Forged In Fire: Chapter 3 - Stained

[nicolina04]

Title: Forged In Fire

Rating: M (for violence and language)

Warnings: none

Summary: We can't always help who we fall in love with. Elissa Cousland's choice in betrothed defied her family's comprehension but for Elissa, he was the man she would love for the rest of her life. But when the Fifth Blight comes, and her world goes to pieces around her, Elissa finds herself torn between duty and desire. Now she's not sure - not whether she can love him - but whether she should.

 

Disclaimer + Notes: Bioware owns everything you recognise. Everything you don't (including the poetry) is mine. Thanks ever so much to my beta-readers lilpumpkingirl and analect for their help with spelling, style, ideas and all manner of things. They have been life savers! As always, any remaining errors are mine.

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Chapter 3 – Stained

From the weak and tender heart of man,

Living the soft life untempered

By trial and pain

Comes

Rippling steel and hard edges

Forged in the flames of loss and vengeance

And quenched in the everlasting waters of duty

∞ Unknown

You'll take care of her, Elissa, won't you?

Mother can handle herself. Always has.

Tears burned her eyes. She'd made that promise, a careless statement she hadn't thought twice about. Now, her mother lay dead. She had failed. Numbly, Elissa stared at her family sword, set on the forest floor by their crackling campfire. They hadn't had time to go by the Treasury, where her family shield would have been locked up. This was all she had of her family now. The soft hooting of owls punctuated the quiet, overlaying the soft rustle of animals on the ground. She was wrapped in a blanket from Duncan's pack, her ringed fingers clenched around the two necklaces dangling around her neck. The two days since fleeing the castle had passed in silence. She hadn't responded to any of Duncan's attempts to speak to her, sinking instead into her own thoughts and sorrow.

He crouched in front of her, holding out a dented bowl of a thick, grey stew. Mechanically she accepted it, her good manners forcing her to break the silence and murmur her thanks. The thick, tasteless sludge slid down her throat and each mouthful was only another reminder that her home, where food had been carefully seasoned and spiced, was gone. Nan would be dead, slaughtered like the chickens she cooked. Tears began to fall, sliding down pale cheeks.

Mother. Father. Elissa swallowed around the lump in her throat, trying not to break down in loud sobs. She could still smell the terrible mixture of smoke, burning wood and flesh, hear the screams of dying soldiers and innocents alike and feel the oppressive heat of the flames. Dead. Dead. Dead. Her father, quick-witted and eager to share a joke, had spoiled Elissa all her life. Anything Elissa wanted, she got, whether it was a mabari war hound for her nineteenth birthday or the cascade of hugs and kisses she'd demanded as a child. Unlike many noble fathers, he'd refused to compel her to accept a match, leaving her to pick her own husband. Then there was her mother, so warm and vivacious, quick to scold but equally quick to laugh and forgive. She would have defended her husband until the last moment, buying time for her daughter to escape. Morbidly, Elissa's wondered whether her parents' bodies would be given the dignity of an honourable cremation, or simply tossed to Howe's hounds. As though sensing the direction of her thoughts, Duke nudged her, licking her hand with his warm, wet tongue.

Absently, she carded her fingers through his heavy fur. Little Oren. The charming little six-year-old boy, more interested in discovering everything about the world than keeping his clothes clean, despite his mother's desperate attempts to convince him otherwise. He followed her like a puppy whenever she was home, always asking questions and making a general cute nuisance of himself. His broken, bloody body would not leave her mind's eye, sprawled as it was on the floor of his bedroom. He would not be waiting for his father to bring him the sword he promised. Oriana. The Antivan woman who had been Fergus's beloved wife for nearly nine years now. Thirteen-year-old Elissa had resented her for stealing her brother's attention, but resentment had faded into acceptance and then into affection as the years passed.

A tall shadow settled next to her, and then Duncan's hand touched her shoulder. "I am sorry for your loss. I know it hurts—"

Her temper flared suddenly, and she shrugged him off angrily, the chains falling from her grasp and thudding against her chest.

"You're sorry for my loss?" she demanded, her voice painfully loud in the quiet of the forest. "My parents lie dead at Howe's hands, and it was you who refused to help them escape. You were their guest, and you condemned them as surely as though you were Howe himself."

