A/N: A Dragon Age: Origins story, a part of Ned Cousland series.
A jay screams, rising into the air with a flutter of black and white and pink, the blue of its wings the only such colour in the autumn wood.
Shivering in the chilly air, Leliana pulls her damp cloak closer. Nothing responds to the jay’s alarm but she remains hidden, scanning the valley and the road for any sign of movement.
She takes a fast stride on her way back to the camp, to produce at least some warmth. Her feet are cold in her soaked boots, even though she does her best to avoid the patches of wet snow.
The first person she encounters is Ned, rising from a sheltered spot behind a three-trunked beech. Quietly, Wolf trots over to welcome her, and his cold snout seems almost warm to Leliana’s hand. To Ned’s enquiring look, she shakes her head: no sign of patrols. The relief in his face is barely recognisable.
“How is Sten?"she asks, without much hope.
"Still the same. Go get yourself some tea.”
The camp is huddled in a small hollow, sheltered from wind by a thicket of firs and spruces. Seeing her approach, Alistair gets up and meets her with a cup of smoking tea in his hands. “You look like you could use some.”
She could use way more than some, and a hot bath on top of that, but if wishes were coin, she would be rich and living in Orlais. The tea with its herbal taste at least relieves her of the soreness in her throat, temporarily.
Alistair accompanies her to the tent which she shares with Wynne. “Let me help you with your boots, I’ll put them next to the fire.”
There is no way the boots would dry out by the minute fire that they keep for only short periods of time, but it is the idea that counts. Leliana hangs her damp cloak and wraps herself in a slightly less damp blanket, but before she can start rummaging for her stockings, Alistair is back with a pair of woollen socks which he hands over with a slight blush. For a moment, Leliana thinks – hopes – that he might go as far as to offer to rub her feet for warmth, but time and again, Alistair cannot cross his own shadow.
The tea produces at least an illusion of warmth in her stomach, so she curls on her bedroll to try and get some sleep while she can. It is starting to drizzle again; except for the water dripping from branches and Sten’s dry, laborious cough from the tent next to hers, everything is quiet.
Maker, keep me hale, so that I may serve our cause.
When the cold weather set in, she worried that she would be the first to succumb to it, and she worried for Wynne, due to her age. It never occurred to her that Sten is used to much warmer climate and that his strong physique might not overcome the cold. With his usual stoicism, the Qunari never complained about his state, until he almost collapsed in fever, and then it was too late. All Wynne’s spells, all Morrigan’s potions, cannot cure an advanced pneumonia.
Leliana pulls the blanket over her head, to warm the tip of her nose. She is well aware that if not for the herbal concoctions that Morrigan keeps brewing, she would have developed a profound cold by now, if not worse. She breathes into her hands.
In Maker we trust. Hold us in your hand, and do not let us fail.
The trust never failed them so far: they cleansed the Circle Tower and found Andraste’s ashes, and despite Loghain’s wrath after they thwarted his plans, they eluded all the attempts to hunt them down. With audacity, and not the smallest use of Leliana’s skills, they even managed to slip into Denerim and out with gear and supplies, right under Loghain and Howe’s noses. When the pursuit began, they backtracked, and instead of heading south to the safety of Redcliffe, they took the northern route to the Frostback mountains, to spend the winter in Orzammar, out of Loghain’s reach. They traversed through Howe’s own lands undetected, keeping off the roads and settlements and avoiding patrols, until their luck ran out with an early outbreak of cold weather and Sten’s illness pinned them down.
Cold, so cold…Despite her best attempts, Leliana is unable to keep herself warm enough to fall asleep, even when she borrows Wynne’s blankets.
We cannot go on like this, she thinks desperately. I cannot go on like this. Maker, please, smile on us once again.
The evening meal is a gloomy event, subdued and huddled around a small fire which they will put out soon.
“We cannot go on like this,” Ned finally proclaims, putting aside his dish.
