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[Morwen Eledhwen]

This fic can now also be read on Dreamwidth or ff.net, where a slightly larger font may cause less eyestrain. 

My very first fanfic, inspired by my travels through Origins as this Mage:



All content is rated T or tamer, but I'll warn if something more explicit crops up.

Note that this is not a Loghain romance per se, but it is extremely Loghain-sympathetic, so if that makes you , probably best not to read. You might enjoy Chapter 1, though.

Modifié par Morwen Eledhwen, 30 mars 2012 - 11:15 .

[Morwen Eledhwen]

1 -The Duel

Your moment has come. . .are you ready?

There had been a moment, in the Tower of Ishal, when the beacon had sputtered into life and her heart had sparked with it –it was a new spell for her, but she had summoned a steady flame from her staff as Alistair broke chairs and crates and hacked at beams for more wood to fuel the signal—the moment came when they knew that they had done it, and they rushed to the tower window to witness what they had set in motion. They leaned out over the windowsill like children playing at castle forts or "rescue the princess" –only the king was the one in trouble and they were doing the rescuing. They grinned at each other, giddy with their success; Alistair actually managed to hold her gaze for a few seconds before being obliged to turn away. He twisted himself around on the sill to check the strength and visibility of the signal they had made, but the young Mage knew that her flame would burn well. She was checking the ground below.

The flames from the beacon, and from the battlefield in the valley under the bridge, made echoes of themselves in the marks, the color and temperature of sunset in winter, that she'd set in the skin of her face. They buried themselves in the russet mask between brow and cheekbone, made embers of her lips -carefully painted the same color—and sent smoldering tracers down her cheeks and up her temples until her face looked like a flaming ivory skull with enormous topaz eyes. She was well aware of how she looked, and didn't blame Alistair in the least for his discomfiture. It was a tribute to his good nature and their high spirits that he was able to withstand that grin for as long as he did.

Nothing had yet changed on the battlefield. The fires scattered across the valley marked where the Grey Warden army was engaging the Darkspawn horde that had come streaming in to Ostagar from the Korcari Wilds. Some of the fires were orderly –rings of soldiers wielding flaming brands, archers with fire-tipped arrows forming a defensive line and sending regular volleys into the ranks of the enemy at a single order. But there were other fires, too –trees on the perimeter set wildly ablaze as well as armor, weapons and warriors from both sides, friend and foe. These flames went up randomly about the battlefield, sending the ordered elements into chaos and setting off smaller fires of their own. Even from her vantage point she could see that the banks of ordered lights were being eroded like a dam in a storm-swollen river; without additional support, the dam would break and the field would be lost to the flood.

That additional support was what their recent efforts in the Tower were all about. The army in the valley comprised only a part of the force assembled at Ostagar against the Darkspawn. Waiting in the shadows was yet another army, not the Grey Wardens but the regular Fereldan legions, commanded by none other than Loghain Mac Tir, master campaigner and hero of the already-legendary rebellion against the Orlesian occupation that had ended some thirty years ago. The Mage had spoken and listened to a few of these soldiers and found them much like their general -grim, war-hardened, and dedicated to their land and their king. The King was not with them, however. He had insisted on fighting with the Grey Wardens in the vanguard. The Mage had seen the battle plans laid out in camp; the King himself had explained it to her. The Wardens would draw the Darkspawn horde in from the forest and engage them in the valley; when the last of the creatures had passed the chokepoint, the beacon in the Tower of Ishal would be lit and the regular army would move in to close the gap. The enemy would be driven between the points of the pincer and crushed. The map on the table had shown it plainly: a golden arc on one side of the battlefield, representing the King and the Grey Wardens, and a line of silver leading from the woods to the other side. The beacon would set that line in motion.

Except nothing was happening –no war cries went up, no shadows doused the flames, no steel support arrived to bolster the dam and stem the tide. Only more Darkspawn entered the field from the opposite end –more and more Darkspawn, an endless wave of them. Had she and Alistair lit the beacon too soon? But the army in the valley was foundering; even if there were still Darkspawn in the woods, help had to come for the Grey Wardens soon, or all the regular army would find when they reached the battlefield was a burst trap and the enemy streaming for the Tower.

Still she watched and waited, her gaze straining into the darkness, willing that silver line to hit its mark. But the army never came. As she watched, the hordes of the enemy swirled over the battlefield, their fires dissolving the last of the golden line, until finally they breached the rearmost defenses and began to climb the ridge on the other side. The Mage and Alistair turned to stare at each other as a slow paralyzing shock hit them: the enemy was about to swarm the Tower, and they were perhaps the only two of their kind left standing in all of Ostagar. Without a word they dropped from the windowsill and faced the chamber, eyes and ears transfixed on the door opposite. Already they could hear the pounding of armored feet below; a moment later, a deep-throated chuckle echoed off the stone walls of the lower floors. The Darkspawn were inside the Tower; the Wardens' tainted blood would draw their enemies to them no matter where they tried to hide. The pounding feet mingled with the thrumming of the beacon fires and the beating of the Fade inside the Mage's head. The Fade was calling to her; as she struggled with the temptation to yield, a shadow blotted out the light from the Tower window. Some monstrous creature shrieked, the flames from the signal fire fanned into the chamber with the beating of its wings, the Mage heard a rushing in her head as the entire scene seemed to fold in on itself until it formed a pinpoint just between her eyes, and then with a pop, it vanished. There was an instant of blackness, and then a stream of light enveloped her, rendering her senseless for a time, until she learned to endure it and navigate its courses. She followed the stream to its ending -or its source, she could not tell which—and found herself lying in bed, in a hut in the Korcari Wilds, being tended by the daughter of the Witch who had come through the Tower window in the form of a great bird and had carried her and Alistair to safety. It was here, as she was still re-learning the feel of bedclothes and what it was like to have an up and a down, and recalling the pulse in her body, that the young Mage learned what had happened: that the Fereldan army had failed to come to the King's aid not because they had been destroyed by the Darkspawn, but because they had never advanced. At some point, beacon or no beacon, they had simply abandoned the field. Those in the valley had been slaughtered –the King, his attendants, and every last Grey Warden in Ferelden. Well. . .all but two, of course.

I am ready.

The memory of that awakening moment, of shaking off the Fade to face with clarity the first cold morning of a new life, came to her these many months later, as she stepped into the gaze of her adversary. Sight and sound drew to a focal point just in front of where he stood in the Landsmeet chamber, and as she was drawn toward the spot she felt the world recede into static around her, heard the voices of foes, allies and neutral parties alike diffuse into the same milky babble –and suddenly, all were extinguished. She stood alone with him on the vanishing point, a cool flame against a thundercloud, and their eyes pierced each other.

"Prepare yourself," he snarled.

He was the one who had turned away –who had led that silver line away from the battlefield at Ostagar instead of toward it. Instead, his army had skirted the main body of the horde, cut their way through the Wilds and marched on Denerim, calling out death for the Grey Wardens as they went. The Wardens were blamed for leading King Cailan to his death at the hands of the Darkspawn; and from that moment to this, the Mage, Alistair and their growing band of companions had been hunted by assassins, betrayed and sold by mercenaries and desperate commoners, trapped by deceits and vilified in word and in print in nearly every corner of Ferelden. It was only because the General's heavy hand had also come down on his own banns, in the interest of securing their allegiance to the Regency he had claimed for himself after Cailan's death, that the Mage now stood where she was. The ruthlessness with which he and his confederates had bullied them into submission –and punished those who resisted—had engendered resentment amongst the Fereldan nobles and dismay amongst some of his staunchest supporters. The Wardens had used all the leverage they could find to push the support of the Landsmeet against the Regent, and their efforts had been successful. His banns had deserted him, his own daughter had renounced him and he was now in a fight for not only his Regency, but his life, with the Mage standing for the Wardens and the Queen. As they faced off for the duel, the Mage was not surprised at the malevolence of his glare, and would not let it shake her. But there was something else in his countenance and his stance for which she was not prepared. It was like a light on the horizon which one mistakes for a distant town or a sunrise, until it leaps forward and reveals itself as one of the raging summer fires that sometimes swept across the Fereldan plains. Looking at his face she could almost see the approaching wall of flame; the air around him seemed to crackle. The Regent was gone, and in his place stood the Champion. He began to circle her, like a great cat even in his heavy armor, and like a cat she could see him preparing for the spring. The Mage's heart became a trapped bird in her chest; the song of the Fade in her ears took on a high, shrill note that she rarely heard and recognized mostly from seeing its effects on those who had faced her: fear. The Champion was clearly no stranger himself to seeing that look in an opponent's face. One black eyebrow arched at the corner, and as he continued to pace he inclined his head toward her with an ironic little smile. You wanted this, Warden, the smile said. Come and get it.

She had been circling opposite him, maintaining her distance and trying to keep him in front as her fear threatened to choke her, but when he smiled she stopped, shrugged her shoulders, exhaled impatiently and regarded him as if to say, Well? He stopped then, too, and the eyebrows flickered again, but the nod this time was one of approval. She felt as if she had passed a test, by not allowing herself to be hypnotized by his predatory little dance. Fine. But now the pleasantries were over. A flash and his sword was drawn; a shrug of his shoulder and the crest of Gwaren snarled at her from the facing of his shield. She took a breath and gripped her staff. The signal was given, and the duel began.

"He'll charge at you straight off and try to knock you down," was pretty much the first thing anyone said when the Wardens had asked for advice on combat against Loghain Mac Tir. "Most of the time he'll succeed, too." Eamon's knights had the most to say on the subject, having either fought alongside him or known those who had. "The Charge of the Hero of River Dane" sounded like the name of a legendary battle of which Leliana would sing on one of her intrigues in some court, but it was simply the fighting style of one man, though it had gained legendary status. Arguments broke out, drinks, gold, equipment and other commodities were wagered on how many fully armored men he could land on their backs in a single rush, and whether or not he had actually managed to dislodge a chevalier from his horse while he, Loghain, was on foot. (One red-nosed campaigner insisted that this was true -that Loghain had lost his own horse and sword and the chevalier, eager to claim him as his prize, had spurred his mount towards him. The force with which Loghain met this charge stopped the horse up short and the chevalier was thrown over its head; while he was still trying to disentangle himself from the reins, Loghain's shield had crushed his skull.) Certainly all were agreed that the less-flexible massive armor of the Orlesian army and their tendency to fight in closed ranks had given them no advantage against him. He had cut them down like a scythe.

The Mage could never hope to withstand the Champion's charge. Her first objective, therefore, was not to let it happen. As soon as the signal dropped she saw him crouch, and felt the fear sing again in her blood. All of her power she now sent into a Paralyzing spell; as it left her staff she prayed to the Maker that it would reach him in time to stop the charge, that it would be strong enough to hold him. It did both. Loghain Mac Tir was now a statue of himself in his most fearsome aspect. The young Mage could not guess how long the spell would hold, and she had spent so much of her energy on it that it would be a while before she could cast that particular spell again, but the first round of battle had gone to her, and that was all she needed. Now that she had time to work, she had other ways to contain him.

Those who witnessed the duel said it took almost no time at all –a matter of seconds, perhaps a minute at most. For her, though, those seconds encompassed a lifetime of thought –the end of one path through the Fade, the beginning of another. She could see the Fade clearly now, more clearly than the Landsmeet chamber in which she knew she still stood. He was there, too, both in the chamber and in the Fade with her, a stark shadow frozen on the path in front of her. Quickly she cast a hex on him that would make him more vulnerable to elemental spells; then she fired two rounds of lightning and an Arcane Bolt in rapid succession. Already she could see him beginning to stir from the Paralyzing spell. His jaw clenched; the knuckles on the hand that gripped his sword turned white with the searing fury in his eyes. She had to act; if she waited for her spells to recharge he would be free, and he would be on her like a gale. She met his eyes with hers, fixing his gaze on the frightful mask of her face, and sent him the Waking Nightmare.

In the Landsmeet chamber his body froze once again, this time by a horror unseen to anyone but himself. Now he inhabited his own part of the Fade where, as in dreams, he could pass a separate lifetime before awakening. It occurred to her for the first time to wonder where exactly the victims of the Waking Nightmare spell went. Surely it was different for the mindless Darkspawn and other monsters on which she had cast it. But what of a living person? What of this man? Where had she sent him; what twisted landscapes or nightmarish corridors did he wander? Was the broken body of Cailan even now staggering towards him, his bloody mouth spouting accusations of treachery? Whatever he was experiencing, before he would be allowed to escape, she would now make it even worse. Swiftly she transformed into a great black bear, using the shapeshifting technique that Morrigan had taught her in one of her more indulgent moods at camp. The effect was startling and impressive enough to those awake and present in the Landsmeet chamber; she could only imagine what Loghain saw. Perhaps his vision was suddenly obscured by a dreadful shadow, and then filled with a bellowing, monstrous beast with saw blades for teeth, claws to rend the soul from the body and eyes that reflected the madness of the Black City beyond. She raised herself up on her hind legs in the threatening bear stance and he staggered back, screaming; one thudding blow to the head and he was down.

There was not much left to be done. She felt reluctant to finish the duel in bear shape, however –it was never really her style and she rarely used the skill except for effect, as now. Undoing the transformation, she looked at him once more with her own eyes and felt a sick jolt behind her sternum that forced her to hesitate, catching her breath. She should finish him off like this, now, while he still groveled out of his mind on the floor. That would leave no one in any doubt. After all, it was what she had set out to do –make an example of him in front of the assembled nobility of Ferelden and toss his broken spirit into the Fade forever. He was very close now. Still, she hesitated. His face was turned away from hers, his ragged breath came in gulps that sounded almost like sobbing. Again she felt the hitch in her chest and thought that she might be sick. Despite her intentions, despite all the promises she had made to Alistair and herself about what she should do if she ever came face to face with Loghain Mac Tir, she was forced to admit that she found no satisfaction in what she was doing to this man. Just as she had found herself unable to kill the proud Werewolves in the Brecilian Forest, and had instead joined them in defending themselves and their home against the Dalish mage, so now she hesitated to end the life of this champion. When Ostagar was lost, he had gathered up his forces and tried to rally the entire country to him as though all of Ferelden was his army. When the Grey Wardens threatened his efforts he had used every available resource to wipe them out. When the Landsmeet turned against him, he had railed at their cowardice, their susceptibility, and their lack of respect. His entire life -family, household, status, his profession as even so much as a common soldier, let alone a commander of armies- had been swept away by the Landsmeet in a matter of minutes. Others the Mage had encountered in their travels had met with similar (or lesser) misfortunes and had responded with groveling, wheedling, temper tantrums, bad promises, crooked deals, murder. This man had stood, enraged and saddened but unshaken from his foundations, defying his adversaries but still consenting to play by their rules; and so he had been led to this duel, and now the Mage held his life in her hands. Misguided and mistaken he may have been, and even perhaps a bit mad, but the spirit within him was unlike any she had ever encountered. Could she simply snuff it out?

As she crouched over him, hesitating, she saw the trembling of his hands and shoulders subside. At first she thought that the life was leaving his body, and that he would never return from that corner of the Fade into which the Waking Nightmare spell had rocked him. Oh, Maker, she thought. Forgive me. . .But then she saw the hands brace themselves against the flagstones; his head rose, shook itself once, and then turned to her once again. The eyes were cool, the shadows under them like livid bruises, but the Mage knew that they were his own, that he saw her now as she was. Her chest lightened and she let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. She felt an inexplicable urge to burst out laughing but clamped that down. And then she saw that his right hand was slowly reaching for his sword that he had dropped earlier in his terror. If he grasped it where it lay, one quick jab would lodge the blade in her throat. Fascinated, she watched the hand touch the hilt and start to close around it; then as his eyes narrowed and his body started to tense she blinked and shook herself awake. Time to end this.

She would not kill him; she knew that now. Leaping to her feet, she raised her staff and, calculating just the amount of force required to drive him back down, sent a single bolt in his direction. When he had recovered and once again raised his eyes to hers, she was standing with a hand on her hip and a look on her face that said she could do this all day if he wanted. His shoulders slumped; he shook his head. The sword clanged as it hit the floor. Slowly he raised himself to his feet, palms outward in the attitude of surrender.

He hadn't touched her.

Modifié par Morwen Eledhwen, 16 mars 2011 - 07:04 .

[Persephone]

I am already loving this!!!^^

[CalJones]

Good stuff, Morwen.

[Morwen Eledhwen]

CalJones wrote...

Good stuff, Morwen.

Thanks! I was worried that the first chapter contained mostly standard DA:O playthrough events and that people would get bored. The fact that this was not only the first playthrough in which I had spared Loghain, but the first time I had ever completed any video game as a Mage, made it fresh for me, but for DA:O veterans (and especially Loghain supporters) it's familiar territory, so I hope I gave it some new life. If you stick around for future chapters, I have some novelties coming up.

[alschemid]

Morwen Eledhwen wrote...
It's familiar territory, so I hope I gave it some new life.

  And you succeeded.

[Morwen Eledhwen]

This chapter can now also be read on Dreamwidth or ff.net, where a slightly larger font may cause less eyestrain.  ../../../images/forum/emoticons/wink.png

Disclaimer: This chapter contains dialogue lifted from the post-Landsmeet scene in Dragon Age: Origins.

2 --The Mage/The Landsmeet

Not that there were many living who had, after all.

Occasionally in their travels, the Mage and her companions had been ambushed by stealthed Rogues or overwhelmed by enemies too great in number to contain. Some of these had actually gotten close enough to pierce the Mage’s defense spells and inflict damage on her with their weapons, if not actually to touch her. None had survived the contact for long. Outside of combat, the Mage projected an untouchable aura even amongst those who counted themselves as her allies or even her friends. Her companions could be jostled in crowds or pushed deliberately by thugs looking to start a fight; their hands could be shaken or shoulders clapped by thankful villagers or patrons in Tapster’s Tavern --but only words were directed at the Mage, and those at a respectful distance. She knew the reason for it: they were afraid of her. The duel with Loghain was not the first occasion that she had used fear as a weapon. She was well aware –as was he, and had attempted to use his own terrible aspect and fearsome reputation to cow her even before the contest began—the advantage in battle that is gained if one’s enemy is terrified. Her own legend, though not of as long a duration as Mac Tir’s, had spread throughout Ferelden and had already begun to work on her behalf.

If recognized and addressed as such, she had never denied that she was a Grey Warden; however, because of her outlaw status, she had tried to travel incognito as much as possible as she and her companions went about their task of gathering an army to replace the one that was lost. Nearly everyone outside the Circle to whom she had given her name had died at Ostagar, and she had revealed her origin and purpose only when necessary. In addition, several of her companions had as good reason as she to prefer anonymity, so no other name was put forward as a figurehead for the party. However, the exploits of her band of outlaws over the past few months had been passed around and discussed, enlarged and embellished, in taverns and village squares, fields and hills and caves and hovels in every corner of the map. Even without knowing her name, Ferelden knew her.

Those who did not know her as the Grey Warden had invented their own names for the pale Mage with the red tattoos on her face who was clearly the leader of this nameless band. Zevran had developed a habit of sneaking out of camp at night and, cloaked in Stealth, insinuating himself amongst the locals to hear fresh tales of himself and his friends. He took particular pleasure in relaying any new titles the Mage may have acquired. In the hills, he found, she was known as the Daughter of the Storm; in the plains and farmlands, the Sickle of the Moon; amongst the Dwarves, she was the Diamond Warrior, or the Death Mask; amongst the Elves, she was the Lightning Spear, or more recently Fen’Harel’s Child. The Qunari that could occasionally be found in Ferelden –mercenaries, most of them—had evidently heard Sten call her his kadan, as they had named her the Warrior’s Heart, and seemed reluctant to attempt to kill a human who had earned such respect from one of their own. In Denerim and larger towns such as Redcliffe, however, she was simply the White Demon.

Even the Darkspawn seemed to know her. Of course, the sight (and smell) of a Grey Warden always excited an especially aggressive response, compared to that of their untainted enemies. Over time, however, the Darkspawn’s reaction to the Mage in particular grew more and more frenzied, until simply her appearance on the horizon, and the stab of light from her upraised staff that preceded the casting of her first spell, was enough to cause a riot amongst the hordes. The Alphas and Emissaries, and the Shrieks and Ogres of all ranks, forgot everything else and beat a path to take her down --which was often their demise, as her companions were free to hack away at them unchecked. The grunts and lower-ranked Genlocks and Hurlocks, on the other hand, were thrown into a panic and ran screeching in mindless circles until they were hunted down by the Wardens’ party or trampled by the stronger of their own kind. They did not seem to have a language the way she and her companions understood it, nor were they known to write or draw or leave any record of that nature; somehow, though, the legend --the warning-- was being passed: Beware the lightning that strikes underground, that flashes from the hillside instead of the sky. That’s her, the one that kills us, the one that drives us mad, the one that finds us in our deepest lairs where none but we have dared to pass. You’ll know her when you see her: First the flash, then the terror, then the storm.



No stranger to legend and rumor and the varying degrees of truth that these can represent, Loghain Mac Tir had been less than terrified at the prospect of facing the Mage in battle. Nor had he been intimidated by her somewhat unearthly appearance –the pale, almost translucent skin of her face and her bare arms; the huge baleful aquamarine eyes set in a bloody mask of facial tattoos and cosmetic paint; the unsmiling mouth taking its cue from the stark red cap of hair that she kept shorn as close as a penitent novice’s in some particularly ascetic cloister. Most people found this combination in her appearance of the childlike, the wise, the sacred, and the demonic extremely unnerving, especially in a Mage. The Hero of River Dane obviously knew a good costume when he saw one, and had waited to see this Mage’s performance before he formed an opinion. His expression as he rose to his feet before her in the Landsmeet chamber was now not merely one of respect. He seemed actually to be satisfied, even relieved, that she who now had him at her mercy had proven herself worthy of such an honor.

“I yield,” he said.

As she had before the duel began, the Mage once again felt the piercing intelligence of his gaze, but the eyes had lost their scalding contempt. She was relieved as well, and not just for having prevailed in the contest. Thank the Maker, she thought, he would not have to die. In accepting his defeat at her hands, the Hero of River Dane freely offered up to her his life; with a nod, the Grey Warden gratefully gave it back.

Noise and confusion erupted from outside the place where they stood. The Mage’s focus began to reopen and her senses to register her full surroundings again. She became aware of footsteps approaching her from behind, and a man’s voice shouting.

“. . .going to let him live? After everything he’s done? Kill him, already!”

It was Alistair. He had charged into the middle of the chamber and was now poised between the Mage and Loghain, his hand on the hilt of his sword. She now fully recalled where she was and the context of what had just happened. She had accomplished her mission and triumphed in the Landsmeet. The Regent of Ferelden, along with the Queen, the Banns, and the rest of the assembly, awaited her judgment. Though she knew she could not kill Loghain Mac Tir, Alistair’s seething incredulity brought home the question for which she had never prepared an answer: If she would not kill him, what in Ferelden was she going to do with him?

“Wait. There is another option.”

The Orlesian Warden, Riordan, had quietly insinuated himself between the Mage and Loghain on the other side, opposite Alistair. Loghain, no doubt reacting to the man’s accent as well as his words, spared Riordan a sideways glance and a single scowling eyebrow before facing forward again. Riordan had been waylaid by the teyrn’s men and imprisoned in Arl Howe’s Denerim estate, until the Mage and her companions had set him free. The Mage was sure that Loghain knew of Riordan’s existence and his identity, but wondered if they had ever actually met. Riordan certainly did not seem to regard the former Regent with any particular hostility. If anything, his words were calm, even soothing, as though Alistair was a half-wild Mabari bent on mauling a guest in the Landsmeet chamber. Alistair’s brows also twisted at Riordan’s interruption, but he stayed the hand on his sword-hilt and waited.

Riordan nodded to Alistair, then turned to the victor of the contest. “The teyrn is a warrior and a general of renown. Let him be of use,” he said. “Let him go through the Joining.”

