Author's note:

Disclaimer: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence, suggestive, and explicit themes.

I want to thank lupusadaquilonem, Serithus, and Theodur for reviewing the last chapter, as well as all you others out there reading and, hopefully, enjoying my story.

Let me know what you think of the latest chapter, if you feel inclined to share your opinion.

Enjoy.

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In An Age Full Of Heroes

Chapter XIX

Silent Confessions

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The others filed out, some of them throwing him curious and questioning looks. Even should they choose to be so direct and outright ask him, he wouldn't know what to answer them. Fanderel had no notion as to why Araris Cousland wanted to speak to him.

Stepping aside, making room for the others, he waited, arms behind his back. When they were alone, only then he inquired, 'Your Lordship?'

Araris Cousland walked around the table, elongated fingers tracing the map on top the wooden table. He'd changed so much, since Fanderel last saw him. Not surprising, since he'd been just a boy, barely on the verge of adulthood when Araris Cousland mysteriously vanished. To the widespread concern of all in the teyrinr of Highever. Fanderel remembered speaking to his father and mother shortly after the incident occurred, nothing had been able to console them, to drive a spark of life into them for a long time. They mourned their son. And to all appearances he seemed dead or as good as dead, swallowed by the abyss itself. Yet here he stood and led a rebellion against the crown.

'Please, none of that when we are alone.' The Cousland scion gulped. Fanderel waited, patient. 'I've been meaning to thank you. You always were a steadfast and loyal vassal to my parents. That you remain so even after their death is . . . comforting.'

Fanderel nodded, understandingly. 'I'd know no other way . . . Araris.'

'Nonetheless.' The boy – still to his eyes, for he was nothing else, even if his appearance starkly suggested otherwise – searched him with the pale eyes of his mother. 'I heard of the siege at West Hill.'

Ah. So that was to be the topic of this conversation. Not much to say. 'We held. Our supplies dwindled and my men had to survive on a ladle of hot soup a day, then cold soup. But we held. When the henchmen of that traitor Howe proudly displayed their banner and demanded my gates to be opened in the name of Highever's new ruler I ordered the archers to open fire.' Fanderel chuckled. 'Didn't see it coming, the bastards.'

Araris Cousland shared his grim delight, then shifted around. 'But that isn't what I wanted to talk to you about.'

'Oh?'

'I want you to take the refugees unfit for combat and most of our supplies back to West Hill and shelter them there for the time being.'

Fanderel scratched his head, once again noting the growing absence of hair. 'My fortress is large, but not that large.'

'I don't care where you accommodate them and if it is in the sewers, then so be it. They'll live. I cannot keep them all safe once the battle starts. I need every soldier on the field.'

Fanderel ran a quick headcount, weighted the space of the forgotten, cob-web covered library underneath the fortress. 'I believe I can make due, my lord. It'll be cramped and there'll no doubt be lots of moaning, but . . .' Shrugging, Fanderel pondered the implications. 'Best I send a raven ahead with marching orders for the troops I left in charge to meet me half-way. Otherwise it'll be hard to keep this many people together.'

Araris Cousland nodded. 'Take the knights you arrived with. I'll attach four wings of men-at-arms to your command. The continuation of our cause rests upon your shoulders, Fanderel.'

'I shall lift this burden off your shoulders, Araris. Do I depart immediately?'

Araris shook his head. 'No. When we march for the Plain.'

'As you wish.' Fanderel bowed, arms crossed over his chest. 'Your Lordship.'

Why not leave now?

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Another fucking disaster.

They seemed to pile up as of late. The Maker tested her strength in ways she never thought possible, probed for weaknesses in her faith to be explored.

All of them, they sat hunched, heads lowered, eyes far-away, and brows clutched.

None had returned.

Not a single scouting party they'd sent out to gather intelligence on the precise whereabouts of the rebel host. As if the earth had parted and sucked them into its warm, musky embrace, they'd vanished.

Up until now her command staff had succeeded in keeping the fact a secret from the rest of the army. But soon rumours would start to arise, of comrades absent who should long since have returned. Rumour would quickly give way to apprehension and then fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of what they couldn't understand.

