Disclaimer: "Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only.
Words From The Author: I'd gotten some feedback from some readers I know personally, that the bond Fergus and Gwyneth have (specifically the touchy-feely stuff) felt a little incestuous. While they don't lust for each other physically, I definitely think their possessiveness of one another borders on creepy and inappropriate and is certainly capable of making people uncomfortable. So saying, any overly fond tones, for my part, are entirely intentional. Children born into noble families in that kind of environment, especially with children possessing as much narcissism as my Couslands, didn't always develop their relationships with one another in entirely healthy ways. With this particular portrayal of the Couslands, I used the warm fuzzies sparingly. Though there are times that I write the siblings as very much the kind of siblings most of us are familiar with. They're strange ducks, Fergus and Gwyneth, but still a brother and sister in the end . . . just a little too close for comfort. It does make me want to write Fergus' previous marriage from his wife's point of view though, having to see her husband more fond of his sister than her had to be off putting. Just like it is for Alistair now, I'm sure. I have a feeling that kind of thing happened a lot back in the day, but I'll have to save those musings for another time.
In noting ages for the first section here, I realized that I had said prior, that Oren was five when he was murdered, which was October of 9:30, but in checking my own timeline, he was only closer to two and a half. Argh! I hate that, but nothing to do about it now, though the ages currently ARE correct in the story-canon. As for the boy himself, even at two I figure, from my own experience both AS a child and in raising children, that he'd still have a healthy vocabulary, though not always perfect, like saying 'sord' instead of 'sword' ;)
Thank you for stopping in. Watch out for low flying dragons!
Chapter Fifty Three:
When the Sun Goes Down
July 11'th, 9:30, Dragon Age
Oren toddled across the long grass, hitching up his trousers in one chubby fist, the other reaching out for his father, walking ahead of him with his aunt. He huffed, an errant lock of dark red falling in front of his face. "Papa! Papa!" He had a healthy set of lungs, there was no doubt of that, and Fergus Cousland finally turned to see his son chasing after him.
"Why you little miter! Didn't I tell you to stay with your mother? And here you are, escaping . . . again." The lord smiled, tousling his boy's hair, to pick him up and hold the lad against his side.
"Your wife should be better at keeping her child under control. Maybe they don't teach them proper parenting in Antiva." Gwyneth sniffed, looking disinterested as she inspected her fingernails.
"Gwyn . . . behave." Fergus cautioned. Pinching Oren's cheek lightly, he pressed the tip of his finger on the end of the boy's nose. "We'll just have to take you back, and if you're good, Papa will find some of those wild berries you like so much." He recalled fondly how Oren had smeared them all over his face the last time, Oriana almost in vapors when she thought it had been blood at first.
Oren pouted, silver eyes not only the same color as his father, but just as severe. "No."
"No? You don't want any berries?"
"Wanna stay with you, Papa. Too big to sit with Mama."
Fergus barked in laughter at that, turning a humorous grin in his sister's direction. "You hearing this? Listen to him talk!"
"Mmm, hmm." Gwyneth murmured absently, rolling her eyes. "It's getting late, and you said you'd escort me down to the docks for the new shipment in from Tevinter. I want to be the first to see those fabrics before Lord Meckley's daughters go pawing at them."
"Yes, yes. Why are you always in such a damn hurry? Here, you hold him a moment while I make sure my coin purse is tied securely. Too many pickpockets in the square." The high lord groused to himself, recalling the last time he'd been robbed. The man's hands were cut off once he was caught, but Fergus still wasn't pleased that it happened in the first place, that anyone would dare to steal from a Cousland.
Gwyneth had no choice, as Fergus all but thrust the littlest noble amongst them, into his aunt's awkward arms. "You know I don't like . . . " 'holding the little brat.' She finished in her head, Oren's eyes on her keeping the words from being spoken out loud. He wrapped his arms around her neck, and she hissed when the movement accidentally pulled her hair, hanging loosely that day. She fidgeted from foot to foot, her new heeled shoes pinching her toes, but they were fine to look at, and Gwyneth felt the beauty of them was worth it. Though she was sorely tempted to take them off as she stood there. Oren went to reach for the golden 'C' of her amulet and she pulled his fingers away. "Don't touch."
A dark blot was running towards them across the grass, the backdrop of Castle Cousland looming on the high cliffs. As the man drew closer, the attire of one of the stable elves became clear. The small male was out of breath, pointed ears bobbing with his head as he tried to compose himself, daring to look up at the piercing faces of Lord and Lady Cousland. "Beg Pardon, m'Lordship. The teyrn is asking for you, they brought that new stallion in, and he's causing an awful ruckus. Teyrn Bryce says you have the best way with the horses."
Gwyneth squawked, as Fergus sent her an apologetic look. "No! Fergus, no. You promised you'd spend this afternoon with me! You've barely spent any time with me at all this past month . . . you promised."
Oren started fussing, his aunt's temper affecting him in kind. Gwyneth jostled him then, unconsciously tightening her hold.
"I am sorry, dear heart, but when Father beckons us, it's our duty to be there. You know how he is. This time, it's my turn. Here . . ." He rummaged in his coin purse, handing Gwyneth two golden sovereigns, shiny in their newness. "Get Oren some of the those chocolate truffles from Orlais that he likes, and a new gentleman's coat for the summer. He's far too many winter cloaks left over."
"I'm no nursemaid!" She shouted after him, but the bastard only winked at her, as if to tell her to stuff her head, as he bounded off with that elf. All at once Gwyneth thought she'd have that bloody elf fired, it was what he deserved, disrupting her afternoon plans as he had. She certainly couldn't take her anger out on her father, and the stable elf made a better target. "Blast!" The lady seethed.
