He sat, hunched over in the great chair at the head of the room. In his hand he held a goblet, filled with the wine made here in Amaranthine. It tasted fairly awful but he wasn't drinking it for the taste.
The hall was filled with laughter and music, the sounds that marked every victory. The halls were quieter, though, for the absence of Bann Esmerelle and her hangers-on. Lance had already decided to replace her with Ser Tamra, a woman who had proven herself to be very trustworthy.
Otherwise the festivities were carrying on as was the proper order. And they were well-earned, too. The victory at Amaranthine, the complete and utter end of the Fifth Blight, were hard won and valuable victories. They deserved their celebrations, especially considering that the repairs at Vigil's Keep had been recently finished.
But Lance Cousland, Arl of Amaranthine, Warden Commander of Ferelden, and brother to the Teyrn of Highever, could not bring himself to feel very elated. Instead he sat, and he stared into his goblet, watching the wine settle.
Occasionally someone would try to make conversation with him, and he would of course brush them off as quickly as he could. Arl Bryland of South Reach had arrived earlier, a friend of Lance's father and eager to see how Lance was doing now that he had a proper fief.
He brought his daughter Habren with him, and like all the others had dropped not-so-subtle hints about her lack of suitors.
"Ah, Arl Cousland," he said, giving a polite bow. Habren watched with wide, curious eyes. He tapped on the girl's shoulder roughly, and she bowed alongside him almost immediately. "I believe you've not had the chance to meet my daughter, Habren? Do say hello, my darling, the good Arl only has so much time on his hands."
"Hello, My Lord," she said politely. "I do love your taste in tapestries."
She indicated the wide banners that hung from the hall's ceiling, emblazoned with Griffons and the silver leaves of his House's heraldry. It wasn't his doing, of course, but it was representative of him nonetheless.
He regarded the girl with a flick of his eyes, barely long enough to size her up.
"You know," said Bryland. "My sweet Habren turned sixteen just this spring. She is so lovely – my pride and joy! I hope to one day marry her off to a suitable lord. Speaking of which, am I right in understanding that you are not yet betrothed?"
Lance looked at the man, frowning.
He spoke, his voice still gravelly and course from the wound he had received almost a year ago.
"Go away."
Bryland blinked, seemingly taken aback by such a comment. Habren too looked shock to hear such a command. She was not overly interested in marrying the Arl, but it wasn't exactly every girl's dream to be told off by a man she barely knew.
Bryland, though flustered, complied, and guided his daughter away to a nice batch of single nobles in the far corner. He was well aware that the youngest of the Couslands had been unwell since the victory at Denerim.
There were heavy booted footsteps beside the chair now, and Lance recognized them – as well as the smell – as belonging to Oghren, his second-in-command of the Wardens and good friend. He looked over at the Dwarf, his red beard and scowling expression.
"So, Commander," he said with a light chuckle. The Dwarf was already crocked, no doubt, but that wasn't exactly a departure from his usual self. "I take it you aren't a fan of the young ones?"
Lance glared at him, took a sip from the foul wine. He leaned back in the chair, reaching up to touch the scar at his throat.
It seemed like so many centuries ago that he'd been in that fort, with that bastard Hurlock swinging that damn sword.
"You can't let all this get to you," Oghren warned. "Life goes on, you know."
Lance knew what he was referring to. He and Oghren had developed quite a bond in the past few months. They were alike, in many ways, though Oghren was a lot friendlier. They had both fought the Blight together, had trekked to the depths of the Deep Roads. And had both lost someone special.
Lance stood abruptly.
He walked across the hall, to the balcony that overlooked the Keep. He pushed open the doors and stepped into the warm night air. The sky was filled with stars, and the moon was beginning to fill. He held the goblet up, over the rail so that it hung between his fingers precariously.
He wondered if he was alone, this night. If he was looking up at the night sky by himself. If maybe she was watching it too.
And he let the goblet drop, watched the red contents spill out onto the stone walls, listened to the goblet crack and splinter on the ground below.
It had been so long. It ached in his heart still.
And he turned to enter the party once more. His fellow Wardens stood, watchful. They were not his friends. They were not companions. They were subordinate to him, and he was their commander. He was alone, as he must be. Though he had become… close to a few of them.