'An army afraid of its enemy is already defeated', her liege, the king-regent, Loghain Mac Tir had once told her, when she still had been a lieutenant in the army of Gwaren under his command. Different times. Yet her liege had always been there, the one unshakable constant in her life, a steady presence she could always rely upon.

Cauthrien already saw it in the eyes of her commanders, the doubt chiselling away their resolve, tiny stone by tiny stone. It was only a matter of time until it resolved to dust, carried away by winter winds, like it never existed.

Only Isala'k seemed unperturbed, for she gave no notice whatsoever. The towering woman played with one of her piercings, fondling them in thought or mayhap even boredom.

Even now, after weeks through their campaign to reel the Bannorn in, Cauthrien still winced at the qunari's appearance. She seemed a mere brute, a barbarian in compare to the others. Time and time again, Cauthrien reminded herself not to be deceived, for their resided a sharp intellect behind the woman's eyes. Sharper even than her slim, twin blades which the woman brandished everywhere she went.

Casting a glance at Isala'k, Cauthrien's gaze was drawn once more to the white porcelain half-mask covered in streaks of blood red, secured like a pouch at her belt. She'd been meaning to ask on many occasions, yet always decided against it. As to her reasons why, they still slipped through her net of understanding like an eel.

Commander Iskara spoke up in the laden silence, 'We've still the reports of our spies to fall back on.'

'They've become cautious with their reports, you said. For fear of being made out?' Cauthrien heard herself ask, with far less resolve than she intended. She sounded uncertain, weak. Isala'k threw her a look, pierced eyebrows pinched.

The one-eyed commander nodded slowly. 'Aye, King's Blade. It appears so. But before contact broke they got word out.'

Cauthrien found herself scowling. 'Of the Cousland.'

Commander Iskara looked away, answered shyly, like a little boy having been caught in the process of doing something naughty, 'Yes. The Cousland.'

'Teyrn Howe,' she said, feeling the urge to spit at the mention of the man, 'assured us that none of the traitors were alive. It seems he was wrong.' It seems there are lies to his lies, just how deep is his web, how far reaching?

The qunari mercenary commander peered around the table with narrowed eyes. 'Just why do all of you flinch and cower at the mention of this name?' she asked like she asked for the weather outside.

Heads were quick to lower as Isala'k called them out. Perhaps because all here knew that the House of the Laurel counted no traitors among its number, perhaps because the real traitor, a murderous one at that, resided in their very midst, as their staunch ally.

Out loud, she said, 'There is but one Cousland who could possibly remain. Just one who could've been beyond the teyrn's reach. And he vanished a long time ago under . . . mysterious circumstances.'

Isala'k shrugged her massive shoulders. 'So a man with a name which is recognised returns. That doesn't explain why half of you are just shy of soiling your pants.'

Instead of outrage at the accusation of this ignorant outsider, everyone remained silent, cowed. Cauthrien gulped, had to fill the cramped space of the tent with words to distract. 'There is history there, Isala'k.' History many are hesitant to voice out loud. 'Even as a boy, Araris Cousland was lauded as a keen intellect. But that's all there was. Until he partook in a tournament and . . . surprised . . . everyone. Gossip had it that he was fated to become the late King's Blade's successor.' A man truly worthy of the station, not only because of his military acumen, but also because of his skill as a swordsman.

All those years ago, Cauthrien, too, alongside her teacher and mentor, Ser Maraigne, had partaken in the notorious tournament which people never seemed to be able to strike from their minds. She'd met him in the semi-final, with Ser Maraigne already in the final, as was expected of his station as King's Blade, at the time.

There she met Araris Cousland for the first and only time in her life. Something that'd be remedied soon, it appeared.

Cauthrien and the Cousland boy had circled each other, probed defences with aimed strikes and slashes, parries and ripostes. Then she'd pressed the attack, saw him retreat step after step from her onslaught. When she spotted the misstep with which he was about to undo his participation in the final round, she'd pounced at his weakness. Yet, all along, he'd misled her like a fool. Played her like a finely tuned instrument, responding to his every touch, to every subtle shift. The misstep only a clever feint, he recovered with a swiftness that seemed inhuman. And his sword flashed in the sunlight. Soon after, Cauthrien had to concede him as her better and yield, so pressured had she been by the speed with which he guided his steel.