In her shock, the Mage turned her gaze from Loghain’s and did something she realized she hadn’t done in what seemed like several hours: she blinked.

Riordan smiled at her. She was struck again by how calm he always seemed, as though imprisonment, torture, public dueling and civil war were all part of a normal day in politics. Then again, from what she had heard of Orlesian politics, that may be the case as far as he was concerned. Orlesians were also supposed to be experts at hiding their true feelings and intentions under a mask of politeness. Could there be something behind Riordan’s smooth and reasonable tones?

“You want to make him a Warden?” The Mage wished that she had brought her own Orlesian, Leliana, with her; or even Zevran would be better than she at detecting deceit beneath that placid countenance. There was nothing for it, though, but to ask a direct question and hope for a direct answer. “Why?”

“There are three of us in all of Fereldan. And there are. . .compelling reasons to have as many Wardens on hand as possible to deal with the Archdemon.”

Before she could try to decipher the possible meaning of compelling reasons, the Mage and Riordan were interrupted by Queen Anora, who now stepped directly between the still-glaring Alistair and Loghain. “The Joining itself is often fatal, is it not?” she queried. Delicate pale hands constantly shaping, folding the space in front of her. “If he survives, you gain a general; if not, you have your revenge. Doesn’t that satisfy you?”

The beaten Champion, his life forfeit, never once looked at his daughter, his Queen. Anora, for her part, addressed the Grey Wardens with one smooth shoulder blade turned toward her father. The Mage, regarding them both, felt a chill at the back of her neck. How much of Anora’s detachment was due to her father’s recent behavior, and how much of it was just Anora? Had Loghain Mac Tir deliberately raised such a daughter? Did he even now approve of the way Anora calculated his fate into her concerns? She is Ferelden’s queen, thought the Warden. Anyone who actually believed that Cailan ruled this country was a fool.

In regards to Riordan’s proposal, of course, Anora had a point. Loghain Mac Tir was not just a general, but a highly successful and respected general with decades of experience. The Mage and Alistair had never even been soldiers. Yet, they were attempting to raise an army against the Archdemon that she was expected to command. She may have gotten the hang of managing a band of outlaws --though with one outlaw already having deserted her, even that presumption was debatable-- but the Mage had seen just enough of military life to know how little she understood of it. She would feel more confident, she thought, for having a competent advisor. There was a possibility, of course, that Loghain might try to command rather than advise --but after all, he had taken orders from Cailan when Cailan would not take his general’s advice, and Loghain had clearly thought little of Cailan’s choices at Ostagar. If he tried to kill the Wardens or their companions, he would die. Even if he were to succeed and kill them all, what would he do then? The Queen and all the nobles of Ferelden would have renounced him and handed him over to the Wardens; if he came back to Denerim without them, his life would be forfeit again. He would have accomplished nothing other than to take away Ferelden’s last remaining hope. Would Loghain let personal desire for revenge ruin his country’s chances of ending the Blight? The Mage thought not.

Speaking of revenge, however: If Loghain was forced to join the “secret club” for which he had such contempt, and to take orders from that club’s two most junior members after having failed for the final time to harm them in any way, he might well consider that a far crueler punishment than death. Surely Alistair, if he must see Loghain further punished, could be made to see this. He could be satisfied, and the Champion would not have to die. Once Loghain had joined their company and proved himself, Alistair would calm down. It had happened already when they spared Zevran’s life and accepted his assistance; or when they freed the Qunari and the Golem, both murderers, and invited them into their company; or when they welcomed the apostate Witch and her questionable practices. Each time, Alistair had objected, but reason had prevailed. As far as the Mage was concerned, Riordan’s solution was a brilliant one. She thanked the Maker that a more experienced Warden had been sent to her, as neither she nor Alistair knew exactly how to perform a Joining. Though where the Darkspawn blood was to come from, she could only guess; the Mage had been around a lot of it lately but had not exactly been collecting the stuff. Still, these were mere details. She cocked a conspiratorial eye at Alistair. They both knew this game by now; he would protest, but then do as he was told.

“Absolutely not!” Alistair waved off both Riordan and the Mage, fuming. “Riordan, this man abandoned our brothers, and then blamed us for the deed! He hunted us down like animals! He tortured you!” Loghain looked blandly at Alistair and then faced forward again. Alistair’s voice was rising in his rage and frustration. “How could we simply forget that?” he pleaded.

“Riordan has a point,” argued the Mage. “We should put him through the Joining.”

“Joining the Wardens is an honor, not a punishment! Name him as a Warden and you cheapen us all. I will not stand next to him as a brother! I won’t!”

The Mage remembered Daveth, the petty thief who had cut Duncan’s purse in Denerim and been conscripted into the Grey Wardens as “punishment”. She also recalled how she herself came to join the Wardens, and some of the things she had had to do since. She shook her head sadly. “Not all of us have spotless honor, you know,” she said. Think of us, Alistair, she thought. Think of what we are --of all the people we killed or robbed or bullied, just because they had something we wanted or stood in our way.

Alistair shook his head back at her as they tried to see each other across the gulf of their understanding. “Some things can’t be undone, or forgiven. This goes way beyond having spotless honor. We aren’t talking about having a minor hiccup in his past. . .” he urged. He shook his head again as the Mage still stared at him. His shoulders slumped.

“I didn’t want to be king,” he sighed. “I still don’t.” Then suddenly, his jaw clenched and he turned on his heel to face Anora. “But,” he sneered, “if that’s what it takes to see Loghain get justice, then I’ll do it! I’ll take the crown!”

Anora directed her expression of shock at the Mage. “Listen to this!” she exclaimed. “Can you see how disastrous a king he’d be? Putting his own selfish desires above the needs of his country? You can’t seriously support him.”

The Mage did not doubt that Anora was surprised at Alistair’s declaration, but she had a suspicion that the Queen was also privately delighted. An upstart bastard who had expressed no interest in ruling until just that moment was no threat to Anora; on the other hand, he had just given her a perfect opportunity to make him look unreliable and strengthen her own position. The Mage’s shock was genuine, however. She had never expected Alistair to put himself forward as Ferelden’s king, and would never have supported him if he had. A shrug, a bewildered shake of the head, and a palm pressed outwards in denial was all she could manage to convey that she had nothing to do with this mad idea. Anora looked satisfied, but Alistair rounded on the Mage in fury.

“You’re siding with her? How could you do this to me? You, of all people?”

“I’m trying to do what’s best for Ferelden.” The Mage ground her teeth in annoyance. This was no time for Alistair to stage one of his tantrums. If she just had an opportunity to explain to him what he should have figured out for himself by now, he would see the wisdom of this decision –or at least grow weary of the decision-making process and submit to her will. As much as she preferred not to have to pull rank –a rank he had gladly conceded to her when she was barely out of her Joining—she could do it if necessary.

“What’s wrong with you?” Alistair was still baffled. “He’s repeatedly tried to kill us both! And you side with him over me?”

“That’s not true,” she said, trying to assume Riordan’s soothing, placating tones. Of course, she thought –to Alistair, it was still a question of Loghain or the Wardens. He hadn’t been in the Fade with her, hadn’t participated in the trial that had brought her to this understanding. He couldn’t see yet that he and Loghain, free of political ties, were now independent beings, not opposites, and could therefore coexist. She waited for Alistair to finish speaking –he was still stamping about and waving his arms about something—so that she could plant this new thought in his head and watch it grow into reason.

Alistair did not stop talking for some time, however. After a while the Mage was stunned to realize that he was actually preparing to leave the company right then and there, in front of the entire assembly. Her face flushed with anger and mortification. She glanced at Loghain, who remained facing stoically forward, though she thought she could detect a slight roll of his eyes and an almost imperceptible smirk. Evidently, Maric’s other son was proving himself worthy of his half-brother. Maker preserve us, she thought.

Alistair wasn’t just threatening to leave like a petulant child, either; he actually seemed to be going through with it. He gave the dog (who whined, as though he couldn’t understand what was happening either) a farewell pat on the head, and began taking his share of their company’s looted items from his pack and tossing them at Shale, who watched them land at her feet with arch disgust but made no move to pick them up. His performance was halted by Anora’s voice, calling to him across the chamber.

“I’m afraid it’s not so simple as that, Alistair.” Always cool, that voice, and seemingly clear and artless. It was so easy to believe that it meant only what it said.

Alistair strode back up the chamber to face her. Again, no glance in his daughter’s direction from Loghain, though he was listening intently. If his eyes flickered, it was in the Mage’s direction, as though assuring himself that she was paying attention as well.

“What?” Alistair snarled at Anora. “You got what you wanted. Your murdering father gets a place amongst the Grey Wardens. What else could you want from me?”

Anora’s smirk was a beautiful imitation of her father’s. “Your life, unfortunately,” she said. “So long as you live, rebellions can be raised in your name. Our land cannot endure another civil war. I must call for your execution.”

The Mage gasped, glancing around the chamber, expecting to see startlement or horror on the faces of the audience, their allies. Instead of rising in protest, however, the assembled nobles merely looked on, some nodding, some shrugging. She struggled to believe what was happening. She herself thought that Alistair could do with a couple of jolts of lightning to the head; but to accept his help, deny his wishes and then lead him off to his death? This was just like Orzammar all over again. Did every major decision in Fereldan politics have to be formalized by an execution? “No!” she shouted. Anora turned to her. “You owe me a boon,” she urged. How much, thought the Mage, could she trust Anora to remember the help that she received from the Wardens in maintaining her crown? Or the reward she had promised them if their plans had succeeded? “Let him go, Anora.”

Anora’s eyes narrowed. “This is what you would ask?” Her contempt for the Mage’s soft-heartedness was plain. She sighed. “Very well –though I think it a mistake.” She turned to Alistair and pronounced her judgment. “You may leave on condition that you swear before this Landsmeet that you renounce your claim to the throne, for yourself and all your heirs.”

Looking at Alistair, the Mage wondered where Anora thought his heirs might possibly come from. Surely he at least must know that the Grey Wardens were all the family he was likely to have?

“That’s what it’ll take, huh? Fine,” he spat. “I don’t want anything to do with this place or any of you people, EVER! I swear it!” Then, he faced the Mage for the last time. “Time for me to go,” he said.

“You don’t have to leave.” Hold the choice in front of him, let him see its brightness, let him see that he is free to take it. Give him wisdom, and hope. This is your family, Alistair. Who ever gets to choose their family? It’s the same for everyone, everywhere you go.

Alistair, his face dark, his voice bitter, turned away. “Have fun ending the Blight. . .or whatever.” He picked up his lightened pack and slung it over his shoulders. “I guess you made your decision, right? So goodbye.”

He set his back to the assembly and strode out of the hall. Various nobles stirred, stretched, began to group and gossip with their friends as they prepared to leave. Riordan approached Loghain who, escorted by armed guards, followed the Orlesian out a side door. The Warden’s Mabari plunked his rear end on the floor of the hall and made a mournful song to the arched ceiling. After this victory, all the Mage wanted was to get her company together and leave this blasted city –or possibly to have a bath first. She recalled wryly how happy she had been when Duncan had explained to her that the Grey Wardens never meddled in politics. An image had begun to appear in her head, when she thought of the machinations of society and government, that she could not shake: that of a shambles, a river of people in an endless march, with those in the middle of the herd trudging mindlessly towards the knacker’s or the butcher’s knife, while those on the perimeter fought constantly with each other for the right to sit on the fence and wield the prods.

Modifié par Morwen Eledhwen, 11 avril 2011 - 06:22 .

[Morwen Eledhwen]

And finally, Chapter 3. After the Landsmeet bummer, the Mage and her newly-reformed band of companions head out from Denerim. The "four firsts" in the chapter title refer to Loghain's first night as a Grey Warden, his first dialogue with the Mage, their first argument, and his first gift.

Thanks to Sarah1281, Addai67 and DragonRacer13 for getting me Loghain's half of the "first conversation in camp" dialogue. That dialogue is © Bioware; the rest is mine.

[Morwen Eledhwen]

This chapter can now also be read on Dreamwidth or ff.net, where a slightly larger font may cause less eyestrain.  ../../../images/forum/emoticons/wink.png

3 –Four Firsts

     Only Riordan and Anora were present at Loghain’s Joining ceremony. Back at Eamon’s estate, the Mage lay in her bath, suspended in a cloud of herb-scented steam. Occasionally the Mabari would poke his head over the rim of the tub, roll a tragic eye in her direction, then sink back down to the floor where he lay next to her. Someone else –Shale, Eamon, Anora, the Mage did not know or care who—informed the rest of the company of the day’s events. When she finally joined them in the downstairs chamber where they had gathered to wait, they were standing or sitting in aggressively noncommittal postures by their trussed-up packs. Morrigan wrinkled her nose at the aroma of steamed dog that followed the Mage and the Mabari through the door, but for once declined to voice her opinion. Each companion’s eyes turned to their commander’s and then, when she said nothing, looked away: Morrigan and Sten, respecting her decision to be silent; Shale, not caring one way or the other; Oghren and Zevran, bursting for details and frustrated at receiving none; Leliana, discomfited and sad. She had liked Alistair. He had been awkward with her at first, unaccustomed as he was to such outrageously soft and girlish attentions, but Leliana had found his awkwardness endearing. Alistair’s innocence, of course, had also made him harmless. If Leliana came to him in camp and wrapped her arms around him, or combed his hair and sang to him as they sat by the fire, he would simply accept it and never ask more of her than she offered. He was like a pet or a large, warm pillow. He would never break her heart. In her sorrowful expression, the Mage saw that Leliana was now contemplating all the remaining days of her journey with no one to turn to for comfort when she needed it. The Mage also knew that there was nothing she could do to help her sweet Orlesian sister –being, as she was, so often the cause of Leliana’s need.

     The only pack left open was the Warden’s own, leaning up against the far wall. She crossed to it and began to sort through the day’s accumulation of loot, parsing through what to keep and what to sell. The prize of the day was a sword almost too long and heavy for the Mage to carry, though the woman from whose body it was taken had not been much larger than she. Few individual deaths along their travels had caused the Mage more regret than that of Ser Cauthrien, whose proud, steadfast loyalty to her lord had been tempered with intelligence and wisdom regarding his recent actions, and a heartfelt prayer that he could be redeemed. Graceful and powerful, Ser Cauthrien’s sword had suited her; now, the Warden’s own stalwart lieutenant would wield it. She presented it without a word to Sten, who scowled as usual at the suggestion that he carry any weapon but his own Asala. After examining the new blade, however, he took it silently from her hands. Attached as he was to the sword he called his soul, he was not so sentimental that he would not acknowledge or use a superior weapon if it was offered to him. Asala was stowed in his pack as a spare –he would never actually sell it or leave it behind—and the Summer Sword was set to take its place. Before sheathing it at his back, Sten addressed the greatsword in his own language, his eyes intent, his voice solemn and low. The Mage could not tell if he was welcoming his new friend or giving respectful thanks to its previous owner. Satisfied either way, she left him to it.

     No one else spoke. They all seemed wary of starting that first conversation, in which the preposterous truth would inevitably have to be acknowledged that at any minute, Loghain Mac Tir might be stalking through the door with his own pack on his shoulders. The fact that no word had yet come from Riordan about the results of the Joining led the Mage to believe that Loghain must have lived; however, she forced herself to consider their situation in either eventuality. If he lived, she would have to integrate him into the company as quickly and with as little disturbance as possible. For this, she would have to ensure that he behaved with a sense of respect and cooperation –and that her companions returned the favor. Aside from Leliana and the dog, they weren’t exactly a gentle bunch; and the echoes of Loghain’s scathing words at the Landsmeet were still ringing in her ears. She sighed. The situation could get ugly if any of them elected not to play nicely. Since no one in the group but Alistair had had a truly personal grudge against Loghain, she could reasonably count on them following their leader’s example; she was completely in the dark about Loghain, however. She supposed that she should have a talk with him in camp as soon as he seemed up to it. Hopefully she would not to have to resort to the “I spared your life and I’m the boss, so you’ll do what I say and behave yourself” approach, but just finding out whether or not Loghain was going to make that necessary would give the Mage a good idea of what to expect from him.
 
     On the other hand, if he were not to survive the Joining ceremony, their campaign to save Ferelden from the Blight was going to suffer pretty severely. For one thing, the Mage would be the only active Grey Warden in the entire country. She could not count on the enigmatic Orlesian who so far had maintained a detached, “just passing through” attitude toward their plight. For another, they would not have a single sword-and-shield warrior in the entire company. Sten, Oghren and Shale were perfectly competent warriors in their own way, but their fighting styles made them somewhat slow; and in addition to their offense, her Warriors presented a front of strength to the enemy, to absorb the bulk of their aggression so that the smaller, less heavily armed Rogues and Mages could do their work properly. This bulwark would be less effective without a Warrior fast enough to maneuver with the enemy, but still strong enough to take a beating. Adding to the difficulty was the fact that the company had already lost its healer. Both Mages in the party knew a basic healing spell, and her commander had had the foresight to force Morrigan to wheedle the more highly specialized Revival spell out of Wynne before the older Mage had deserted them; but the White Demon and the Witch of the Wilds were not healers. Between them, they had tacitly agreed that the best way they could protect their companions was to make sure that their enemies died as quickly as possible. With one less Warrior in the party, that strategy may have to be revised. . .Who knows, thought the Mage. Morrigan may actually have to practice that Revival spell.

     At least the idea of Morrigan using advanced healing magic to revive a fallen comrade provided the Mage with her first amusement in quite some time. The silence and the waiting were beginning to weary even her, who had spent many a contented hour alone in the Circle studies while the other apprentices giggled and nudged and tried to hex each other under the table. Sten had finished his communion with the Summer Sword and had also fallen silent. The Mage wondered if this was remotely like how Shale had felt in the middle of the Honnleath village square. No wonder her memory had fallen to bits and been replaced with stilted images and fog. It felt as though the world had forgotten them all in this room.

     Zevran’s head drooped and rested on the cold armored shoulder of Oghren, who was too stupefied to care. The dog lay on the carpet and snored. Morrigan was preening, picking stubborn flecks of blood out of the feathers that adorned her left shoulder. Leliana and Sten were both either sleeping or meditating, sitting upright with their eyes closed. And finally, the door to the chamber opened –but it was not Loghain who entered. Instead, Anora glided in, sleek and serene, pretty hands composed as always. Catching the Warden’s eye, she inclined her head, and smiled.

                                                                                               *     *     *

     Night was falling as they left Denerim. They could have stayed, and gone in the morning, but neither the Mage nor Loghain cared to spend another minute in the city, least of all in Arl Eamon’s empty estate. The Arl himself had already departed for Redcliffe to oversee the final muster of the Wardens’ new armies. The Queen and the Wardens themselves were to follow as soon as they were able. Anora appeared content to cooperate with Eamon, but the Mage wondered if Eamon found the young Queen’s captivating ways quite as amusing as he had before the Landsmeet. In any case, she was glad to be allowed to leave them to their devices, and meant to put as much distance between herself and Denerim as possible without delay. She was also mindful of what awaited Loghain when he went to sleep for the first time after his Joining. Though she could not prevent the visions from coming, she could at least try to exhaust his brain and body so that he could perhaps sleep through them instead of thrashing around and waking himself up every hour or so. She would also make sure that he knew what to expect. No one had told the newly joined young Mage that she would dream of the Archdemon on that first night, or that it would also dream of her. She still found this annoying. She had never understood the point of such secrecy, especially towards their own recruits. And Riordan seemed to share the same coyness as his Fereldan counterparts. No wonder, she thought grimly, that fables and conspiracy theories alike were hatched about the Grey Wardens.

     Once out of the city, the company turned northwest and disappeared into the forest. Most of them quickly assumed their usual travelling formation –Zevran keeping a solicitous eye on his mistress’s back, Oghren stumping alongside his fellow debauchee and occasionally using the Mabari for balance, Sten and Shale pacing tirelessly in large, silent communion at the rear, Morrigan gliding amongst them at will as her mood changed or she tired of someone’s company. Only Leliana seemed at a loose end, without Alistair’s buoyant warmth and good humor to anchor her. She drifted first towards one companion and then another like an orphaned nestling. At some point Sten detected the passing of a deer close by and alerted his commander, who signaled to the Orlesian archer and sent them both in pursuit. Leliana unslung her bow and, clearly thankful for some occupation, followed the Qunari’s broad back into the deepening gloom. Nothing but the path before his feet seemed to register with the newest member of their party, however. Loghain was a shadow of dark hair and a flicker of beaten silver armor at the Mage’s right-hand side, his face a waning moon under scuds of purple cloud.

     They camped at the foot of Soldier’s Peak. Oghren lit a fire in the middle of a clearing and the others began to pitch their tents around it according to their preference of neighbors and distance therefrom. Leliana and Sten returned from their hunt, Sten with the dead deer slung over his shoulders. He began to dress it while the usual whining broke out amongst the company about whose turn it was to cook. The Dwarf merchant Bodahn, who still found travelling with the Wardens more profitable than it was dangerous, trundled into camp some while later with his cartload of goods. Bodahn had been waiting for the Wardens outside the Denerim gates; as they left, the Mage had told him where she planned to stop for the night and he had set off by a more manageable road to meet them. He was accompanied by his young assistant, Sandal; along with another, armed Dwarf; a human knight bearing the Redcliffe crest; a Tranquil from the Circle of Magi; and a Werewolf. These others were emissaries from the four armies who had pledged to fight for the Grey Wardens in place of the army that was cut down at Ostagar. They stood apart from the circle of tents and bedrolls, waiting.
 
     Their “domestic” arrangements were by now such a force of habit that the company executed them without speaking, and almost without thinking. Loghain stood by the fire with his pack at his feet, watching the others work around him. If he was waiting to be told where he should set up his own camp, it soon became obvious without his having to ask. In the performance of their routine, the company had automatically left a gap in the circle round the fire, exactly where Alistair would have pitched his tent. Everyone seemed to become aware of this at the same time. They gazed in silence at the empty space, then at Loghain. His eyes scanned their faces; the Mage looked on from where she crouched by her own tent. When it became clear that no one was going to say anything, he shrugged and took his place.

     The fire seemed to bring Loghain out of himself a little. Though it had probably been quite some time since General Mac Tir had had to set up his own camp, he did so with the speed and skill of long practice that the Mage, frankly, envied. Afterwards he sat on a rock near the fire and surveyed the rest of the campsite as he waited for the meat to roast. The Mage watched him take in his surroundings. He registered first Bodahn and the cart, then each of the emissaries --giving an ironic nod of greeting to the Redcliffe knight, who glared back at him but remained silent. When his eyes suddenly sprang alert and his right hand jerked towards his sword, the Mage knew that he had spotted the Werewolf. She waited, ready to intervene if necessary but curious to see what he would do. Loghain glanced around the campsite and saw no one else raising the alarm; he also seemed to note with interest that the Werewolf was standing upright and seemed as likely to attack as any of his fellows. Slowly, the Warrior’s hand returned to resting on his knee. The Mage smiled to herself and got up to address the emissaries who waited in turn to speak with her. She could not see him, but had no doubt that Loghain was watching as she visited with each of them, distributing supplies and coin to all except the Werewolf, who conversed with her courteously for a moment before accepting a Nug and retreating to the shadows out of politeness for his table manners.

     Supper was another familiar routine, mostly involving fending off the dog. He was given his own portion before anyone else, but still seemed more interested in sharing those of his companions. Loghain’s eyes registered quiet amusement as he observed the others’ efforts to wave or shout the Mabari away. When the meal was over, the dog picked up the bone from his portion in his teeth and lay down by the party’s newest member to gnaw on it. The other companions glanced at each other, nonplussed; but Loghain smiled at his new friend and began to scratch the Mabari behind the ears. The Mage wondered if her war dog might have a special affinity for Grey Wardens –after all, he himself had once experienced the taint. Or perhaps he just knew a good ear-scratcher when he saw one. Loghain’s broad hand rested on the top of Dog’s head while the nails, pads and knuckles of his fingers worked the dusty brown hide. The Mage couldn’t tell exactly what he was doing, but whatever it was, it sent the Mabari into transports. To convey his thanks, the war dog pushed and leaned his way in between the Warrior’s legs and stuck his muzzle inches from Loghain’s face. Loghain did not pull away from the hot blasts of affection issuing from the dog’s panting mouth, but returned his gaze steadily for several minutes, much as Sten had done when he and the Mabari had first met. Dog concluded their wordless conversation with a happy bark and trotted off to make his usual round of the campsite. But though he visited every companion and marked every tree in the clearing, he circled back constantly to Loghain, resting his chin on the new Warden’s knee and begging for another scratch.