Oren watched her curiously, big eyes blinking, when he erupted with a mimic of his father. "Why you always in damn hurry?"
Gwyneth's mouth fell open, looking at the small boy in her arms, astounded. "What did you just say?" Snorting, unable to keep the faint amusement from her face, she tutted at him, tapping his nose with one longer finger. He clearly didn't know what he was saying, the clueless smile on his face evidence of that, but still . . . "That isn't very nice, especially when your poor aunt now has to drag you along with her."
His toddler attentions were varied and not all that focused, and a wild fox caught the periphery of his vision, and Oren set to squirming until Gwyneth was forced to put him on the ground before he hurt himself. Before she got a decent hold on him again, he was bounding off, short chubby legs quicker than his aunt ever thought they could be.
"Oren Cousland! You come back here this instant! You obey me now!" Her shouting went unheeded amidst Oren's joyful cries of 'fox!' At least he knew what it was, even if it hadn't occurred to his young mind, that he'd likely never catch the thing, and if he did, it was far too wild to tolerate being pet. "Little brat!" She snarled, gathering her skirts to chase after him, giving up on her shoes to haul them off so she might run faster.
He fell short as the red fox disappeared into a willow thicket, tumbling down on to the ground with a short squawk of surprise. Gwyneth smiled in relief, a silent prayer sent to the Maker, as she could now catch the little demon. Then his crying broke the sounds of the coast, burbling loudly until they became full blown screams.
Gwyneth ran as fast as she could, panting as she fell, worried, onto her knees beside him as he wailed. His eyes were bright for the tears that filled them, running down his quickly reddening cheeks. Once he saw her, he reached out, lower lip trembling. "It hurts!"
All her irritation and self importance fled, replaced by an almost natural instinct to comfort a screaming child. Later she'd tell herself she was just doing her duty as a good aunt, that she didn't really care, but in that moment, she cared a great deal. "Let me see, what have we done here?"
He held out his arm, a small trickle of blood running from a shallow cut where he'd skinned it on a rock or the like. It wasn't nearly the affair he was making it out to be, but to a two year old mind, it was probably more the surprise of being hurt that scared him.
She fetched her own handkerchief where it had been wadded into her coin purse, dabbing at his arm before tying the soft cloth around it, planting a brief kiss over it. "There, see? All better. You're a Cousland, and we don't feel sorry for ourselves, so up with you, up on those feet. There's a good lad."
His small fingers curled tightly around her much larger ones, sniffling, but free of his louder crying. Looking up at her, his face still pink, those eyes seemed impossibly big. "Don't tell Papa?"
"No, I don't think it would do for him to know about this." Gwyneth smiled, free to do so when no one was looking, when there was no one to point out the weakness she had for her young nephew. She despised his mother, and the boy was an incessant bratty thing, but Gwyneth loved him, the blood of her blood. "We'll keep this just between us. Come then, Ser Oren the Brave, and let's away with you, and get you in better attire for a trip into the city. If we can convince your . . . mother to consent." She just wrestled herself from a less pleasant title for Oriana.
As she moved away, she felt a tug on her skirts, Oren paused to reach up for her, lip stuck between new teeth. With a sigh, Gwyneth knelt down to pick him up, settling him on one hip. "Just this once, you understand, you need to walk on your own after this."
Oren only hummed happily, nuzzling into her neck. "Love you, Auntie Gwyn."
The Lady of Highever felt a sharp twinge in her heart, eyes pricking with emotion, brushing hair back from her nephew's forehead. She said nothing though, instead holding him closer, but he knew she loved him back and that too, was their secret.
June 17'th, 9:31, Dragon Age
The sun was drawing down and Gwyneth felt a yawn trying to escape the cage of her chest, shaking her head to stay awake as she relaxed a little too much. Alistair reached across the small distance between them, and nudged her.
"I'm . . . I'm awake, I'm awake." She murmured unconvincingly.
He snorted. "Sure you are, and I'm the King of Ferelden."
Gwyneth grinned, after another brief yawn, at his silliness. "You are the King of Ferelden."
Some of her enjoyment was forced, the all too brief joy from her reunion with her brother was running cold, replaced by a surprising dislike of her own person. She'd never run from her tears, indulging in them often to great effect against others, chiefly the men in her life, but there had been far too many shed in Fergus' presence that day, and the eve that came before it. They did not offer her any victory or prize, instead playing the backdrop to a childish need to express hurt and be comforted, something Gwyneth had convinced herself she'd grown out of. It seemed she was wrong, and all it took was Fergus' return to her side to make her realize just how wrong she'd been.
Within those suffocating thoughts, the bit of honest enjoyment was siphoned, not unlike the smallest bits of gold mined through silt. It was a pleasant illusion, however, and the smile produced was real enough in the relief it offered to the tightness throughout the rest of her face. Alistair seemed not to notice, and that made things easier.
It wasn't so very difficult, not nearly as much as her personal trepidations had predicted, to make an effort at friendship again, and the ease in such friendly banter took the stiffness from anxious limbs. For that, Gwyneth found herself drawn in by Alistair's easy humor and odd sense of timing on when to use it. That on its own, was also pleasant. A glance back at Fergus, and she knew he did not feel the same way. Male posturing at its finest, and her brother was the best performer in that 'craft' He'd come around . . . maybe.
