Castle Cousland was not exactly what Alistair expected it to be.
It seemed strange that he'd expected anything, to be honest. It was an unsettling reminder of dreams he'd had before- of returning to Highever with Brand to reclaim her family's lands, to help rebuild what Howe had tried so hard to destroy, to help her cope with the anguish deferred by her sudden plunge into Grey Wardenhood.
The keep was smaller than Redcliffe Castle, older and less overwhelmingly solid. The corridors opened to the sky and the stone around them was a paler grey, both reminders that this was northern Ferelden, a place not as subject to the whims of the county's famously chill weather.
There was something casual about this place, the way the fine banners bearing the laurel crest of the Cousland family hung from ancient and splintering beams of wood, and there were signs everywhere of lived in. Redcliffe Castle always seemed vacant to him, empty room after empty room and vast corridors with nothing in them but suits of armor and dog statues. There were people here, and signs of people, and voices that echoed from every nook and cranny.
They were being led to the main quarters, and he could see Brand's hand tightening around Bryce's, her teeth on her lip as she kept her path to the center of the corridor, her eyes focused ahead.
Alistair remembered when they'd revisited Ostagar, the ghosts of their fallen brethren in the very air they breathed. She'd seen much worse here, everything close and personal.
He realized that he was struggling to not reach out and put his arm around her shoulder. And it wouldn't be a romantic gesture, but the right thing to do. Well, if being her friend was right, which he wasn't certain it was.
They were turning left and moving up an incline when they encountered two women who were obviously awaiting their arrival. Their bearing and finery marked them as noblewomen and Alistair could not miss the way Brand's stride faltered at their appearance.
"Lady Guerrin," the smaller of the women spoke first, her accent distinctly Antivan. She was plain, Alistair thought, with prim, even features and black hair that she wore in a carefully wound knot at the base of her neck. Her gown, indigo velvet, came up high on her chest and flared out below her petit bosom to accommodate a midsection swollen with child. "A pleasure to see you, sister. As always."
"And you, Melisande," Brand stopped several feet short and made no move to embrace her brother's wife.
"Call her Brand," Bryce was already skipping forward and Teyrna Melisande offered him a slightly warmer greeting.
"You look more like your father every time I see you, dear Bryce," Alistair saw the muscle in Brand's jaw twitch. "Norah is napping in her nursery, if you would like to join her."
Bryce shrugged and fell back to his mother, suddenly uncertain what sort of game his aunt was playing at. A nap already?
"La- Brand, surely you remember Lady Hopewell?" Melisande gestured to the woman at her elbow, who'd been watching Brand with peculiar interest. She was strikingly beautiful, nearly as tall as Brand and slender with straight dark hair that hung loose around a guileless, heart-shaped face. Most notable were her eyes, wide and the color of a hazy summer sky.
"So formal, Melisande. Brand and I know each other quite well, do we not, my dear?" Her lips twisted into a devilish grin at odds with her sweet demeanor and Alistair realized, with a funny lift in his stomach, why Anders had been so very amused to hear that she was on the premises. "I do hope we get an opportunity to catch up. It's been a few years, has it not?"
"A few," Brand's fingers were twisting in Bryce's hair, and he looked up as if to say don't involve me in this. "Fergus tells me that Cavin is here as well?"
Lady Hopewell nodded, eyes brightening.
"Awesome," Brand nudged at Bryce. "We should really get clean. Road grit and all that."
Melisande's nose crinkled slightly, "Did you not travel in your coach, sister?"
"Most of the time, but I scouted this morning. And we made camp last night," Brand was guiding the group by as she spoke, clearly not wishing to spend more time being interrogated or eyed like a succulent roast. "We want to be well turned out for dinner, you know."
The teyrna nodded sanguinely.
"This is true. I was hoping you could join Lady Hopewell and me for tea this afternoon. Perhaps after a nap?" Hands folding neatly against her stomach, there was nothing questioning about Melisande's expression. It was either yes or yes.
"Of course," and then they were really on the move, up an incline that wound to the left to lead them into a covered foyer with rooms off of both sides.
The stewards had deposited Alistair and Nathaniel's belongings in one room, while Fiona and Sigrun would share one across the foyer.
Fiona. His mother.