     The only truly awkward moment of the evening came when Loghain’s eyes rested on the Summer Sword as it hung from Sten’s back. The Mage saw him blink twice, frown, and then let out a soft sigh –of resignation or regret, she could not tell. He had probably not been aware of Ser Cauthrien’s death until just now, she thought. The spirit that he had regained from the warmth of the fire and the dog’s affections seemed suddenly to leave him; the Champion looked merely old, bruised, and tired. He continued to stare at the sword and at Sten for some time. The Mage wondered how he would react if he were ever to learn that it was not Sten but the Mabari, whose tongue was even now lolling shamelessly under Loghain’s ministrations, who had torn out Ser Cauthrien’s throat before the Landsmeet chamber.

     Shortly after this he rose, preparing to enter his tent and go to sleep. The Mage rose as well and called to him; those who had not already retired for the night watched her lead him away from the fire for a private word. She questioned Loghain briefly and discovered that indeed, Riordan had neglected to inform him of the nightmares that would accompany his first night as a Grey Warden; her evident disgust at the Orlesian’s remissness caused one corner of Loghain’s mouth to hitch briefly upwards. The Mage minced no words in letting him know what he was to expect. She also advised him to take some of the remaining meat from supper into his tent with him, in case he should awaken in the middle of the night. He looked skeptical at this but, upon hearing her explanation and seeing that she meant to do the same, did as he was told. The Mage took the first watch so that she could keep an eye on her new charge’s tent, in case she was needed. The Mabari curled up at the entrance to Loghain’s tent and dozed, occasionally cocking his ears at the interior and whining. There was no sound from inside the tent that anyone else could hear for the rest of the night.

     Next day, the Mage was not surprised to see Loghain emerge from his tent last of anyone in the company. He appeared to have gotten at least some sleep, anyway; his complexion was less bruised-looking and his glance more alert than they had been since the Waking Nightmare spell had hit him the day before. Rubbing his hands together to rid them of the morning’s chill, he looked around the campsite, clearly ready to be given something to do. Immediately he spotted the majority of his new companions clustered around Bodahn. Most of them, it turned out, were purchasing the same item, of which the Dwarf had a large stock. Curious, he strode down to the wagon to inquire, where Zevran –always the first biped of the company to welcome a newcomer-- greeted him with a bow and explained that after their adventures in Denerim, many of the Warden’s companions needed to replenish their personal supplies of Elixir of Grounding. Uncomprehending, Loghain shook his head, at which Zevran smiled and pressed a bottle of his own Elixir into Loghain’s hand. “Please, I insist,” said the Elf graciously. “You will thank me later.”

     “Are we expecting a spell of bad weather?”

     Zevran chuckled. “In a manner of speaking, yes: several spells, in fact.” His smile grew sly as he leaned in closer to Loghain’s ear. “Our mistress tries to strike only at her enemies,” he said, “but you know how it is: When the storm rages, everybody gets a little. . .wet.”

     And with a smoldering look and a sigh in the Mage’s direction, he trotted off to finish packing.

     Along with Zevran, Leliana and Sten had also elected to accompany the Mage on the climb up Soldier’s Peak. They were nearly finished with their preparations for the journey, and would expect to leave the campsite soon. It was time for the Mage and Loghain to have their first real dialogue about his future as a Grey Warden. He had just finished a conversation with Bodahn and was wandering back towards the fire. If she was going to do this –and she must—she would have to do it now. The Mage stood up from her pack, took a deep breath, and moved to intercept him. Before she had half closed the distance, however, he had spotted his commander and altered his own course to meet her. As she opened her mouth to deliver the opening remark she had prepared, she found to her surprise that he was already speaking.

     “Curious, isn’t it?” he said airily as he drew near. “Such fierce cravings for venison before the sun is even up? Lucky I happened to have some in my tent with me –it would have looked very unseemly for a Grey Warden to go ravening about the camp in the middle of the night. What would these fine people have thought?”

     It was as much thanks for her forthrightness of the previous evening as the Mage felt likely to receive. More encouraging still was the understanding in Loghain’s eyes, which regarded her this morning with something approaching actual approval. She smiled but said nothing. He chuffed once at his own joke, then nodded. The subject of his first night as a Grey Warden was both acknowledged and dismissed.

     Now he shifted to a more businesslike stance: an officer reporting for duty. “I passed your test,” he declared, his tone a mixture of pride and chagrin. “Fate has a twisted sense of humor, it seems.” He looked at her closely. “I suppose you think I'm some kind of monster. More so since I survived your ritual: you keep striking at me, and I just refuse to die decently.”

     The Mage shook her head knowingly, still smiling. “The same could be said for all of us,” she argued. “If you’re a monster, but have been unable to kill me, then what am I?”

     He gave a short bark of laughter. “Hah –you’re the White Demon, of course; or so the gossips in Denerim call you. Point taken. So, what’s to be done? How are two such terrible creatures to be rid of each other at last?”

     It was not difficult for the Mage to assume an air of being at a loss on this subject. “Ah, now, that’s the mystery,” she mused archly. “I may have to resort to some real magic next.”

     Her answer seemed to jolt him out of his train of thought. “Oh?” he rejoined. “What was all that nonsense with the Darkspawn blood and the mages, then? A puppet show? It seems to me that magic has already failed.” An ironic inward smirk indicated that he knew perfectly well how successful magic had been against him the day before. Still, he persisted. “I'd recommend a sharp knife in the kidneys next time,” he advised. “Less impressive, but it gets the job done.” The smirk became a smile despite itself, while one dark eyebrow taunted her to respond. She had had prior experience with Loghain’s eyebrows, but had assumed that he only employed them on dramatic occasions with an important audience. They now appeared just to be naturally conditioned to act out his thoughts even as he spoke them –or even if he didn’t. She let her own eyebrows and pursed mouth pretend that she was considering his suggestion. In the end, though, she had to reject it. “The plan loses something when you're the one suggesting it,” she said, clucking her tongue with mock regret.

     He sighed, his face a show of disappointment. “I suppose it does lack the element of surprise,” he admitted. His expression sobered again as he regarded her. “Well?” he asked after a moment. “What shall we do to settle things between us, then?”

     The Warden shrugged. There was only one answer to that question; she only hoped that he could see it too. “We’re going to have to work together,” she said simply.

     “Is that punishment meant for me or for you?” Again, they both smiled; almost immediately, they both knit their brows and looked reflectively at the ground. For her part, the Mage was processing the fact that just now her cooperation with Loghain Mac Tir did not seem like much of a punishment.

     Loghain himself seemed equally puzzled. No longer smiling, he gave a helpless shake of his head. “And just like that, we're allies?” he wondered softly. “I can't imagine it's so simple.” He glanced at her sharply. “I don't know what concession you want from me, Warden,” he said. “I expect my word will not satisfy you.”

     “I need to know I can trust you,” answered the Mage.

     “Nothing I can say will prove that. Either I will be worthy of trust, or I won't.” He may have expected this response to provoke the Mage into demanding signed documents or blood oaths; in fact, she had expected Loghain Mac Tir to elect his actions to speak for him, and she was far from disappointed. Her lack of hostility, however, seemed to surprise and even discomfit him a little. His frown deepened and he eyed her with suspicion. “I think it's time we got to the point here,” he challenged her. “What do you want from me? I can't imagine that you spared my life in the Landsmeet by accident. You have some plan in mind.”

     “I’m giving you a chance,” she replied, and held her breath. Hold it up, leave him free to choose if he wants. For the second time in as many days. “I want you to take it.”

     A blink; a pause as he considered her; then a slow, wry smile. “Fortunate for me, then, that I've always been a man to take chances,” answered Loghain.

     The Mage tried not to look as triumphant as she felt. Instead, she settled for a smile and a nod in the direction of Soldier’s Peak. “Come on, then,” she beckoned.

     She turned to summon the others. Before she could move away, he stopped her with a brusque jerk of his shoulders. When she looked back at him, he was glowering at the ground. “All of this can rightly be called my fault,” he said harshly. “Whether or not you can do better remains to be seen.” Suddenly he lifted his head and she saw a raw earnest face unmasked, pleading with her. “But if you can make this the end, Warden,” he said hoarsely, “I will follow you. I swear it.”

     In his eyes, the Mage saw a searing emptiness that he seemed now to be asking her to fill. What was it that he needed? Hope? A purpose? A chance at redemption? She swallowed, gripped with a fear of failing him deeper than that of merely dying at the Landsmeet. “We will find a way to end this Blight,” she answered. Only words, of course; and meaningless without action, as he knew; but it was enough to be going on with. He nodded. “Andraste help us, then,” he said.

                                                                                       *       *      *

     Loghain may not have registered exactly where they were headed the previous night, but he had evidently noted the direction they had taken. As they approached Soldier’s Peak, the Mage observed him consulting a map and trying to work out where they were, presumably by estimating the distance they had traveled and checking the map’s landmarks against his surroundings. Occasional huffs and grumblings could be heard over her right shoulder along with the rustle of the map; if he was correct in his calculations, the Mage thought she could guess the reason for them. Finally, just as the tops of the fortress towers came into view, she heard the map snap closed and a quick crunching of snow as he pulled up alongside her. She did not slow her pace but turned a bland, unruffled gaze to his challenging look, and his outstretched arm pointing accusingly at the Peak.

     “I thought this place was supposed to be haunted,” he demanded.

     “It was.”

     A pause while his eyebrows bunched together for a conference. Meanwhile, more of the fortress became visible as they drew nearer. “So we’re here on a ghost hunt, then, is that it?” he asked finally. “Don’t we have enough problems as it is?”

     “Actually, we’re going shopping.”

     The eyebrows jumped up in protest. “I beg your pardon?”

     “Hello, Levi.”

     Sunlight bathed the snow-covered clearing at the south door of the fortress. The reflected radiance off the ground caused the walls of Soldier’s Peak to affect a golden glow. Crows hopped along the paths to either side and children chased them. On the north side of the clearing, a merchant was hailing the party.

     “Welcome back, Warden!” called Levi Dryden. “A fine morning for a visit to the Peak. What can I do for--” Suddenly he choked, and stared, as the Mage and her companions trooped up and stood before him. The Mage wore an expression of polite befuddlement. This seemed to further confuse Levi, who proceeded to dart pointed warning looks both at the Mage and at a spot past her right shoulder. When she still did not respond, her newest recruit prompted her in a stage whisper loud enough to make Leliana jump:

     “What he means to say is, ‘Don’t look now, Warden, but Loghain Mac Tir is right behind you.’”

     This last was hissed with such perfect pantomime villainy that a snort of laughter escaped her before the Mage could suppress it. Levi Dryden’s eyes grew alarmed and he looked wildly round, as though about to call for help. The Mage stopped biting her lip and tried to look serene.

     “It’s all right, Levi.”

     From over her shoulder came a series of low glottal stops that she was later to identify as the sound of Loghain Mac Tir chuckling to himself.

     Levi was evidently still searching his brain for an explanation. He leaned in conspiratorially towards the Mage and jerked his head at Loghain. “You going to fight him here, then?” He nodded sagely. “That’s okay, Warden, we’ll keep it quiet. Least we can do, after you avenged Sophia and gave us the Peak.”

     The Mage looked at him quizzically. “So, you think I’ve kidnapped Loghain Mac Tir and brought him all the way to Soldier’s Peak, just to kill him?” she asked. “Now, why in Andraste’s name would I do that?”

     “Well, he’s Regent, innit? And a teyrn. Could be messy for you if you did it in Denerim. But up here, no one’ll be the wiser. We’ll give the body to the snow, or to old Avernus. Come to think of it, you wouldn’t have to kill him at all. Old Avernus will be glad to have him just as he is—“

     “Levi!” snapped the Mage. “No one is being handed over to Avernus, do you understand?”

     His face fell. “Yes, my lady,” he said sheepishly.

     “He still keeps to his tower, does he?”

     “He does. We keep the youngsters away from his door. He never comes out.”

     “Good. See that his door remains shut, Levi.”

     “Yes, my lady.”

     Sten had already wandered up the western ridge to take in the sparkling mountain air and gaze over the pine-wooded slopes below. Leliana and Zevran both needed crafting supplies; as the Mage and Loghain moved aside to let them through, she sighed. “Word will soon get around about what happened at the Landsmeet,” she muttered dismissively. “We shouldn’t have to endure too many repeats of that conversation. . .I hope.”

     “Who or what is Avernus, and why—“

     The Mage shook her head. “You really don’t want to know.”

     “Oh, you think you can shock me, do you?” The eyebrows were skeptical. “Go on, try. What would happen to me if you decided to hand me over to old Avernus?”

     The Mage drew a breath, raised her eyes to Avernus’s tower and answered in a careless lilt: “You would be kept in a cage and subjected to a series of experiments on the nature and effects of pain, energy, and lots of tainted blood --mostly yours, of course.” She lowered her gaze to Loghain’s deeply incredulous face and continued. “All of Avernus’s former test subjects are long since dead, so it would be just you and he, alone in that tower amongst the bones and the dust, until your usefulness to him ended with your life.” She smiled sweetly.

     “Is this the truth?” he demanded. “How do you know this?”

     She shrugged. “We came here a few months ago on a ghost hunt, as you put it, and found him. He had not cleaned his laboratory or even disposed of the bodies in the cages. His journal gave the details of the experiments. We also saw some of the fruits of his efforts. He himself is one, actually –he is well over a century old, despite being a Grey Warden.” She gave a short, dry laugh. “In a way, I’m surprised we didn’t find him even madder than we did, stuck up in his tower for decades with nothing but mangled bodies, wraiths, demons and the animated corpse of Sophia Dryden for company.”

     “Huh. And he has been allowed to live, even after what he’s done?”

     “I prefer not to end a person’s life just because I disapprove of what they’ve done,” said the Mage, giving Loghain a meaningful look that caused his eyes to roll heavenward. “I only step in if I see that their actions are preventing others from living their own lives freely.”

     “But isn’t that exactly what Avernus—“

     The Mage raised a conciliatory palm. “If he tries to do it again, he will be stopped, and killed if necessary. But killing him now will not bring those people back; whereas if he lives, he could still be of use. He has other, less gruesome methods of research.” She shook her head. “Avernus is harmless as long as he never comes out of his tower and no one else goes in. Levi has promised to keep him out of mischief. . .”

     They both looked back at Levi, remembering his previous suggestion regarding old Avernus. Loghain coughed once. “Hmm, yes,” he murmured. The Mage’s expression echoed the doubt in his voice. “And so these are the people with whom you choose to do business?” he asked her.

     “Well, Denerim was a bit dodgy for us Wardens for a while, if you’ll recall. We’ve been forced to trade out of the way. Besides, Levi Dryden gives us a good bargain.”

     “Aha.” The brows lifted, releasing a flash of blue. “A Dryden, is he? Some relation of Sophia’s, I presume. Interesting. I was not aware that there were any Drydens left in Ferelden. Now it all begins to make sense. Let me guess: you cleansed the ancestral fortress for him, so he cuts you a deal on a new pair of boots.”

     She laughed. “We come here mostly to sell, actually; but yes, something like that. Today we’re shopping for you, however.” She glanced at his bare head. “You need a helmet,” she said, “and a new sword.”

     “What’s wrong with my sword?” he demanded.

     She lowered her eyes at him. “I may be a Mage,” she argued, “but I’ve looted, bought and sold enough of those things by now to be able to tell an exceptional sword from a common one. I can’t believe you’re actually carrying that thing around. You could have had the best sword in Ferelden; and you settle for this?” She gestured behind his back at the plain, middling-caliber weapon that hung there.

     “I happen to place a greater value on the swordfighter than the sword, Warden. The finest blade in the world is worthless in the hand that cannot wield it.”

     “That is true,” conceded the Mage, “but think how much more devastating a good swordfighter would be, if he wielded a really good sword. Now, come on: we’re going to see Mikhael Dryden about getting you one.”

     “More Drydens, yet,” grumbled Loghain.

     “You’ll like this one. He’ll have no truck with old Avernus.” She led him across the gleaming snow to the shadowed side of the clearing, where an outdoor forge was already smoking. A couple of apprentices were removing a breastplate from the forge and placing it across a pair of wooden horses to be etched. Weapons and armor for sale lay out under a canopy for protection from the weather and the crows. As she and Loghain approached, the smith set down his tools, removed his gloves, and met the Mage with a determined expression.

     “Warden,” he said, “you know what I’m about to ask you.”

     She grinned. “There’s no need, Mikhael,” she answered. “Today, you shall finally get what you want.” As he eagerly watched, the Mage drew from her pack a smoke-colored lump of charred rock and handed it to the smith. “Maker,” he breathed, “I never thought I’d get to hold this.”

     “You’ve said you can make me a sword with this?”

     “I’ve begged you to let me make you a sword with this, my lady, as you well know. I’ve been pestering her for months,” he complained to Loghain. “Every time she comes to the Peak. ‘At least sell it to me,’ I’ve said, ‘if you’ve got no use for it.’”

     “You know I couldn’t sell something like this, Mikhael. No, I had to use it –I just needed a good enough reason. And now I have.” She indicated the Warrior by her side. “This man needs a new sword. A good sword.”

     “My lady, with this metal I will make you a sword the likes of which you have never seen.”

     He hurried to the forge with the lump of rock held lovingly in front of him. The Mage smiled in anticipation and turned to Loghain. “He says it won’t be long; let’s have a look at these helmets while we wait.”

     They strolled over to the racks of helmets under the canopy, where the Mage began to inspect each one in turn.

     “So?” asked Loghain at length. “Are you going to tell me what that stuff was that has Mikhael Dryden in such ecstasies?”

     “We found it in a deep depression in the earth --it looked as though someone had punched the ground with a very large fist. Mikhael says that lump did it, falling from the sky. He says it’s a star –or part of a star, anyway; I didn’t quite know what he was talking about. But he says it only happens once in many centuries, and we only found enough for one weapon; so you see why I had to wait until my choice was clear before I let him have it.”

     “Huh.”

     She placed the last helmet back on its rack, shaking her head. “These are well made, but they’re nothing special. I’d prefer not to waste our funds. If you can manage to keep your head on for a couple of days, we should be able to find or buy you something appropriate. We have a few stops to make before Redcliffe Castle, anyway.”

     “A few stops? Are we making a tour of the countryside?” He cast an eye at Levi Dryden, who was still staring suspiciously in their direction.

     “I don’t intend to parade you around like a beast at the fair, if that’s your concern. But we have some pieces of unfinished business to attend to. A couple of promises to fulfill. And I need to make as much coin and gather as many supplies as I can while we still have time. I’ve been funding an army too, you know.” She shot him a pointed look. “And I haven’t got a stock of Elves to sell.”

     Loghain emitted a harsh shout of laughter. “Ah, yes.” he crowed. “Now we come to it at last. I knew that you couldn’t possibly have nothing to reproach me with.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest, legs braced apart in the snow. “Go on, by all means,” he invited her. “You disapprove of my dealings with the Tevinter merchants, do you?”

     She turned from the racks to face him. “The Tevinter slavers, yes, I do. I’ve already said that I disapprove of anything that stifles another person’s freedom or uses him unwillingly for one’s own ends.”

     “Yes; and how touchingly noble that is of you, Warden," he spat. "I only pray you never have to make a hard choice between preserving a handful of freedoms and liberating an entire nation. I’d hate to see that shining light get tarnished –or worse, to see you choose our ruin instead, so long as you get to keep glittering.”

     The Mage’s eyes narrowed and she took a step towards him. “You saw that Werewolf in camp?” she hissed. “He’s there because a stubborn old Dalish mage refused to accept him and his brothers –his people—as thinking, reasoning, independent beings. He thought of them only as vermin, though he was the one who had cursed them; and when the curse started to bite his own clan, he enjoined us as his exterminators. I met the Werewolves,” she said defiantly. “I spoke to them. I saw that all they wanted was to be a free people. I could not deny them that.”

     “Hmm. And your old Dalish mage, failing to appreciate the wisdom of that decision, attempted to dissuade you, I suppose? I take it that his arguments were unsuccessful?”

     Her nostrils flared; her jaw set. She made no further move, but her rising temper was evident and Loghain flicked a wary eye at her staff even as he spoke. Suddenly he checked, frowning. Still watching her hands for any sudden movements, he stepped carefully around her and peered between her shoulder blades. The Mage knew exactly what had caught his attention and stood her ground, waiting for him to finish his inspection. His look as he turned back to her was very knowing, his voice a conspiratorial purr.

     “That staff you’re carrying looks very old,” he observed casually. “Much too old to belong to a young woman who was barely out of her Harrowing when I first met her, not too many months ago. In fact,” he declared, “it looks like the type of staff that might once have belonged to a very foolish, blind, stubborn old bat of a Dalish Mage.”

     His eyes were smug, his mouth sneering. She continued to gaze levelly at him. When it was clear that she refused to be goaded, he straightened, re-crossed his arms, and slowly nodded.

     “And thus an army of Werewolves honors your treaty –forgive me, our treaty-- instead of the Dalish,” he concluded.

     “The Werewolves are as ready to honor their allegiance to the Wardens, and to defend their homes against the Blight, as any race in Ferelden.”

     A signal from Mikhael indicated that the new sword was ready. The Mage turned and began to walk back towards the forge. Loghain, however, maintained his stance. When she had gone several paces he called out to her.

     “So you still believe that your actions with the Dalish are somehow less reprehensible than mine with the elves in Denerim?”

     She stopped. Across the clearing, heads turned in their direction. For a moment the Mage stood looking at the snow. Then turning, she strode back until their eyes locked at the same distance from which they had faced each other at the Landsmeet. Her expression was solemn but her voice clear. “I regret killing the innocent,” she answered. “He would not lift the curse and he would not face us alone; he ordered his clan to fight us and they obeyed him because he was their leader. They did not know that he had been the cause of it all. Had they known the truth, they would have been able to decide for themselves, to follow him or not. He kept them in ignorance, and so they died.”

     A nervous cough reminded them that Mikhael Dryden was still holding his creation out for them to admire. Still glaring at each other, they crossed back to where he stood. He presented it to them with a triumphant air.

     “I call it the Starfang.” He gazed at it with affectionate wonder.

     The Mage and Loghain stared at the sword. The metal ore had been the color of smoke, but the sword in Mikhael Dryden’s hands was like the inside of a glacier, traced with veins of frost.

     “It’s –a work of art, Mikhael,” said the Mage. “I can’t begin to thank you.”

     The smith beamed at them. The Mage took the sword and, after failing to be allowed to pay a single copper for what Mikhael said had been the privilege of working with such material, walked with Loghain past the clearing’s entrance to a clump of trees on the other side, out of everyone’s earshot. She still held the sword out in front of her. They both looked doubtfully at it.

     “It’s a bit fancy, isn’t it?” said Loghain after a moment.

     The Mage shook her head. “I’ve certainly never seen anything like it, that’s for sure,” she said. She frowned. “I’m sure it’s an excellent sword.. . .Maybe once it’s got some blood on it. . .” she finished hopefully.

     “Maybe we should ask him to break it up into a couple of daggers for that Elf of yours instead.” Still thinking of the slave traders, the Mage bristled. “Surely its prettiness is wasted on me,” insisted Loghain.

      “Zevran is not my Elf.”

     “Oho, don’t be coy, madam,” he admonished her. “He is quite obviously yours --whether you choose to accept him or not.”