Fergus had, for as long as she could remember, been good natured beneath the inherited self worth that stood proud on Cousland banners. He had the same self respect inherent in their family line for life age upon life age, and the biting retorts and sharp wit was no less with the heir apparent than it had been for Gwyneth, but Fergus was always the nicer of the two. His smiles came easier and fell more warmly than his younger sister's had ever done. For quite awhile, she'd been jealous of that, her envy expressed in insults thrown at him when their parents were absent, or the childish pranks that had taken almost sixteen years to be weaned out of her. Yet, for her jealousy, she'd coveted Fergus' attention, venal pride swelling under her ribs, when she would flirt her way into trouble, her big brother always coming to 'rescue' her, leaving whatever conquest he'd been engaged in.
It'd been a game of sorts and when he'd gotten married to that milquetoast, Oriana, he no longer wished to play it. Gwyneth had even convinced herself that her sister by marriage had pretended to grow thick with child, so soon after the vows at that, to steal Fergus away from her. Until it became obvious that it was no ruse. Then, all Fergus' attention had been bestowed on his wife's swollen belly, and the hatred for Oriana grew large and bitter, lancing through Gwyneth's gut and stabbing out from her eyes. But such had always been her way, and she was aware of it. Wanting her brother's attention, wanting to be important, and despising the mere thought of being set aside.
Fergus had not been so. He had still swaggered through the red lantern district of Highever, still returned the enamored gazes of castle servants with flirtatious glances, but he wasn't upset if those gazes landed elsewhere. His confidence that he stood above any other young lord, kept vain disappointment at bay.
Then the world behind the walls of Castle Cousland had broken apart, and the roles brother and sister both had played, were twisted around like the iron spikes of war torn fences.
Gwyneth had always been pleased to know that Fergus could be as jealous as she often was, past altercations ending in ways that made that clear, and she couldn't deny some enjoyment taken from being reminded of her importance. Still, if Alistair was not such a forgiving sort, Fergus could have been severely punished for his actions that morning. She'd long held Alistair's weak forgiveness against him, but that day, she was glad for it.
He spoke, almost as if he'd sensed she was thinking about him. Gwyneth nearly jumped, surprised to be pulled from her thoughts, turning her head to look at him blankly.
"And you seem to be awake after all. What a coincidence." He grinned, pleased that her earlier displeasure had faded a lot more quickly than it might have in the past. Alistair wasn't foolish enough to believe it was entirely as it seemed. He'd learned the hard way that Gwyneth was as consummate a thespian as she was a politician. Maybe, those two talents went hand in hand anyway, if his time in the Bannorn was any indication. But there was something warm and endearing in her smiles, left untainted by the curl of a snide lip, or the bite of sarcasm sliding through her teeth like small blades.
She might have said something, but the two small wooden watch towers just outside the village, came into view, as their company drew closer. Silence pervaded all, since it was what they were met with, confusion creating the same held tongues the absent greeting had. Wind blew light against the thin wood of the two short towers, as if searching for the men that should have been there.
Alistair had given a royal order that every town in Ferelden place at least two guards outside their village, no matter how small it was, to watch for any darkspawn. A brief warning was better than none, and he frowned to think that they hadn't listened, with their own safety left unconsidered. He wanted to help his people, but some of them made it very difficult.
Ser William cleared his throat, calling out anyway. "Guardsmen of Greenfell, we greet you in the name of the Crown of Ferelden. We announce ourselves as the royal caravan of His Great Majesty, King Alistair, in the company of Queen Gwyneth and the high and honorable Teyrn Cousland. Entrance and quarter are requested!"
Nothing but silence answered him, and he fidgeted, a lost glance sent to the king, who motioned at him to try again, only to be interrupted by the teyrn.
"As your teyrn, I demand an answer that assures me you were not asleep at your posts! Guardsmen, give answer or be held in arrest for failure to fulfill your duties!" Fergus' voice was gruff and loud, but he had no better luck than Ser William. Huffing in displeasure, he brought his mount beside his sister. "It's getting late on, we should go to the inn regardless, where perhaps we can inquire as to why they've not been guarding their town. Gilmore!"
"Your Grace?"
"Was anyone here when you stopped to get supplies yesterday?"
"Yes, Milord. Two younger men on the towers, another walking with a pair of hounds near the guard shack there." The ginger haired knight gestured to the small outbuilding, a short arch made of cobblestones built past it, where a knoll rose with the road leading into the village. A wooden sign was painted and hung over the arch with thick rope, welcoming them to Greenfell in sloppy black lettering.
'Firewood, country food and friendly lodging. Maker save the king, and Maker save you who spend coin here!" A more enthusiastic greeting was burned into a fancier sign that had been nailed to a stake, leaning up against one side of the arch, a drying garland of willow leaves hanging over it.
"When was that, exactly?" Gwyneth looked ahead, seeing no one, not even the guard dogs Ser Gilmore spoke of. She couldn't hear them either, only the sound of a light breeze blowing a collection of hanging metal bells at either side of Greenfell's village sign.
"In the morning, Majesty, bit early, the little shop they have was just opening when I got here."
"Store, Gilmore, it's called a store. Villages don't have shops." Fergus corrected, pointing to the road before them, and turning to the king. "Well, are we going in?"
