Story note:
Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes to your own story, then, please, do so.
Please forgive me if you find any mistakes, I haven't had the time to read over this chapter as much as I'd hoped too. Furthermore excuse me for uploading this chapter only now, I'd planned to upload it two days ago, yet with work and upcoming exams time is currently sparse for me.
Nonetheless, please enjoy.
.
.
In An Age Full Of Heroes
Chapter VI
Chains of Civilisation
.
.
The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace.
Over the course of the last few days and weeks her faith in her liege lord and her kingdom may have wavered, but it never truly faltered, never broke. There was never a single moment where her heart couldn't bear what had to be done at Ostagar and crumbled under her responsibilities. Ser Cauthrien remain steadfast, at all times. She had to, for without loyalty, what was there left in this world of disloyalty and cruel backstabbing.
And her just reward seemed to have been delivered by the Maker himself. It reassured her in her faith.
Today, her heart pounded proud with loyalty and love for both Ferelden and Teyrn Loghain. For he had bestowed upon her an honour beyond measure – a quite unexpected one, too. Never in her life had she dared to even dream about this. Her, a mere common woman, who not entirely too long ago, looked forward to a simple life of farming. Though now, it seemed a lifetime ago. Longer, even.
She could still feel the ceremonial sword's light blade's touch as it rested on her shoulder as the inaugurating words had been spoken for all to hear. Denerim's Chantry filled to brim with people from all over the city, visiting the liturgy for prayer and consonance.
Ser Cauthrien had been presented with the signature coat of arms, embroidered onto a pristine white cloak. As Ser Cauthrien kneeled, a chantry sister had attached it onto her armour pauldrons with a clink of iron rings.
From this day forth, until the end of her days she would serve Ferelden and its rulers with absolute loyalty and complete devotion. She would protect their lives, even at the cost of her own. Her loyalty wouldn't waver in the slightest, the duty bestowed upon her carried out to the absolute and without question or hesitation. Married to the kingdom she loved, only death could part her, and she would fight its ravaging breath with every fibre of her being.
Thus it means to be the King's Blade. Ferelden's finest man or woman possessing an inborn martial skill, unparalleled and fit for tales of legends going round the fires. In that regard she surely had earned that title. Even though her keenness it tactics and matters of military might be a tad underdeveloped. There'd only been two who could've ever claimed to be her better with either. One recently lost his life at Ostagar, the honourable Ser Elric Maraigne and a kind of mentor to her. The knight had done his duty and proudly gave his life for King Cailan. The other had long ago vanished, victim to only himself.
Yet, her heart ached at the thought of the elderly knight – and fatherly figure too, to her. She would make Ser Maraigne gasp, overwhelmed by the feeling of proudness for her.
With her undeniable and implicit loyalty.
With her unwavering and fierce courage.
With her peerless and sublime aptitude as a swordswoman of Ferelden.
With all her heart she would make him proud of her deeds.
Even with him standing guard at the Maker's city's gates, separated from her side in an entirely alien dimension of existence. Yet, not even the Fade would stop her of the task she'd set upon herself. His heart would burst with proudness at her deeds.
She had faith, unshaken by the surrounding and impenetrable darkness.
Previously, Ser Cauthrien had though herself blind, for with all the dark and evil surrounding her these days she hadn't seen clearly. Hadn't understood.
Yet, now, she finally did.
Not seeing was a gift of those who truly saw.
Her gaze penetrated the darkness of deceit and madness and greed and hatred and anger and disloyalty, her vision clear she beheld the oneiric image that was true peace.
Her destination.
Reached with clear vision and steadfast loyalty.
Her march began.
.
.
His fist descended like that of an angered god. And the world trembled and shook, cowering in fear of his wrath. Vials filled with tint and wax, goblets and carafes filled with wine and water tumbled and fell, shattered. The teyrn's table descended into chaotic anarchy.
The King's Blade watched. Cauthrien stood behind her liege lord, in one corner of the room, calmed by the surrounding gloom. The hearth's fire, flickering, could not reach her where she stood guard. Sword loosened in its scabbard, ready to spring free at a moment's notice, should the dire need arise.
Her eyes never left the weasely man opposite the table.
Loghain's hands balled into fists, he roared, 'Why must I deal with such incompetence?'
More good men of Ferelden had lost their lives. Thus was the brutal truth of civil war. Every day it claimed more, a tidal wave, unstoppable. Until they'd mass in the hundreds, the thousands and hundreds of thousands. All dead, for Ferelden's sake. Brothers and sisters, fellow men now spilled their blood. And they did so with a fervour, burning bright in its zeal. It was only to be expected for many to lay down their lives. A logical conclusion, and her lord knew.
Why, then, incompetence, one might ask, rhetorically? Teyrn Loghain's troops were well trained and fresh, not battered and bled dry by Ostagar. His officers were schooled in many devious parts and acts of warfare. Yet, they still suffered defeat after defeat against the mottled bands of worn soldiery rising up in rebellion. All over the Bannorn, separated. Which deserved a thankful prayer to the Maker. Most could be put down quickly enough. A brutal show of hacking and slashing swords with overwhelming force, most traitors scattered, noose bleeding heavily.
