106. Whose Tent is This, Anyway?
For the first time in his life, Percival felt like he was an honest-to-Maker soldier. There was just something about having men in Redcliffe tabards setting up camp around him, the tents organized into neat rows, with the larger circular pavilion of the command tent in the center that made it all feel official. The camp wasn't large, but it was organized.
He had a vague impression that Ostagar had felt like this, but he couldn't remember enough of his night there to say for sure.
Campfires sprang up along the road where the Redcliffe caravan had settled in. It stretched a decent length, with soldiers, retainers, servants, Wardens, nobles, a dwarven merchant and his son, and a single Chantry scholar all joined together by their mutual destination: Denerim.
The other two Wardens had picked a campfire near the center to set up court. Finian could be seen there now, surrounded by rapt soldiers and civilians alike as he recounted the tale of an arduous journey into a dragon's nest. Percy personally doubted about half the heroic feats the elf claimed of his fellow Wardens, but he couldn't begrudge the lot a certain amount of entertainment.
Garott and Oghren seemed to be having a good time of it anyway, the pair laughing and adding entertaining and ribald (respectively) comments to flavor the tale. Wynne, meanwhile, just stood to the side and shook her head fondly.
Percy felt a smile tugging at his lips as he watched them at it. A part of him wanted to join them, but he couldn't. Not when there were more important matters to worry about.
With a sigh, he turned and headed for the command tent, Hugo falling into step at his heels as always. He slipped through the flap quietly, entering into the candle-lit interior.
The tent was round and large, and decorated with the arms of Redcliffe many times over. A collapsible wooden table dominated the center of the room, currently with a Ferelden map unfurled across it. The map was strewn with a number of wooden figures, each representing a known military contingent.
Arl Eamon pored over the map, stroking his beard in thought. A number of the Redcliffe leadership—Teagan, two of his knights, etc.—surrounded him.
"The dwarves should be sending forces out soon," Teagan said. "Maker willing, they'll be able to handle the north shore of Lake Calenhad until the Landsmeet is settled."
"I'm more concerned about the Bannorn," Eamon said.
"It's… a mess at the moment, sir," one of the knights said. Ser Perth. "The Banns fight amongst themselves. We don't have the manpower to intervene."
"Warden Cousland." Percival straightened as the arl turned the tent's attention to him. "I am given to understand you have a number of allies at your call. We shall turn one of them to secure the Bannorn, to rally our allies."
Percival stiffened further, and not out of respect. Rage sparked deep in his stomach… how dare he… no. He couldn't lose control in front of these people. "With all due respect, my lord, the forces we've called have been summoned under Grey Warden treaties, as they pertain to the Blight."
"And so they are. Turning the civil war in our favor will leave us better equipped to face the darkspawn."
"They will not see it as such." He tried to imagine the dwarves fighting under Eamon's banner, but couldn't. Even worse, the Dalish.
"A silver-tongued rogue like you?" Eamon said with a politician's smile. "I'm sure you can make them see reason."
It struck Percival that Eamon knew nothing about him, except what he'd been before Howe's betrayal. More, the arl knew nothing of the Blight. The civil war was a threat, but they could not spare the Wardens' forces for it. That had been Cailan's mistake: expecting the Wardens to be able to handle the Blight merely by their presence. That could not happen again.
He drew himself straight, and allowed just a little of the ferocity that boiled within him to show. Whatever they saw in him, it gave Eamon pause. "It is not negotiable," Percy said. "The Wardens' forces are needed for the Blight, and will not be needlessly depleted beforehand."
"Needlessly!" Eamon said incredulously. "We are fighting for your right to fight the darkspawn, Warden."
"No, you are unseating a usurper." Percival looked around the tent, surprised that they were letting him get away with this. Eamon's sheer presence seemed to command a room too much to allow for blatant defiance. Unless… somehow Percy matched him? A strange thought. "The Landsmeet is the best means of settling the Banns, one way or another. You worry about that, Eamon. Let us worry about the Blight."
Eamon considered him, his expression masked. Then, he smiled, and it was capitulation. "You've grown up," he said softly, and that was as much as needed to be said. He turned back to the map.
The others still stared at him, and it was stifling. Percival bowed briefly and then ducked out of the tent. He'd wanted to speak with the arl about his plans regarding the Landsmeet, but perhaps it was for the best that they leave one another to their respective problems. The Landsmeet was up to Eamon. Their problem was the hordes of darkspawn that inhabited the land.
He could feel the Taint on the land around them; it was difficult to ignore. They were passing through a Blight-ravaged area of Ferelden, where the passing of the horde was evident in every blackened stalk and dying tree. It grated on the nerves, like a shadow constantly at the edge of one's vision. Sometimes, he wondered whether the land would ever heal.
