A/N: While searching online for Bann Alfstanna's last name, I came across one website - and I can't remember what it was - that listed her last name as possibly being Eremon. Whether this was something someone made up, or some random canon that a die-hard DA'er found, I have no idea, but I decided to go with it. Credit where credit is due - Bann Alfstanna's name is not my invention. Nor are any of the characters, and I do not own Dragon Age or Bioware or yada yada. This history, though, is mine...at least, the unique parts that David Gaider and company did not write are.
Credit to KnightOfHolyLight, who caught my mistake about Arl Bryland. I was calling him Bann. Bad Eve, no posting chapters after 2AM. Thanks, KnightOfHolyLight! I've fixed it now. :-)
Thanks so much for reading. I love getting feedback, so drop me a line, or a review, or a line AND a review. :-) Lots of love to all of you... ~Eve
Sweat dripping freely, Fergus Cousland wiped his brow and tightened his grip on the weapon in his hand. Weaponsmaster Coren's words echoed through his mind...
Eyes on your enemy. Let the sword become an extension of your arm. Don't let them see your back or the whites of your eyes.
A quick flick of his wrist, and his visor snapped shut. The tourney master was about to call the beginning of the second round, and he was thrilled to have made it this far.
From the stands, Eleanor chewed on her nails, her face a mask of nerves. Bryce was watching with just as much attention, his arm around an excited Lyra, but more pride and less tension filled his eyes as he watched his son take a battle stance and wait for the bell. Lyra stood, leaning against his knee, her eyes serious and focused on the combatants.
The day had been dedicated to competition, with archery, spear-throwing, knife-throwing, and dueling being some of the main events. King Maric offered coin to the winners, and the status that came with triumph was as important as the gold. This last contest was the fiercest of all, but was also the most well attended, and some would say the most exciting.
The field below was mudded and trampled, the grass yellowed and beaten down by countless metal-tipped boots. After the first round of the melee, about thirty warriors remained, of all shapes, sizes and types. Tall, proud swordsmen in glittering steel, lithe, slender rogues in flexible leather, and even a few dwarves, short, stout and menacing. There were noblemen and their sons, trusted knights, a few freeholders, and even one or two commoners from the village of Redcliffe who had won the attention of Arl Eamon. There were no elves, which only made sense - the only elves in Redcliffe were servants, and had been brought from Denerim. There was no alienage, and even if there had been, it was unlikely they would be allowed to compete, or even have access to weapons in order to train.
The crowd held a collective breath, and then the tourney master swung his arm.
CLANG! went the bell, and the warriors rushed toward each other, shouting blood and death and bodily harm. Lyra bounced on her toes in her father's arm, and he strained around her bobbing head.
"Lyra, be still," he said, and her knees began wriggling instead.
"Where's Fergus?" she asked for the umpteenth time, and she followed the line of her father's pointing finger. Eleanor ceased her nail biting momentarily to marvel at her husband's patience. Realizing the mess she was making of her fingers, she made an annoyed sound and twisted her skirt instead.
"Are there any girls on the field?" Lyra asked, and Bryce hesitated.
"A few, I think," he said.
"Who?" Lyra asked.
"Uh... Bann Kethka is out there. And Bann Voranis. I think there are a few others, but there are so many small freeholders it's hard to know them all," Bryce said.
"I don't know them," Lyra said. "Will I fight in the tournaments someday?"
"If you'd like," Bryce said.
"Bryce!" Eleanor said, her voice sharp.
"What?" he said, turning to look at her. "What's wrong with that?"
Eleanor turned back to the field, not really wanting to get into a discussion about their daughter while their son was fighting for his life. Well, maybe not for his life... but at least not to get brained.
The two minute mark passed, and the bell sounded again. Those who were still standing made their way off the field, and a few medics rushed into the arena, helping those who had been knocked out and applying poultices and potions as necessary. One healer mage, a greying woman who looked to be in her late forties, moved from patient to patient, but didn't find anyone who was in desperate need of her skills.
Fergus pulled his helmet from his head and waved at his parents. Lyra cheered, and Eleanor sat back, her hand pressed to her heart.
"I shouldn't be watching this," she said faintly, and Bryce chuckled. He cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted down to the field.
"Give 'em hell, Fergus!"
"Yeah, give 'em hell!" Lyra echoed, and gasps sounded around them, along with a few amused chuckles, depending on just how stiff-necked the listeners were. Bryce grinned, and then shifted his hold on Lyra as he felt the heat of Eleanor's glare. He cleared his throat, and then looked at his small daughter.
