A/N: Thanks for the support.

War of the Laurels

By Spectre4hire

Cousland

Fergus:

Fergus Cousland hadn't seen another person in a week. He was glad of it.

The last time he saw someone, heard another man's voice it broke him.

My sweet Oriana, He had thought himself in some horrible nightmare when he learned of what had happened to his family. Crying and cursing the first of many nights for the precious wife who was stolen from him, murdered and mutilated. She's not the only one I lost.

Father, Mother, his mind painfully dragging him back to his departure from Highever. At being doted on by Mother, teased by Father, fussed over by Oriana. We had talked about more children. She had wanted a girl, he remembered, To name after her mother.

He wiped at his eyes while staying steady in his saddle. He swallowed a knot of aching grief. He let out a breath before shuddering. Oren lives, Fergus tried to distract himself, my boy still lives. It was a needed reminder that helped to calm the grief that threatened to devour him.

Edmund too, he added, My brother and my boy. He forced his eyes straight ahead to look further down the road. I should've been there. I could've done something. I could've stopped this. I-I...His mind sputtered trying to pluck an idea, a thought, a hope, something, anything that could stop this pain from spreading.

I can't give in to despair, he told himself, Edmund is fighting a war for Oren. I can do no less. He rode carefully through the northern portion of the Southron Hills. He kept alert for any sign of darkspawn or bandits that prowled these roads. Another reason why I can't allow myself to become distracted.

The horse he rode was a beautiful Ferelden Forder, a parting gift from the Chasind before they guided him out of the Korcari Wilds and pointed him on where he had to go. The memory of the exchange brought a rare smile to his lips.

"You have horses?" He was incredulous.

Ursa tilted her head. "Why shouldn't we?" She patted the horse's dark mane. "They're hardy animals, intelligent, loyal," she listed them off, the horse neighed what could've been its agreement to the points she was making.

Fergus frowned. "You all live up in the trees," he pointed politely upwards to where their houses were built on stilts with pathways crisscrossing this way and that, a labyrinth of branches that he never fully accustomed to, but had always admired. He then gave a pointed look at the horse, whose size and weight didn't look as if it would have much luck up above on the wooden walkways.

Her dark eyes were shining. "You never asked," she shrugged.

His sputtering protest died when he saw the slow smile that came to her lips. "Very clever," he tried not to roll his eyes at being caught in believing her deceptive jest.

"She was found by one of our scouts," Ursa informed him. "We imagine she fled into the Wilds some time ago during or after one of your battles with the darkspawn. She's probably been in the Wilds for weeks if not months."

"No sign of a rider?" He knew it was unlikely especially if the horse had been in the Wilds as long as Ursa had guessed, but he still needed to ask especially after what he heard before he even set out to depart the Korcari Wilds. He had received bad news about Ostagar. A terrible defeat that led to the loss of many Fereldan soldiers including their king. Cailan was a friend of his and he mourned him. The unsettling news also sparked a frantic energy inside of him of the need for haste. He knew of his friend's death and of his country's defeat, but not of his father who was to be in the battle. Had father fallen with our king? Fergus needed to know.

She shook her head. "She's yours now." Ursa stepped back from the horse but not before giving it a parting pet. "She's strong to have survived this long. She'll do you well, so treat her well."

Fergus nodded. "Elethea," he murmured to himself, naming the horse in front of him. He sensed his friend's inquisitive look so he added, "She's one of my ancestors. She was an Alamarri and a Fereldan."

"A good name," Ursa voiced her approval.

He could feel the eyes of the villagers on him, watching from above. He would never forget their kindness, for them saving his life. We thought them savages, he mused, but they were more hospitable than many nobles I've treated with. He waved up at them before shouting his thanks...

Ursa then guided him to the edge of the Korcari Wilds. It had been deftly done on her part, leading him and his horse through the thickets and trees, slithering roots, underbrush and other lurking threats. She pointed in the direction he should take, making suggestions of nearby places to possibly hide in case the darkspawn were still around.

"Thank you," Fergus told his friend, sliding off his horse to embrace her. "I owe you my life."

She dismissed his talk of debt. "I saved you, and you saved me," She corrected him, "You and Brosca protected our people," She reminded him, a mournful look passed over her countenance at the mention of their fallen friend, "We met as strangers, but we part as friends," she then to his surprise pulled from her pouch, a necklace with a new cord with beads and bones

"This was my brother's," She held it out for him to take. "It's for you."

"Ursa," he was caught off guard by the gesture.

