Chapter 7: The Past
Jun. 8th, 2011 01:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
morwen_eledhwenCharacters: 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.
As always, heartfelt thanks to my readers, especially those who favor me with reviews. Extra special thanks to Josie Lange and ShiningMoon for patience and beta help.
This chapter contains dialogue both from the regular game and the Return to Ostagar DLC of Dragon Age: Origins -though I may have made an edit or two. :)
The DA universe is Bioware's, of course. This particular story is mine.
"I'd stay back if I were you," growled Oghren, reaching out a restraining arm. "The womenfolk are puttin' on their war paint."
Three days had passed since the Cadash Thaig expedition, and the Wardens' company was enjoying its first morning above ground. Their camp was on a little rise above a mountain stream, whose icy waters were more than welcome for drinking and for scrubbing off the accumulated grime of a week in the Deep Roads. They would have plunged in as soon as they had reached the campsite the night before, if there had been moonlight enough to see by. Instead, they had gone to bed dirty and arisen at first light, ready to jostle the others for their turn.
Leliana and Zevran generally had no reservations about bathing or undressing in front of others, and would sometimes go together to wash, or join Alistair or Sten as the mood took them –usually a mischievous mood, as neither the boy nor the Qunari handled their presence at such times gracefully. However, the Wardens' company was for the most part rather private about its toilette. Bath time in particular was considered a time of solitude –if one didn't count Alpha, who stayed by (or in) the water for as long as he was allowed. Loghain had taken his turn last of all except for Oghren, and had come clattering back through the trees with as much of his armor attached as he could manage by himself, shaking his wet head briskly to dry it, like a dog.
As he stood by the fire, sniffing at that morning's offering of breakfast, those of his companions familiar with the workings of heavy armor moved to help him with the remaining buckles, catches and straps. For greater convenience, Sten took the top half, Oghren below. It was a service that each warrior returned to his fellows as they had the need. Once properly re-encased in silverite, Loghain had accepted a plate of food from Zevran and made a move toward the other side of the fire, obviously intending to break his fast next to his fellow Warden. It was at this moment that Oghren had stopped him. Mac Tir frowned down at the Dwarf, and then looked across the fire to discover that indeed, the sunny side of the clearing was entirely occupied by the females of the company. Each female held a small mirror in one hand, while the other made use of the contents of a box of cosmetics that lay open on the ground in front of them.
The box was Morrigan's, and was kept filled for the most part by her arts. Though the Mage liked to enhance the effect of her tattoos by applying a mask of red paint around her eyes and a similar color to her lips, she did not feel justified in using her armies' funds to purchase the necessary cosmetics in Denerim or elsewhere. Fortunately, Morrigan's mother had provided her daughter with the skills and knowledge required to concoct a wide range of paints and powders from ingredients found in the wild. As Morrigan was concerned not only with her own appearance but also with that of the company she kept, she was only too happy to keep the Mage and Leliana supplied with whatever they needed. Leliana indulged a little in Morrigan's wares, especially if they were going into town, but was often just as happy with a pretty ribbon or scented cream, purchased with her own coin from the Orlesian's stall in the Denerim market. This morning she sat studying her face for blemishes and patting a light powder over her nose, chin and forehead. Morrigan was trying a rich emerald color on her eyelids. The men stood on the other side of the fire and averted their gazes, as though they had trespassed on something sacrosanct.
"Even she?" Loghain asked incredulously, after sparing a glance at the Mage.
Zevran shrugged. "For her, it is truly war paint, such as our canine friend wears," he said. "The others are merely reminding us that we travel with beautiful women –if extremely deadly women. Whose painted faces are occasionally covered in gore."
"There is no excuse for a woman not to take pride in her appearance, no matter the circumstances," opined Morrigan from behind her golden mirror. She turned her head from side to side to admire the effect of her dark lashes against the green.
Leliana lowered her pearl-handled looking-glass long enough to point it accusingly at the men. "You all shave your faces and braid your hair," she argued.
From behind her mirror, the Mage heard several male grumblings about how it was not the same thing. "I don't sodding shave," protested Oghren.
"But you spend more time braiding that big red beard than any of us 'womenfolk' spend on our hair," countered the Bard.
"That's different!"
Leliana groaned and threw up her hands in frustration; Oghren stalked off muttering to himself until he was caught and bullied by Sten into taking his turn in the stream. As the Mage shifted her bit of mirror to begin work on her other eyelid, she saw more than one man touch his braids surreptitiously. Some small touchups were performed.
Suddenly, Leliana tossed her mirror on the ground. "It's not fair!" she cried petulantly. Though her natural beauty was such that most cosmetics she might apply would only be an embellishment, not a necessity, her one complaint –her one obsession—about her appearance was her eyelashes. As was often the case with women of her complexion, her eyelashes were pale, and somewhat short and sparse, which she had always bemoaned as monstrously unfeminine and unfair. She spent a lot of her looking-glass time either gazing wistfully at Morrigan's deep, feathery eyelashes or trying to coax her own ginger stumps into something more visible. Morrigan knew exactly what was coming and gritted her teeth.
"Oh, please, not the Great Bardic Eyelash Tragedy again!" she groaned. "Either buy false ones from that Orlesian coquette in Denerim or let it go and stop whining!"