Yet, particularly Arl Bryland and Bann Alfstanna proved to be a most vicious thorn in Ferelden's flank. The rest not overly much.
Where the Bannorn and all its countless lords to stand united, they'd pose a threat to even the combined forces of both of Ferelden's teyrinrs.
Andraste's blessed touch, then, to thank for in equal measures, that such an amalgamation was unheard of, and, thus, nigh improbable to ever happen.
For that the Bannorn's nobility despised each other too much. And loved their bickering amongst themselves equally.
The weasely man, which Ser Cauthrien not once took her eyes off, for she did not trust Highever's new teyrn, opened his mouth in answer to the king-regent's rhetorical question. He shouldn't have.
Savagely, Loghain's hand scythed through air, cutting of Teyrn Howe's speech in its very tracks.
Ser Cauthrien did not trust the man. She'd never took much interest in politics. Not her forte, after all. And she could care less for all the rumours spewing around taverns and inns and wherever else throngs of people amassed, it spread like a cancerous disease. Not once had she put much on whispers and rumours and half-truths. No need to start now. Yet, neither was the cause for her mistrust of the man.
It had taken only one searching look. His eyes had given her all she needed to know. Teyrn Howe hid nothing.
When he first strode into Teyrn Loghain's chambers. His features hawkish and lit up in false humility. His crooked nose and the flat and lifeless eyes peering over them, always searching for prey. Ever more prey. She locked gazes with a murderer's eyes that day, this much had been clear.
Probably even more to her liege lord.
Rendon Howe was a man utterly consumed by the sharp knife that was greed, only sheathed in his flaring ambition. It consumed his insides like a raging fire, devouring everything that would block its path. And what a ruthless and arbitrary path it was. It cared not for what lay ahead, it cared only about hindrances and obstacles, nuisances one and all to its all-consuming hatred.
The fire would stop at nothing until it had burned the world. Thus, Teyrn Howe had long ago sealed his own fate. A fate of devouring fire, swallowing him whole when the time arrived, leaving nothing but ash of the man. And at the rate with which it burned and cackled and flickered and howled, his ambitions would soon be met by cold iron. Taking away fire's life with one gentle slash across his throat. Cauthrien saw as much, clear, without doubts.
Yet, the man was a most useful tool. His legions of armed forces were larger than Loghain's, if one counted the various mercenary companies he had hired with his newly acquired wealth. Spoils of war and slaughter, given freely by traitors and their heaps of gold. A most noble family, the Couslands, after their rightful sentence they sought penance in death by helping Ferelden. A most honourable legacy, Cauthrien surmised, not that they'd ever be thanked for that. Traitors, after all, never were. The dead gave Ferelden an army. And, in serving Ferelden through Loghain's guiding hands, Rendon Howe could, too, repent what little was left of his blackened patch of a soul. In the end, the Maker would judge. As he did with all.
'I've had enough of this charade,' the king-regent turned his head towards her. She stepped from the shadows, ready to serve. 'King's Blade, you will take three thousand armed men and quench this rebellion. Put the Bannorn to the torches if you have to. Leave none of these Orlesian sympathisers alive.'
'Your will, my hands, king-regent.' Cauthrien bowed and stepped back into the shadows.
Rendon Howe perked up, appearing meek and humble, even though he wasn't fooling anyone. Probably not even himself. His continuous play proved to be most tiring.
'An offer of help, if you permit, my lord,' he said, eyes cast down.
Loghain sat back down into his high-backed armchair, gesturing for the man to offer his proposal of help.
'I've recently, uh, acquired the services of a renowned mercenary company. It is said they're very apt at snuffing out traitors without remorse, for they despise treachery.'
At Teyrn Howe's sign, the two guards on the room's opposite ends opened the double door. Admitting an inhumanly tall woman, a beast. She walked with an ease and a predatory gait that belied her stature.
Her skin wore the sickly colour of dark ash. Outdone by the silvery flow of her long, braided hair. It sprouted between two delicate horns appearing out of her forehead like gnarled roots reaching back over her head. Golden hued metal spikes and other peculiar shapes pierced her straight nose's nostrils and her dagger-like ears and her full bottom lip. Two strips of red dyed cloth, crossing over her sternum, covered up her ample breasts. Whilst beneath, her slim and lean belly lay bare. From the waist down the female qunari was covered in tightly trimmed and form hugging leather leggings, darker than her skin, with calf-high riding boots to match. Sheathed at both hips were two fragile looking scimitars, their one-edged, thin blades straight. Too, affixed on the belt holding both scabbards, was a plain half-mask. White porcelain, undecorated, only nine blood-red marks covered the mask. If donned it would cover the upper half of her face, only two slits where her eyes would be. Other than that it possessed no features.
Muscled arms crossed over her chest, she stood defiant in the presence of strangers.