He blinked hard and willed himself to think of everything but that. Unfortunately, glancing around did not help him feel any less weird as a sense of family settled over him. There were portraits on the walls of the foyer, a handsome man with steel colored hair who looked like Fergus with a mask of middle age set comfortably on his features, and a woman who was obviously Brand's mother, the stubborn strength in her green eyes leaping out at him from the canvas.
We were like family once.
Alistair's stomach tightened and he slunk into his quarters after Nathaniel, who seemed almost as ill-at-ease as Alistair. Of course, his father had led his men to slaughter the Couslands.
"The teyrn doesn't seem to hold it against you," and that was not meant to be spoken aloud. Alistair turned quickly, hoping that the words would just evaporate before they made it to the other man's ears.
"I assume you mean Fergus treats me like a human being, despite what my father did here," Nathaniel's tone was cool but not angry. "Both Fergus and Brand have forgiven me the misfortune of my paternity. They are very gracious."
"I didn't mean to imply," Alistair's face was numb with mortification. What a dumb thing to say to a person. "I just know how people can...cling to wrongs. And Fergus never got the chance to see Howe..."
Nathaniel watched him squirm, his dark brows pulled low. He was just daring Alistair to continue that statement. And Fergus never got the chance to see Howe die a coward in his own dungeon.
"Were you there, Alistair? You were still traveling with Brand when my father died...not that I care anymore, exactly," there was much complication in his expression and Alistair wished, and not for the first time in his life, that he had been born without a tongue.
"No, I stayed behind...I remember how upset it made Brand, though. She was a wreck when she came back, she cried all night about the things she'd seen and..." Nathaniel was staring at him and when Alistair realized what he'd just said his cheeks went hot. "Yes. I'm going to...go see if I can find...something."
He all but ran out of the room, his hand pulling at the buckles on his breastplate, sweat suddenly the thing as his chest tightened and he felt compressed between so many emotions from then and now and all in an attempt to make sense of this place and what it meant to someone who'd once meant everything to him.
With some effort, he managed to remove most of his plates, dropping the pieces to the floor outside of the door to his room. The shirt and breeches look wasn't the most flattering, but it was better than before. Less restrictive and sweaty.
He knew that the family quarters were beyond their own rooms, so he went back they way they'd come in, moving idly down the walkway, his hand trailing the stone wall. Mindlessness would be key to making this all work, so he trained his eyes on the ground and counted his steps, each number serving to keep him from dwelling, or feeling, or
"Alistair?"
He spun around, the world going with him until he stopped and it kept going for just a second before settling on her, sitting at a game board in the alcove where they'd encountered the teyrna and Lady Hopewell.
Fiona. His mother.
His heart went crazy. As much as he didn't want to care, and he didn't because caring begat disappointment and his soul was already crushed under that which he'd been served over his lifetime, there was a piece of him who just wanted to know how it all worked. Mother. He'd seen his father a few times, and his brother a handful. There'd been an unfortunate run in with his sister in Denerim, but the less he thought about that the better. Or...
"What about Goldanna?" He took the seat across from her, his eyes on the game board, on the wall next to them, on the ground. Anywhere but on Fiona.
His mother.
"Goldanna?" She was legitimately confused. "Oh, you were told she was your sister."
His head shot up and he met her dark gaze; her eyes were soft now, yet guarded. He couldn't blame her for being so guarded and he only wished he could master such a thing, to save himself a load of pain. Only...she seemed to have not been spared an ounce of pain in her lifetime, so the guarding may have only kept out potential good.
"She's not my sister?" That made sense but didn't, in a way. Goldanna was the daughter of Eamon's maid, and not...this woman. Or something like that.
"No," the word was hollow. "Brand seemed distinctly relieved when she came to that realization."
"Relieved or vindicated?" It slipped out easily, and Fiona's lips quirked slightly at the jokey tone of the question. She, of course, had no idea how angry Brand was after they'd met Goldanna. Alistair had been fairly certain that he might have to carry her back to Eamon's estate before she did something rash and physical in retaliation for Goldanna's less than charitable comments towards Alistair.
"A little of both, I think. Was she...was she really that bad?"
"I...yes. She was horrible and I...," and I wouldn't have felt obligated to pretend to not hate her if I didn't think she was my sister, which I thought because you abandoned me and let my father and everyone else feed me lies my entire life..."I should go." He stood abruptly, his knees hitting the table in front of him and spilling the game to the ground at Fiona's feet. "Blast. Here, I'll get that..."