"But that is not what is truly unfair," protested Leliana. "You are a beautiful woman, Morrigan, and you should have long gorgeous eyelashes to accent your beautiful eyes. No, it is him!" she wailed, pointing an accusing finger at Loghain, who looked as if he had just been mugged. "His eyelashes are twice as long and as full as mine, and you can hardly see them under that great big scowl of his!"
Sten looked resolutely away, pretending not to have heard this outrage; Zevran snickered. Loghain stared helplessly at the Mage, silently pleading with her to stop this nonsense. The Mage merely smiled, and slid her gaze back behind her mirror.
Glancing around the campsite, Leliana noticed Shale standing halfway between the men and the women, looking somewhat at a loss. The Bard jumped up and formally invited the golem to the girls' side, taking up a cloth to polish her crystals and rearrange some of them into a more flattering formation. Shale submitted awkwardly at first, huffing at "the Sister's" foolishness, but her prickliness soon dissolved under Leliana's attentions. The new crystal placement was deemed satisfactory, and Shale permitted herself an admiring glance or two in the Orlesian's looking-glass.
Leliana's love of beautiful things, thought the Mage, her passion for romantic tales and her steadfast faith were not, as Morrigan would have it, evidence that she was foolish, or mad, or an idiot. Her eyes were clear, and she had seen much of the world that was ugly, sordid, or banal. For her to consistently choose the beautiful and the good –especially in the company of a bunch of cynics, stoics, pragmatists and heathens—displayed a strength of character in Leliana that belied her soft and gentle ways. With the exception of Morrigan, every one of the Mage's companions had been checked upon that strength, and had yielded to some degree.
The Warden's plan after the Deep Roads, as far as she had one, was to make a gradually diminishing circle around Redcliffe, stopping to gather information, supplies or salable items as opportunity or necessity permitted. Their next logical stop, then, was the Circle Tower on Lake Calenhad –or what remained of it, anyway. She had visited it briefly during her quest for the Anvil of the Void, when she and Morrigan found themselves short of items required for their talents and Orzammar's merchants had failed her. At that time the Tower was still a shambles; it looked as if barely any progress had been made in cleaning up the mess left by the wave of abominations that had struck the Circle. Since then, the Mage had had constant assurance from Emissary Pether that everything was fine at the Tower, that she shouldn't worry, there would be plenty of Mages ready to fight the Archdemon when it came time. But the Tranquil, of course, wouldn't worry if all the Mages in Ferelden were dead and rotting, and the Archdemon goosing him from behind. She needed to assess the situation for herself.
To reach the Tower from Orzammar, the company had to come round Lake Calenhad from the north. Before it dipped back south, the road made a hook through a densely wooded land, cleft with small watercourses and heavy with undergrowth. On their last trip through, the early leaves and water grasses were just beginning to flourish; now, frogs croaked unseen from the mould, the sunlight fell in a green veil through the canopy, and the rush and trickle of water was everywhere. The Mage did not have the chance to enjoy it for long, however. As they topped a steep rise, from which another streamlet leapt to lose itself in the folds of land below, they heard mens' voices raised in harsh, mocking tones. There was the sound of a scuffle, then a sharp, frightened yelp.
With a swift glance back at her companions, the Mage crept to the edge of the rise and looked down. A slight rustle in the grass to her right indicated that Loghain had joined her, surprisingly quiet in his heavy armor. It was clear which of those below had yelped; he was the only unarmed man of the lot, and he was being jostled and pushed between the arms and gauntlets of some half-dozen soldiers, all bearing the same crest on their armor and shields. The Mage looked at Loghain, whose face wore a deep frown.
"I know that man," he said in a low voice. "That's Elric Maraigne, one of Cailan's honor guard. He was at Ostagar, close by the king –until the battle started, anyway. Maker only knows how he got out alive."
"I recognize him," nodded the Mage, "and the King's colors, though I would never remember what he was called. I find I'm terrible with names." Mac Tir shot her a wry face at this. "But then who are those soldiers harassing him? Do you recognize their livery?"
"I do," he answered, "though it's hardly necessary, given where we are. Those are Bann Loren's men."
The Mage from the Circle Tower shrugged at him with open palms. Similarly blank stares greeted him from the Marsh Witch, the sister from Orlais, the assassin from Antiva, the Qunari, the golem and the Dwarf. Alpha panted up at them as helpfully as he could. Loghain briefly put a hand to his eyes.
"Loren," he explained. "Bann of these parts between the plains and the eastern shores of Lake Calenhad. Bit of an opportunistic little weasel, though not as ambitious as some. He likes to lurk here in his forest hideaway and move howsoever the political winds happen to blow."
"Hmm," said Zevran as the others began to join them in observing the scene below. "This Bann must not have received the news, then, that supporters of the Grey Wardens are no longer fair game."
"Possibly," agreed Loghain. "But since Elric is still dressed for Ostagar, I'd guess that he was captured early, and has only just managed to escape." The Warrior smiled grimly. "The soldiers won't take kindly to that, no matter what the circumstances."
The Mage tapped her fingers on her staff. "We probably shouldn't just let them have their fun, should we?" she mused.
