26. Desire and Rage

"So… does anyone else here doubt that that was really Flemeth, or is it just me?"

Percival looked up at the sound of Alistair's whisper. So far, the journey back toward Ostagar had been quiet. Everyone, it seemed, was deep in thought.

"Since I have no sodding idea what a 'Flemeth' is…" Garott said with a snort. "…I'm gonna go with 'who cares?'"

"Well, I suppose you wouldn't know," Daveth said. He'd been uncharacteristically twitchy, ever since this Morrigan showed up. Percival didn't blame the thief; he didn't trust her either. "Me, I was born in a small village not too far east from here. Grew up hearing tales about the Witches of the Wilds. They'll drag children off in their sleep, they will."

"And what, pray tell, would I do with children, I ask?" their guide called from up ahead, letting them know that, despite the distance they were keeping from her, she could still hear them.

"Eat them, probably," Alistair grumbled. Again, Percival agreed.

The moment the witch had appeared, alarm bells had tolled in his head. Something about her was just… evil. He couldn't place it. Perhaps it was the way her eyes watched them predatorily, probing for weaknesses. Perhaps it was the silky, yet challenging way she spoke. Perhaps it was just the fact that she was an apostate and a barbarian, and therefore could not be counted on to follow the strictures of society. Like common decency, for one.

That was perhaps what frightened him most, about this woman… not her manner or her magic. Not the fact that she may or may not have been the daughter of a thousand-year-old sorceress. No, she was a woman, and a damn sexy one. And she knew it.

Her ensemble was crafted painstakingly to elicit promises of excitement and mystery; Percival's experienced eye knew that upon first sight. And worse… it worked. Percival felt himself… stirred by it, mind roaming unbidden as he pictured himself running his hands over that wind-roughened skin and through that tangled hair.

That was what alarmed him most of all about her. She awoke things in him that should have been dead. But life went on even after tragedy, and his body still remembered fondly the whisper of sheets. If she realized and acted upon it… he couldn't say that he could control himself.

No, losing control was not an option anymore. A Cousland did his duty first… that's what his father had said as he lay dying. For his father, Percival would do his duty. And that duty was to not bed wilderness witches who had stolen Grey Warden treaties. No matter how much he may have wanted to.

All this rage and desire was filling up that emptiness inside him. He had a hard time letting it go, when at least it made him feel things again.

"And here we are," Morrigan said, stopping at a ridge. As they pulled up beside her, they saw Ostagar's walls before them. "'Tis reasonable to assume you can take it from here, I think. Do come back soon."

Despite the silky sarcasm in her voice, Finian's response of "Thank you, Morrigan," sounded entirely sincere.

Marnan sighed and started down the ridge, heading toward the ruin. Percival took up the rear. He fought not to let his eyes linger on artfully revealed skin as he passed the witch, but he could tell by the quirk of her lips that she was all too aware of his internal struggle. A Desire Demon given flesh, she was.

Once they were out of earshot of the apostate, Alistair immediately got to mocking. "'Thank you, Morrigan, for stealing our scrolls and then not turning us into to toads on the way back. So kind of you, really'. Andraste's knickers, Finian, do you have to be nice to everyone?"

Said elf shrugged. "She wasn't that bad. A bit cold, but we were strangers… heavily armed and outnumbering her. She was scared."

"Scared?" Alistair snorted incredulously. "Somehow, I don't think that was it."

"I agree with Alistair," Daveth said. "They're witches, right? Maybe we should check the scrolls over for hexes, or something."

Kazar threw his hands in the air. "For the last time, magic doesn't work like that! By the Fade, I wish that Amell twit were here, just so she could explain it to you!"

"Obviously, there are other kinds of magic than what you encountered in your Tower," Marnan said reasonably. "Myself, I'm not sure what to think of either woman. They did return the scrolls. Without asking anything in return, at that."

"Good point," Garott chuckled. "She did hex the things, then."

"They obviously recognize the darkspawn threat," Finian reasoned. "Think about it… if Flemeth is as old as they say, she's had to have lived through several Blights, right? So she, out of anyone, would know the danger."

"Or maybe it's all a trick," Alistair argued shrewdly, "to lure us into a false sense of security."

"If the trick is to put us at ease," Finian bandied back, "then it's obviously not working… is it?"