He half expected her to offer to help. Instead, she found her feet, too, and rushed back towards her room without another word.
Well that went beautifully. Alistair threw the game pieces onto the table and fell back on his ass, his head reclined against the wall behind him. "You really, really should just stop talking for a few years."
"It probably would save you quite a bit of trouble," Anders came from around the corner, looking very tall from Alistair's perspective and odd with Ser Pounce-a-lot perched on one shoulder. "Although I suppose the same could be said of me."
The mage didn't stay to chat, his feet carrying him onward with bracing self-assurance. They all know this place, they've all been here and shared in this family of Brand's. They are Brand's family, even my mother.
"Fuck my life," he spoke a bit too loudly.
"Also a smart sentiment!" The mage didn't even look back as he called this or he would have seen a very irritated Alistair offering a very evocative gesture.
For some sadistic reason, they decided to seat Alistair in the middle of the dining room table. Melisande, Fergus and the Hopewells were on his right, the Wardens to his left. Brand was seated across from him and she was every bit as over the whole affair as him.
She'd been over even before dinner, pulling Alistair aside to inform him that Fergus wanted to speak with them after dinner. From her weary expression, it was not going to be a fun conversation.
Since they'd been seated around twenty minutes ago, Melisande had been telling stories. Anora stories, that required her to say Anora about fifty times and, although she never looked at Alistair, he couldn't help but think that it was being done intentionally to needle him.
He hated that it needled him.
"...so then Anora gave him one of her looks and asked if he'd been raised in a cistern and not a manor." Like that was in any way witty or original or anything, yet Melisande covered her mouth with one small hand and blushed.
Brand sat picking at her bread, her teeth clenched against any number of things she could snap at her sister-in-law, like if you say Anora one more time I will carry you out of here and lock you in a closet, were she not being socially acceptable. Anders, however, was not bound by the same decorum. It didn't help that he'd already put back four goblets of wine, each cupful being attacked with notably less finesse than the one before.
"Melis...sorry," he paused for a moment and looked thoughtful. Thoughtful and mischievous. "Sorry, Lady Melis. I was hoping to ask a few questions of your other guests..."
"Anders," Brand's hand was going for the cutlery.
"What? It just feels weird to be sitting here with them right there, being beautiful, and us not knowing them at all. Don't you agree, Alistair?"
Brand's eyes said Tell him no, that you don't give a damn about Lord and Lady Hopewell.
He didn't care at all, one way or another, but Anders was right about them both being ridiculously attractive. Cavin Hopewell was as striking as his wife with eyes that were even more blue. Besides...how bad could this story be, really?
"Sure," Alistair shrugged and Brand fell back with an epic sigh. Cavin and his wife shared an amused glance as Anders took his time gathering his thoughts.
"You know, it occurs to me that I have no idea how," his hands waved in the air for a minute, indicating Brand and the nobles' end of the table. "You know...you guys. I have no idea how you actually work. Arranged marriages? Draw names from a hat? See each other from across a crowded room andlightning strikes, it's love?"
"We're not a different breed, Anders," Brand had her fingers on the bridge of her nose; Alistair could swear she was trying to disappear. "And we don't...draw names out of hats."
"Oh, I know how you do it, Commander," he regarded her from the corner of his eyes, affection mingled with something else Alistair couldn't quite pinpoint. "You like to take them by storm and not give them a chance to breathe until they're yours. Even if they were yours all along."
"That sounds about right, Ser Mage," this was Lady Hopewell, Colleen, and her attention was caught on Brand. "And I'm sure there are others here who can attest to the effectiveness of her methods."
Alistair bristled slightly. Did they mean him? Did they know? And Brand hadn't really taken him by storm, had she? Certainly, he was breathless around her and a lot, but that was because he'd never been so close to a woman before, not a woman who wanted him and that he could have.
That's when Alistair realized eyes were turned to Cavin, who was chewing with deliberate smugness while Fergus and Anders especially awaited his remarks with expectant smiles.
"Well," he took a sip of wine. "I think that Lady Colleen could tell this better than me."
"Or nobody could tell it at all," Brand was staring at her plate now, scarlet streaking her cheeks. "Or..." she grabbed her goblet to take a long drink, then held it aloft, a server appearing out of nowhere to refill it. She finished the second round with three large gulps as everyone focused on her now. "Ok. Let's get this over with."