"I suppose not," said Mac Tir, "though I still would like to know how Elric managed to save his skin, when all of his fellows were slain."
"Well, you won't get a chance to ask him if we stay here."
"True," he conceded.
"Does all this talk mean we finally get to kill something?" asked Shale aloud, hefting a large boulder in her hand.
At the sound of her voice, the heads of the men below all snapped up to peer in their direction. "Wait—" shouted the Mage as Shale took aim. "Don't hit the unarmed man!" But it was too late: as soon as his comrades began sprinting toward the intruders, the soldier nearest to Elric ran him swiftly through with his sword. The former king's guard sank to the ground, clutching his abdomen. His attacker, satisfied that his prey would not be going anywhere, nodded smugly and ran to join his mates. Because of this delay, he missed being maimed by Shale's boulder, and was the last of Bann Loren's men to fall that afternoon. After he was down, Loghain used his leather belt to clean the blood off the Starfang.
A racking cough from Elric interrupted their looting. The Mage and Loghain glanced at each other and nodded; leaving their routine to the others, they approached the injured man, who was attempting to rise. At the sight of the Wardens, he hitched in a gasp and coughed again, falling back on his elbows to stare at them. The Mage scanned his wounds and shook her head. With her limited healing skills, all she could do for him would be to ease his pain a while.
Elric's eyes were round with wonder. "You!" he croaked in disbelief. "You were at Ostagar with the Grey Wardens, one of Duncan's new recruits. Thank you. I –didn't expect the Bann's men to notice my escape so quickly. I tried to hide here in the woods after the battle, but there wasn't time. And now I'm a dead man."
"You aren't dead yet," observed Loghain gruffly.
"Why were you hiding?" asked the Mage.
"You were there in Ostagar," answered Maraigne bitterly. "You know how things went. For me, it was either this, or die in some Darkspawn's belly, or be hung as a deserter."
The Mage looked sharply at him. "You deserted?"
Elric let out a thick grunt and spat blood onto the forest floor. "Better a deserter than a traitor, right, Loghain?" he sneered. "I fled the battlefield when you betrayed us. I abandoned my men, and Cailan with them. He was my King, my friend," he said plaintively.
"At least I took my men with me," retorted Mac Tir. "You should have grown a spine and done the same, soldier."
"It's not your fault they died," said the Mage, but looked directly at neither man when she said it.
Loghain's stern expression grew suddenly somber. "It was a fool's battle," he told Maraigne, "lost before it begun. Others are to blame for that, not you."
The former king's guard sighed. "I know," he admitted. "The Darkspawn were too many. Even Cailan, for all his bravado, knew in the end, there would be no victory at Ostagar." He shook his head sadly in remembrance. "Maker," he said. "All that time in Bann Loren's prison and I couldn't stop thinking about all they suffered that one dark night."
"We don't always get to choose our deaths," said Loghain dryly.
"No, perhaps not," nodded Maraigne. He struggled once more to raise himself from the ground and face the Warden. "But I've been given the chance to set things right," he said. "If it's the likes of you who sees me to my final hour, perhaps things happen for a reason. The king entrusted me with the key to the royal arms chest. If anything were to happen to him, he said, it was vital I deliver it to the Wardens."
The Mage frowned. "Why didn't he just give the key to Duncan?" she asked.
"He didn't get the chance," said Elric. "Duncan was too busy with the new recruits, and keeping Loghain at bay." The Mage's frown deepened; Loghain rolled his eyes and looked away. "Whatever his reasoning," continued Elric, "it's me Cailan entrusted it to."
"Is this chest important?" asked the Warden.
"Hah!" barked Loghain. "It's where the whelp kept his daddy's sword." His voice was heavy with derision. "Cailan didn't even carry it into the battle –said he was saving it for the Archdemon." He shook his head in disgust. "No doubt it's still there," he said, "wrapped in pretty velvet."
The Mage considered. "Do you think we should attempt to retrieve it?" she wondered.
"Maric's sword. . ." murmured Loghain. "What a prize for the Darkspawn that would be."
"If anyone can," said Elric stoutly, "it's you, Grey Warden. Ostagar's probably crawling with Darkspawn by now and—" he coughed again, more weakly this time— "and I'm afraid I would not make the journey. But more than the sword," he continued urgently, "there was a secret compartment where he kept documents concerning his dealings with Empress Celene and the Orlesians."
The Mage, who had been leaning over the old soldier so that he would not have to sit upright, stood back in shock. Loghain, on the other hand, took a menacing step closer, his bloodstained armor and fierce glaring eyes filling the vision of the wounded man on the ground. "Oh, really?" he snarled. "And these papers were to be delivered to the Grey Wardens if Cailan fell, were they?" His piercing gaze fell now on the Mage, who was too stunned to do more than shake her head helplessly.
After a few seconds Mac Tir curled his lip, expelled a breath like an angry bear's, and wrested his eyes from his commander's. Elric received their full force once again; the Mage could see him recoiling. "Do you still have this key?" she asked the man over Loghain's bristling shoulder.
Elric's face fell. "I was afraid," he confessed. "I thought I would lose it on the battlefield, so I stashed it in the camp." He chuckled sheepishly. "The Maker has a sense of humor, though, doesn't he? I suppose it's for the best, in the end –had I kept it, it would be in Bann Loren's hands by now. Please," he begged. "It's probably still there."