Alistair was hungry and tired, and though he wouldn't tell Gwyneth, he'd grown fond of warm baths. He could certainly enjoy one for his sore legs, not enough sleep attributing to the stiffness from riding on a horse practically all day. He looked to his wife, and she nodded at him. "Yes, let's do that. Leave one of the carriages here, bring only the supply wagon, and most of my knights can stay at this gate, guarding the town, since they don't seem to want to do that themselves." He called out to his knights, keeping his register smooth and enforcing without sounding too demanding. Alistair had been trying to find ways to assert his authority without sounding quite as snooty about it as Gwyneth usually did. "Ser William? I'll let you decide on shifts for the night, and bring your men to the inn for some supper in pairs of five, get some bread and dried mutton to bring back and I'll have most of you camp here. It's a small village, I don't want to overrun them. Her Majesty and I will go into the village with Teyrn Cousland. Ser Boughton, you're with me, Ser Hadrian, you too."
"Yes, Sire!" The agreement came immediately.
Fergus was impressed that the knights moved in such short order, but Alistair didn't need to hear that. Maybe the king was trying to show him up. Well, he'd be damned to let that happen! "Gilmore, make sure everything is secured here. Her Majesty's safety is of the utmost importance and I want to be certain she is well guarded from any intruders that may come at us from our backs. Then you're to come with me, bring four more men with you, and the rest may attend the village gate with the king's knights. Remember, we need to watch for any hiding despots we chased out of Highever."
"Of course, Your Grace." Ser Gilmore nodded, looking proud as he went about his task.
Noble clambered down from the wagon to walk in step beside Gwyneth's horse, snuffling at the ground every few moments, but nothing must have interested him much. The mabari stayed silent, even as the first of the few outer buildings of Greenfell came into view over the knoll.
Most were built from the same cobblestones the arch was made of, hardy and strong, to endure the winter storms that blew down from the coast. Their roofs were edged in thick wood, coated with hay thatching. Gwyneth shook her head at that. The homes were sturdy, but the roofs were no better built or more modern than when the buildings were all huts and the children ran about naked in the mud, rolling with the dogs.
Gwyneth was certain that half of Ferelden's problem wasn't in getting on its feet after the Great Rebellion or the Fifth Blight, but in moving out of its own way. So many people feared change that they would sooner strangle themselves, with their barbarian customs. The same old standards that had shackled them to unsophistication and lack of growth for centuries.
Thatched roofs in Greenfell were only a small sign of the country's crippling stagnation, but perhaps the Blight had proven a strange blessing in that way. The destruction wrought by the darkspawn and the marks of the near civil war that had come with it, forced Ferelden into a place where the people had to rebuild, and in that Gwyneth might have better success with enforcing new building standards. Replacing hay thatching with carved eaves would seem unimportant in the grand scheme of things. She knew that, but if it was the entry point into moving her people into a future in which Ferelden was just as sophisticated as Orlais, that's what she'd do.
She closed her eyes as the sunset peaked over a grassy hillock, blood orange rays peeking through the willow forests surrounding three sides of the village. It painted the buildings in a reddish hue, bright enough to light up the village, but at the upper edges of the horizon, dark clouds were laying in wait. Usually, a red sky in the evening gave sign of a good morning to follow, but not always, and Gwyneth frowned.
It was getting late, and she was tired, and the last thing she wanted to contend with was a summer thundershower rolling in. The air was calm and dry enough, the crawling humidity that seemed to proceed such storms, not present, but that was no guarantee. As the queen looked around her, watching as they all were, for any of the villagers, she caught her brother's stare, drawing close to him to whisper.
"What?"
"I think you should've stayed at the village gate. Just because you survived a Blight doesn't mean you should continue placing yourself in perilous situations." Fergus curled his lip in displeasure.
"Peril? In what form? A lack of proper greeting when we arrived? Bullocks!" She ignored Fergus' hot glare. "Mostly I'm irritated that the king's law isn't so respected out here. They damn well knew they were suppose to have guardsmen posted, at all times. The writ Eamon had sent out was not a negotiation." Silver eyes narrowed, pupils dilating pointedly in incensed distaste.
Fergus nodded in agreement, with a short huff. "Moorlanders have always been stubborn, thinking they can defend themselves and then crying for aid once their meager planning fails them. It was ever the same, even in Father's rule over these lands. I remember Greenfell in particular, the times I've been here were never very pleasant."
"Ah, but I seem to recall a rather buxom maid at the inn you were ever sneaking away with. There must have some charm to the country life, or was that only to be found under her skirts?" She snickered at the wide eyes her brother gave her.
"You always were a snoop, and when did you become so blithe? Talking about anyone being buxom would've painted a blush on you for certain. I'm afraid your days away from Highever have changed more than your sword arm." He scoffed, watching her closely as she shrugged, a cheeky grin pulling her lips up at both corners.
"Oh, my dearest Fergus, you've no idea, but at least now I am wise to the ways of you men. You aren't half as mysterious as you pretend to be." She stuck her nose in the air, superiority etched in every curve of her face, but eyes watching sideways from beneath long lashes, mouth twitching.
Fergus raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? And you, Gwyny-Gwyn aren't half as clever as you think you are."
"I beg your pardon?" She screeched, embarassed when her brother had to shush her. "This bickering is useless."
The teyrn only smiled, knowing he'd won that game. "Of course it is." He settled back on his saddle, the broad curve of his lips twisting from enjoyment at besting his sister, to eerie confusion.
He'd not seen a single person, and they were entering the village proper now, the houses built closer together and the tall posts in front of the inn casting long shadows against the windows. "Where is everyone? Hello, I say, if you fear bandits or darkspawn, folk of Greenfell, be assured we are neither!" His own voice seemed incredibly loud to him, breaking the sound of the breeze and the windchimes in front of the inn's double doors.
