A very Merry Christmas to all my readers, and especially to my beta reader, WellspringCD.

Fearghal slumped wearily in the chair. Teagan had suggested he wait in the arl's study while he 'made arrangements'. He raised his feet, resting them on the desk and let his head fall back. He couldn't remember when he'd last felt so weary. He was drifting, halfway to sleep when the door opened and Teagan entered, bearing a tray. Fearghal jerked his feet off the desk.

"Don't worry, Fearghal," said Teagan, laughing at Fearghal's guilty expression. "After walking corpses, feet on desks don't seem important anymore."

Teagan set the tray down on the desk. "I wasn't sure if you'd be hungry, but I brought some food, just in case. And, Maker knows, I could do with a drink!"

Teagan picked up the wine bottle and filled the two empty glasses on the tray, pushing one towards Fearghal.

Fearghal picked up the glass and sipped at the wine; his eyebrows rose."Will your brother forgive you for drinking his best wine when he recovers?"

Teagan laughed. "If you hadn't turned up, we'd all be dead and there'd be no-one to enjoy it. That would have been such a waste."

Fearghal laughed, almost in spite of himself. He felt his weariness lift a little. Teagan had always been good company. He pulled the plate of cold meat, cheese and bread towards him intending only to pick at it, but it seemed only moments before the plate was empty.

"I've never seen men eat like you and Alistair do. Is it a Grey Warden trait?" asked Teagan, shaking his head in wonder.

Fearghal paused. He remembered watching Alistair eat on the evening of his Joining. 'Are you part mabari?' He shrugged. "I'll have to ask Alistair. He's never mentioned it, but I didn't used to eat this much."

"Your mage, the older woman, is examining Eamon. I don't know if she'll be able to help. Isolde... " Teagan stumbled on the dead arlessa's name. "Isolde had a mage come from the Circle when he was first taken ill. They didn't even know he'd been poisoned."

"You know, it might be worth asking Zevran," suggested Fearghal. "He's an Antivan Crow."

Teagan gawked at Fearghal. "An assassin? You certainly keep interesting company, Fearghal."

"Tell me about it," muttered Fearghal gloomily. "A hedge witch, a Qunari mass-murderer, an Orlesian chantry sister who believes the Maker put her in my path, a failed Antivan assassin and an old mage who is just about the only surviving member of the Ferelden Circle of Magi and treats us all like five year olds."

Teagan almost choked on his wine as he burst out laughing. "At least you have Alistair."

"Don't get me started on Alistair," growled Fearghal, scowling.

"Oh?" Teagan looked surprised. "Of course, I haven't seen him for years; not since Eamon shipped him off to the chantry. I always liked him though. A remarkably good-tempered little fellow he was, considering what he had to put up with."

Fearghal snorted. "He's still like that now. It drives me mad! He's like some... big puppy bouncing around, expecting everyone to be nice to him because he's... cute! And then, when they're not he gets that look. I hate it! He's so bloody naïve. He talks about Duncan like he's some kind of hero and thinks that the Grey Wardens are the best thing since Andraste." Fearghal drained his glass and reached for the bottle to refill it.

"Whereas you, you're old and cynical and a man of the world," mocked Teagan, smiling to take the sting out of his words.

Fearghal sighed heavily. "More wordly than I was." he conceded.

Teagan put down his wine glass and leaned forwards in his chair. "What happened?" he asked softly.

Fearghal drank deeply from his wine glass. "Howe betrayed us. Father and Fergus were all set to go to Ostagar. Then Howe turned up saying his men had been delayed. Father decided that Fergus should set out with our men, as planned; he would wait behind and travel with Howe, when his men turned up."

Fearghal drained his glass then reached for the bottle and refilled it, his had trembling. "It was late. I-I was in my room... waiting for Rory." Fearghal's voice wavered and he stopped, struggling to control his emotions. He sipped at his wine before continuing, "I heard a scream...Oriana... they were everywhere... Howe's men. They were killing everyone. It was... a massacre."

Teagan's face was full of sympathy. Fearghal couldn't bear to look at him as he asked, "Then how did you escape?"

Fearghal's face twisted and he drained his glass again. "Duncan," he spat. He reached for the wine bottle once more. "He'd arrived that day. Said he wanted to test Rory for the Grey Wardens. Father was dying and Duncan stood there, bargaining for a recruit, any recruit. I should have killed the bastard when I had the chance!"

"I'm so sorry, Fearghal. I'd heard rumours, but it was worse than I'd feared. And Rory...?"

Fearghal's face went flat. "He was holding the gates," he said dully. "Duncan said... they'd fallen."

Teagan covered his eyes with his hand, blinking back tears. He didn't know why he felt the need to hide them, except that he knew Fearghal would be hurting over Rory's death far more then he was, yet Fearghal sat there, glaring at the wall.

Teagan looked up as he heard Fearghal's chair scrape back. Fearghal reached for the wine bottle, yet again, and topped up his glass. "I-I think... I need to be alone for a while."

"I can go," offered Teagan.

Fearghal shook his head. "This is... your place."

"The library," suggested Teagan. "Hardly anyone ever uses it. You can be alone in there."

"Thank you." He picked up the bottle of wine. "Do you mind if I... ?"

Teagan waved him away.