She blinked back her tears. She would not cry in front of him, she would not!

"I did what I must," Duncan said soothingly. "Your father was too greatly injured for us to have escaped with him. He would have slowed us down, and we would all have been captured."

"You didn't even try to see if he could make it." Elissa clenched her fists at her sides. "And my mother was uninjured! She could have made it out."

"The Teyrn could not even walk," he said. "And your mother chose to stay behind. I could not force her to leave, not without delaying us even more. Then we all would have died."

"And that made it okay to leave her to her death?" Her eyes flashed. "You dragged me out against my will, why not her?"

"Lady Eleanor was a full grown woman—"

"As am I." She sneered, aware that her face was an ugly mask of rage. Her hand trembled as she set the half-full bowl down on the ground before it spilled. "I'm twenty-two. I was engaged to be married. I'm old enough to make my own damn decisions."

"You are barely more than a child." Duncan shook his head. "I could not leave you to die."

Elissa glared at him. "Then you recruit 'children' to fight in your wars, Warden? Is that the only way you can get people to join your Order?" When he made no response, she continued, "and if you 'could not leave me to die', why did you all but tell my father you would only save me if he gave me to the Grey Wardens?"

The light from the campfire played across his face, highlighting his mouth but keeping his eyes in darkness. "We face a Blight. I do what I must in order to preserve Ferelden, Elissa."

"My name," she spat, "is Lady Elissa. I don't remember giving you permission to speak so informally to me."

"You are a Grey Warden now," Duncan said sternly. "You have no title. You must leave that life behind you."

"That life?" Her voice grew hysterical. "That life? It's the only life I've ever known. The only life I ever wanted to know. And you want me to simply toss it aside like it was yesterday's rubbish?"

"Not like yesterday's rubbish." Duncan reached for her arm, clearly intending to provide comfort. "But you must look to your future now, not your past. Your parents wouldn't want you to cling to them like this."

She bared her teeth in a silent snarl, and jerked out of his grip again. "How dare you speak of what my parents would have wanted?" It took all her willpower not to slap him, or to turn and storm off into the trees. "You forced my father to trade my freedom for my life, knowing that neither he nor I wanted this! So much for the vaunted reputation of the Grey Wardens!"

"Would you have preferred to die?"

No, in the cool light of day Elissa couldn't say she wanted to die, despite the agony in her heart that she was certain would never fade. "You could have helped me escape, without destroying my life any more than Howe had already done."

"I needed a Grey Warden." Duncan's irritation was beginning to show. "This is a Blight. We need all the Grey Wardens we can get."

"I'm the daughter of a Teyrn. Thanks to you and Howe, one of the last Couslands. Possibly the last if my brother doesn't survive the battle in the south," she snapped. "I was raised to rule a Teyrnir, to direct the politics of lords and kings. To be someone. Not some Grey Warden, heroes though you may be. Do you have any idea how many plans you have destroyed?" She was clenching her fist so tightly that the hard edges of her father's signet ring cut into her palm.

"I don't care about plans. I care about saving Ferelden from this Blight. I care about stopping the Archdemon in its tracks." He sighed. "Look, Elissa, I know you're upset with me, and grieving for your family, and I understand that. I didn't enjoy having to get your father's consent that way. Nor yours."

Elissa gritted her teeth. "How do you know I won't run off now?"

"Because you have given your word," he said with quiet confidence. "And if there is one thing I know about Bryce Cousland, it is how much he values his word. He would never have raised a daughter without that same value."

She glared at him helplessly.

"Give it time. You'll see, being a Grey Warden is not the worst thing that could happen." He reached towards her.

She jerked her arm out of his reach, and said nothing.

"You don't have to lose everything from your old life," Duncan added when it became clear she wasn't going to answer him. "You said you were engaged? You can still marry as a Grey Warden."

Elissa laughed bitterly. "What, you want to know who else's life you've just destroyed, old man? It's none of your damn business who I was to wed. He'll never accept me now." Her eyes burned again at the thought.

