Thank you to everyone who continues to read. I hope my tale continues to entertain. Thanks, as always, to my beta reader, WellspringCD, who makes this story readable.
The group camped within sight of the Mage's Tower after a very tedious week of walking. Apart from the occasional group of darkspawn, which were easily handled, they'd met few travellers. It would seem that any refugees were heading East from Lothering, towards Denerim. Fearghal had noted, with some amusement, that the dwarf merchant still followed them at a safe distance, presumably hoping that the Wardens would clear the way for him.
Alistair hunkered down near their camp fire and stretched out his hands to warm them.
He looked up at Fearghal, who was staring into the flames, lost in thought. "Bennet said you're both from Highever?"
Fearghal looked surprised, but didn't comment, just nodded his head tersely.
"Duncan once told me was from Highever too," said Alistair quietly.
Fearghal snorted. "He must have left a long time ago, then. Highever was well rid of him."
Alistair stood, his fists clenched at his sides. "He was a good man!"
Fearghal raised an eyebrow. "You're entitled to your opinion," he muttered.
Alistair glared at him. "He sometimes had to do things he didn't like. It goes with the job. Maker's breath! There's a blight starting right under our noses. You know that! Doesn't that mean anything to you? Is there nothing you care about?"
Alistair took an involuntary step back at the fury that blossomed in Fearghal's eyes.
"Everything I ever cared about is gone. I was fighting for what I cared for; I would have gladly died for it except for your precious Duncan and his damned conscription." Fearghal laughed bitterly. "The supreme irony is that Duncan yanked me out of one massacre and marched me straight to another one."
Alistair frowned, squirreling away this new titbit of information. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing that Duncan had told him more about Fearghal. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but there was something so raw about Fearghal; it intimidated him. That, more than any unwritten Warden rules about asking after a man's past, turned the question into ashes in his mouth.
"I wish you could have known the other Wardens. You only ever met Duncan and myself." Alistair smiled wryly, trying to defuse the situation. "I'm not sure we're very representative."
Fearghal's look was sceptical.
"Duncan was like a father to me," murmured Alistair sadly, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them.
To his surprise, a stricken look crossed Fearghal's face, before he rubbed his hand over his face wearily.
Fearghal felt a pang of guilt, almost shame. He'd been so wrapped up in what he'd lost, he hadn't stopped to consider how Alistair might be feeling after Ostagar. Fearghal thought back to what Alistair had told him in the cave. Alistair had never known any real family and, by all accounts, hadn't been happy at the Chantry. The Grey Wardens were probably the closest thing to a family Alistair had ever had known.
Fearghal saw the misery and embarrassment on Alistair's face and felt ashamed of himself. "I-I'm sorry... " he stammered, lost for words. "I didn't realise... "
Alistair shrugged, mortified. "It doesn't matter. I know from what you said at your Joining that your father... " He looked across at Fearghal. "Duncan felt bad about it, you know."
Fearghal's sympathy fled. "Oh, well that's all right then... " he scoffed.
Alistair almost groaned aloud. "I just... "
Fearghal pushed past him. "I'm going to get some sleep. You should, too. It's getting late."
Alistair dawdled by the fire for a few moments, then followed Fearghal into the tent. It was cramped and difficult not to get in each other's way as they removed their armour; Alistair tried not to let Fearghal's irritated sighing fluster him. Once out of his armour, Fearghal wrapped himself up in his blanket and turned onto his side, completely ignoring Alistair. Once free of his own armour, Alistair followed suit. He lay in the dark, aware of the tension in the other man. He heard Fearghal sigh heavily, almost a whimper, and wondered what Fearghal was thinking about.
~o~O~o~
Fearghal, Ser Gilmore and Ser Arrol walked down the lane to the village in the fading light. They had spent the last few hours training and sparring and after cleaning up, changing and a quick meal had hurried out of Castle Cousland towards The Fat Badger for a well-deserved drink.
The summer had suddenly faded into autumn and dusk was arriving earlier each day. By the time they got down to the tavern it was almost completely dark; chinks of light gleamed through closed shutters. Fearghal pushed open the door and light and noise spilled out into the gloom. The three men stepped into the bright, warm tavern. Ser Gilmore hurriedly shut the door as a chorus of protest arose at the sudden draught. The tap room was packed; mostly men from Castle Cousland but there was a respectable contingent representing the village too.
Ser Arrol looked around the room frowning. "Most of this lot are supposed to be on guard duty at five bells," he muttered.
Fearghal rolled his eyes. "Give them a break, Marcus. It's still early for all its dark."
Arrol snorted. "That's all right for you to say, you won't have to rouse the sluggards in the morning. It's like trying to raise the dead!"
Fearghal laughed and started pushing his way to the bar. He heard Gilmore chuckle behind him.
"Maybe you should get an early night yourself; set them an example," suggested Gilmore slyly.
"Not on your life! I've earned this," Arrol declared fervently. "Anyway," he grumbled," my good example would be wasted on this lot."
Fearghal turned from the bar and passed two pints of ale back to Gilmore and Arrol. As he rejoined the other two, one of the Castle men looked up and spotted them.
"Evenin' m'lord, sers," he called, lifting his own pint in salute. The other men sat at the table looked up smiling and murmuring as Fearghal returned the greeting, then raised his flagon to his mouth, drinking deeply.