"Lyra, that sort of language isn't appropriate," Bryce said, attempting to make his voice stern. Lyra opened her mouth to protest, and then caught a wisp of her mother's heated look.
"Oh, yeah. Sorry, ma," she said, and Eleanor adjusted her skirts, the movement terse and annoyed.
"What's wrong, love?" Bryce asked, realizing that Eleanor had been on edge all day. His fingers slipped through hers, and she sighed.
"Rendon spoke with me today. Again."
"About Lyra and Nathaniel?" Bryce said in an undertone, and Eleanor nodded. On the field below, Fergus sluiced water over his head from a bucket a page was trotting around the field. He mopped himself with a rag, and then jammed his helmet back on his head.
"The man's determined, I'll give him that," Bryce said, and then began cheering with the rest of the crowd as the culled herd took the field again. About twenty warriors remained as they entered the next round. CLANG! went the bell.
"The melee...an excuse for warriors to beat each other bloody," Eleanor murmured.
"We can't all be archers, Elle..." Bryce said, and then leapt to his feet as Fergus sent a much larger man spinning to the ground.
"That's my boy! That's my son!" Bryce yelled, a grin wide enough to split the sky parading all over his face.
"Down, Cousland!" a friendly shout from behind him came, and Bryce turned, grinning, to see Arl Bryland smirking at him.
"Did you see, Leonas?" Bryce said, and Leonas Bryland waved him down.
"We all saw, Bryce, but you're blocking the view!" Friendly laughter erupted, and Bryce lowered himself, chuckling.
"Don't distract him, da!" Lyra scolded, and Bryce hugged his girl to his side.
The fabric of her skirt was being rent, and Eleanor sought another way to relieve her tension. Her hands reached for her handkerchief and she began twisting it, worrying the fabric into unrecoverable wrinkles. It was Fergus' first time in a tourney, his first time being attacked with seriousness of any kind, and Eleanor couldn't help but be afraid, even with the competence that the event was being handled. There was almost no chance of Fergus being injured; the participants were fighting with wooden tourney swords and there were healers on hand, but she was still anxious.
"He cornered me right before the tourney began," Eleanor continued to her husband. "But this time he also asked about Fergus - for Delilah."
"Who?" Bryce's eyes were on the field, and Eleanor sighed, exasperated.
"Rendon."
Forcing his focus away from the fight, Bryce considered the idea. It wasn't such a bad one, really - Fergus was fifteen, Delilah was thirteen. Better than thinking of his eight-year old being promised to a boy eight years her senior... Certainly the age difference would mean less and less as the years passed, but right now, it just didn't sit right. Fergus and Delilah, though, they could be married in the next four or five years, and Rendon would be pleased.
But Bryce misliked the idea of using his son and daughter to further himself politically, and he was hesitant to commit his children to marriages not of their own choosing. Maybe he was just sentimental, but the idea simply didn't appeal.
"I'll speak to Rendon," Bryce said. "At the very least, we can see how Fergus feels about it." The matter closed, he turned back to the melee, and Eleanor's voice sounded again.
"Your ideas about marriage are admirable, Bryce," Eleanor said, "and I understand why you feel that way. The Couslands have been the most powerful family in Ferelden - other than the Theirins, of course - for generations, and you had no need to climb higher. But Rendon doesn't feel the way you do. Don't forget, Highever belonged to Amaranthine, once upon a time."
"Once upon a time? Eleanor, five ages ago!" Bryce laughed.
"And what of it? Rendon has enough ambition to want to reclaim the old glory of what Amaranthine once was. If he can do that by marrying his children to Highever, why wouldn't he?"
The crowd broke into cheering again as the tourney master struck the bell, and another five warriors were helped from the field. Fergus was beaming from ear to ear, having made it to round four. Only fifteen remained of the original group, and Bryce was beside himself.
"Da, is Fergus winning?" Lyra was bouncing again.
"He is, Lyra!" Bryce grinned, and Lyra squealed and clapped her hands.
"Fergus could have his pick of brides," Eleanor said in a low tone, returning to their discussion in an undertone. She was conscious of the crowd, but no one seemed to be paying attention anyway. "The Howes are a respectable, old family. We should consider Rendon's offer."
"Look, Eleanor, I'll speak with Fergus," Bryce said, the subject beginning to irritate him. "But I am not deciding for him. It's his life, and he's the one who'll have to sleep beside his wife until he dies, not you or me. I don't understand how people can make decisions of that magnitude, without consulting the ones in question."
Eleanor sat back, letting the matter drop. Bryce was sometimes too idealistic to be real.