"I lost one brother," her palm remained open, still offering the necklace. "But I gained another."

Fergus looked from the necklace in her hand to her dark eyes, seeing the resolution settle over her expression, he accepted it. "Thank you," He slipped it over his head. The bones and beads jostled and jangled before it stilled when it settled between his collarbone and his heart. Inspired by her thoughtful generosity, he slipped his dagger from its sheath and presented it to her. It was well made castle steel, bearing the Cousland insignia on its hilt.

She took it with the slightest flash of awe at its material, red steel, strong and durable, which was rare in these parts. "Thank you," she tested the blade in her hand. Satisfied, she smiled at the dagger and slipped it into her belt. "Thank you."

He nodded, he didn't mind parting with it since he had taken Brosca's after his friend's death. A challenging task that required cutting through ogre flesh and muscle to retrieve the two blades that had been embedded into the darkspawn. The sword's blade had been broken, but the dagger was still in good condition. He took the Grey Warden dagger and swapped his gauntlets with Brosca's which thankfully fit. He wanted them as tribute and a reminder to his fallen friend.

"May you see your wife and son real soon," She told him after another embrace the two parted, Fergus had looked back at her until he rode over a hill and out of sight.

One of his hands went to the necklace. His fingers running along one of the small bones. It was not to be, he thought sadly of her final words to him. Fergus would never see his beloved wife again, a painful truth that stabbed at him. But I will see my son again, he vowed, and with that renewed hope he rode on.

Huh.

Fergus found himself surprisingly calm when he looked down to see a skirmish sprawled out below him between darkspawn and dwarves. Neither side took notice of him. It had been incessant but faint noises that had made him go further on this winding road to try to discover its source. He found it when he climbed the hill he was currently standing on. He could still go back, collect Thea where he safely left her and take a different route, but the idea tasted sour to him so he made a different choice.

He drew his sword and without hesitation joined the fray. As he approached he saw the strewn of bodies of both darkspawn and dwarf, and was particularly relieved when he spotted a pair of dead ogres. He had no interest in wanting to fight them anytime soon after his last bout with them in the Korcari Wilds. Fergus charged the nearest genlock, who didn't even turn in time before losing its head to his sword. He deftly avoided the spray of black blood, and moved onto the next one.

The short and stout genlock turned and hissed at Fergus in challenge. Their blades clashed, but its skill was lacking and Fergus soon found an opening, plunging his sword into its chest, its rickety armor was poor protection from his blade. He brought his weapon down, carving the creature before his sword broke free from the corrupted flesh. It crumpled to the ground, ichor and its insides unspooling from the long, savage cut.

The third genlock had just as poor luck as the other two, it dodged Fergus' first strike, but not the second which hit right at the creature's shoulder, grunting in pain. It bared its sharp yellow teeth towards him, but he wasn't frightened. He withdrew his dagger that he had taken from Brosca and lunged it into the genlock's neck. In a beat of wet gargling, the genlock sunk to its knees before falling backwards. Its arms jerked for another heartbeat or two before it stilled.

Fergus looked to see the dwarf survivors had finally taken notice of him and had dispatched with the remaining darkspawn. He acknowledged them with a nod before bending down to retrieve his dagger.

"Atrast Vala," One of the dwarfs stepped forward in greeting. He was covered in dark plate armor, including a formidable looking helm which only had a small slit across the brow to allow the dwarf to see. "Are you the Grey Wardens we were told to expect?" The dwarf's voice was muffled, but he emphasized his question by pointing to the dagger.

"I'm not," He understood their confusion since he carried Brosca's dagger which bore the Grey Warden crest. "But I did have the privilege of knowing and fighting besides one."

"I'm Mainar," He introduced himself, removing his helm as he did. He was dark haired with a trimmed and braided beard.

"Well met, Mainar," Fergus tipped his head to him, "I'm Fergus Cousland."

"Cousland?" That got a reaction out of Mainar. "That sounds familiar," His face scrunched for a second as if trying to recall why before giving up with an exasperated sigh, "Sod it, you human names all sound the same."

"Perhaps you know my family?" Fergus tried not to let the desperate hope show in his face at the suggestion.

"Perhaps," Mainar shrugged, looking uninterested in learning if that was true or not. "We're the advanced guard sent by our Queen," He proclaimed proudly, "We were attacked by these damn darkspawn." He spat, face darkening at the reminder. "Our guide was to lead us, one of those cloud gazers who's familiar with the topside," he made an agitated gesture, "But he died in the fighting," he said, "Perhaps you can be of assistance?"

