My thanks to WellspringCD, beta reader and comma wrangler, and to everyone who continues to follow Fearghal's progress.
Finishing his third bowl of stew and finally starting to feel replete, Fearghal stayed his spoon and looked at Zevran. The assassin was watching Fearghal and Alistair eat, his eyes twinkling with amusement, his expression faintly admiring.
"You know, I'm surprised at Loghain. I didn't think assassins would be his style at all; I would have expected a more... direct approach." mused Fearghal.
Zevran grinned. "I got the impression he found the idea distasteful, but it was the Arl of Denerim that commissioned the services of the Crows. When I was presented to the Regent, it was obvious he'd had no idea about it but as the thing was done, he agreed to go along with it."
"Urien Kendells seems an even less likely candidate to be contracting the services of an assassin." Fearghal snorted with laughter, "It must have stuck in his craw when you turned up!"
Zevran frowned. He was about to ask who Urien Kendells was when Fearghal noted his look. "The Arl of Denerim has rather a low opinion of elves," he explained, misunderstanding Zevran's confusion.
Zevran shrugged. Such attitudes were common. "Urien Kendells, I do not know this name."
"Kendells was at Ostagar, Fearghal," said Alistair. "There must be a new Arl."
Fearghal scowled. "Vaughan then. His reputation is even more unpleasant that his father's. Pity the the elves in Denerim's alienage if he's come into his inheritance."
Zevran shook his head. "I met no-one of this name. The Arl of Denerim is a man called Rendon Howe. He... "
Fearghal's bowl dropped to the floor as launched himself at Zevran. The warden grabbed the front of Zevran's shirt, hauling him to his feet and shaking him, as a dog would shake a rat.
"Tell me about Howe!" Fearghal snarled.
Zevran forced himself to relax. "There is little to tell. He made a contract with the Crows to eliminate the remaining Wardens," he said, keeping his voice calm and even.
"What exactly did he say?" growled Fearghal, giving Zevran another shake. "Wardens, or did he name us?"
Zevran met the Warden's gaze steadily. "He said that there were reports of two Wardens surviving Ostagar. That the Grey Wardens had betrayed King Cailan and any survivors were to be killed."
Fearghal's grip relaxed and Zevran took a small step back. "You and this man have a personal vendetta?"
Fearghal's face twisted. "You could say that," he spat out. Seeing the open curiosity on the assassin's face, Fearghal added, "Howe has reasons, other than the fact of my being a Grey Warden, to want me dead... if he even knows I'm alive."
Fearghal shoulders slumped, his mood suddenly morose. Without another word he turned, snapping his fingers at Bane. Fearghal walked away from the camp, his mind whirling with possibilities, his hound at his heel.
Fearghal wandered through the trees in the dim light. Did Howe know he'd been recruited to the Grey Wardens? Howe knew that Duncan had been at Highever the night of the massacre. Fearghal was sure that Howe would have taken the trouble to identify the bodies of anyone of note; Howe had to know that neither himself nor Duncan had been amongst the dead. Would Howe assume that Duncan had merely helped him escape? He sighed; he really had no idea how much or little Howe might know.
His pacing slowed and he sat down on a tree stump. Another thought came to him. Loghain. How far was he involved with Howe? Deeply enough to go along with Howe's procurement of a Crow assassin. Did that mean that Loghain knew of Howe's betrayal before it happened? Fearghal leaned against Bane who was sitting alongside him. It's all such a bloody mess! One thing Fearghal did know; Loghain was prepared to overlook what Howe had done at Highever.
"Er... Fearghal... "
Fearghal twisted round to see Alistair, looking apologetic.
"Morrigan wants to set the wards around the camp. You need to be in the camp before she can... "
Alistair stood for a moment, watching Fearghal heading back through the trees towards the glow of the camp fire. Why does the Arl of Denerim want him dead? A sudden realisation struck Alistair. Maybe it's me Loghain and Howe want dead. Alistair almost groaned. He was going to have to tell Fearghal the truth; he was dreading it.
~o~O~o~
Alistair stood aside to allow Fearghal out of the tent, then gratefully scuttled inside. He hated second watch; it always felt like he'd only just got off to sleep before he was being woken up to take his watch. Now he was chilled and it would probably take him ages to get to sleep. He stripped off the heavy, templar plate, rolling his shoulders gratefully. He decided to leave on the padded garments he wore beneath his armour; the extra layer would help. He looked at Fearghal's bedroll, the blanket pulled up over it. It's probably still warm. Alistair slipped underneath Fearghal's blanket and reached across to his own bedroll and pulled that blanket over too.