He was no fit company tonight, so he avoided the campfire where his companions spoke and ate and laughed. Instead, he headed for the tent that had been designated for him. It was a perk, he supposed, of being the unspoken commander of the Wardens: he was afforded his own relatively large tent and travel gear, as a matter of political symbolism. It was large enough to stand in, at least, with a camp chair alongside his bedroll. He had a bottle of spiced Orlesian wine he'd brought from the Redcliffe cellars stashed among his things… he thought it was about time to break it open.
He stopped right before entering as he realized that a candle was lit inside. Not Morrigan—if she decided to surprise him, it was usually under cover of darkness, in the middle of the night. Someone else was waiting for him… he could see the figure's shadow flickering faintly against the tent walls.
He glanced down; Hugo looked up at him curiously. His hound was not alarmed by the intruder—likely someone he knew, then. That may not have meant anything. All an assassin needed to do was feed the dog a juicy cut of meat, and they'd be best friends.
Percy set his hand to the greatsword at his back, then stepped inside.
It was an assassin, but not the kind he had been expecting. Zevran lounged in his camp chair, swirling a glass of that same Orlesian wine he had been thinking about a moment ago. Percival drew his hand from his pommel, but did not lower his guard.
"What are you doing in my tent?" In his mood, it was more a growl than a question.
The elf was unfazed. Careless of the fire curling in the berserker's stomach, the elf sipped his glass and hummed in pleasure. At last, he spoke. "Does the good arl know you've been pilfering his cellar?"
Percy narrowed his eyes. "Is that a threat, Antivan? If this is blackmail, you will know that I will not fall prey to it."
The elf laughed, head thrown back. "Oh, not in the least! Perish the thought!" He waved a dismissive hand, then leveled a pointed stare at him. "But tell me, Warden, is it not a bit early to be heading to bed? Why are you not spending time with your fellow Wardens?"
"I don't see how that concerns you."
"Are you tired? Or perhaps shy?" the assassin went on, swirling his glass. "Or could it be that you are avoiding a certain someone… say, five head tall, big brown eyes, and with a tongue so silver he could convince a dragon to roast its own eggs?"
Percival froze.
"I thought so." The elf smoothly bent to set the glass down by his feet. Then, he unfolded from the chair, all dangerous grace and dark eyes. "It seems, my friend, that we have run into a problem. My Warden enjoys your company for whatever reason. I do not… but that is beside the point at the moment. You, on the other hand, avoid him as if he carries a deadly contagion. I do not understand Fereldans; is being admired so repulsive?"
"He's a man."
"Your point being?" Zevran arched a brow, stalking in close. His voice lowered to a cold, smooth cadence that made Percival believe that this man was indeed a career killer. "If you are concerned that he may initiate unwanted contact, then you need not be. I will make him forget his silly little crush on you, be certain of that."
It tickled a memory, and he realized that he'd seen this before. Before Howe, he'd had to face this sort of behavior several times, from paramours and friends of the ladies he'd entertained. Shocked, Percival breathed, "You're jealous."
The Antivan's eyes narrowed. "I think not. Jealousy would indicate a threat, which you are not."
Bravado. The elf was jealous. He couldn't help but bark an incredulous laugh. "You care about him. I'd never thought that… a man could do that." He shook his head, amazed by the revelation that a man could care this way for another man. He'd never really… considered it before.
The elf seemed struck speechless. Perhaps he was as startled by the revelation as Percy was.
Suddenly feeling more at ease about the whole business, Percy slipped past the elf and bent to pick up the glass of wine. He settled into the chair and studied it, wondering if the assassin had put anything in it that he should be worried about. Feeling strangely reckless, he lifted it to his lips and took a sip anyway.
It was good wine, with a combination of sweet and spicy that the Orlesians did not often indulge in. A lovely selection.
By this time, the Antivan had recovered his composure. He watched the human with a closed expression, his arms crossed in front of him and his head tilted to one side.
"So…" Percival started. "You're here to… what? Tell me to back off?"
The Antivan chuckled, but it was sharp and humorless. "On the contrary. I am here to tell you to stop being so skittish. He is very good with people, remember; he can tell when someone is avoiding him."
Percival considered that. "Better that than him detecting my discomfort, isn't it?"
"Then I suggest you get over it." The Antivan moved to loom over it, still silky humor over steel. "For whatever reason, he enjoys your company, and its lack is hurting him." Zevran leaned forward, the killer dark and cool in his eyes. "I do not take kindly to anything that hurts him. Is that clear enough?"