"What do you need?" Fergus had been used to traveling alone since leaving the Wilds, but he didn't think it was wise to separate from such a strong and armored attachment of soldiers especially after that last encounter with darkspawn. There was bound to be more of them prowling the countryside. He had been lucky so far, but he didn't want to press his luck.

"We're on the way to Denerim," Mainar answered, "Wherever that is."

"I know the way," Fergus smiled, "I'll be happy to lead you."

"Good," Mainar didn't smile back, but he looked relieved.

"Commander Mainar," A dwarf approached them, he was covered in red steel heavy armor, but his helmet was open to show a younger face. He looked a bit pale. "We've done what we can for the fallen." He bowed his head, "May they return to the Stone."

"Aye," Mainar agreed, "We may be far, but She'll accept them." He then crooked his thumb in Fergus' direction, "He's going to help us to Denerim."

The younger dwarf surveyed Fergus in silence. "Was that where we were supposed to go?" he frowned. "Your cities are confusing." He made the last remark towards Fergus.

"It is," Mainar confirmed, "That's where we're supposed to meet the human king."

"Human king?" Fergus didn't understand. Cailan was dead.

"Yeah," Mainar didn't seem to notice Fergus' confusion.

"Ferelden doesn't have a king," Fergus pressed, "He died at Ostagar," His confusion allayed briefly at the mention of his fallen friend and king, Cailan. He knew news was slow to trickle especially with these lands so sparse of people, and what news they had sometimes appeared more gossip and hearsay than actual facts. His own beloved wife's death had been months and months ago, but he had only learned of it in the past fortnight. What else have I missed and not heard?

"You have a king," Mainar sounded a bit ruffled by Fergus' denial. He snapped his fingers, calling over one of his soldiers, who diligently obeyed. "What was the king's name?" He demanded without preamble, "The one we were told to seek out when we left that human village, Redcliffe."

His underling didn't seem perturbed by either the summons or the random question. He retrieved something from his pouch, a piece of vellum which he unfurled, quickly and quietly reading it as Mainar made a hurry up signal with his hand. "Edmund," The dwarf finally answered, "Edmund Cousland."

"Edmund?" Fergus repeated in dismay, ignoring the strange looks the pair of dwarves gave him. "I don't believe it." All he could do was laugh.

The dwarf party he agreed to guide had turned out to be larger than Fergus had first thought. He had only encountered a small foraging party that had detached from the main group. They were less than fifty dwarves, but it wasn't them that were so surprising, but the brontos they had brought with them. He had read about these animals and seen pictures, but it was a different experience seeing and smelling them up close. There were more than two dozen of these huge beasts. They weren't just beasts of burden for the dwarves' carts either. The dwarves had several that they rode including Mainar.

What a charge that would be, Fergus could only imagine the devastation a stampede of charging armored brontos could do to an enemy force.

"Are we close?" grumbled Mainar one afternoon, tired and agitated even though he was riding his bronto. There was some space between his mount and Fergus'.

Elethea too didn't like their scent and the horse steered away from the beasts whenever she could. Not that Fergus was going to complain. "Yeah, we are," He wasn't lying to placate his dwarf companion. They were on the West Road which would soon curve north and from there it was practically a straight route to Denerim.

"Good," Mainar held the reins of his mount with a tight grip. The warrior would occasionally glance up and wince as if preparing himself for the sky to come tumbling down on him.

His traveling companions' quirks and other habits especially when it came to their grumpiness and uneasiness about the sky didn't bother Fergus. His time with Brosca had made him immune to it. If Brosca could see me now, Fergus mused wistfully, certain his friend would be entertained at having to watch him interact with these dwarves despite their stringent caste beliefs.

The first night they traveled together Fergus was given the honor of taking the first dwarven ale of the night. The taste of burning, he thought that was a fair description of the liquid. The rest of the night passed by in a blur for him until the following morning where he woke up groaning. The dwarves had all found it amusing, but eventually offered him something to help with his ailment: More dwarven ale. He politely declined.

"What's all this?"

Fergus looked to see what the dwarf was referring to. Up ahead on the road were streams of refugees. It was a sad sight for him to take in. His people, fellow Fereldans, looked haggard and scared, carrying all of their possessions with them whether in carts or on horses or mules or only just on their person. They were not the first caravan they had seen during their traveling, but they were certainly the largest.

"They must be going to Denerim too."

