#picchar

The pain was immense, and Oran gritted his teeth to attempt to silence the scream. His torso shook as the tip of the arrow cut through his flesh, and he prayed that perhaps the arrows that were barely stuck underneath his skin in his back could be pulled out backwards, not forwards.

When the arrowhead pierced his skin just below his navel, Oran felt blood come up to his mouth. A towel wiped away the liquid that started coming out from his tightly pressed lips, and the potion once again was shoved down his throat. A healing spell also grazed his skin, fixing the torn guts and the messed stomach.

“One out, ser,” the healer said, pulling the potion away from Oran’s lips. “Eight more remaining.”

“Fucking amazing,” Oran grunted, moving forward to rest his elbows on his knees, feeling the remaining metal inside him pierce more of his muscles and tissues. He groaned and hit his knee with his fist, trying to tame the pain.

The tent where he was being tended to was hot with many braziers burning away incense that masked a maddening mixture of smells – of his sweat and blood and bowels, the scent of magic potions and anti-poisons he was being treated with. The battle ended a full day ago, but the healers only managed to treat minor wounds of sword slashes, moving onto the arrows in his sides and back. The gash that split his stomach open was still there, with less blood coming out, but still bleeding. The healers kept him alive although Oran wasn’t sure he wished to live much longer in this much pain.

Of various kinds.

The guards that stood outside Oran’s tent saluted loudly, and Rahlen entered with a concerned look on his face. The healers quickly shoved another cup of health potion into Oran’s mouth, and this one tasted sickeningly of ice. As his insides froze, the healers bowed to the Prince, and scurried away. Rahlen watched them leave with his head tilted, then turned to his cousin.

“You don’t look well, Oran,” he said calmly, putting his hands behind his back. “I hope your treatment shall end soon with success.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Oran replied, wiping his mouth with a towel.

Rahlen’s shoulders shivered. The only times the Guerrins called him by titles was when they were sulking. Or hurt. Oran seemed to be going through both of those sensations, but that was to be expected. The man nearly died on the battlefield.

“The battle had been a huge victory for Ferelden,” Rahlen continued, making one step closer to Oran. “Your valiant fighting is what secured the defeat of Jelynn’s soldiers. It would have been impossible if you hadn’t dealt with the blood mages she summoned, and it pains me deeply that the intelligence provided missed such an important addition to her forces.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Oran nodded without lifting his eyes at the Prince. “I may only hope that such mistakes aren’t made in the future.”

This wasn’t good. Both men knew it. The hot air inside the tent was as thick as butter, and Rahlen’s head swirled with words he wanted to speak, with emotions he wanted to express. But how could he do it? Oran looked at him as if he looked at a stranger, almost no recognition of Rahlen’s persona in his eyes. His face was stone cold, professional, polite. Oran wasn’t sulking. He truly was hurting.

“Oran,” Rahlen started after clearing his throat. “I believe I owe you an explanation of the events that have transpired several days ago. I must-”

“Your Majesty,” Oran interrupted him, raising his hand in the air. “I believe that nothing of your personal agenda is a topic that shall be discussed with me. There is no explanation to be had, as I doubt whatever it is you are speaking of concerns me directly.”

Lost, Rahlen opened and closed his mouth, staring down at sitting Oran. The man seemed to be as serious as ever. He watched Oran take a drink from his cup and his face contorted in disgust.

“Oran,” the prince repeated. “If I only could have imagined…”

“But you didn’t,” Oran interrupted him again. “Of course you fucking didn’t.”

His voice was bitter and dry. Rahlen took one more step towards his cousin.

“With all fairness,” he wondered if he tried to convince his cousin or himself, “when I had arrived at the pub, I offered to leave. It was you who insisted I stayed, and you did not insist you go with us to the ruins.”

“I would have insisted if I fucking knew you’d whip out your dick the moment you two are alone!” Oran yelled, jumping onto his feet from his chair.

The arrows that still were stuck inside him swayed around, propelled by Oran’s movement. The open gap inside his stomach splattered blood and lining onto the floor, but the Guerrin did not feel that. He did not see Rahlen’s shocked expression as he saw his cousin’s insides escape his body, one bit at a time. Anger and wrath that boiled inside Oran made the pain go away like no potion ever did.

Rahlen took that silently before attempting to defend himself again:

“Oran, calm down,” he tried to touch his cousin’s shoulder, but his hand was smacked away hard. Rahlen furrowed his brows. “You are being sensitive.”

