Lance and Fergus were laughing wildly, slapping their thighs as they reminisced about their childhood. They sat near to the fire, drinking wine and trading jokes. Morrigan sat near Lance, laughing occasionally at his stories. She wasn't much for wine and so didn't find the jokes nearly as funny.
"Hey, remember the time you got drunk at mother's salon?" Fergus asked between laughs. "When Delilah asked you for a dance? And what did you say?"
Lance cleared his throat. "'Do you think Saorla Alfstanna looks pretty in that dress?'"
Fergus laughed loudly at that.
"Oh, she never did like you after that."
"Ah, she tolerates me now," Lance said. "She comes to the Vigil every now and again. I'd invite her to move in if she didn't have a baby."
"Speaking of which," said Fergus, waggling his eyebrows at Lance and Morrigan. "Is the pitter-patter of tiny feet in my little brother's future?"
Lance and Morrigan glanced at each other, frowning a bit.
"No," said Lance. "I don't think so. It's a Grey Warden problem."
He didn't mention what had happened the last time they had a child. He didn't want to think about it.
"I see," said Fergus. He turned to Morrigan and said, "So you are a Grey Warden, too? My brother never tells me of his romantic interests, so I know nothing about you."
"I am," said Morrigan. "Though our… relationship is much older than that."
"Oh? Is there a story there?"
"Yes," said Morrigan. Fergus perked up.
"Do tell, My Lady. If you would be so kind."
Lance sighed noisily and leaned back in his chair. He knew Morrigan would ham it up and make him out to be something he wasn't. She was fond of that.
"We met in the Korcari Wilds," said Morrigan. "I found him there."
"What were you doing in the Wilds?"
"Grey Warden initiation," said Lance, taking a gulp from his wine glass. "Secret."
"Oh, I see," said Fergus. "And the two of you met there? Would that make you…?"
"A Witch of the Wilds?" asked Morrigan. "Yes. I believe I am. Or was."
"That's my little brother," said Fergus. "Always was a thrill seeker."
"And what better thrill than a Witch of the Wilds?"
"I don't want to talk about this," said Lance. He cleared his throat.
"Why the interest in my having kids?"
"I thought it important," said Fergus. He sighed himself and said, "After Oren and Oriana… I don't want to marry again. What would the point be?"
Lance caught his line of thought and nodded.
"No heir to the Cousland name."
"I had hoped to have a nephew or niece even to leave the whole Teyrnir to."
"Sorry that I can't be of service there," said Lance. He thought back to Marna and frowned. "Just too bad."
"As am I," said Fergus. "Oh, well. Don't suppose Morrigan wants to be barefoot and pregnant anyways."
"No, I would rather not," she said.
"She doesn't bake bread, either," said Lance.
They shared a laugh at that. Lance yawned.
"Oh, how late is it? It must be past midnight."
"You aren't giving out on me already?" asked Fergus. Lance nodded, draining his glass.
"I'm out. I'm going to bed," said Lance. Fergus laughed. "Morrigan? You coming?"
"No," she said. "I think I would much rather regale your brother with tales of our adventures."
"Oh, great," said Lance. He set the glass aside and went off to his room. He stepped out of the den into the cool night air. He wasn't too eager about walking through the cold to his chambers, but at least it would sober him up enough to wake up in the morning without a headache.
There was a strange stillness in the air, something he didn't particularly like. It was unusual. It felt very odd, yet somehow familiar.
And then he saw, just down the stone path, hidden by the dark, the body of one of the castle's guards.
And he suddenly knew why it felt so familiar.
He turned on his heel and ran, hearing the soft sounds of padded feet behind him. Assassins. Come for him, or for Fergus. It didn't matter.
Lance bolted through the door to the den, where Fergus was listening intently to Morrigan's story of how Lance defeated the dragon Andraste.
"Hide," Lance hissed. He shut the door behind him, making sure it was locked.
Fergus stood suddenly.
"What's going on?"
"Assassins," said Lance. "The castle is under attack. Again."
"Maker's balls," Fergus swore. "What do we do? How many of them?"
"I don't know," said Lance. He thought rapidly. They wanted their target. Who was it? Him or Fergus? It was probably him; Maker knew that there were plenty of his enemies out here. But who and why? The Crows? They'd said they wouldn't take out a new contract on him, but how well could you trust a Crow?
Instantly there was a flashback to his last night at the castle, to another attack. He felt his heart torn in two, he remembered his parents.
"Hide," Lance said again. "Both of you."
"I will not hide," said Morrigan. Lance shook his head.
He saw another young woman, lying on the floor, bleeding out, dead. He saw Morrigan.
"You don't get a choice."
"Wait," said Fergus. "What will you do?"
Lance looked at the door then back at Fergus and Morrigan.
He saw himself being pulled away, by Duncan. He saw himself leaving the two most important people left in his life behind.
But he wasn't running.
"What I do."
The doors burst open and Lance hoped Fergus and Morrigan would lock it behind him.