Percival met Zevran's gaze for a long moment, trying to read the assassin's intent. Protectiveness. Jealousy. It seemed preposterous, but this man obviously had it bad for Finian Tabris. A man and a man… perhaps this sort of relationship wasn't some sort of abomination or sickness, if it was able to evoke something so pure from a career assassin?
Percival nodded slowly. "I will… endeavor to put my discomfort aside, then. He is a very good friend." He offered the elf a small smile, as a matter of concession. "Tell me, does he have any idea you're in my tent?"
The assassin relaxed with such suddenness that part of it had to be artifice. He stepped back and stretched. "Not a one."
"And if he finds out you snuck into my tent in the middle of the night?"
The elf tilted his head, his lips curling into a lascivious smirk. "He may be upset at first… but then we will merely have to invite him to join us. That would make his night, I suspect."
Percy couldn't help but laugh, and that helped ease the discomfort he felt at the prospect. Really, if the elves had been women, he would have wholly agreed. He raised the glass of wine in toast, and Zevran plucked it out of his hands with a smirk. Then, the Antivan afforded the noble a graceful bow and left, carrying the glass out with him.
Percival shook his head incredulously, leaning forward to rest his head on one hand.
"Were I he," a voice said abruptly behind him, and Percival just about jumped out of his chair in startlement, "I would simply remove the offending party and have done with it."
"Maker, Morrigan! Were you here the entire time?" He looked over his shoulder, and saw her crawling out from under the sheet of his cot, where there had very much not been anything human-sized a moment before.
"Twas not my intention to lurk so," the witch said, fastidiously perching on his bed. "But he came waltzing in as bold as you please. I saw no reason to alert him to my presence."
"You do realize that this is no more your tent than his?" Percy pointed out, but there was no ire in it. She'd been sharing his bed for some time, now. He was in no position to protest if she felt comfortable in it. In fact.. it was actually rather... nice.
She arched a brow. "If I am unwelcome, then I shall leave." She made no move to stand, indicating that she had no illusions that such was the case. It was a dare, nothing more.
Percy couldn't help crack a smile at that. "Am I that predictable?"
"'Predictable' would not be the word I would use… Consistent to certain priorities, perhaps. A woman's company being one of them."
Percy leaned back in his seat. Once, that had been true, but it was no longer entirely accurate. Were some noble's daughter to crawl into his tent tomorrow, he would turn her about and march her straight back to her parents without giving it a second thought. He was just too exhausted by everything to turn on the charm like he'd used to.
Except for Morrigan. Which wasn't to say that he was particularly charming with her; she would only see such treatment as trite and shallow and would not tolerate it, and Percy couldn't say he blamed her. Rather, she was the exception to his apathy, the one who constantly stoked the fire just to see it burn.
He found himself eying her. She had pulled her hair out of its clip, and now calmly ran a comb through the silky black strands cascading around her shoulders. She rarely let her hair loose, and the sight of her, sitting on his bed and making herself comfortable like she belonged there, made something in his chest twinge.
"You are very quiet," she said offhandedly.
"You'd rather I engaged you in the latest gossip?"
She rolled her eyes. "Don't be dull." She patted the cot beside her with her comb, and Percival found himself standing, stepping across the tent, and sitting beside her. He even dared to lean in and sweep a stray lock of feather-soft hair from her shoulder. She returned to her brushing with no acknowledgement, but Percy nonetheless caught sight of a pleased quirk in her lips.
"We could speak of you instead," he offered.
She scoffed. "Whyever would you want to do that?"
Percy had to smother his laugh in her shoulder.
"What?" Oh Maker, now she sounded cross.
"You are the strangest woman I have ever met. Did you know that?
"Am I?" She sniffed. "Forgive me if I do not trust your opinion of what is strange. You do let a mutt follow you everywhere, after all."
"You know, he actually likes you. Maker knows why; you're positively awful to him."
"But the same cannot be said for you? Interesting." Finally, she turned and fixed him with a piercing look. "Tell me what you intend."
He struggled to follow the shift in topic. "You… will have to be a bit more specific."
She made a frustrated gesture. "About your Howe, of course. This Landsmeet will be a gathering of nobles, correct? It stands to reason he will be there."
Percy stiffened. Yes, Howe would certainly be in Denerim for the Landsmeet. Percival hadn't considered that. How could he have forgotten about Howe?
He fought down the spark of fire in him before it had a chance to grow. There was more at stake here than his own vengeance. This was about the Blight, and his comrades, and even Arl Eamon and their allies. None of it would wait for him to satisfy his own bloodlust.