The bell sounded, and Fergus rushed forward. Almost immediately, he was knocked sideways, and he hit the ground, a warrior pointing a wooden sword at his throat. He held up his hands in the "yield" sign, and the warrior backed off and waded again into the melee. Fergus scrambled out of the way and joined the others on the sidelines.
"Awww," Lyra said, and Bryce cupped his hands around his mouth again.
"Well done, Fergus!" he called, and Fergus turned and smiled at his father in the stands. Clear pride was written on his face, and Eleanor's heart warmed to see it. She was glad she hadn't fought her husband over Fergus' entry into the tournament... now that he was safe.
The next three rounds were brutal, and Eleanor was soon just as glad that Fergus had been knocked out of the competition when he had. The warriors were in to win the hundred-sovereign purse that Maric was offering. She was watching, and actually starting to catch on to the excitement of it all, when she noticed that one warrior was being... avoided. It was becoming more and more obvious as the combatants thinned.
"What's going on there?" she said, gesturing. Bryce looked, and then sighed a little.
"That's Cailan."
"He seems like a fine warrior. Why are they avoiding him? Surely they can't mean for him to win?" Eleanor said, and Bryce turned to her.
"Would you knowingly strike the heir to the kingdom?"
Eleanor's eyes widened.
"Then it isn't a fair fight," she argued.
"True. It's why Maric never enters the tourneys anymore, but Cailan has yet to learn this. He should have been taken out in the first round, when it might have been attributed to many. Now no one will risk striking him." The tourney master rang the bell, and then strode onto the trampled grass.
"Three combatants remain! Raise your voices, Redcliffe!"
The crowd let forth a mighty yell, and the three remaining men removed their helms and waved to the people in the stands. Fergus was surprised to see his friend Nathaniel Howe among the three left standing. The tourney master began to outline new rules, using a point scale based on regions of the body where the combatants would strike one another.
"That's Nathaniel Howe!" Eleanor said, and Bryce gave a low whistle.
"I'll be damned..."
"Bryce! Language," Eleanor said, and Lyra giggled. Bryce shaded his eyes against the sun, squinting down on the field.
"He fights with daggers..." Bryce said softly. "How in the black city did he make it this far?"
Cailan, Nathaniel, and a third warrior by the name of Ulthor bowed to each other, and replaced the helmets on their heads. The bell sounded, and they began circling. Ulthor was clearly hesitant, and it proved to be his undoing.
Nathaniel gestured, and Cailan's head turned at the movement. Seeing an opening, Ulthor rushed forward, and Nathaniel rolled out of reach, springing up again into a lithe pose. Cailan gripped his sword and caught Ulthor across the torso as he bulled past, and then Nathaniel struck him with double daggers on the back of his breastplate. The tourney master's voice rose above the collective gasp of the crowd.
"Five points. Ulthor is defeated!"
The warrior bowed, and walked from the ring. The crowd began murmuring ripples of displeasure.
"Two children, the finalists...Cailan shouldn't be allowed," Bryce heard one irritated voice say, and the general consensus of the audience seemed to be just that.
Nathaniel got a fresh grip on his weapons, and Cailan hefted his broadsword. They feinted, testing each other, looking for weakness. Suddenly, Cailan darted forward, and Nathaniel jumped out of the way, one dagger sliding across the prince's arm as Cailan passed by. The heir spun and took in the young rogue, who was swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking as fresh and ready as if this were only the beginning of a training exercise.
"One point to Nathaniel!"
"Pardon me...pardon...'scuse me..." Fergus, free of his armor, crawled through the stands, ending in the seat beside his father and Lyra. The girl jumped on her brother, hugging him tightly.
"Fergus, you're a mabari!" Lyra cried, and chuckles sounded around them as Fergus was rocked sideways by his sister's enthusiastic embrace.
"Thanks, pup," he said, wincing as she squeezed him.
"You're hurt," Eleanor said, her brows drawing together.
"Bruises, ma. I'm fine," Fergus said, and he looked out on the field.
"I miss anything?" he said, low, to his father.
"Not yet. They're testing each other," Bryce said, and then Cailan darted forward, jumping back at the last minute. Nathaniel jumped back as well, misreading Cailan's intent and showing that he could be bluffed. Cailan's movements became more confident.
The fight continued, the boys becoming bolder as they continued feinting, looking for ways to trick each other. After his first mistake, Nathaniel seemed to have a slight edge, and Cailan was clearly losing patience with this careful probing. He rushed forward again, and it was almost painful to see how easily Nathaniel tapped him on the other arm.
"One point to Nathaniel! Two-Zero!" the tourney master cried, and the crowd murmured again.
"Does he not realize?" one woman said from in front of the Cousland family, and Fergus looked at his father.
"Realize what?"