     For answer, the Mage stared balefully at Loghain, then at the Starfang, then back at Loghain. With a weary sigh, he took it from her, hefted it, ran it through a series of swings and jabs, and finally thrust it into the bole of a young pine, which shuddered and creaked ominously. As he dislodged the blade with a flick of his wrist he ground his teeth in a vain effort not to look pleased or impressed. The Mage turned away and looked at the sunlight bouncing off the high windows of the Peak so that he could belt his new sword at his back without her gloating. Presently the snow crunched briskly behind her, and a cough at her side indicated that Loghain was with her again.

      “Anyway,” she resumed, “you know as well as I do that the Archdemon hasn’t made a move yet. We still have time and I’m going to make the most of it. I certainly don’t want to loiter in Redcliffe Castle any longer than I need to.”

     “Warden, we are in complete agreement on that point at least. Lead on.” He gestured towards the mountain path.

     “Hang about, I want to check our supply cache.”

     With a groan of impatience, Loghain followed her back to the north side of the clearing. “Levi,” called the Mage. “You still have that suit of armor I left here, don’t you?”

     “Yes, my lady.”

     She trotted ahead of Loghain to fetch a piece from the merchant. Choosing the massive plated torso, she hoisted it over her shoulder and started to bring it over to where Loghain was still plodding up to meet her. As soon as he caught sight of the armor, however, he shook his head defiantly.

     “No. Not a chance,” he bellowed. “You are not taking this armor away from me. Are you even aware—“

     “Oh, save your breath,” she rasped, plunking the torso she was carrying on the ground and eyeing it dismissively. “I can tell from here that your armor at least is better than anything I could possibly give you. In fact—“ she scanned the plate once more—“I can sell this lot now; I was saving it for Alistair if he should ever be strong enough—”

     A snort. “Poor armor, I’m surprised it hasn’t rusted into bits, waiting.”

     “But. . .” considered the Mage, falling to her knees in the snow and rummaging through a large chest that sat between Levi Dryden's stall and the steps leading up to Soldier’s Peak: “we can use this--” she placed a nearly invisible item in her own pack—“and I think Zevran’s about ready for this--” she laid a wicked-looking axe on the ground—“and. . .ah. Yes, I’d almost forgotten about this.” She stood up, holding out a small object wrapped in a leather cord. “This is for you.”

     One eyebrow pointed at the contents of the Mage’s hand; the other invited her to explain.

     She began to unwrap the object. “After my Joining I was given this amulet” –she paused to lift the Warden’s Oath from her throat, then resumed picking at the knots into which the leather cord had tied itself. “It contains a bit of Darkspawn blood, which gives me some extra protection, and is also meant to remind me of the sacrifice made by those who did not survive the Joining.” She gazed at Loghain with a rueful smile. Loghain looked as though he might once have scoffed at such a statement but now knew better. “I don’t suppose, however,” she continued, “that Riordan happened to have one of these in his pack for you.”

     Loghain shook his head.

     She shrugged, and sighed. “Unfortunately, neither do I, so this will have to do.” She held up the amulet for him to see. He blinked, looking not at the amulet but at the Mage, and held out his hand.

     She dropped it gently in his palm. “Just because we’re a little disorganized these days, it doesn’t mean you deserve less than any other recruit.” She smiled warmly. “Take it, Warden --and welcome.” Loghain looked thunderstruck. The Mage hoisted up the armor and a handful of other castoffs from the supply cache, and walked over to the merchant with Loghain still staring at her. With her back to him, she could not see when he finally looked at the object in his hand, but she could hear it: A short, sharp breath, quickly cut off. A pause.

      “The Silver Sword of Mercy. Ha.”

     But when she turned back from selling off her loot to Levi, the amulet was around his neck.



                     

Modifié par Morwen Eledhwen, 20 avril 2011 - 02:24 .

[Morwen Eledhwen]

This chapter can now also be read on Dreamwidth or ff.net, where a slightly larger font may cause less eyestrain.  ../../../images/forum/emoticons/wink.png

4 –A Few Minor Details

Even the Mage knew that no verdict could truly be given on the new sword until it had been tested in the field. She suspected, however, that an opportunity would soon arise.

"Next stop, the Deep Roads," she announced in camp that afternoon.

Groans and shouts of protest from her followers. "Are you sodding kidding me?" growled Oghren. Morrigan clutched at her temples: "You can't be serious," she griped. "But I have just gotten the stink of those Deep Roads out of my hair!" moaned Leliana. A rumble of disapproval issued from Sten's throat. In the past he would have objected as strenuously as the others, but these days he restricted himself merely to putting on a sour face and abiding in silence. Shale, on the other hand, seemed to perk up somewhat, and regarded the Mage with interest.

The Mage waited patiently until the storm of complaints subsided. "It's like this," she explained. "We don't know how much time we have left before the Archdemon makes its move, but we have a feeling that it won't be long. We now have the semblance of an army, but it's still not as well equipped as I'd like. In fact," she admitted, "if the Archdemon were to make its move on Redcliffe tomorrow, the only ones of the whole lot of us I'd call fully equipped for battle would be this company and the Werewolves."

"He has no helmet," said Leliana, pointing at Loghain.

"Perhaps I choose not to wear one," he retorted. "Perhaps I am fully capable of outfitting myself, and need no handmaids to dress me."

"Perhaps I don't care," interjected the Mage, "as I prefer not to have to worry about unnecessary head injuries to any of my followers."

Loghain took the epithet with a sour look, followed by an ironic obeisance. "As you command, Grey Warden," he said. The Mage made an exasperated face and turned back to the others.

"The point is," she resumed, "our job until the final battle will be to gather as much coin, supplies and equipment for our armies as we can, as quickly as we can. Now, I know that the Deep Roads were no fun." Grumbles of assent from the company ("You can say that again," snarled Oghren). The Mage's voice grew louder to cover them. "But they were extremely profitable," she continued, "as you are all aware. You also know that we left quite a bit of them unexplored in our haste to find Branka and the Anvil." She paused to let this sink in. Her company was, for the most part, a fairly mercenary lot; they were thinking of the coin, weapons, armor and other treasures that they had already found in the caves and tunnels beyond Orzammar –some of which they had taken for themselves, rather than sell or give them away. She knew that they also recalled how many avenues in the old Dwarf kingdom they had passed by on their last mission. The grumbles ceased. The Mage cast her eyes over them until each one refocused and faced her again. "The Deep Roads are our best resource," she concluded. "And we'd be within a reasonable distance of Redcliffe, should we be needed."

The silence that followed was broken by Oghren, who turned to Loghain with a snort. "Well, you're in luck, Ser Regent or whatever you were until yesterday," he said grimly. "The boss is letting you cut your teeth on the toughest Bronto's hide of them all. Welcome to the Grey Wardens, heh."

"I hardly think his teeth need cutting, Oghren," said the Mage mildly.

"Yeah, well, he's gone soft in that palace of his, I'll bet," growled Oghren. "All those soft beds, and servant girls, and. . .wine. . .Just don't expect me to hold his Grace's hand when he catches his first sight of the Deep Roads." Loghain gave the Dwarf a peculiar, humorless smile at this, but said nothing.

They broke camp quickly. Bodahn left first to take the cart-worthy road to their next camp site. The emissaries would not be following the company into the Deep Roads, so the Mage sent them on to Redcliffe Castle with a note for the Queen and Arl Eamon apprising them of the Wardens' plan. As she handed over her message to the knight, the Mage made sure to mention to whom it should be delivered in a voice loud enough for Loghain to hear, in case he cared to add a postscript of his own for his daughter. A stiffening of his back told her that he had both heard the name and caught the hint, but the newest Grey Warden merely strode away to kick another layer of dirt over the remains of the fire. Bodahn gave the company a wave as he and the caravan left the clearing; the company themselves prepared to fall in behind the Mage according to their custom. Loghain, standing by to watch their formation, saw Shale stir last of all and take her usual place next to Sten. The Mage, waiting at the head of the pack, saw Loghain check, and frown, as his eyes searched first Sten's hands, then the Warden's, and finally Oghren's. She thought she could guess what he was looking for; he had certainly made three reasonable assumptions as to where the item might be.

"All right, I give up," announced Loghain to no one in particular, as though calling an end to a practical joke. "Who's got the golem's control rod?"

Immediately Shale stopped in her tracks, slumping forward like a discarded marionette. Morrigan groaned and buried her face in her hands. Sten fixed Loghain with a stony glare. Eyes still on the ground, Shale spoke in a monotone.

"I apologize. . .I cannot move without the Master's permission. . .I am but a tool in the hands of the Master. . .I await the Master's command. . ." she said.

The Mage sighed, and explained. "The golem has no control rod. Nothing controls Shale but Shale." The remaining members of the company all showed Loghain their empty hands.

His frown deepened. "It has a name?" he asked.

"A name," answered the Mage, "and a personality, and complete independence –and, I might add, a pretty vicious temper." Shale straightened and fixed a greedy eye on Loghain's uncovered, crushable head.

"Huh." He stepped back a pace and extended an arm along the way ahead. "After you," he said. Shale swept past him with her nose in the air, Sten following suit beside her.

Oghren favored Loghain with a sympathetic look and a shrug as the company moved out. "I've been trying to find the 'off' switch on that sarcastic slag heap for weeks," he muttered.

                                                                                                 *     *     *

They ran afoul of bandits the following day in the blighted lands north of Lothering. The company had nearly passed a low, overgrown hill when men armed with clubs and axes swarmed out from behind it and from a clump of trees on the other side of the path. Loghain, still at the rear of the company, was surrounded immediately. He barely had time to unsheath the Starfang before they set upon him. After stunning the bandits nearest to her with a mind-numbing blast, the Mage turned to see the ice-blue blade flash twice, back and forth, through the midsections of two bandits; they crumpled, each to a side, revealing Loghain's snarling face for one split second before he whirled, cursing, caught the skull of another bandit with the side of his shield and ran a fourth through the heart. As the Mage casually sent a fork of lightning through one of the stunned bandits near her, the Champion flicked the head off his final assailant with a satisfied yell. It was over in a blur. The rest of the company mopped up; afterwards they methodically searched their attackers' remains for anything of value. They did not find much –these men were most likely former residents of Lothering or the surrounding farmlands, clothed in rags and wolf pelts, refusing to be driven away and robbing travelers as much for food as for profit—but the looting was as much a part of their routine as anything else. Only Shale did not participate; her sole inducement to touch flesh was the opportunity to crush it.

That night, in camp, the Mage looked across the campfire to see Loghain sitting outside his tent on a stump, cleaning and sharpening the Starfang. His expression told her that the sword had indeed passed the test, and would be kept. Satisfied, she retrieved the nearly-invisible item from the cache at Soldier's Peak that she had stowed in her pack the day before, and went to fetch Sandal. As she and the young Dwarf approached the Warrior, he looked up from his work and addressed them amiably.

"You want something?" he asked.

"Enchantment!" said Sandal.

". . .I'm sorry?" spluttered Loghain.

"This is Sandal, Bodahn's assistant," said the Mage. "I'd like you to give him your sword, please."

Loghain exploded. "Blazing Andraste: what now?" he fumed. "You've already made me give up my own sword; now I've just gotten used to this –moonbeam—you forced on me; can't you leave it alone? What supernatural sword-making material have you found this time? A piece of petrified dragon's breath?"

"No, but funny you should say that. . ."

She held up the object from her pack. It was a design, a tracing, temporarily captured in a tile of stone: sinuous curves that somehow resembled a bloom, or a conflagration. Looking at it more closely, the Mage could see tiny, fiery rivulets running along the lines.

"Your new sword has the capacity to accept runes such as this one to enhance its powers," she explained to him. "Some runes offer extra protection, while some add offensive properties such as the ability to stun –or, in this case, a lash of fire to each blow you strike."

Loghain's expression grew chilly. "I'm aware of the use that some people make of such things, Mage," he said testily. "Perhaps you haven't noticed, but I require little aid in the offensive department."

"Indeed," agreed the Mage. "But as we found this along the way and spent no coin on it, and as you finally have a sword capable of such improvements, I don't see why we shouldn't do all we can to make you as offensive as possible to the Darkspawn."

One corner of Loghain's mouth hiked grudgingly upwards, though he continued to glower at her. With a deep sigh in which could be heard the sound of limited patience unraveling, he handed over the Starfang.

"Enchantment," breathed Sandal. He took the sword and the rune from the Mage and carried them dreamily back to his place by the merchant's cart. The Mage remained standing by Loghain's tent, waiting. "It only takes a few minutes," she assured him. "Sandal's very good at this sort of thing."

"Is that all he can say?"

"It's all he can do, as far as I know; but he's been very handy to have around. Everyone in this camp who carries a weapon has at least one that has been enchanted by Sandal –except us Mages, of course."

"Of course," said Loghain drily. "Both of you are quite enchanting enough as it is."

The Mage chuckled as they both glanced across the campsite at Morrigan, who was beating off the dog's attempts to get her to throw a stick for him. Loghain whistled softly through his teeth to get the Mabari's attention, then patted the side of the stump on which he was sitting. The war dog gamboled over and presented the dripping stick to his new friend, who immediately tossed it in Shale's direction. The Mage sat cross-legged on the ground by Loghain's tent as Dog bounded away.

"Would you like to know how much Levi Dryden gave me for that old mule's tooth you called a sword?" offered the Mage, after a brief pause in which Shale's curses and threats carried over the still evening air.

"An old mule can still kill you, you know, if you poke him once too often."

A wicked grin simmered on the Mage's face. Loghain aimed to pierce it with a sidelong look from underneath his lowered brow. Dissolving into silent laughter, she turned away from his glare; in doing so, she spotted Sandal returning with the sword laid across his outstretched palms. Loghain, following her gaze, put a forefinger to his mouth and regarded Sandal speculatively, as though working out the answer to a riddle. As the Dwarf reached them, beaming, Loghain cocked the finger and an eyebrow at him before he could speak.

"'Enchantment': yes?" asked Mac Tir sagely.

"Hello," said Sandal.

Loghain let out a whoof of surprise and amusement. Taking the sword, the Mage thanked the young Dwarf politely, then turned and presented it once again to Loghain, hilt first.

"There you are: petrified dragon's breath," she said.

As he grasped the sword-hilt, their eyes met. Suddenly the Mage became conscious of the fact that her erstwhile nemesis was holding a very powerful weapon which she had just calmly handed to him, and that the point was aimed more or less directly at her collarbone. Moreover, she was still sitting with her legs crossed and her staff at an awkward angle against her back. A stirring in Loghain's eyes and a flicker of eyebrows suggested that the same thoughts had occurred to him. His mouth curled in a smirk, much as it had as he stalked her across the Landsmeet chamber floor, before the duel. You wanted this, Warden. . .

The Mage deliberately released the sword and placed her hand on the ground at her side. Slowly, she cocked her head as she continued to stare coolly into those thundery eyes. She could have been asking him a question, or offering him her neck to strike at, if he wished. The muscles in Loghain's jaw twitched as he swallowed once, quickly. He blinked, and then snatched the Starfang up, turning the blade against a ray of moonlight and peering at it for any sign of the change it had undergone. The Mage rose and stepped to his side so that she could look as well. To her, the Starfang now looked a bit like a lamp of blue crystal that contained a restless fire. As with a lamp, too, the buffeting flames seemed to smoke and dull the crystal's brilliance somewhat.

"It actually makes it a bit less fancy, somehow, doesn't it?" she mused over his shoulder.

"If nothing else," agreed the Warrior, "there is that."

                                                                                               *     *     *

After supper, she sat by the fire to mend a tear in the short white cloak that she wore over her vestments in cooler weather. Suddenly a shadow fell over her work, and the Mage felt a massive, silent presence at her side, as though a giant sycamore had suddenly sprung out of the ground.

"Kadan. I wish to speak with you," it said.

The Mage shut her eyes briefly, and sighed. This was Sten's new way of expressing his displeasure at something she'd done; and while she preferred it to overt insubordination or outright mutiny, she still found these conversations a bit trying. She had an idea about what had incurred his displeasure this time. She had seen him watching Mac Tir clean and examine his new weapon.

"What is it, Sten?" she asked innocently.

"That is not his sword," answered Sten, pointing at Loghain.

The Mage grimaced. She knew that this might be a sticking point with Sten. To the Qunari, a sword was like an extension of the body, as dear to them as any kadan; and she had sold Loghain's to Levi Dryden. "I know: I made him give it up," she admitted helplessly, "but honestly, did you see it? It was a disgrace for a warrior like him to be carrying such a weapon." Her voice gathered heat. "Someone should have made sure he had a proper sword a long time ago, even if he couldn't be bothered. I would have thought that Anora at least—"

"No. That is not what I meant."

This was another irritating aspect of these conversations with Sten, thought the Mage. There was nearly always a lesson; and as reluctant as Sten often was to attempt to teach anything to a useless human, the lesson was nearly always worth shutting up and listening to.

"That-" said Sten, indicating the Starfang, whose tracings on its leaflike blade shone softly back at the moon, "-is not his sword."

Deflated, the Mage sighed again. "You're right, Sten," she said resignedly. "It isn't. But it's a good sword, and it'll have to do for now."

The Qunari -her lieutenant, her reluctant guardian and guide- relented. His dour expression indicated that the matter was closed only temporarily, however.

"Don't worry, Sten," the Mage assured him. "We'll keep looking."

"I am not worried."

                                                                                                 *     *     *

They arrived at Orzammar two days later at sunset. There had been no further bandit attacks and, strangely, no sighting of Darkspawn. The Mage felt a little uneasy at this; it seemed to confirm that the Archdemon was indeed gathering its forces for a major -perhaps a final- assault on Ferelden. She still had seen nothing of its movements in her dreams, however; nor had Loghain since his first night as a Grey Warden. And so they continued with their plan.

Predictably, the lack of enemies to kill made things dull for the company as they traveled; as usual, they diverted themselves with rounds of conversation that swirled amongst the various party members like eddies in a pool. At first, Loghain would only offer speech to the dog; then Leliana –touched, the Mage imagined, by the obvious mutual affection that had sprung up between the Warrior and the Mabari—attempted to draw him in to a discussion. This Loghain promptly rebuffed, no doubt because of Leliana's Orlesian upbringing and accent; his reaction immediately piqued the interests of the others, who thereupon all felt the need to question or tease or provoke the new recruit in their turn. The tone of their conversation, however, was no more vicious or antagonistic than it ever got between any of the others. Some of them seemed almost relieved to have some fresh blood in the mix. For his part –though the Mage did have to tell him off once for barking a little too harshly at the Bard—Loghain also behaved himself; and so there was no trouble of a serious nature.

They were greeted warmly by the Orzammar guards as they entered the city. Before they had travelled far across the Commons, they were accosted by a breathless Dwarf with an invitation for the Warden and her companions to dine at the Royal Palace that evening. Though none of the company seemed excited by this prospect, the Mage did not feel able to refuse. She sent the messenger back with as gracious an acceptance as she could muster, and changed their course for the Diamond Quarter.

As they entered the Palace, they were met by a squadron of the King's servants, each of whom latched onto a company member and led him or her away to a private room to freshen up before dinner. Trying to decide whether it would be better to cover her head on such an occasion or leave her scalp exposed to the inevitable polite stares of the nobility, the Mage reflected that she knew as much about operating in high society as she did about running a full-scale military campaign. Judging by their faces at the King's table as they were seated, nearly all of her companions harbored their own sources of discomfort, like inconveniently placed blisters. Of the lot of them, the one who looked the most at ease was Loghain; which was natural, thought the Mage, as he had had more experience than any of them at this sort of thing. Willing herself to look as if she had not spent most of her life either shut up in a tower under guard, away from "normal" society, or living out of a tent in between bouts of wholesale slaughter, the Warden straightened her back, composed her hands Anora-style and waited for the King to make his entrance.

Though she did not regret her decision to back him as Orzammar's next King, the Mage had to confess that she liked Bhelen Aeducan less every time she met him. His face had the smooth, fleshy, unhardened features of someone accustomed to privilege and easy living, while his attitude and bearing were those of a spoiled and pampered princeling who felt entitled to every manner of deference -whether he had actually earned it or not. Yet he also obviously fancied himself a hard, ruthless, dangerous man; and while it was this that had decided the Mage –who needed her chosen Dwarf King to send every available soldier to the surface immediately upon his ascension, even if he had to force them—in his favor, she secretly feared that she had placed a bully on Orzammar's throne. Bhelen clearly enjoyed having the notorious Death Mask on his side, and regaled her during dinner with stories of how he had used her name and reputation to threaten the last of Pyral Harrowmont's followers into giving up any claims of wrongdoing or calls for retribution. The Mage suspected that Bhelen had invited the Grey Wardens to the Palace that evening at least as much to perpetuate their association in the minds of his people as to extend a grateful offer of hospitality.

Indeed, any betrayal by the Wardens' company of discomfort or unfamiliarity with the trappings of high society seemed actually to please King Bhelen rather than earn his contempt. The Mage imagined that if word were to get out in Orzammar that the Wardens were barely-domesticated savages, the level of fear that Bhelen could engender in his followers through his boasts of an alliance with such ferocious beasts could only increase. From her companions' behavior and the reactions of Bhelen and the other nobles present, it seemed likely that word would get out.

Morrigan, the Mage knew, was even more uncomfortable in such a formal setting than she herself, alternately fumbling with her tableware and snapping at her neighbors at table for staring at her or sitting too close. Leliana had the most experience of any of them with courtly manners, but she was accustomed to the exaggerated politeness of Orlesian nobles. The earthiness of the Dwarves stymied her as much as it clearly disgusted Sten (who was further discomfited by his enormous size in relation to their furniture, dinnerware and utensils). On the other hand, Oghren –who, as a Dwarf of the Warrior caste elevated to the nobility when his wife became a Paragon, should have felt right at home—was as awkward as any of them because of his disgraced status as a jilted husband, a drunkard, and a deserter of the Stone. His peers made snide remarks that he countered with increasingly obscene replies and gestures as he plied his jug of ale. Zevran, sitting to Oghren's right, had long since given up trying to charm the noble ladies, none of whom seemed the least bit interested in slumming with a common Elf surfacer. Instead, he concentrated on keeping Oghren well-lubricated with ale and spurred to fresh depths of lewdness with a stream of licentious whisperings that only the Dwarf could hear, but at which he would cackle loudly and answer in a voice audible from the far end of the table.

And so it was that the Mage found herself thanking the Maker for Loghain Mac Tir. As "the other Grey Warden", he had been seated opposite her near the head of the table (the Mage on Bhelen's right hand, Loghain on his left); somehow, however, his long human legs managed never to bump those of his neighbors, nor did he upset their drinks or jog their elbows with his massive armored limbs as Sten did. In addition, his conversation was, if not courtly, then at least natural, confident and well-mannered. He seemed to know quite a bit about Dwarven culture in general and even about the Aeducan family in particular, which the Mage knew carried a lot of weight amongst these people. He questioned the Dwarves directly but politely about the state of affairs in Orzammar, accepted whatever answers they chose to give, and did not turn up his nose at their food or their lichen ale. Watching him, the Mage felt herself relax somewhat.

Perversely, however, the King seemed least pleased with Loghain's behavior of all the Wardens' company. He
obviously found Loghain's familiar tone (which, though respectful, lacked any hint of deference or awe) inappropriate; and he positively bristled when, towards the end of the meal, Loghain produced his map from a pouch at his belt and attempted to discuss possible strategies for the Dwarven army in the surface campaign. Looking askance at the Mage, Bhelen wondered with a snigger how advisable it would be for him to take strategic advice from a general whose last campaign had resulted in the death of his King -at which point he confessed, as an aside, to considerable surprise in finding that said general still lived.