Duncan's lips thinned; he was clearly fed up. "Ferelden needs Grey Wardens to stop the Blight more than they need another arrogant noble," he said harshly, his eyes glittering. "You want to affect this country's future, madam? Then I suggest you grow up and stop acting like the child you claim not to be. Remember that you are still alive, which is more than hundreds of people at Castle Cousland can say. Learn that sometimes the greater good is more important than an individual person's wishes." He stood up, and then paused to look down at her again. "We're about two weeks from Ostagar but there is a town we should reach tomorrow where we can purchase some basic necessities for you." Without another word, he spun and stalked away to the other side of the fire, looking like an offended cat.

Elissa stared after him in open-mouthed surprise, watching as he ducked into the tent. An owl hooted. Unbidden, tears welled up again. Duke nudged her with his muzzle, and whined. Desperately, she wrapped her arms around him and wept bitter tears into his warm neck.

It was late morning the next day by the time she spotted the gates of a small town in the distance. She took a deep breath and repressed the urge to sneeze as dusty air filled her nose. "Duncan?"

He turned towards her, his eyes cool and wearing a sardonic smile. "Yes?"

She hesitated, before firming her resolve. She was a Cousland, not some weak-willed farm girl. Her life was gone, she had to accept that, lost to Howe's lust for power. Her family was dead, save for Fergus, and she was promised to the Grey Wardens. Her duty bade her follow that promise, and Couslands never shirked their duties. She had no time to waste on 'what-ifs'. Her grief would have to be pushed aside until sometime that she could afford to deal with it, which was most certainly not on the road south. Perhaps she would have time in Ostagar to curl up in the Cousland tent and cry with Fergus. But a Cousland never cried in public, and she had already humiliated herself enough last night by losing her temper. And she could start by recalling her lessons on diplomacy, and not alienating her new commander. She spoke with a carefully neutral voice.

"I would like to apologise for losing my temper last night. It has been a…difficult few days. I appreciate the risk you took in bringing me out, and not simply fleeing on your own."

Duncan's surprise showed in his widening eyes, before he controlled his expression. "There is no need to apologise. I understand. I too should apologise for speaking so bluntly, particularly when you have not yet had time to grieve."

The click of hooves on the uneven road heralded the arrival of a pair of merchants in a cart, rumbling in the opposite direction. A bay gelding and an older grey mare trotted towards them, dragging a heavy wooden cart behind them. The two men atop the cart, looking travel-worn and weary, ignored the two walkers at the side of the road.

Elissa waited until they were past before continuing. "Not at all. You simply reminded me that the world carries on despite my own pain, and that I don't have time for luxuries like a mental breakdown or self-pity." She squared her shoulders, ignoring the protest from her aching muscles, soft from castle life despite her intensive battle training. "And I have not given up on my quest for vengeance. Merely…delayed it. Shall we keep going?"

An hour later, she was in the marketplace, armed with the handful of silvers and she'd found tucked in the bottom of the bag her mother had given her and a few coins from Duncan to buy food supplies. Like any town, it was heavy with the scent of dog from the abundant animals weaving in and out of legs. Brightly coloured stalls lined all four sides of the square and the air was filled with the shouts of sellers advertising their goods. She made a beeline for the nearest clothes-stall. Three days in one set of clothes and armour, washed once in a river and then put on wet, was more than enough. Her mother's clothes, while in the bag, were not wearable. Eleanor…had been much taller and much thinner than her daughter. Elissa blinked back the burning sensation in her eyes.

"What you lookin' fer, ser?" a young girl, no more than thirteen, asked. She was neatly dressed in a much-mended dress, and bright green ribbons held back blonde hair.

"Clothes for me." Elissa smiled at her, hoping it didn't look as fake as it felt. She lied: "I'm afraid my horse bolted with all my clothes."

"We only 'ave a couple of shirts and trousers for women, ser," another female voice said. "Not much call for it out 'ere. There'd be better options in dresses."

Elissa looked up to meet the eyes of the mother. "I understand. But, as you see, dresses don't quite fit under the armour." No, beautiful dresses were most probably a thing of her past. She thought wistfully of her mother's last gift to her, a stunning white-and-rose gown that whispered every time she moved. Swallowing around the sudden lump in her throat, she shoved the thought aside.