"Repent!" One loud refugee could be heard proclaiming. He was standing on a cart while it traveled through the throngs of refugees. "Repent! The end is nigh!"

"He's gonna cause a panic," Fergus muttered, gaging how his frightened words were alarming the people who were trailing behind the doomsayer's cart.

"Quiet Colu," A woman rebuked him sharply. She pushed her way forward and was walking parallel to the cart. "Or I'll pull you down by your ears!"

The man known as Colu looked alarmed by the threat but it still couldn't break his resolve. "All is lost!" He wailed, "The darkspawn cannot be defeated," He threw his arms up as if imploring the heavens, "Terrible news has been delivered to us!" He went on, "Our king is dead!"

It took a long second for Fergus to realize that this refugee wasn't talking about Cailan, but Edmund! Cold dread began to pool in his chest.

"Fergus?"

He blinked to see he was leading his horse away from Mainar and towards this Colu. "What are you talking about?" He demanded when he was close enough to be heard.

"Milord," the woman who had chided Colu turned to Fergus. She quickly bowed her head, but she couldn't hide her surprise or her concern upon seeing him, clearly frightened at the trouble this man was causing, "Please, don't mind my husband. He's unwell."

"No, no," Colu spoke up so his words could be heard. "It's true! I heard it this morning."

"Colu?" His wife frowned, the concern deepening in her expression. "What are you talking about?"

It was someone else who answered. "I heard too!" A nameless voice cried out. "Cousland was attacked and killed!"

Fergus looked in the direction of the crowd trying to find the voice, but he couldn't. More voices sprang up all around him like weeds, giving their assent and adding in what they heard.

"Betrayed!"

"Killed in the night!"

He spun his head this way and that, trying to locate one of them to get answers. "Where?" He asked the nameless crowd. "When?" He tried to ignore the cold finger of fear pressing down on his back. It can't be. He wanted to say. I can't make it this close to reuniting with my brother only for it to be cruelly torn away. Then another fear seized him. If Edmund was attacked what about Oren? Something inside him unraveled.

"Dragon's Peak," That was Colu who answered. His dark eyes looked surprisingly somber when they met Fergus'. "That was where I heard the King was last."

"Thank you," Fergus didn't spare the doomsayer or anyone else another look getting Elethea out from the group and quickly guided her towards where Mainar and the others were. "I need to leave."

"What?" Mainar nearly gaped at him. "What are you talking about? We had an arrangement."

Fergus was shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I can't. It's my brother."

Mainar's objection died in his throat. "Very well," He didn't look too happy, but he didn't argue further.

"You can follow the refugees to Denerim," Fergus made a sweeping gesture since they were seemingly now all around the dwarves, but were keeping their distance. There was some staring, but that didn't surprise Fergus, aware of the strange sight they must look to these distressed refugees.

"Thank you for the assistance," Mainar curtly nodded. "Atrast tunsha."

Fergus had already given a brief wave and with a quick command had Elethea turn south. He was going to Dragon's Peak.

Edmund:

"Edmund?"

"Yes?"

"Are you in pain?" The voice sounded worried.

"No," He lied.

"Then why are you making that face?"

Edmund grimaced, unable to conceal the discomfort that his sore side was causing him.

Instead of a reprimand the voice sounded more resigned. "Do I need to summon Wynne?"

"No," His body jerked instinctively at having to be put under the mage's care. She was a great healer, but her bedside manner left a lot to be desired. Her lectures could prove as terrible as the pain that had sent him to her care in the first place.

A very unqueenly like snort responded to his reaction. "Very well," She was enjoying herself, "but it will not be an idle threat next time."

"Understood," Edmund felt the smile on his lips. He didn't need to open his eyes to know Anora was sitting at his bedside in the same chair.

He knew the very talented mage wasn't in the room since she would surely not have stayed quiet this long. He would've already heard her harumph or interjecting voice that came out tenderly, but was hardly reassuring as her words would pick you apart as easily as steel.

"How's Oren?" He stirred from under the covers.

"Worried," Anora answered, "He came to visit you earlier, but you were asleep."

"I'm always asleep," He grumbled, thinking he did so quietly enough, but Anora's cleared throat cut through that delusion. With either medicine or magic, Edmund was often made to rest to allow his body and mind to heal. He didn't mind the sleep since the medicine gave him dreamless slumber which made him nearly prefer being asleep instead of awake because when he was up he found his mind relaying that terrible stormy night. I'm sorry, my king. A wet raspy voice echoed in his mind. He shivered.

