Chapter 6: Alpha

[morwen_eledhwen]

Title: Unbound, Chapter 6
Characters: F!Amell/Loghain Mac Tir
Rating: T
Summary: Shale finds her memories, the old dog learns a new trick, and Dog gets a name. Also, drunkenness.

Author's note: Many thanks go out to my readers and reviewers, and 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 bitches.” 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.”
 

---

Update 06/09: Artwork! We have artwork! This fantastic "snapshot" of Leliana (and Oghren and Zevran) performing The Tale of Archimbaud is by ShiningMoon, whose other works (and more Unbound illustrations to come!) can be seen here.