131. The Brothers Cousland

The Landsmeet was tomorrow, and, after everything that had happened, Fergus thought it wise to be as ready to fight as possible.

And so, after dinner, he retreated to the training rooms and spent some time swinging at a practice dummy. It failed to give him much confidence in his ability to hold off assassins, as his flagging body weakened within minutes. Long captivity had taken a toll on his strength and reflexes, and, when he took a swing and missed the dummy entirely due to the ache in his limbs and twinge in his side, he tossed the practice sword aside.

With a frustrated sigh, he slumped onto one of the room's benches. A warm tongue lapped at his hand, and Fergus instinctively reached out to scratch Hugo behind the ears. Only then did he become aware of his younger brother, standing in the doorway.

Percy's face was a mask, as seemed to be its default position these days, Every time Fergus looked at it, he missed the laughing, playful baby brother he'd grown up with... the one who shirked familial duties to consort with the village girls, or who legitimately complained about the responsibility of running the estate while Father and Fergus were away.

And look at him now, hardened and cold, bearing the burdens of a Grey Warden. Percy had never been one for duty, or leadership, or considering others' wellbeings above his own enjoyment. One part of Fergus was proud of him for doing what he'd been doing, but a larger part of him wasn't sure whether his baby brother was even in there anymore.

Fergus nodded acknowledgement and sent a weak smile to the ghost in the door. "Percy."

Percival just nodded back, no smile of his own to offer. He didn't fidget, or offer any teasing quips about Fergus's performance. Percy had never before missed a chance to rub his own talent for swordplay in Fergus's face.

Fergus tried it for him. "You can say it. I'm a little rusty."

Percy frowned, and that was just wrong. "You were in captivity for months. Of course you're rusty."

Fergus bit back a sigh. He noticed that Percy was carrying something: a bundle of cloth and metal... part of which looked suspiciously like a sword. "We could spar, if you like. It'd be just like old times. Out in the yard, Father throwing out tips and heckling us both, remember?"

Percival winced, and that cut him off. Perhaps it was best not to mention Father when, by all accounts, Percy had been present for his death.

"You'd probably wallop me good," Fergus pressed. "Wouldn't that be fun?"

Percy's jaw tightened. "No, it would not be 'fun.'"

"Why not? You used to love dueling."

Finally, that invoked a feeling from the younger man: anger. "That was before I understood what an actual fight really was. At some point between Howe's mercenaries and the darkspawn horde, perhaps sword-fighting simply lost its glamour. It happens, Fergus."

"Looking at you, a lot happens."

Percy's hands tightened around his bundle. "What do you want from me? You were dead, brother, along with everything else I ever cared about. You can't just come waltzing back in and expect everything to go back to the way it was!"

"Limping back in, more like."

"Stop making jokes! Just stop it!" Percival nearly threw down the bundle in anger, but Hugo whined and he arrested himself. Percy turned aside and took a couple deep, shaky breaths, getting control of himself. Recalling the blood-splattered mess an angry Percival had made of Howe's dungeon, Fergus thought it best to stay silent and let him.

Fergus petted the mabari, and only spoke once Percy had turned back around to face him. "I'm sorry, Percy, if I've been unfair. I simply... don't know how to talk to you anymore." It hurt, because this was his baby brother, who he'd helped raise, and introduced to wine and girls both, and who he'd sworn to protect from unnecessary pain at all costs. Percy had always been softer, a feeler rather than a fighter. And yet here he was, cold and hardened with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Percy huffed a sigh out of his nose. "This is not why I came."

"Business, then."

The younger man nodded and stepped resolutely into the room. It was a measured walk, akin to a march, where before he was prone to swoops and dashes. Another facet of him tempered by his experiences, it seemed.

Percival stopped before Fergus's bench and assumed a stiff, almost military pose. Then, he set to unwrapping the cloth around his bundle. "I thought it best that you have these, for the Landsmeet."

Curiosity piqued, Fergus leaned up, and watched as first a shield, then a sword, were revealed. And not just any shield... a battered one bearing the Highever crest. Percival handed him the pair, and Fergus realized with shock that the sword was even more important... it was the Cousland family sword, of all things!

"Where," he whispered, "did you get these?"

"I've carried them. Since Highever fell."

That had been... months ago. Fergus took a breath to steady himself, because it felt like he now held a little bit of what he'd lost in his hands. It wouldn't bring Oriana or his little Oren back... but it was a piece of that legacy they'd all once held so dear. "And you think I should have them?"

"You're to stand for Highever now." A glance up revealed that Percy's face had lost the coldness, at least. Now, it showed something distant and sad. "You're to take the teyrnir, and the nobles at the Landsmeet need to have that made clear, before another viper attempts to slip in to fill the void left by Howe."

Fergus ran his hand across the shield, lingering on the laurel crest. He couldn't help a small smile. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, you pawning off the responsibility of the teyrnship to me."

Percy only shook his head. "I'm a Grey Warden, Fergus. That's far more responsibility than managing a few leagues of land."

Fergus tried to read Percy's expression, but it had closed again. "I'm proud of you, little brother." Percy's jaw tightened, and Fergus forged on. "I know that doesn't do you much good, and I know I can never understand what you've been through. But I thought you should know that I'm very proud of the man you've become. I think Mother and Father would agree."

Percy looked at him for a long moment, his expression closed. Then, he turned on his heel and started away. "Be sure to wear armor to the Landsmeet. Eamon suggests we all make a strong statement about our preparedness to fight." He left, and it only took a moment for Hugo to stand up and follow.

Alone again in the practice room, Fergus was left to stare down at the items in his lap and wonder how a sword and shield could possibly fix anything.