But her duel against him had been nothing in compare to that against Ser Maraigne. Till this day, she'd never witnessed anything alike.

'I see the look of defeat in your eyes,' said Isala'k, studying her intently.

Commander Iskara seemed to take pity, for which a flare of loathing jerked through Cauthrien, 'When a boy of seventeen winters bests even the at-the-time King's Blade at a tournament, there is no shame in defeat.' Cauthrien nailed the elderly commander with a stare, but his focus resided elsewhere. She didn't need his pity, didn't want it. She was his general. His King's Blade!

Something simultaneously soft and hard danced and swirled in the qunari's eyes. 'There is never shame in defeat. As long as it doesn't break you.' She paused. 'Did it break you, King's Blade?'

Now, unsurprisingly, with only as much vigour as decorum demanded it, outraged cries filled the tent with raucous clamour. Cauthrien calmed her fellow countrymen by raising her hands, bidding them to settle down.

Staring into Isala'k's eyes, unashamed, she said, 'It is a justified question. And in times like these, justified questions, hard questions are what we need to prevail. And for us to prevail in this hour where the strength of our faith in the one true god is tested, questions such as these mustn't be ignored, but rather answered truthfully, unerringly, and without pride or arrogance.'

All of her command staff calmed down again, took their seats, hushed by her unwavering voice. At that heartbeat, Cauthrien realised that shame indeed did not linger in her heart any longer. She'd triumphed.

The words came easy. For the first time.

'No, it did not break me. It taught me a lesson. That I should not be afraid to ask where my knowledge could not guide me. For if I draw back on pride and arrogance, then only defeat lies ahead. I realised that I am not an unconquerable swordswoman. I realised that in asking for help lies no shame.'

Isala'k nodded once, the motion heavy with meaning.

'Then, Ser Cauthrien, Blade of the King-Regent, you are a woman I can follow. I say we march upon this Cousland fiend with determination and caution, just as we have until now.'

A chorus of solemn ayes answered the mercenary commander's proposition. Across the table, Commander Iskara smiled at Cauthrien, lowering his head in deference.

The armed forces of the crown advanced slowly in the days to come, taking far longer than they'd planned to.

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Farah'an teetered through the encampment. The sun died in stray feathers of pink and violet over the tapered palisades erected at the western edge of the encampment. The smell of incense clung to her nose with a burning ferocity.

Farah'an had tried to calm her mind and body back in her tent, thick blankets of smoke from the burning sticks filling the insides of the heavy canvas of her tent. Alas, nothing came of it, her mind found no solace in meditation.

Wandering the muddy tracks of the royal army's camp, she absentmindedly watched the men and women, huddling around fires, hiding under layers of cloth and pelts, talking the night away with good humour which would soon leave them. Somewhere a blacksmith was still at work, hammering steel. Horses nickered and stamped or munched on apples or grass. Occasional throngs of soldiers stumbled around, keeping each other barely upright, bottles brandished like a weapon, babbling in drunken stupor, singing their momentary merriment.

She passed them unmolested and ducked inside the tent. Relief washed through her when she found the interior empty bar the lone figure resting on a stretcher in the shadows.

Upending an empty bucket, Farah'an sat at the comatose Commander Fledg's side.

She surveyed his prone form. Hairs singed off, skin of his once handsome face twisted and warped into a hideous mask.

Farah'an gulped and averted her gaze. Suddenly she felt like an intruder. Found herself talking.

'Of course, there lies shame in defeat. The greatest of all, in fact,' she told him, eyes lowered and unfocused. 'We of the Isala'keii know this best. Victory or defeat is our very livelihood, you know.'

Grabbing her wrist, she curled and uncurled her fist, bones popping. 'I did not tell her that. But I'm sure you understand. It wasn't what she needed to her. What they all needed to hear. But you humans prefer lies when they suit your purpose. I merely deemed a lie more suitable than the truth.' Farah'an shrugged, cast him a glance. Why could he not move, twitch, something at least to let her know that this defeat of his would not utterly break his will to live?

'You wrap layers of lies around you, guard them with your faith in a harsh god who does not listen to your prayers, and proclaim them as nothing less but the absolute measure of truth. The end of all things. You throw your beliefs at the whole world and hope they stick.'

