Tales
Title: Tales
Fandom: Dragon Age
Rating: PG-13.
Characters: M!Cousland, Gawain Cousland, Zevran (mentioned)
Summary: Where stories begin, in media res, and end, and continue at the same time. Sometimes, the hero and the villain are the same person. Implied M!Cousland/Zevran.
Note: Done for my beta. I don't know how you put up with me. Also, because you complained there weren't enough non-dutiful Cousland fics.
-
This is how the story begins, in an inn, on a night that was dark, as all nights were, and not stormy, but just a little rainy.
This is how is begins, with an innkeeper, and a bard, a seeker and a teller of tales, and, as all stories require, a keeper of secrets, and a hero.
The villain is shrouded in shadow, waiting for his moment.
This is how the story begins, in an inn.
Some say the story began years ago, in a keep in Highever.
They would be right.
-
This is the innkeeper; a stocky man, with dark brown hair, almost-red and eyes as grey as the Orlesian sea swollen with rain. The sleeves of his homespun shirt are rolled up, out of the way of the suds, revealing muscled arms crisscrossed with fine white scars.
This is the bard; a young elf, without the inked vallaslin of the Dalish. His features are wide and open, maybe just a little vulnerable, and his hair is blond and his eyes are a dark wood-brown. Maybe that’s why the innkeeper speaks, because the inn is empty, and closed for the night, and the bard reminds him of days long past, and former loves.
The fire is almost embers, and hot glowing coals. Neither of them make a move to heap more firewood to it.
Above the fireplace hangs two things: a shield, and a sword. The device on the shield can no longer be read; it is pitted and scarred with the marks of blades beyond count, and even polished, will never reflect except dully, the past.
The sword is a thing to behold, sheathed and slender.
If the shield barely reflects light, the sheathed sword devours it.
The innkeeper glances, only briefly, at the sword, and the shield.
His hands tighten on the ale cup he cleans.
-
Why, the bard asks, because he wants answers, and he thinks of stories and tales to set the blood aflame. He remembers the ballads and songs of the Blight and Ferelden’s armies that ride, banners fluttering, men enough to face the darkness.
He wants a tale; a tale for the ages, and an elusive hero.
Because, the innkeeper says, because he doesn’t know, and he should have been dead eleven times over, but he’s always been good at living. Because he could have died, as the keep burned down around him, in treachery, or he could have died in that final moment when it was all supposed to end for him (except no one needed to die, she said and he believed her because suddenly, he was afraid to die).
The bard wants a young man, sword in his hand, slamming his shield into waves of men and cutting them down with swift strokes of his sword. He wants the young god who strides into battle and slays and walks away, splattered in blood, wading in a sea of corpses. He wants the destroyer, the Warden-Commander, and Ferelden’s greatest general.
He has an innkeeper, a former arl, a teyrn’s son, a former Grey Warden, and Ferelden’s greatest villain.
-
They say, he says, that there was a woman. Slender, beautiful, as all women in stories are. She was a Sister, and a bard, and she wrote the ballads about the war, and about you.
They say, he adds, that it was the love of her that called you back from death, when the killing blow should have slain you. That in the midst of despair, you heard her voice at the gates of death and turned, and took a living breath again.
They say plenty of things, the innkeeper says. He turns away, glances at the bottles of dusty wine that line his inn shelves. What do they know.
(He doesn’t say, you do not know the first word that moves me, it was not love of her, but fear. He doesn’t say, the truth is not written in the ballads of the Warden-Commander, the truth is an elf with blond hair who looks like you, whom you have never met, and whom I may never see again.)
-
“But you’re Gawain Cousland.” The bard says, eyes alight with wonder. “The Warden-Commander, the Grey Knight of Ferelden.”
“Names mean nothing,” The innkeeper says. He’s gone by too many of them, and sloughed off just as many like a serpent sheds its scales. He knows they are meaningless, and empty, and he can count the titles that have come and gone. Arl of Amaranthine. Warden-Commander. Grey Warden. Arl of Highever. The Hero of Ferelden. The Grey Knight of Ferelden.
The Butcher of Amaranthine. The Traitor-Warden. The King’s Executioner. The Northern Wolf.
He’s paid for each of the names, earned them in blood.
The Butcher is the same man as the Grey Knight, save that the Butcher burned down the entire city of Amaranthine and listened to the innocent scream and die and walked away without blinking because it was the only thing he could do, and the Grey Knight stormed the overrun Denerim to save citizens from the darkspawn.
The Traitor-Warden listened, and lifted his sword from the Architect, turned and let the darkspawn walk away, and stilled his blade against his oath. The Hero of Ferelden stood against the archdemon, judged the moment, and his blade moved and plunged deep into brain and blood and bone.
“I burned down Amaranthine,” He says, “And I’d do it again in a heartbeat. In war, sacrifices have to be made.”
He hewed off Loghain’s head, and in that moment before his blade descended, grey eyes met, and in them, each of them saw each other.
“You can’t,” He says, with just the slightest of smiles, “Make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.”
-
There are no heroes here, the innkeeper says.
This is where villains come to die. (To Ferelden, the Hero of Ferelden and the Butcher of Amaranthine are not the same person.)
When the fire dies, and the bard retires to his room, dissatisfied, the innkeeper stares at the final glow of the dying embers, and draws the sword.
He holds it in his hands for a short while, swings it with sharp, practiced strokes. The air itself seems to part before the edge, and he is lost for a while in reverie.
Then he sheaths it.
These things are long past, and this is where villains come to die.
He hangs the sword back above the fireplace, and glances, towards the door.
All of his life, he will glance over his shoulder, at the door, wondering -
Waiting, for an elf with blond hair and grey eyes and red spirals tattooed on his cheek to walk in.