The joy that Leliana feels at his statement is almost embarrassing. “Is Sten worse?” she asks worriedly.
“No,” Wynne replies, “but he is not getting any better, either. We need to move him somewhere warm, so that the healing can finally take a full effect.”
And so that the rest of us don’t come down, either. But where to?
As if in a response to her thought, Alistair speaks. “What do we do, though?” He wipes his nose. “Trust our luck with some tavern, or knock on our good friend Howe’s door right away?”
“No need to.” Ned’s voice sounds somewhat flat. “These hills, that’s no longer Amaranthine but Highever.”
“Ah. Still dear Howe’s land, though.” Alistair’s usual jolly tone comes off flat, as well.
“I don’t think that my family would be forgotten so soon.” Ned is staring into the fire. “I know of a place, not far from here. A safe place. Loyal.”
“Loyalties can change in hard times,” Wynne quips in, “but we don’t have much choice. But how do we transport Sten there?”
“I’ll go ahead and bring help.”
“But you cannot go on your own!” Alistair startles.
“No worries, I won’t. I’ll take Morrigan along.”
“I am overjoyed,” the witch mutters from her usual secluded spot. As Leliana has noticed, she seems more resistant to cold than anyone else and does not seek fire at every opportunity. “‘Tis unfortunate that I do not see any better solution to our situation, so be it.”
For once, Alistair is not inclined to oppose her. “But what is that place, and who are those people? Are you really sure they can be trusted not to turn us in?”
Ned raises his head, the firelight casting shadows into the pits of his eyes. “Gilmore estate. And believe me, they have no reason to like Arl Howe.”
Ned and Morrigan set out before dawn, and the waiting is getting on Leliana’s nerves. She and Alistair take turns in keeping the watch but eventually, they stay together. They sit close to each other for warmth, and with Alistair on one side and Wolf on the other, the cold is not so annoying for once. She even thinks that she might like to sit so close to him on a sunny day, with nothing but thin linen between them… or even better, nothing at all.
Leliana feels drowsy – a shame, on the watch, but she is simply too exhausted – and Alistair pulls her closer, wrapping his damp cloak around both of them. “I’ll keep the watch if you’d prefer to go to your tent,” he offers.
“I’m warmer here,” she mutters, using the chance to pull even closer, even though warmth is the only thing on her mind right now.
She can feel the rumble of quiet laughter in his chest. “Always glad to be of assistance.”
Some other day, she would respond with a tease to make him blush.
“Er, you can take a nap right here if you want to,” he adds as her head rests on his shoulder.
Too good to be true, she thinks but tries her best for some time until Wolf suddenly rises, pricking his ears and huffing softly. That wakes Leliana alright; sliding from Alistair’s arms, she sneaks through the undergrowth to another vantage point. Soon afterwards, she hears what Wolf has: horses.
Oh, Maker. I’m in no shape to fight…
Whoever is riding, though, they seem to be in a hurry; there is a good chance that they might simply pass by.
Then, however, she hears Alistair curse and yell in half-voice, “Back! Come back here! Wolf!”, and sees the mabari sprint down to the road.
Damn. She motions at Alistair to stay put and herself lies flat on the ground.
The relief when she recognizes the riders would knock her down if she wasn’t lying already.
Ned and Morrigan are riding ahead, bringing more horses, and with them, comes an elderly woman with streaks of russet in her grey hair. When she approaches, she greets them with a curtsy. “My liege’s friends are mine. My name is Gwyneth Gilmore.”
“You are most kind, mylady,” Alistair answers in kind, and Leliana notes again how relaxed he is with older women. “We much appreciate the risk that you are taking for us.”
The woman smiles grimly. “Highever remembers, and I will do all I can to overthrow the usurper who has murdered my son.”