He smashed into the first assassin to approach, slamming him against the wall. The assassins had weapons, and he did not. But it would make no difference.
Lance punched the assassin in the face, knocked him out cold, and turned to fight the next to approach him.
It had been a long time since he'd fought. He welcomed it.
He thrust his fist into the throat of an attacker, turned, kicked. He blocked a punch, shattered a rib.
An assassin tried to stab him, and Lance caught the wrist. He twisted, disarmed his attacker. He brought his elbow up into the assassin's nose.
Another assassin tried to knife him, and Lance broke his arm. Lance kicked, knocked someone back, and he turned and fought.
Lance slammed into another, made a mess of the hall to block off the attackers. He lashed left and right, smashed noses and throats. He fought like a madman.
Another assassin tried to fight, to deliver a blade into his gut. Lance kicked out, sending the dagger flying harmlessly to the side. He got the assassin in a rough chokehold and snapped his neck.
In another instant Lance was running, leaving the assassins behind, goading them to chase him. They weren't the best, not by a long shot. They would take the bait.
Other assassins dropped down from the walls, knives and bows in hand. A few arrows hissed past him, breaking uselessly against the walls.
Lance barreled into the first assassin to try to stop him, sending him flying headlong into the ground.
He turned, kicked to send another assassin stumbling back into his compatriots, slowing them all.
Lance ran, faster, further. He was looking, trying to find that special spot on the wall, where he and Fergus as kids had practiced jumping, had practiced climbing. It was close at hand, within reach.
Lance jumped, put his foot to the wall and pushed, reaching up. He never knew why it worked so well here, whether it was due to some architectural fluke or just luck. He gripped the edge of the battlements, pulled himself up.
He was on the wall now, running.
A few assassins tried to repeat the move, but failed, not knowing how to do it as well as him. The rest turned, searched for the stairs that would take them up.
He ran, leading them through the castle. He would kill them now, just give him the chance.
The armory wasn't far from here. He could try to grab a weapon, to kill these men properly. Would he get the chance? Didn't matter. He'd kill them.
The assassins had doubled back, trying to cut him off. They wouldn't do it, no matter how hard they tried. He was just too good, knew the castle too well. They could try. But they would fail.
He reached the first tower, where the assassins had gathered on the stairs to fight him, to stop him.
He lashed out, delivering one boot to the chest of the first assassin to top the stairs, knocking him back and stalling the charge. There was a small table here, where the guards would eat dinner or play cards. A knife was left there, dug into the wooden table.
He grabbed it, flipped it around in his hand to distract his next target, then slashed his throat. It wasn't fatal. He ducked under another swing, came up with the blade under the assassin's ribs. He turned smashed a nose with his fist and followed it up with a knife to the shoulder.
He turned and ran out of the tower, leaving the wounded and dead behind and the still-living chasing after him.
The tower let out onto the wall that surrounded the courtyard, where the memorial had been raised. It was somehow poetic that he would fight here, above the graves of his family and friends.
These assassins would come to regret their choice of career.
Lance spun on his heel, grabbed the next assassin, surprising him. Lance pushed and sent the man over the side of the wall. The next few were ready.
Lance tried to stab downwards, wasn't surprised to see that the assassin blocked him. He wasn't smart enough to defend his right side, though. Lance punched, felt a rib crack. The assassin cried out, and Lance smashed his head against one of the battlements.
The next tried to sweep out Lance legs, getting his knee shattered for his trouble. The last was too smart to try and attack, instead waiting for Lance to move first. Unfortunately for him, Lance wasn't in the mood for a fair fight.
He delivered the heel of his hand to the guy's nose, feeling it shatter. Another strike and he stopped moving.
Lance turned again and continued to run, stopping short when he saw that another large group of assassins had gathered in front of him. And there were more coming in behind him.
He was surrounded.
So he did the only thing he could. He punched, and kicked, scattering them, hoping to buy himself space. A knife poked into his side. He cried out, grabbed the throat of his attacker and ripped.
His left side stung with pain.
There was a kick to his head, and everything went blurry. He stumbled to find his next target and smash his head against the stone battlements. His elbow lashed out, connected with another assassin.
Another blade bit into his arm and he felt the rush of warm blood.
He shouted, punched and kicked until he couldn't feel his arms or legs. He cracked skulls, broke bones. He gouged out an eye.
A club connected with his back, knocking the wind out of him. Hands gripped him, pulled his body prostrate.
Dimly he was aware of knives, stabbing. Blood poured from his wounds, down his stomach.
And he was lifted up, over, thrown from the wall. He saw the courtyard below, rising up, eager to greet him amongst the headstones and grave markers. He welcomed them, took solace in their company.
Even as he landed hard, cracking ribs, he knew he was home once more; on the battlefield.
He thought of Morrigan, of Fergus. He hoped they were well, that the assassins would assume their job complete and just leave.
As the blackness consumed his vision, he knew better than that.