The Hopewells exchanged a look and Colleen leaned against the table.
"Well, Ser Mage. About seven years ago, a few months before the...war, there was a tournament held in Highever, to recruit a Grey Warden I think," she waved off the significance of that detail. "To keep Brand out of the games, Teyrna Eleanor planned a series of garden parties and balls to occupy her time."
"All under the guise of finding a man willing to deal with me...desire to join the tourney and all," Brand was making short work of her third goblet of wine.
"Whatever the reason, Brand was absolutely against the idea," Cavin tipped his head towards his wife. "And spent more time trying to scandalize her suitors than woo them. Or be wooed by them."
"Or she was just going about her business as normal!" Fergus threw his head back and roared with laughter. "This is the girl who dragged a kitchen boy from his job at the sinks and kissed him in front of half the Landsmeet, just because."
"I thought it would ruin my reputation and no one would want to marry me," Brand looked at Alistair when she said this, a frown tugging the corners of her mouth. "And I was ten. Give me a break."
"I didn't even know what kissing was when I was ten," it was Alistair's turn to stare at his plate. That wasn't a total truth, but it was close enough. He knew what kissing was, but had no idea it was something he'd be allowed to do.
"I bet Anders had kissed half the girls in Highever by the time he was ten," Fergus lifted his goblet and tilted it towards the Wardens' end of the table. "To accomplishments."
"To hearing the rest of this story," Anders offered Colleen a wolfish smile.
"At one event, the guest of honor herself approached me with a proposition that I could not possibly turn down."
"Who would have guessed?" Fiona augmented this with a snort and received a withering glare from her commander.
"Please, feel free to describe said proposition in glorious and intimate detail," Anders feigned seriousness for a moment. "Fergus, cover your ears."
The teyrn did as instructed and everyone at the table who wasn't Melisande or Brand at least smiled at the exaggerated expression of innocence on the man's face.
"It was your standard invitation to get to know one another better, someplace secluded. I think the phrase 'and with doors that lock' was used, ironically enough. What made it so enticing, of course, was Brand's insistence on smiling through the entire thing, as if she knew that whatever happened would be the most fun either one of us would have our entire lives," Colleen's face went serious in profile, and Alistair could see her watching Brand from the corner of her eyes. "Of course, fun and young Lady Cousland were practically inseparable, and everyone knew it."
Alistair stole a glance at Brand, who was no longer blushing but had returned her eyes to her plate. Sympathy twisted his stomach. He couldn't imagine what she was feeling now. I was happy once, Alistair. She'd whispered this one night while they were on watch and he was falling in love with her by the heartbeat. I don't think it'll ever happen again.
He'd tried to make it happen for her, futile as that effort turned out to be.
Suddenly, her head came up and she was smiling, a delirious grin that did nothing to eradicate the shadows of hurt in her eyes.
"Don't forget to tell them how them how fun it really was, Colleen. What was it you told me?"
Colleen missed the edge in Brand's voice and laughed.
"I told you that anyone who complained about your smart mouth could easily have their opinion changed within five minutes of being alone with it," she smirked. "To say nothing of your tongue."
"Colleen!" Melisande's dark eyes were wide with disapproval. It had been mounting in her expression since Anders hijacked the conversation, but this was just too much.
"She's right, Melis. No need to be delicate about it," Brand had apparently decided to forgo that whole politeness thing. "It's nothing I'm ashamed of."
"Thank the Maker," Anders was regarding her with something close to awe.
"Anyway," it was Cavin's turn to talk. "Colleen wasn't the only one who'd been approached by young Lady Cousland at this event. I am quite an avid horseman and she expressed a desire for expert instruction on her riding techniques..."
Nathaniel, seated at Alistair's elbow, let out a groan of how lame can a person be? and Brand shrugged with lazy nonchalance.
"Not being made of stone, I happily accepted her request for private instruction," he cleared his throat and turned to his wife. "In retrospect, it was the best decision I've ever made. You see, Brand had misjudged how occupied Colleen would keep her so when I arrived at her chambers, she was..."
"Utterly naked and deeply appreciative of Colleen's willingness to reciprocate," she turned to her Wardens, eyes glassy. "It was a very pleasant surprise."
"So in stumbles Cavin," Colleen pointed to her husband. "I thought Brand had planned it in attempt to make him jealous, or more interested. Cavin thought she'd gotten bored with the idea of him and grabbed the next body that caught her attention."