The Mage looked skeptical. "You don't think the Darkspawn found it?"
"I hope not," Maraigne replied. "Would they know how to work the lock even if they did?" The Warden's nod conceded that he had a point. Elric raised himself onto one elbow, using the other hand to draw landmarks in the air. "The key's behind a loose stone in the base of a statue, near the Magi encampment." Mac Tir grunted in recognition.
"So if we were to go back there," asked the Mage, "you know the statue he's talking about? You'd be able to find this key?"
Loghain gritted his teeth, but nodded. "It's not a place I thought I'd be returning to so soon," he said harshly, "and least of all with you, Grey Warden. If it's not too much to ask of a commanding officer," he sneered, "just keep the moralizing to a minimum."
Any response that the Mage might have had for that remark was interrupted by Elric. "It is vital," he insisted, "that the king's documents do not fall into the wrong hands." Both Wardens offered snorts of agreement to that declaration. "As for Maric's sword," continued Maraigne, "it is too powerful to be pawed at by those monsters. Same for the king's other arms and armor. And," he finished sorrowfully, "if you happen to find Cailan's body, see it off. He was our king. He shouldn't be left to rot amidst the Darkspawn filth."
The Mage assured him that the Wardens would do everything in their power to properly dispose of the documents, the sword, and the king –provided the Archdemon spared them. Elric coughed out first his thanks, and eventually his life. Not even Zevran or Morrigan felt it necessary to loot his corpse.
It was after nightfall when the company reached the ferry landing on the eastern shore of Lake Calenhad. Kester the ferryman looked doubtfully at the crowd of them, especially at the massive forms of the golem and the Qunari. Since their visit was merely a courtesy call, the Mage agreed that they need not all go across, so Sten and Shale remained on shore, much to Kester's relief. Oghren also elected to stay behind; his eyes were already straying to the Spoiled Princess, where he would be able to get a fresh pint and try out a few stale lines on an old girlfriend of his who was now the barmaid.
The rest of the company boarded the ferry and Kester took his place at the stern oars. The Mage knelt on the seat at the bow and watched the shore, the Princess, and the forms of her companions recede into the distance. Alpha joined her, placing his front paws on the gunwale and baring his teeth into the slight breeze that skimmed across the lake. His joy leapt to fresh heights when the other Warden squeezed between him and the corner of the bow, plunked his broad armored hand on Alpha's skull and began to scratch him behind the ears. The Mage suppressed a grin and applied her somewhat lesser scratching skills to the Mabari's hindquarters. In the end, the more experienced fingers of the Warrior won out; the heavy hound leaned so far into Loghain's hand that he lost his balance and nearly collapsed on his friend. This earned a shout from Kester as the ferryboat tipped dramatically to starboard. The Mage laughed, but called Alpha down in the interest of staying dry.
Loghain was smiling again for the first time since the encounter with Elric. Though she regretted potentially spoiling his mood, the Mage felt it necessary to continue some threads of their earlier conversation. She cleared her throat; Loghain, planted squarely in the corner of the bow with an arm braced on each edge, looked at her serious face and raised an eyebrow.
"'It is vital that the king's documents do not fall into the wrong hands': that's what Elric said," she began. "If the Darkspawn were to get a hold of them, it would mean nothing; to others, however, they could have great importance –depending on what was in them."
Loghain's features twisted with distaste. "Loath as I am to revisit the scene of that accursed night," he said heavily, "I am curious to see what dealings with the Orlesians are detailed in those papers that Cailan took such care to keep safe –and to see delivered to the Wardens if he fell."
The Warden set her jaw and gave him a pointed look, raising an eyebrow of her own in defiance. "I am equally as curious," she replied, "to see to what plans I was expected to become a party –by association if nothing else."
"You insist that you were told nothing of this?" he challenged her.
The Mage gave a dry, mirthless laugh. "By whom?" she snorted. "Duncan? The man who was so forthcoming about everything else involving the Grey Wardens?" She rolled her eyes. "Hardly. If he was involved in whatever Cailan was brewing, and was not merely acting as a courier, he did not tell me of it. I doubt he had told Alistair either –Alistair worshiped the man. I cannot see that worship continuing if he knew that Duncan had dealings with the Empress on Cailan's behalf."
Loghain did not offer his opinion on that theory. The Mage saw the thunder building up in his eyes, however, and mentally cursed Cailan for leaving even the most circumstantial evidence that might cause Loghain's old suspicions about the Grey Wardens to resurface. And Duncan. . .she frowned, troubled. No: she still could not believe that Duncan would be a knowing accomplice to political intrigue. She would not believe it, unless given proof. The Mage sighed. Her fellow Warden remained silent, which was about as much as she could hope for at the moment, she supposed. Hesitantly, she broached her next subject.
"There is also the matter of Maric's sword, which could be used against us by the Darkspawn. Is it really as powerful as Elric said?"
Loghain's expression cleared; he nodded. "It is certainly not something to leave by the wayside, if you can help it," he said. "Not only because of its power, of course; but because it was Maric's, and Maric freed this nation with it in his hand."