“Am I?” Oran asked with his teeth bared so much Rahlen could see his gums. “Then how do you explain yourself at all? Just because I was being polite and did not shove a cousin whom I hadn’t seen in years, you think what you did was what, normal? It was okay? What fucking shit sits in your rotten head that you think you’re in the right here?”

Bits of blood and spit landed on Rahlen’s outfit, pale blue now staining with red. But now Rahlen was getting angry, too.

“If you really wanted her, you should have done something, cousin dear!” He raised his voice as well. “Nothing good comes to those who wait for gifts to simply fall into their lap from the sky! If you truly wanted Fenlin, and I mean it, you should have shoved me out from that pub, and never let me near her again!”

“I did what I thought I shall do!” Oran nearly yelled, but only growling escaped his chest. “I set up a date, I prepared a gift, I fucking had a music band, with harps and shit, hide in the basement for the right moment! And even if Fenlin did not catch what the fuck was up with me, how could you do this to me, cousin?”

Oran’s face shifted expression from anger and wrath to sadness and disappointment. His shoulders and chest moved in tact with his hastened breathing, his neck’s veins bulging from stress and pain. Guerrin’s face was as red as Theirin’s was pale. Rahlen bit his lip, trying to come up with an appropriate argument.

“Out of all people in the world,” Oran continued, his chest falling deeper and deeper. “Out of all people in this world, I did not expect this kind of… dishonesty, this kind of disrespect and betrayal from my own family, Rahlen. I never expected any of this shit from you.”

There was a wet sound of ripping, and with a meek gasp Oran sank back onto his chair. His pants and bandages around his previously closed wounds reddened as blood soaked them through. Rahlen wanted to help Oran, but once again he was refused:

“Don’t touch me.”

“You should have just said no.”

Rahlen stood his ground, his head clear as it has ever been. Oran’s helpless flailing, accompanied by profanity, came from frustration at his own mistakes, no doubt. And if they were to remain a family, if the Theirins and the Guerrins were to continue together as the force that kept Ferelden whole, the sooner Oran accepted his fault, the better.

“It was as simple as that,” shrugged Rahlen, filling up Oran’s empty cup he had dropped with more of the health potion. He held it out at full arm’s length and waited for his cousin to take it. “You need to learn how to say “no”, cousin dear, and your life will become a lot easier.”

Oran stared back at Rahlen with such a deep hatred in his eyes that Rahlen felt goosebumps on the back of his neck. This was the look he had seen in aunt Nathyara when she was forced to negotiate with Queen-Dowager Anora. This was the look of his mother when she spoke of Arl Rendon Howe. This was the look of his father when he spoke of Loghain Mac Tir.

And now his own cousin’s eyes returned the same emotion on him.

“How can I tell you “no”, cousin dear,” Oran took the cup, but his voice was pure poison, “when none of us are supposed to?”

That took Rahlen by surprise. His face smoothed out in disbelief as he returned the gaze to Oran:

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing at all, Your Majesty,” Guerrin’s face fell dead and emotionless as the healers came back to the tent, carrying more potions and clean bandages. Rahlen turned around as they started laying out their tools and preparing for another round of trying to keep Oran alive. One of the healers, a man with braided auburn hair, gasped in horror when he saw Oran’s reopened wounds and the lining on the floor that had fallen from his stomach.

Rahlen nodded with the slightest bow of his torso, for the healers to pick up that their conversation was finished. He exited the tent, feeling Oran’s eyes glued to the back of his head. The camp outside buzzed with life as soldiers counted the prisoners and fixed their weapon and armor. March towards Dartmoor Hold was yet to commence, but the forces were halted by Oran’s injuries. Rahlen wondered if taking command would undermine whatever respect his cousin has for him.

Fenlin approached Rahlen from the side, Potato snoozing in her hands. She looked worried, and sad, and a thousand more things. As they stepped to the side, watching the men carry their duties, she asked Rahlen:

“Is he okay?”

Fenlin, good, kind Fenlin. Rahlen wrapped his hand around her waist and drew her in for a kiss on the top of her head, inhaling the aroma of her hair.

“He will be,” he assured her. “Oran just needs time.”

 Three weeks later, Rahlen and Oran met again, but this time in even worse environment. They entered the Landsmeet room, with dozens of questioning and judging eyes upon them. The King and Queen sat on their thrones on a podium at the end of the hall, and Gilbert with Duncan and Eleanor leading the table. All three stared at Rahlen and Oran in unified inquiry.

“By the grace of our Maker, and His bride, the ever-graceful prophet Andraste, I greet thee,” Oran bowed in a formal introduction.

“By the blessing of our Maker, the Light in the shadow, I greet thee,” Rahlen continued.