It spilled out now, dark like red wine out of an uncorked bottle.

'If not you come bearing the gift of holy revelation and the light of the Flaming Sword of your beloved Andraste. To enlighten the heathen and bring your god's wisdom into the farthest corners of the world. Spread your sophistication. Spread civilisation.'

Farah'an looked the young commander in his burnt out eyes. They'd probably sizzled and popped with a sickly wet plop whilst he screamed out his lungs.

She sighed heavily. 'But civilisation is a sham. Another lie you tell yourself, a blanket to cover up the fact that you are just whooping tribesmen lusting after violence and the blood-spilling it breeds. All you accomplished, the grandeur you call civilisation, is simply another veil to hide the truth behind fancy words. And that is all you've mastered better than the rest of the races of Thedas. Language, and how to deceive others and yourself with it.'

Farah'an scratched the nape of her neck, dug her fingers into her hairline. 'The Kgatii among the Isala'keii, the thousand, that is, who are worthy to bear their rank on their masks, have been stripped of such profanity. We are the chosen of our people. We are the conditioned. Our lives are dedicated to the way of the blade. Not to the spilling of blood. Not to violence. Not to slaughter. To the purity of steel.'

'We are taught nothing else from childbirth. Thus we know nothing else. No distractions, no impediments. Our mind is cleared and our limbs conditioned to become worthy of guiding steel with our movements. Of becoming one with it. Becoming the weapon, not merely the wielder. And steel permits no defeat.'

'Never.'

Or Par Vollen would've been long lost and the Arishok would've not called for a perfunctory invasion. But an invasion in truth.

Farah'an flew to her feet, wanting to leave the oppression of this place. The sickness of undesired melancholy it infected her with. The whorl of unfamiliar depths it dragged her down to.

At the entrance she stopped, reconsidered and said, 'But then again. I am denounced as renegade to my people.'

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It did something to him.

This place. This position. Denial would be easy, but his mind was too acutely aware of the facts it faced. His ruthless self-awareness squashed any attempt at driving it from conscious thought. It'd only nag, on a layer hidden from the forefront until it drove back and blast through the portcullis he had lowered.

Some subtle change he underwent, which not even Araris himself, in his endless musings managed to clearly identify as of yet. It eluded him. A fact which irked him beyond compare.

The way they bowed, how they lowered their eyes when he nailed them with a stare, how they grovelled and appeased, all those things lashed through him with a satisfying flicker of narcissistic fulfilment. Rumours about him already ran amok in the camp of the rebel host. His host.

Araris didn't deny the way this obedience made him feel, he acknowledged it and moved on.

But there was something else. Unnamed, setting his limbs on tingling fire, the sensation crawling up and down his arms, clawing deep fissures and empty graves into the back of his head, rearranging tissue.

Mayhap it stemmed from his unabated dominance over the demonic fraternity of woodcutters. But the effort to maintain their tethers to bind them to his will cost him no more than a few heartbeats of conscious effort a day. More when he issued new orders for them to carry out like the good lapdogs they were.

His sorcerous affinity had improved with the minute pulses of power he cowed them with, the subtle weavings of his power projected over a distance. Or, maybe, he'd always had it in him. It's not like he professed his use of magic openly. After all, they were the very reason why he chose self-imposed exile over imprisonment in one of the Circles a decade ago.

It surely would settle things far quicker if, instead of implying more mundane methods like the flesh and steel of his followers, he drew on the chaotic energies of the Fade and unleash them. Though the promise of templar mage-hunters hot on his heels didn't sound particularly inviting to him. Especially since they'd see his magic not only as blasphemy but something beyond that, something they didn't want to understand. In ignorance, extermination comes easier. Vile deeds become less vile to the inflictor.

Something it did to him.

Araris knew not what. It was nothing physical, of that he was sure. The change transcended him. Was more and less at the same time. Something he could not grasp.

Steps outside, nearing. They were unmistakable. The deep etched military gait, the straightened back, chin held high in defiance. The salute of the two Mortal Swords outside accredited his conjecture.

'Bars. Good evening. How stand things?'