Teyrn Howe spoke up, a sneer on his face, 'Couldn't you find a more savage attire, creature?'
The qunari woman peered at him, a bland look covering her face. She shrugged.
'You paid for my services, nothing more, human.'
Loghain snorted a bitter laugh, silencing any forthcoming retort from Howe. I like this one, it said.
'Very well,' said Loghain, after looking her over with critical eyes, 'how shall we address you?'
'Isala'k will suffice.'
'Fine. Isala'k, your company shall march with the King's Blade. Be ready to march, come the next dawn.'
.
.
Oh, the irony. They'd never understand, with their clouded minds and whatnot. Pah, and how she despised traitors. But, oh the sweet irony, it tasted bitter on her tongue.
They called her savage. A beast to be tamed. And they thought they'd did just that. What a pitiful delusion. Well, her it suited. Just fine, it did.
Let all those humans with their mounds of gold and their crowns, perched atop their heads by themselves and no one else, think whatever they wanted to. With all their useless inventions and rights and rules.
Let them float in blissful ignorance. They think gold and coin can buy them everything. Even her and her company of outcasts.
Let them keep their beliefs. However erroneous. Who was she to care?
Humans. A civilised people. Pah, even the thought made her snort in contempt. Humans, with all their self-proclaimed rights, which suited only them and no one else. Their bended sense of justice. Wherever she looked there was no justice to her eyes. Not in the cities, nor in the lands beyond. Not even in these people's minds did she perceive a notion of justice.
The rich and wealthy ruled over the poor peasantry, always a tyrannical sceptre ready to swing down with bone crushing force should their will not be met to the latter.
The peasants died of sickness and violence everywhere, and even their own just looked on. As if there didn't lie a mauled carcass in the streets, the stray dogs already feeding in delight.
And the lords and ladies of this civilised world were just that. Stray dogs, believing their wealth to be a privilege to rule and dictate. They fed on the hapless without second thought. After all, there were endless rows of poor people and elven servants to be found. All ready to cower beneath wealth's heel.
For wealth was power to these people.
Wealth brought innovations and advance, a step into the future. Bright with new marvels to be discovered. New places to be found. Ancient mysteries to be unravelled. Truths laid bare. All when it suited them.
A civilised world. What else would it be for if not for all people to work together, forming a just society? The rulers wielding land and wealth like a deadly weapon, pointing it at their target, ready to pierce flesh and bone, whilst everyone else drove the weapon deep down, slicing the heart open. In vain hoping to one day ascend into the ranks of these illustrious and civilised people, able to give directions of his or her own.
Thus they marched together, endless rows, stumbling on. Mindless and witless, in hatred and contempt and fear they stumbled on and ever on. They were chained, and proudly called it freedom.
With all their golden and silver coins these privileged thought it their right to believe their voice to be truth, absolute. Yet, what they forgot was a simple truth. A meagre thought, so shattering in its simplicity.
Without the poor, the peasants, the slaves, none of this would've ever been achieved. Gold did achieve nothing of this. Only those who followed. They achieved, paved the way.
Alas, they, too, forgot that simple truth.
And so they followed. The rivers of gold, raking trough civilisation like poisonous serpents.
They followed to where awaited rights that would diminish their self, to where rules had to be followed that would rob them of their rights and chain them to debt and servitude and slavery. What a just and civilised world.
What, then, was left that could define civilisation, oh grand civilisation? Nothing but useless inventions. For that was all gold could buy, all it ever would. Inventions, things no one truly needed. Only greed and envy proclaimed these things are things to be had.
Utterly useless, but, to minds twisted by insanity and madness, they meant status.
So, she came to her conclusion, civilisation was, then, there at the very end of the golden serpent the mother of uselessness. For nothing else was born out of this grand concept that human scholars and rulers waved, every day anew, like an ornate banner tugged by winds on a field of death and dying and bloodshed. A thing she knew well, by trade.
They though civilisation their superiority over her and her people, the savage beasts. They were woefully wrong.
If the arishok had wanted, then Thedas would've been conquered by now, breaking the pathetic bonds of civilisation. Yet, he did not. And every qunari understood his reasons. They knew from the day they were born.
He could've sent the Isala'k, and no walled of city, no however well trained army, no civilisation could've stood between the qunari and victory.
Yet, at the same time, it would've been their defeat. For victory against mankind, the arishok would've to sacrifice his own people and much more. She hadn't always understood that, alas.
But now, Farah'an, saw clear enough. She had fought and bled with her brothers and sisters. Without the Isala'k, the qunari would fall. Another simple truth. And for that simple truth every one of them was granted a name. Which, to the qunari meant honour beyond measure.
Let them think what they want, in their ignorance. Let them think to be the very centre of the world. The constant subject of talk among all their gods.
Let them think they were the qunari's true enemy.
.
.
Author's note:
If there were parts you liked or didn't, I'd tremendously appreciate it if you took a few minutes and submit a review. Constructive criticism will be well received and answered to. Furthermore it'll keep me going, content and happy.