A/N:…look…sorry…(tries not to look shifty…)
-oo-
Chapter 29 – A Call to Home
Golden autumn sunlight streamed through the open window, rippling through the swaying curtains as the breeze sighed across the window pane. The wind carried with it bird song; a pair of robins chattering in avian debate as they dived in amongst the near-naked shrubberies and silent trees. One alighted briefly on the ledge; a single strand of straw clasped firmly in its beak. Tiny onyx eyes peered curiously into the room, before movement at the table inside sent it winging away.
Contemplating the parchment before him, Aidan Cousland did not notice the sunshine – rare on a Ferelden autumn day – or the bird song. Chin resting lightly on the back of his hand, one finger idly flicking the end of his nose; his feet crossed and uncrossed restlessly beneath the table. His attempt at mustering enthusiasm for the task failing him, he took a deep breath…Reaching for the quill, he dipped it into the ink well then tapping it gently on the mouth of the bottle, pressed the nib to the parchment and began to write…Jon Avery of Hunters Fell…Alec Creighton of Highever Village…
He refilled the quill, tapped the excess ink on the pot again and continued…Will Creighton…also of Highever Village…
Repeating the sequence of fill, tap, write, he began to cover the parchment with names, widely spaced, of those who had come from Highever but would not be returning; including eight men from his own guard. Guiltily, he reminded himself that he did not know most of the names of those who had not been wearing the shield of Cousland House…but he should have.
He did know however, that five of those ten or so people had been farmers. Four others had been tradesmen of some description; the tenth a blacksmith…and how was he supposed to inform their families when he didn't even know who they were? How could he possibly confirm only ten families? What if there had been more? Maker's moustache…what if the entire remaining male population of Highever Village had perished in Denerim?
None of them were people who should have gone into battle. They were untrained, inexperienced, with no knowledge of the battlefield or combat. They should not have been here, dammit! If one of the surviving Cousland soldiers hadn't happened to see some of them in Denerim, no one would have known…and there would have been only one civilian to record in the List of the Dead…
Fill. Tap…Aidan touched the quill to the page, uncaring that the ink blotted the parchment, spreading across its surface in a messy pool. Damn you Gerrie…His left hand supporting his head, he forced himself to write: Geraint Tremayne of Greenfell…As soon as the last 'L' had dropped onto the page, he threw the quill across the table. It spun into the ink stand, splattering the remaining ink across the table cloth. Springing to his feet, he slammed his hands onto the edge of the table, then seized the piece of parchment, balling it up violently and hurling it at the wall opposite. When that did not seem enough, he snatched up his chair, holding it high above his head…
"I wouldn't if I were you…" a wry voice at the door recommended him. "Mother had that upholstery specially commissioned for this room."
Fergus Cousland stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him and leaning his back against it. "Unless of course, you have a death wish and fully intend to incur her wrath."
Breathing rapidly, Aidan lowered the chair to the floor, teeth grinding as he attempted to bring his temper back into check. Gripping the chair back hard, he gritted, "How can you stand to be in the same room as me? How can you even speak to me…"
Fergus launched himself away from the door, striding towards his younger sibling with aggressive steps. He paused and raised his hand. Aidan flinched, readying himself for the blow, thinking himself lucky it was his brother's hand and not his sword that would strike him…the hand dropped. Instead of a blow however, Fergus ruffled at Aidan's hair as if he were four years old and not a man of four and twenty.
"You are my brother," Fergus told him fiercely with an affectionate shove. "My blood. I can no more hate you than I can myself."
Refusing to meet his brother's eye, Aidan gave a humourless huff of laughter. "In that case," he told him. "You must really be loathing yourself right now…" He found his brother's finger waggling in front of his nose in warning.
"Don't make me break that chair and blame it on you Pup, because it's no empty threat. I will…You know Mother will never take your word over mine…"
Aidan looked up then; looking away almost immediately, unable to face the darkness in his brother's eyes, despite the lightness of the other man's tone. "Fergus…"
"So…this Mage of yours…" Fergus said suddenly, causing Aidan's head to whip upwards, eyebrows drawn downwards in a frown.