"Edmund?"

"Nightmare," It wasn't a lie, but he opened his eyes knowing where to find her. He found her hand resting on the bed and he took it in his. The gesture startled her. It wasn't the tenderness of it, but its suddenness.

Masked and armored, he observed, different then when they were younger. She was more guarded now, and he knew her time as Queen and Cailan's wife had added to her defenses.

She squeezed his fingers. "Your Uncle brought his reports," She shifted in her chair to grab something from Edmund's nightstand, but kept her grip on his hand. "It isn't good."

"Summarize it for me," he asked, "Please," He added.

Deftly flipping through the pages while maintaining her hold on him. "More darkspawn reports," she said grimly, "They're encroaching north. There isn't an estimation of their numbers or their victims," she continued, "But I imagine both counts are high."

"I need to look at a map. I need to see our numbers." He felt so useless in this bed. He just lay here day and night while his people were running and hiding and dying from this terrible threat and he could do nothing. It was wrong, and he hated it.

He expected Anora to argue with him or to repeat Wynne's instructions of his need for rest, but to his surprise she did neither. "Hold on," Her hand finally left him to get out of her seat to retrieve what he requested.

He was surprised by her response, but even that couldn't mask the slight disappointment that bubbled within now that their hands were parted. It was like he lost his anchor and was now threatening to drift.

She returned, gingerly placing the map on his lap allowing him to see it. Anora then returned to her seat and without hesitation retook his hand in hers.

Edmund frowned down at the map. "Do we have any patrols in the Southron Hills?"

"No," Anora answered after a pause to check. "Your uncle pulled them back. We had too few soldiers to cover such a large area of land." Her tone didn't betray her thoughts on the decision. "We're still getting flocks of refugees and survivors, but most are going towards Denerim."

He silently thumbed through the reports while looking at the map trying his best to keep up with the numbers and information, but the more he tried to commit to memory the more hazy his mind became until it was too much to bear. He angrily discarded the reports he had only asked for minutes ago. They now lay atop his covers in disarray. "I'm sorry," He regretted it almost at once. It was behavior that Oren outgrew years ago, and here he was acting more childish than his young nephew.

Anora didn't judge. She didn't scold. "I know what its like to be powerless," She confessed softly. "To have the answers to help, but not the means," she began to pick up the scattered reports that were sprawled out all over the bed. "To be helpless and forced to watch unable to-'' There was a slight hitch to her confession before she smoothed her tone to suppress it, but she still didn't try to pick up where she had trailed off.

His outburst didn't go unnoticed by the other occupant in the room. He could hear the movement of his mabari before seeing Sarim's large head resting inches from his elbow on the bed. Injured, but his mabari was on the mend. Edmund absentmindedly scratched Sarim's nose while once more silently sending thanks to Andraste for the blessing of Sarim's recovery.

Meanwhile, Anora put the vellum together into a neat pile before putting it on his nightstand. "There is another matter that I think should be discussed," Her voice returned with its usual confidence to end the intimate silence that had settled over them.

"Which is?"

"Succession," She answered with her usual bluntness, though it did take a heartbeat or more after she said the word to meet his gaze. "Your attack," Her fingers squeezing his in the small pause, "Has shown how vulnerable our country is. I know before we've said we'd discuss the matter after the Blight was handled, but I believe the right course would be to settle it now."

"What are you proposing?" He asked, having a suspicion of what it was, but he wasn't brave enough to voice it in case he was wrong.

"That's just it," She gave him a wry smile. "Marriage, I believe our wedding should be had without delay."

Edmund had only one response to her sudden proposal. "I agree."

The wedding between the King and Queen of Ferelden was a simple and quiet affair. They had decided it would be a small gathering. They didn't have the resources to waste on gaudy splendor and lavish banquets. In trying times like these an announcement of the nuptials would have to do.

The chapel at Dragon's Peak was small. It contained only six benches, two rows of three which were slanted and angled to face the altar given the imperfect shape of the room. The Mother of the chapel was an older woman with greying hair, a hooked nose and kind dark eyes. She hadn't asked questions that could crop up when a hasty wedding was needed. She accepted the honor with a smile and told them that marrying others was the duty she was most fond of.

Edmund was sitting at the bench nearest the altar. He had to prove to his uncle and Wynne that he could walk and stand without trouble before they went along with his and Anora's arrangement. He proved apt to their trials, but Wynne still put him through a few additional tests, but he passed those too. I'm not an invalid. He had said a bit too petulantly afterwards. Wynne cleared him but not before commenting a bit too loudly that she hoped the injury wouldn't affect him in consummating the marriage.