"We've just the one shirt in your size." The mother shuffled through the folded garments on the table. She held up a plain off-white shirt with a dark brown collar and a matching pair of trousers.

Elissa took it, feeling the material. It was quite ugly, and nothing like the quality of her own clothes of course, but it seemed sturdy and well-made. The heavy cotton would be warm enough and not too heavy even if it got wet as it undoubtedly would. And frankly, even if she could find something better, she would never be able to afford it. "How much?"

"Two silvers, ser."

Elissa raised her eyebrows. "I'll give you forty-five coppers." She wasn't new to bargaining, as she'd often walked the markets in Cousland Town, just south of the castle. It was, however, the first time she'd bargained for anything other than jewellery, bolts of delicately embroidered cloth, and frippery.

"It's 'andmade, ser. I couldn't accept anything less than a silver and thirty." The woman opened the garment, pointing to the hem. "Look at the stitchin'. My mother-in-law's work. Finer work you'll never see."

"It's a plain garment, without any embroidery," Elissa countered. "No more than sixty-five coppers."

"A silver," the other insisted.

Elissa considered it, and then sighed. "Look, I also need undergarments…and a warm cloak. Let me look at those before I decide."

"Undergarments are 70 coppers per set, ser." The mother led her to the side. "I 'ave only a few cloaks. But these, I sewed myself."

Elissa examined the offered garments. One was a plain dark brown cloak, which would reach to her ankles. That would be impractical if she ended up in a fight. Which, she considered grimly, was increasingly likely in her new life. The other two were dark green. One was plain and the other was embroidered with the green teardrop and spears of Highever emblem. Both would reach to her knees. "How much for the green ones?"

"The plain is 4 silvers too, ser. The embroidered one, 6."

She worried her bottom lip for a moment with her teeth. She wanted the embroidered one, for its memory of her past. But could she justify the two silvers, or however much it ended up being after negotiation, more? "If I take the shirt and trousers, three undergarments and the embroidered cloak, what's the best deal you can give me?"

The woman looked at her. Elissa hoped that the dirt and dust from three days travel and a bloody fight would conceal the expensive quality of her armour. She already knew her chestnut brown hair looked little better than a rat's nest, and despite her bath the day before, her face was grimy. And she suspected she smelled.

"I could do 8 silvers. But no less than that," the woman said at last.

Elissa calculated quickly in her head. She'd found thirty silvers and thirty-five coppers in the bag. That would need to cover her until Duncan paid her a salary of some kind, which she had no idea when that would be. She still needed to buy a bedroll, a water-skin, a tent if she could afford it, a comb, and some ribbons to deal with her hair. And they were staying in the inn tonight. Swallowing, she counted out the coins, hoping she was making the right decision.

As she bent to slip her purchases into her bag, the tramp of boots on stone echoed through the marketplace.

"Way!" bawled a high-pitched male voice. "Make WAY for the Arl of Amaranthine."

Elissa froze, anger washing over her like a tidal wave of fire. That bastard was here! Out of the corner of her eye she could see the front row of solders making its way through the town. Villagers were scrambling over themselves to get out the way, and one child was snatched nearly from under the feet of the soldiers. The smell of steel and unwashed male billowed ahead of them like a cloud. Howe's self-satisfied face was only a handful of rows back, and easily visible from on a horse's back.

She could have her vengeance here, not waiting till after the darkspawn were vanquished or until Cailan had time to deal with him. She could have the satisfaction of his death at her hand instead of in the hangman's noose. Her hand tightened on the dagger at her waist. He was over-confident, not even wearing his helm. Knife throwing was not her strength, but he was moving slowly and she was certain she could kill him. She could almost see the sharp edge sinking into his flesh, as vulnerable as Oren's had been as they stabbed him to death on the floor of his bedroom. She shifted her weight slowly, judging the distance and the angle she'd need to throw it at. Her hand tingled at the certainty of success.

Our daughter will not die of Howe's treachery, her father's voice suddenly echoed in her head. She will live…and make her mark on the world. The words turned her muscles to lead. If she threw here, his soldiers would slaughter her. Howe would win, and her parents' death would be in vain. No, she could not take her vengeance here. But it was so tempting. She snarled silently.