Alistair curled up, pulling the blankets tight around him. Fearghal's blanket and bedroll were still slightly warm and certainly warmer than his own chilled bedding would have been. There was a faint musky smell to Fearghal's bedding; Alistair breathed it in, feeling slightly guilty. He'd never been close enough to Fearghal to smell it before. Except for that morning in Lothering. Alistair flushed at the memory. Once he'd realised he was entwined around Fearghal, Alistair had moved so fast he hadn't had time to take any notice of what he smelled like. Alistair felt his face grow hotter at the thought that if he'd woken up first...
Alistair sighed restlessly, and turned over. It's probably a good job he's such an obnoxious prick. As much as he hated to, Alistair had to admit, to himself at least, that he found Fearghal attractive. How much worse would it be, if Fearghal was actually pleasant? It would be unbearable. Alistair found his thoughts wandering to the Tower; to the dream he'd had in the Fade. In spite of his tiredness he felt himself stir, the familiar ache building in his groin. The memory of being pressed against Cullen, kissed by him, those feelings, almost made Alistair groan out loud.
Alistair's hand absently tugged at the laces on the padded trousers he wore, unlacing the thinner breeches beneath them. His hand dipped into his small clothes and he grasped himself, starting to stroke. Slowly, he replayed the dream in his head. Gradually, the images in his head changed and it was no longer Cullen that he ground his engorged cock against, but Fearghal. It was Fearghal who held him so close, hands grasping his buttocks; Fearghal who kissed him so thoroughly. And they were no longer in the tower but in the bath house behind the Spoiled Princess. Alistair imagined running his hands over that furred chest that so fascinated him; imagined grinding against Fearghal with no clothes to get in the way... that thought was too much. Warm liquid spurted into Alistair's hand almost before he knew what was happening. Alistair groaned. I'm going to drive myself mad like this.
Alistair started as he heard voices. Fearghal and Zevran. Usually Fearghal's watch was quiet; until the assassin had joined them, he had taken it alone with only his dog for company. Unthinkingly, Alistair wiped his hand on the bedroll, then swore softly, realising what he'd done. He tugged his shirt down and scrubbed at the bedroll, then tucked it in and laced his breeches back up. The voices were faint and indistinct but gradually they grew clearer as the two men completed their circuit and settled by the fire to warm themselves. They must be right outside the tent.
"... I confess, Fearghal, I was surprised that you knew of the Crows. They are not well known in Ferelden. Indeed, I would venture that you know quite a bit about the Crows."
"My... I know... used to know someone from Antiva. She used to tell stories of the Crows."
Zevran grinned. "Ah, a lady. A former lover?"
"No!" burst out Fearghal, shocked at the suggestion. He lowered his voice. "She's my... was... my sister-in-law. My brother's wife."
"I'm sorry," muttered Zevran, inwardly cursing his carelessness.
Fearghal shrugged. "You weren't to know." Fearghal's face darkened and he spat, "Howe's men. They butchered everyone."
"Your brother?"
"He was at Ostagar," sighed Fearghal. "When I got there, they said he was out with a scouting party. I learned later that they ran into a big party of darkspawn. As far as I know, only one man survived." Fearghal gazed into the fire, lost in thought. "At least he never knew..."
He didn't realised he'd spoken out loud until Zevran murmured, "That would be difficult news to bear, indeed."
Fearghal's face hardened. "His is the only death I don't owe that bastard Howe for. I had no choice about becoming a Grey Warden. There's a Blight and I'll do what I have to do, but I swear, when this is over I'm going after Howe. That treacherous snake will wish he'd never been born before he dies."
Zevran shivered at the menace in Fearghal's voice and was relieved when he returned his attention to the flickering flames, no doubt planning the lingering and painful death that he was going to inflict on Rendon Howe.
Alistair pulled his blankets tighter around himself. He remembered Fearghal's dream in the Fade. The couple with the child, Fearghal's brother and the quiet smiling woman. I wonder who's looking after the boy now? Wynne had said Fearghal's dream was different, that he was reliving memories. Alistair hadn't really thought about it before, but now it puzzled him. His own dream was obviously created from his desires. Given Morrigan's dramatic interruption, Alistair could only be grateful that the demon hadn't seized on his attraction to Fearghal. Suddenly, it dawned on Alistair. He remembered the desire demon they'd found in the templars' quarters; she'd seen it. He'd had everything he ever desired. There's nothing else he wants.