Loghain did not quite flush at this, but the purple shadows under his eyes and along his cheeks deepened, and the Mage saw that flicker of fire in his countenance for an instant before it was damped. He grew very still in his chair, facing forward without expression or any indication that he had heard the King's remark. His commanding officer, however, suddenly found herself on her feet, leveling Bhelen Aeducan with a gaze as icy and sharp as the Starfang. If, as was evident, she said to him, his Majesty recognized who this man was, then he should also recognize immediately why the Grey Warden could not deprive herself or Ferelden of his services, once offered. She then begged that she and her companions be excused from the table, claiming a long journey and an early start in the morning. The King granted her request immediately and unabashedly, insisting that they stop the night in the rooms to which they had been shown when they first arrived at the Palace. He would not hear, he said, of the Grey Warden being forced to lodge anywhere else in Orzammar. The Mage, concluding the dance of manners with a bow, accepted the King's favor and allowed herself to be led away by yet another servant. Though his complexion calmed somewhat, Loghain's expression did not alter throughout the exchange. The Mage could not tell if he was grateful for her outburst, or amused, or resentful at her presumption that he needed her to defend him, or disapproving of her breach of composure (a breach his daughter would never have committed). His eyes did not meet hers.

As they separated in the halls, Dog gave his mistress a glance and then padded after Loghain, no doubt seeking some post-prandial head-scratches as had already become his habit. Elsewhere in the corridor, the Mage heard Oghren mutter something about having his own sodding house to sleep in. He and Zevran brushed off their attendants and headed for the exit, most likely bound for Tapster's Tavern in the Commons. It was possible that neither Oghren nor Zevran would return to the Palace that night, though in whose house the Elf would end up sleeping was anyone's guess. Leliana hesitated for a moment before following them. She would be back, the Mage knew. Though she could never resist the opportunity to hear or perform a song or tale, she also would not be apart from the Warden for long. By that time, however, the Mabari would have returned to his mistress's side and she would be sleeping, or trying to, alone in a stone room on a maddeningly soft bed.

                                                                                             *     *     *

Naturally, the golem had not been invited to the Palace; just as naturally, Shale noted her exclusion but was more than content to be left outside. Next morning, they went to collect her from one of her usual Orzammar haunts, which were anywhere she could reasonably blend in with the stone and then suddenly pop out at random Dwarves as they passed. However, she could not be found in any of them. Finally the Mage sent the Mabari -always the best of anyone at finding and fetching things, even in the most unlikely places—to locate her. She did not expect Dog to "fetch" the golem, but he soon found where she lurked and, bouncing and wagging his rump, led the company there. It turned out that Shale was standing quite conspicuously just outside the entrance to the Deep Roads. She had been waiting for them.

"I should have known," said the Mage wryly.

"It should have," observed Shale.

And with that, they trooped through the hole in the rock, and were back in the Deep Roads once again.

Modifié par Morwen Eledhwen, 20 avril 2011 - 02:23 .

[Morwen Eledhwen]

This chapter can now also be read on Dreamwidth or ff.net, where a slightly larger font may cause less eyestrain.  ../../../images/forum/emoticons/wink.png

This chapter contains some of Hespith's lines from the "A Paragon of Her Kind" treaty quest in Dragon Age: Origins. Those lines are Bioware's; the rest are mine.

5 –The Deep Roads

The Warden sympathized with her followers' objections to the Deep Roads. They were hot and stuffy, the pervasive fumes of burning lava producing a scum of sweat that clung to the skin. Though the Arcane Shield that encased her at all times filtered out all but the strongest smells, even the Mage sometimes choked on the stale air that tasted as though it had passed to her through the lungs and pores of generations upon generations of Darkspawn. It also could not be denied that most of the company had passed some of the more horrific moments of their lives in these caverns and passages. When the stone closed in around them, they felt the weight of the mountains under which they crept, and strained their senses at every tunnel's bend to detect the slightest stir of an enemy from the other side. When they passed from tunnel into cavern or into one of the old Dwarven highways or settlements, they felt naked and exposed. At some points during their previous journey here, they had taken to traveling in a circular formation: the Mage leading, the Warriors behind her facing each in a different direction, and Morrigan and the rogues inside the protective ring, looking up. It had slowed their progress somewhat, and Sten had grumbled, but even he had seemed to feel safer. On a couple of occasions they had camped in open bedrolls right in the middle of the road, finding nowhere that felt safe enough to pitch a tent, and preferring to be able to see the Darkspawn when they came –which they did, always.

Despite this –or even, in a way, because of it—the Mage could also understand why the Grey Wardens were called to this place when they felt their end approaching, how Dwarves desperate enough to throw their lives away could choose the Legion and the Deep Roads rather than the surface. It was partially that the Deep Roads seemed to her almost like an earthly version of the Fade –the weird landscape both familiar, monotonous, and at the same time alien and ever-changing; the possibility of the unexpected or the bizarre -encounters sometimes valuable, sometimes intimate, sometimes perilous. But there was more to it than that. It was the crack in the mountain's heart that might be the work of Dwarves, Darkspawn, or nature and time, with the only way to find out being to follow each new tunnel to its end. It was the discovery of ancient history, great and small: a highway, a town, a house, a ring, an old letter. It was the knowledge –a ceaseless shiver in the blood- that the ancient kingdom, while abandoned by the Dwarves, was by no means unoccupied. It was the promise of sudden, violent death: mostly others', eventually yours.

Perhaps Loghain felt something similar. As the highway to Caridin's Cross opened up, he left the rear of the pack and resumed his place behind the Mage's right hand. She could hear his quick footsteps, feel him tensed, informed with a watchful predation, like a great cat on the prowl. Shortly after they took to the highway, she was also startled to hear the rustle and flap of a parchment opening behind her. She turned to see that Mac Tir was indeed, once again holding a map –though where in Ferelden he had managed to obtain a map of the Deep Roads, the Warden could not guess. Even the Dwarves barely knew the location or landmarks of their lost thaigs. Still, there he was, trotting along with his sharp nose alternately buried in the map or pointing at signposts, nodding or muttering to himself as the parchment agreed, or not, with what he saw.

As they approached Caridin's Cross, however, he put the map away and reached for his sword. He did not have long to wait. At the first turning, a pack of Deepstalkers appeared to rise out of the earth beneath their feet. Their squeaks were soon drowned out by the pounding of Shale's fists on the rock and the excited barking of Dog, who pounced among them as though they were enormous rats. Suddenly a deep, guttural hoo-hoo-hoo sounded in their ears: Darkspawn had found them. The Mage saw Loghain freeze in the act of slamming a Deepstalker into the ground with his shield. He turned his head this way and that in the darkness, his eyes wide -feeling, she knew, his new senses working for the first time. It was the creeping sensation of knowing them in his blood; feeling the strange blood in him awakening, calling to them. She saw the understanding in his eyes -perhaps the final understanding of what it meant to be a Grey Warden. As the last of the Deepstalkers in the passage succumbed he turned to his commander, as if for confirmation that what he was experiencing was real.

The Mage nodded once, then lifted her chin in the direction from which she knew the Hurlock that had laughed was approaching. She raised three fingers to indicate that she had sensed two other Darkspawn with it. The Champion returned the nod and, facing the oncoming enemy, settled into the slight crouch that the Mage recognized as preceding his legendary charge. His feet began a rocking, almost a pawing motion where he stood, once again for all the world as though he was a cat preparing to launch itself at a mouse. Even in the stifling heat, the Mage felt a shiver up her back. Seconds later, the Hurlock's helm appeared above a sharp rise where the tunnel, behind it, bore even further underground. A sharp spang sounded behind the Mage, and the Hurlock toppled backwards with one of Leliana's arrows in its eye. Two Genlock archers rushed up after it, and froze at the top of the ridge, encased in ice from Morrigan's staff. Before they could thaw, Loghain's shield had shattered one of them and his shoulder had heaved the other back out of sight down the hill. He followed to finish it off, the Mabari bounding after him. They returned in a moment, both bloody and bearing gifts –the war dog a short bow, the Warrior a mean-looking dagger that he presented to the Warden with a deliberate flourish.

As they continued along the passage, the Mage detected an extra bounce in the Champion's step, a thrumming energy radiating from his spot in their formation that infected the entire party. She did not turn, but the Mage knew that if she looked at Loghain she would see that summer firestorm brewing again. The hearts of the others had quickened, as well –in some cases, despite their owners' reluctance to share the Warrior's enthusiasm. Morrigan broke the silence first.

"So, Loghain Mac Tir:," she drawled, "how does it feel to be a Grey Warden, after all the time and effort you spent trying to bring down the last of their order? Is it all you imagined?" she asked teasingly. "Creeping through vermin-infested tunnels? Brawling with thugs and Darkspawn mobs, then looting their corpses?"

"How I feel, Madam, has no bearing on the matter," he replied. "I was at the Grey Wardens' mercy, and instead of killing me they elected to make me one of them. I now do as they do, or as I am bid."

"I should imagine this to be a fate worse than death, for an honorable warrior such as yourself," prodded the Witch.

Loghain said nothing, but set his jaw and his eyes on the road ahead. The Mage looked back at his stubborn, determined face, and saw in her mind the Champion's hand on the Landsmeet chamber floor, limp and seemingly lifeless at first, but then bracing against the flagstones, the dark head slowly rising. . .

A fate worse than death, she thought, or one more chance to get up and keep fighting. A lump inexplicably formed in her throat. She swallowed it, frowning.

"Honorable as our Warrior may be," she tossed back, "he is above all a pragmatist, as he'll be the first to inform you. I fully expect him to become as skilled a looter of corpses as any Grey Warden –perhaps better even than you, Morrigan." She smiled at the Witch, who scowled at being interrupted in her fun.

"Speaking of loot," broke in Loghain, "I thought we were supposed to be finding me a helmet; or had you already
forgotten? I'm not wearing anything off these Darkspawn, if that was your idea. Or do you have a shop down here as well?"

"There is other gear to be found in the Deep Roads besides that of the Darkspawn," answered the Mage. "Some of it is very good –though you may have to get it adjusted by one of the smiths in Orzammar before you can wear it." She indicated Sten, whose massive frame was clad in armor of a design normally favored by the Dwarven Legion of the Dead.

"'Adjusted' –or stretched –or completely reconstructed; yes, I see that," observed Loghain. "I've been wondering, Qunari: how many dead Legionnaires did it take to cover you?"

"Two," answered Sten, and frowned. "And a half," he added.

"But no, we have no shops down here," concluded the Mage.

"There is the mad Dwarf," interjected Shale.

"Ruck?" Oghren spat in disgust. "That Darkspawn-eater?"

The golem shrugged. "The twisted Dwarf that lives in the thaig with all the spiders," she said. "It babbles and whines and pretends to be dead. I don't recall its name."

Loghain was incredulous. "A Dwarf. . .lives here?"

"If you can call it that," sneered Morrigan.

The Mage shook her head sadly. "And he doesn't have a shop, really –just a collection of found and looted objects such as we have."

"Well, we should pay him a visit, then," said Loghain. "Does he keep regular business hours, do you think, or does he trade only by appointment?"

"I don't—" began the Mage, and then stopped. The truth was, she had no desire to visit the pathetic creature that was once a Dwarf named Ruck. However, since he did "live" in Ortan Thaig, he had had more opportunities than anyone of collecting the best loot to be had in that area –if he could be trusted to know leather and armor plating from bat wings and beetle casings, that was. She pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed at her aching eyes, wincing. "I wouldn't rely on Ruck as a supplier, if I were you," she said. "If we haven't found anything by the time we've reached his –neighborhood- we can look in on him, just to say that we've looked. But prepare to be disappointed."

"On the contrary; I can't wait," smirked Mac Tir. "I only hope there isn't a crowd."

                                                                                                   *     *     *

A mere three Darkspawn was a rarity in the Deep Roads, the Mage knew; they were usually found in mobs at least twice that size. Over the course of their last journey through the old Dwarf kingdom, her company had arrived at a reliable system of actions for dealing with these. The Mage, sensing the mob from a greater distance than the others, would put as many of the enemy to sleep as possible; once they were immobilized, she could pick out the strongest of them to further incapacitate with spells of paralysis, disorientation, weakness, or fear. Next, she would send them a tempest, a localized electrical storm that sapped their health and stamina with repeated jolts over a wide area. By this time, her Warriors and the knife-wielding Rogue, Zevran –protected from the storm with charms and elixirs against lightning damage—would have reached the mob, and would begin to dispatch the now-weakened enemy. If any managed to break away and approach the Warden commander, they would be met by Leliana's arrows, Morrigan's freezing spells and the Mage's own, more concentrated bolts of lightning. On the whole, this system had worked well for them. Perhaps it grew a bit tedious over many repetitions, but tedium was not necessarily a bad thing in the Deep Roads.

When she first felt the presence of a sizable group of Darkspawn this time, then, she reacted instinctively and without paying much attention to her companions. There were no enemies of any particular strength in this mob, she could tell; so immediately after sending them to sleep she turned her focus away from the "real" world, into the Fade, to draw its power, will it into the tempest. As the storm erupted from her staff, her focus flew out with it, back into the chamber of the Deep Roads in which she and her companions stood. Lightning crackled and flared, making the air around it smoke and sizzle –over a pile of Darkspawn corpses. The Mage blinked. There was no sign of life where a troop of Genlocks had just been standing. However, there was Loghain, walking back to the group with Dog at his side. The Starfang and Dog's muzzle dripped with fresh blood. The Warrior, seeing the Mage's puzzled look, turned and watched the sparks fly for a moment.

"Pretty," he observed.

The next mob was camped at the bottom of another hill. This time, the Mage attended more closely. As the sleeping spell descended, a streak of silverite and a rush of brown fur shot down the slope. Amongst a number of grunts, this lot included an Ogre, which she paralyzed, and a Hurlock Emissary, which she disoriented and then hexed so that the lightning she was about to cast would do extra damage to it and the grunts surrounding it. As before, she reached into the Fade, preparing the tempest; but just before she released it, she checked, peering at the scene of battle. The last of the grunts was shivering out its life between the Mabari's jaws; the war dog dropped the corpse and leaped over it to overwhelm the Emissary where it stood in a daze. The Ogre, still paralyzed, was spouting blood from several wounds against which it had been unable to defend; just as it began to twitch, Loghain planted a boot on its bent knee, launched himself at the creature's face, and jammed the Starfang in its heart. The Mage saw the Ogre's head snap back with a dying scream, saw its eyes widen as it looked into those of the Champion, who rode its toppling form all the way to the ground. He appeared to be laughing.

The storm, pulsing at the end of the Warden's staff, was never unleashed. Loghain picked himself up off the cavern floor, swatted the dog on the rump and trotted back up the hill to his commanding officer, who was sauntering down with the others to do her part in the post-battle looting. They met halfway up the slope and stood facing each other, the Warrior now puffing a little. The Mage looked past Loghain at the carnage, then back at his blood-streaked face. She lifted an eyebrow.

"Huh," she said.

The Mage proceeded down the hill. A soft, dry chuckle drifted after her. The smile she had been biting back broke through. The dog, from the sound of things, was receiving some cheese from Loghain as a reward.

And so it went. The Grey Wardens swept through the Deep Roads like a plague, spurred on by the Hero of River Dane and his charge. As she watched wave after wave of Darkspawn knocked down –by his shield, his body, or just by sheer terror as he bore down on them—the Mage shook her head and thanked the Maker, the Prophet, the Paragons, and all the gods of Elvhenan that her paralyzing spell had held him in the Landsmeet duel. If she had had to stand up to that charge, she would be dead. Loghain would certainly never have stopped his onslaught and spared her. Even as his enemies hit the ground the Starfang flashed and sang as it sliced through their flesh, the flames now embedded in the blade adding a rumbling note as of a distant furnace to the clanging metal. Most of the Darkspawn were dead before they had a chance to get back on their feet. Those strong enough to put up a fight the Mage hexed, weakened, disoriented or paralyzed; Loghain laughed to see them. The Mage had never quite understood the Darkspawn's tendency to laugh in battle, even as they were being slaughtered. Loghain, obviously, did; the walls of the Deep Roads echoed with the blasts of his derision.

Not that he didn't do his share of cursing at his enemies, as well. Between his taunts and mocking laughter, his snarls and shouts of anger, and the wordless grunts and screams of combat, Loghain's voice was a near constant throughout every battle. Even when swarmed by the horde or blocked from sight by their companions, the Warden always knew exactly where her Champion was. He was truly silenced in combat only once: when the Mage, spotting a cluster of Hurlock Emissaries and Alphas, hurled the lot of them into the Waking Nightmare. Loghain, barreling towards them with Dog at his side, skidded to a halt as their faces and bodies grew rigid with horror, their eyes fixed on some awful apparition only they could see. He turned, his eyes –dark with recognition and remembrance—finding the Mage's. She looked at the monsters writhing in mindless fear, and her mouth twisted guiltily for a second. Then she looked back at Loghain and shrugged. The Warrior's eyebrows were briefly taken aback; then he chuckled, shrugged his acceptance and turned back to the fight. Facing the Hurlocks, he let loose a bloodcurdling yell that caused them to squeak like Deepstalkers. Dog followed with a volley of deep-throated barks, teeth bared to the gullet. Two of the Alphas fell to their knees, their weapons sliding from their nerveless hands. Loghain's chuckle grew to a fresh sirocco of laughter as he and the Starfang waded in.

The Mabari was obviously delighted to have such a comrade in war. Somehow, he and Loghain appeared to have begun a game, or a contest, to see how many Darkspawn they could each kill in the shortest amount of time. There was no restraint, no order in the way they hurled themselves at the enemy, the old Warrior keeping pace with the war dog and both outdistancing the rest of the company by lengths. Once, still in Caridin's Cross, they hit a tripwire that Darkspawn had stretched across the road. They were so far ahead of the others that Leliana barely had time to gasp and cry out, "Look—" before Loghain and the Mabari were flipped simultaneously onto their backs. The wire was fused to barrels planted on either side of the road; as they crashed into it both barrels exploded. A wash of flame rolled over the prone figures. Loghain buried his helmetless head under his arms, cursing; Dog's yelps brought the Mage's heart to her mouth. As the conflagration died, the Warden heard titters from the rubble and debris behind the barrels. The Genlock rogues who had set the trap had evidently found the spectacle extremely funny –until their victims began to stir. One black and one brown head snapped up as their eyes pierced the smoke for the source of the giggles. When they spotted the Genlocks, the Mage could swear she heard the Warrior growling as well as the Mabari. The Genlocks broke cover and scampered for an opening in the far wall, shrieking in dismay. Loghain and the dog got to their feet, shook themselves, and roared after them. Soon they were lost to sight, except for the flicker of fire on the tunnel walls that was the Starfang finding its mark.

"This is Ferelden's great general?" scoffed Morrigan as the rest of the company began to follow. The Mage shook her head until she thought it might roll off.

Whatever else he is, she thought, he's a soldier who's been spoiling for a good fight since Ostagar.

"But they are too far ahead!" fretted Leliana. "What if they meet something else in there? What if they need healing?"

"What if they just keep going, and we never see them again?" offered Morrigan hopefully.

This last had also occurred to the Mage, until she realized that whatever race Loghain and the dog were running, they did not consider it finished until they had reported back to their commander. No matter how far afield they strayed to chase down the last of their immediate opponents, they always returned –always at the same jog-trot, the Warrior tossing bits of cheese to the Mabari, who caught them on the run and grinned as he gulped them down. She did, however, still worry about them accidentally running into a second mob while pursuing the remnants of a first, and being too far away for any of their companions to help. For this reason she began to send the Rogues ahead as invisible scouts, just to get a feel of the Darkspawn population of a general area before setting the Cannonball Twins (as the Mage, based on an observation made by Sten, had begun to call them) loose to play.

Leliana came back from one of these scouting expeditions shaking her head. She had spotted the largest gathering of Darkspawn yet –including at least three Hurlock Alphas, an Ogre, a Genlock Emissary and a troop of archers. They were scattered over a wide area on the other side of the stone bridge behind which the company was resting.

"Then what are we waiting for?" Loghain slapped his thighs and stood up, whistling to his playmate.

The Mage halted him with an upraised hand. "She says the bridge is full of traps."

His eyes raked the near side of the arch, up and down. "I don't see them."

"Well, you wouldn't, would you? You haven't charged through any of them yet," hissed the Mage. Morrigan snorted. "But Leliana says that there are far too many of them on that bridge," continued the Warden. "Even you'd be in bits before you reached the other side. Oi." This last was to the dog, who with selective canine hearing had decided to take "charge" as an order and was straining to be off.

"I don't believe 'Oi' is an accepted military command, Warden," suggested Mac Tir.

"Well, Dog responds to it," said the Mage, patting the Mabari on the head, "because he's a good boy who does as he's asked, aren't you?" Dog grinned helplessly at Loghain and tried to bark his agreement as softly as possible. "Shhh. . ." soothed the Mage, her hands on the dog's head calming him, holding him. "Yes. He's a good boy who will stay quiet and let Leliana disable all these traps without getting into danger. And he'll keep his friend quiet, too, won't he?" She grasped the dog's muzzle and brought his eyes to meet hers. They both looked at Loghain, who ground out a sigh and allowed himself to plod behind Leliana as she moved up the slope, disarming leghold traps every few feet.

When she reached the top of the arch, Leliana disappeared under her cloak of Stealth and moved forward even more slowly than before. Zevran also slipped out of sight and headed for the other side, to put the assassin's Mark of Death on as many of the elite enemy as possible before they were discovered. The others kept just out of view below the crest of the bridge, the Mage and Loghain farthest back of all, lest their taint give them away. The dog pressed up against his friend's flank, eager to resume their game. The Mage could see Loghain's eyes glitter in the shadows as he scratched under Dog's jaw. He leaned over the war hound's ear and said in a stage whisper that he happened to know that the Warden carried Mabari Crunch treats in her pack, especially for good boys who Hold and let Orlesian Bards disable traps on bridges.

Naturally, the Mabari then swarmed over his mistress, pushing his nose into every corner of the Mage's pack and all of her pockets to seek out his reward. Through his snufflings and her grunts of effort as she fought to stay upright, she could hear Loghain chuckling with his hand over his mouth. She grit her teeth, planted her feet and commanded the dog silently to sit. Unslinging her pack, she set it on the ground and began to rummage through it, hoping to Andraste that she would find something in there to appease her large and pushy friend. To her surprise, she found two pieces of Mabari Crunch, slightly crumbled, in one corner of a pocket; some merchant must have slipped them in with a purchase as a courtesy. Dog's face broke into a grin when he saw them. He happily snapped up the piece she tossed into his maw. Then she turned and heaved the other treat at his comrade.

"Good boy," she said to Loghain.

As she turned back around, the Mage could feel the Twins' restraints beginning to slip. There was a sharp snap behind her as Loghain bit into the dog biscuit. His mirth built up like a slow roll of thunder. The rocking beat of his feet announced the impending charge. The Mabari bounced in circles around the Warrior, urging him up the slope. The thunder broke; the harsh echoes of Loghain's laughter filled the chamber. The frantic cries and incensed bellows of startled Darkspawn rose to meet them. Leliana came flying back over the arch, shrugging her bow loose from her shoulder. The Warden signaled the attack, sending everyone over the top before her. There was a terrific clash of arms, a singing of bowstrings, a crackle of ice from Morrigan's staff, a pounding and shaking as Shale and the Ogre tore up large pieces of earth and threw them at each other.

Oghren was wheezing and cackling as he churned past the Mage on his way to a clump of Genlocks. "I like this crazy son of a Nug-humper!" he yelled over the din.

The Warden strode to the top of the bridge and raised her staff; it flashed white in the darkness as she readied it for her first spell. Its rays bounced off her white limbs and vestments and she shone, clear as a diamond and cold as the moon, her face a bloody skull with eyes like shards of starmetal. The Darkspawn saw her and gibbered; their enemies cheered and pressed the attack. Lightning fell, the dog howled, Leliana sang, the Darkspawn despaired and died. Any of the creatures that managed to revive and limp back to their strongholds, or that had been clever enough to hide in the cracks before the battle began, would have a new tale to pass amongst the hordes –the White Terror was back in the Deep Roads, and she had brought an accomplice: the Black Scorn.