The Mage blinked at him, unexpectedly touched. "You speak of Maric the way Alistair did of Duncan –with even more feeling, if possible," she said gently. "Even after all these years, and all that you yourself have done, is Maric still your hero?"
"He was my friend," answered Loghain. "If he'd wanted to conquer the Fade, I would have led the charge."
"You also freed this nation, at Maric's side," she countered, and then looked somberly at her hands. "Yet that was not enough for the Banns to accept you as their Regent, or to stand behind you to face the Darkspawn," she reflected. "Why was that, do you suppose? Was it really just because Maric was a Theirin and you are not?"
Loghain shook his head ruefully. "There are men who inspire such devotion that everyone around would lay down their lives for him," he told her. "And there are men who come and go from this world, and no one notes it. What makes them so?" He turned up his empty hands and shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine." For a moment, his eyes lowered and his gaze dropped to his side; the Mage could see the corners of his mouth pull down briefly in a grimace and then hitch up. He blinked. When he faced his commander again, the eyes that regarded her were clear and steady. "Maric was remarkable," he said simply. "That's all I can say of him."
The Mage recalled suddenly that Loghain had compared her to Maric after her defeat of him in the Landsmeet duel. At the time, his remark had barely registered with her; she had had too many other, more immediate concerns. Now for the first time she began to understand the enormity of the compliment he had paid her –one that, she was sure, he did not dispense lightly. Staggered and humbled, she sat back against the bow of the ferry and watched the Tower loom ever nearer ahead of them. In addition, she thought, while Loghain might believe that she possessed that elusive quality that inspired devotion, he obviously did not believe the same of himself. According to him, Maric could have gotten the Banns to follow him after the disaster at Ostagar just by asking; Loghain had had to use brute force, and he had failed. But his attitude towards Maric was not bitter; he clearly felt that this was the proper state of affairs: someone else, someone who inspired devotion, providing the vision while he, Loghain, did all in his power to realize it.
Thinking of Ostagar and the Landsmeet, the Mage looked curiously at her fellow Warden. "How did you meet Maric?" she asked him.
Loghain blinked in surprise at the question, and then answered matter-of-factly: "I was hunting –well, poaching, to be entirely honest—when a boy my own age came stumbling out of the woods," he said, and then chuckled. "He was so dirty, you'd have thought he'd been dug up out of the ground."
The Mage smiled at the image, and at the fond expression on Mac Tir's face. "What was he running from?" she prompted him.
Loghain's smile faded; both his face and his voice grew dark. "The traitorous boot-lickers who'd just murdered the Queen," he growled, "though I didn't know it at the time. He was bloody, exhausted, and obviously being hunted. I offered to take him to my father's camp."
"And that boy was Ferelden's future savior?" asked the Mage, teasing only a little.
"Yes," answered Loghain sincerely. "I didn't find out who he was for a while though," he added.
"I don't suppose he had to nearly kill you first," mused the Warden.
"No," the Warrior agreed with a smirk. "I would have thrashed him, anyway; and then where would we be?"
The Mage had been correct in the assumption she had made at Soldier's Peak: the news had obviously spread about the outcome of the Landsmeet. She was relieved to find that no one in the Circle Tower reacted with surprise or foolish words at the sight of Loghain Mac Tir.
She found the First Enchanter talking with Knight-Commander Gregoir in the front hall. Both men addressed her awkwardly as "Warden"; they and she seemed overly conscious of their relative circumstances. The Mage was relieved to see real progress this time in reclaiming the Tower after the catastrophic events of the recent past. In a way, however, seeing the Tower almost back to normal made her more uneasy than had its devastation; it was much easier for her now to remember that she had been arrested on her last night of residence here, and nearly shipped off to Aeonar –or even made a Tranquil. She faced the men from whose judgment she had only been saved by Duncan, and questioned them calmly about their ability to properly honor the Grey Warden treaties. They assured her in no uncertain terms that they would be able to spare enough Mages for the battle. The Warden saw the eyes of both men stray at times to a spot over her right shoulder, where she knew Loghain stood silently.
The formalities concluded, First Enchanter Irving offered the Mage a small, knowing smile. "I understand that your efforts in Orzammar were equally successful," he said. "Quite an incredible story, actually: finding a Paragon assumed to be dead for centuries, in a part of the Deep Roads that was believed to be a legend? It seems too much to be believed, even from you," he added with a twist of his lips.
The Mage looked at him, puzzled. How could he have known that story? Irving, catching her confusion, coughed politely. "Or perhaps my informant got a little carried away in her retelling of events," he chuckled. "She certainly has a high opinion of you –talks of nothing else, when she doesn't have her nose in a book."
Suddenly the Mage understood. "Dagna," she said.
"She would be most disappointed, I think, if you did not look in on her."
Delighted, the Mage took her leave of the First Enchanter and Gregoir and proceeded to the interior of the Tower to look for Dagna. Loghain looked after her with a puzzled frown, seeing that no one moved to follow her except for Alpha, who took a few steps forward and glanced back at his friend with a whine.
"Don't torture yourself," advised Morrigan. "Those two will gab about nothing til the stone falls down around them."
Loghain set his jaw and followed his commander. Morrigan threw up her hands in disgust and went to find the Quartermaster for a trade. Alpha trotted along at the Warrior's side, pleased not to have to choose between his Wardens.