"And, in reality, I was just a whore," she raised her goblet in mock triumph. "Colleen stormed out and Cavin ran off to comfort her. I ended up spending that night alone with my hand and they were married shortly after the Blight. Funny how these things work out, isn't it?"
For a moment there was silence as the bite that had entered her voice turned the air hot with tension. Everyone as avoiding eye contact, and Fergus' hands had fallen from his ears. Anders was the most somber, his expression darkening with regret.
"You were married not too long after the end of the Blight, were you not, sister?" Melisande's voice was smooth and cool. "So things worked out for you, too, in the end. You were lucky to find a man as fine as Arl Teagan."
Brand's face had gone blank, her eyes empty but shining from the sheer quantity of wine she'd consumed, and she could only nod in response to the comment. Nod and excuse herself from the room, with a polite thank you for the lovely meal and I'll be in the library when you're ready to talk, Fergus.
Nobody went after her, which surprised Alistair. He was certain Anders would at least try, but the mage remained seated, thoughtful again but not mischievous.
"Fergus?"
"Yes, Anders?" The teyrn was similarly sedate.
"Have I told you the story about the candle maker and his wife's delicious pie?"
Fergus' face relaxed into a smile.
"You have, but I don't think it would hurt anyone if you told me again."
As Anders gleefully launched into what turned out to be a filthy little parable that became something grand and depraved in his hands, his eyes never strayed far from the empty space that had, only minutes ago, been his lover.
Alistair was just glad to know that he wasn't the only one with the taste for shoe leather that evening.
Alistair managed to beat Fergus to the library where Brand was, indeed, awaiting them, her back to the door as she remained seated on a plush settee situated in front of the massive fireplace.
He was surprised to find her still awake; between the wine and the fire she must have been incredibly drowsy.
"I'd be drooling on the velvet, were I you," he found an elaborately carved wooden chair and dragged it into position at the far end of the couch.
"I should be. I would be," she rubbed her eyes, her knuckles turning white with the pressure. "I have a lot to think about. Stupid trying to stay alive interfering with my ability to enjoy a drunken nap by the fire."
Alistair didn't respond, but studied her instead. He'd gotten used to seeing her, he'd become accustomed to her voice and her smile and just being around her. What he still struggled with was who she was, who she'd become. During his years away, he'd heard the tales, had seen the paintings and the statuettes and had drunkenly sang along with the songs. He imagined her living an uncomplicated life of grandeur, the heroine catered to by her adoring public and eased through a charmed existence.
He could not have been more wrong.
Especially now, as she sat with her shoulders bowed beneath the weight of someone else's designs against her, appearing almost fragile and more like a ghost than a woman.
"I dreamt about you, while I was traveling to the Free Marches," Alistair licked his lips and tried to make this come out in a way that would not blow up in his face. "There was a child who was dying from dehydration...I was, too. Then I woke up, and you were there. You led us to the deck right before it began to pour. The rain saved us both. It was just a dream, but you were so real and...when it started to rain you turned your face up, like you did at Ostagar and at the Keep. Most men run when a storm is coming, but you hand yourself over."
"I'm tired of handing myself over," her voice ached with the honesty of those words.
She looked as if she might say more but Fergus entered, and loudly, as the heavy doors to the library swung back to hit the wall.
"Are you fit for conversation?" He'd barely made it to fireplace when he asked this, his expression concerned despite the brusqueness.
"Sure," Brand arranged herself so that she was perched on the edge of the settee, back straight and hands clasped at her knees.
"So you're going to be a smartass about it?" He seemed more amused than annoyed.
"Always," she crossed her legs primly at the knee and smiled prettily at her brother, who could only roll his eyes.
"You can imagine what it was like growing up with her, Alistair," Fergus shook his head. "She was like this all the time."
"I don't think Alistair cares to imagine much about me, brother," this was matter of fact. "And he's well aware of my sundry personality quirks."
"I imagine he has a few of his own. Maric and Cailan certainly did," the teyrn turned his attention to Alistair and the good-natured expression was replaced by something slightly less kind. "Which is why you're here. You do realize, don't you, that Anora is going to call for your execution the moment you step foot in Denerim?"
"For the Landsmeet?" Alistair hadn't been told to keep their knowledge of Fergus' plans secret. "I do realize that."
