Disclaimer: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

Author's note: As always, feedback would be nice, appreciated and welcomed~ And yes, my writer's block has reached the size of a small moon.

In this chapter: There are times in which you take what you get. Couslands know it.

003.

Fergus had lived for revenge.

A man's house is his palace. A warrior's house is the one untouched place, the one location in the world which is always in peace, where no fighters wander and where no blade is needed. It is paradise, Heaven, whatever one wishes to call it. It is anything and everything related to protection and safety, to happiness and care. To what could precious things be entrusted to if to that one place?

Highever had always been such place to him. Fergus remembers his childhood in clear pictures. The rivers and fields, the stony walls which he tried time and time again to climb – the same ones his son loved so much – the gardens, his mother's voice, his wife's touch, his father's calling, his brother's laughter loud, louder than anything else and his son, his son running to him, the small arms around his neck, father, can I have a sword? He loved them, loves, loves them, loves because they're still not gone, keeps them all in his mind every day, every moment.

He lives for revenge.

The stories precede his path. As the warrior tried to get back on his feet, whispers of his burned home reached first. When he managed to walk five feet without passing out, they spoke of warriors, of Wardens who crossed the country with armies at their heels. The moment he manages to find a horse, to keep himself upright and wandering, the second he passes the Capital's Gates and he's welcomed, not by his father or Cailan, he is told about Howe and the woman.

He lived for revenge, how could she take that from him? Howe was their friend, their companion, the uncle who was not because he lacked the blood, lacked the similarity and connection. But he was family nevertheless. To know of his betrayal made his heart shatter, once, twice, one thousand times until every shard could barely be perceived. To think of his demise was what made him stand, walk, search, return when all he wanted was to have perished in Ostagar with everyone else. Death seemed too merciful when compared to the alternative.

So, obviously, he shifted his desire for revenge into hatred for the one who had taken it away. Childishly, stupidly and foolishly but it sated his heart, it covered up wounds and he could breathe better.

One elf, he was told. One elf and two humans, a Qunari and all of them unknown, with no reason to do something as vile as murder a man in its own home.

He meets her first, of course. She is the leader of this foolish band, the one who was behind the sword and the blade, the one who killed and who tends to draw attention.

"You are the Warden?" He asks, knowing the answer before the question is made, watching the pointed ears, small small stature and who else could carry armor as a second skin with those traits? "Tabris. The one who has saved the queen."

The elf stares, analyses him, takes her time to reply. Then nods.

"You killed Howe."

He hates her for that.

"Why?"

Why didn't she let him to me? She didn't have anything to do with this situation, she didn…

"Because I had to."

What kind of reply is that?

"As much as I would have wanted to, I just had to."

The human doesn't speak, stares, analyses her and finds his own answer.

"I see."

Fergus is told later on. Slavery had been made common in the Alienage and several elves had been sent to Tevinter. He sees her with other eyes, hatred melding into understanding, eventually changing before settling on firm dislike.

The King doesn't seem to believe he is alive. His eyes open extremely wide and so does his mouth, allowing entrance to whatever bug which chooses to pass by. He looks slightly off. Like a bum on some random corner of the city. Or, if he wants to be less spiteful to the Therin family, just a man who is forced to grow up when he never wished to do so.

He wants to be spiteful nevertheless, remembering Cailan and his foolishness, remembering the family he left behind and who shouldn't have been alone.

There's an urge to ask if he had been there. To hear a confirmation or a description, he is not sure.

"Cousland, right? The elder?"

But he stares at the youthful face, the traces that are part of his family and that, distantly, are part of his. He remembers his brother and puts his interrogation for another time, another person.

Young ones shouldn't have to remember massacre. And this King is nothing more than a boy with a crown.

They tiptoe around him, nobles and warriors alike. They stare at his shadow as if he's going to jump at any given moment, as if he's going to harm them for not helping, for not being there. Foolish notion, indeed. He wasn't there either so there is hardly a reason to blame them for their inaction. For their cowardice. For hiding in their holes, deep and dark, stare only at themselves and their possessions, disgusting cowards. He'd be back in his teyrn – his father's, his father's and not his, Maker – if he had the choice. Couslands always follow their duty. He sucks it up, raises his hand and polishes his smile for all those who seem to deem it necessary to bother him.

The man has one last person to see before the matter is settled.

Loghain barely sees him move, experienced warrior that he is. One second, they are sitting side by side, hands resting on the polished table. On the other, Fergus is moving, both listening to steel through flesh and wood and it doesn't help, it doesn't bring closure, it changes nothing. It does bring some degree of satisfaction to see red, to hear the grunt of pain and see the weapon hit his target.

"That is for them." He knows, he has been told. Loghain knew, he knew and did nothing. No help and no vengeance. "Be grateful I will not finish."

There's a moment of silence, nicely used by the former general to get rid of the small dagger. His eyes never leave the younger man though his face is contorted in a grimace. Perfect.

"Why?" He asks.

Without watching, the Cousland knows he is smiling, bright, polite, a perfect actor as his wife would once tell him. It is not happiness behind his actions. But he can pretend.

"The warden isn't foolish. She has found the perfect punishment. Live long."

Howe is dead.

Fergus settles for the next best thing.