Lance looked like he might have been the Warden Commander of Ferelden. Or at least he hoped so.
He and Velanna walked down to the main hall of the Keep, with her crossing her arms in that same pose of irritation she wore near constantly. He frowned to himself, feeling very guilty for having kissed her, for having let it go that far.
Maybe it was irrational, he didn't know, but it wasn't like he was behaving very rationally anyways.
As it was there was a bottle of rum in his dresser that he was eager to crack open. And he sighed as he descended the stone steps to the hall. Whatever guests there were, he didn't want to deal with them. It was probably more nobles, come to plead for some sort of special treatment. Or perhaps yet another Bann with a single daughter.
Those were his favorite.
Of course, the local Revered Mother came by from time to time to see to the spiritual health of the soldiers and to remind him that a donation to the Chantry was a civic duty. He hated that.
Perhaps it was his general dislike of the clergy, or the fact that she was practically blackmailing him, but he often found reasons not to be available when she came knocking. Sex with Velanna might have been a half decent excuse.
And again he felt a rush of guilt, wishing he'd never even looked at her.
He entered the quiet hall, made all the more foreboding by the empty silence, and tried to put on his most officious attitude. It was no secret that he hated meeting other people, so he didn't often do so. And the people were by and large glad to not meet him.
The "important" visitors weren't recognizable to him. They weren't dressed at all like he would expect anyone of import to be. In fact, they were dressed in traveling leathers not unlike his own. Four of them, all with a professional bearing about them. If he had to guess, he would say soldiers, but they sure didn't look like any soldiers he'd ever seen.
The man that appeared to be their leader wore a cloak with hood drawn up to obscure his features. From what little of the man Lance could see, he looked to be quite a muscular character. Lance cleared his throat, getting the men's attention.
"Hello," he said, hearing his own grating voice echo off the walls. He hated it. "I am-"
"Lance Cousland, son of Teyrn Bryce Cousland and Teyrna Eleanor Cousland. Arl of Amaranthine, Warden Commander, and Hero of Ferelden," said their cloaked leader. He had an accent that Lance couldn't place. Perhaps from the Anderfels. "Just to name a few titles."
"Who are you?" Lance asked. The man reached up to remove his hood, revealing a face marred by several scars and a firm jaw. He looked like a figure of import now.
"I am First Warden Ezekiel Ashburn," he said. "And I do not like having to come here."
"First Warden," Lance said, embarrassed for not recognizing the leader of his Order. He'd never met the First Warden, nor had a chance to actually learn the name, but he was aware that the First Warden had certain interests in the Arling of Amaranthine. "Had I known-"
"Save it. I am not here for honor guards or luxuries," he said. "I am here for one reason only: to handle this massive sodding mess you've made of things."
Lance stood rigid. This was hardly what he expected. Not only was it a shock to be facing the First Warden in such a manner, but to be accused of making a "mess" when everyone else had hailed him as a hero?
"Shall I count the ways?" the First Warden asked, voice rising in volume. It echoed loudly off of the walls and the high ceiling and served to make Lance feel even more inferior than he already did. "The King of Ferelden is a Grey Warden. I might remind you that the Wardens are politically neutral. As far as that goes, you are the Arl of Amaranthine! And your brother is the Teyrn of Highever! Why, one might go so far as to say that the Wardens control Ferelden."
Lance felt his jaw tense. That was true. The Wardens were supposed to be politically neutral, and as a Warden Lance was supposed to have relinquished any political title he might have held. But that didn't change the fact that he was thought of highly both for his lineage and for his deeds. Certainly he had no intention of being anything more than a Warden, but he could at least see the implications.
"For Maker's sake," said the First Warden, walking from one side of the hall to the other, examining the tapestries that hung there. "You are responsible for choosing the King in Orzammar, or so I'm told. Do you realize what you've done? The Wardens aren't exactly welcome in most countries, not while the Blight's defeated. No, it takes thousands of Darkspawn to bring us back into the good graces of the Kings and Queens of the land. What do you think is going to happen in the next few decades?"
Lance remained quiet. It was a rhetorical question. He didn't much appreciate being spoken to in this manner, though, and his hands curled into fists.
"You've set the image of the Grey Wardens back into the veil of secrecy and suspicion. What will happen when the good King reveals one too many secrets of the sort we can't let loose? What happens when he is unable to provide an heir?"
The First Warden turned on them, looking quite angered. Lance didn't dare glance back at Velanna, though he couldn't quite place the source of his fear. He was shamed, that was certain. The First Warden was right. They had made quite a mess here. And perhaps abroad, say in Nevarra or Antiva – places untouched by the Blight – there was less tolerance for the Wardens because of him.
He swallowed.
"But of course, that all leads me to the question we are all wondering. Poor Riordan died during the battle – thank you for returning his remains to his family – leaving only two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden. And against all odds, they slew the Archdemon," he began to clap, loudly, ironically. His face betrayed all the disdain he had for the Hero of Ferelden at the moment.
"So, I ask you," said the First Warden, his mouth curling into a snarl. "Why, in Andraste's good name, are you alive?"
The room was suddenly bone-chillingly cold. Lance felt his face go white, his stomach fall into his knees. He would have done anything to leave that room. And he felt all eyes on him. And he felt like vomiting.
'Tis a Ritual, performed on the eve of battle…
"Ser-"
The First Warden held up a hand, silencing him. He shook his head, not wanting to hear any sort of explanation.
"Let me hazard a guess… Perhaps. There was a woman. Black hair. Pale skin. Golden eyes."
Lance's eyes widened and he felt as though his knees might give out. He was shaking, he realized too late. And he looked over his shoulder, at Velanna. And she stared at him, eyes as wide as his, hand shaking slightly.
He didn't want her to hear this.
And then the First Warden said something, the best news Lance had ever heard.
"Perhaps she was seen in Orlais."
And Lance took a step forward, meeting the First Warden face-to-face.
"Ser, please allow me the chance-"
The First Warden held his hand up again.
"Yes," he said. "All in due time. If I'm going to let you live – which is a hard decision to make – then I should at the very least allow you to correct this mistake."
Lance nodded. He felt some of the warmth return to his face, energy renewed. He still wanted to polish off that rum in his room, but things were looking up. He had his chance; finally, he had his chance…
"You leave tomorrow," said the First Warden. He gestured to his three companions. "These will be your… escorts. They will brief you on the situation and handle it accordingly. You may be the Warden Commander of Ferelden, but you will answer to these men."
"Ser. Yes, ser," said Lance. And he asked, "Ser, what-"
"If this mission fails," said the First Warden, looking deadly serious. "If you are unsuccessful. Then you will be a Warden no longer. And I will be there to watch you enter the Deep Roads."
Lance swallowed, then nodded. He understood. But he didn't. How did the First Warden know this? How had he… never mind that. Lance decided that he didn't care how, why. He only cared that he now had his chance. She was in Orlais, and he would find her. And she would come home with him, no matter what.
"I will take my leave now," said the First Warden. "I tire of this country. It smells like wet dog."
Lance stood, facing the three Wardens that were to be his "escort". His guards, he realized. One of them stepped forward, carrying a stack of papers. He thrust it towards Lance, smiled.
"Perhaps you would like to study these. In your chambers," he said with a thick Orlesian accent. It wasn't a suggestion, Lance realized. And he nodded. And turned on his heel and headed for his chambers, brushing past Velanna who was watching him with a mix of emotions.
I'm coming, Morrigan.