The stone walls of the chapel were covered in colorful tableaus depicting key events from the Chant of Light. At seeing the depiction of the Archon plunging the sword into Andraste's chest he turned away, but the tormenting memory of Sighard's dagger sliding into his side swirled in his mind. His fingers moved to the wound, but there wasn't any pain.

Did Sighard come here to pray? He thought bitterly, And for what? Absolution? Acceptance? Mercy? He tried to push the reminders down but to no avail. He did it for his son. They had found evidence of a correspondence between Howe and Sighard. Edmund wasn't surprised to learn it was Howe who was pulling the strings. He had proven quite adept at deception and treachery.

What would you do to Oren? A voice challenged him. He didn't have to wonder long to know his answer. Anything. Everything. While he waited he couldn't help but think how different this was to their previous weddings. Hers had been royal and raucous, or so he was told, while mine had been Orlesian. I don't think they even have a word for subtle or simple.

"Uncle?"

Edmund's thoughts on past weddings stopped at his nephew's arrival. He turned to see Oren was dressed smartly for the ceremony. At his side was Sarim, bandaged, but in good spirits.

"Where were my parents married?"

"In Highever," Edmund expected Oren already knew that. Guessing on what his nephew really wanted, he was quick to reveal. "Your father was really nervous."

"Really?" Oren's eyes brightened like they instinctively did at a pleasant mention of his parents before they dimmed and he furrowed his brow.

"Yeah," Edmund happily confirmed, "He threw up too."

Oren giggled. "Papa never said that."

Edmund grinned. "Of course he wouldn't, that's what Uncles are for," He tousled his nephew's hair, "Your father had to change his tunic too because of his little accident." He couldn't forget the inquisition his Mother gave him afterwards since she had noticed the change in Fergus' apparel. She had even suggested he had a part to play in Fergus' ailments, a hurtful accusation which she quickly recanted, but he had to admit she was right to be suspicious. The tricks we use to play on one another.

"King Edmund," the Mother gently interrupted, "It'll be starting shortly."

"Thank you," Edmund stood from his seat. "I'll tell you the rest later."

Oren looked delighted with that promise. He went to go take his place with Sarim at his side. There was a small audience residing in the chapel. There were slightly more than a dozen individuals which included Uncle Leonas, Bann Teagan, and Wynne.

Anora promptly made her appearance looking lovely in her impromptu wedding gown.

"Ready?" He mouthed when she stood in front of him.

Her blue eyes flashed like sapphires in the sunlight. She then smiled and nodded.

It was time to get married.

Edmund Cousland woke to a yawn that was not his own. He opened his eyes to see the sunlight slanting through the curtains cutting light into the dark room. In one of those halos he spotted Anora. He spotted his wife. That made him smile. "You still rise with the sun."

"I do," She was tying the cinch of her gown. "I didn't wake you did I?" She asked, "When we're back in more respected lodgings we can sleep in sep-"

"No," Edmund interrupted flatly. "You're my wife." He wouldn't live like that. He knew it was common in many marriages, but he had learned from his parents and their loving marriage had tinted his view on the matter in such a way that most would call it fictional, to be expected in a bard's tale and not a real marriage.

She nodded, looking down to finish the knot on her cinch but Edmund was certain he saw something flitter over her face at his answer. Relief? Happiness? He wanted to think it was those, but his mind also offered other alternatives that made him speak up. "I mean if that's satisfying to you?"

"It is," Anora answered with a small smile, "Very satisfying."

That was when Erlina was permitted to enter. She walked into the room without awkwardness or embarrassment at what she was walking in on. The Orlesian elf seemed impervious to giddy gossip and flustered blushing that Edmund had seen from other serving girls. She wore a sly smile when her eyes moved from one to the other before she dipped her head in greeting.

"A message, Your Majesty," she reported.

Edmund had expected her to deliver it to Anora, but to his surprise his wife's handmaiden went to him, curtseying when she was near before handing him the letter. Edmund took it quietly, quickly opening up the vellum and reading the message while Anora gave Erlina their breakfast order as well as talking about their schedule for the day.

This can't be, he thought excitedly, his eyes reading it over a second time, but there it was.

"Edmund?"

He looked up from the letter realizing he must've let out a louder celebratory exclamation then he had thought.

"What is it?"