That made Alistair pause. "Well… maybe they're not very good at it."

"No…" Percival said softly, though he could tell everyone's attention swiveled to him every time he spoke. It made him inwardly wince. Still… "They're manipulators. Or at least, Morrigan is. Whatever their motivation, they're getting something out of this."

"I agree with Ser Smiles back there," Garott said. "They both stank of craftiness to me, and not just in a witchcrafty way."

"It's a moot point now," Marnan said. "It's over and done with. Let's just get these treaties back to Duncan."

They walked the rest of the way back to Ostagar in silence, passing through the gate into camp with a collective sigh of relief. Alistair went off to report to Duncan, while the rest were left to their own devices until nightfall, still an hour or so away.

"So where do you suppose Felicity took Meila?" Finian asked.

"Who cares?" Kazar scoffed, and abruptly turned and stomped off. Garott made a pointing motion and slipped off into the shadows, presumably to keep an eye on the young mage.

"She knows a healer in the mages' camp," Marnan said. "She will likely be tending to her there."

"Ah." Finian then glanced up at Percival. "You want to check on Hugo first?"

Percy unclenched a fist he hadn't realized he'd been clenching. Shortly, he nodded, and the four recruits set off toward the sounds of dogs barking.

Ser Jory was there, looking out over the dogs. He turned and smiled at them as they approached. "Ah, good. You're back. I trust everything went well?"

"Yep," Fin said. "We got the treaties, all ready to be rubbed in peoples' faces."

"Excellent."

Marnan asked, "How are Meila and Hugo?"

Ser Jory nodded to one of the pens. "Hugo's doing much better." Sure enough, when Percy drew even with the indicated pen, his hound looked up at him and gave a wag of his tail. "The kennel master fixed him up with a paste from that flower. Says he'll most likely make it through, and be fine in a couple days."

Percival sighed, feeling something close to a smile reach his face. A burden he hadn't been aware of lifted from his shoulders. His last connection to his past was here, safe. As Percy watched, Hugo laid his head back down on his paws and went to sleep.

"Meila, though… She… erm… she collapsed on the way back to camp."

All four of them turned to Jory. Marnan sighed: "I knew we should not have let her come."

"Is she all right?" Finian asked.

Jory shrugged. "I can't rightfully say. When I left them, Felicity and the elder mage were working on her, but they shooed me out of the tent before they'd made any progress. Last I saw, she was spasming and kicking around, and looked to be holding back a scream."

"Poor elf," Daveth whispered.

"Will she last until the Joining?" Marnan asked.

Again, Jory just shrugged.

"Perhaps it is best we do it sooner, then," said the dwarf, "rather than later."

"I think I'll go peek in on her," Finian said, and flitted off.

Marnan turned to Daveth. "You go retrieve the duster and the mage. I'm going to help Duncan get the ritual started."

"Agreed. I'm about ready to have this done, I am." Both also departed, heading for opposite corners of the camp.

This left Percival and Ser Jory alone. Percy spent the silence just watching his dog breathe. One less casualty to mourn.

"So…" Ser Jory began. "I've been wondering."

Percy looked up at the knight expectantly.

"You carry the Highever crest on your shield. I'd moved up there recently, you know, to start a family with my wonderful wife."

Percival turned his eyes back to the kennel, not liking the direction of this conversation.

"Well… I'm just wondering, really. Your name is Percival, right? And there's… Well, since his swordplay is rather legendary in the tourneys up there, and yours seems fit to match that description-"

"Yes," Percy cut in, a bit sharper than he'd intended. "I'm Percival Cousland."

"Oh. Sorry, my lord. I did not intend to pry."

Percival turned that over for a moment, then sighed. "I know, Ser Jory. It's just… a painful connection for me, right now."

"Oh? And why would that be? As I understand it, the Couslands are considered one of the most—"

"Were considered, Ser Jory." His grip on the kennel fence tightened at that dagger in his heart, though it was perhaps not as sharp as it had been before. "Now, I'm all that's left."

"Oh." Ser Jory was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry." And he sounded sincere, damn him.

That left Percy with only that burning rage, circling low in the otherwise empty pit of his soul, and nowhere to let it loose. If he kept going like this, it would soon consume him.

And part of him was beginning to wonder why he didn't simply let it.