For three blissful days, the Gilmore estate becomes their haven. They are warm and clean, well-fed and rested, and Leliana thanks the Makes every time she tucks into her blankets. Sten’s cough diminishes, Wynne’s face loses the tense expression… only Ned seems troubled, as if something was gnawing at him from within. He retreats behind a wall of silence which Leliana knows all too well by now, and knows all too well that no questions will be answered. He lightens up only in Gwyneth’s presence, and it keeps baffling Leliana until she realizes that he is putting up an act, for the old woman’s sake.
She is not surprised when Ned announces their departure as soon as Sten recovers.
On the fourth day, they set out before dawn; hoarfrost sparkles under their feet in torchlight.
Gwyneth comes out before the gate to part with them and she kneels for Ned. “Maker watch over you, my Lord.” He takes her by the hands and raises her, and bows down to kiss her hands. For a while, they stand there, holding their hands, and then the old woman smiles and kisses him on the brow. “Take care, my boy.”
She remains standing before the gate, and Leliana can still see her when she turns back one last time before the estate disappears behind the turn of the road.
Ned sets a fast pace in the beginning and they march north for an hour, when snow starts whirling in the air. “Good,” he assesses and they leave the road and continue westward.
They make a good distance before the first stop but then, as they reach the top of a hill to look around and determine the next route, Alistair gasps and grips Ned’s arm.
On the horizon behind them, a thick pillar of dark smoke rises to the clouded sky.
Leliana can feel her heart pounding. Ned’s face turns the colour of snow. For a moment, it seems that he might sink to his knees.
“Morrigan,” he says hoarsely. “I need you to scout.”
The witch shakes her head. “You know what that means as well as I do. 'Tis no use lingering, with pursuers on our backs.”
Under his gaze, she shrugs and darts off; between two steps, the woman’s shape blackens and shrinks, and a raven takes flight, circling above their heads with a harsh scream.
Till her return, no-one speaks.
When the raven lands on the snow and Morrigan rises, she scoffs under their eyes. “What do you think I found?”
“What about the folks?” Ned asks softly. “Gwyneth?”
Morrigan’s eyes flicker. “You don’t want to know,” she states flatly.
Ned turns away abruptly, and Leliana can read his mind as if spoken aloud. My fault. My guilt.
“But how is this possible?” Alistair vents his frustration. “How did the bastards learn?” His hands, those strong, capable hands, clutch helplessly.
“Someone told. Someone always tells.” Wynne’s face is like carved from stone.
“We should return,” Leliana hears herself say. “They deserve at least a proper burial. No-one would expect us to go back -”
“Pah.” Morrigan crosses her arms on her chest. “The woman was foolish to trust her servants so much. 'Twould be even more foolish to take an unnecessary risk because of some corpses.”
“Indeed.” Ned still doesn’t turn back. “How many, Morrigan?”
“I have seen a troop fifty men strong, with a bear standard and headed north. They are sending scouts as they go.”
“Then let them find what they are looking for.”
In the silence that follows, Sten nods and thuds his fist against his breastplate.
“Fifty is a bit too much for remigold and there could be others,” Alistair remarks. “I guess we will need a plan.”
“We will have one,” comes a brusque reply.
“May I remind you,” Wynne says slowly, “that revenge, however noble, does not serve the Wardens’ cause? You are not their teyrn, Ned, you have other duties.”
Only then, Ned turns back. “I am the next best thing to serve them justice. Besides…” his dark eyes, like bottomless holes, glance at Morrigan. “I tire of this pursuit. Let the hunters become hunted when their prey stops to bite back.”
Leliana averts her eyes. She remembers the first time she saw that expression, in the Lothering tavern where Loghain’s men cowered before the sword. She remembers how the eyes relented and the sword shivered, and she added her voice to the pleas for mercy.
She gets up and quietly stands by Ned’s side, next to Alistair. There will be no relenting now, no mercy, and her voice will remain silent, except in prayer.
May the Maker guide our hands, and have mercy upon their souls.