Bryce hesitated. "Why do you think Cailan and Nathaniel are the last two on the field, son?"
"They're the best...right?" Fergus said, and Bryce raised an eyebrow.
"They're not?" Fergus said, and peered at the field again.
"They're teenagers, Fergus, unblooded," Bryce said. "Better than seasoned men, than warriors who've survived battle over and over?"
Fergus turned back to his father, his eyes confused. "Then why are they out there?"
"Cailan is there because no one will strike him," Eleanor said. "Nathaniel...must have been just slippery enough not to get caught by anyone. And now he doesn't realize that convention requires him to allow Cailan the win."
"That's ridiculous!" Fergus said. "Cailan wouldn't want that!"
"So if it were you out there, you would not hesitate to strike down the prince of Ferelden?"
Fergus hesitated.
"Exactly," Bryce said, and they watched again.
"One point to Nathaniel! Three-Zero!" the tourney master called, and Eleanor dared a look at Maric. He was seated in the front of the stands, surrounded by retainers. Anora and Loghain sat nearby, tense looks on their faces. Maric was watching closely, but rather than angry, he looked...intrigued.
"Nathaniel's not giving up. He's going to win," Fergus said, naked awe in his voice.
"Look! There's Alistair!" Lyra cried, and pointed at the fence across the field. The boy was standing with his arms and feet hooked through the fence, and beside him was a dark man, wearing strange armor. The two were talking as they watched the match, neither of them seeming particularly interested in the outcome.
"Ma, can I go see him?" Lyra asked, and Eleanor shook her head.
"Not now, Lyra."
"Awww, why?" she whined, and Eleanor shushed her. Lyra plopped down on her father's feet and crossed her arms, prepared to sulk, no longer interested in the tournament now that Fergus was out of it.
Cailan and Nathaniel rushed together at last, and there was an indrawing of breath from the crowd. Nathaniel's daggers parried Cailan's broadsword easily, and he leaned out of the path of a wild swing. Cailan overbalanced, and Nathaniel spun, landing a double tap on Cailan's back.
"Two points to Nathaniel! Cailan is defeated - Nathaniel Howe is the winner!" The tourney master looked at Maric, who was watching with his hands steepled beneath his chin. He appeared deep in thought, and the nobility held their breaths, all eyes on their king.
There was silence from the stands, and then Cailan pulled his helmet from his head and picked up Nathaniel's arm, raising it high.
"Redcliffe! Your champion stands, waiting your approval! Will you not cheer?" Cailan looked defiantly at Maric, daring him to disagree.
The king of Ferelden smiled at his son, then pushed himself to his feet and began clapping. His retainers were quick to follow, and then everyone else joined in, the noise growing exponentially moment by moment. Cailan brandished his sword, and the audience shouted their approval.
The applause slackened as a girl broke away from the crowd and ran out to the two young men. She tugged Nathaniel's helmet from his head, threw it to the ground, and clasped his face in her hands. An instant later, her lips were plastered to his, and the nobility began laughing and cheering enthusiastically at the scene, which was straight out of a tale. Cailan grinned with delight as Nathaniel gave himself up to the moment and began kissing her back.
"Alfstanna Eremon?" Eleanor said with interest, and her eyes flew to Rendon Howe. Even from this distance, she could see his eyes darkening with rage, and he looked fit to be tied.
"Lucky bastard," Fergus muttered, and Eleanor's hand reached out and cuffed the back of his head.
"Fergus!"
.oOo.
Rendon Howe glowered down at his son, who was seated on a stone bench in one of the private gardens in the castle courtyard. The noble families had all begun their leave-taking after the tourney had ended, and most of them were still down in the field chatting and goodbye-ing as carriages began to gather and collect their passengers. Father and son would remain undisturbed, for awhile, anyway.
"What were you thinking?" Rendon said finally, his voice angry and hot. "The melee? Nathaniel, the melee?"
"I won, Father," Nathaniel said, his voice a cross between a sulk and a plea. "I thought-"
"Did you? Did you think at all?" Rendon said, his rage stopping Nathaniel in his tracks. "It was luck, not skill that brought you the win. What do you think might have happened, had Cailan not been there? Once again, you've proven your ineptitude, your thoughtlessness. And what the hell was that girl doing on the field?"
Nathaniel shifted, his eyes focused on the mud flaking from his boots. He hadn't expected Alfstanna to do that. The memory of her lips brought a flush to his cheeks and a pull to his groin, and he prayed that his father couldn't actually read his mind. He sometimes wondered about the old git.
All he'd wanted was to impress the old man, to prove he was able. Was that so wrong?