                                                                                                  *     *     *

They reached Ortan Thaig without finding a suitable helmet for Loghain; reluctantly, the Mage prepared to pay a call on the Dwarf, Ruck.

"Make sure we have something shiny to trade. He likes shiny things," she said.

Everyone searched their packs for something that they wanted neither to keep nor to donate to the Warden's army. Finally Zevran handed over a golden rope necklace.

"Normally, when I give jewelry to a lady," he remarked, "I would prefer to see it adorning her lovely neck. However,
if the Warden prefers to use it to procure a covering for our Warrior's head—"

". . .then it will have done a much greater service toward beautifying this company," finished Morrigan. Loghain smirked at the Witch and bowed.

They proceeded down the stretch of highway onto which the tunnel opened that led to the deserted Ortan village and Ruck's campsite. The highway itself was blocked, just past the tunnel's entrance, by a fall of rock and sand a couple of stories high. As she turned into the passage, the Mage looked back to see Loghain standing with his hands on his hips, scowling at the barrier as though demanding that it explain itself. After a moment he dug into the pouch at his belt for his map, flipping quickly through the parchment for the appropriate panel. The Mage walked over to him and peered at the inked version of Ortan Thaig, in which the highway on which they stood continued unbroken across its length. Loghain's eyebrows were disappointed, his eyes thoughtful.

"Someone's map needs updating," suggested the Mage.

"Yes."

Ruck was not at home. They poked around his campsite but found nothing but broken bits of armor and other items from the nearby village, most unidentifiable and all useless. They shook their heads and moved on; Loghain alone among them expressed regret at having missed him.

An icy river divided the two halves of Ortan Thaig; as they crossed one of the bridges that spanned it, they heard someone screaming. The noise was coming from the other side. Hurrying across, they found Ruck caught in a spider's cocoon. He was suspended several feet off the ground, an arm and a leg flailing, his other limbs bound tight to his side. The spider's threads had not covered his face but bound it back, so that the skin stretched painfully over his contorted features and around his bulging eyes. Evidently, the monsters did not kill their meat by suffocating it –that, thought the Mage, or even these creatures had thought better of involving themselves with the Dwarf's corrupted flesh. She aimed her staff at the spot where the web joined the chamber's ceiling, and severed the connection with a single bolt. Leliana caught Ruck as he fell; no one else moved to touch him. Two spiders swarmed out in protest from cracks in the wall; Shale and Oghren dealt with these while Leliana used her dagger to cut Ruck free of his bonds.

As he got to his feet, the Dwarf made a twisted bow at the Bard and then at the Warden. "Pretty lady has returned –has saved Ruck," he moaned. "Ruck –saw shiny worms—up there," he explained, pointing at the ceiling, where various iridescent insects winked from their prisons in the spiders' webs. "He climbed –and was caught. Then the creepy crawlies came." He shuddered; Oghren and Shale both uttered pahs of disgust; Loghain frowned. Ruck turned to the newcomer and sniffed. His expression grew intimate.

"Pretty lady has brought a new friend," he whispered. "Friend has eyes like bright steel. Eyes –pierce Ruck." He shut his own eyes and craned his neck toward Loghain, scanning him almost like a blind man entering a strange room. He sniffed again. "The blood –runs fresh in this friend. Not yet controlled. Friend with the fierce eyes –he still sees him, yes?" Ruck looked with repellent yearning at Loghain's face. "The Beautiful One –the Lord of the Dark. New friend sees him, yes? Hears his voice? Ruck has not heard it –the voice of the Beautiful One –in so long—" He reached out suddenly and grasped Loghain's wrist, pulling himself closer, drinking in the fresh taint. His eyes fluttered as in a swoon.

Loghain yanked his arm free and bared his teeth. "All I see and hear is a rabid beast that should be put out of its misery," he snarled.

"No!" shrieked Ruck. "Eyes –hurt Ruck! Find Ruck! No! They will not! Ruck hides! Never find him!" He scampered off into a crack in the far wall and disappeared. His sobs, muffled –no! no! never—echoed through the chamber.

"Care to chase after him?" offered the Mage, extending an arm in the direction the Dwarf had fled.

"Only to discover that all he's got to sell are spiders' eggs and pickled Darkspawn knuckles? No thank you," snorted Mac Tir. "Irritating as I find it, I must accept that you are once again correct in your assessment, Warden. We will do just as well to fend for ourselves."

"Dog will find us something, won't you, boy?" said the Mage. The Mabari looked lovingly at his playmate and gave a single bark. Loghain nodded, and the party moved on.

"So the new Grey Warden's head remains exposed to its enemies," observed Shale as they walked. As usual, she was the last of the companions to speak directly to a newcomer. Apparently she had at last accepted the fact that Loghain would not die or go away anytime soon. "If I were the Darkspawn, I would take the advantage and crush it immediately. Clearly, they are beings of limited intelligence."

It was also not surprising when Loghain failed to recognize that this was Shale's way of speaking to people. Though he had obviously heard the remark, he continued on his way without acknowledging it.

"She's talking to you, you know," the Mage prompted him at length.

Loghain started, and blinked. "'She?'" he repeated. "This golem is a 'she'?" He turned in his tracks and walked backwards, peering at the golem, up and down. "How can you tell?" he asked.

The Mage shrugged. "We met the one who crafted her and he informed us. Apparently, she was once a Dwarf woman called Shale."

"Huh. Well, I am a man called Loghain."

Morrigan snorted. "If you can actually get her to call you by your name," she said, "I will kiss the next Deepstalker that comes up out of the ground."

There was a pause as the entire company gradually came to a halt. Several heads turned almost as one to look expectantly at Shale, whose stony face appeared nonplussed for several seconds as she considered this proposal.

"The Swamp Witch has put me in a peculiar position," she mused. "Either I break a long-standing habit, or it wins its silly little wager." The golem deliberated for another few seconds. "However," she continued finally, "I refuse to be manipulated even for such a worthy cause. Also, I would probably find the penalty at least as disgusting to witness as it would to perform." She resumed her pace; disappointed, the others fell back in with her.

"Hah! 'The Swamp Witch': excellent," chortled Mac Tir. "Perhaps being 'the new Grey Warden' is not so bad. And what does 'she' call the rest of you?"

"I am 'the Painted Elf'," offered Zevran.

"I am the Qunari," said Sten.

"Hmm. . ." mused Loghain. "Boring, but at least consistent. I will not be the 'new' Grey Warden forever. What will you call me then?" he asked Shale. "'The old Grey Warden?' You may as well call me that now, as I am far older than Milady over there."

"I would never have thought that I might encounter someone even more irritating than the previous other Grey Warden," answered the golem. "But my time spent in that one's company is beginning to seem like a blissful retreat."

They were interrupted by a pack of spiders that seemed to be driven by a trio of Hurlocks like war hounds, which the Mage found a somewhat disturbing development. These were quickly dispatched, however, and the company proceeded on its way. Loghain was unusually silent throughout this exchange. When they resumed their travelling formation, he left the Mage's right hand and took up a spot next to Shale, in order to continue their conversation.

"How about 'the Braided Warrior?'" he suggested. "That works."

"Appropriately descriptive," agreed Shale, "but not nearly insulting enough."

"Oh, well, if it's insults you're looking for, why not 'the Deserter', or 'the King-killer'?"

"Does it think of itself as either of these things?"

"No," said Loghain, "but they are common titles given me by my enemies."

"The Grey Warden has determined that we are no longer enemies. Therefore, those titles do not apply. I'm afraid it will have to acquire new ones."

"I see," said Loghain. "Perhaps I should consult my merciful new ally." He addressed the head of the group in mock supplication. "Oh, Blessed Redeemer," he sang out, "have you any new titles to give me?"

Surely, thought the Mage, the last part of her that she would have expected to ache as a result of recruiting Loghain Mac Tir was her cheeks.

"Not yet, Damned Nuisance," she called back. "But as soon as I come up with any, I'll tell you."

                                                                                                      *     *     *

That night, they camped in the road between Ortan Thaig and the Dead Trenches. With no actual shelter available, they instead opted for as much visibility as possible; therefore, they chose an open stretch of highway that ran straight for several yards in both directions, with no breaks in the walls. In addition, their camp was well-lit by a stream of lava that flowed closer to the road than usual. This way, any enemies would have to approach them from the road and would be spotted well in advance by whoever was on watch.

The Mage awoke suddenly after only a couple of hours of sleep. Something was making a thin scratching noise close by. She sat up, pressed her fingers to her eyes for a second and then looked around. Loghain, whose turn it was to watch along with the Mabari, had spread a square of armor padding and a scrap of leather over a block of stone to make a kind of desk. He had spread his map over it and was actually updating the section on Ortan Thaig, using a small quill and a vial of ink that he must have stowed in his pack in Denerim. It was the quill that had made the scratching noise. His hand was still for the moment, though, as Loghain stared into an unseeable distance. The Mage knew that he was visualizing the thaig as it had been that day. He exhaled; the furrow between his brows relaxed. His head bent once again over his work. He rubbed the thumb holding the quill along his nose, leaving a streak of ink there.

"Sorry to disturb," he said quietly without looking up.

The Mage smiled. She suddenly had a vision of the Teyrn in his study, or in a private library at his estate in Gwaren. He has a large desk covered in leather, she thought, which makes a smooth surface for writing. Maps and scrolls and old histories are spread out around him, which he consults in turn and double checks, making notes. There is a drink at his elbow and a small fire that he tends himself. The smudge on his nose goes undetected for hours.

She noted that in addition to the fall of rock that now blocked the Ortan highway, he had also marked the final resting place of an Elven warrior who had fought and died amongst the Legion of the Dead, and who had been honored in death with a special citation on his grave. Loghain had made some notes in the margin about this warrior and the sword they had recovered from the Darkspawn. There were other, older notes on the map as well. Suddenly the Mage gasped, quickly covering her mouth before she woke any of the others. She had just recognized that Loghain's handwriting and that of the older notes was the same; in addition, the lines that marked the highway's new barrier and added the passage to the warrior's gravesite blended in perfectly with those of the original features.

"You've been here before," she said wonderingly.

The dark head rose at this. Mac Tir gave the Warden a brief, flat look, then turned back to his map. He nodded once. "A long time ago," he said. The quill resumed its scratching.

                                                                                                   *     *     *

They entered the Dead Trenches cautiously. The Rogues went first, before the others had even turned the corner that brought them in sight of the bridge to Bownammar. The Mage would have preferred to go with them, but she and the other Warden would put them all in danger just by their presence, even if they could mask themselves from sight. Leliana and Zevran came back to report that the area around the bridge was empty as far as they could see, though many Darkspawn were gathered under it, far below. It was as good news as the Mage could have hoped for. Still, they proceeded slowly, clinging to the far wall and stealing continual glances to all sides, including at the ceiling. Loghain would have stridden down the middle of the path as usual, but the Mage waved him back. Dog needed no such warning; he knew what they feared.

"This is where we saw the Archdemon before," explained the Mage in a whisper.

"You saw it?" demanded Loghain. "As in all of you? It wasn't a dream?"

"It was a big sodding dragon-thing that spewed purple flames all over this valley," said Oghren. "The Elf here had to run back to camp and change his underthings, heheh."

"Even if I were inclined to flee," countered Zevran, "I would have been unable to move, as the Dwarf required my support to stand upright. I could not leave him. It would have been most unseemly for a member of the Grey Wardens' company to be seen fainting dead away."

"I was drunk, you schist-sucker."

Mac Tir was frowning. "There should be an outpost of the Legion holding this bridge," he said. "Don't tell me they were cut down; that would be a great shame." Oghren eyed him appreciatively.

The Mage shook her head. "They have joined our armies on the surface," she said. "They should be in Redcliffe by now."

"This would be your doing, I imagine."

She took his penetrating stare as one of disapproval. "If the Archdemon launches the horde from this spot, as seems likely," she argued, "then they would have been cut down. At least with the rest of the army, they have a chance."

"It would take something quite extraordinary," said Loghain quietly, "to convince the Legion of the Dead to leave their posts."

"I would call a Blight extraordinary," she answered.

Loghain continued to stare at her. His eyebrows did not seem to know how to act, or how to process whatever he was thinking. After a moment he blinked twice, shook his head and turned away, long nostrils flaring. His mouth was a thin line, its corners pulled down. The Mage was at a loss as to what might be troubling him, or at whom his frustration was directed.

They crossed the bridge without incident, glancing down only briefly at the lights of the assembling Darkspawn horde below. When they had passed the fortress doors on the left and entered the first set of tunnels, they relaxed and began to breathe again. Loghain noticed that they no longer looked up.

"You don't think the Archdemon might be lurking in one of these caverns?" he asked.

Everyone except the dog shook his or her head. "Too big," they answered.

"Huh," said Loghain.

Though they saw a near-continuous stream of Darkspawn along the valley floors whenever the path led them over a bridge, the upper levels of the Dead Trenches remained largely clear of the enemy. They did discover a forge, in which Loghain and the dog "detected" another exploding trap, and which was further protected by several ranks of Darkspawn. The forge master, it turned out, had wielded a maul that made Oghren drop his flask in mid-gulp, staring. He reached for it with both hands like a greedy child.

"We're not. . .eh, thinking of selling this, are we?" he asked, leering at the massive weapon.

"Help yourself," said the Warden.

Nothing else of note occurred, until they turned a corner and saw the first gobbets of raw flesh on the floor. The Mage drew a long breath. Instinctively her eyes found Leliana and Morrigan; the two other women were looking at her, their expressions akin. They were back in the breeding grounds.

They continued down the passage. Flayed bones and rotting meat appeared at every turn –lining the floors, plastered against the walls, piled in corners.

Suddenly the Mage believed she heard it again, the voice that had followed them: "First day they come, and catch everyone. . ."

"What in the Maker's name happened here?" wondered Loghain aloud.

The Mage gazed sorrowfully at the scraps of flesh that had once been a house of Dwarves. "'Second day, they beat us, and eat some for meat,'" she muttered.

He gave her a sharp look. "I'm sorry?"

"'Third day, the men are all gnawed on again,'", recited Morrigan brightly, eyeing Loghain's exposed neck.

Leliana shuddered. "Do you think Hespith—" she began in a whisper, and then trailed off, biting her lip.

"It's been two or three weeks at least," said the Mage with a shrug. "Who knows how long they take to transform?"

"I don't mean to pry," Loghain broke in impatiently, "but what are we talking about?"

The Mage sighed. "We're not sure, but there may be a freshly-turned Broodmother close by."

"Sounds delightful," said the Warrior. "Broodmother? Dare I ask what that is?"

She started, and looked at Loghain with dismay. "Oh," she said. "I thought –since you'd been here before, I assumed—" She broke off. How to explain the Broodmothers? Unless they met Hespith again, did he really need to know? Would she have to attempt to describe it?

"They took Laryn. They made her eat the others, our friends. She tore off her husband's face and drank his blood."

"Look, nothing's going to jump out at you or anything, I promise," she told him. "And you'll definitely know if we run across one. Actually, you'll have quite an advanced notice; long before you see or sense a Broodmother, you will be able to—"

They had come to the last doorway before the passage that led to the Broodmother's chamber. Trails of flesh and sinew snaked out from it. They stopped. Traces of an odor far fouler than decaying corpses reached them.

"—smell it."

"And while she ate, she grew. She swelled and turned grey and she smelled like them."

"Hespith?" asked Leliana, holding her nose.

Morrigan shook her head. "I think it's the dead one," she gasped, mouth open like a cat's when something disgusts it.

Oghren made a face. "Ugh, you'd think they'd have eaten her or something by now," he muttered.

"That does not help," scolded the Witch.

Loghain looked around at the depressed and horrified faces of his companions. "Oh, come: this is letting the side down, friends!" he urged, perhaps hoping to annoy them into better spirits. "We've just slaughtered our way through the Deep Roads and passed through several chambers festooned with raw meat; what could possibly lie ahead that could give the fabled Grey Wardens such a fit of the vapors?"

His efforts earned one or two weak smiles, but no more. Even Sten shook his head. Morrigan waved a hand in the direction of the Broodmother's chamber. "Suit yourself, if you wish to see," she invited carelessly. "'Tis just down this passage and round the bend. We will wait here."

"No," said the Mage firmly. Loghain arched an eyebrow at her. "Seriously," she told him, "I'm not being funny. I'll be happy to explain it to you –somewhere else—"

"They remade her in their image. Then she made more of them."

The Warden shook herself. "—I promise," she continued. "But really, don't let her goad you. There's nothing beyond that chamber that we haven't already explored; we have no reason to go in there –and you really don't want to see it."

Loghain set his jaw, turned, and strode up the passage. The Mage sighed heavily. Dog took a couple of steps after him, stopped, whined, and looked back at the Mage, smacking his lips in distaste.

"Go on, if you can stand it," she said to him.

He turned and padded after his comrade. The company listened for sounds of fighting, just in case the Twins encountered any live Darkspawn in the chamber. They heard nothing for several moments, however, unless perhaps a distant, brisk sound of muffled retching. Eventually Loghain reappeared wiping his mouth, his face grey and shiny with sweat. His other hand gripped the top of the Mabari's head as they walked back to the others.

"Another time," he rasped at the Mage, "when we are well away from here, you may explain to me what that was. For now, however, I would thank the Dwarf for a drink of whatever he's got in that flask."

                                                                                               *     *     *

As each new area of the Deep Roads was pronounced (for the moment) clear of enemies, Dog would make a tour of it by himself –presumably to mark it, but also to search for hidden items of interest. Sometimes he returned with nothing; other times he brought back items that would only interest a dog; occasionally he was able to give the Warden something useful or saleable. As they neared the exit from the Dead Trenches, he came bouncing back to them with a large and heavy metal object. He set it down in the road and barked excitedly at the Mage. Taking the item from between the Mabari's paws, she realized that it was a helmet. The war dog barked again and wagged his stump of a tail furiously. He looked particularly pleased with himself.

The helmet was certainly well-made; in addition, the Mage could detect the hum of enchantment through her fingertips as she touched it. This item had been infused with lyrium, to give it extra powers of protection. It felt strong and safe. She looked over at Loghain. He might object to the griffon's wings that rose from its sides, but without knowing why she thought, perhaps not. She continued her inspection, turning the helmet over in her hands. Etched into the back, just at the nape of the wearer's neck, was a single word:

"Duty."

The Mage smiled. I may not have found his sword, she thought, but this is his helmet.

She turned to Loghain, who was now watching her and the prancing war dog with interest. "Catch—" she called out, heaving Duty at him, "but mind the Mabari drool."

He caught the helmet in one hand and eyed it doubtfully. "Do I even want to know where he found this?"

"In the Deep Roads?" mused the Warden. "Probably not. I'd certainly give it a good clean before you put it on, though."

He stuffed the helmet on top of his gear and they left the Dead Trenches behind. That night –or what they decided to call night, which was whenever they felt the need to camp and attempt some sleep—he retrieved it from his pack and began to scrub it clean with a paste of sand and a little of the contents of Oghren's flask. He was crouched before the light of the lava flow, chewing absentmindedly on a dried leaf –some herb, the Mage guessed, of which he kept a store in a small pouch at his belt. Suddenly she heard a choking noise from his direction; it sounded as though Loghain had nearly swallowed his leaf and was now spitting it out. She stole a look and caught him staring at her with a hard, incredulous face. The back of the helmet was turned to him, shining clearly in the firelight. He quickly jerked his head back down and finished cleaning the spot of the etching. The Mage saw him blink twice, saw his mouth pull down in a grimace and then jerk up as a short, soft laugh escaped him. At last he calmed, and nodded.

Without looking at the Warden, he stood up and walked over to the Mabari with an extra large snack.

"Thank you very much for the helmet," he said. "It fits perfectly, and I shall be proud to wear it."

Dog curled himself around in ecstasy and leaned on Loghain's shins, smiling up at him with his tongue lolling. Loghain, scratching him behind the ears, leant down as though trying to catch something inaudible that the Mabari had said.

"What's that?" he asked, craning his ear even closer to the war hound's panting muzzle.

"Forgive your mistress for being an insufferable—"

Dog barked once, sharply.

"Oh, all right."


Author's note: This chapter is my attempt to describe my first real experience with Loghain Mac Tir as a companion in battle. The Mage was my first PC to recruit him, and for that reason I had deliberately left large areas of Ferelden unexplored so that I could take him for a "test drive" before heading to Redcliffe for the Final Battle sequence. As in this story, we hit the Deep Roads first -after shopping at Soldier's Peak, of course. I had expected Loghain to be a solid, deliberate, somewhat slow tank, more along the lines of Sten than Alistair. Instead I got a Warrior who was faster than anyone else in the company except possibly the dog, and deadlier than anyone except the Mage herself. I also expected him to be largely silent, dour, sarcastic, and cold. I was right about the sarcasm. . .

In case anyone is curious, most of the battle scenes in this chapter -minus the dialogue and dog biscuits, of course- actually happened in gameplay pretty much as they are described here, including the Tripwire Incident.

Modifié par Morwen Eledhwen, 20 avril 2011 - 02:23 .

[Morwen Eledhwen]

This chapter can now also be read on Dreamwidth or ff.net, where a slightly larger font may cause less eyestrain.  ../../../images/forum/emoticons/wink.png

Author's note: Special thanks to Josie Lange and ShiningMoon for invaluable beta help. Josie Lange, incidentally, provided the inspiration for "The Tale of Archimbaud".

This chapter contains a little bit of dialogue from the "A Golem's Memories" quest in Dragon Age: Origins. All characters and the Dragon Age universe are BioWare's, of course.

When approaching the Dead Trenches, the company had come from the east; as they broke camp the day after leaving them, however, the Mage turned them south. This prompted a ripple of comment in the ranks behind her;
the Warden was surprised neither at this nor at the rolling, grinding approach of Shale’s footsteps as she left her place by Sten’s side and joined the Mage at the head of the group.

“Am I to assume,” asked the golem, “that it has finally decided to seek out Cadash Thaig, as it promised?”

“You are, and it has indeed,” answered the Mage. “I am sorry that we could not attempt it sooner, but it was safer to visit the thaigs we already knew first. I’m sure you can understand that.”

“I suppose it thinks I should be grateful that it took time out of its great quest to follow the whim of one of its followers?”

“Not at all,” answered the Mage. “I see no reason why Cadash Thaig should not prove as profitable for us as any of the others.”

“Oh, so this is merely part of its commercial operation. What a relief,” sneered Shale. “I was beginning to find the sense of obligation horribly oppressive.”

The Mage smiled. Shale halted in her tracks, forcing the others to break their strides and navigate around her. When the Qunari hove into view beside her, the golem resumed her pace, the clunk of his armor blending in with her long, crunching strides.

They had a stroke of luck as they approached the entrance to Cadash Thaig. Just before the highway dove under the arch and into the valley that marked the thaig’s entrance, they found a cave. It was reached from the road by climbing onto the stone ledge that ran alongside, and then squeezing between two boulders at the top of a short, steep, sandy incline. Once inside, the cave opened up into an area the size of a small hall, with stone balconies at intervals along the walls but no further openings in or out. A man standing upright (or a Dwarf or dog perched on a rock) could just see over one of the boulders to the highway below. In other words, it was a perfect place to pitch a real camp.

The Mage was delighted. A place to camp meant an opportunity to set up a base of operations, to light a fire, to drop some of their burdens and not need to have everything to hand at all times in case they were forced to move quickly by the appearance of an adversary. It also meant that they would be able to sleep in their tents. The Mage had come to appreciate the difference that even such a flimsy barrier as a swatch of cloth could make, and not only in how exposed they felt to their enemies. After a while, the Warden and her companions simply got sick of looking at each other, and of being constantly in view of the rest of the party. The luxury of being able to disappear behind a tent flap, take off their Grey Warden faces, and just be themselves, would do them all a world of good. In addition, the Mage knew that some of her companions were itching to have some “alone time”, as Oghren put it, to pursue certain activities that they all would prefer remained private.

