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War of the Laurels
By Spectre4hire
28: Cauthrien
She stood inside his room.
A room that was bigger than her family's home. It was quite large with its own spacious sitting room and separate study. It wasn't just the size that was noticeable but the sigils. Everywhere she looked she could see the laurels of the Cousland family. It hung on the walls, it was stitched into the blankets, it was recently etched into the stone above the room's fireplace.
The laurels seemed embroidered in every bit of visible cloth in the room whether it was the pillows that decorated the couches, the drapes that hung around the bed, or the curtains that covered the windows. Not to mention, it was stitched in every shirt, tunic, jacket, that the boy wore.
These nobles held tightly to their pictures. They believed it a badge of honor, a symbol of their importance, a useful tool to divide them from the commoners. It amused Cauthrien to no end that they couldn't see just how foolish and desperate they looked by clinging to them. In believing they needed these pictures to make them better they in fact prove to be lesser for it.
Taking her eyes off of the Cousland sigils that littered the room she turned to her charge: The young boy who she swore to protect with her very life. A choice she did not make lightly. Yet, how could she call herself a woman of faith if she allowed harm to come to him?
He was an innocent despite his use in this civil war. If she had the power to defend him then she would. Despite her worldly allegiances to her Teyrn, she was first and foremost a servant of Andraste. Her faith in the Maker and her loyalty to Andraste were put to the test by this dilemma. Even in making this decision, she understood that the path of the faithful was riddled with trials and doubts.
The boy stood in front of a tall mirror, fidgeting under the many hands and eyes of the castle seamstress as she instructed a handful of servants who were measuring him for new outfits. She could see discomfort in his expression through the reflection.
"It is time for Lord Cousland's lessons," Cauthrien announced. She ignored their protesting words and displeased faces as she watched them leave the boy's chambers.
He let out a shaky breath, clearly relieved of their departure.
"Did you not hear me, Lord Cousland?" she called sternly. "There is no time for idleness."
"My apologies, Ser Cauthrien," he replied hastily, moving towards her.
She had been watching him for weeks. In that time she saw him as a quiet, polite boy. He was also meek. He carried no confidence in either his voice or his movements. He walked like a prisoner within South Reach. His head was bowed, his eyes to the floor as they moved through the halls. He gave no acknowledgment to the servants or guards who bowed to him as they passed.
Cauthrien walked to his left. Her eyes always alert. She was ready to draw her greatsword to defend the boy against any attacker who would come at them. In her mind, she was prepared for multiple scenarios of how to deal with either a lone assassin or a group in these close quarters if any attempt was made on the boy's life.
"Lord Cousland, this time when we bout, I want to see more energy." She told him.
It had not just been Edmund Cousland's desire to have her guard his nephew. No, that wasn't enough. He had also insisted that she begin to teach him swordplay. She later learned it was a decision on his part that had drawn the ire of many of his supporters. It seemed many within his group of allies had hoped that either they or their own knights would train the boy. Instead, Oren was to be trained by a prisoner and an enemy. Knowing, it had infuriated so many of Edmund's noble allies made it an easier decision to swallow.
"You don't have to call me Lord Cousland," he replied, his voice soft as a whisper. "You can call me Oren, if you like."
"No," she shot that down immediately. It would be improper. She was not here to be his friend. She was here to protect him. He was his charge. There would be nothing else.
"Oh," the boy said sadly.
He could've commanded her to call him by his name. He was a lord, the Teyrn of Highever. He technically outranked every noble within his army including his Uncle. If he had ordered her to call him by his name she may have considered it, but he didn't. He didn't possess that fire. So instead he took her refusal politely and meekly.
The lessons with the boy had been in a word-terrible. His heart was not in them. He had no desire to learn how to use a sword. He followed her orders in a trance like state, waiting for the lesson to be over so that he could excuse himself. That seemed the only time when he was pleased during the lesson was when it was over.
Honestly, Cauthrien wasn't sure how much more her patience could take when it came to these lessons. She was disappointed by the lack of effort the boy was putting into them, and believed more and more for them to be a farce and a waste of both of their times. She was tempted to go to Arl Bryland and inform him of her decision to withdraw herself from being the boy's tutor.
The only thing that stopped her was her own stubbornness and pride. She reminded herself that they had only had a few lessons. Even though they had been at South Reach for weeks, the lessons had only started recently. His uncle had insisted that upon arriving at South Reach that his nephew take time to adjust to his new surroundings before starting them. Adjustments that Cauthrien was sure the boy never made since his uncle left South Reach after only staying a night in the castle. After that, he had taken the armies south to fight the darkspawn.
They reached the courtyard. Ser Roland, the master-at-arms of South Reach was waiting with his servants both holding blunted swords and round shields. They bowed at Oren's arrival. She did not miss the glare that the wizened Roland sent her way. She was use to them.
