20. A Royal Welcome
When they rounded a bend in the hillside and Ostagar finally came into view, Percival could do little but stare.
The ruin had been a fortress once, grand and impenetrable. Now, it was cracked and tumbled in several places, the walls marred by both age and battle. Percy wondered whether an ally of the presiding lord had ever taken the fortress from the inside.
Fergus would be somewhere within those walls, unaware of what had happened in Highever. By the Maker, Fergus had lost more than just parents to Howe's treachery. He'd lost a wife. And a son.
Percival's mind flashed back to the memory of his mother weeping over the corpses… the first they'd found of many. The image was burned into his soul, bleeding his heart of emotion that had long since drained. He'd never get to teach his nephew swordwork now, or, when he got older, sneak behind Fergus's back to show him the ways of women. Oren was now nothing but a ghost left to haunt the halls of the Castle Cousland.
He wanted to weep, but he'd wept all the tears he had over the course of that first awful night. Now, there was only a vast, cold pit in his soul where there had once been warmth and happiness.
"Come on," a soft voice said, and Percival registered that the elf was standing in front of him, gently taking his arm to lead him forward. "The journey's almost done, and if Daveth doesn't get a bath soon, I'm going to push him into the next lake I see."
"Ha!" came the other's voice from somewhere ahead. "I'd like you see you try, you runt! Even if you managed it, you'd probably just slip and fall in after me, you would."
"Well… I do need a bath too."
Percival tried to smile, he really did… but he couldn't seem to remember how. The elf had kept doing this on the journey south: including him in things and speaking with him as if Percival was capable of speaking back. It ignited a spark of warmth in his internal winter, knowing that he perhaps didn't have to carry the burden of his grief in isolation. It certainly helped keep his mind off it.
Until, of course, Percival looked at Finian's smooth, expressive, very elven features and recalled all the elven corpses he'd had to step over. The Couslands had employed many elves as servants, most of whom Percy had known since he was a child. Like the cook's assistant who always filched him rolls when Percy snuck into the kitchen after bedtime. And the gardener who always grumbled when Hugo got into his flowers, but then promptly pulled a Mabari Crunch out of his pocket.
And then… Maker… there had been Iona. The poor elven woman had made the grave mistake of picking Percival's bed on the night of the attack. No, wait… it had been Percival who had picked her. He was the seducer—the rake whose appetites had gotten the poor woman killed. If he'd only disciplined himself that one time, decided not to play that same blasted game, maybe she would have had a chance to escape. Or to hide.
It had been his lust that had killed her, not the Howe arrow that had gone through her heart. Desire was just as deadly a demon as Pride and Sloth, it seemed. And he'd been a thrall to all three, then.
Now, the only demon he knew was Rage.
Hugo's head butted anxiously into his thigh, and Percival sluggishly recalled his surroundings. While he'd been… preoccupied, they had somehow walked the distance to the ruin, and were now passing through the gate. Stone arches curved overhead, the vestiges of an empire that had fallen a long time ago.
Everything fell, and died, and decayed, it seemed. One day, there would be nothing left. No wonder the Maker had abandoned the world.
Duncan was talking as he led them. Something about the strategic advantages of their position… Percy couldn't really attend to it. Whenever anyone spoke of battles, images would surface in his mind. His sword plunging into someone's flesh. The sting of an arrow grazing his arm. Ser Gilmore, standing battered and blood-splattered as he urged the Cousland matron and her wayward son to escape the scene of what would soon be a doomed battle. Percy hadn't even been afforded the closure of seeing the knight's body.
"Look at that tower," the elf said softly to Percival, drawing him out of himself again. "I wonder if there's anything interesting in there. Do you think Duncan would let us explore it?"
"I wouldn't count on finding anything," Daveth's voice called back. "Been here for a thousand years, hasn't it? That's an awful long time for the scavengers to pick through it."
Duncan, ahead of them all, could be heard sighing, his lecture falling silent.
Percival looked up at the indicated tower… but all he saw was more old stones.
"Ho, Duncan!" a voice cried up ahead, one that rang a bell of familiarity strong enough to pull Percival out of his murk. Ahead, coming toward them, was a man with golden hair and a charismatic smile. Cailan Theirin.
Percival had met Cailan on occasion, of course, since their fathers had been so close (he ignored a stab of pain at that reminder). Percival had always been a bit dazzled by the man's sheer… brightness. Everything about Cailan was golden, and optimistic, and exciting. Growing up twelve years' Cailan's junior, Percival had always been somewhat in awe of the prince.