Dark-skinned fist pounded against his leather jerkin, the lightweight mail rustling underneath with the movement's motion. 'Your Lordship. Worse than hoped. Better than expected.'

Araris let go of a throaty laugh, let the hysteria of illusive thoughts and unclaimed understanding from afore seep out somewhere in between. 'Very good. Please.' He gestured, open palmed. 'Have a seat. Would you care for a drink, captain?'

Shaking his shaved head, Bars said, 'No, Your Lordship. I'm good, thank you.'

Araris poured himself a goblet full of red wine and rejoined the captain of the Mortal Swords at the parchment-ridden table in the dancing light of countless candles, wax gathering at their honey-coloured base.

'Tell me then, Bars. What can I expect to work with?' Araris took a sip from the goblet, savoured the taste, rolling it around like measuring words on his tongue.

'Well, sire, as much as can be expected. They're simple folk. But I guess I've already managed to pound the gravitas of their current situation into their thick skulls.'

Araris said, 'To hear they'd be fighting and to know are two different things.'

'Exactly, Your Lordship. I had them square off in squads against my men. They learned the lesson quickly. You could see the realisation settle in.'

Araris nodded, having predicted something along the lines. 'I'm not asking you to teach them to lead a victory parade through the streets of Denerim, Bars,' he reminded. 'Just get them to march in a straight line and not fall onto their own swords while they're at it.'

The man traced the criss-crossing patterns of light scars on his forearms. 'Aye, sire. Sadly, time is not our ally in this matter.'

Araris waved it away, with no more concern than a tutor refuting a pre-adolescent pupil's misconceptions. 'We'll have enough time, captain. And even if time might not be on our side, desperation is. And if anything, desperation is a particularly inciting motivator.'

'Aye, sire, as you say. It shall be so. I will work day and night to whip these bloody peasants into a shape deserving the name militia.'

'Very good, Captain Bars. There's one more matter I wish to inform you of.'

Bars managed to appear even more attentive than just a moment before, having caught the scent of one of his commanding officer's schemes like a bloodhound. 'There's a change of attire I wish to see happen on the day of the battle. I am informing you now so that you may have a chance to cover the necessary logistics beforehand.'

The stone-coloured eyes sparked. 'A change of attire, my lord?'

The vicious grin slowly spread Captain Bar's hard features as Araris shared one of his myriad sleight-of-hand intentions for the upcoming engagement, settled there and wouldn't leave. It was infectious.

They shared in their scheming, plotting like two maddened sorcerers, and hiding in the secret laboratory at the top of their decrepit tower.

Then, Araris said, 'If there is nothing else, captain.'

Nodding, the man rose with military ease, helm under his arm and offered him a good night's sleep. As if that'd be a possibility any time in the future.

Right.

Araris returned his attention to a report by one of the scouting parties send out to assess the King's Blade's course of approach, broke the seal and unfolded the missive.

Raised his eyes, when the rustle of canvas stayed absent. Back turned to Araris, muscles in his shoulders and back taunt, Bars stood before the rolled-down flaps, keeping the night's cool temperatures at bay.

Araris drew a sliver of power, tasting the air for the hair-splitting shifts of emotional state in the man.

Pouring a hefty dose of good-heartedness into his speech, careful to keep the iron timbre of battlefield command voice stored away, Araris said, 'Captain, is there something unsatisfactory with the entrance to my tent?'

The man went rigid, than calmed his stance, turned around, uncharacteristically hesitant and bashful.

'No, Your Lordship,' he started. 'Your tent's state is not on my mind.' He looked down, clutched the rim of his helm in a white-knuckled grip.

Araris stood, approached Bars, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Catching his eyes, drawing their focus in, Araris said, low and with faked warmth, 'Just spill it, Bars.' A smile for good measure.

'I have to confess something, Your Lordship. Something I should've told you. Was obliged to tell you on the day you arrived.'

Bars gulped, visibly gathered his courage, features bracing. 'You have a sister, my lord. I truly know not if she lives, but I believe so. She left for Orlais a few months ago, to study at the University.'

'Her name is Elissa.'

The rest drifted off into vagueness, gathered by some attentive part of Araris mind, to await examination later.

Elissa.

Not the Last Laurel, after all.