She took the sword offered to her from the servant. She watched as the boy stood across from her with sword and shield while Roland put padding on around the boy's chest and head to prevent any accidental injury. Seeing him in all that padding made him look more like a marshmallow then a Teyrn. The image of an armed marshmallow attacking her was enough for her to nearly crack a smile.
"Begin," she announced.
Oren came at her, but his advancements were too slow, and all too predictable. He swung his sword in slow, jerky movements.
"Am I keeping you from something, Lord Cousland?" She called, ignoring the blustering outrage of Roland. She was losing her patience. She was tired of it. She thought she could continue this farce, but she couldn't. She wouldn't have her time wasted.
"No, Ser Cauthrien," the boy replied softly.
"Your effort tells me differently." She would have answers.
"How dare you," Roland finally found his voice. "He is the Teyrn and deserves proper respect!"
She dismissed the words as soon as they left his mouth. She understood his posturing to be a show in an effort to earn favor with the boy. In Cauthrien's opinion it was poorly done. "His actions in these lessons are as disrespectful as any word I've uttered." She noticed her words hit the mark, seeing the boy's cheeks flush.
"Perhaps it is not the student's fault," Roland continued in his selfish defense of the boy, "but the teacher."
"No," Oren said quietly.
Roland spun around towards him, looking surprised, before forming a friendlier expression to cover his tanned, wrinkled face. It seemed he would use any occasion to earn the boy's trust or favor. It was pathetic.
"She speaks truly," Oren admitted.
Cauthrien tilted her head to him in acknowledgment of his words. Silently pleased by his admission and his accountability. "So what are you prepared to do about it?"
He gave no answer.
"Everyone should be able to defend themselves," she said, "even Teyrns."
He looked down, unable to meet her eyes. He kicked up some dirt. "I'm sorry."
In that moment, a feeling of guilt washed over her. Her frustration and annoyance had momentarily blinded her. She had been so adamant in having her voice be heard and for her chastisement to be unleashed that she had forgotten she wasn't addressing one of her soldiers that she used to train, but a boy.
"Me as well," she said after a moment's hesitation, "For my tone, it was unkind of me."
He gave her a tentative smile. "I'd like to try again if you would allow it?"
"Very well," she raised her sword, "begin."
There were few if any places that offered Cauthrien any real shelter away from the whispers and glares within South Reach. Within the walls of the Chantry she found some form of solitude. There were no worldly allegiances to the Chant. All kings and soldiers knelt before the throne of the Maker equally humbled by Him.
She was on her knees currently praying for guidance and wisdom to Him and His Bride, Andraste. She needed Their gentle touch, a balm to help settle her worldly doubts. The decision still chafed at her. She wanted to follow Their will, but it was a struggle.
In the absence of trials how can one's faith truly be tested?
She remembered those words told to her so many years ago.
"Ser Cauthrien?"
She snapped her head up, looking over her shoulder to see the boy, but he was not the one who spoke, it was his guard, Myrna. They returned from the stables. She was surprised she hadn't smelled them before they broke her thoughts with their words. They carried a strong stench of beast and filth with them.
"Our apologies," Myrna continued. She was a young, eager but also determined soldier out of a small town called Laurel, south of Highever.
"No, you were right to alert me," Cauthrien recovered, coming to her feet. "You are dismissed." She looked the young guard over. "Get some hot food and see to that smell."
Myra looked appreciative of the order. She bowed her head, offering a smile to the boy before leaving.
A smile the young boy returned. His smile soon dipped when he turned back to Cauthrien. "I told her not to disturb you." Sadness furrowed his brows when he added, "Mama use to say that people shouldn't be disturbed when they're praying."
"It is fine," Cauthrien led him out of the Chantry.
"What were you praying for?"
Cauthrien paused, unsure how to answer such an innocent question. There were many things that she had asked for during her prayers besides guidance from the Maker about the current path she now walked.
Deliverance
Justice
Victory
She prayed for the Teyrn's victory over the boy's uncle every day and to a swift end to this war that would see Ferelden restored under the wise leadership of the Mac Tirs.
"Guidance," was the answer she settled on. It was honest. She would not tell him the purpose of the guidance and the struggles and doubts she carried since becoming his guard. "How were the stables?"
"Sarim is lonely," Oren observed sadly.
When Edmund Cousland marched south he made sure his mabari remained in South Reach. In fighting darkspawn, he feared what could happen to his precious mabari if it were to become infected by the Taint.
She understood those doubts. She remembered in the skirmishes that had led up to the Battle of Ostagar, the many mabari hounds that had become infected by the darkspawn. Some were saved by the limited supplies of a local flower that grew in the Korcari Wilds, the rest had to be put down.
So here remained the mabari. Sarim struggled with its master's decision every day. It called for its master every day. It bellowed a dreadfully mournful howl that had on more than one occasion caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand still. It sought to be reunited with its master. It was the mabari's sole purpose.