They both noted changes in each other’s appearance. If Rahlen seemed relaxed still, maybe even happy, the air around Oran started to remind painfully of Gilbert. Perhaps it was his hunched posture as he still waited for the last wounds to heal, or perhaps his moody face was to blame. But the Landsmeet wouldn’t wait.

“Bann Oran Guerrin,” a bann with swirly braids around her head asked from the gallery, “how shall you explain what had happened at Dartmoor?”

Oran bowed to the gallery before answering:

“A victory had been claimed in the honor of the crown,” he gestured towards Alistair and Rythlen, who listened carefully. “Bann Jelynn, half of whose bannorn had been tainted after the Blight, sought to annex the neighboring Voytern bannorn, which, as all of you known, has been lord-less since the passing of childless bann Wilhelm.”

Rahlen waited for Oran to finish his speech and couldn’t ignore how his own siblings inspected him. They were displeased with him. Gilbert, on the other hand, kept his face neutral and almost friendly, like he always did. And it disturbed Rahlen more than any stares his siblings could give him.

“The Bann had hired four thousand mercenaries and two thousand legionnaires from Tevinter Legion,” Oran continued. “After the battle had ensued, our forces managed to take over Dartmoor supporters despite the two-thousand men advantage.”

“Bann Oran, is it true that you set a dragon upon Bann Jelynn’s men?” A man with grey beard asked.

Rahlen wanted to take the blame for Fenlin’s decision, which he hadn’t protested, but Oran replied quicker:

“No contest, my lord.”

Rahlen stared at Oran in disbelief as a wave of whispers came from the gallery and the table in front of them. Oran’s face was set in stone, not a single muscle moving, and it made the usually happy and open Oran seem like a dead man.

“Bann Oran,” Duncan lifted his hand. “Bann Oran, what is your justification for an action so vile?”

“Your Majesty,” Oran bowed before answering, “nothing so upholds the laws as the punishment of persons whose rank is as great as their crime. After Bann Jelynn sent assassins after two of my captains, I felt it were a measure equal in retaliation.”

“Equal in retaliation?” Gilbert furrowed his brows. “Oran, it was a dragon.”

“The dragon served merely as a distraction tactic, and a fear factor for our enemies,” Oran defended the issue. “The dragon could not be ever persuaded to take action in actual battle, so it never did. After frying up a bunch of pigeons, it took off and away, but our enemies have been stricken with fear of her return. Their panic allowed us to make them forget of their numerical advantage.”

Rahlen swallowed hard as Oran smoothly weaved the lies about why their arrival on the back of the dragon was a positive thing. He was sure that Oran wouldn’t mention stable page boys who got trampled to death, and a few others who got injured in panic that set in the Royal camp as a freaking dragon flew over it.

“If I may…” Rahlen started, but immediately his voice drowned in another.

“Yes, but setting a dragon against our own people, despite them being temporary enemies, is a lot,” King Alistair spoke up and all heads turned to him.

“With all respect, Your Majesty, to mislead a rival is permissible in times of unrest,” Oran bowed even deeper, his expression never changing. “One must use all means necessary to win.”

“That’s a tactic that leads men to dark paths,” Queen Rythlen took initiative. “It always had in the past, and it will do so in the future. If you had been able to, would you abstain from summoning a dragon?”

Oran waited for a brief moment.

“No contest, Your Majesty.”

The Landsmeet hall blew up in angered yells and a low rumble became a loud noise. In shock, Rahlen looked at the Oran, hoping his cousin would look back at him, but he remained unmoving. With his jaws clenched tightly, Oran was preparing to face whatever the nobles would throw at him.

“Bann Oran, your behavior was unacceptable…”

“No contest.”

“Bann Oran, I reject your assessments of tactics and the enemy forces…”

“No contest.”

“Bann Oran, don’t you think that your actions have harmed…”

“No contest.”

Oran took blow by blow, and every attempt of Rahlen to raise his voice ended up with nothing. He angrily motioned for Duncan or Eleanor take stand so he could speak, but they seemed to ignore him as well. As the displeased nobles quieted down, both the king and the queen demanded for Gilbert to explain his brother’s actions:

“Arl Gilbert,” King Alistair started. “I know that you must feel strongly about the events of the Dartmoor incident, but it seems that your brother is adamant on not releasing any additional information that would allow us to judge the measure of his punishment.”

“Arl Gilbert,” Queen Rythlen continued, spreading the folds of her dress. “It also must be noted that you employ the policy of secrecy being the first essential in affairs of state, but at this time there could be no secrets as to my son’s involvement with the death of Bann Jelynn’s family.”