Fearghal caught sight of a huge man sitting on a settle and grinned. "Bennet, your good lady wife is looking for you, I believe."
Bennet blanched and drained his pint. "I'd best be off," he muttered, ignoring the sniggering that broke out around him.
"Yeah, you don't want any more injuries," teased one of his companions to more sniggering.
"Hey, Bennet," called another voice. "Do you 'ave to sit down for that mite of a woman to black your eye?"
The big man scowled at his companions. "You're all a bunch of bastards," he growled. "I told you. That was an accident."
The sniggering gave way to open laughter.
"Yeah, yeah. We know," replied his tormentor. "You big girl's blouse," he muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear, causing another outburst of laughter at Bennet's expense.
Bennet stood and pushed his way to the door, disappearing into the night.
Fearghal grinned. "Excellent, now two of us can sit down!" he announced happily to more chuckles, as he scooted round the table and sat on the settle. Gilmore joined him and Arrol pulled up a chair and sat at the end of the table.
"So," asked Gilmore curiously, "is Bennet's wife really looking for him?"
"I have no idea... probably," replied Fearghal, his blue eyes twinkling. "She might be grateful for an early night with him."
"Yeah," agreed one of the other men. "For all she so small, he's the only man big enough to 'andle er, if you know what I mean." He winked.
"I 'eard her Gran were a dwarf," offered another.
"That would explain her mean right hook then," said Gilmore dryly to more laughter.
Fearghal caught the eye of the Innkeeper and gestured for a round of ale for everyone. He felt the tension ease out of him and relaxed against the back of the settle. It was a bit of a crush and he was suddenly painfully aware of Gilmore's body pressed against his side. He tried to ignore him and concentrate on the various conversations that had broken out around him. He could feel the pressure of Gilmore's thigh against his own. He only half-heard ser Arrol telling the men about their sparring earlier in the day.
"So, Ser Gilmore," called a voice, "'ave you made his lordship beg for mercy yet?"
Gilmore smiled wryly. "No, not yet, Fenwick," he admitted. He twisted his head and smirked at Fearghal. "But I will," he promised.
At his words Fearghal froze. Maker, he's going to kill me saying things like that! Fearghal sipped his pint, trying to calm the feelings that raged in him at Gilmore's words. Since he'd developed his crush on Rory Gilmore, everything sounded like a double entendre.
"I wish you'd bloody hurry about it," grumbled Fenwick.
Gilmore laughed. "I'm working on it, believe me."
Fearghal almost choked on his ale; he could have sworn he felt Gilmore's thigh rub against his own. Maferath's balls!
"Anyway, Fenwick. Why the sudden interest in my prowess?" enquired Gilmore.
Fearghal concentrated on his ale. I wish they'd change the bloody subject.
"Some of us got a sweepstake going on it," admitted Fenwick, to the amusement of the others.
Fearghal was grateful when ser Arrol, mindful of the time, rounded up most of the men from the castle and reminded them of how early they had to be up in the morning. Grumbling good-naturedly they allowed themselves to be herded out of the tavern. Fearghal headed back to the bar and returned with more ale for himself and Gilmore, seating himself at the far end of the settle. It was much easier to chat with Gilmore when his leg wasn't pressed against him; he could almost forget how badly he wanted him.
Two hours later Fearghal and Gilmore rose and headed slightly unsteadily for the door. They weaved up the hill in silence. Fearghal found himself trying to put some distance between himself and Gilmore, which disturbed him. He had tried to keep a tight rein on his feelings, worried about ruining his friendship with Gilmore if the other man guessed what was going through his mind. 'But I'm ruining it anyway,' he though sadly. He staggered slightly, having meandered slightly off the path onto rougher ground.
"Careful, Fearghal" Gilmore was slipping and arm around his waist in an attempt to steady him.
Startled, and not a little guilty about the feelings Gilmore's touch aroused in him, he tried to pull away. Fearghal lost his balance completely, pulling Gilmore down on top of him. He lay there for a long moment, winded. He frowned, waiting for Gilmore to get off him but Gilmore wasn't moving. Fearghal twisted his head to the side, embarrassed as he felt his body respond to the man who lay on him. Maker! He'll know!
"Fearghal." Gilmore's voice was little more than a soft breath of air on Fearghal's cheek.
Fearghal turned his head and looked up. Gilmore was gazing down at him. In the pale moonlight his pale skin looked almost silver, his green eyes huge dark orbs.
"Fearghal." There was just the barest hint of a question in Gilmore's voice.
Sobering, Fearghal realised that he could feel something pressing into his hip.
Almost without realising what he was doing, Fearghal raised his hands and cradled Gilmore's face.
"I yield," he muttered hoarsely. "I yield, Rory."
In the moonlight, Fearghal, saw Gilmore's small, unmistakably triumphant smile. He lifted his head and brushed his lips against Gilmore's, exalting in the shiver he felt ripple through the other man. His hand slipped round to cup Gilmore's head, pulling it down, and Fearghal kissed him again, more firmly. Gilmore nibbled gently at his lower lip and Fearghal gasped as a jolt of pleasure shot through him, then Gilmore's tongue was in his mouth.