Her attitude was beginning to irk him. He slid a chunk of meat from the skewer. It was tough.

"I do receive ambassadors at court with all their retinues, and they've been the very soul of courtesy. I'm in correspondence with Celene herself, and she is the epitome of every social and womanly grace."

"Well, of course they're on their best behavior around you, Sire. You're the king. I can tell you that when they go among lesser mortals, their attitude is no different, even if they are required to be less violent and greedy. If anything, they're even more insulting, especially around and to people who cannot respond in kind." She took the second skewer, which she had whittled from an oak branch.

He gaped at her a moment. "I'm sure that can't be right. La Fleur des Chevaliers lays out the code by which they live—."

"That's a book of epic poetry, your Majesty, not a guide to knightly living. In the real world, people behave quite differently. Now, during our ride here, I put much thought into what we should do. We do not know how long we will be caught in this time—it may end at any moment, or we may have to live through all thirty-four years of it. Since we cannot count on the former, we should plan for the latter. That is to say, form a long term plan. Joining the Orlesians is out of the question—."

"It seems to me you are taking a great deal on yourself," Cailan snapped. It was time to nip this tendency toward insolence in the bud, before it grew further.

"Forgive me. I did not mean to speak out of turn. What are your thoughts on the matter?" she deferred politely.

"I—never mind. You've begun, you might as well finish. Just remember who is king." In truth, he had no ideas whatsoever. In adventure tales, there was always some guide, often mystical, which turned up to tell the hero what had to be done.

"Right now, Meghren is king. Your grandmother is either the Rebel Queen, never officially recognized by the Chantry or the entire Landsmeet, or she is dead and your father is but an uncrowned prince, hunted and hounded by the sort of flowers of knighthood we met with today. The only two people who know there is such a person as Cailan Theirin, King of Fereldan, are you and I, and you saw for yourself how people respond when you claim what you are." she retorted.

"There is no way you can claim your throne. 'You' do not yet exist. Your parents are not even married yet. However, you look very much like your father, dangerously so. Not enough to be mistaken for him if you stood side by side, but enough that you might be taken for him by those who are after his head. We must change how you look—dye your hair, cut it, stain your skin, and find you less conspicuous armor. Then I propose we seek out the Rebellion forces and join with them, I as Ser Cauthrien, a knight from the Free Marches, and you...as my squire, Cale Bourne."

"What?" Cailan sputtered. "As your squire? That's ridiculous! Why not as two knights-or I as the knight and you the squire? Surely that would be more fitting-." Cauthrien, that was her name! He had been wracking his brain to think of it for hours.

"Because when I draw my blade I don't take a chunk out of my own earlobe," Cauthrien pointed to the scab on his ear. "That's a sign of the greenest of greenhorns. Any sergeant would have trained that out of you in the first week. Because you don't know how to field-dress a kill, let alone cut it up. Because you do not even know how to build a fire. All your life, these things have been done for you. The world has been padded with fleece for you every day since you were born, between those who did not dare risk the only heir to the throne of Fereldan, and those who sought to curry favor with the future king. They did you a disservice by coddling you so.

"You would be a better man and a better king, I think, if you knew some adversity and hardship. Perhaps this is the Maker's way of seeing that you get it. Besides, you cannot claim to be anyone of note; people will want proof. I've more in mind regarding how and why we're here, but that can wait."

"I don't believe what I'm hearing!" Cailan was still spluttering. "How dare you? I am your king. You are sworn to serve me!"

"Above all else, I am sworn to protect you, if you will recall. What then should we do? I am more than willing to hear you out, if you've a plan of your own."

Cauthrien waited as Cailan opened his mouth, closed it again, then grated out between his teeth. "I will not pretend to be your squire. Perhaps I did nick my ear on drawing my sword, but I never drew it in battle before, and perhaps I lack the skills every peasant can boast of. Yet I am a prince and I was trained by the best swordmasters money could buy, and am more than your equal."