The Mabari sniffed out his mistress in the apprentices' quarters. The lateness of the hour meant that most of the apprentices were either in bed or preparing for it, but there was still a considerable amount of chatter and activity, especially at the end of the room where the older ones bunked. Loghain found the Mage standing at the darkened end nearest the younger children, most of whom were twitching in their sleep. She was staring in the direction of a small group of jostling teenagers. No one seemed to take any notice of her.
She looked up and smiled at her fellow Warden's approach. "Dagna isn't here," she whispered. "I imagine she must still be in the library, if no one has found her and kicked her out. I just—" she broke off. "They did their best to protect the children," she continued in a low voice. "Most of them seem to have survived; which makes sense, seeing as the trouble began farthest away from them, at the top of the Tower."
"What exactly happened here?" asked Loghain. "I heard reports, rumors, but—"
"It was Uldred."
"So it's true, then."
As they left the apprentices' quarters and proceeded to the library, the Mage confirmed the story: Uldred had tried to convince the First Enchanter and the others to side with Loghain, saying that he had promised them freedom from the Templars in return. Wynne had spoken up against the Regent ["And what happened to that old busybody, anyway?" asked Mac Tir. "I had heard she was traveling with you." "She was," replied the Mage, "but we had a difference of opinion, and she left us."] Irving had rejected Uldred's proposal, upon which Uldred had used blood magic to wrest control of the meeting and had torn open the Veil, summoning demons to help him. As usually happened in these cases, the demons possessed him and the other Mages, turning them into abominations, which then proceeded to sweep through the Tower, corrupting or destroying everything they saw.
Loghain looked solemnly around at the patched-up remains of the first floor, still eerily silent with most of the Tower' occupants gone. "This was your home, wasn't it?" he asked the Mage softly.
"Since I was six years old, yes."
He frowned. "That's a bit young to be taken away," he said. "I thought most Mages came to the Circle at ten or eleven."
"I kept causing things to be struck by lightning."
Mac Tir let out a bark of amusement. "Yes, well, they haven't exactly trained that out of you, have they?"
The Mage laughed. They reached the first set of bookshelves in the library, confirmed that Dagna was not hiding amongst them, and moved on.
"I am sorry," said Loghain with feeling.
The Mage felt surprisingly lighthearted. "You should have seen it a couple of months ago," she said. "It looked like the Dead Trenches in here. They're rebuilding fairly well, considering."
Loghain gave her a sad smile.
A squeal from the next stack of books gave the Warrior a start; his astonishment increased when the source proved to be a young Dwarf who shot up from her hiding place and launched herself at them, pigtails bouncing. She addressed the Mage in near-worshipful tones, thanking her again and again for arranging the Dwarf's apprenticeship with the First Enchanter, and bubbling with enthusiasm over the wonders of the Circle. The Mage absorbed all this with an indulgent smile.
"I hope it wasn't too depressing for you when you first arrived?" she asked when Dagna was forced to pause for breath. "It was quite a mess in here for a while."
"Oh, there's been so much to do!" exclaimed the Dwarf. "It was quite a lot for the poor Mages to handle, especially after everything they went through, and with so few of them left. But I've been assisting with the rebuilding process practically since I arrived –though the First Enchanter still leaves me plenty of time for study in the evenings," she added. "The First Enchanter says I've been a tremendous help," she continued proudly, "especially in organizing the younger children. My stature gives me the proper perspective as to how that particular resource can best be used." She cocked a bright eye up at the Warrior.
The Mage nodded appreciatively. "So you're behind all the progress I've seen since my last visit," she said warmly. "I should have known. Thank you, Dagna." The girl beamed, and then leaned towards the Mage as though imparting a great and breathless secret.
"As a reward, the First Enchanter is allowing me to implement a theory I've devised about the practice rooms here in the Tower," she confided in a whisper. "I've discovered that the rooms were designed using an older version of Magister Gwyrnir's Magical Mechanics and Engineering," she explained. "Recent study has shown that even the smallest variations in the plane of the reflective surface can greatly affect the rebound angle of misdirected spells. This includes even the tiny planes and angles of an ordinary, unpolished block of stone." She waved her hands at the Tower walls; her voice rose as her enthusiasm got the better of her. "By polishing the stone to a smooth, uniform surface, modern engineers have been able to reduce the incidence of practice-room accidents by nearly thirty percent in some cases!" Dagna beamed again, rubbing her hands together gleefully. "The First Enchanter is going to let me test my theory on one of the rooms used by the youngest apprentices, where most of the misdirected spells are bound to occur," she declared. "If the improvement is significant, he may let me redesign all the practice rooms in the Tower!"
The Mage nodded again with heartfelt approval. "Don't forget to consider the windows in the upper chambers, when you get there," she admonished the Dwarf.
"The—"
"Windows. Many of the rooms in the upper levels have them, including the practice rooms. They're not always open, of course, but—"
"Oh, but of course!" gasped Dagna. "Even closed, the difference in composition between stone and glass would present a completely different reflective surface! I never would have thought of it! Well, of course I wouldn't –where I come from, everything is bound by the stone, eventually," she giggled. She curled a knuckle to her mouth and knitted her brow. "And then, if the windows are open, and one has to consider air, or even wind –oh my." She shook her head. "The First Enchanter was right to have me start downstairs, I can see that now. Well, of course he was," she laughed. "So many variables! I must begin studying immediately! Um –does this library have any books on meteorology and wind resistance?"