During the day, the mabari remained in the stables, chained. It would then be carefully escorted into Lord Bryland's castle around dusk and placed in the young Teyrn's room for the night. Despite its obvious love and affection towards the boy, he was not the mabari's master. It was imprinted to another and with it came its absolute loyalty and devotion.
"I don't think Sarim has even been without Uncle," Oren continued, "and I never thought Uncle would willingly part with Sarim."
"Mabaris and their masters usually don't," Cauthrien pointed out.
"I know," Oren replied, the two made their way up the steps of the castle where two guards greeted with crisp salutes before two others moved to open the doors for them. "It's just," Oren paused, looking uncertain if he should continue or not.
His pause drew Cauthrien's attention and seeing his face caused her interest to slightly peak at what the boy wanted to say. "What?"
"Sarim," Oren revealed. "He was a gift to my Uncle."
"A gift?" Cauthrien hadn't heard that. It was a common practice among Ferelden nobility to bring their children to the prized mabari kennels in hopes one of their children would find a pup to imprint with, "From his parents?"
Oren shook his head, "from his wife." He bit his lip, looking sad, "Auntie Renee gave Sarim to Uncle before they were married."
It was the first time Cauthrien had heard of any mention of the Orlesian who Edmund Cousland had once been married to. Let alone to hear her name was a most unexpected surprise. Studying the boy, it seemed he had a certain fondness towards the woman he would've only known in passing from a few meetings that mostly took place at an age where it was difficult for him to retain memories.
"You lazy slut!" the loud shrill voice cut through their conversation like a rusty knife.
Cauthrien instinctively brought her hand to the hilt of her greatsword while her eyes scanned the surrounding hallway to the source of the commotion. She located the voice in the form of Arl Bryland's daughter, Habren. In her thankfully limited interactions with the daughter of the Arl, Cauthrien was convinced there was no greater spoiled brat in all of Ferelden then Habren Bryland.
The victim of the girl's ire was her own servant, a dejected looking elf who was on her knees, head bowed as she tried to pick up pieces of what looked to once be a vase.
"Look at what you did!" Habren berated, "That vase came all the way from the Anderfels!"
The elf looked up, "Apologies, Mistress, I-"
A loud slap interrupted the servant's apologies as Habren delivered a hard hit across the girl's face. "I don't want your worthless apologies!" She pointed to the broken pieces that lay scattered across the floor, "even in pieces this vase holds more value than any word you could speak!"
It took all of Cauthrien's discipline to keep her feet rooted where she stood and her expression impassive. She knew nobles were capable of such brash, harsh actions against their servants, but she had never witnessed such a disgusting scene as this. Her time around nobility was limited, and even still such actions tended to only happen behind closed doors, but she had never seen Teyrn Loghain or the Queen behave in such a way. Nor had she seen Lord Cousland speak to any of his servants with such hatred and disregard in her limited time around him.
She caught movement from the corner of her eye, turning to see the boy tensing beside her. His brown eyes wide in fright at what he was seeing from his cousin. He licked his lips, hands fidgeting at his side, he looked liked he wanted to say something, do something to stop this scene from continuing, but the boy couldn't find his nerve to have his voice be heard.
Conflict marred his young face; fear seemed to have gripped him from acting or speaking up. After a moment the conflict that covered his face turned towards acceptance, he bowed his head and began going down an adjoining hallway that would lead back to his quarters.
Habren's shrill voice followed them down the hallway, "My father will send that wretched brother of yours down south to fight darkspawn!"
Disappointment at the young boy prickled inside of her. She tried to push it down. He's just a boy, she reminded himself.
And yet, he was the only one who could've stopped his cousin, but he did nothing.
It wasn't until late into the night that Cauthrien finally made it back to her room. Even when she was not personally guarding the boy there was much to attend to and her duties kept her busy well into the night. Stepping into the room, she lit a few candles on her small but suitable desk. Moving towards her nightstand, her eyes noticed something was on her pillow.
Lighting the candle nearest her bed, she discerned that the something was actually a crumpled note.
Confused and curious at the appearance of this mysterious letter, she picked it up. Unraveling the vellum to see but a few sentences scratched on it, but the words they made and the meaning behind them were enough for Cauthrien's heart to quicken.
She clasped the note in her hand, moving swiftly towards the door, poking her head out to see both sides of the hallway were clear. She closed the door, and then locked it. Cauthrien moved back towards her bed, her mind relaying the words from the note. Was this the Maker's answer to the prayers for guidance and clarity? Was He rewarding her faith and loyalty?
Unsure of the writer behind the words, the intent behind them was startlingly clear.
There are those within South Reach who move to see Loghain emerge victorious over the Couslands.
You are not without allies.
We'll keep in touch.