"No answer. I see." Rendon pursed his lips. "The Couslands - and everyone else in Redcliffe, I might add - saw you. Kissing a girl from a minor noble family. How long has this been going on? Have you bedded her?"
"No-"
"If her father comes to me with claims, I'll have no choice, Nathaniel. Honor will dictate that you marry her, and it will be a waste! All because you couldn't keep your cock in your pants! This could ruin us - What were you thinking?" The browbeating was getting worse, and Nathaniel was getting desperate.
"Father, I love Alfstanna. I don't want to marry Lyra - she's a child. I want-"
"Yes, you made it clear what you want. To all of Redcliffe, no less," Rendon sneered. "Love her? You think you love her? Hormones is what you feel, not love. Selfish, Nathaniel! You're selfish! Do you think love is what will raise our house, what will bring power back to the Howe family? You cannot allow yourself to be taken in by desire! That girl is a distraction. Lyra Cousland will be of age soon enough, and one woman is much like another after sunset. Boy, what is it you think I've been trying to do, for you, for your brother, for Delilah? Do you think I'm doing it for me?"
"Yes, father, I do!" Nathaniel burst out. "I do think you're doing it for you! You don't care about us, all you want is your precious status, as if it ever did anything good for anyone! I don't care about status! I don't want Amaranthine, or Highever, or anywhere-"
The back of Rendon's hand struck Nathaniel's cheek, and the boy's head spun as he gasped for breath. It hadn't hurt, not really...but the fact that his father had struck him was more painful than any beating.
Rendon's eyes glittered with passion, and he straightened the front of his tunic, tight control bringing him back down.
"You will find the Eremon girl, and you will tell her that there is nothing for her in Amaranthine. I'll not have you marrying below your station, and I'll not have her taking advantage of your... weakness... to trap you. If I hear so much as a whisper of anything different..." Rendon's soft threat trailed away, and Nathaniel's cheeks were hot with anger and insult.
"Do I make myself clear?"
Nathaniel swallowed, a lump in his throat, his stomach leaden, his heart racing.
"Yes, father," he said, and Rendon turned and walked away, boots echoing against the stone of the courtyard.
Minutes passed, and Nathaniel didn't move from his seat. Chest aching, eyes burning with unspent tears, he sat in thought, despising his father, hating the curse of his birth, wondering what he would tell Alfstanna. He wished they had continued their course in the hayloft, instead of doing the honorable thing and delaying their desires. His father might never have spoken to him again, but he wasn't sure he cared anymore... at least he could have married her. Attempt after attempt, all of his life, and nothing had ever been good enough for Rendon Howe. Nathaniel's give-a-damn was broken, perhaps beyond repair.
The hundred sovereign purse was heavy in his pouch, and his mind began flying, planning, scheming. He could hire a carriage to Waking Sea, marry Alfstanna, buy passage to Antiva...
Not until Harvestmere, and Alfstanna's sixteenth birthday.
But he could. The gold was proof of it. As long as Rendon didn't take it away.
"Nathaniel?"
Delilah crept into the courtyard, and sat herself beside her brother. She put her arms around him and leaned her head on his shoulder.
"You were marvelous," she whispered, and he hugged her, the tears flowing down his nose and into her hair.
.oOo.
"Take it."
"Nathaniel-"
"Take it," he insisted, and pressed the pouch of gold again into Alfstanna's hands. Eyes frightened, her fingers curled around the leather in acceptance, and he breathed a little easier once its damning weight left his hands.
"What am I supposed to do with it?"
"Keep it, for now. Bury it, lock it away, do what you think is best. I'll write to you. I can't take the chance that my father will take the money," he said. "Do you still want to keep house for me in Antiva?"
She threw her arms around him and began to laugh, his equivalent of a proposal sending her heart flying. He held her close, his head buried in her hair, just breathing her in. A few moments was all he had, and he intended to make the most of them.
"I would keep house for you anywhere. But...you were right. I can't leave Waking Sea," she murmured. "But we can stay there. It can be our home... You need never go back to Amaranthine again." She drew back, a soft look in her eyes. The moment would stay with Nathaniel for the rest of his life, the memory of Alfstanna's sweet young face carrying him through dark, lonely times.
"Harvestmere," she whispered.
"Harvestmere," he agreed, and cupped her face. Her chin lifted, and their lips joined, hearts beating as quickly as caged birds tasting freedom. Kissing Alfstanna was pure ecstacy, and he didn't relish the thought of the lonely months ahead. We'll be together soon, he thought. My father won't keep us apart forever.
"I love you," he whispered, and she laughed, a breathless sob that echoed with wanting.
"I love you, too," she whispered back.