Having a real campsite afforded the Mage additional opportunities as well, of which she meant to take full advantage. As the company staked out their bits of cave, deposited their burdens, and began to make themselves at home, she beckoned to Oghren for a word. The Dwarf heard her proposal with interest. “Aye, sure, heheh,” he growled in response. “It’s a sodding great idea, if he’s up for it. These old dogs do get set in their ways, though, you know,” he warned her. “Can’t tell ‘em nothin’ they don’t want to hear.”

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Loghain, his pack still on his shoulders, standing with crossed arms in the middle of the chamber. After a moment he turned, found his commander where she stood and strode up to her.

“We’re not stopping now, are we?” he asked. “We’ve been on the road three or four hours at most.”

“Some of us are stopping, yes,” answered the Mage. “I’m only taking three others with me into Cadash Thaig. This was how we worked the last time we were in the Deep Roads: the first time into each thaig, take no more than four as a scouting party. That’s enough to deal with any immediate group of enemies we might encounter, but not so many as to alert every Darkspawn in the place to our presence. And with that in mind,” she said, cocking a pointed eye at the Champion, “you and your partner in crime are definitely staying here.”

“I beg your pardon,” protested Mac Tir. “I am perfectly capable of moving and fighting in silence, Warden; I was leading squadrons of stealth fighters before you were born. I thought that the point of this exercise was to strike the fear of the Maker into these monsters.” The Mabari demonstrated his most ferocious growl, then barked happily.

“And you have certainly done so –both of you,” the Mage agreed. “But I have other plans for you today, Warden.” Loghain curled a suspicious eyebrow; his frown deepened when he saw the glint in Oghren’s eye.

The Mage explained. “You have displayed certain characteristics,” she said to Loghain, “which in my opinion coincide with those ideally sought in candidates wishing to learn the special techniques of the class of Warrior known as the Berserker. I have consulted with Oghren, who has mastered these techniques—”

“Oh, is that what he’s doing?” broke in Loghain. “I just assumed it was a drunken rage.”

“The drunkenness helps,” said the Dwarf. “But it’s the rage that’s the key thing.”

“—and Oghren agrees that you would make a fine Berserker,” continued the Mage. “He has graciously consented to spend the day teaching you some of the basic points –if you’re interested.”

She could have ordered him, of course; but as long as her circumstances allowed it, the Mage preferred to offer everyone a choice, and to see how they responded. There was a long pause as Loghain eyed the Mage with a set jaw and a twisted mouth –no doubt, she thought, chewing over the unmitigated gall she displayed in suggesting that he, the Hero of River Dane, had anything to learn about fighting.

At last he turned, and addressed his reply to Oghren. “Why not,” he declared. “Never let it be said that Loghain Mac Tir got too old to acquire a new skill.” The Dwarf reached up and clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit,” he said. “We’re gonna have some fun today, you’ll see.”

The Mage did not have to consider long in choosing the two companions who would accompany her and Shale into Cadash Thaig. Sten would naturally follow his other kadan, his stone sister, in her quest for the story of her past. Then, to detect and disarm any possible traps, and to deal with the trickier locks with which the ancient Dwarves sometimes protected their treasures, the party would need a Rogue. Zevran’s armor had sustained some damage in the Dead Trenches, so he could stay to make repairs in camp and leave the expedition to Leliana. The Warden gave the order; those who were to go emptied their packs of all but the necessary items of their trade, while those staying in camp arranged shelter for themselves and their fellows. The Mage also distributed all but two of the company’s remaining health poultices amongst the members of the Cadash Thaig expedition; Morrigan’s task while in camp would be to replenish their stock by brewing as many more as she could from the ingredients they had collected in their travels.

While the idea to offer Loghain berserker lessons had been brewing in the Mage’s mind since Caridin’s Cross, she had to confess that the timing in this case could not have been better; it provided a perfect excuse to remove his caustic wit and blunt opinions from Shale’s presence at a potentially sensitive time. Shale obviously noted this consideration on the Mage’s part, and took care to send an especially disdainful look her way as the Warden took her place at the head of the expedition. As they passed under the arch that signaled the entrance to Cadash Thaig, the Mage looked back at those she had left behind. Dog’s head was just visible over the top of one of the boulders flanking the cave’s entrance. His eye caught hers and his head began to wobble back and forth; the Mage smiled, picturing the Mabari’s wagging tail. The only other sign of life came from the echoes of Oghren’s gravelly voice as his instruction of the Hero of River Dane began.

                                                                                               *     *     *

Cadash Thaig was, to everyone’s surprise, green.

Water dripped down its walls, fell from cracks in the ceiling –that in some cases admitted beams of actual sunlight—and collected in pools around which the thaig’s old dwellings nestled. A thin carpet of moss covered much of the ground, clung to the feet of the buildings and even poked up between the stones of the various paths. The air was humid and smelled of mould, but the Mage, Sten and Leliana breathed deeply and sighed. Leliana’s mood seemed particularly lightened; the Mage imagined that the anticipation of a respite from comments about her Orlesian upbringing might be a contributing factor.

They moved forward languidly, as though they and the entire thaig were under water. Shale’s dreamlike musings on half-remembered landmarks added to the otherworldly atmosphere. Still, their instincts had not been completely dulled; when the first cluster of Darkspawn appeared on the path ahead, it did not take the Mage and her companions long to shake off their lethargy and get to work. The Mage also soon realized how quickly her brain and body had become accustomed to the brisk new pace that the company had adopted over the past few days. At the first sight of an enemy her body tensed, the hair on her scalp and at the back of her neck bristling; her nerve endings seemed to open up at her fingertips and along her spine like hungry mouths. It was not merely fear or the stress of battle that caused it; her senses expected something, a trigger in her head had been wound up and set, and she waited in vain for it to go off.

In the meantime, their battles resumed the steady, dependable pace of those in their previous tour of the Deep Roads. The Mage found it necessary to revert to her old style of mob-fighting: sleep, weaken or immobilize, tempest, lightning bolts, repeat as necessary. Also, it seemed to take forever to engage the enemy; her companions never strayed far from her side, so they and the Darkspawn would exchange several volleys of ranged attacks before someone got fed up enough to cross the gap and initiate the final round in close-quarter combat. Once this stage began, the Mage was kept continually scurrying from one clump of enemies to another to rescue a companion struggling in its midst. Despite her unusually frequent healing spells, their stock of health poultices began to dwindle.

In this way the expedition crept through Cadash Thaig at what the Mage considered an intolerably slow pace. She felt itchy and restless. As she waited for a troop of Darkspawn archers to leave the shelter of their chosen ruins, she shifted from foot to foot like a child in need of the privy. It was then that, with a sharp, sinking feeling, she realized what was wrong: she could hear no pacing in the dirt behind her. No bray of laughter greeted the enemy; no harsh shout invited them to their deaths. The twin streaks of silver and brown that should have launched at the first sight of an enemy were missing. The trigger was primed, but no one released it.

On the whole, the Mage found Cadash Thaig rather dull.

She tried to think of Shale and how much interest their journey must hold for her. The golem’s face registered deep concentration as they proceeded down the moss-covered ways. She did not confess to anything as solid as a memory, but her senses clearly sent echoes of recognition through her frame, as sometimes happens in dreams when one “knows” things without knowing why. As they progressed, she began to walk even ahead of the Mage as she became increasingly convinced that this place had considerable significance in her past.

Leliana thought it natural and quite wonderful that Shale should have come from the “prettiest” thaig of them all. Shale rolled her eyes when the Bard expressed this sentiment; Sten groaned.

The golem’s spirits flagged, however, when they began to approach what appeared to be the end of the thaig without finding any actual evidence of her former identity. She had begun to resign herself to an idea of her past only slightly less fuzzy than she had had before, when she spied the top of an enormous statue that dominated a green island on the far side of a stagnant lake. The statue soon showed itself to be that of a Dwarf grasping a two-headed hammer as long as it was tall. Shale’s eyes grew bright and sharp as she stared at it; her feet were drawn towards the spot at a pace with which the others had to struggle to keep up. Repeated questions by her companions as to what she might have found only resulted in clenched fists and greater speed.

For this reason, they and the pack of Shrieks that inhabited the island were a bit of a shock to one another. The Mage’s senses had only just begun to register the pull of tainted blood when they were beset by waving claws and ear-splitting cries. She tried to back up and put some distance between herself and the enemy, but the statue left only a rim of turf on which to maneuver. Leliana also appeared frustrated by the disadvantage at which the limited terrain placed her. She soon gave up her bow and unsheathed the seldom-used daggers at her side. The Mage, however, had no close-range alternative. Still she sidled along the edge of the steep drop into the lake, peering around the hunched, lurching bodies of the Shrieks to see if any of her comrades were in trouble.

When the ground started shaking beneath her, she thought it was Shale pounding away at the earth to stun nearby assailants. A jolt in her veins told her that she was wrong. She turned to face the biggest Ogre she had ever seen as it loped towards their now pathetic-looking little band. Its massive head bobbed along with its strides, its empty grin and glittering eyes fixed on the Grey Warden.

The remaining Shrieks seemed to both flee from it and fall in around it, hopping around its legs for protection from Shale’s missiles and then flashing out for a renewed attack. The Mage realized in astonishment that the Ogre seemed to be directing them. As far as she knew, only Alphas actually had the superior intelligence and authority to direct their fellows in a unit; otherwise, they remained a mob, attacking and dying as they saw fit. She had never heard of an Ogre Alpha, but she believed that she might have encountered one here in Cadash Thaig.

Like the other Ogres they had encountered, it honed in on the Mage, making her its sole target; unlike the others, however, the Alpha was able to send the Shrieks to harry the Warden’s companions, cutting them off as they scrambled to come to her aid. The Mage could hear them calling, but could see only the dark hulk of the Ogre as it bore down on her, an animated mountain of muscle and sinew, heedless of her repeated efforts to paralyze or disorient it. For the first time she actually felt her store of mana ebb to the point where she felt as though she could not summon the energy to cast another spell; she found herself forced to take refuge between the great stone legs of the statue while she frantically searched inside her pack for a draught of lyrium. She found one and downed it just as the Ogre’s hand thrust through the gap, seeking to grasp and drag her into the open. She skittered away, backing up against the pile of boulders against which the monument stood, and pierced the groping hand with an arcane bolt. The hand withdrew, and the Ogre’s head replaced it in the gap. Its mouth gaped and it let out a furious bellow. From behind it the Mage could hear the pleas for help of her wounded companions. She aimed a fork of lightning at the eyes of the Alpha and scrambled over the boulders around the statue’s right heel, hitting the turf with a jolt and sprinting to rejoin the others.

They had managed to defeat the Shrieks but had used up the last of their health poultices in doing so. Leliana and Sten were both bleeding; the Mage struggled to heal them and to dodge the fists of the Ogre as it launched blow after blow at her face. With the Shrieks gone, her companions were free to come to their leader’s aid and, once they had recovered, began to attack the Alpha from both sides and behind. The Mage saw its eyes glitter as it felt the first bites of their weapons, but it never wavered from its target; unlike most Ogres, who once they had fixed on the Warden were blind to everything else, the Alpha acknowledged the others’ presence but simply did not care. Only when Leliana made a pest of herself by trying to leap onto its back did the Ogre so much as acknowledge that anyone but it and the Mage was involved in the battle. It shrugged the Bard off its shoulders, then without turning to look, it planted its left foot and aimed a kick at Leliana with its right, sending her sprawling several yards away. Uninterrupted, it lowered its head at the Warden and charged, its horns sweeping the air, hunting for her.

Well, and what else would you expect? thought the Mage bitterly as she scrambled out of their path. An Alpha will always recognize an Alpha when it sees one –and I’m the only other one around.

It was an uncharitable thought, and she deplored her arrogance for thinking it. She also knew that it was true.

At last, weakened by the Mage’s spells and blinded in both eyes by the bolts of lightning she sent sizzling in relentless profusion through its skull, the Ogre succumbed to a rock nearly the size of Dog, heaved at its head by Shale with a vicious curse. As it lay on the ground, Sten plunged the Summer Sword through its heart, and the battle was over.

The Mage had just enough energy left to heal everyone who needed it before they proceeded to the looting stage. Fortunately, this lot of dead made up for their stubbornness in dying by yielding loot of exceptional quality, including an enchanted Dwarven dagger that the Warden guessed might delight her Assassin, and a quite astonishing amount of coin from the Ogre. The Mage had always thought it odd that so many Darkspawn were found to carry Fereldan coin, but to find so much of it this far back in the Deep Roads piqued her curiosity more strongly than ever. It did seem to work out that the stronger or more highly ranked the Darkspawn, the more coin they carried. Did they actually recognize it as currency? Or were they merely collecting shiny things as Ruck did? And did the lesser Darkspawn give coin to their superiors as tribute, or did the stronger ones “win” it in the same way that the Grey Wardens subsequently “won” it from them?

From the look of things, thought the Mage, Ogre Alpha here has been beating the stuffing out of the local competition for quite some time. And now Mage Alpha gets to add its winnings to her shiny pile. Won’t whatever kills me be excited? No Shriek minions for me, though. Heigh ho; such is life.

“Look,” whispered Leliana. The Mage shook herself out of her reverie and followed the Bard’s eyes to the statue. Shale was staring at a plaque that had been set at the feet of the monument; it was etched with the emblems of House Cadash and covered with several columns of writing. The golem’s face wore an expression almost –if such a thing were possible—of fear.

“It –it has dates, and names,” she murmured as the Warden walked up to stand beside her. “This is to honor those who volunteered, those who became golems.” She pointed at a spot on the plaque. “There is my name: ‘Shayle of House Cadash.’ I recognize it.” The stone head bowed; the eyes blinked in wonder at her memories. “I was not created as I am now,” she declared at last. “I was once a creature of living flesh. A Dwarf, and a woman.”

“Caridin told you as much,” the Mage reminded her. “He had no reason to lie to you.”

“It is one thing to believe, however, and another to know,” answered Shale.

“Oh,” exclaimed Leliana as she joined them. “I never thought of you as ‘Shayle’ with a y. It seems much more appropriate for a woman.”

“Then I shall remain Shale without a y,” said the golem, “as I am no longer a woman, but a rock.” She turned
her back on the statue and strode over to Sten, who had been keeping a respectful distance. He nodded.

“It is good that you accept what you are, kadan, and name yourself accordingly,” he said.

“But I have heard the Qunari speak against those who would change what they are,” countered Shale; the Mage suspected that her concern was only half sarcasm. “I was a Dwarf who allowed herself to be changed into a golem. Does the Qunari not despise me for this?”

“You were a warrior,” answered Sten, “who desired to become a superior warrior. To improve oneself in one’s chosen path is highly regarded in the Qun.”

“I am glad to have the Qunari’s approval,” the golem rumbled pleasurably. “I look forward to the day when its kind assumes their rightful place over these puny, soft-headed races.”

With packs full of loot and no health poultices, the party elected to return to camp the way they came, trusting the path behind them to remain clear of enemies. They strolled back down the hill and across the lake; the Mage and Leliana followed, sharing sly looks and suppressed giggles at the pair in front of them.

Shale kicked aside the remains of a Hurlock that was blocking her path. “So,” she wondered. “If Caridin had not destroyed the Anvil, would the Qunari have volunteered to become a golem?”

“I think not,” answered Sten after a moment. “The golems created by Caridin were large and powerful, but I could best them in single combat even in my current form. They are not like you, kadan. Unless I could be modified as you were, I would not see the point.”

“True,” agreed Shale. “And they were terribly dull –mindless, grunting blockheads. No, on second thought, I would not see the Qunari made a golem, even if it wished to be. We shall leave it as it is,” she said.

Sten regarded his friend, who turned her face to his. “Then I shall die, and you live on, kadan,” he replied solemnly. “But I am honored to fight by your side for as long as our paths run together.”

“Had my heart not been pounded into dust by Caridin’s hammer, it would surely melt,” wheezed the golem. “But let us be silent,” she added briskly, facing forward again. “I can hear the Sister cooing with sentimentality already. On no account should we give it occasion to begin singing.”

                                                                                                *     *     *

The Mage had expected Dog to greet them first of anyone, bounding down from the ledge and nosing through all accessible pockets for treats. As they stepped out from the arch, however, they heard no happy bark, saw no mass of brown fur hurtling towards them. No big square head peered over either of the boulders at the entrance to the cave to mark their approach. Instead, there was freshly broken stone in the road and scorch marks on the boulders and the ledge. There had been a statue guarding the arch –a miniature of the monument that dominated the green island—but it was now in ruins, its limbs scattered across the archway and its head lying several yards away against the far wall. The Mage and her companions looked at each other apprehensively. Had the camp been attacked in their absence?

They hesitated to call out without knowing what enemies may still be nearby, but hastened towards the campsite. Suddenly the Mage felt a pull of tainted blood from inside the cave –but it was not Darkspawn. At that moment a crown of dark hair and a set of eyebrows popped up over the boulder to the left of the entrance. The eyebrows swiveled towards the arch and then lifted. There was a clatter of armor and Loghain rose to his feet.

“AH!” he shouted, clapping his hands together. His face wore a slanted smile. “Here they come back to us, all fresh from the field.” He bowed to them in greeting.

The Mage let the others up into the cave ahead of her; Loghain nodded each one through the entrance. “Had a nice little expedition, have we?” he asked them. “Found ourselves, have we? Excellent.” No one answered him. Shale came last before the Mage, fortunately still too lost in thought to spare Loghain much notice. He shook his head at her as she passed, and then turned to the Warden.

“Still looks like a vicious, insolent pile of rocks to me. . .” he observed.

The Mage noticed that he appeared to be supporting himself on the boulder with one hand. Was he injured? He seemed well, if somewhat strange in his manner. She gave the Warrior a quick scan, up and down –and saw the half-empty bottle propped at the foot of the boulder where Loghain had presumably been sitting. The Mage recognized the bottle as having once been full of especially potent and well-aged Tevinter spirits. They had found it in the lower levels of the Brecilian Forest ruins, and had taken one hair-curling snort of it apiece before handing it over to Oghren, as the only companion who had a chance of surviving prolonged exposure to the evil stuff.

The Mage pursed her lips; one might think either that she was expressing prim disapproval or that she was trying extremely hard not to laugh.

“Your Grace must have done well today,” she observed. “Oghren doesn’t give out the good liquor to just anyone, you know.”

There was a crash from inside Oghren’s tent, which nearly buckled in on itself. As they watched, the Dwarf crawled out and made his way to where the Mage and Loghain were standing. Amidst the curses could be heard a series of mumbled exclamations: “Sodding terrific. . .born natural. . .wonderful teacher, of course, heheh. . .”

The Mage shook her head as Oghren reached them and used the boulder to pull himself to his feet. “Great,” she said. “Now I have two drunken berserkers in my camp.”

“I am not drunk,” protested Mac Tir. “I have merely been celebrating the successful conclusion of my tutelage with this, most fearsome—” He clapped Oghren on the shoulder, sending him sliding to the ground again “—and generous warrior.” Loghain grasped his instructor under the armpits and hauled him back up to face the Mage. “Now, my brother in arms,” he said. Oghren grinned and gave a thumbs up; Loghain glanced at the slumped form of the Dwarf dangling from his gauntlets and chuckled. “Literally,” he added.

Morrigan’s voice came partially muffled from inside her tent at the back of the cave. “Allowing that maniac to become a berserker was perhaps your most foolish notion yet,” she scolded. “They have been like two mad beasts all afternoon.”

Glancing around the campsite, the Mage frowned. “Where’s Zevran?”

“I took refuge up here with the dog,” answered the Elf, peering over one of the balconies that ran halfway up the walls. “Now that you are here to contain these two fierce, brave, dangerous men, we shall come down.” Dog barked emphatically and began to scramble down the stone steps that led up to the ledge. Zevran stretched, placed his hands on the balcony’s edge and vaulted gracefully to the floor. He landed lightly on his feet and strolled over to relight the fire that Loghain and Oghren had let die.

“You seem to have had a productive day, as well,” observed Mac Tir, glancing at the Mage’s torn and dirty vestments. He craned his head forward and sniffed. “Hmm. . .” he said. “Blood –and moss!”

“The thaig was full of it, for some reason.”

Oghren stirred at this and shook himself free of Loghain’s supporting grasp. “Moss?” he demanded. “Thaig moss? Where?”

“Back in Cadash Thaig, of course,” answered the Mage.

“And you didn’t bring any back with you?” cried the Dwarf. “Sod it, woman! Do you know what I could have made with that stuff?”

“Um. . .health poultices?”

“Heh. . .well, you wouldn’t be feeling any pain, that’s for sure. . .”

His shoulders slumped; disgusted, he stalked over to the fire, scooping his flask off the floor of the cave where he had dropped it. He took a consolation swig and tipped the flask at Zevran, inviting the Elf to join him in mourning the thaig-moss ale that would never be.

Her robes, gloves and leggings were truly filthy, the Mage realized as she approached the fire herself. Not only was there an unusual amount of blood spatter, but the moss had left streaks of green nearly up to her ankles and there were smears of dirt from where she had scrambled over the boulders in her efforts to escape the Ogre. She was not fastidious about the dirt itself; however, while her companions could wear the accumulated blood and gore of their beaten enemies with pride if necessary, the Mage had attired herself all in white, precisely for the startling effect it had when contrasted with the red tattoos, the flaming cap of her shorn hair, and the staring topaz eyes. The White Demon could not be seen besmirched with the stains of battle.

She could only completely clean her outfit from inside her tent, of course, where she would be able to remove it. However, she did not feel like retiring just yet. Instead, she sat on one of a circle of rocks that someone had thoughtfully placed around the fire, and pulled a bottle of water from her pack. Fortunately, the water flowing through Cadash Thaig had been quite clear, so the expedition party had filled all of their bottles and the empty health poultice flasks before returning to camp. With the water and a cake of soap she began to scrub at some of the more offensive spots; then, as each spot dried, she aimed her staff at it and murmured a few words under her breath. She nodded to herself as white appeared where the marks had been.

“Ah,” said a voice nearby. The Mage looked up to see Loghain standing over her, watching. “I had wondered about that,” he said. “You seemed to have chosen a highly impractical color for our line of work –though visually impressive, I grant you. I suppose you have some spell that makes the offending element disappear?”

The Mage smiled. “Nothing so dramatic,” she admitted. “I clean my vestments as often as I can, in the normal way; in the meantime I do my best to get the excess out of the material, and then I just turn the material white.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She coughed, feeling unexpectedly sheepish. “The robes they give apprentices in the Tower are all pretty uniform, and extremely drab,” she explained. “Invariably, when they’re around fourteen or fifteen years old, the apprentices get rebellious and refuse to wear the uniform.” Loghain smirked knowingly; the Mage wondered briefly what sort of rebellions Anora might have mounted at a similar age.

She continued: “Apprentice Mages have no property of their own; without the resources to buy or make our own clothes, we turn to learning spells that change the appearance of the ones we have –including the color.”

Loghain laughed. “I see,” he said, nodding.

“I can turn just about any kind of cloth white –for the most part. Leather, too,” said the Mage, lifting a booted foot the inner half of which was freshly clear of color. “If you look closely enough you can see the outlines and slight shadings where the stains have set. But, no one ever gets that close,” she concluded with a wry smile.

“I see,” he said again, softly this time.

She chuckled. “Some of the apprentices learned a modified version of the spell that could change the color of metals,” she told him. “They used to get the Templars when they weren’t looking –turn their armor purple or bright yellow or whatever.” She cast a mischievous eye at the expanse of silverite in front of her. Loghain’s eyes flashed in alarm.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned.

The Mage laughed aloud. “Don’t worry,” she reassured him. “I was a good girl; I never learned that one.”

“Well, mind you stay a good girl, now.”

The Warden ducked her head, suddenly abashed. She thought it best perhaps just to concentrate on her task of cleaning. A tremor rippled through her blood; Loghain had stepped around her and plunked himself on the nearest rock. He took a careful swallow from the Tevinter bottle, winced, shook his head briskly, and let out a long, rattling sigh.