Fearghal managed to find the library. It was dark except for the fire someone had lit. He sank into an easy chair and stared morosely at the flames, sipping his wine. He didn't know if it was the wine or talking to Teagan, but his feelings were dangerously close to the surface. A part of him just wanted to lie down on the floor and weep, but it felt as if he started, he'd never stop. He allowed his mind to wander; to imagine being held in strong arms. Oh, Rory. If only you could have come with us, this wouldn't have been so unbearable.

Fearghal stiffened as he heard the library door open. He looked up, recognising the large frame outlined in the doorway. Maker's cock! Alistair. What the hell does he want?

Fearghal drained his glass again and refilled it with the last of the wine as Alistair closed the door and came towards him. He saw Alistair's eyes narrow, taking in the wine bottle. Insufferable prig!

"Fearghal." Alistair's voice was hard.

"Alistair. I'd ask you to join me, but I'm afraid this is the last of it." Fearghal raised his glass to Alistair, then drank deeply. "Teagan's about somewhere. I'm sure he'd open another bottle, if you asked him."

"I wanted to talk about what happened... this afternoon." Alistair stood stiffly, almost to attention, except that he had shed his armour and was clad only in shirt and breeches.

"I don't," snapped Fearghal, raising his glass to his lips again.

"Is there a better time to discuss it than right now?"

Alistair's righteous tone set Fearghal's teeth on edge. Fearghal shrugged and turned his gaze back to the fire.

"You let Lady Isolde sacrifice herself! With blood magic! How could you do that?" demanded Alistair furiously.

"It was her choice, Alistair," said Fearghal draining the glass and setting it down on the floor beside the empty bottle; determined not to let Alistair needle him. Not tonight.

"She was grasping at straws! Of course she would sacrifice herself; she felt guilty for what had happened! There must have been another way. This is the arl's wife we're talking about here. What do you think he'll say when we revive him?" Alistair's voice rose as he warmed to his theme.

Fearghal snorted. "I don't really care what he says." He looked at the empty bottle. Maybe I should go and find Teagan and scrounge up another bottle. He started to pull himself up out of the chair.

"I just don't understand how you could do it; how you could make that decision. I owe the arl more than this!" Alistair tried to stifle the anger that flared in the face of Fearghal's indifference.

"Right now, I don't really care what you think," sighed Fearghal. "I'm going to get some more wine. Want some?"

Alistair grabbed Fearghal's arm as he tried to push past him. "This is typical of you, isn't it?" he sneered. "I don't know why I should have expected any different."

Fearghal felt his fragile grip on his temper fray. He shook his arm free of Alistair's grip. "You think I should have killed the boy?" he demanded, angrily.

"I-I..." stammered Alistair, suddenly wary of the steely look in Fearghal's eye.

"Would you have killed him?" demanded Fearghal. Seeing the hesitation in Alistair's eyes, he continued angrily, "No. You're too good to kill children, but you expect me to do it! I suppose you think it's easy? After all, it's only a child, they can't fight back! Just a flick of your sword; simple really!"

Fearghal placed his hand on Alistair's chest and pushed him backwards a step. "Tell me, Alistair; Have you ever seen a child that's been cut down by a sword?"

"N-no," stammered Alistair, backing up a step, as a furious Fearghal advanced on him.

"I didn't think so," ground out Fearghal. "Believe me, it's not pretty. Their little guts tend to make a mess all over the floor."

Alistair paled at Fearghal's words. "I-I didn't mean... it's just Arl Eamon..."

"Ah, now we get to the rub. Arl Eamon... you're doting foster father," sneered Fearghal. "He's why you're upset. You couldn't give a shit about Lady Isolde. You don't understand why she did what she did. How could you? You've never had a mother, much less one that would die for you. You're just worried about what the man who treated you like a stray dog will think about you."

"That's not fair," mumbled Alistair.

"Fair?" crowed Fearghal. "How old are you, Alistair? Five? You're pathetic! That woman died willingly, to save her son, and here you are, quibbling because you're afraid the Arl will think badly of you."

Fearghal's face twisted in a scornful grin. "The same Arl who made you, the King's son, sleep in his stable and dumped you on the chantry when his wife objected to the petty gossip that pegged you as his bastard, not the King's!"

Alistair didn't even know he was going to hit Fearghal until his fist lashed out; all he knew was he wanted to stop that mouth, that vicious mouth that exposed his every hurt and held it up for ridicule.

Fearghal staggered backwards at the blow. He felt the sting in his lip, where it had split against his teeth. Oddly, the blow didn't anger him, if anything it amused him. "Oh ho!" he mocked, laughing, "The chantry boy has balls after all! I was beginning to think they'd gelded you in that monastery, Alist... "

The next blow almost had him seeing stars. He went flying backwards, coming to a halt abruptly against the wall. He giggled stupidly as he felt his legs start to give way.

As Alistair advanced on Fearghal, who was sliding down the wall, a part of him finally understood the savage pleasure he'd seen in Fearghal as he'd beaten the bandit at Lothering and the thug in the tavern just a few days ago. To give in to anger, to surrender to it... it was liberating somehow. Alistair leaned down and pulled Fearghal upright, drawing his fist back. Fearghal blinked at him, still chuckling. A little trickle of blood hung on his lower lip. Alistair felt his anger fade; suddenly he wanted nothing more than to lick the blood from Fearghal's mouth, to kiss the rapidly swelling lip.

He could hear the blood roaring in his ears as he leaned in... then suddenly a strong hand grabbed his still-raised arm. Voices, raised in alarm, called his name. More hands pulled him back, hustling him towards the door, out into the brightly lit corridor.