No answer, not even the neighing of horses, the barking of dogs, or the bleeting of the sheep the village took pride in. The last animals he had heard, were the questioning 'whuffs' from Gwyneth's hound, and the small 'baa'ing of the sheep they'd brought back with them in the wagons. Both of those noises were gone now as well, the sheep left with the rest of the men back at the main gate, and Noble only perking his ears up and looking about with rapidly flickering brown eyes.
Gwyneth placed a flat palm above her brow, shielding her line of sight from the sunset, to peer around her. "Where are the children? It's not dark yet, and you and I were always playing around until the servants were sent out to shepherd us in. And the farmers? The men on Lord Eddelbrek's lands used to work well into the first hours of the night, especially those that had herds instead of just fields to till. Fergus . . . there's not a living soul here."
Alistair felt a pensive tightness form between his shoulder blades, tensed up and waiting for the slightest noise. "You said Ser Gilmore came to collect supplies yesterday morning, there were people here then. Could they have all packed up and left, maybe? Afraid of the men you were chasing?" He took the risk of speaking to Teyrn Cousland, not sure of how well a response he might garner.
Fergus shook his head. "I doubt the whole village would be frightened off by that. The mother of this chantry passed a letter on through Gilmore, she was concerned that some people had lost faith in the Maker to protect them, worried about rumors of your darkspawn, and were leaving, but certainly not everyone. Of the ones that remained, if darkspawn didn't scare them from hearth and home, I very much doubt some highwaymen would."
That was logic that couldn't be argued with, but it didn't answer the question in any of their minds either.
"Then where did they all go?" Alistair posed, certain no one else knew, and they didn't.
Ser Gilmore raised his voice, clearing his throat. "There are no signs of battle here on the main road and the buildings look intact. I can see at least four supply wagons from here, two next to the inn, one by the saddlery and another down by that two story house to the left."
Fergus nodded. "Aye, that'd be the mayor's home. Master Tennan. Decent man, though on in his years. Not a whole lot to manage in Greenfell, it's a simple village for the most part." That had always been true, and the silence that enveloped them made Fergus all the more uneasy because of it. The villagers were simple, but far from lazy, it was busy whenever he had been here with his family, and though that had been some time in passing, things were unlikely to have changed.
"Ser Boughton, you're our scout, I want you to take Noble with you, look around." Alistair motioned, and the man did so, the royal mabari attending to his own duties and following closely behind.
Gwyneth glared at him, her whisper waspish. "He's my mabari, don't you think I should decide where he goes?"
"You object?" Alistair raised a brow.
At that, she only sniffed, looking away stiffly. "I suppose not." Her demeanor softened entirely once she turned her gaze on her brother. "Fergus, might Ser Gilmore go as well? He's been here before afterall, and recently in fact."
The new teyrn smiled, nodding. "Of course, pup. Gilmore? Go along then, and be on your guard. Just because we don't hear anything, doesn't mean there is nothing waiting in the shadows."
"Aye, Your Grace, it will be done."
Alistair clambered down from his horse, waving off Ser Hadrian's offer to assist him. He was a grown man before he was a king, and had experience with horses long before that, and in front of Fergus he certainly didn't want to look like he needed assitance. That would do nothing to make Teryn Cousland think more of him.
Gwyneth's voice made his spine twitch.
"What are you doing? We should stay here until Ser Gilmore and Boughton return." She wiggled in the saddle, twitchy and on edge, despite her claims of bravado to her brother. There was something sitting on the air, tasteless, odorless, but still heavy and present. It made small bumps form along her upper arms, seeming to tingle every time the low wind caused the chimes near them to ring.
"Gwyn, I'm fine. I just want to take a look inside the inn. See, if there might be some villagers hiding in the cellar, if the inn even has one. I want them to know their king isn't idle."
"It does." Fergus intersposed. "The wenches brought up wine for me from the cellars last summer, I remember my son asked me why it was always colder down there." A wistful smile brought light to the man's face, thin lips looking a healthy pink from the vitality offered in pleasant memories. "Oren thought it was magic. I almost wanted to let him keep believing that." He trailed off, forgetting that he was speaking to anyone, let alone his brother in law. At Gwyneth's sorrowful sniffle, Fergus remembered too swiftly that all he'd ever have were those memories. She caught his eyes and they stared at one another for passing seconds, nothing left but the two of them, until Alistair cleared his throat.
"Right . . . well . . . I'm going in. Ser William, you can come with me." He wouldn't go alone, as he remembered all too well how Gwyneth had berated him for that after his hunting accident. Alistair had no wish for a repeat performance, and to be honest, he felt a little on edge himself, not made better by the discomfort he felt at being privy to the teyrn's loss. That man was a pompous ass to be sure, but Alistair couldn't begin to imagine what it was like to lose a child so young.
"Wait!" The queen called out, her typical superiority missing from her tone in her haste to get down. Alistair moved to catch her when one boot heel got caught on the saddle strap, the instinct as natural as anything, though he'd wonder later why it was. She paused there, stuck between her horse's flank and Alistair's chest. It was a strange silence between them, but not entirely uncomfortable. A brief smile tilted her mouth, and she turned her chin in Fergus' direction. "My brother and I aren't ones to sit idle, isn't that right, Fergus?"
"Hmph." Was his only response, grumbling something under his breath as he got down to the ground, dusting off the knees of his fine leather breeches.
"We're coming with you." Gwyneth's voice was far more chipper than she felt, but she certainly didn't want to stay out there on that frighteningly silent main road, wondering what was going on once Alistair and William disappeared from sight.
"I don't . . ." Alistair began to protest, but Fergus was glaring and Gwyneth looked tense and all he could do in the end was sigh and nod. "Alright, we'll probably need a lantern, though I suppose no one . . ."
Fergus' grinned in self congratulations, patting a light hand against his saddle bag. "Torches are difficult to keep dry on the Coastlands, and our father always taught us that an enclosed lantern is a far better light in the dampness of coastal caves and willow forests."
So it was that a group of four of them, cautiously went inside.
Waning sunlight cast dusty, dim shafts into the main room of the inn, floating dust motes shining like living things in the wick of Fergus' lit lantern. Gwyneth squinted into that dimness, the room just as absent of anyone, save themselves, as it was outside.
She shivered, though it wasn't cold. "Let's hurry this up, shall we? I don't care to be here when it gets dark."
In front of her, Alistair nodded, reaching back for her hand, but she didn't offer it in return, leaving him to look foolish unless he retracted his palm again. "Yeah, well, I don't think anybody else does either, so . . ." His boots slid on a slippery puddle on the floor that he hadn't seen, and the king reached forward to grab the edge of a round table. Blissfully it was bolted down, or he would've toppled it over. "What the Hell?"
"Majesty! Are you alright?" William was at his side instantly, bending down to remove one riding glove and swept his fingers across the floor, bringing them to his nose to take a gingerly sniff.
"I'm okay . . . what is that?"
"Ale, I think. Country inns like this, they get travelers that can get pretty rowdy." The knight explained as if in apology, as the king only shrugged.
"And they apparently can't be bothered to clean either. Look at the dust in the air! This place is filthy!" Gwyneth groused, sniffing delicately and wrinkling her nose. She stepped closer to Fergus and his lantern, the flickering light catching on the planes of her face and making her eyebrows look dark and demonically arched.
Alistair tried not to laugh at how she looked, focusing instead on her snobbery. "They probably don't get a lot of traffic these days, and I bet they don't have a lot of staff either. I wouldn't be one bit surprised if there was just the owner tending bar and one bar maid to serve the drinks. You remember Lloyd's, in Redcliffe? Same thing."
"Vaguely." Gwyneth flicked a wrist to enunciate the lack of impression the tavern had made. "And that's no excuse." She looked around at the empty tables, a wink of glass revealing the tipped over ale mug that had been the culprit behind Alistair's slip. "Not that it matters, there's no one here to serve anybody anyway." A cough to clear her throat, and she was shouting. "Hello! Is anyone in here? If you are hiding, this is your queen speaking, there's no cause to continue on as you have, we are more than able to assist you!"
There was no echo, the sound absorbed by the thick wooden furniture in the room, but a cone of silence was the only answer, and Gwyneth frowned, though she wasn't expecting much else.
"Isn't that my line?" Fergus teased, tapping his fingers on the hilt of the Cousland family blade, where it rested in its sheath.
"Nonsense. You're no one's queen, and my voice carries better besides." She smiled snidely, ribbing him in the side, only to scream at a large clatter.
Fergus swung his lantern to catch a thick ceramic plate, who had the luck not to be smashed, spinning lopsided on the floor until it came to a rest.
Ser William laughed nervously, apologizing. "Begging your pardon, must've hit it with my elbow."
"Clumsy oaf." The teyrn hissed in a whipser that only his sister heard, as they kept looking. "Here now . . . what's this?" He drew closer to a linen poster nailed to the wall behind the bar. 'All drinks half the coin on Sundays, blessings for Her Majesty.' Aww, isn't that cute, they give their patrons a discount if they drink when they should be attending matins, and all for your sake. Not a bad likeness of you here, either. Little plain though."
Gwyneth huffed as she got a look of her own face, done up in pale inks against the drab cloth. Why did they always paint her face up like a whore? "I certainly don't wear that much rouge." She walked closer, as William and Alistair headed towards the pantry. The sound of broken glass crunched under her boots and she stopped, crouching down. "All the bottles back here are broken, every last one." Her own feet were sliding against the floorboards, wet as the puddle that had sent Alistair skidding away. "Damn spirits are soaking into the . . ." Gwyneth's voice caught, as Fergus came around the corner of the bar with his lantern, the light shining on the drying dark red fluid beneath their feet. "Fergus . . . I don't think this is ale."
Both pairs of eyes travelled the length of the crimson trail that led away from the bar and towards one of the backrooms. Gwyneth looked up at her brother, irises gone almost comically wide as her breath hitched. He nodded and the two of them carefully made their way to the doorway of what seemed to be a fully stocked pantry.
What she saw there made her shriek in revulsion.
Alistair had been in the middle of the stairway leading down to the cellar, Ser William ahead of him in the darkness, wondering where Fergus Cousland and his lantern had wandered off to, when he heard her scream. He turned and bolted up the stairs so fast that he nearly twisted his ankle, jumping over the barrier of the bar, breath rushing and worried.
"Gwyn! Gwyn, what happened? Are you hurt?" Brown eyes flicked back and forth rapidly, but even through her silence, the answer was plain to see. She was cuddled into Fergus' side, her face pressed to his neck to keep from seeing into the room before them. Fergus looked over her head, his own facade a frozen one. "What is it?" Alistair turned to take in the barely lit pantry. His eyes fell on full sacks against the walls, under tables, unopened ale and wine casks, and what was left of a man, lain in broken up chunks in a puddle of drying blood.
He felt a gagging sensation in his throat, the bitter, coppery smell of fresh blood filling his nostrils, once his body became accustomed to all he was seeing and his other senses came to the fore. "Andraste wept! Was it an animal? Why wasn't the rest of the place destroyed in the fight then?"
All of the four back windows were broken out, bits of glass sparkling in the lantern light. Outside the sun had sunken down ever further, more time spent in that building than they had thought. There was no getting out of Greenfell before dark.
"It was no animal! He's broken apart . . . in . . . in pieces!" Gwyneth cried, her disgust sending her to bend over at the knees, trying not to gag at the smell.
Alistair sent her a sympathetic frown. Out of all of their companions during the Blight, the gore they'd often encountered, had affected Gwyneth the worst. The rest of them had never enjoyed it, but came to see past it by the sheer and unfortunate necessity of surviving a war. Gwyneth had never become so accustomed, her battle rage the only thing that let her ignore it, or the hatred she felt for Rendon Howe that let her take enjoyment from it. Yet, she seemed to also enjoy violence in other ways that concerned Alistair, but when faced with blood and guts, it was a different story altogether.
"William, cover up the body with a tablecloth, or a bunch of empty sacks or . . . something." Even he had hard time continuing to look at the chunks of a once whole corpse that decorated the floor. "Gwyn, we'll get out of here soon, I promise."
She nodded, back turned and standing in the doorway. Fergus had drifted away from her, past the initial shock of their discovery, and lacking his sister's squeamish stomach as he knelt down next to the body. "These pieces, they're almost like he was shattered. No animal that I know of would have done this. It has to be black magecraft of some sort, blood magic perhaps."
"Oh yes, that's so easy isn't it? Have a problem? Must be those pesky mages." Gwyneth snarled, turning her head enough to see Fergus out of the corner of her eye, but not enough to look at the corpse's remnants. "Forgetting that most people don't know a fig from a fireball, but they'd all chase after her, wouldn't they? Because they're too fucking lazy to come up with another answer!"
"Her? Her who? And what the Hell is your sensitivity over that? I'm just saying . . ." The teryn began, the tolling of the chantry bell interrupting him. His head went straight, body bolting up from the floor like an alert stag in a forest full of hunters. Around him the others did the same, Gwyneth jumping when the bells rang again.
Without say anything, they all ran outside. The double doors of the inn slammed shut behind them, the remaining men waiting in the road, though dismounted. Fergus growled at them. "Well, don't just stand there! We're going to Chantry!"
Gwyneth put a hand on his arm. "Fergus . . . what if . . . what if it isn't citizens ringing those bells?"
"What else would it be, Gwyn?" He shook her off.
Alistair was already leading them down the road at a run, and she had no choice but to follow, the darkening village curling long arms about them. Every window she ran past, Gwyneth imagined there was something watching her, unable to shake that feeling no matter her silent reassurances. Since they'd crossed that first archway, she had felt that slow crawl of dread up her spine, making her jumpier than normal. Gwyneth hadn't felt as on edge since they'd been in the Deep Roads, where she'd often had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming when a pile of rocks fell loose.
It was that same strangling quiet present in Greenfell, a whisper on the faint wind that did not seem so kind and when she'd seen what was left of that man, the only evidence of harm befalling the village, it made her feel sick with fear. Snipping at Fergus had only been a means to quell it, and Gwyneth cursed herself for revealing more than she wanted to in her nervousness. He'd surely latch on to that later, but for now, she tried to steel herself, the small chantry looming ahead.
She'd wanted to be gone by dark, but it was too late for that now, the last bit of sun clawing at the horizon to hold on. That thin line of red finally disappeared as the village was draped in the faint glow of a gibbous moon, clouded over.
The whole village, just gone, and only one body accounted for. Yet now the blood she had dismissed on the sheep's wool seemed a far more sinister thing. What she didn't know felt a lot more frightening than what she did, so many awful explanations available in the more creative recesses of her imagination. In camparison, bandits would be a blessing.
Neither herself or Alistair had experienced the crawling insect feeling that the nearness of darkspawn had caused them before. Since the archdemon's demise, there had been not even an inkling, but there was certainly . . . something, sitting on the air in Greenfell. When the ringing of the bells had begun, Gwyneth wanted to believe it was a villager, ringing for aid, but belief and truth were not always in tandem.
The sunburst cross of the maker, wrought in its iron framework, cast an evening shadow along the shallow stairs at the front of the chantry, the bell tower, squatty and brick-bare, echoed with the pair of heavy bells that had been clanging within. The doors were shut, the windows glassless, just as shattered as those in the pantry of the inn, but still and dark. Whatever had broken them was gone for now, and the group hesitated before the shadow of the Maker's cross. Noble was with Ser Gilmore and Boughton, all of those that had entered the village gathered before the strangley foreboding doors of Greenfell's small chantry, no happier than the humans around him. It was an odd feeling, chantries usually the source of hope and forgiveness, not the cloying disquiet of fear unknown.
Yet, there was no denying the feeling, even Noble had his ears cocked back, a whine low and persistent in his throat as the mabari sniffed the plain wood of the door in front of him. As they came open to the careful tugging of Alistair's hands, the first among them brave enough to go inside, there was little but a short gust of pent up air, riddled with dust and the smell of carved pews and old incense.
A collected pair of eyes immediately looked to the doors of the bell tower, nestled into a corner, the deep shadow of the statue of Andraste cloaking it, but not enough to keep them from noticing it was closed. The ringing had ceased almost as soon as they entered the chantry, and as ears strained to listen to even the faintest noise, there was naught but the delicate wind outside, rustling its way across the stone floor, beneath freshly lain rushes.
Beneath the statue, at Andraste's feet were similar ghastly remains as those they'd found at the inn, these the broken remnants of a chantry sister, or perhaps the mother. It was difficult to tell, even as Fergus swung his lantern to seek out the nooks and angles of the wide room, lighting upon the chunks of the woman's face. A mouth caught, bloodless and open to a silent scream of agony.
Gwyneth's stomach gave another lurch, still as uneasy as if she were seasick and she glanced away. That time, when Alistair offered his hand, she took it, bare fingers threading through his glove covered ones. She was worried he'd offer some empty platitude, it wasn't as if he was free of them, the usless 'everything will be alright' He'd said as much before, for different reasons, but then, he was silent. Perhaps he knew it wasn't alright, that coming upon such scenes after the fact, too late to do more than look on in disgust and horror, was nothing that could be soothed away with bald talk. Whatever had happened here was awful, more so for the fact that the remants left behind provided no clear answers, only the silence of a village that had become a graveyard, with most of the corpses stolen away.
"Someone had to be ringing the bells. There are a few gear setups in Tevinter, made by the dwarves, that can be set to ring them automatically, but we've nothing like that in Ferelden." Fergus offered succintly, eyes peering into the lantern-lit dimness.
"Well there's no one here now, and I'd really like to get out of . . ." Gwyneth's voice fell short, cut by her shocked scream as a blotch of movement ran through the rows of pews and dashed beneath the grates of a small vestibule portculis.
Fergus scrambled to his knees, the lantern swinging, wick threatening to go out. Ser Gilmore moved to head the thing off as it skittered rapidly to escape from them, Ser William blocking it at the other end. Cornered into the vestibule, there was nowhere left to go. Fergus eased forward slowly, sword drawn at his hip, the King standing guard behind him, Gwyneth wary and watchful at his back.
"What is it?" She whispered.
"Shh . . . it's . . ." His eyes took in the small legs and arms, shaking from fear, of them. "It's a boy." Astounded, he put his sword away, extending a hand. "Here lad, come here now, it's alright, we aren't going to harm you."
The boy only skittered back, whimpering and clutching at his bedraggled knees, filthy feet pulled back as if to hide from the lantern.
"Were you the one ringing the bells? We followed them, we found you and we're going to rescue you now, take you to your parents." He smiled like he used to when Oren woke up from a bad dream. "I'm Teyrn Cousland, do you know that name?"
He nodded. "Yes."
"Good, that's good, then you know that I can help you, so why don't you come out of there?"
Vehemently shaking his head, the boy tucked further into himself.
Fergus frowned. The lad must have been through some terrible things, but he could still speak and that was a good sign. It was hard to guess, but Fergus thought he wasn't any older than ten at the most. He motioned for Gilmore, whispering for him to cover up the dead cleric so the boy wouldn't see her when he did manage to coax him out of the vestibule. "I know you're scared, I don't know what happened but it was probably very frightening. I'd have been frightened too, but you can't want to stay in there forever. We'll take you with us, to Highever, you know about Highever right? A big, safe, walled city, and we might find your parents there."
"No. No you won't, they're dead." He cried into a dirty sleeve, sniffling. "One of 'em, screamed at my mama and killed her while I ran, and my papa . . . I found him in the field, they'd shrieked at him, shrieked at him and broke him into pieces!"
Gwyneth muffled a cry against her palm, pressing it over her mouth.
"Blessed Andraste." Alistair whispered, equally repulsed and sorrowful for the poor boy.
Fergus was dumbstruck at that, not knowing what to say to such a terrible thing. Gwyneth surprised him as she got down on her knees next to him, forcing a smile on her face.
"Hello, I'm Gwyneth."
"Your . . . your the queen?"
"That's right, you're a very wise boy. What's your name?"
"Har - Harold, Harold Hewitt." He was still nervous, watching her closely.
"Very nice to meet you Master Hewitt."
Fergus watched in surprise, unused to his sister sounding so gentle, behind him Alistair was curious but not quite as surprised.
Gwyneth was an apathetic, conceited and taciturn woman . . . but not with little ones. The first time he'd seen her so gentle had been with a small lost boy in Lothering, her softened demeanor had shocked him to his bones then, though once the lad had left them she was back to her sharp edged self. By now he'd realised that for some reason beyond his ken, Gwyneth had a soft spot for children. From observing her brother, it was something they both possesed, allowing them to see past the 'inferiority' of peasantry for just those few moments.
"Thank you for ringing the bells, so we could find you. It was you, wasn't it?" She smiled broader as he nodded. "I thought so. Why were you ringing the bells, Harold, can you tell me? Did you see us coming into the village?"
"No, ma'am. The pale ladies, they don't like the ringing noise. Mayor Tennan, he accidentally hit one of his iron fence posts with the small sword he has. They hissed and backed away from the sound." Harold swallowed loudly. "I . . . I thought maybe they'd go away if I rang the bells. I was ringing them all day, but . . . but I think they might just come at night. I know I should've left but I . . . I was so scared! They came in here and they . . . they killed Mother Adelaine!" He hiccuped with fresh tears, hugging himself as he rocked.
Gwyneth took a deep breath, to calm her own nerves before she could try to calm his. "I'm sure that was very scary, and I promise that no one else has to know you were scared. It will be our little secret, but sweetheart, you can't stay in here all night. You won't be safe unless you come with us, and leave before the pale ladies come back." She didn't know what he was talking about, and she didn't want to know.
Her spine arched, head turned towards the opened chantry doors as an awful wail split the air.
Harold whimpered. "They're already here."