He tilted his shoulders at the Mage; if his eyebrows had had elbows, they would have nudged her in the ribs.

“Miss me?” he asked.

Without waiting for an answer, he pulled the Warden’s pack over to rest in front of him and began to rummage through her share of the day’s loot. Her eyes were still trained on her work, but she had excellent peripheral vision and could watch him as he removed each item, inspected it, and rendered his silent judgment of its worth. She bit down hard on the insides of her cheeks.

“Not a bit,” she said casually.

He nodded. “Nor I you. Excellent notion, having me learn the ways of the berserker,” he added pleasurably. “Did you see what we did to that old statue by the archway?”

“Very impressive,” agreed the Mage.

Another swallow. “That Dwarf can swear, though,” said Loghain. “Maker! I’ve been a soldier nearly forty years, and even I’d never heard some of the terms he uses.”

“What, you mean like—”He held up a hand to silence her. “Please, don’t say it,” he begged her. “I don’t even know what you’re going to say, but don’t. Not you.”

“Why not?” she asked, frowning. “Because I’m a woman?”

“No,” protested Loghain, shaking his head. “No: it would neither bother nor surprise me to hear one of Oghren’s choice phrases issuing from the lips of, say, the Marsh Witch, for example. Or most any woman, given the right circumstances. But not you.” He looked at the Warden admonishingly over his shoulder.

“I’m hardly a genteel, delicate flower,” she reminded him.

“Certainly not,” he chuffed. “Still, it doesn’t feel right.” He threw up his hands and shrugged. “I can’t explain it.”

“I think I can,” said the Mage wearily. She dropped the fold of her robes that she had been cleaning and tossed her staff on the ground with a sigh. “People get this idea about me,” she explained, eyes rolling heavily in her skull. “They think of me as—”

“As a good girl,” finished Loghain.

She nodded, her mouth twisting strangely. “Too good for earthly, common, bestial things, yes,” she said. “People feel a need to hide their sinful selves in my presence.” She choked back a laugh, surprised at its bitterness. “Don’t swear around me,” she recited, “don’t misbehave around me; don’t think unholy thoughts—”

She broke off, recalling the anguished ravings of Cullen in the Circle tower that had amounted to a confession of most unholy thoughts. After it was all over and the Circle had been restored, she had tried to speak to Cullen, to tell him it was all right, she’d had no idea; he had nothing to feel guilty about. He would not even look at her. The Templars were taught to be on their guard against wily, devious, lascivious Mages, who would use their unnatural arts to seduce the naturally chaste knight away from duty and virtue. Cullen’s disgust, however, had been directed entirely at himself, at the monstrosity of his desire for her. The Warden thought also of Zevran’s lustful glances, of Leliana’s hopeless puppy love; both Rogues most at home when intimate, but hanging uncharacteristically back where the object of their affection was the White Demon. No one ever gets that close. It was true; it had always been. More than one kind of fear was at work in her case.

“I should hardly think you’d be surprised,” Loghain remarked, “when you go about looking like a bloody Chantry virgin.”

The Mage turned her face to him and stared, unsure if she was offended or curious for him to continue. Loghain frowned at himself and blinked. He blew out his cheeks.

“I am drunk,” he said.

“That Tevinter stuff will creep up on you.”

In the course of her army-raising tour of Ferelden, the Mage had come to think of Loghain in a similar way as she had the Sloth demon that had trapped her and her companions in its own special realm of the Fade. To defeat both enemies she had had to wander up and down the length and breadth of a strange and sometimes hostile terrain, fighting off mobs, dodging traps, performing services and favors, acquiring new gifts and skills. In both cases, she had discovered her enemies’ secrets, destroyed their minions and worked her way in, finally, to the heart of each realm where its lord waited to crush her. And she had crushed each of them in turn.

While she knew quite well, of course, that Loghain Mac Tir was not the Sloth demon or anything like it, she realized now that she had, in a way, still been thinking of him as something figurative: a character from a story or a dream, a great opposing force that she had somehow managed to harness. It had taken this long day apart from him to give her the proper sense of perspective. The creature sitting beside her was not a demon, or a prize, or the embodiment of some goal or achievement; Loghain Mac Tir was a man, and he was alive.

She also realized for the first time how much the man differed in appearance from the hero depicted in the illustrated histories of her childhood and in the grand portraits she had seen in Denerim. Dark hair with a single plait falling from each temple; dark, dramatic brows in a pale face atop keen blue eyes; a proud, pronounced nose and chin; and of course the signature silverite armor –show these to any Fereldan and he would recognize the Hero of River Dane. And it was true that the man displayed all these characteristics as well. But the complexion in the paintings was that of a noble, it was Anora’s paleness, whereas the face of Loghain Mac Tir was raw with years of harsh treatment and dutiful but otherwise indifferent care. Only the most recent of his portraits had admitted the slightest shading of purple under his eyes, or perhaps a well-judged line of age as befitting a statesman. Not a single artist had included the slight cast in Loghain’s left eye, or neglected to refine his square and somewhat prominent teeth. Perhaps, thought the Mage, the writers of the histories and keepers of Ferelden’s legends had meant to make him worthy to show alongside the other heroes of his day: the golden King Maric and his beautiful warrior Queen. But while the artists had created a darkly handsome hero, they had left this man in his shadow; and while the Mage had now met or traveled with several handsome men, this was the first face that she must confess to having missed.

Loghain, still perusing the contents of her pack, cleared his throat. “Are you concerned that I might find something scandalous in here?” he asked. “I promise, if I come across your secret diary, I won’t peek.”

She started. “Sorry, no,” she said, “I mean, no, nothing scandalous of course, and I mean, sorry.” She looked quickly down at her hands. “It’s this terrible habit I have: I drift away on a trail of thought and my eyes just kind of stop where they were. People always think I’m staring at them. It’s quite embarrassing,” she finished with a guilty smile and a shrug.

After a long skeptical look at her out of the corner of his eye, Mac Tir relented. “I suppose I can believe that,” he allowed. “So, what trail were you following just now?”

If she was going to lie, she must lie quickly. The Mage glanced at the Mabari, who had settled himself on the ground between them. “I was thinking it’s time we gave Dog a real name,” she said.

This caused Loghain to drop a silver chalice. He turned at last to look askance at the Warden.

“He doesn’t have a name?”

“We’ve just been calling him Dog,” answered the Mage.

“That’s not his name?”

“What kind of a name is Dog?”

“A depressingly unoriginal one, I thought,” declared the Warrior. “So why haven’t you named him?”

“There didn’t seem to be a need,” said the Mage. “He’s always there, everyone knows who he is, and there’s certainly no one else like him around.”

Leliana, who had wandered over to the circle from her tent, had clearly been waiting for this. “Ooh, we should name him ‘Archimbaud’,” she exclaimed, “because he is so brave and gallant, and will always come to your rescue. And he sings for you, too,” she added lovingly.

“Nonsense,” scoffed Zevran from his place crouched over the fire; it was his turn to cook. “Our Mabari is no gentleman, he is a pirate: he swashes through every town and village, killing anyone foolish enough to stand in his way, pissing on all the landmarks and taking all the women. Oh yes,” he winked at the war hound. “I’ve seen you in the alleys and behind the barns at night, having your way with the local ****es.” Zevran rose to his feet and struck a dashing, piratical pose. “His name should be ‘Brigante’,” he said with a flourish.

These suggestions were met with matching looks of horror from both Wardens. The Mage cleared her throat.

“Zevran, that’s very flattering,” she demurred, “but it’s a bit –well, look at him.” Dog lounged at the Wardens’ feet, gnawing at his hindquarters. “He’s a dog. He is all those other things you say –though I’m a bit surprised to hear he’s also a heartbreaker—but he is every bit a dog.” The Mage shook her head. “Could you look at that face and call him ‘Brigante’?” she asked.

The Mabari made a slurping noise against his flank. With a disappointed glance at the war dog, Zevran shrugged in acquiescence and returned grumbling to the stew pot. Leliana looked hopefully at the Warden, who turned up her palms in bewilderment. “And what does ‘Archimbaud’ even mean?” she asked the Bard.

“Oh,” cried Leliana, “you do not know the tale of Archimbaud! It is one of my favorites.” She fairly skipped to her tent and emerged presently with a lute hanging from her shoulder by a strap. “Story time!” cackled Oghren, hauling himself into a viewing position next to the Elf. Loghain stifled a groan with a significant pull from his bottle. Zevran began to distribute stew amongst the company; Sten appeared silently to receive his portion and returned to where Shale stood at a little distance from the others. The Mage slid from her rock and sat on the ground with her back against it instead, her legs stretched out before her. Leliana positioned herself on the other side of the fire from her audience and swept her eyes over them invitingly: the two Wardens with the dog between them, Oghren saluting her with a toast from his flask, Zevran discreetly passing a bowl of stew into Morrigan’s hand as it protruded briefly from her tent and then withdrew. As they began to eat, Leliana struck a chord on her lute.

“The story goes,” she began, “that Archimbaud was the strongest, fiercest, bravest –knight—in the land. There was no enemy he could not kill, no weapon he could not master, no horse he could not ride, no hardship he would not face in the name of duty.” At this she looked with bright eyes at Mac Tir, who snorted. The Mage smiled.

“But Archimbaud had two secret loves that he never told anyone about,” continued the Bard. “He loved music, and he loved a woman.”

Loghain rolled his eyes. “Oh, let me guess,” he sneered. “I’ll wager she was high-born and he wasn’t, and everyone thought she was too good for him: am I right?” The hand holding the bottle waved accusingly at Leliana. “So,” he continued, “he—ran away to join a troupe of minstrels and see the world, and they became rich and famous and sought-after by all the nobles.” He chuckled bitterly. “Then he came home and she was all over him and everyone thought it was wonderful. There you are: end of story. These tales are all the same.” His eyes challenged the Bard.

“On the contrary,” she replied. “The woman he loved was an Elf.” Loghain scowled. “She was very beautiful and very clever, the finest hunter in the land; but the knight could never court her because she lived in the forest with her clan and did not come out. He could not run away to be with her because of his duty, and because he knew his people would punish her, saying that she must be a witch to steal away their best –knight.”

“Ah,” moaned Zevran. “Typical,” sniped Morrigan from inside her tent.

“His only hope was to make her fall in love with him and lure her out of the forest. He had heard that the Elves proved their worth with their hunting skills, so he slew many wild beasts and left their hides just outside their camp, as gifts for her—”

Oghren made his hands into horns and placed them on either side of his head to resemble the beast; Zevran, drawing an imaginary bow, simulated the kill.

“He heard of a group of bandits that had been terrorizing her clan, and he tracked them down and killed them all, taking their arms and weapons as trophies for her—”

“Pow, pow, blam,” slurred Oghren from his seat, throwing punches at the air. Zevran, still standing, reeled from the imaginary blows. Leliana smiled.

“He had a grand house built just outside the forest,” she continued, “with tall towers that showed over the tops of the trees, from which he sailed bright banners every day. He filled his grounds with statues and flowers and butterflies, all to entice the Elf maiden out of the forest. He used to wander there every day in the hopes that she would come out, so that he could meet her, as if by accident.”

Zevran and Oghren posed like statues and flitted like butterflies.

“He was given the name Archimbaud, which means ‘genuine courage’, for his deeds.” Loghain raised an eyebrow at the suspiciously Orlesian-sounding name. “But while she was grateful for his services, she did not love him; nor did she ever come out of the forest.” “Tsk, tsk,” mourned Zevran. “Stupid rock-licker,” Oghren grumbled.

“Finally, a single Elf child was found wandering in his garden by the knight’s men. They took her to Archimbaud as a trespasser, but he sent them away and questioned her alone. He discovered that she belonged to the same clan as the huntress that he loved. ‘Why does she never come out of the forest?’ he asked the child. ‘Has she never heard of me? Does she not know of all the things I have done?’

“The child promised to ask the huntress for him, and was sent away with a crown of flowers from his garden. The knight waited three days for her return, pacing in his garden and hardly eating or sleeping, only humming to himself a small, lonely tune that he made up to accompany him in his desire and anguish.”

Oghren had slumped over and appeared to be dozing; Zevran attempted a few notes alone but then stopped, smiled sheepishly at the Mage, and looked at the ground.

“On the evening of the third day, the child came back with her answer. ‘The huntress knows of you, and your deeds,’ she said. ‘But she does not know you, human. She will not come.’

“The knight was devastated. He was nothing without his deeds and accomplishments, he thought. If she could not accept him for those, what else could he give her? How else could he show himself to her, and prove his love?”

Taking Oghren’s flask gently from his hand, the Elf slipped behind the audience to where the Mage sat at the other end of the row. He settled to the ground by her side, wiped the mouth of the flask with his glove, took a pull, and offered it to his commander.

“Archimbaud shut himself up in his grand house and would not see anyone, or go out on hunts, or perform any of the favors or services normally expected of a ch –knight. The house was like a place of the dead; even the servants moved about in silence. The only sound to be heard was the knight’s lonely tune that he hummed constantly without even realizing it.”

The Mage accepted the flask from the Assassin and drank. As she passed it back, the Elf smiled slyly into her eyes; then the smile hitched wickedly up at one corner as he spotted something over her shoulder. The Mage turned to see Loghain staring sharply at them.

“One night,” whispered Leliana, “Archimbaud had a terrible dream that he had disappeared. He was still alive, still real, but no one could see or sense him. His body was gone, his armor was gone.” She spread her empty hands dramatically, her eyes wide. “He tried to speak to people, to show them proof that he was real: trophies of kills, gifts from nobles and royalty; but no one noticed. Nothing he did had any effect on anyone or anything. ” She shook her head mournfully. “And the music followed him everywhere. He began to believe that the music was making him invisible, so he tried to block it out. But when he tried, it was as though he had lost his breath, and the world began to fade from him as he had faded from the world. Finally he realized that the song was him, it was his life; if the music stopped, there would be nothing left of him, and he would die.”

The Mage attempted to scratch Dog behind the ears, but could not elicit the same ecstatic response as Loghain always did. Mac Tir, watching her, took a long swallow from the Tevinter bottle and coughed. When the Warden looked up, he reached across the Mabari and offered her a drink. The Mage glanced warily at the bottle, and then back at Loghain’s steady gaze.

“So instead he listened to the music –really listened instead of just letting it play—and it began to grow inside him. It swelled to fill his whole heart, and began to form words. Suddenly he had a voice; when he sang the words, people could hear him. He kept singing and the words changed to match his new hope. Suddenly, from far off, he heard another voice join her song with his. But before he could find the singer, the knight awoke from his dream.”

The Mage received the bottle from Loghain’s hand, took a deep breath, and brought it to her lips. When her eyes had stopped watering and the liquor had set up a warm buzz in her stomach, she passed the white shear back to her fellow Warden, who accepted it with glinting eyes and a smugly curling mouth. He settled back to indulge the Bard in the rest of her story.

“Archimbaud leapt from his bed,” exclaimed Leliana. “He could still hear the words of his dream song, and he scrambled to write them down before they were lost. The tune he knew, but he had always just let it play in his head; now he grabbed a lute that he kept hidden in his room and made himself learn to play it.” The lute made a few stumbling notes under her fingers, then grew stronger. “When the song was his,” continued Leliana, “he ran to the forest, past the bewildered servants and the squires calling to him to wait. He was unarmed, unattended, and in plain clothes, with nothing but his song and his love.” The song from the Bard’s lute swelled, plaintive and yearning. “And once inside the forest he sang, and played, wandering far from his home, to leave one last gift for the Elven huntress. And at last, as in his dream, he got an answer; she met him amongst the trees, and joined her song with his.”

“Aww,” cooed Zevran. A noise of disgust came from Morrigan’s tent. Leliana struck a happy chord on the lute and smiled.

“With the huntress by his side, the knight achieved more deeds of renown than ever before, and was celebrated throughout the land long after his death. But he always said that he truly earned the name ‘Archimbaud’ not for anything he did as a chevalier, but on the day he offered himself, without fear, and so won his love.”

Zevran clapped and cheered; Leliana bowed; Oghren woke with a snort and a belch. The Mage cringed: not because of the Dwarf or the story, but because of Loghain, who had begun fuming with the word “chevalier”.

“I knew it,” he growled, “This is an Orlesian tale.”

Leliana rolled her eyes and sighed. “It is anyone’s tale, silly,” she chided him, smiling as though at a patiently loved child. “I just happened to learn it in Orlais.”

Loghain, speechless at being called silly, made an indistinct grumbling noise.

The Bard groaned in exasperation. “Fine,” she said. “He was not a chevalier. He was a big, strong, honest, hard-working, cheese-loving Fereldan knight, called Ser Fereldan. Would that make you happy?”

“That depends,” said Loghain equably. “What was his dog’s name?”

“Alpha,” said the Mage.

Every face turned to her in puzzlement. She indicated the Mabari with her chin. “He is Dog Alpha,” she said.

“What kind of a name is that?” demanded Loghain.

“Well,” explained the Mage, “we categorize the enemy according to their rank and class, correct? With the most formidable of any class being referred to as the Alpha. Well: our Dog is most formidable, is he not?” The war dog barked in agreement. “So he is the Alpha of dogs,” concluded the Mage. Dog rolled on his back and waved his paws.

“But that’s just a title, a description, not a name,” protested Mac Tir.

“We are all eventually called what we are, Ser Hero of River Dane,” replied the Mage serenely. “In Alpha’s case, we are merely skipping a step.”

Loghain looked at the Mabari. “Are you on board with this?” he asked his friend. Dog barked happily.

“Of course you are. She’s controlling the snacks.”

Alpha grinned at both Wardens, panting in agreement. Loghain shook his head resignedly. From his place at the back of the cave, Sten favored his kadan with a look of immense pride.

The Mage rose, thanked Leliana, and reclaimed her pack from between the Warrior’s knees. She raised her hand to her companions and prepared to retire to her tent.

Loghain looked pointedly at his commander. “Tomorrow,” he declared, “you will witness my new skills in the field of battle.”

“We’ll see about that,” she answered.

“Huh.” His mouth twitched; he blinked, and gave the Mage a brisk nod. “Good night,” he said, “er—” and here Loghain paused, frowning. “—Grey Warden,” he finished.

The Mage smiled. “Good night, Ser Fereldan,” she replied.

As soon as she had entered her tent, the Mage crouched on all fours in the middle of the floor and transformed into a bear. She believed she knew what had caused that frown, and had found in the past that her hearing sharpened considerably when in this form. Breathing as quietly as she could, she trained her ears on the group by the fire.

Zevran was chuckling: evidently, he had also noticed Loghain’s discomfiture and had made the same guess as the Mage for the reason.

“You have just realized that you do not know our dear Warden’s name,” he whispered mischievously.

“I do not,” answered Loghain, “and I’d feel a damned fool to have to ask her. What is it?”

“It is an unlovely name,” said the Elf, “and not worthy of one such as she. I also find it impossible to pronounce. I simply call her Warden. Or Boss. Or ‘my lady’, if I am in that sort of a mood.”

“And yet, you desire. . .intimacy with her.”

Zevran gave a soft laugh. “One can call out many things in the act of love,” he said knowingly. “It does not necessarily have to be the name of the beloved.”

The Warrior let this go, and directed his next question behind him. “What about you, then, so deliberately not listening back there?” he called out. “You have been travelling with her longer than any of us. Do they not have formal introductions in the Korcari Wilds?”

“She never offered the information,” answered Morrigan carelessly, “and I saw no reason to enquire.”

“Of course you didn’t,” snorted Mac Tir. “And you, young lady? Surely Bards must learn the names of legends to properly immortalize them?”

“I too find the pronunciation difficult. I think it might help if she wrote it down for me, but she has never done so. She is my friend, and so that is what I call her.”

“Huh. I don’t suppose she has divulged her secret to the Qunari, there.”

“I heard the name once,” said Sten. “But she was insignificant to me at the time, so I forgot it. Now she has become kadan to me, so I would call her nothing else even if I knew her ‘real’ name.”

“Maker’s eyes. . .”

There was a pause, followed by another belch from the Dwarf.

“Nobody ever told me her sodding name,” grumbled Oghren.

“I believe, my moist friend,” soothed the Elf, “that by the time you joined our company, there did not seem to be a need.”

Modifié par Morwen Eledhwen, 02 juillet 2011 - 05:52 .

[Morwen Eledhwen]

Okay, folks: I hope you understand, but I won't be posting the actual text of new chapters here anymore. I cannot for the life of me get any story text to paste properly into this editor, and frankly it's way too much of a PITA to have to re-configure all the paragraphs and line breaks etc., especially when the fic is posted in perfectly nice formatting on other sites. In fact, it looks better and is easier to read on those other sites anyway: the text size is larger and the content area is way wider so you aren't scrolling down for miles. So from now on when I post a new chapter, I'll just be putting the links here. If you've been following this story from this board up til now, I apologize for any inconvenience, but trust me --you'll like it better if you link.

Title: Unbound, Chapter 7
Characters: F!Amell/Loghain Mac Tir
Rating: T
Summary: In which histories are examined, a possible future is considered, and some old ghosts tap our heroes on the shoulder. Also, Dagna FTW.

Links: ff.net | Dreamwidth | Archive of Our Own

Modifié par Morwen Eledhwen, 08 juin 2011 - 07:51 .

[Morwen Eledhwen]

And now, artwork!

This fabulous full-color illustration for Chapter 7 of Unbound is by Bitenomnom (see purple link in sig). What's shown here is actually a miniature version of it, but click on the pic to see it in its full glory on deviantArt (where Bitenomnom is known as ShiningMoon, so don't be confused. ). Please feel free to leave effusive comments and squee on her page so she keeps making me more illustrations. . .

. . .And by the way, there's also a non-color (but awesome) illustration of "The Tale of Archimbaud" from Chapter 6 to be enjoyed here. Featuring the lute stylings of Leliana, and the posing and flitting Greek chorus of Zevran and Oghren.

Modifié par Morwen Eledhwen, 02 juillet 2011 - 06:08 .

[Morwen Eledhwen]

A new chapter, at last! It's a long one, folks. . .

Title: Unbound, Chapter 8
Characters: F!Amell/Loghain Mac Tir
Rating: T
Summary: Some treasures are found, some lost forever. The same goes for Prophets and Warriors. Also, Simon Templeman talks to himself.

Links: ff.net | Dreamwidth | Archive of Our Own

. . .and here's the illustration by Bitenomnom, appearing with the chapter for the first time!

Modifié par Morwen Eledhwen, 24 juillet 2011 - 09:52 .

[Morwen Eledhwen]

At long, long last, an update:


Title: Unbound, Chapter 9
Characters: F!Amell/Loghain Mac Tir
Rating: T
Summary: Action, reaction and counteraction: a little dance the Mage performs with some unexpected results.

Links: ff.net | Dreamwidth | Archive of Our Own

No illustration yet, but don't blame Bitenomnom --I kind of snuck this one up on her.

[Morwen Eledhwen]

Moar updates! Now with shorter waiting times! And pictures!


Title: Unbound, Chapter 10
Characters: F!Amell/Loghain Mac Tir
Rating: T
Summary: Another ancient legend falls to the Grey Wardens, and another priceless artifact is bartered for the war effort. Everyone is apparently too busy talking to notice.

Links: ff.net | Dreamwidth | Archive of Our Own

And the awesome illustration by Bitenomnom:

Modifié par Morwen Eledhwen, 08 décembre 2011 - 08:46 .

[Morwen Eledhwen]

Updates... We got updates... At last:

Title: Unbound, Chapter 11
Characters: F!Amell/Loghain Mac Tir
Rating: T
Summary: In which Morrigan's mother does her best to cause as much damage as possible before she exits the stage.

Links: ff.net | Dreamwidth | Archive of Our Own

And yes, there is another kick-**** illustration by Bitenomnom:



Click the pic to visit the original in its full glory on deviantArt and leave cookies for my wonderful illustrator/beta!