-
Fandom: Dragon Age
Rating: PG-13.
Characters: M!Cousland, Gawain Cousland, Zevran (mentioned)
Summary: Where stories begin, in media res, and end, and continue at the same time. Sometimes, the hero and the villain are the same person. Implied M!Cousland/Zevran.
Note: Done for my beta. I don't know how you put up with me. Also, because you complained there weren't enough non-dutiful Cousland fics.
-
This is how the story begins, in an inn, on a night that was dark, as all nights were, and not stormy, but just a little rainy.
This is how is begins, with an innkeeper, and a bard, a seeker and a teller of tales, and, as all stories require, a keeper of secrets, and a hero.
The villain is shrouded in shadow, waiting for his moment.
This is how the story begins, in an inn.
Some say the story began years ago, in a keep in Highever.
They would be right.
-
This is the innkeeper; a stocky man, with dark brown hair, almost-red and eyes as grey as the Orlesian sea swollen with rain. The sleeves of his homespun shirt are rolled up, out of the way of the suds, revealing muscled arms crisscrossed with fine white scars.
This is the bard; a young elf, without the inked vallaslin of the Dalish. His features are wide and open, maybe just a little vulnerable, and his hair is blond and his eyes are a dark wood-brown. Maybe that’s why the innkeeper speaks, because the inn is empty, and closed for the night, and the bard reminds him of days long past, and former loves.
The fire is almost embers, and hot glowing coals. Neither of them make a move to heap more firewood to it.
Above the fireplace hangs two things: a shield, and a sword. The device on the shield can no longer be read; it is pitted and scarred with the marks of blades beyond count, and even polished, will never reflect except dully, the past.
The sword is a thing to behold, sheathed and slender.
If the shield barely reflects light, the sheathed sword devours it.
The innkeeper glances, only briefly, at the sword, and the shield.
His hands tighten on the ale cup he cleans.
-
Why, the bard asks, because he wants answers, and he thinks of stories and tales to set the blood aflame. He remembers the ballads and songs of the Blight and Ferelden’s armies that ride, banners fluttering, men enough to face the darkness.
He wants a tale; a tale for the ages, and an elusive hero.
Because, the innkeeper says, because he doesn’t know, and he should have been dead eleven times over, but he’s always been good at living. Because he could have died, as the keep burned down around him, in treachery, or he could have died in that final moment when it was all supposed to end for him (except no one needed to die, she said and he believed her because suddenly, he was afraid to die).
The bard wants a young man, sword in his hand, slamming his shield into waves of men and cutting them down with swift strokes of his sword. He wants the young god who strides into battle and slays and walks away, splattered in blood, wading in a sea of corpses. He wants the destroyer, the Warden-Commander, and Ferelden’s greatest general.
He has an innkeeper, a former arl, a teyrn’s son, a former Grey Warden, and Ferelden’s greatest villain.
-
They say, he says, that there was a woman. Slender, beautiful, as all women in stories are. She was a Sister, and a bard, and she wrote the ballads about the war, and about you.
They say, he adds, that it was the love of her that called you back from death, when the killing blow should have slain you. That in the midst of despair, you heard her voice at the gates of death and turned, and took a living breath again.
They say plenty of things, the innkeeper says. He turns away, glances at the bottles of dusty wine that line his inn shelves. What do they know.
(He doesn’t say, you do not know the first word that moves me, it was not love of her, but fear. He doesn’t say, the truth is not written in the ballads of the Warden-Commander, the truth is an elf with blond hair who looks like you, whom you have never met, and whom I may never see again.)
-
“But you’re Gawain Cousland.” The bard says, eyes alight with wonder. “The Warden-Commander, the Grey Knight of Ferelden.”
“Names mean nothing,” The innkeeper says. He’s gone by too many of them, and sloughed off just as many like a serpent sheds its scales. He knows they are meaningless, and empty, and he can count the titles that have come and gone. Arl of Amaranthine. Warden-Commander. Grey Warden. Arl of Highever. The Hero of Ferelden. The Grey Knight of Ferelden.
The Butcher of Amaranthine. The Traitor-Warden. The King’s Executioner. The Northern Wolf.
He’s paid for each of the names, earned them in blood.
The Butcher is the same man as the Grey Knight, save that the Butcher burned down the entire city of Amaranthine and listened to the innocent scream and die and walked away without blinking because it was the only thing he could do, and the Grey Knight stormed the overrun Denerim to save citizens from the darkspawn.
The Traitor-Warden listened, and lifted his sword from the Architect, turned and let the darkspawn walk away, and stilled his blade against his oath. The Hero of Ferelden stood against the archdemon, judged the moment, and his blade moved and plunged deep into brain and blood and bone.
“I burned down Amaranthine,” He says, “And I’d do it again in a heartbeat. In war, sacrifices have to be made.”
He hewed off Loghain’s head, and in that moment before his blade descended, grey eyes met, and in them, each of them saw each other.
“You can’t,” He says, with just the slightest of smiles, “Make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.”
-
There are no heroes here, the innkeeper says.
This is where villains come to die. (To Ferelden, the Hero of Ferelden and the Butcher of Amaranthine are not the same person.)
When the fire dies, and the bard retires to his room, dissatisfied, the innkeeper stares at the final glow of the dying embers, and draws the sword.
He holds it in his hands for a short while, swings it with sharp, practiced strokes. The air itself seems to part before the edge, and he is lost for a while in reverie.
Then he sheaths it.
These things are long past, and this is where villains come to die.
He hangs the sword back above the fireplace, and glances, towards the door.
All of his life, he will glance over his shoulder, at the door, wondering -
Waiting, for an elf with blond hair and grey eyes and red spirals tattooed on his cheek to walk in.
-