"Alyce…" Aidan murmured, giving himself a mental shake. He realised belatedly his brother's manly attempt at a change in subject…away from more depressing topics. Despite his promise to their father to bring Fergus back, Aidan knew the trip home would be a difficult one. It was not something he was looking forward to, feeling an idiot for not planning any further than actually finding his brother…Giving Fergus the news of his wife and son's death had been the hardest thing Aidan had ever had to do in his relatively short life.
"Alyce…" Fergus repeated, rolling the name around appreciatively. "Now there's a name…" Aidan found his brother pinning him with a narrow gaze that made him squirm uncomfortably. He'd forgotten how Fergus could do that so easily with only a look or a single, raised eyebrow. "Rather long legs for a magical person…" Fergus concluded, casting his gaze innocently upwards at the chandelier.
"All Mages…are supposed to be short?" Aidan mused out loud, knowing where Fergus was heading with this line of questioning and trying to steer it firmly away.
"Well…" Fergus paused dramatically. "Perhaps long isn't the word I'm looking for…"
Aidan sighed, joining his brother in his contemplation of the light fixture. Sooner or later, his brother would reach the inevitable evaluation of experience…If Fergus thought he was going to be treated to a description of magical nights of passion with a long-legged Mage, his brother was due to be disappointed… "You're going to say 'shapely' aren't you?" he said in a flat voice.
Fergus turned a wide-eyed, innocent look of surprise at him. "I wasn't!" he exclaimed, then paused…"And…" he said slowly and deliberately, one corner of his mouth twitching suspiciously. "If I did, it would merely have been pure observation and not reflective of any personal opinion on the subject whatsoever…"
"Mm…" Aidan folded his arms across his chest, the fingers of one hand drumming his arm unseen by his brother. "They go all the way to the ground," Aidan offered helpfully. "Have you noticed?"
Under his fashionably scant growth of facial hair, Fergus smiled; a genuine smile this time that crinkled the corners of his blue eyes as their father's often did. "I can imagine that would be a rather handy feature…" he agreed. "And…fortuitous too…So, tell me…" (Aidan braced himself) "how did the two of you…meet?
"I assaulted her Templar, she healed Father," Aidan informed his brother simply and without embellishment or emotion.
"Oh. Then we are indebted to her," Fergus murmured, surprised to hear his brother scoff at this notion.
"'Indebted'? I'd like to see you tell her that," Aidan's eyes twinkled in returning mischief. "She'd likely take your head off."
"Well then," Fergus shook his head in wonder. "There must be some way we can repay her service to our family."
"Mm…" Aidan murmured, thinking of his recent conversation with Ser Ryan. The Templar would not accept that Geraint's death had been the fault of anyone but himself, taking the blame as elder sibling. Even after he had admitted to Ser Ryan that it had been he who had planted the seeds of rebellion in the young blacksmith's mind; he who had teased Geraint about the Mage…and the one who had told him he should do something about making himself worthy of Alyce's affection…After all that, Ser Ryan still refused to lay the blame on anyone else but himself. Duty, he had called it. Bloody Templars and their ingrained duty to everything…
Well, Geraint had proven himself…It just hadn't been – as Aidan had foolishly thought – by showing Alyce his craftsman skills, but by trying to be a warrior…It had been a stupid thing to do, and Aidan felt even more stupid for underestimating the blacksmith's youth or the depth of Geraint's infatuation with the Mage. He only hoped his proposal to the Templar would go some way towards recompense…if that were ever possible…
"Odd though…" Fergus tried again, "that a Mage accompany a Templar merely for a family visit. I would have thought it would be the other way around."
"Oh, uh…Alyce has family in Highever too," Aidan informed his brother, distracted by his own thoughts. "Amell…Mildred Amell is her aunt."