And how the prince could spin a tale… Percy recalled hours spent with the other young nobles, listening to Cailan tell grand tales of his father's accomplishments. They were certainly more interesting than any accounting Aldous had ever taught him (and then he'd seen Aldous, limp in the library, bleeding out over all his beloved books… no, focus!).
Percival had dueled Cailan once, back when he'd still been Prince Cailan. And Percy had won, much to his father's dismay. Cailan, of course, had laughed and congratulated Percy on an outstanding duel.
Duncan was talking to Cailan, Percival realized.
"…if I can help it, your majesty."
"Then I'll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all! Glorious!" Percival felt his stomach twist. "In the meantime, the other Wardens tell me you've found more recruits."
"Yes, your majesty. Allow me to introduce them to you."
"No need, for this one," Cailan said laughingly, stepping up to Percival. The sun glinting off his golden armor was far too bright. "You are Bryce's youngest, are you not? Well do I remember your sword pressed up against my throat. It will be wonderful to have you fighting at my side."
Percival tried to think of something to say, but couldn't seem to find anything.
"Tell me, how is your father faring? I'd expected him to arrive by now. I'd hate to have him miss the battle tomorrow."
Percival swallowed and found some words. "Father… will not be coming. He's dead."
It had been the first time he'd acknowledged it aloud. Pain twisted a dagger in his chest, making it hard for him to breathe even as it stoked the burning anger that had been seething deep within him all this time.
For the first time, Cailan balked. "I heard nothing of this when your brother came in. What happened?"
"Arl Rendon Howe," Percival growled, feeling that fire burn up into the only real emotion he'd felt since his world had caved in. Rage. He embraced it, and it burst forth from him in the form of words. "He betrayed my father. Sent his men in to kill everyone, woman, child, dog, elf…" His voice was rising with his anger. "He slaughtered the entire household like animals. Howe deserves nothing but the same mercy he afforded them!"
Brows knit in consternation, the king turned to the Warden. "Duncan, is this true?"
"Yes, your majesty," the commander replied gravely. "Arl Howe has shown himself to be a traitor and overtaken Highever Castle. Had we not escaped, he would have killed us and told you any story he wished."
Cailan turned away. "I… can scarcely believe it. How could he think he would get away with such treachery?" The king turned back around, meeting Percival's eyes with conviction. "As soon as we are done here, I will turn my army north and bring Howe to justice, you have my word."
"So long as Howe dies, your Majesty," Percival said thickly.
"He will hang, I assure you. I know that will not bring your family back, but Howe will not profit from this."
The rage that had burned inside him cooled at the assurance, tampered down until it was undetectable. He could only nod his thanks.
The king's face softened. "No doubt you wish to see your brother. Unfortunately, he and his men are scouting in the Wilds."
"I… am not eager to tell him." About Oriana. Or Oren.
"No, I'd imagine not. Your brother will not return until after the battle is over. I apologize, but there's nothing more I can do."
Percival simply nodded again. His father would have been horrified at how casual he was being about addressing the king… but he couldn't find the strength to do otherwise.
The king glanced back at the ruin behind him, then turned to Duncan. "I'm sorry to cut this short, but I'm afraid I must return to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies." He nodded to the rest of them with a somewhat reduced smile, and then turned. "Farewell, Grey Wardens."
Duncan bowed his head respectfully as the king left. Percival was too drained by that conversation to so much as raise a hand in farewell. So they were going to concentrate on the battle with the darkspawn? Of course they were… it was why everyone had amassed here.
It was… disheartening, to see everyone here, concerned about other matters while Arl Howe resided in Highever, sitting in his father's chair. How could he fight the darkspawn, knowing the usurper lived off his family's coffers?
But what could he do? It was out of his hands now. He had told the king, who would handle it once matters here were taken care of. Now, as he'd promised his father, he would become a Grey Warden.
He knew, though, that his heart would not be in it. After all, he'd lost his heart back in Highever.
"Blimey," said a voice softly behind him. "Your whole family?"
Percival turned, recalling that there were more than just Duncan and himself present. The two thieves looked shocked by what they'd overheard: Daveth stared with wide, appalled eyes, and Finian had turned three shades paler.
"My whole family," Percy acknowledged tiredly. "And the guards. And the servants. And anyone connected to the Cousland name. Except my brother and me."
Hugo butted his head against Percy's thigh with an anxious whine. Percy pressed his hand hard against Hugo's fur, gratefully drawing strength from his loyal hound's mutual experience.
"Are you going to be okay?" the elf asked.
Percival paused to consider that. Was he? He hadn't really considered the future, beyond the brooding wish to see Howe slain. Surely, this emptiness inside him must abate sooner or later. What might fill it, he couldn't say, though he knew it wouldn't be what had been there before.