Slowly, the soldiers marched past. Howe's unarmoured back revealed itself to her, and she had to grip her hands together to keep from throwing the blade after him. She watched his retreating profile. You bastard!

An hour later she flung open the door to Duncan's room in the little inn, still fuming. A narrow bed was pressed against the far wall and a small bedside table beside it. On the wall a simple painting was hung, and beneath it Duncan had placed his pack.

He looked up calmly from where he was polishing his armour. "My lady?"

She stopped in her tracks. "I thought you said Wardens didn't keep their titles?"

Duncan gave her a considering look. "Close the door, and come and sit down." He nodded towards a wooden seat in the corner.

As she did, she suddenly realised that she was alone in a bedroom with a man she barely knew in the middle of nowhere. She shifted nervously to the edge of the seat, resisting the urge to open the door again.

"Officially Grey Wardens cannot hold titles," Duncan said slowly. "But unofficially, it is true that some Wardens of particularly high birth keep using their titles. Merely as a courtesy, of course."

"Then why did you—"

"I was trying to make a point." Duncan's smile was rueful. "As I said earlier, I could have gone about it better."

"Yes, you could have," she said, before she could stop herself. She glanced up, but he seemed to have taken no offence. "Do you often have nobles in the Wardens?"

"More than you would think." Duncan shrugged. "Many people consider it an honour to be part of our ranks." Except you, he left unsaid.

Her lips thinned in response. No, I don't think it's an honour. But I gave my word to my father, and to you, and I will see it through."How many wardens are there in Ferelden then?"

"Twenty-eight. But we are a small Order here. It has not been so long since King Maric lifted the ban on the Order."

Twenty-eight against a Blight did not sound like very good odds, but she didn't say it. But then, with the armies of Ferelden behind them, they wouldn't need that many. In the end it wouldn't matter whether it was a Warden or a foot soldier that killed the Archdemon.

"Did you want something when you came in?" he asked mildly.

Oh, right.She opened her mouth, and then checked herself. What could she say? Howe was in the courtyard, but I didn't kill him because his soldiers would kill me. What point would it serve for him to know that? She rose to her feet, suddenly missing the swishing skirts that would once have accompanied such a movement. "It's nothing, Duncan."

He gave her a measuring look. "Very well. Did you get the supplies you needed? And the food?"

She nodded wordlessly. She'd bought everything she had planned, except the tent. The merchant she'd found was demanding over ten golds for it, and she didn't have the coin left after the rest of her purchases.

"Good. Bring the supplies here after we sup tonight and we'll separate them between the packs." He examined her. "Order a bath from downstairs before dinner, and then sleep early tonight. You're not used to the days of travel, and once we're on the road again, we'll begin your training."

She resisted the urge to snap at him. She was quite aware of the aches in her muscles, thank you very much. Muscle strength from battle training was very different from walking for twelve hours a day, sitting up half the night on watch and then sleeping on cold, hard earth, even though the padding of Duncan's bedroll. She anticipated a very painful two weeks to Ostagar, although at least she'd have her own bedroll. "Training?"

"You're a good warrior." Duncan raised an eyebrow. "But there is much you still have to learn about fighting if you hope to survive this war. Darkspawn do not fight honourable duels."

"I know how to fight in a war." She glared at him. "I wasn't taught to fight so that I could fight in tournaments. I learnt to defend myself and others from anyone who attacked me."

"Maybe," Duncan allowed. "But have you used that training before?"

"Two nights ago, when my family was murdered," she said flatly.

Duncan winced. "True. But I think subconsciously, you still expect your opponents to fight you with a certain level of honour. It is nothing to be ashamed of, my lady. It is a natural part of your upbringing and the sort of fighting you did. But as a Warden, you will fight darkspawn who have no idea of the concept of honour. When we duelled, there were a hundred ways a darkspawn opponent could have disarmed or killed you."

"I understand," she conceded doubtfully. "If you will excuse me, I will go and look for that bath."

Without another word she turned and stalked out of the room.