"Fine. Let us prove it, then." Cauthrien stood up and put her dagger to the side where the Summer Sword lay. "You see, I have set my blades aside, it being treason to draw steel upon your Majesty, but you should take up yours. I propose then that we duel until one of us yields, and the loser must then follow all orders of the victor without question. I will meet you unarmed against your greatsword, and spare me not for that I am a woman; I am first a knight, after all."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Do not take that into consideration. I have taken wounds in your service before, and no doubt shall again. Come at me, Sire."

He did, but gingerly. She had him disarmed in one move and flat on his back in another.

"Spare me not, I said, for I shall not spare you. I'll show you no false kindness."

Again, she disarmed him in seconds, left him on the ground with the breath knocked out of him. "You had the best swordmasters money could buy, but I had Loghain Mac Tir, who money could never buy. You might have trained with him, but Arl Eamonn objected, saying that it was bad enough you were betrothed to Loghain's daughter without giving that jumped-up baseborn dog even more influence over you. Your uncle did you no favor. Again, your Majesty-unless you yield?"

"Never!"

'Never' did not last very long. A humiliatingly short time later, she was kneeling on his back, with his arm wrenched up behind him. "Keep pulling like that, and your shoulder will come apart," she remarked. "I can pop it back in for you, but that will hurt almost as bad as having it dislocated. Do you yield?"

He hoped she did not see that it was his tears as well as his sweat which made mud of the dust under his face. "Yes—damn you!"

"Very likely," she said as she released him. "I very likely will be damned before I return you to your throne, but I will do my duty by you."

He got to his feet, hurting all over. "You—you shrew."

She nodded. "Fair enough. Thank you for not using a worse word for an unpleasant woman." Cauthrien gave him an assessing look as if he were a horse she might buy. Then she deliberately and coolly broke his nose with one punch from her gauntleted fist.

It hurt. It hurt so bad all his other senses dimmed out and the world became very far away and his extremities went icy. All of a sudden his knees went to water and he folded up.

"Damn it, don't you go into shock on me now!" She grabbed him, made him sit up with his head down between his knees, and gave him whisky from a flask.

"Get…away from… me…What…why did you do that?" he asked through numb lips.

"To change your face and save your life. Now you don't look so much like your father. Don't worry, once it heals it can be rebroken and reset. You'll be just as pretty as you were before. Sit there and don't try to get up for a while. I'm going to gather black walnuts so we can dye your hair."

He sat there, and gradually the pain receded. His humiliation and anger did not, but they were tempered by…fear. For five years and more, the lieutenant, that is, Cauthrien, because she hadn't always been a lieutenant, had been one of his guards. His guards were, well, really just like part of the furniture, like all servants. They said yes and no, they cautioned him against going to the more amusing places around Denerim, like the Pearl and the Stews and gambling dens, they were polite and obedient and…boring.

When she started expressing opinions, no, when she started giving him orders and insulting him, he could not have been more surprised if an armchair or a side table had done so. Was it possible that all his life, guards and servants had not just been serving him and guarding him, but watching what he did, listening to what he said and judging him? Did they talk about him when they were together? Laugh about him?

He felt as though he had been going around naked and no one had bothered to tell him.

What a hateful woman Cauthrien was!

However, he was by nature inclined to be optimistic and cheerful, not introspective, and soon enough he had dismissed such foolish, childish fears and quashed any doubts he might have entertained about his ability to manage on his own. This was an adventure, his adventure. He was determined to enjoy it.

Obviously, Cauthrien was only going to hold him back. He humored her for the rest of the evening, letting her brew up some dark and acrid liquid which she then doused his head with, (although it was humiliating when he found he could not take off his armor without her assistance.) He let her chatter about the details of that story she had concocted to account for their presence. In the middle of the night, when she was fast asleep, he quietly got up, took half the provisions, such as they were, left his armor, as he couldn't get it back on alone, either, took up his sword, saddled his horse, and took off into the Wilds, seeking his destiny.

Meanwhile, not too far away from the camp at Ostagar, Loghain looked over at Maric, huddled under a sodden cloak, shivering and uncharacteristically silent. Maric sneezed, then hacked out a clot of greenish-yellow phlegm laced with threads of bright blood.


A/N: Next chapter, some of these people meet, and at least one of them meets Flemeth. Thanks to my wonderful reviewers Enchanter T.I.M. and Morninglight. Luv ya!