"I'm not sure," he replied honestly. "But I'll be better. Eventually."
The elf reached out and put a sympathetic hand on his arm, and Percival drew support from that as greedily as he had from Hugo. Anything to diminish the pain.
"Tomorrow, the king's army will battle the darkspawn horde," Duncan's voice cut in softly, and all three recruits (plus one dog) turned their attention to him. "Despite the victories so far, they grow larger in number with each passing day. We will need every man possible on the field. To that end, we should proceed with the Joining ritual without delay."
Finian's hand fell off Percival's arm as the elf said, "A hot meal might be nice, first."
Duncan chuckled softly, much to everyone's shock (Duncan was not much for humor, after all). "I agree. We have until nightfall to begin the ritual, though some preparation is required, which must be begun soon." Duncan motioned for them to start moving again, and the recruits fell into step around him. "There is a Grey Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair. When you are ready, seek him out and tell him it's time to summon the other recruits. Hopefully, he will know where to find them all." He paused them at the edge of a long stone bridge that spanned a deep ravine. "In the meantime, I must attend to some business in the camp. You will find me at the Grey Warden tent when you are ready."
With that, Duncan turned and started off down the bridge, presumably toward camp.
Daveth eyed the bridge dubiously, tapping his bow against the stones. "So do you think this old thing is safe?"
Finian stepped out onto the bridge and quirked a grin, though it was a muted one. "Maybe not for you humans. But for a light-footed elf like me, it'll hold."
"Oh, touché, elf. Got me there."
Percival followed the pair as they started across the bridge. The thing had a couple holes in it—signs of battle, probably—which did make the integrity of it seem somewhat questionable. Thing was, Percival didn't much care anymore. If the Maker decided to strike him down where he stood… so be it. He'd accept such a fate, if it meant being with his family again.
He paused partway down the bridge, though, as he took in the view. The Korcari Wilds stretched out in the distance, misty and unknown. His brother was out there somewhere, unaware of what he'd already lost. Or maybe he did know. Maybe Arl Howe had planted assassins among Fergus's men as well, and now Fergus's corpse was rotting in a bog… Howe had arrived before Fergus had left, after all.
Oh Maker, Percival really couldn't be the last living Cousland. He really, really couldn't be.
"Percival?"
Percy turned to face forward again, moving to catch up to the other two. They were waiting for him expectantly. Patiently, even. They were handling him with kid gloves, it seemed, but Percival couldn't say he blamed them. He had been rather… delicate lately. Knowing they were aware of what had happened at Highever—even if none of them could do anything about it—eased his burden somewhat.
The trio started off again, with Hugo's nails clicking against the stone behind them.
"So, elf," Daveth began after a few steps. "You don't suppose there are any good marks in camp, do you? With all the nobles running about and all?"
"Well, sure," Finian replied. "If you don't mind the fact that all of them will be heavily armored and armed."
"Right, that does make things a bit more interesting, doesn't it? Though, I'll tell you this from experience… there is nothing funnier than cutting the purse of some noble in heavy steel armor, and then watching him huff and puff as he tries to keep up with you. Even more fun than robbing most other nobles, it is."
"I am right here, you know," Percival said quietly. All three froze in surprise that he'd spoken without prompting, Percy himself the most of all.
"Well…" Daveth chuckled after a moment. "Present company excepted, of course."
"I don't know…" At this, Finian cast a sly smile back at Percy. "We are both pretty good at what we do, and you, my lord, haven't been the most attentive. Who's to say that your pockets haven't already been picked?"
Percival felt a lightening of his features, very nearly a smile. "Because Hugo would have bitten your hand off if you'd tried. He's a bit protective, like that."
"Ah, so to get to the master, I have to go through the dog first?" The elf winked at the mabari, who barked happily in response. "I think I'm up to the task."
"For such a big, scary dog," Daveth said. "He's a bit of a soft touch, isn't he?"
Finian grinned. "I bribe him with games of fetch. It works for me."
"We never did find that spoon…"
Percival looked out over the Wilds again, half listening to his companions banter. The pain in his heart had dimmed, and there was some warmth now nestled in that pit. Perhaps this would be what he needed, after all. A foe to fight and a family name to retake. Perhaps that would help focus this turmoil into something… productive. Percival Cousland, productive? A novel thought.
He would have a purpose. He'd never really had one of those before. Other than to do whatever (and whoever) he damn well pleased, of course.
For his father, he'd become a Grey Warden. For his father, and for Ferelden. But also… for himself.
Provided Arl Howe died a gory, painful death in the end, anyway.