"Lady Amell…?" Fergus inquired.
"Lady?" Aidan blinked at him. He hadn't ever considered any other connection between nobility and Mildred Amell. From what his mother had told him the Amells had a minor title, but certainly not important enough to carry any weight in Ferelden. Plus, thinking about Old Batty Amell made the back of his head hurt in remembrance…
"The Amell family are nobility in one of the city states of the Free Marches…fairly important nobility…" Fergus explained in response to Aidan's questioning look. "Lady Mildred Amell however, has been here since the occupation."
That was a surprise. "The occupation?" Aidan snorted, rubbing the back of his head. "What did she do, throw pumpkins at the Orlesians until they left?"
Fergus threw a look at his younger brother that was pure Eleanor Cousland. "You have absolutely no idea, do you?" Fergus said. "Mildred Amell fought alongside Father and Mother against the Orlesian armies of Chevaliers; quite a ferocious dragon she used to be too, apparently. Mother once described Lady Amell as being one of the few who could outstrip her in archery skills. The woman could knock a fly out of the air at a hundred paces and if her eyesight hadn't gone, she would be fighting still. Legend has it she learned her archery skills from the Dalish – and they don't teach anyone not of their blood – or clan."
Aidan stared at his brother in disbelief. That old bat…? A fierce battle maiden…? Well, it wasn't too much of a stretch of the imagination considering what a curmudgeon she was, but…and what was it about his brother's statement that made him uneasy? Fergus gave him little time to contemplate the slippery thought, thumping him heartily on the back. "Anyway, brother…" he told him. "Much as I would like to stay to lend aid to Denerim, we can't put off going home forever. There is a great deal I need to…discuss with Father…" Straightening, Fergus turned towards the door. He paused briefly before throwing over his shoulder: "Pack whatever you brought with you and inform the men." Throwing the door open, he added, "We leave for Cousland Castle tomorrow, at first light."
-oo-
The shrunken edges of the leaf glowed still with silver-green luminescence. Alyce pursed her lips at the effect. She'd overdone the preservation spell a little bit, but she supposed that wasn't such a bad thing…Throwing the pendant around her neck, she re-tied the leather string, pausing briefly at the mirror to check her reflection. The pouch of the mabari's ashes now had Geraint's oak leaf sewn onto the front. It didn't look too horrible…a little bit unusual, but she rather liked the look of it. The smile slipped a little from her face; she bit her lip to stop it from trembling. I don't want to have to carry any more dead with me…
Turning resolutely from her reflection, she headed for the door. The king – if not completely mobile – was mostly conscious now; the Arl of Redcliffe spending most of his time at the palace with him these days. The Mages that had come from the Tower to fight the horde in Denerim weren't needed as much. The even smaller contingent of Templars that had come with them were keen to return their charges to the Tower before open spaces became too attractive. Alyce and Ser Ryan were expected to leave with them…but Alyce had not had much of a chance to speak with Neria to let her know. Not since her 'disagreement' with Wynne about the difference between 'hosting' and 'possession'. It reminded her too much of the descriptions in Flemeth's spell book…
Neria had been kept busy meeting with the Arl of Redcliffe and the future king; the three of them making plans for the future of Ferelden. It was both weird and wonderful to know her friend had such an important role in rebuilding the country. Neria was even due to take up the mantle of Commander of the Grey, around the same time as Warden Alistair's coronation.
As Alyce strolled along the corridor, her magic staff balanced on her shoulder, she couldn't help smiling to herself. It seemed Neria; lovely, sweet, talented Neria Surana had found her Prince after all…in a most unconventional way perhaps…but if the rumours she had been hearing were true, he'd fallen head over Warden heels in love with the beautiful elf…Shouldering her staff, Alyce stopped at Neria's door, raising her hand to knock. While she celebrated Neria's success, she also couldn't help feel a pang of sadness. The world of Grey Wardens – The Hero of Ferelden, they called her now – had taken her friend far away from her. Duty to the crown and country would take her even further away.