I might even welcome it...a little. Maybe.
"Wait, do you think Anora would really try to kill him, even if he's made no efforts towards the throne or...anything?" Brand's voice rang with disbelief. "Eamon brought him here. Surely he wouldn't have if that were the case."
"I don't think Eamon was in his right mind when he summoned Alistair," Fergus sighed and kicked at the hearth. "As much as it pains me to say, he hadn't been himself for years."
Brand stared into the fire, unable to look at either man. Alistair knew she blamed herself for this, she'd already admitted as much to him in Amaranthine.
"But he's a Warden," this came out of nowhere and Alistair felt something inside stir that hadn't been stirred in years. She met her brother's gaze. "He's a Warden again. If we go in front of the Landsmeet with that, she can't do anything to him. He was conscripted, he's taken his Joining. All he has to do is say he's back in Ferelden as a Grey Warden."
They both turned to him, eyes bright with expectation.
"So I take it you're not going to put me forward as the heir to Redcliffe?" It was a joke, but Fergus' eyes darkened considerably. "Uh, right. If the Warden-Commander of Ferelden is willing to call me a Grey Warden, I can call myself a Grey Warden, too."
Fergus nodded, relief undoing some of the tension that had settled across his features.
"But you brought up the other thing we needed to talk about," he turned his dark gaze to his sister. "Redcliffe needs an arl, Brand. Despite what Eamon may have wanted to happen, Bryce is the heir to the arling."
"Bryce can't inherit," Brand ducked her head, and Alistair could see her blinking rapidly to fight back tears.
"And why is that?" The question bore the weight of suspicion, to which Brand was oblivious.
"Because he's...when we were...Bryce has magic, Fergus. He's a mage," she refused to look at her brother, so she didn't see the way his jaw tightened. "Please, don't tell anyone. We're the only ones that know. And Anders."
Fergus started to pace the length of the fireplace, his broad shoulders stiff and his brow furrowed. For what seemed like forever, he paced. Back and forth. Back and forth. Brand and Alistair watched him, Alistair growing frustrated and Brand losing her patience.
"Fergus! Will you stop and say something?" Something came out slightly strangled and Fergus responded to that, whipping around.
"Before we proceed, I need you to tell me the truth...," his breathing was shallow, and sweat was turning his dark hair black at the edges, causing it to cling to his cheeks and forehead. "Is Bryce Teagan's son?"
"What?" Brand stood, crimson flushing her face and neck. "Are you implying that...? You are! Do you think I would do such a thing and lie about it for all these years?"
"I don't know what you would do to protect him, Brand. To protect both of them," Fergus moved closer, the distance between a mere few feet. "I know that you never wanted to marry Teagan, and I know that, without Anders, you would be dead a hundred times over, and Bryce as well. But I also know how close you've been since the beginning, and what you went through with the Chantry when you conscripted him. He also told me about your betrothal."
"He told you?" This sent her reeling back.
"You're betrothed?" Alistair didn't even attempt to hide his surprise and the bare amount of jealousy that colored it. "Since when?"
"Since the other night..," she was holding her stomach. "Fergus, I swear to you- until this week, Teagan was the only man I slept with after the Blight. Bryce is definitely his son. Besides, I couldn't have a child with Anders if I wanted to. Grey Wardens can't, not together."
"She's telling the truth. Even with a non-Warden, it's hard for a Warden to conceive," Alistair ignored the way Brand was looking at him, her mind obviously going elsewhere for a few seconds. If Alistair knew her, she was thinking of the night he'd shared that bit of information, the realization that they'd never even have that normalcy settling over them like a scratchy blanket that she'd attempted to kick away with a few hour's worth of vigorous lovemaking.
"OK. I believe you, but there are so many rumors circulating right now, Brand. You have no idea."
"Oh, you'd be surprised at what I know," she found her seat again. "Not only did Anders and I have a torrid affair, Anders might have had some involvement in Teagan's death. Right?"
"Right," Fergus crossed his arms over his chest. "Brand, I don't know what to tell you right now. I've been receiving reports of upheaval in the bannorn for months. It's all vague and hard to fit together. There have been accidental deaths, disappearing seneschals, assassination attempts, burglaries and blackmail. I trust you've spoken with Zevran?"
She nodded.