The Mage led Dagna away to one of the inner stacks. Loghain had remained frozen during the entire exchange, and did not follow her. When she returned, she found him leaning against a bookcase, shaking with silent laughter.
"What's so funny?"
Mac Tir caught his breath and wiped his eyes. "Two chicks from the same clutch, you are," he chortled.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He waved a hand weakly in the direction Dagna had gone. "You talk exactly like that Dwarf when you're on explaining something," he replied, still chuckling. "Maker help me, I would never have thought there'd be two of you. Why do I get the feeling that you and Dagna would have been inseparable, if she'd come to the Circle while you were still an apprentice?"
Now it was the Mage's turn to smile sadly. Loghain seemed to harbor the impression of her having had friends here. She now saw that this had perhaps never happened to her. Not true friends anyway –only followers, admirers, at best.
As they walked back towards the outer chamber, Loghain fell silent. Suddenly he halted, expelling an angry puff of breath. The Mage tilted her head questioningly at him. Loghain was staring at the floor with lowered brows. His shoulders slumped wearily. "It seems as though everything I've touched since Ostagar has led somehow to suffering and death," he complained. "Whereas you –everywhere we go, someone thanks you for a service you've done them."
The Warden let out a short, rueful laugh. "I know a camp full of Dalish Elves who might argue with you on that point –if they had breath left in their bodies to do so," she answered. "As for Orzammar: Yes, I found their lost Paragon and ended their civil war by choosing them a king. But that king's first act upon ascending the throne was murder. He executed his rival –a decent man, by all appearances—before he ever offered a hint of a threat."
"That was not your fault," admonished Mac Tir. "And it is a common practice, by the way –especially in Orzammar. Your insistence on setting my daughter's rival free was the aberration. One which may still have consequences later."
"And what about you? Anora made you her rival as well, in the end."
"I was not set free; I was released into your custody."
The Mage was taken aback; she had forgotten that Loghain was traveling with their company by force, as a punishment. Evidently, he had not.
"Well," she continued, "the rival's followers certainly held us responsible, anyway. They set on us wherever they found us, and we slaughtered them all –nearly every warrior, I believe, from an entire noble house."
Loghain said nothing.
"Oghren killed his wife because of me; did he tell you that?" she added after a pause. Loghain blinked; the Mage nodded. "I had two Paragons to choose from," she explained, "his wife and another. I chose the other; Branka fought us over it, and Oghren cut her head off." She sighed. "Even Dagna's story isn't entirely a happy one," she said bitterly. "She is now casteless, as you know, and once she's memorized every book in this library she may want to go home, but she can't. Her parents are furious with me. If I hadn't gotten her father to put Sten's armor together before he found out I was responsible for Dagna, he would never have done it."
"All right," exclaimed Loghain, waving his hands in surrender. "Your point is taken. We're both agents of chaos, destruction and calamity."
The Mage shook her head. "It's the Blight that's doing it, not us," she said to him. "Or so I tell myself. Maker help me."
"Maker help us both, White Demon," replied Mac Tir solemnly.
The Warden gave a slight, ironic bow. "At your service, Black Knight."
The Mage had learned the recipe for a strong protective potion against fire spells, but was missing some of the ingredients. Upon returning to the front hall, she paid her own visit to the Quartermaster. Loghain and Alpha followed, but the Warrior saw little of use to himself, and so concentrated on his commander's purchases. The Mage bought an impressive number of fire crystals and a peculiar type of earthenware flask, trading what the company had looted from Bann Loren's men and paying out a small amount of coin to make up the difference. As the Quartermaster moved to fill the order, the Mage's eyes strayed longingly to a staff that was propped against the wall behind them. Though obviously untouched for some time, it still looked magnificent, traced with many runes and exuding a live, rich glow that captured the eye even under its dust. The Mage accepted her purchases from the merchant and gave it one last look of farewell before turning to leave.
"How much is that staff, there?" called out Mac Tir as the Quartermaster moved to his next customer.
"Too much," shushed the Mage. "I don't need it."
"But do we have the coin?" insisted Loghain.
"Just," she confessed with lowered eyes, and then sighed. "But no. I do perfectly well with my current instrument; I have no need of an upgrade."
"Oho," accused Mac Tir. "So your principle on weapons applies to your followers and their swords, but not to yourself and your own instruments?"
"This happens to be a superior staff already."
"But that one is better," he prodded.
"It is," she admitted, "but it's not worth our entire stock of funds. We did not spend a week in the Deep Roads to buy me one staff."
It was nearly time for the senior Mages to retire; with no more prospective customers coming from upstairs, the Quartermaster prepared to close up shop.
"Just a minute," said Morrigan suddenly in a commanding voice. "You there. I see that you have a silver necklace for sale. I wish to try it on."