Well, with any luck, Alyce would be allowed to visit her old Tower friend from time to time…
Alyce gave the door a quick rap with her knuckles. "Neria…it's me, Alyce…" she called out. There was a vague, answering noise from inside, so she opened the door and stepped inside…
Neria wasn't alone.
She didn't have any clothes on.
Nor did the redheaded woman she was…with…
Turning several shades of scarlet, and then pale green, Alyce lost her grip on the silverite staff. It clattered noisily to the floor, causing two tousled-haired heads to disengage and look towards the source of the interruption. Neria scowled. "Andraste's tits, Alyce…" she began.
"I…I knocked," Alyce told her, cycling through twenty shades of red again. She straightened from hastily bending down to pick up her staff, her face now the colour of Neria's friend's hair…whose name Alyce could not remember right now…Lubliana? Juggliane? Titania…? Oh Maker and Andraste, let me die NOW…
Completely unperturbed by the interruption, Neria rolled her eyes and sighed. "Alyce…"
"I…" Alyce pointed behind her. "The door," she explained. "and…with my hand…" She held up her hand – knuckles facing forward – helpfully. "I…I knocked…you ans…excuse me!"
She couldn't turn around fast enough, walking into the door because of course she hadn't had a chance to open it before she attempted to go through it. To pile embarrassment upon chagrin, she opened the door into her face; her skull making a satisfyingly loud thunk as it connected…and then her foot caught the doorframe, pitching her into the corridor to land heavily on all fours with another thud.
"Maker Alyce, are you alright?" she heard Neria's voice call out, but Alyce did not wait to respond, scrambling to her feet and sprinting down the corridor. She flew down the stairs, over tile and stone and past brick, tree and wood, completely unaware of her surroundings until she realised there was a sky overhead and ruins around her. It was only then that she stopped. Doubling over, she tried to catch her breath. Her lungs were burning and her legs felt like jelly, but it was nothing compared to the breadth and depth of mortification of discovering one of her friends in the middle of…being friendly with another friend.
"Somebody kill me…somebody kill me…" she muttered under her heaving breath. If there truly is a god out there, a bolt of lightning would be really handy about now…
"Amell?"
Still bent over, Alyce turned her head to view the speaker.
"What are you doing here? This is a salvage site, it's dangerous."
There was lumber and assorted building materials; neatly stacked salvaged stone and brick next to half-laden carts, along with tools and a group of sweating workmen. In the unseasonably warm autumn sunshine, most of the men had elected to remove the upper layers of their clothing. Including Ser Ryan and that Bann Whatever-His-Name-Was.
Toffee…was all she could think of. His skin is the colour of toffee…all the way down to his…Oh, look…Templars DO have bellybuttons…So Jowan was wrong after all. They didn't spring from the forehead of Andraste…fully…formed…
"Amell…?" Ser Ryan prompted.
It was good to know…
"Are you alright?"
I really, really need to die right now…"Um…" she rasped, surprised at her ability to command her voice under the circumstances. "Question…Wh-where can I find the River Drakon?"
Bann Can't-Remember-His-Name-But-Has-Interesting-Chest-Hair pointed to his left. "You were on your way towards it, my lady. Would you like me to…?"
"No! No thanks! I'll just be going now, cheers!" She took off with a whimper, tired legs bowing traitorously beneath her, making her look like a sprinting duck. She had no idea whether she was going in the right direction except…a thin ribbon shone between two charred stone buildings. She skidded down the hill, over pitted cobblestones, completely oblivious to the shouts of warnings as she vaulted over the remains of a loading platform, diving feet first into the River Drakon.
Blessedly frigid water swooshed up her robes as she sank like a stone; the chilly, dank water banishing every thought and burning image in her head. Every thought that is, except one very important thought as the water washed over the top of her head; the end of her silverite staff making tiny bubbles as it submerged with her…
Oh bugger…I can't swim…
-oo-