Certainly Oghren was the nearest thing he had to a friend in the Wardens. He often gave his orders through the Dwarf, and spent hours sparring with him. There were times when they both drank themselves to stupor, with Oghren inevitably outlasting him. The Dwarf understood him, his loss. And he carried the Warden to his quarters, when he was too drunk to do it himself. He threw the Warden on the bed, pulled the covers over him and left the room.
He'd also allowed the Warden to sleep through his hangovers, made sure that he wasn't disturbed. He owed Oghren greatly, and proofread letters to his wife. Oghren had married a surface Dwarf by the name of Felsi and had a young son by the woman. There was some sort of incident with a roasted nug that kept her from talking too much about her prior relationship with Oghren and was a constant source of embarrassment from them both.
Lance nodded to him, let him know that he was still okay to stand, to be before this crowd. The last time they had such a feast Lance had to be pulled away from Lord Guy, for fear that he might kill the man. Certainly the servants made sure to fill his goblet only twice an evening since.
Anders stood off to the side, trying his best to flirt with the more attractive women. The man was an apostate mage, and not a very bright one at that. This had brought trouble upon their first meeting, when he insisted that he hadn't killed his Templar escort. Lance wouldn't have bothered to save him from the Chantry had he not needed to replenish the Wardens. The bastard would be able to survive the Joining.
Of course, he'd proven himself as a capable mage and more than once had been able to save his life.
Sigrun, another Dwarf, was also looking at him with great concern. She was normally very cheery, making it hard to believe that she had once been a member of the Legion of the Dead. Her company had been slaughtered in the Deep Roads, leading Lance to recruit her into the Wardens at her behest.
She was a great fighter, and not at all morose. She lit the place up often and that saw her getting no small amount of quiet scorn from her commander.
In the darkest corner of the room stood Nathaniel Howe. The irony of it was not lost on Lance.
The Howes had once been the lords of Amaranthine, and of Vigil's Keep in particular. They had also slaughtered Lance's entire household not one year ago. Lance had killed Arl Howe in turn, and thus the name "Howe" was something of a curse in these parts. Nathaniel had been in the Free Marches as a squire before returning to his home.
He had hated the Warden Commander for some time. In fact their first meeting took place in the Keep's dungeon, where Nathaniel had been placed after being captured by the Wardens stationed there. When he had attempted to assassinate the Commander.
Lance loved the irony of it, and perhaps desired to set Nathaniel straight, and so recruited him into the Wardens. As much as Nathaniel hated the Wardens, this Warden in particular, he did not desire to discredit his family's name further by refusing the call.
The two had gotten along marvelously afterwards, barely speaking two words at a time to each other. It was the sort of relationship Lance preferred.
And then there was Velanna. He hated her. Or he didn't, it was often hard to tell.
She was Dalish, and a mage, the Keeper of her clan or something, he tried not to care. She was… bitchy for lack of a better word. The Dalish weren't known for their love of humanity, and she seemed to hate them especially. Or at least she had.
She had grown quite a bit around the Warden Commander. She had learned a bit more. She sometimes talked of humanity with spite, but living among the Wardens, with the Commander… She had changed. For the better, he did not know.
He did watch her, sometimes, when he thought she wasn't looking. She had learned to read, been taught by Sigrun, and so spent countless hours in the library alongside the Dwarf, reading up on human history, Fereldan history in particular. She often asked the Warden Commander questions, worded in such a way as to not appear to be a question at all.
"You're family is important."
And he would nod his answer.
She was manipulative, candid, and sometimes she acted as though she were fighting against the world. It was so… like her.
It hurt to watch her so often, to see her act so familiar. He couldn't help but desire to spend time with her, even if it did make him sick to listen to her. And there were times when she seemed to desire time with him, to talk and interact and to do things.
He hated it. He hated it all.
He turned to Seneschal Varel, frowning. The Seneschal leaned in, brought his ear close to the Warden Commander's mouth. He listened, nodded, and then clapped his hands loudly.
"The feast has ended! Clear out," he declared. "You need not go home, but you must not remain here!"
The nobles looked flustered, slightly annoyed by the brisk end. They weren't used to being cast off so lightly, but they'd learned that the Warden Commander was such a man to do as he pleased. And he was a good lord, if not a polite one. And he had the support of the people, now that his soldiers were guarding the farmlands.
But the Commander was not one for the celebrations, the joy of victory.
And he left, quietly returned to his quarters, where he would open another bottle of brandy, and he would drink into the wee hours of the morning until he was too drunk to dream.