~o~O~o~
The following evening they camped outside a run-down village. There was no inn, but there was a rough-looking tavern. Once they'd eaten, Zevran suggested they have a drink in the tavern to see if they could pick up some news. Fearghal thought it was a good idea.
"You coming, Alistair?"
For a moment Alistair hesitated, remembering how things had gone downhill in the tavern at Lothering, then nodded. There was no reason to suppose Loghain's men would be looking for them out here.
Fearghal looked at Alistair, in his templar armour. "Maybe you'd better put on your old mail. It'll draw less attention," he suggested.
It didn't take Alistair long to change and minutes later he was heading into the village with Zevran and Fearghal. The tavern turned out to be as shabby as the rest of the village. The fire was small and mean and the rushes were old and stale; it wasn't surprising the place was almost empty except for a couple of thuggish-looking fellows who leaned against the bar chatting to the barman and a few men, labourers by the look of them, clustered around a table near the meagre fire.
Alistair and Zevran seated themselves at a table near the bar while Fearghal went to buy the drinks. Fearghal chatted with the barman, then handed him a few coins. The barman didn't seem to have much news at all.
He was just about to take the ale over to the table when one of the men standing at the bar piped up, "That were a turn up 'bout the Teyrn of Highever, though."
Fearghal froze.
"Oh aye? I'd 'eard there were some bother up there a few weeks back. wha's 'appened now?" asked the barman.
At the table, Alistair swore softly and nudged Zevran, nodding at Fearghal.
"Well, I'd 'eard there were fightin' up there but no-one knew why. Well, now they do," said the man knowingly.
Fearghal set the flagons back down on the bar. "Really? What's the story?" he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.
The man looked pleased at the attention. "Well, I 'eard that the Couslands 'ave bin attainted," he pronounced, more than a little satisfied with the look of shock this news produced on Fearghal's face.
"What?" Fearghal had gone white as a sheet.
"Attainted? Wha's that then?" asked the second fellow.
"It means they was traitors," the barman informed him.
"Yep. I 'eard that Arl How was sent to Highever to arrest the Teyrn for conspirin' with the Orlesians but when 'e got there, the Teyrn's men attacked 'im."
"That's a lie!" shouted Fearghal.
The first man snorted. "I dunno, I reckon there's no smoke without fire. Anyway, all them Couslands is dead an' good riddance, I say. They were traitors an' they got what they deserved if... "
The man staggered back against his friend as Fearghal's fist smashed into his face. Alistair and Zevran leaped out of their seats. Alistair grabbed Fearghal's arms; the memory of the bandit in Lothering fresh in his mind. The man Fearghal had thumped came back swinging, his fist connecting with Fearghal's jaw. Alistair saw stars when Fearghal's head snapped back and slammed into his face. His eyes streaming , Alistair let go of Fearghal's arms to clutch his nose.
Dazed by the blow, Fearghal stood, blinking stupidly and shaking his head. Another blow sent him staggering back against Alistair, who instinctively pushed him away. With a roar, Fearghal charged at the man who'd hit him, planting a hard fist in the man's soft belly; the man doubled over, groaning, and Fearghal drove his fist into the man's jaw, sending him staggering back across the room. Fearghal followed him, grabbing the front of the man's tunic to pull him up and drove his fist into the man's face again. To Alistair, it looked like a replay of when Fearghal had killed the bandit.
"Oh Maker, he'll kill him!" groaned Alistair, rushing forwards to try and pull Fearghal off the man.
Zevran, who had the arms of the second man pinned behind his back, turned his head to look. As he did so the man wriggled free and grabbed a chair, battering Fearghal over the head with it. Fearghal dropped like a stone without a sound. The man Fearghal had been hitting pulled back his foot to kick Fearghal; he froze as a blade pricked his neck.
"I think not, my friend. It is the mark of a coward to kick a man when he's down, no?"
The barman hurried out from behind the bar. "Tom, put that chair down! If you break it, you're payin' for it!" He turned to Alistair. "You. Get 'im out of 'ere and don't none of you come back!"
Alistair rushed over to Fearghal and turned him over. Zevran let the battered man go and waved him back with his knife. When he was satisfied the man was far enough away not to be a danger, he helped Alistair pull Fearghal to his feet. Alistair stooped, then slung Fearghal over his shoulder. Alistair made his way carefully through the tavern's door, Zevran following, his dagger still in his hand. Slowly they made their way back to camp.