So, he took a breath and blew it out, then took another. Once he felt in control again, he said, "Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Not a thing." Her brow was arching like no brow had ever arched before, and he felt compelled to elaborate. "Our mission is to gather allies among the Ferelden nobility. We won't accomplish that if we start killing them."
"I see. So you would let this man's crimes against you go unpunished?" Disdain was thick in her voice, and she abruptly swung her legs off the cot and stood. "I thought you stronger than that."
And there it was. Her poking the fire. "I am being strong!"
She turned to regard him with arms crossed and a cool look. "And what about cowering behind the excuses of duty and missions like a scared little mouse makes you strong?"
"Do you think this is easy, Morrigan?" he snapped, standing himself. On his feet, he towered over her slender form, but she showed no concern. "Do you think I don't want to go roaring into Amaranthine and start making men into corpses? That I don't yearn for the day when I will have that snake's blood on my hands?"
"If that is what you desire, then why not pursue it? Exact upon him the price for his folly of crossing you. Simple, yes?"
"No."
She scoffed and turned to leave.
"You truly have no idea, do you?" In his frustration, he just about picked up his camp chair and threw it at her. "You don't even try to understand!"
"Understand what, pray tell?" She turned to stand in the door, a stunning figure of thinning patience and rising ire.
"Self-restraint? Being sociable? Not giving into base desires and killing everything that crosses you? You know, civilized behavior?"
"If I fall short in that department, it is only because I have no will to understand it. This is not a weakness."
"Isn't it?" he challenged. "And when your lack of allies turns the tables on you, what will you do?"
"You are saying you would not defend me, chivalrous knight that you are?" she snapped back, voice thick with sarcasm.
"Not the point-"
"Tis exactly the point! Just because I am more exacting about my allies does not mean I am incapable of making them." Her hands moved to her hips. "This does not, however, mean that I will simper and fake smiles to every old man with a title, and I do not believe that you should either."
"I am not simpering... I am simply not cutting off their heads when they look at me sideways!"
"And perhaps that is problem. If your politicians did the direct, honest thing and simply began stabbing one another instead of all this business of quitting battlefields, spreading lies, hiring assassins, and whatnot, then your Wardens could have killed the archdemon by now!"
That shocked his rising temper right out of him. "You... really think that?"
She stamped a foot. "Why do you always suspect me of dissembling? If I did not believe it, I would not say it!" Her arms returned to their crossed position. "You slew my mother, did you not? I daresay after her, the archdemon shall be positively redundant."
And just like that, the fight went out of him. He slumped into the chair.
They hadn't defeated Flemeth. Kazar had, which was to say that an abomination that had been Kazar had. And now he was defected, and dragging three of their Wardens after him. Maker, how would they fight the archdemon if the others didn't come back?
"What do you want me to say, Morrigan?" he asked tiredly. "That I'll start lopping off the heads of all our enemies and ignore the consequences?"
"I did not say that."
Maker, could she be any more frustrating? "Then perhaps my memory is faulty, because I'm pretty sure that is what you said."
"I did not say to necessarily resort to violence. I said that you should not simply do nothing."
He peered up at her, more confused than anything. "Then what are you proposing, exactly?"
She threw her hands in the air. "How am I to know? You are the one with experience in navigating the spider's web that you call politics. All I care about is that you put up a fight."
He was a little dumbfounded by that. "Why do you care?"
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out right away. Then, quickly, she said, "It would reflect poorly upon me."
A spark of amusement eased the exhaustion from the tug-of-war with Morrigan. "Is that so?"
"I cannot very well have my companion rolling over and showing his belly every time another growls at him. What might that say about me, that I keep your company and counsel?"
"...Did you just compare me to a dog?"
"Tis hardly the first time. You are rather canine in mannerisms."
"And that would make you..."
"Your handler, of course."
"Of course." He hid a smile behind his hand, but a glance at her revealed that she was hardly fooled. Her mien bore the smug superiority that she always had when she managed such a feat as puling a smile out of him. It seemed to be happening increasingly often.
Between the arguing, anyway, but that was perhaps part of the excitement.
"I'll tell you what, Morrigan. If I get the chance to somehow oppose Howe without putting the entire campaign at risk, I will take it."
"Of course you will," she said, as if they hadn't just had a huge fight about it. She walked to the bed and gracefully lowered herself to it. After a moment of looking at him across the tent, she snapped out an expectant, "Well? Are you going to sit over there all night?"
And he chuckled and, like the dog she accused him of being, returned to the cot. He caught a glimpse of a pleased smile on her face before she waved a hand and magically snuffed the candle.