Both Wardens turned to frown first at each other and then at the Witch, who had sauntered over to the Quartermaster's stall and was fingering a rather plain-looking silver necklace that the Mage was sure she had traded in herself on their last visit. The merchant looked rather put out, until Morrigan leaned deeply over the display table and requested that he help her with the clasp. The Quartermaster stuttered and blushed as he reached behind her long neck, not knowing if she truly meant for him to stare down her front, or merely to try it so that she could blast him through the wall. The Mage rolled her eyes –and spotted Leliana, who was gaily chatting up the nearest group of Templars. Their focus was riveted on the Bard –clearly, they were only too happy to converse with a pretty girl who wasn't a Mage. From the other side of the Quartermaster's stall, the Warden observed Zevran silently watching the proceedings with a sly, loving smile. Then he seemed suddenly to melt into the air. The Mage found herself struggling to remember that he had even been there. The air around the Quartermaster's supply racks looked just a little fuzzy, with tricks and bounces of the light that may or may not be objects moving or merely torches' flicker and dust motes.
From over her shoulder, the Mage heard a soft rumbling voice. "So this is what you've trained your elite force of Blight-quellers to be?" it purred. "Temptresses and thieves?"
She shut her eyes and sighed. "They are, aren't they?"
"Stealing you that staff? Yes, they are."
She set her back to the proceedings and faced her fellow Warden. Loghain possessed the ability to stand at a normal conversational distance but to speak in a low tone, indistinguishable to others but as clear to her as if his mouth were inches from her ear. To a casual observer, they looked as if they might have been discussing the possible merits of applying some of Dagna's improvements to the great front hall.
"It is actually rather sweet of them, in a way," he observed.
"To answer your question, they were like this when I found them."
Mac Tir regarded her sternly. "But you are their commander, their leader," he chided her. "It is your duty to make them better than they could be on their own. Have you taught them nothing in their time with you?" His eyebrows arched reprovingly.
The Warden considered for a moment. "The value of teamwork?" she offered.
Loghain laughed. Various Templars' heads twitched in their direction. The Mage saw a few brows knit, felt more than one set of eyes slide discreetly over at them. The Templar guards squared their shoulders and lifted their chins, determined not to notice anything unusual.
"Are you going to stop them?" asked Mac Tir.
The Warden gritted her teeth. "And risk getting them jailed, or killed? No."
Loghain shook his head sorrowfully. "But what of the poor man's wife and children?" he persisted. "Shall you deprive him of his livelihood?"
Now the Mage bristled in earnest. "The Quartermaster is single," she fumed, "and has been sitting on that staff for years, waiting for someone who'll pay the criminal price he's asking for it."
Her tormentor chuckled softly. "Had your eye on it for a while, have you?"
The Mage looked at her hands. "Yes," she admitted sulkily.
"All the coppers a young Mage could save not enough to melt that cold Quartermaster's heart?"
"I was an apprentice until just before Duncan took me for the Grey Wardens. I had nothing."
"I see," he said. "Well, it's too late now. You'd have to have me arrested too, anyway; I seem to be providing as much of a distraction as either of the young ladies. That Templar in particular," he added, pointing an eyebrow approximately west-northwest, "seems especially fixated."
The Mage cast a casual glance in the indicated direction and flushed, as she realized that the Templar who stood there was Cullen. The man's eyes bored feverishly into them; the Mage could not tell for sure if he was fighting the urge to tear Loghain limb from limb, or to smite her to the Black City for being the most dangerous temptress of them all. Suddenly she decided that she didn't much care.
"He must be captivated by your long, luxurious eyelashes," she suggested.
"Yes, thanks for your help with that earlier, by the way."
The Warden laughed aloud. Cullen stared with even greater intensity. There had been no help that she could give –Leliana had been absolutely right. They did not curl prettily like a woman's (or even like those of some men she had seen), but Loghain's eyelashes were surprisingly long. They reminded the Mage of the short feathers on a raven's breast.
That night, though they had camped late, the Mage could not sleep. She sat for a long while by the fire with her new staff laid across her lap, gazing into the depths of the newly-polished wood. She was thinking of inspiring devotion and having friends. These companions were for the most part, devoted, and the closest things to true friends she could recall. But the Rogues and the Dwarf were still afraid of her, or at least in awe; and the others for their various reasons still didn't treat her normally as friends do, as she saw other friends in the world behave. Even with each other, they were more familiar than they were with her. She set apart as she always had, watching. Did Maric ever feel like this? Having become a symbol of hope and a figurehead for his country, did he find it impossible just to be a normal person?
But he had had at least one friend, it seemed: someone who had recognized and valued those qualities that made him extraordinary, but had been neither awed nor intimidated by them. Someone who could still remember him as a boy covered in mud, and laugh.
"If your aim is to discourage your followers from future acts of thievery," said a voice, "you're making a poor job of it."
She started, embarrassed. Loghain stood before her with crossed arms, regarding her with a smirk.
"Back with us?" he asked.
"Sorry –short trip into the Fade, I guess."
"Well, wherever you went, you should go there more often, perhaps," he suggested as he moved toward his tent. "You looked damned near pleasant for a moment."
Her mouth opened to cast a glib, dismissive remark after him –don't worry, it won't happen again—but she thought, no. Instead, the Mage looked at the back of Loghain Mac Tir and smiled.
"I'd like that," she said.
Illustration by ShiningMoon