"I don't know if I completely trust him, but it's the only thing that makes any sense. This can't all be coincidence, and now there's this hole...if they can get Bann Loren in as Arl of Redcliffe, Maker only knows how many more houses will be corrupted by their promises of power. It could also cause massive backlash if Zevran manages to remove the infiltrators. It could be viewed as retaliation and pinned on anyone, including us."
Brand looked ill again.
"Bann Loren? I thought he alienated the entire Landsmeet during the Blight."
"What? By standing with Loghain and Howe even after Howe killed his wife and son just for being our guests? For taking up arms against his fellow Fereldans? All the more reason why his sudden popularity is distressing," Fergus began bouncing his fist off of the mantle, frustration set in his shoulders. "It would be a coup for them, Brand. If no one opposes him, he's in for certain. I can appoint you, but you'll need support from as many banns as possible. You're popular, even with these rumors, and you've done an outstanding job administering the lands of Amaranthine. I can get you the votes you need, but you have to do everything you can to keep that support, even after the Landsmeet."
Brand had been nodding along, her hands twisting in her lap the only thing that hinted at the turmoil she must be feeling.
"I suppose you're about to suggest how I can go about doing that?" Her voice was hard.
"Brand, you didn't really think you could marry him, did you?" Fergus sounded very much the big brother, gently exasperated rather than condescending "Besides the nobility's resistance to allowing a mage that close to power, the rumors about him and Teagan's death started almost immediately. And they'll persist no matter what. It's a scandal and you know how people cling to those."
"All it would take is one person to bear false witness against him," Alistair kept his voice low. He was remembering a less beloved mage in a less unhappy situation. "He probably wouldn't even have an opportunity to defend himself. It would be execution or Aeonar. Best case scenario would be Weisshaupt, but that's assuming whoever finds him is willing to give the Wardens a chance to intervene."
"Never mind the fact that he'd be considered an apostate for leaving the Wardens, if you were thinking about bringing him as a healer. Even now, the Circle would never approve him for the position, which would mean another headache for Anora and the First Warden," Fergus frowned. "I would suggest sending him back to the Vigil immediately, but the only person who cares about your survival more than me is him and you need the protection."
"So that's it?" Brand's focus was on her hands, her jaw clenching and unclenching. "Prejudice and outright lies and conveniences win? I could risk an uprising or his life just by taking him as my husband and that seems reasonable to the both of you?"
"It's not reasonable, Brand. And it's not fair. But there's too much already at risk here. Do you really want to hand Ferelden over to assassins, after everything you did to protect it? Even without that threat, the nobility is spread too thin as it is. We need someone strong in Redcliffe, for morale and logistical reasons. I've thought this though a hundred times since learning of Eamon's death, and it's the only path I can see. You're just the best person for the job. If I could make it easier on you, I would," Fergus' voice went rough with sincerity. "If I knew of a way for you to stay in Amaranthine, or for you to be with Anders...but I don't. I'm sorry."
She remained silent, shoulders hunched forward and teeth working madly on her lower lip. Alistair expected tears, but none came.
"This is what I expected, so I don't know why it hurts so badly," there was something strangely insubstantial about her now, like she had ceased to be real at some point in the conversation. "What about Bryce? Anders was going to teach him how to hide his magic, at least until he's old enough to conscript into the Wardens. I don't trust anyone else to do it and the Tower isn't an option...not at his age."
Fergus ran his large hands through his hair, obviously uncomfortable even knowing about his nephew's illicit nature.
"I can't tell you what to do with your son, Brand. I know that, after what happened with Connor, you are well aware of the risks inherent in training him outside of the Circle. But Anders is a capable mage and, from what I've seen, a trustworthy guardian," Fergus blinked hard, and Alistair saw his throat moving in silence for a few beats. "Have you considered allowing him to squire? He's a bit young, but you could always say that you've already started his education at the Vigil and you don't want to interrupt it."
It seemed a sensible plan, Alistair thought. But sensible was no comfort to a woman who was confronting a very real separation from her own child.
"He would be so far away," she spoke at a bare whisper. "I would hardly get to see him, but... But he would be with Anders, and it is the only home he's ever known. He'd get to grow up amongst familiar faces. He'd be well trained, well educated and well cared for. And he'd be free."
Alistair's heart broke for her at that moment, as she calmly pulled apart her own, every reason another step away from happiness.