“And the Dalish Ambassador,” King Alistair added. “I believe it was her dragon.”

Oran pleaded Gilbert with his eyes to not stand up, to do nothing, but he could not tell his brother what to do. Gilbert stood up, leaning heavily on his cane, and turned and bowed to the entire Landsmeet.

“My lords and my ladies,” he started, his voice bouncing off the walls. “Your Majesty, the King. Your Majesty, the Queen. I am but a simple not-treasurer of this kingdom, as I always have been, but events at the Dartmoor have revealed many troubles within our own spy network, and within the Royal family.”

Oran tightly shut his eyes, whispering “Motherfucker” under his breath. Only Rahlen heard it, and only Rahlen heard the addition: “Sorry, mother”.

“The underdeveloped and ignored spy network of Ferelden had failed to anticipate or intercept the foul libels and pasquinades that damaged the good reputation of the Dalish Ambassador, one Fenlin Lavellan.”

The crowd listened intently, and Rahlen’s heart sank. Gilbert brought Fenlin into this.

“The Ambassador was,” Gilbert clearly and obviously looked at Rahlen, “persuaded that the use of her dragon against the enemy’s forces would bring her into good graces of Denerim and Ferelden’s people. Which is what caused the regrettable end of Bann Jelynn, her husband Tabard, and their three children.”

Oran swallowed hard.

“No more, brother,” he said loudly.

“And it was none other than Prince Rahlen Theirin who displayed the lack of self-control and discipline as he time and again failed to advise the Ambassador otherwise,” Gilbert pressed on, his eyes fixed on Rahlen’s face. “He displayed disobedience as he entered the command on his own, secured a position for himself in the ambush battalion, and when the battle turned foul, nearly had my brother killed as the prince himself rushed to save the Ambassador, who should never had been on the battlefield in the first place.”

“Gilbert!” Rahlen lost his temper. “You’re the one who told us take the dragon! You insisted we do it to catch Oran before the battle started!”

“I did not push you to do anything,” Gilbert banged his cane against the floor to silence the roar of the crowd. “I merely stated that you would catch my brother before the battle if you took the dragon. And I also stated, multiple times, that there was no hurry in telling him…”

“Gilbert!” Yelled Oran.

It was a menacing, guttural yell that threatened that the very next moment, Oran would come at Gilbert with fists swinging and pummeling. Everyone begrudgingly stared at Oran, including the royal couple.

“…whatever it is what you wanted to tell him,” Gilbert finished. “That is my perspective, Your Majesty.”

He turned to face the King and the Queen, whose faced displayed disappointment and worry. They exchanged looks as Gilbert continued:

“My brother, who nearly died on the battlefield, is taking all of the responsibility on himself so that Prince Rahlen’s reputation within the army or the bannorn is not stained. That is why he is prompting to provoke the harshest punishment for himself, and will thoroughly insist the Prince did nothing wrong.”

The King and the Queen seemed devastated. Rahlen’s heart couldn’t handle it much longer, so he spoke up again.

“It is true,” he said. “All of it. It is my fault, and I am ready to accept consequences of my actions and decisions.”

Silence fell onto the Landsmeet hall.

“Arl Gilbert,” Rythlen spoke to him directly, her face pained by what she had just heard. “What punishment would you issue for Rahlen and Oran?”

Gilbert swayed in his spot, shifting the weight from the cane onto his back.

“No contest, Your Majesty.”

In thirty minutes time, Oran had been dishonorably discharged from the army positions and prohibited from participating in any military endeavors. Rahlen, despite how much he protested, despite his claims he could prove nothing of what happened shall be blamed on Oran, was ignored. His parents didn’t give him another look until the Landsmeet was over.

As the nobles poured out from the hall, Rahlen found Oran and Fenlin conversing quietly to the side. She seemed agitated, nervous, and her face was painted with utmost despair. Oran still had his dead face on. Rahlen bumped into few of the nobles on his way, and saw Oran bow low to Fenlin, dismissing her attempt to hug him, and walk away. She turned to him, eyes on the verge of tears, and Rahlen hurried towards her, not bothering to apologize to those he elbowed on the way.

“What did he say?” He inquired, catching Fenlin into his hands. “Maker, Fenlin, what did he say to you?”

“That he’s not angry,” she said back to him. “That he’ll visit when he can. Rahlen, have we broken him?”

She lifted her head to stare at him, her voice almost crying.

“Have I broken him?”

“No,” Rahlen hugged her tightly. “No, you didn’t. Nobody did.”