"It looks like we got a wedding present after all," he was already out of bed, handing the note to Anora. "We're riding to Denerim," He announced, "where an imprisoned Howe is waiting for us."

Oren:

Oren thought he'd be happier going to Denerim, but he wasn't.

It wasn't home.

He didn't dream of Denerim. He didn't try to picture it sometimes in the night when he had trouble falling asleep. Wanting to remember his Mama and how she'd tuck him into bed, but not before telling him stories of her homeland, or of Papa who'd smuggle in cookies since he always seemed to know when Oren wasn't asleep and only pretending. That was home.

That home was lost. He didn't cry about it. Not anymore. He just felt this cold wriggly feeling in his tummy that always grew when he got sad. It could hurt more than the tears.

Uncle was setting a blistering pace to try to reach the capital as quickly as he could. They were already outpacing their caravan of supplies as well as some of the nobles and their forces, but Uncle didn't seem to notice. He was so focused on getting to Denerim. It was still difficult to match Uncle's pace, but it had eased slightly this past day. They had the Queen to thank for that.

My Aunt, a new fact which he was still trying to get used to. Despite Uncle's growing obsession with Denerim, Oren could tell he was happy. And he knew the Queen was the reason for it. Watching them interact reminded Oren of watching his grandparents together or his parents. It made Oren happy too.

"Your Lordship?"

"Yes?" Oren turned to the stoic Ser Cauthrien. His sworn sword, who had been responsible in helping to save Uncle's life after that attack. No, he stopped the memory from approaching. He didn't want to think about that dark and stormy night. Not again.

"The Queen's requested your presence."

Oren nodded, and followed the knight who took him in the direction of where his uncle and new aunt had pitched their tent. It was on the Queen's orders that their forces made camp at this abandoned homestead. They were still a day or more away from Denerim, but Uncle relented, taking her counsel over his own.

When he arrived he was disappointed to see that Uncle wasn't there. Oren tried his best not to show it and hoped he'd been successful since the Queen was distracted, thanking and then dismissing Ser Cauthrien from the tent. It wasn't because he didn't like his new Aunt. It was just he still didn't really know her or how to act around her. It made him feel like he was back with the nobles Uncle had gathered and that Oren always had to be the Teyrn of Highever in their presence. He didn't like that. It always made him nervous and afraid that he'd mess up, like he was walking on eggshells.

"I'm sorry your Uncle won't be joining us," She gave him her undivided attention once Cauthrien left. "He's meeting with Lord Teagan."

"That's fine," Oren replied, "I mean that's fine, Your Majesty," his heart fluttering close to panic at his forgetting to recognize decorum. I forgot to bow too! He just realized, quickly dipping his head.

"Oren," The Queen's voice was surprisingly gentle. "Do not fret, I feel no slight," She was calm and assuring. "You do not need to stick to such practices when we're outside the view of nobility."

"I don't know if Uncle-"

"Your Uncle," She interrupted, "My husband," She corrected with a faint smile, "Will agree with me," She said, "And if he doesn't then you just let me know."

Oren smiled, slow and shy, realizing she was making a jest and not a threat towards his Uncle.

"You may address me as your Aunt if you wish," She suggested. This time she was the one who sounded uncertain, almost shy. "But you do not have to," She added, "There is no pressure or royal prerogative."

"I will," he replied, "Aunt Anora." He knew he picked right seeing her reaction from his words.

Her smile became more certain. "Good," She raised her hand, guiding him to a pair of wooden chairs with embroidered cushions.

He followed her, but didn't speak. He tried not to fidget in the chair, but it was difficult not to in the growing silence between them. Especially with him trying to figure out if he was supposed to say something or not. He was getting that ache in his tummy again when it felt like his nerves were gnawing away at him.

"Thank you for accepting my invitation," She sat poised in her seat. Her full attention was on him which only made Oren more jittery.

"Your welcome, Your-," he stopped himself, "Aunt Anora."

Anora looked pleased at him correcting himself. "Would you like something to eat or drink?"

"No, thank you."

The pause of silence continued as Oren wracked his brain thinking and worrying on what to do.

"I'm nervous too."

Oren's eyes darted upwards at her unexpected confession. "Really?" He couldn't believe it. She couldn't be. She didn't look like she was. She's not shaking like me.

"Yes," she smiled.

"B-but," he stammered, uncertain at how best to point out the questions that were racing through him.

"I don't look like it," she guessed correctly.

He dumbly nodded, still too surprised to think coherently. It was all so jumbled.