She nodded again and it was done, the road cleared for travel. What should have been relief was hollow in the worst sense of the word as Alistair and Fergus gathered themselves and left her alone, at her quiet request.
There was no comfort that either could offer her- no words that could heal a person just stripped bare of all measure of joy and normalcy from a life that had been short on both for so long.
Brand had no idea how long she'd been alone, only that she'd managed to finish off two large wooden cups full of the finest whiskey she'd every had the privilege of stealing.
Now she was half asleep, but fully restless. Even her skin was tense, sparks moving across as she stretched and moved and tried to get comfortable on the settee in the library. Part of her wanted to return to her room, but Anders would be there and there was nothing in her that was ready to end that, or to think about ending that, so she threw herself across the couch, rubbing along it for a moment in the hopes that it would placate the million tiny itches that seemed to be rioting on her skin.
Instead it reminded her of all the other times she'd been in this room, tipsy or flat out drunk and on her back. As it was with young Lady Cousland, the cheerful seductress who threw out lines without compunction and reveled in any success, memories from that point in her life were more painful than anything.
She missed that girl on nights like this. That girl would hardly know what she'd just given away. That girl would be under someone, or on top of someone, or with more than one someones. She wouldn't be rubbing against the couch like a cat in heat, or thinking sad thoughts about anything.
Closing her eyes, she tried to remember the last person she'd been with here. Teagan. Her eyes reopened and she sighed. There is nothing sexy about fantasizing about your dead husband.
As if willed there by her own drunken lust, Colleen Hopewell was standing over her.
Time seemed to contract, and Brand was young again as the other woman took a seat on the settee, carefully lifting Brand's head into her lap, her fingers immediately going to loosen Brand's dark hair from its carefully pinned braid.
Colleen is so beautiful. She remembered that afternoon or was it years ago, how she'd thought the same thing and thinking someone was beautiful meant that it was worth at least trying to catch their attention.
The worst that could happen would be a no.
Actually, the worst that could happen was they'd spend a few hours fucking like mad things only for the fun to be interrupted by men with swords and arrows.
Brand could have easily tripped herself up thinking of Dairren, which was another reason she was so hesitant to return to her room. Her doorway was the threshold, the portal between being a carefree girl who could waste hours and days chasing pleasure and being a woman with a purpose, the purpose being killing, or campaigning, or deciding the best way to parcel out happiness so that there was none left over for herself.
"I'm insufferable tonight," her speech was slurred, but Colleen understood, her head bowing low until her mouth touched Brand's, her lips the softest things in the world, while her small hands trailed along Brand's bared throat with the lightness of feathers.
There was some dim awareness that Brand shouldn't be doing this, not now. Anders would be waiting for her and until they saw each other again he was her betrothed. And even when he had no special status ascribed to him, he would still be the man she loved. The one she loved.
The one she'd always love, as surely as she'd known anything in her entire life.
But her mind was fumbling these thoughts and there was this: Colleen sliding her hand down the top of Brand's bodice, the sensation of her fingertips searching along the curve of Brand's breast enough to placate some of that infernal itching. Her tongue darted out to tease Brand's lips until they parted and teasing turned into something deep and eager. Urgency took over and Brand's chin was tilting back to ratchet up the intensity, nothing being thought of, or known, or worried over.
She didn't hear Cavin come in, but she felt his palm on her thigh, the pressure of it somehow reassuring. She'd never actually slept with him, so no memory opened itself to her the way it did with Colleen. It seemed reasonable that this could have happened, her hips raising as he pulled her skirt up to her waist and Colleen breaking contact with Brand long enough to offer her husband a long and lingering kiss not inches away from her, the sound of their intimacy both isolating and erotic.
This was a moment and that girl was very happy, wherever she might be lurking like a ghost in the corners of a brain dimmed by sorrow, loss, and lots and lots of alcohol.
Brand was working her way towards happiness of a sort as Cavin parted her bared thighs with a practiced touch while Colleen's mouth, nice but not nearly as smart as Brand's, turned its attentions to plying at Brand's nipples through the thin fabric of her silk dress.
Anders will come looking for you soon.
Her breath caught as Cavin began to work himself between her legs and her own hand went out in search of anything that could be clumsily groped.
No matter what she was doing when he found her, he was going to be disappointed in the end. Like the way her own life was limping towards the inevitability of alone, so was their short-lived love affair hurtling towards obsolescence.
At least this way he'd get a good story out of it.