Lowan flexes his shoulders under the weight of chainmail and furs, and shifts in the saddle to ease his aching buttocks. Time and again, he curses Ned Cousland to the Fade and beyond.
When word came that the Cousland pup was hiding at the Gilmore estate, Lowan immediately took up the chance, spent a day and night in the saddle to finish the job started at Highever, so that Lord Howe would have no reason to be dissatisfied with him this time, only to find out that Cousland’s little party had left shortly prior. Then, the snow started to fall, and they have been searching the countryside for hours, without as much as a single track, and Lowan is beginning to think that he might have been tricked, after all. The old bitch was tough and yielded nothing, he must give her that much, but others weren’t and gave away the direction, right north, into the teyrnir, undoubtedly to find further allies.
Only, the scouts have found nothing: the bastards must have sidetracked and Lowan is getting worried of another failure, not to mention the annoying wet and cold weather. He wishes for a warm meal and a bed, and a wench, too, as there was hardly any time for fun at the estate.
He shifts again. The road goes through the woods here, lined with thick old oaks and maples, their bare branches forming a black and white canopy, creaking in the wind. Nothing moves, except for crows taking flight now and then.
“Captain!” Gerrold, the main scouts, points and Lowan blinks in disbelief, once, twice.
On the road, as if from nowhere, the group that they are looking for. The young Cousland, the other Warden who is rumoured to be Maric’s bastard, a Qunari, a red-haired girl, an old and a young mage, a mabari, all ready for a fight.
Must have been hiding behind the trunks, Lowan realizes and releases the sword in the scabbard. The fight is going to be tough, Cousland has quite a reputation, but Lowan didn’t become a captain by holding back. Mages or not, the numbers are on his side, and he has taken his best men along.
Preferably alive, but dead will also do.
“Charge!” he yells even as he spurs his horse.
As expected, both mages raise their staves and Lowan crouches behind his horse’s neck, ready to swerve away from anything coming his way, but the spell is not aimed him. Two large stones appear in the thin air and are hurled upwards, into the branches, with unnatural force, and more follow.
The thick branches snap and shatter as if from ice.
Suddenly, there are screams and wails and pained neighing of the injured horses, and snow and branches, falling, falling everywhere, crushing everyone and everything behind him.
“You bastards!” Lowan is almost upon them but the red-haired girl tosses something under his horse’s hooves, and the world explodes in fire.
He comes to rather painfully, with a handful of snow thrust into his face. His head is throbbing; an attempt to move reveals that his hands and feet are bound and there is a rope tied around his neck, its end held by a grim Qunari warrior.
It is not the Qunari, though, that makes his gut wrench: the young Cousland is standing above him, a bare blade in his hand. His eyes… despite the cold, Lowan is suddenly sweating.
“I remember you,” Cousland says. “You were with Howe in Highever that night.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Lowan attempts desperately, but Cousland as if never heard him.
“I will have the names of those who conspired with your master in this.”
There is no help denying. “I don’t know about any conspiracy. I only followed my orders!”
The blade, razor-sharp, slides behind his ear. The air seems to be hissing around it like the wail of wind. “The names.”
“I do not know! Lord Howe never confided to me!”
The blade cuts, and Lowan screams. “I do not know, I swear it! I swear!”
Cousland leans closer, to see the truth in his eyes, and for a single moment, Lowan clings to hope.
“Then you are of no use to me,” the young man says, and the rope cuts into Lowan’s neck as the noose pulls him up above the frozen ground.
The snow falls thicker now but crows are not bothered. There is plenty to feed on, many choicy bits. Some of them pluck on the face of the man hanging on a tree next to the road, and one of them perches on the dagger stuck in his chest, pinning to it a piece of sealed parchment, addressed to Arl Howe. When it reaches the Arl, along with the news, he opens it. The message is brief, and it reads:
Such is the fate of murderers.
- Ned Cousland, Teyrn of Highever.
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