"I'm a Queen," she explained, "I'm not allowed to look it. I was taught that I always needed to look composed and control especially when I didn't feel like I was," She let out a soft chuckle. "Your grandma taught me." Her hands were folded and resting in her lap. They didn't tremble and she sat still. "You must forgive me, Oren," Her apology caught him off guard, "I'm more used to talking with foreign dignitaries than children," she said sheepishly, "but you mean so much to your Uncle," she continued, "And me too now if you can believe it."

"I do."

She looked relieved. "That's why I asked you to join me. I want us to be closer. I want to be a good Aunt to you."

"You are," the words tumbling out of his mouth. "I'm not nervous anymore,"

Anora smiled. "Me neither."

Uncle didn't return by the time Oren had to go, but he hadn't even noticed until he was leaving. He was actually disappointed he had to leave because he was having fun with his new Aunt. She had some funny stories about Uncle when they were younger that he hadn't heard before, and a certain one had him laughing so much, his sides started to hurt.

"Careful, your Lordship,"

Oren felt Cauthrien's armored hand against his chest. He was so distracted by his thoughts he hadn't been paying attention. "What is it?"

"Some sort of commotion," She was staring in its direction.

"Like a fight?" Oren hoped his voice didn't sound like he squeaked the question out.

"I don't believe so," Her answer and confidence deflated the worry that was starting to grow in him.

"Then what is it?" He couldn't see since so many people were standing in front of him. He was too small to look over their heads.

"Looks like a refugee problem," Cauthrien dismissed the threat with her next words, "Some soldiers are handling it."

"Oh," Those happened a lot. Desperate people were dangerous that's what Uncle said, and though their forces did their best in supporting those who came to them it sometimes still wasn't enough. Uncle called them the lost ones.

They started to go back to his tent turning away from where the problem was when he heard it. He immediately froze.

"Your Lordship?"

He ignored her. No, he stiffened at what he obviously had to imagine hearing. It can't be. He couldn't fool himself. He couldn't be hopeful because it hurt so bad when it was wrong. He was about to walk again when it got louder.

It pricked at him, an insistent poke that wouldn't stop. He felt his fingers trembling at his side, and his feet started moving him in the wrong direction. It's only in dreams now and hazy memories.

"Your Lordship?" Ser Cauthrien's stoicism was lost in her confusion at his shift.

I should go back. He tried to tell himself. I'm only going to get hurt again. He still didn't alter his course. "I need to see," He muttered, distracted. He could feel her eyes on him, but he didn't squirm at her stare. He thought she wasn't going to listen until her voice cut through the tumult of noise.

"Clear the way," she barked, her tone pushing people back as effective as any shield.

The crowd quickly parted to let them pass, but Oren wasn't thinking about them. He wasn't looking at them. It was up ahead to where the guards were keeping what looked to be a raving refugee at bay. He couldn't see him. The guards were blocking his view.

"They sent me," The refugee was shouting, "I'm their messenger. Bring unto me the children, so that I may watch them grow to soldiers for the cause."

The disappointment was sharp and cold in his heart. It felt like an icy claw was tightly squeezing it. He turned away, trying to stop the tears from falling. I never should've-

"Where is my son?"

Oren spun around to see another figure was talking to a different guard.

"My son," He demanded, "I need to see him!"

His vision was blurry, but he still ran as fast as he could. "PAPA!"

The figure turned. It was him! "OREN!"

"PAPA!" He shouted again before he jumped into the waiting embrace. His cheeks were wet, and he heard sobbing, but he didn't care, squeezing him as hard as he could because here in his Papa's arms, Oren was finally home.

A/N: Fergus' timeline was lagging a little behind the main story which was hard to convey since his chapters were so isolated from everyone else. I may have stretched some things out or handwaved others to try to smooth it all out, so forgive me the creative liberties. I also tried to stagger/trickle the news to try to give feelings and thoughts a chance to breathe for certain past events.

His meeting with the dwarves is based on "(The) Winding Road" random encounter in Origins. According to lore, dwarves are allowed special dispensation to fight on the surface in time of Blights.

I ended up flipping a coin to decide Sarim's fate. The dog lover in me was relieved. The writer in me was more conflicted, but that part is always more grim and blood thirsty.

All the chapters moving forward will be multiple perspectives to help wrap everything up since we're getting close to the end. This was always the plan so don't worry no content is being rushed or cut.

Don't forget to leave a review if you like what you're reading. I appreciate all those who do.

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire