Chapter 3: Four Firsts
Apr. 10th, 2011 11:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
morwen_eledhwenTitle: Unbound, Chapter 3
Characters: F!Amell/Loghain Mac Tir
Rating: T
Summary: First night as a Grey Warden, first conversation in camp, first argument, and first gift.
The only pack left open was the Warden's own, leaning up against the far wall. She crossed to it and began to sort through the day's accumulation of loot, parsing through what to keep and what to sell. The prize of the day was a sword almost too long and heavy for the Mage to carry, though the woman from whose body it was taken had not been much larger than she. Few individual deaths along their travels had caused the Mage more regret than that of Ser Cauthrien, whose proud, steadfast loyalty to her lord had been tempered with intelligence and wisdom regarding his recent actions, and a heartfelt prayer that he could be redeemed. Graceful and powerful, Ser Cauthrien's sword had suited her; now, the Warden's own stalwart lieutenant would wield it. She presented it without a word to Sten, who scowled as usual at the suggestion that he carry any weapon but his own Asala. After examining the new blade, however, he took it silently from her hands. Attached as he was to the sword he called his soul, he was not so sentimental that he would not acknowledge or use a superior weapon if it was offered to him. Asala was stowed in his pack as a spare –he would never actually sell it or leave it behind—and the Summer Sword was set to take its place. Before sheathing it at his back, Sten addressed the greatsword in his own language, his eyes intent, his voice solemn and low. The Mage could not tell if he was welcoming his new friend or giving respectful thanks to its previous owner. Satisfied either way, she left him to it.
No one else spoke. They all seemed wary of starting that first conversation, in which the preposterous truth would inevitably have to be acknowledged that at any minute, Loghain Mac Tir might be stalking through the door with his own pack on his shoulders. The fact that no word had yet come from Riordan about the results of the Joining led the Mage to believe that Loghain must have lived; however, she forced herself to consider their situation in either eventuality. If he lived, she would have to integrate him into the company as quickly and with as little disturbance as possible. For this, she would have to ensure that he behaved with a sense of respect and cooperation –and that her companions returned the favor. Aside from Leliana and the dog, they weren't exactly a gentle bunch; and the echoes of Loghain's scathing words at the Landsmeet were still ringing in her ears. She sighed. The situation could get ugly if any of them elected not to play nicely. Since no one in the group but Alistair had had a truly personal grudge against Loghain, she could reasonably count on them following their leader's example; she was completely in the dark about Loghain, however. She supposed that she should have a talk with him in camp as soon as he seemed up to it. Hopefully she would not to have to resort to the "I spared your life and I'm the boss, so you'll do what I say and behave yourself" approach, but just finding out whether or not Loghain was going to make that necessary would give the Mage a good idea of what to expect from him.
On the other hand, if he were not to survive the Joining ceremony, their campaign to save Ferelden from the Blight was going to suffer pretty severely. For one thing, the Mage would be the only active Grey Warden in the entire country. She could not count on the enigmatic Orlesian who so far had maintained a detached, "just passing through" attitude toward their plight. For another, they would not have a single sword-and-shield warrior in the entire company. Sten, Oghren and Shale were perfectly competent warriors in their own way, but their fighting styles made them somewhat slow; and in addition to their offense, her Warriors presented a front of strength to the enemy, to absorb the bulk of their aggression so that the smaller, less heavily armed Rogues and Mages could do their work properly. This bulwark would be less effective without a Warrior fast enough to maneuver with the enemy, but still strong enough to take a beating. Adding to the difficulty was the fact that the company had already lost its healer. Both Mages in the party knew a basic healing spell, and her commander had had the foresight to force Morrigan to wheedle the more highly specialized Revival spell out of Wynne before the older Mage had deserted them; but the White Demon and the Witch of the Wilds were not healers. Between them, they had tacitly agreed that the best way they could protect their companions was to make sure that their enemies died as quickly as possible. With one less Warrior in the party, that strategy may have to be revised. . .Who knows, thought the Mage. Morrigan may actually have to practice that Revival spell.
At least the idea of Morrigan using advanced healing magic to revive a fallen comrade provided the Mage with her first amusement in quite some time. The silence and the waiting were beginning to weary even her, who had spent many a contented hour alone in the Circle studies while the other apprentices giggled and nudged and tried to hex each other under the table. Sten had finished his communion with the Summer Sword and had also fallen silent. The Mage wondered if this was remotely like how Shale had felt in the middle of the Honnleath village square. No wonder her memory had fallen to bits and been replaced with stilted images and fog. It felt as though the world had forgotten them all in this room.
Zevran's head drooped and rested on the cold armored shoulder of Oghren, who was too stupefied to care. The dog lay on the carpet and snored. Morrigan was preening, picking stubborn flecks of blood out of the feathers that adorned her left shoulder. Leliana and Sten were both either sleeping or meditating, sitting upright with their eyes closed. And finally, the door to the chamber opened –but it was not Loghain who entered. Instead, Anora glided in, sleek and serene, pretty hands composed as always. Catching the Warden's eye, she inclined her head, and smiled.
Night was falling as they left Denerim. They could have stayed, and gone in the morning, but neither the Mage nor Loghain cared to spend another minute in the city, least of all in Arl Eamon's empty estate. The Arl himself had already departed for Redcliffe to oversee the final muster of the Wardens' new armies. The Queen and the Wardens themselves were to follow as soon as they were able. Anora appeared content to cooperate with Eamon, but the Mage wondered if Eamon found the young Queen's captivating ways quite as amusing as he had before the Landsmeet. In any case, she was glad to be allowed to leave them to their devices, and meant to put as much distance between herself and Denerim as possible without delay. She was also mindful of what awaited Loghain when he went to sleep for the first time after his Joining. Though she could not prevent the visions from coming, she could at least try to exhaust his brain and body so that he could perhaps sleep through them instead of thrashing around and waking himself up every hour or so. She would also make sure that he knew what to expect. No one had told the newly joined young Mage that she would dream of the Archdemon on that first night, or that it would also dream of her. She still found this annoying. She had never understood the point of such secrecy, especially towards their own recruits. And Riordan seemed to share the same coyness as his Fereldan counterparts. No wonder, she thought grimly, that fables and conspiracy theories alike were hatched about the Grey Wardens.
Once out of the city, the company turned northwest and disappeared into the forest. Most of them quickly assumed their usual travelling formation –Zevran keeping a solicitous eye on his mistress's back, Oghren stumping alongside his fellow debauchee and occasionally using the Mabari for balance, Sten and Shale pacing tirelessly in large, silent communion at the rear, Morrigan gliding amongst them at will as her mood changed or she tired of someone's company. Only Leliana seemed at a loose end, without Alistair's buoyant warmth and good humor to anchor her. She drifted first towards one companion and then another like an orphaned nestling. At some point Sten detected the passing of a deer close by and alerted his commander, who signaled to the Orlesian archer and sent them both in pursuit. Leliana unslung her bow and, clearly thankful for some occupation, followed the Qunari's broad back into the deepening gloom. Nothing but the path before his feet seemed to register with the newest member of their party, however. Loghain was a shadow of dark hair and a flicker of beaten silver armor at the Mage's right-hand side, his face a waning moon under scuds of purple cloud.
They camped at the foot of Soldier's Peak. Oghren lit a fire in the middle of a clearing and the others began to pitch their tents around it according to their preference of neighbors and distance therefrom. Leliana and Sten returned from their hunt, Sten with the dead deer slung over his shoulders. He began to dress it while the usual whining broke out amongst the company about whose turn it was to cook. The Dwarf merchant Bodahn, who still found travelling with the Wardens more profitable than it was dangerous, trundled into camp some while later with his cartload of goods. Bodahn had been waiting for the Wardens outside the Denerim gates; as they left, the Mage had told him where she planned to stop for the night and he had set off by a more manageable road to meet them. He was accompanied by his young assistant, Sandal; with them were another, armed Dwarf; a human knight bearing the Redcliffe crest; a Tranquil from the Circle of Magi; and a Werewolf. These others were emissaries from the four armies who had pledged to fight for the Grey Wardens in place of the army that was cut down at Ostagar. They stood apart from the circle of tents and bedrolls, waiting.
Their "domestic" arrangements were by now such a force of habit that the company executed them without speaking, and almost without thinking. Loghain stood by the fire with his pack at his feet, watching the others work around him. If he was waiting to be told where he should set up his own camp, it soon became obvious without his having to ask. In the performance of their routine, the company had automatically left a gap in the circle round the fire, exactly where Alistair would have pitched his tent. Everyone seemed to become aware of this at the same time. They gazed in silence at the empty space, then at Loghain. His eyes scanned their faces; the Mage looked on from where she crouched by her own tent. When it became clear that no one was going to say anything, he shrugged and took his place.
The fire seemed to bring Loghain out of himself a little. Though it had probably been quite some time since General Mac Tir had had to set up his own camp, he did so with the speed and skill of long practice that the Mage, frankly, envied. Afterwards he sat on a rock near the fire and surveyed the rest of the campsite as he waited for the meat to roast. The Mage watched him take in his surroundings. He registered first Bodahn and the cart, then each of the emissaries -giving an ironic nod of greeting to the Redcliffe knight, who glared back at him but remained silent. When his eyes suddenly sprang alert and his right hand jerked towards his sword, the Mage knew that he had spotted the Werewolf. She waited, ready to intervene if necessary but curious to see what he would do. Loghain glanced around the campsite and saw no one else raising the alarm; he also seemed to note with interest that the Werewolf was standing upright and seemed as likely to attack as any of his fellows. Slowly, the Warrior's hand returned to resting on his knee. The Mage smiled to herself and got up to address the emissaries who waited in turn to speak with her. She could not see him, but had no doubt that Loghain was watching as she visited with each of them, distributing supplies and coin to all except the Werewolf, who conversed with her courteously for a moment before accepting a Nug and retreating to the shadows out of politeness for his table manners.
Supper was another familiar routine, mostly involving fending off the dog. He was given his own portion before anyone else, but still seemed more interested in sharing those of his companions. Loghain's eyes registered quiet amusement as he observed the others' efforts to wave or shout the Mabari away. When the meal was over, the dog picked up the bone from his portion in his teeth and lay down by the party's newest member to gnaw on it. The other companions glanced at each other, nonplussed; but Loghain smiled at his new friend and began to scratch the Mabari behind the ears. The Mage wondered if her war dog might have a special affinity for Grey Wardens –after all, he himself had once experienced the taint. Or perhaps he just knew a good ear-scratcher when he saw one. Loghain's broad hand rested on the top of Dog's head while the nails, pads and knuckles of his fingers worked the dusty brown hide. The Mage couldn't tell exactly what he was doing, but whatever it was, it sent the Mabari into transports. To convey his thanks, the war dog pushed and leaned his way in between the Warrior's legs and stuck his muzzle inches from Loghain's face. Loghain did not pull away from the hot blasts of affection issuing from the dog's panting mouth, but returned his gaze steadily for several minutes, much as Sten had done when he and the Mabari had first met. Dog concluded their wordless conversation with a happy bark and trotted off to make his usual round of the campsite. But though he visited every companion and marked every tree in the clearing, he circled back constantly to Loghain, resting his chin on the new Warden's knee and begging for another scratch.
The only truly awkward moment of the evening came when Loghain's eyes rested on the Summer Sword as it hung from Sten's back. The Mage saw him blink twice, frown, and then let out a soft sigh –of resignation or regret, she could not tell. He had probably not been aware of Ser Cauthrien's death until just now, she thought. The spirit that he had regained from the warmth of the fire and the dog's affections seemed suddenly to leave him; the Champion looked merely old, bruised, and tired. He continued to stare at the sword and at Sten for some time. The Mage wondered how he would react if he were ever to learn that it was not Sten but the Mabari, whose tongue was even now lolling shamelessly under Loghain's ministrations, who had torn out Ser Cauthrien's throat before the Landsmeet chamber.
Shortly after this he rose, preparing to enter his tent and go to sleep. The Mage rose as well and called to him; those who had not already retired for the night watched her lead him away from the fire for a private word. She questioned Loghain briefly and discovered that indeed, Riordan had neglected to inform him of the nightmares that would accompany his first night as a Grey Warden; her evident disgust at the Orlesian's remissness caused one corner of Loghain's mouth to hitch briefly upwards. The Mage minced no words in letting him know what he was to expect. She also advised him to take some of the remaining meat from supper into his tent with him, in case he should awaken in the middle of the night. He looked skeptical at this but, upon hearing her explanation and seeing that she meant to do the same, did as he was told. The Mage took the first watch so that she could keep an eye on her new charge's tent, in case she was needed. The Mabari curled up at the entrance to Loghain's tent and dozed, occasionally cocking his ears at the interior and whining. There was no sound from inside the tent that anyone else could hear for the rest of the night.
Next day, the Mage was not surprised to see Loghain emerge from his tent last of anyone in the company. He appeared to have gotten at least some sleep, anyway; his complexion was less bruised-looking and his glance more alert than they had been since the Waking Nightmare spell had hit him the day before. Rubbing his hands together to rid them of the morning's chill, he looked around the campsite, clearly ready to be given something to do. Immediately he spotted the majority of his new companions clustered around Bodahn. Most of them, it turned out, were purchasing the same item, of which the Dwarf had a large stock. Curious, he strode down to the wagon to inquire, where Zevran –always the first biped of the company to welcome a newcomer- greeted him with a bow and explained that after their adventures in Denerim, many of the Warden's companions needed to replenish their personal supplies of Elixir of Grounding. Uncomprehending, Loghain shook his head, at which Zevran smiled and pressed a bottle of his own Elixir into Loghain's hand. "Please, I insist," said the Elf graciously. "You will thank me later."
"Are we expecting a spell of bad weather?"
Zevran chuckled. "In a manner of speaking, yes: several spells, in fact." His smile grew sly as he leaned in closer to Loghain's ear. "Our mistress tries to strike only at her enemies," he said, "but you know how it is: When the storm rages, everybody gets a little. . .wet."
And with a smoldering look and a sigh in the Mage's direction, he trotted off to finish packing.
Along with Zevran, Leliana and Sten had also elected to accompany the Mage on the climb up Soldier's Peak. They were nearly finished with their preparations for the journey, and would expect to leave the campsite soon. It was time for the Mage and Loghain to have their first real dialogue about his future as a Grey Warden. He had just finished a conversation with Bodahn and was wandering back towards the fire. If she was going to do this –and she must—she would have to do it now. The Mage stood up from her pack, took a deep breath, and moved to intercept him. Before she had half closed the distance, however, he had spotted his commander and altered his own course to meet her. As she opened her mouth to deliver the introductory remark she had prepared, she found to her surprise that he was already speaking.
"Curious, isn't it?" he said airily as he drew near. "Such fierce cravings for venison before the sun is even up? Lucky I happened to have some in my tent with me –it would have looked very unseemly for a Grey Warden to go ravening about the camp in the middle of the night. What would these fine people have thought?"
It was as much thanks for her forthrightness of the previous evening as the Mage felt likely to receive. More encouraging still was the understanding in Loghain's eyes, which regarded her this morning with something approaching actual approval. She smiled but said nothing. He chuffed once at his own joke, then nodded. The subject of his first night as a Grey Warden was both acknowledged and dismissed.
Now he shifted to a more businesslike stance: an officer reporting for duty. "I passed your test," he declared, his tone a mixture of pride and chagrin. "Fate has a twisted sense of humor, it seems." He looked at her closely. "I suppose you think I'm some kind of monster. More so since I survived your ritual: you keep striking at me, and I just refuse to die decently."
The Mage shook her head knowingly, still smiling. "The same could be said for all of us," she argued. "If you're a monster, but have been unable to kill me, then what am I?"
He gave a short bark of laughter. "Hah –you're the White Demon, of course; or so the gossips in Denerim call you. Point taken. So, what's to be done? How are two such terrible creatures to be rid of each other at last?"
It was not difficult for the Mage to assume an air of being at a loss on this subject. "Ah, now, that's the mystery," she mused archly. "I may have to resort to some real magic next."
Her answer seemed to jolt him out of his train of thought. "Oh?" he rejoined. "What was all that nonsense with the Darkspawn blood and the mages, then? A puppet show? It seems to me that magic has already failed." An ironic inward smirk indicated that he knew perfectly well how successful magic had been against him the day before. Still, he persisted. "I'd recommend a sharp knife in the kidneys next time," he advised. "Less impressive, but it gets the job done." The smirk became a smile despite itself, while one dark eyebrow taunted her to respond. She had had prior experience with Loghain's eyebrows, but had assumed that he only employed them on dramatic occasions with an important audience. They now appeared just to be naturally conditioned to act out his thoughts even as he spoke them –or even if he didn't. She let her own eyebrows and pursed mouth pretend that she was considering his suggestion. In the end, though, she had to reject it. "The plan loses something when you're the one suggesting it," she said, clucking her tongue with mock regret.
He sighed, his face a show of disappointment. "I suppose it does lack the element of surprise," he admitted. His expression sobered again as he regarded her. "Well?" he asked after a moment. "What shall we do to settle things between us, then?"
The Warden shrugged. There was only one answer to that question; she only hoped that he could see it too. "We're going to have to work together," she said simply.
"Is that punishment meant for me or for you?" Again, they both smiled; almost immediately, they both knit their brows and looked reflectively at the ground. For her part, the Mage was processing the fact that just now her cooperation with Loghain Mac Tir did not seem like much of a punishment.
Loghain himself seemed equally puzzled. No longer smiling, he gave a helpless shake of his head. "And just like that, we're allies?" he wondered softly. "I can't imagine it's so simple." He glanced at her sharply. "I don't know what concession you want from me, Warden," he said. "I expect my word will not satisfy you."
"I need to know I can trust you," answered the Mage.
"Nothing I can say will prove that. Either I will be worthy of trust, or I won't." He may have expected this response to provoke the Mage into demanding signed documents or blood oaths; in fact, she had expected Loghain Mac Tir to elect his actions to speak for him, and she was far from disappointed. Her lack of hostility, however, seemed to surprise and even discomfit him a little. His frown deepened and he eyed her with suspicion. "I think it's time we got to the point here," he challenged her. "What do you want from me? I can't imagine that you spared my life in the Landsmeet by accident. You have some plan in mind."
"I'm giving you a chance," she replied, and held her breath. Hold it up, leave him free to choose if he wants. For the second time in as many days. "I want you to take it."
A blink; a pause as he considered her; then a slow, wry smile. "Fortunate for me, then, that I've always been a man to take chances," answered Loghain.
The Mage tried not to look as triumphant as she felt. Instead, she settled for another smile and a nod in the direction of Soldier's Peak. "Come on, then," she beckoned.
She turned to summon the others. Before she could move away, he checked her with a brusque jerk of his shoulders. When she looked back at him, he was glowering at the ground. "All of this can rightly be called my fault," he said harshly. "Whether or not you can do better remains to be seen." Suddenly he lifted his head and she saw a raw earnest face unmasked, pleading with her. "But if you can make this the end, Warden," he said hoarsely, "I will follow you. I swear it."
In his eyes, the Mage saw a searing emptiness that he seemed now to be asking her to fill. What was it that he needed? Hope? A purpose? A chance at redemption? She swallowed, gripped with a fear of failing him deeper than that of merely dying at the Landsmeet. "We will find a way to end this Blight," she answered. Only words, of course; and meaningless without action, as he knew; but it was enough to be going on with. He nodded. "Andraste help us, then," he said.
Loghain may not have registered exactly where they were headed the previous night, but he had evidently noted the direction they had taken. As they approached Soldier's Peak, the Mage observed him consulting a map and trying to work out where they were, presumably by estimating the distance they had traveled and checking the map's landmarks against his surroundings. Occasional huffs and grumblings could be heard over her right shoulder along with the rustle of the map; if he was correct in his calculations, the Mage thought she could guess the reason for them. Finally, just as the tops of the fortress towers came into view, she heard the map snap closed and a quick crunching of snow as he pulled up alongside her. She did not slow her pace but turned a bland, unruffled gaze to his challenging look, and his outstretched arm pointing accusingly at the Peak.
"I thought this place was supposed to be haunted," he demanded.
"It was."
A pause while his eyebrows bunched together for a conference. Meanwhile, more of the fortress became visible as they drew nearer. "So we're here on a ghost hunt, then, is that it?" he asked finally. "Don't we have enough problems as it is?"
"Actually, we're going shopping."
The eyebrows jumped up in protest. "I beg your pardon?"
"Hello, Levi."
Sunlight bathed the snow-covered clearing at the south door of the fortress. The reflected radiance off the ground caused the walls of Soldier's Peak to affect a golden glow. Crows hopped along the paths to either side and children chased them. On the north side of the clearing, a merchant was hailing the party.
"Welcome back, Warden!" called Levi Dryden. "A fine morning for a visit to the Peak. What can I do for-" Suddenly he choked, and stared, as the Mage and her companions trooped up and stood before him. The Mage wore an expression of polite befuddlement. This seemed to further confuse Levi, who proceeded to dart pointed warning looks both at the Mage and at a spot past her right shoulder. When she still did not respond, her newest recruit prompted her in a stage whisper loud enough to make Leliana jump:
"What he means to say is, 'Don't look now, Warden, but Loghain Mac Tir is right behind you.'"
This last was hissed with such perfect pantomime villainy that a snort of laughter escaped her before the Mage could suppress it. Levi Dryden's eyes grew alarmed and he looked wildly round, as though about to call for help. The Mage stopped biting her lip and tried to look serene.
"It's all right, Levi."
From over her shoulder came a series of low glottal stops that she was later to identify as the sound of Loghain Mac Tir chuckling to himself.
Levi was evidently still searching his brain for an explanation. He leaned in conspiratorially towards the Mage and jerked his head at Loghain. "You going to fight him here, then?" He nodded sagely. "That's okay, Warden, we'll keep it quiet. Least we can do, after you avenged Sophia and gave us the Peak."
The Mage looked at him quizzically. "So, you think I've kidnapped Loghain Mac Tir and brought him all the way to Soldier's Peak, just to kill him?" she asked. "Now, why in Andraste's name would I do that?"
"Well, he's Regent, innit? And a teyrn. Could be messy for you if you did it in Denerim. But up here, no one'll be the wiser. We'll give the body to the snow, or to old Avernus. Come to think of it, you wouldn't have to kill him at all. Old Avernus will be glad to have him just as he is—"
"Levi!" snapped the Mage. "No one is being handed over to Avernus, do you understand?"
His face fell. "Yes, my lady," he said sheepishly.
"He still keeps to his tower, does he?"
"He does. We keep the youngsters away from his door. He never comes out."
"Good. See that his door remains shut, Levi."
"Yes, my lady."
Sten had already wandered up the western ridge to take in the sparkling mountain air and gaze over the pine-wooded slopes below. Leliana and Zevran both needed crafting supplies; as the Mage and Loghain moved aside to let them through, she sighed. "Word will soon get around about what happened at the Landsmeet," she muttered dismissively. "We shouldn't have to endure too many repeats of that conversation. . .I hope."
"Who or what is Avernus, and why—"
The Mage shook her head. "You really don't want to know."
"Oh, you think you can shock me, do you?" The eyebrows were skeptical. "Go on, try. What would happen to me if you decided to hand me over to old Avernus?"
The Mage drew a breath, raised her eyes to Avernus's tower and answered in a careless lilt: "You would be kept in a cage and subjected to a series of experiments on the nature and effects of pain, energy, and lots of tainted blood -mostly yours, of course." She lowered her gaze to Loghain's deeply incredulous face and continued. "All of Avernus's former test subjects are long since dead, so it would be just you and he, alone in that tower amongst the bones and the dust, until your usefulness to him ended with your life." She smiled sweetly.
"Is this the truth?" he demanded. "How do you know this?"
She shrugged. "We came here a few months ago on a ghost hunt, as you put it, and found him. He had not cleaned his laboratory or even disposed of the bodies in the cages. His journal gave the details of the experiments. We also saw some of the fruits of his efforts. He himself is one, actually –he is well over a century old, despite being a Grey Warden." She gave a short, dry laugh. "In a way, I'm surprised we didn't find him even madder than we did, stuck up in his tower for decades with nothing but mangled bodies, wraiths, demons and the animated corpse of Sophia Dryden for company."
"Huh. And he has been allowed to live, even after what he's done?"
"I prefer not to end a person's life just because I disapprove of what they've done," said the Mage, giving Loghain a meaningful look that caused his eyes to roll heavenward. "I only step in if I see that their actions are preventing others from living their own lives freely."
"But isn't that exactly what Avernus—"
The Mage raised a conciliatory palm. "If he tries to do it again, he will be stopped, and killed if necessary. But killing him now will not bring those people back; whereas if he lives, he could still be of use. He has other, less gruesome methods of research." She shook her head. "Avernus is harmless as long as he never comes out of his tower and no one else goes in. Levi has promised to keep him out of mischief. . ."
They both looked back at Levi, remembering his previous suggestion regarding old Avernus. Loghain coughed once. "Hmm, yes," he murmured. The Mage's expression echoed the doubt in his voice. "And so these are the people with whom you choose to do business?" he asked her.
"Well, Denerim was a bit dodgy for us Wardens for a while, if you'll recall. We've been forced to trade out of the way. Besides, Levi Dryden gives us a good bargain."
"Aha." The brows lifted, releasing a flash of blue. "A Dryden, is he? Some relation of Sophia's, I presume. Interesting. I was not aware that there were any Drydens left in Ferelden. Now it all begins to make sense. Let me guess: you cleansed the ancestral fortress for him, so he cuts you a deal on a new pair of boots."
She laughed. "We come here mostly to sell, actually; but yes, something like that. Today we're shopping for you, however." She glanced at his bare head. "You need a helmet," she said, "and a new sword."
"What's wrong with my sword?" he demanded.
She lowered her eyes at him. "I may be a Mage," she argued, "but I've looted, bought and sold enough of those things by now to be able to tell an exceptional sword from a common one. I can't believe you're actually carrying that thing around. You could have had the best sword in Ferelden; and you settle for this?" She gestured behind his back at the plain, middling-caliber weapon that hung there.
"I happen to place a greater value on the swordfighter than the sword, Warden. The finest blade in the world is worthless in the hand that cannot wield it."
"That is true," conceded the Mage, "but think how much more devastating a good swordfighter would be, if he wielded a really good sword. Now, come on: we're going to see Mikhael Dryden about getting you one."
"More Drydens, yet," grumbled Loghain.
"You'll like this one. He'll have no truck with old Avernus." She led him across the gleaming snow to the shadowed side of the clearing, where an outdoor forge was already smoking. A couple of apprentices were removing a breastplate from the forge and placing it across a pair of wooden horses to be etched. Weapons and armor for sale lay out under a canopy for protection from the weather and the crows. As she and Loghain approached, the smith set down his tools, removed his gloves, and met the Mage with a determined expression.
"Warden," he said, "you know what I'm about to ask you."
She grinned. "There's no need, Mikhael," she answered. "Today, you shall finally get what you want." As he eagerly watched, the Mage drew from her pack a smoke-colored lump of charred rock and handed it to the smith. "Maker," he breathed, "I never thought I'd get to hold this."
"You've said you can make me a sword with this?"
"I've begged you to let me make you a sword with this, my lady, as you well know. I've been pestering her for months," he complained to Loghain. "Every time she comes to the Peak. 'At least sell it to me,' I've said, 'if you've got no use for it.'"
"You know I couldn't sell something like this, Mikhael. No, I had to use it –I just needed a good enough reason. And now I have." She indicated the Warrior by her side. "This man needs a new sword. A good sword."
"My lady, with this metal I will make you a sword the likes of which you have never seen."
He hurried to the forge with the lump of rock held lovingly in front of him. The Mage smiled in anticipation and turned to Loghain. "He says it won't be long; let's have a look at these helmets while we wait."
They strolled over to the racks of helmets under the canopy, where the Mage began to inspect each one in turn.
"So?" asked Loghain at length. "Are you going to tell me what that stuff was that has Mikhael Dryden in such ecstasies?"
"We found it in a deep depression in the earth -it looked as though someone had punched the ground with a very large fist. Mikhael says that lump did it, falling from the sky. He says it's a star –or part of a star, anyway; I didn't quite know what he was talking about. But he says it only happens once in many centuries, and we only found enough for one weapon; so you see why I had to wait until my choice was clear before I let him have it."
"Huh."
She placed the last helmet back on its rack, shaking her head. "These are well made, but they're nothing special. I'd prefer not to waste our funds. If you can manage to keep your head on for a couple of days, we should be able to find or buy you something appropriate. We have a few stops to make before Redcliffe Castle, anyway."
"A few stops? Are we making a tour of the countryside?" He cast an eye at Levi Dryden, who was still staring suspiciously in their direction.
"I don't intend to parade you around like a beast at the fair, if that's your concern. But we have some pieces of unfinished business to attend to. A couple of promises to fulfill. And I need to make as much coin and gather as many supplies as I can while we still have time. I've been funding an army too, you know." She shot him a pointed look. "And I haven't got a stock of Elves to sell."
Loghain emitted a harsh shout of laughter. "Ah, yes." he crowed. "Now we come to it at last. I knew that you couldn't possibly have nothing to reproach me with." He crossed his arms in front of his chest, legs braced apart in the snow. "Go on, by all means," he invited her. "You disapprove of my dealings with the Tevinter merchants, do you?"
She turned from the racks to face him. "The Tevinter slavers, yes, I do. I've already said that I disapprove of anything that stifles another person's freedom or uses him unwillingly for one's own ends."
"Yes; and how touchingly noble that is of you, Warden," he spat. "I only pray you never have to make a hard choice between preserving a handful of freedoms and liberating an entire nation. I'd hate to see that shining light get tarnished –or worse, to see you choose our ruin instead, so long as you get to keep glittering."
The Mage's eyes narrowed and she took a step towards him. "You saw that Werewolf in camp?" she hissed. "He's there because a stubborn old Dalish mage refused to accept him and his brothers –his people—as thinking, reasoning, independent beings. He thought of them only as vermin, though he was the one who had cursed them; and when the curse started to bite his own clan, he enjoined us as his exterminators. I met the Werewolves," she said defiantly. "I spoke to them. I saw that all they wanted was to be a free people. I could not deny them that."
"Hmm. And your old Dalish mage, failing to appreciate the wisdom of that decision, attempted to dissuade you, I suppose? I take it that his arguments were unsuccessful?"
Her nostrils flared; her jaw set. She made no further move, but her rising temper was evident and Loghain flicked a wary eye at her staff even as he spoke. Suddenly he checked, frowning. Still watching her hands for any sudden movements, he stepped carefully around her and peered between her shoulder blades. The Mage knew exactly what had caught his attention and stood her ground, waiting for him to finish his inspection. His look as he turned back to her was very knowing, his voice a conspiratorial purr.
"That staff you're carrying looks very old," he observed casually. "Much too old to belong to a young woman who was barely out of her Harrowing when I first met her, not too many months ago. In fact," he declared, "it looks like the type of staff that might once have belonged to a very foolish, blind, stubborn old bat of a Dalish Mage."
His eyes were smug, his mouth sneering. She continued to gaze levelly at him. When it was clear that she refused to be goaded, he straightened, re-crossed his arms, and slowly nodded.
"And thus an army of Werewolves honors your treaty –forgive me, our treaty- instead of the Dalish," he concluded.
"The Werewolves are as ready to honor their allegiance to the Wardens, and to defend their homes against the Blight, as any race in Ferelden."
A signal from Mikhael indicated that the new sword was ready. The Mage turned and began to walk back towards the forge. Loghain, however, maintained his stance. When she had gone several paces he called out to her.
"So you still believe that your actions with the Dalish are somehow less reprehensible than mine with the elves in Denerim?"
She stopped. Across the clearing, heads turned in their direction. For a moment the Mage stood looking at the snow. Then turning, she strode back until their eyes locked at the same distance from which they had faced each other at the Landsmeet. Her expression was solemn but her voice clear. "I regret killing the innocent," she answered. "He would not lift the curse and he would not face us alone; he ordered his clan to fight us and they obeyed him because he was their leader. They did not know that he had been the cause of it all. Had they known the truth, they would have been able to decide for themselves, to follow him or not. He kept them in ignorance, and so they died."
A nervous cough reminded them that Mikhael Dryden was still holding his creation out for them to admire. Still glaring at each other, they crossed back to where he stood. He presented it to them with a triumphant air.
"I call it the Starfang." He gazed at it with affectionate wonder.
The Mage and Loghain stared at the sword. The metal ore had been the color of smoke, but the sword in Mikhael Dryden's hands was like the inside of a glacier, traced with veins of frost.
"It's –a work of art, Mikhael," said the Mage. "I can't begin to thank you."
The smith beamed at them. The Mage took the sword and, after failing to be allowed to pay a single copper for what Mikhael said had been the privilege of working with such material, walked with Loghain past the clearing's entrance to a clump of trees on the other side, out of everyone's earshot. She still held the sword out in front of her. They both looked doubtfully at it.
"It's a bit fancy, isn't it?" said Loghain after a moment.
The Mage shook her head. "I've certainly never seen anything like it, that's for sure," she said. She frowned. "I'm sure it's an excellent sword.. . .Maybe once it's got some blood on it. . ." she finished hopefully.
"Maybe we should ask him to break it up into a couple of daggers for that Elf of yours instead." Still thinking of the slave traders, the Mage bristled. "Surely its prettiness is wasted on me," insisted Loghain.
"Zevran is not my Elf."
"Oho, don't be coy, madam," he admonished her. "He is quite obviously yours -whether you choose to accept him or not."
For answer, the Mage stared balefully at Loghain, then at the Starfang, then back at Loghain. With a weary sigh, he took it from her, hefted it, ran it through a series of swings and jabs, and finally thrust it into the bole of a young pine, which shuddered and creaked ominously. As he dislodged the blade with a flick of his wrist he ground his teeth in a vain effort not to look pleased or impressed. The Mage turned away and looked at the sunlight bouncing off the high windows of the Peak so that he could belt his new sword at his back without her gloating. Presently the snow crunched briskly behind her, and a cough at her side indicated that Loghain was with her again.
"Anyway," she resumed, "you know as well as I do that the Archdemon hasn't made a move yet. We still have time and I'm going to make the most of it. I certainly don't want to loiter in Redcliffe Castle any longer than I need to."
"Warden, we are in complete agreement on that point at least. Lead on." He gestured towards the mountain path.
"Hang about, I want to check our supply cache."
With a groan of impatience, Loghain followed her back to the north side of the clearing. "Levi," called the Mage. "You still have that suit of armor I left here, don't you?"
"Yes, my lady."
She trotted ahead of Loghain to fetch a piece from the merchant. Choosing the massive plated torso, she hoisted it over her shoulder and started to bring it over to where Loghain was still plodding up to meet her. As soon as he caught sight of the armor, however, he shook his head defiantly.
"No. Not a chance," he bellowed. "You are not taking this armor away from me. Are you even aware—"
"Oh, save your breath," she rasped, plunking the torso she was carrying on the ground and eyeing it dismissively. "I can tell from here that your armor at least is better than anything I could possibly give you. In fact—" she scanned the plate once more—"I can sell this lot now; I was saving it for Alistair if he should ever be strong enough—"
A snort. "Poor armor, I'm surprised it hasn't rusted into bits, waiting."
"But. . ." considered the Mage, falling to her knees in the snow and rummaging through a large chest that sat between Levi Dryden's stall and the steps leading up to Soldier's Peak: "we can use this-" she placed a nearly invisible item in her own pack—"and I think Zevran's about ready for this-" she laid a wicked-looking axe on the ground—"and. . .ah. Yes, I'd almost forgotten about this." She stood up, holding out a small object wrapped in a leather cord. "This is for you."
One eyebrow pointed at the contents of the Mage's hand; the other invited her to explain.
She began to unwrap the object. "After my Joining I was given this amulet" –she paused to lift the Warden's Oath from her throat, then resumed picking at the knots into which the leather cord had tied itself. "It contains a bit of Darkspawn blood, which gives me some extra protection, and is also meant to remind me of the sacrifice made by those who did not survive the Joining." She gazed at Loghain with a rueful smile. Loghain looked as though he might once have scoffed at such a statement but now knew better. "I don't suppose, however," she continued, "that Riordan happened to have one of these in his pack for you."
Loghain shook his head.
She shrugged, and sighed. "Unfortunately, neither do I, so this will have to do." She held up the amulet for him to see. He blinked, looking not at the amulet but at the Mage, and held out his hand.
She dropped it gently in his palm. "Just because we're a little disorganized these days, it doesn't mean you deserve less than any other recruit." She smiled warmly. "Take it, Warden -and welcome." Loghain looked thunderstruck. The Mage hoisted up the armor and a handful of other castoffs from the supply cache, and walked over to the merchant with Loghain still staring at her. With her back to him, she could not see when he finally looked at the object in his hand, but she could hear it: A short, sharp breath, quickly cut off. A pause.
"The Silver Sword of Mercy. Ha."
But when she turned back from selling off her loot to Levi, the amulet was around his neck.
Characters: F!Amell/Loghain Mac Tir
Rating: T
Summary: First night as a Grey Warden, first conversation in camp, first argument, and first gift.
Disclaimer: This chapter contains dialogue lifted from the "first conversation in camp" scene between the Warden and Loghain in Dragon Age: Origins.
3 –Four Firsts
Only Riordan and Anora were present at Loghain's Joining ceremony. Back at Eamon's estate, the Mage lay in her bath, suspended in a cloud of herb-scented steam. Occasionally the Mabari would poke his head over the rim of the tub, roll a tragic eye in her direction, then sink back down to the floor where he lay next to her. Someone else –Shale, Eamon, Anora, the Mage did not know or care who—informed the rest of the company of the day's events. When she finally joined them in the downstairs chamber where they had gathered to wait, they were standing or sitting in aggressively noncommittal postures by their trussed-up packs. Morrigan wrinkled her nose at the aroma of steamed dog that followed the Mage and the Mabari through the door, but for once declined to voice her opinion. Each companion's eyes turned to their commander's and then, when she said nothing, looked away: Morrigan and Sten, respecting her decision to be silent; Shale, not caring one way or the other; Oghren and Zevran, bursting for details and frustrated at receiving none; Leliana, discomfited and sad. She had liked Alistair. He had been awkward with her at first, unaccustomed as he was to such outrageously soft and girlish attentions, but Leliana had found his awkwardness endearing. Alistair's innocence, of course, had also made him harmless. If Leliana came to him in camp and wrapped her arms around him, or combed his hair and sang to him as they sat by the fire, he would simply accept it and never ask more of her than she offered. He was like a pet or a large, warm pillow. He would never break her heart. In her sorrowful expression, the Mage saw that Leliana was now contemplating all the remaining days of her journey with no one to turn to for comfort when she needed it. The Mage also knew that there was nothing she could do to help her sweet Orlesian sister –being, as she was, so often the cause of Leliana's need.The only pack left open was the Warden's own, leaning up against the far wall. She crossed to it and began to sort through the day's accumulation of loot, parsing through what to keep and what to sell. The prize of the day was a sword almost too long and heavy for the Mage to carry, though the woman from whose body it was taken had not been much larger than she. Few individual deaths along their travels had caused the Mage more regret than that of Ser Cauthrien, whose proud, steadfast loyalty to her lord had been tempered with intelligence and wisdom regarding his recent actions, and a heartfelt prayer that he could be redeemed. Graceful and powerful, Ser Cauthrien's sword had suited her; now, the Warden's own stalwart lieutenant would wield it. She presented it without a word to Sten, who scowled as usual at the suggestion that he carry any weapon but his own Asala. After examining the new blade, however, he took it silently from her hands. Attached as he was to the sword he called his soul, he was not so sentimental that he would not acknowledge or use a superior weapon if it was offered to him. Asala was stowed in his pack as a spare –he would never actually sell it or leave it behind—and the Summer Sword was set to take its place. Before sheathing it at his back, Sten addressed the greatsword in his own language, his eyes intent, his voice solemn and low. The Mage could not tell if he was welcoming his new friend or giving respectful thanks to its previous owner. Satisfied either way, she left him to it.
No one else spoke. They all seemed wary of starting that first conversation, in which the preposterous truth would inevitably have to be acknowledged that at any minute, Loghain Mac Tir might be stalking through the door with his own pack on his shoulders. The fact that no word had yet come from Riordan about the results of the Joining led the Mage to believe that Loghain must have lived; however, she forced herself to consider their situation in either eventuality. If he lived, she would have to integrate him into the company as quickly and with as little disturbance as possible. For this, she would have to ensure that he behaved with a sense of respect and cooperation –and that her companions returned the favor. Aside from Leliana and the dog, they weren't exactly a gentle bunch; and the echoes of Loghain's scathing words at the Landsmeet were still ringing in her ears. She sighed. The situation could get ugly if any of them elected not to play nicely. Since no one in the group but Alistair had had a truly personal grudge against Loghain, she could reasonably count on them following their leader's example; she was completely in the dark about Loghain, however. She supposed that she should have a talk with him in camp as soon as he seemed up to it. Hopefully she would not to have to resort to the "I spared your life and I'm the boss, so you'll do what I say and behave yourself" approach, but just finding out whether or not Loghain was going to make that necessary would give the Mage a good idea of what to expect from him.
On the other hand, if he were not to survive the Joining ceremony, their campaign to save Ferelden from the Blight was going to suffer pretty severely. For one thing, the Mage would be the only active Grey Warden in the entire country. She could not count on the enigmatic Orlesian who so far had maintained a detached, "just passing through" attitude toward their plight. For another, they would not have a single sword-and-shield warrior in the entire company. Sten, Oghren and Shale were perfectly competent warriors in their own way, but their fighting styles made them somewhat slow; and in addition to their offense, her Warriors presented a front of strength to the enemy, to absorb the bulk of their aggression so that the smaller, less heavily armed Rogues and Mages could do their work properly. This bulwark would be less effective without a Warrior fast enough to maneuver with the enemy, but still strong enough to take a beating. Adding to the difficulty was the fact that the company had already lost its healer. Both Mages in the party knew a basic healing spell, and her commander had had the foresight to force Morrigan to wheedle the more highly specialized Revival spell out of Wynne before the older Mage had deserted them; but the White Demon and the Witch of the Wilds were not healers. Between them, they had tacitly agreed that the best way they could protect their companions was to make sure that their enemies died as quickly as possible. With one less Warrior in the party, that strategy may have to be revised. . .Who knows, thought the Mage. Morrigan may actually have to practice that Revival spell.
At least the idea of Morrigan using advanced healing magic to revive a fallen comrade provided the Mage with her first amusement in quite some time. The silence and the waiting were beginning to weary even her, who had spent many a contented hour alone in the Circle studies while the other apprentices giggled and nudged and tried to hex each other under the table. Sten had finished his communion with the Summer Sword and had also fallen silent. The Mage wondered if this was remotely like how Shale had felt in the middle of the Honnleath village square. No wonder her memory had fallen to bits and been replaced with stilted images and fog. It felt as though the world had forgotten them all in this room.
Zevran's head drooped and rested on the cold armored shoulder of Oghren, who was too stupefied to care. The dog lay on the carpet and snored. Morrigan was preening, picking stubborn flecks of blood out of the feathers that adorned her left shoulder. Leliana and Sten were both either sleeping or meditating, sitting upright with their eyes closed. And finally, the door to the chamber opened –but it was not Loghain who entered. Instead, Anora glided in, sleek and serene, pretty hands composed as always. Catching the Warden's eye, she inclined her head, and smiled.
Night was falling as they left Denerim. They could have stayed, and gone in the morning, but neither the Mage nor Loghain cared to spend another minute in the city, least of all in Arl Eamon's empty estate. The Arl himself had already departed for Redcliffe to oversee the final muster of the Wardens' new armies. The Queen and the Wardens themselves were to follow as soon as they were able. Anora appeared content to cooperate with Eamon, but the Mage wondered if Eamon found the young Queen's captivating ways quite as amusing as he had before the Landsmeet. In any case, she was glad to be allowed to leave them to their devices, and meant to put as much distance between herself and Denerim as possible without delay. She was also mindful of what awaited Loghain when he went to sleep for the first time after his Joining. Though she could not prevent the visions from coming, she could at least try to exhaust his brain and body so that he could perhaps sleep through them instead of thrashing around and waking himself up every hour or so. She would also make sure that he knew what to expect. No one had told the newly joined young Mage that she would dream of the Archdemon on that first night, or that it would also dream of her. She still found this annoying. She had never understood the point of such secrecy, especially towards their own recruits. And Riordan seemed to share the same coyness as his Fereldan counterparts. No wonder, she thought grimly, that fables and conspiracy theories alike were hatched about the Grey Wardens.
Once out of the city, the company turned northwest and disappeared into the forest. Most of them quickly assumed their usual travelling formation –Zevran keeping a solicitous eye on his mistress's back, Oghren stumping alongside his fellow debauchee and occasionally using the Mabari for balance, Sten and Shale pacing tirelessly in large, silent communion at the rear, Morrigan gliding amongst them at will as her mood changed or she tired of someone's company. Only Leliana seemed at a loose end, without Alistair's buoyant warmth and good humor to anchor her. She drifted first towards one companion and then another like an orphaned nestling. At some point Sten detected the passing of a deer close by and alerted his commander, who signaled to the Orlesian archer and sent them both in pursuit. Leliana unslung her bow and, clearly thankful for some occupation, followed the Qunari's broad back into the deepening gloom. Nothing but the path before his feet seemed to register with the newest member of their party, however. Loghain was a shadow of dark hair and a flicker of beaten silver armor at the Mage's right-hand side, his face a waning moon under scuds of purple cloud.
They camped at the foot of Soldier's Peak. Oghren lit a fire in the middle of a clearing and the others began to pitch their tents around it according to their preference of neighbors and distance therefrom. Leliana and Sten returned from their hunt, Sten with the dead deer slung over his shoulders. He began to dress it while the usual whining broke out amongst the company about whose turn it was to cook. The Dwarf merchant Bodahn, who still found travelling with the Wardens more profitable than it was dangerous, trundled into camp some while later with his cartload of goods. Bodahn had been waiting for the Wardens outside the Denerim gates; as they left, the Mage had told him where she planned to stop for the night and he had set off by a more manageable road to meet them. He was accompanied by his young assistant, Sandal; with them were another, armed Dwarf; a human knight bearing the Redcliffe crest; a Tranquil from the Circle of Magi; and a Werewolf. These others were emissaries from the four armies who had pledged to fight for the Grey Wardens in place of the army that was cut down at Ostagar. They stood apart from the circle of tents and bedrolls, waiting.
Their "domestic" arrangements were by now such a force of habit that the company executed them without speaking, and almost without thinking. Loghain stood by the fire with his pack at his feet, watching the others work around him. If he was waiting to be told where he should set up his own camp, it soon became obvious without his having to ask. In the performance of their routine, the company had automatically left a gap in the circle round the fire, exactly where Alistair would have pitched his tent. Everyone seemed to become aware of this at the same time. They gazed in silence at the empty space, then at Loghain. His eyes scanned their faces; the Mage looked on from where she crouched by her own tent. When it became clear that no one was going to say anything, he shrugged and took his place.
The fire seemed to bring Loghain out of himself a little. Though it had probably been quite some time since General Mac Tir had had to set up his own camp, he did so with the speed and skill of long practice that the Mage, frankly, envied. Afterwards he sat on a rock near the fire and surveyed the rest of the campsite as he waited for the meat to roast. The Mage watched him take in his surroundings. He registered first Bodahn and the cart, then each of the emissaries -giving an ironic nod of greeting to the Redcliffe knight, who glared back at him but remained silent. When his eyes suddenly sprang alert and his right hand jerked towards his sword, the Mage knew that he had spotted the Werewolf. She waited, ready to intervene if necessary but curious to see what he would do. Loghain glanced around the campsite and saw no one else raising the alarm; he also seemed to note with interest that the Werewolf was standing upright and seemed as likely to attack as any of his fellows. Slowly, the Warrior's hand returned to resting on his knee. The Mage smiled to herself and got up to address the emissaries who waited in turn to speak with her. She could not see him, but had no doubt that Loghain was watching as she visited with each of them, distributing supplies and coin to all except the Werewolf, who conversed with her courteously for a moment before accepting a Nug and retreating to the shadows out of politeness for his table manners.
Supper was another familiar routine, mostly involving fending off the dog. He was given his own portion before anyone else, but still seemed more interested in sharing those of his companions. Loghain's eyes registered quiet amusement as he observed the others' efforts to wave or shout the Mabari away. When the meal was over, the dog picked up the bone from his portion in his teeth and lay down by the party's newest member to gnaw on it. The other companions glanced at each other, nonplussed; but Loghain smiled at his new friend and began to scratch the Mabari behind the ears. The Mage wondered if her war dog might have a special affinity for Grey Wardens –after all, he himself had once experienced the taint. Or perhaps he just knew a good ear-scratcher when he saw one. Loghain's broad hand rested on the top of Dog's head while the nails, pads and knuckles of his fingers worked the dusty brown hide. The Mage couldn't tell exactly what he was doing, but whatever it was, it sent the Mabari into transports. To convey his thanks, the war dog pushed and leaned his way in between the Warrior's legs and stuck his muzzle inches from Loghain's face. Loghain did not pull away from the hot blasts of affection issuing from the dog's panting mouth, but returned his gaze steadily for several minutes, much as Sten had done when he and the Mabari had first met. Dog concluded their wordless conversation with a happy bark and trotted off to make his usual round of the campsite. But though he visited every companion and marked every tree in the clearing, he circled back constantly to Loghain, resting his chin on the new Warden's knee and begging for another scratch.
The only truly awkward moment of the evening came when Loghain's eyes rested on the Summer Sword as it hung from Sten's back. The Mage saw him blink twice, frown, and then let out a soft sigh –of resignation or regret, she could not tell. He had probably not been aware of Ser Cauthrien's death until just now, she thought. The spirit that he had regained from the warmth of the fire and the dog's affections seemed suddenly to leave him; the Champion looked merely old, bruised, and tired. He continued to stare at the sword and at Sten for some time. The Mage wondered how he would react if he were ever to learn that it was not Sten but the Mabari, whose tongue was even now lolling shamelessly under Loghain's ministrations, who had torn out Ser Cauthrien's throat before the Landsmeet chamber.
Shortly after this he rose, preparing to enter his tent and go to sleep. The Mage rose as well and called to him; those who had not already retired for the night watched her lead him away from the fire for a private word. She questioned Loghain briefly and discovered that indeed, Riordan had neglected to inform him of the nightmares that would accompany his first night as a Grey Warden; her evident disgust at the Orlesian's remissness caused one corner of Loghain's mouth to hitch briefly upwards. The Mage minced no words in letting him know what he was to expect. She also advised him to take some of the remaining meat from supper into his tent with him, in case he should awaken in the middle of the night. He looked skeptical at this but, upon hearing her explanation and seeing that she meant to do the same, did as he was told. The Mage took the first watch so that she could keep an eye on her new charge's tent, in case she was needed. The Mabari curled up at the entrance to Loghain's tent and dozed, occasionally cocking his ears at the interior and whining. There was no sound from inside the tent that anyone else could hear for the rest of the night.
Next day, the Mage was not surprised to see Loghain emerge from his tent last of anyone in the company. He appeared to have gotten at least some sleep, anyway; his complexion was less bruised-looking and his glance more alert than they had been since the Waking Nightmare spell had hit him the day before. Rubbing his hands together to rid them of the morning's chill, he looked around the campsite, clearly ready to be given something to do. Immediately he spotted the majority of his new companions clustered around Bodahn. Most of them, it turned out, were purchasing the same item, of which the Dwarf had a large stock. Curious, he strode down to the wagon to inquire, where Zevran –always the first biped of the company to welcome a newcomer- greeted him with a bow and explained that after their adventures in Denerim, many of the Warden's companions needed to replenish their personal supplies of Elixir of Grounding. Uncomprehending, Loghain shook his head, at which Zevran smiled and pressed a bottle of his own Elixir into Loghain's hand. "Please, I insist," said the Elf graciously. "You will thank me later."
"Are we expecting a spell of bad weather?"
Zevran chuckled. "In a manner of speaking, yes: several spells, in fact." His smile grew sly as he leaned in closer to Loghain's ear. "Our mistress tries to strike only at her enemies," he said, "but you know how it is: When the storm rages, everybody gets a little. . .wet."
And with a smoldering look and a sigh in the Mage's direction, he trotted off to finish packing.
Along with Zevran, Leliana and Sten had also elected to accompany the Mage on the climb up Soldier's Peak. They were nearly finished with their preparations for the journey, and would expect to leave the campsite soon. It was time for the Mage and Loghain to have their first real dialogue about his future as a Grey Warden. He had just finished a conversation with Bodahn and was wandering back towards the fire. If she was going to do this –and she must—she would have to do it now. The Mage stood up from her pack, took a deep breath, and moved to intercept him. Before she had half closed the distance, however, he had spotted his commander and altered his own course to meet her. As she opened her mouth to deliver the introductory remark she had prepared, she found to her surprise that he was already speaking.
"Curious, isn't it?" he said airily as he drew near. "Such fierce cravings for venison before the sun is even up? Lucky I happened to have some in my tent with me –it would have looked very unseemly for a Grey Warden to go ravening about the camp in the middle of the night. What would these fine people have thought?"
It was as much thanks for her forthrightness of the previous evening as the Mage felt likely to receive. More encouraging still was the understanding in Loghain's eyes, which regarded her this morning with something approaching actual approval. She smiled but said nothing. He chuffed once at his own joke, then nodded. The subject of his first night as a Grey Warden was both acknowledged and dismissed.
Now he shifted to a more businesslike stance: an officer reporting for duty. "I passed your test," he declared, his tone a mixture of pride and chagrin. "Fate has a twisted sense of humor, it seems." He looked at her closely. "I suppose you think I'm some kind of monster. More so since I survived your ritual: you keep striking at me, and I just refuse to die decently."
The Mage shook her head knowingly, still smiling. "The same could be said for all of us," she argued. "If you're a monster, but have been unable to kill me, then what am I?"
He gave a short bark of laughter. "Hah –you're the White Demon, of course; or so the gossips in Denerim call you. Point taken. So, what's to be done? How are two such terrible creatures to be rid of each other at last?"
It was not difficult for the Mage to assume an air of being at a loss on this subject. "Ah, now, that's the mystery," she mused archly. "I may have to resort to some real magic next."
Her answer seemed to jolt him out of his train of thought. "Oh?" he rejoined. "What was all that nonsense with the Darkspawn blood and the mages, then? A puppet show? It seems to me that magic has already failed." An ironic inward smirk indicated that he knew perfectly well how successful magic had been against him the day before. Still, he persisted. "I'd recommend a sharp knife in the kidneys next time," he advised. "Less impressive, but it gets the job done." The smirk became a smile despite itself, while one dark eyebrow taunted her to respond. She had had prior experience with Loghain's eyebrows, but had assumed that he only employed them on dramatic occasions with an important audience. They now appeared just to be naturally conditioned to act out his thoughts even as he spoke them –or even if he didn't. She let her own eyebrows and pursed mouth pretend that she was considering his suggestion. In the end, though, she had to reject it. "The plan loses something when you're the one suggesting it," she said, clucking her tongue with mock regret.
He sighed, his face a show of disappointment. "I suppose it does lack the element of surprise," he admitted. His expression sobered again as he regarded her. "Well?" he asked after a moment. "What shall we do to settle things between us, then?"
The Warden shrugged. There was only one answer to that question; she only hoped that he could see it too. "We're going to have to work together," she said simply.
"Is that punishment meant for me or for you?" Again, they both smiled; almost immediately, they both knit their brows and looked reflectively at the ground. For her part, the Mage was processing the fact that just now her cooperation with Loghain Mac Tir did not seem like much of a punishment.
Loghain himself seemed equally puzzled. No longer smiling, he gave a helpless shake of his head. "And just like that, we're allies?" he wondered softly. "I can't imagine it's so simple." He glanced at her sharply. "I don't know what concession you want from me, Warden," he said. "I expect my word will not satisfy you."
"I need to know I can trust you," answered the Mage.
"Nothing I can say will prove that. Either I will be worthy of trust, or I won't." He may have expected this response to provoke the Mage into demanding signed documents or blood oaths; in fact, she had expected Loghain Mac Tir to elect his actions to speak for him, and she was far from disappointed. Her lack of hostility, however, seemed to surprise and even discomfit him a little. His frown deepened and he eyed her with suspicion. "I think it's time we got to the point here," he challenged her. "What do you want from me? I can't imagine that you spared my life in the Landsmeet by accident. You have some plan in mind."
"I'm giving you a chance," she replied, and held her breath. Hold it up, leave him free to choose if he wants. For the second time in as many days. "I want you to take it."
A blink; a pause as he considered her; then a slow, wry smile. "Fortunate for me, then, that I've always been a man to take chances," answered Loghain.
The Mage tried not to look as triumphant as she felt. Instead, she settled for another smile and a nod in the direction of Soldier's Peak. "Come on, then," she beckoned.
She turned to summon the others. Before she could move away, he checked her with a brusque jerk of his shoulders. When she looked back at him, he was glowering at the ground. "All of this can rightly be called my fault," he said harshly. "Whether or not you can do better remains to be seen." Suddenly he lifted his head and she saw a raw earnest face unmasked, pleading with her. "But if you can make this the end, Warden," he said hoarsely, "I will follow you. I swear it."
In his eyes, the Mage saw a searing emptiness that he seemed now to be asking her to fill. What was it that he needed? Hope? A purpose? A chance at redemption? She swallowed, gripped with a fear of failing him deeper than that of merely dying at the Landsmeet. "We will find a way to end this Blight," she answered. Only words, of course; and meaningless without action, as he knew; but it was enough to be going on with. He nodded. "Andraste help us, then," he said.
Loghain may not have registered exactly where they were headed the previous night, but he had evidently noted the direction they had taken. As they approached Soldier's Peak, the Mage observed him consulting a map and trying to work out where they were, presumably by estimating the distance they had traveled and checking the map's landmarks against his surroundings. Occasional huffs and grumblings could be heard over her right shoulder along with the rustle of the map; if he was correct in his calculations, the Mage thought she could guess the reason for them. Finally, just as the tops of the fortress towers came into view, she heard the map snap closed and a quick crunching of snow as he pulled up alongside her. She did not slow her pace but turned a bland, unruffled gaze to his challenging look, and his outstretched arm pointing accusingly at the Peak.
"I thought this place was supposed to be haunted," he demanded.
"It was."
A pause while his eyebrows bunched together for a conference. Meanwhile, more of the fortress became visible as they drew nearer. "So we're here on a ghost hunt, then, is that it?" he asked finally. "Don't we have enough problems as it is?"
"Actually, we're going shopping."
The eyebrows jumped up in protest. "I beg your pardon?"
"Hello, Levi."
Sunlight bathed the snow-covered clearing at the south door of the fortress. The reflected radiance off the ground caused the walls of Soldier's Peak to affect a golden glow. Crows hopped along the paths to either side and children chased them. On the north side of the clearing, a merchant was hailing the party.
"Welcome back, Warden!" called Levi Dryden. "A fine morning for a visit to the Peak. What can I do for-" Suddenly he choked, and stared, as the Mage and her companions trooped up and stood before him. The Mage wore an expression of polite befuddlement. This seemed to further confuse Levi, who proceeded to dart pointed warning looks both at the Mage and at a spot past her right shoulder. When she still did not respond, her newest recruit prompted her in a stage whisper loud enough to make Leliana jump:
"What he means to say is, 'Don't look now, Warden, but Loghain Mac Tir is right behind you.'"
This last was hissed with such perfect pantomime villainy that a snort of laughter escaped her before the Mage could suppress it. Levi Dryden's eyes grew alarmed and he looked wildly round, as though about to call for help. The Mage stopped biting her lip and tried to look serene.
"It's all right, Levi."
From over her shoulder came a series of low glottal stops that she was later to identify as the sound of Loghain Mac Tir chuckling to himself.
Levi was evidently still searching his brain for an explanation. He leaned in conspiratorially towards the Mage and jerked his head at Loghain. "You going to fight him here, then?" He nodded sagely. "That's okay, Warden, we'll keep it quiet. Least we can do, after you avenged Sophia and gave us the Peak."
The Mage looked at him quizzically. "So, you think I've kidnapped Loghain Mac Tir and brought him all the way to Soldier's Peak, just to kill him?" she asked. "Now, why in Andraste's name would I do that?"
"Well, he's Regent, innit? And a teyrn. Could be messy for you if you did it in Denerim. But up here, no one'll be the wiser. We'll give the body to the snow, or to old Avernus. Come to think of it, you wouldn't have to kill him at all. Old Avernus will be glad to have him just as he is—"
"Levi!" snapped the Mage. "No one is being handed over to Avernus, do you understand?"
His face fell. "Yes, my lady," he said sheepishly.
"He still keeps to his tower, does he?"
"He does. We keep the youngsters away from his door. He never comes out."
"Good. See that his door remains shut, Levi."
"Yes, my lady."
Sten had already wandered up the western ridge to take in the sparkling mountain air and gaze over the pine-wooded slopes below. Leliana and Zevran both needed crafting supplies; as the Mage and Loghain moved aside to let them through, she sighed. "Word will soon get around about what happened at the Landsmeet," she muttered dismissively. "We shouldn't have to endure too many repeats of that conversation. . .I hope."
"Who or what is Avernus, and why—"
The Mage shook her head. "You really don't want to know."
"Oh, you think you can shock me, do you?" The eyebrows were skeptical. "Go on, try. What would happen to me if you decided to hand me over to old Avernus?"
The Mage drew a breath, raised her eyes to Avernus's tower and answered in a careless lilt: "You would be kept in a cage and subjected to a series of experiments on the nature and effects of pain, energy, and lots of tainted blood -mostly yours, of course." She lowered her gaze to Loghain's deeply incredulous face and continued. "All of Avernus's former test subjects are long since dead, so it would be just you and he, alone in that tower amongst the bones and the dust, until your usefulness to him ended with your life." She smiled sweetly.
"Is this the truth?" he demanded. "How do you know this?"
She shrugged. "We came here a few months ago on a ghost hunt, as you put it, and found him. He had not cleaned his laboratory or even disposed of the bodies in the cages. His journal gave the details of the experiments. We also saw some of the fruits of his efforts. He himself is one, actually –he is well over a century old, despite being a Grey Warden." She gave a short, dry laugh. "In a way, I'm surprised we didn't find him even madder than we did, stuck up in his tower for decades with nothing but mangled bodies, wraiths, demons and the animated corpse of Sophia Dryden for company."
"Huh. And he has been allowed to live, even after what he's done?"
"I prefer not to end a person's life just because I disapprove of what they've done," said the Mage, giving Loghain a meaningful look that caused his eyes to roll heavenward. "I only step in if I see that their actions are preventing others from living their own lives freely."
"But isn't that exactly what Avernus—"
The Mage raised a conciliatory palm. "If he tries to do it again, he will be stopped, and killed if necessary. But killing him now will not bring those people back; whereas if he lives, he could still be of use. He has other, less gruesome methods of research." She shook her head. "Avernus is harmless as long as he never comes out of his tower and no one else goes in. Levi has promised to keep him out of mischief. . ."
They both looked back at Levi, remembering his previous suggestion regarding old Avernus. Loghain coughed once. "Hmm, yes," he murmured. The Mage's expression echoed the doubt in his voice. "And so these are the people with whom you choose to do business?" he asked her.
"Well, Denerim was a bit dodgy for us Wardens for a while, if you'll recall. We've been forced to trade out of the way. Besides, Levi Dryden gives us a good bargain."
"Aha." The brows lifted, releasing a flash of blue. "A Dryden, is he? Some relation of Sophia's, I presume. Interesting. I was not aware that there were any Drydens left in Ferelden. Now it all begins to make sense. Let me guess: you cleansed the ancestral fortress for him, so he cuts you a deal on a new pair of boots."
She laughed. "We come here mostly to sell, actually; but yes, something like that. Today we're shopping for you, however." She glanced at his bare head. "You need a helmet," she said, "and a new sword."
"What's wrong with my sword?" he demanded.
She lowered her eyes at him. "I may be a Mage," she argued, "but I've looted, bought and sold enough of those things by now to be able to tell an exceptional sword from a common one. I can't believe you're actually carrying that thing around. You could have had the best sword in Ferelden; and you settle for this?" She gestured behind his back at the plain, middling-caliber weapon that hung there.
"I happen to place a greater value on the swordfighter than the sword, Warden. The finest blade in the world is worthless in the hand that cannot wield it."
"That is true," conceded the Mage, "but think how much more devastating a good swordfighter would be, if he wielded a really good sword. Now, come on: we're going to see Mikhael Dryden about getting you one."
"More Drydens, yet," grumbled Loghain.
"You'll like this one. He'll have no truck with old Avernus." She led him across the gleaming snow to the shadowed side of the clearing, where an outdoor forge was already smoking. A couple of apprentices were removing a breastplate from the forge and placing it across a pair of wooden horses to be etched. Weapons and armor for sale lay out under a canopy for protection from the weather and the crows. As she and Loghain approached, the smith set down his tools, removed his gloves, and met the Mage with a determined expression.
"Warden," he said, "you know what I'm about to ask you."
She grinned. "There's no need, Mikhael," she answered. "Today, you shall finally get what you want." As he eagerly watched, the Mage drew from her pack a smoke-colored lump of charred rock and handed it to the smith. "Maker," he breathed, "I never thought I'd get to hold this."
"You've said you can make me a sword with this?"
"I've begged you to let me make you a sword with this, my lady, as you well know. I've been pestering her for months," he complained to Loghain. "Every time she comes to the Peak. 'At least sell it to me,' I've said, 'if you've got no use for it.'"
"You know I couldn't sell something like this, Mikhael. No, I had to use it –I just needed a good enough reason. And now I have." She indicated the Warrior by her side. "This man needs a new sword. A good sword."
"My lady, with this metal I will make you a sword the likes of which you have never seen."
He hurried to the forge with the lump of rock held lovingly in front of him. The Mage smiled in anticipation and turned to Loghain. "He says it won't be long; let's have a look at these helmets while we wait."
They strolled over to the racks of helmets under the canopy, where the Mage began to inspect each one in turn.
"So?" asked Loghain at length. "Are you going to tell me what that stuff was that has Mikhael Dryden in such ecstasies?"
"We found it in a deep depression in the earth -it looked as though someone had punched the ground with a very large fist. Mikhael says that lump did it, falling from the sky. He says it's a star –or part of a star, anyway; I didn't quite know what he was talking about. But he says it only happens once in many centuries, and we only found enough for one weapon; so you see why I had to wait until my choice was clear before I let him have it."
"Huh."
She placed the last helmet back on its rack, shaking her head. "These are well made, but they're nothing special. I'd prefer not to waste our funds. If you can manage to keep your head on for a couple of days, we should be able to find or buy you something appropriate. We have a few stops to make before Redcliffe Castle, anyway."
"A few stops? Are we making a tour of the countryside?" He cast an eye at Levi Dryden, who was still staring suspiciously in their direction.
"I don't intend to parade you around like a beast at the fair, if that's your concern. But we have some pieces of unfinished business to attend to. A couple of promises to fulfill. And I need to make as much coin and gather as many supplies as I can while we still have time. I've been funding an army too, you know." She shot him a pointed look. "And I haven't got a stock of Elves to sell."
Loghain emitted a harsh shout of laughter. "Ah, yes." he crowed. "Now we come to it at last. I knew that you couldn't possibly have nothing to reproach me with." He crossed his arms in front of his chest, legs braced apart in the snow. "Go on, by all means," he invited her. "You disapprove of my dealings with the Tevinter merchants, do you?"
She turned from the racks to face him. "The Tevinter slavers, yes, I do. I've already said that I disapprove of anything that stifles another person's freedom or uses him unwillingly for one's own ends."
"Yes; and how touchingly noble that is of you, Warden," he spat. "I only pray you never have to make a hard choice between preserving a handful of freedoms and liberating an entire nation. I'd hate to see that shining light get tarnished –or worse, to see you choose our ruin instead, so long as you get to keep glittering."
The Mage's eyes narrowed and she took a step towards him. "You saw that Werewolf in camp?" she hissed. "He's there because a stubborn old Dalish mage refused to accept him and his brothers –his people—as thinking, reasoning, independent beings. He thought of them only as vermin, though he was the one who had cursed them; and when the curse started to bite his own clan, he enjoined us as his exterminators. I met the Werewolves," she said defiantly. "I spoke to them. I saw that all they wanted was to be a free people. I could not deny them that."
"Hmm. And your old Dalish mage, failing to appreciate the wisdom of that decision, attempted to dissuade you, I suppose? I take it that his arguments were unsuccessful?"
Her nostrils flared; her jaw set. She made no further move, but her rising temper was evident and Loghain flicked a wary eye at her staff even as he spoke. Suddenly he checked, frowning. Still watching her hands for any sudden movements, he stepped carefully around her and peered between her shoulder blades. The Mage knew exactly what had caught his attention and stood her ground, waiting for him to finish his inspection. His look as he turned back to her was very knowing, his voice a conspiratorial purr.
"That staff you're carrying looks very old," he observed casually. "Much too old to belong to a young woman who was barely out of her Harrowing when I first met her, not too many months ago. In fact," he declared, "it looks like the type of staff that might once have belonged to a very foolish, blind, stubborn old bat of a Dalish Mage."
His eyes were smug, his mouth sneering. She continued to gaze levelly at him. When it was clear that she refused to be goaded, he straightened, re-crossed his arms, and slowly nodded.
"And thus an army of Werewolves honors your treaty –forgive me, our treaty- instead of the Dalish," he concluded.
"The Werewolves are as ready to honor their allegiance to the Wardens, and to defend their homes against the Blight, as any race in Ferelden."
A signal from Mikhael indicated that the new sword was ready. The Mage turned and began to walk back towards the forge. Loghain, however, maintained his stance. When she had gone several paces he called out to her.
"So you still believe that your actions with the Dalish are somehow less reprehensible than mine with the elves in Denerim?"
She stopped. Across the clearing, heads turned in their direction. For a moment the Mage stood looking at the snow. Then turning, she strode back until their eyes locked at the same distance from which they had faced each other at the Landsmeet. Her expression was solemn but her voice clear. "I regret killing the innocent," she answered. "He would not lift the curse and he would not face us alone; he ordered his clan to fight us and they obeyed him because he was their leader. They did not know that he had been the cause of it all. Had they known the truth, they would have been able to decide for themselves, to follow him or not. He kept them in ignorance, and so they died."
A nervous cough reminded them that Mikhael Dryden was still holding his creation out for them to admire. Still glaring at each other, they crossed back to where he stood. He presented it to them with a triumphant air.
"I call it the Starfang." He gazed at it with affectionate wonder.
The Mage and Loghain stared at the sword. The metal ore had been the color of smoke, but the sword in Mikhael Dryden's hands was like the inside of a glacier, traced with veins of frost.
"It's –a work of art, Mikhael," said the Mage. "I can't begin to thank you."
The smith beamed at them. The Mage took the sword and, after failing to be allowed to pay a single copper for what Mikhael said had been the privilege of working with such material, walked with Loghain past the clearing's entrance to a clump of trees on the other side, out of everyone's earshot. She still held the sword out in front of her. They both looked doubtfully at it.
"It's a bit fancy, isn't it?" said Loghain after a moment.
The Mage shook her head. "I've certainly never seen anything like it, that's for sure," she said. She frowned. "I'm sure it's an excellent sword.. . .Maybe once it's got some blood on it. . ." she finished hopefully.
"Maybe we should ask him to break it up into a couple of daggers for that Elf of yours instead." Still thinking of the slave traders, the Mage bristled. "Surely its prettiness is wasted on me," insisted Loghain.
"Zevran is not my Elf."
"Oho, don't be coy, madam," he admonished her. "He is quite obviously yours -whether you choose to accept him or not."
For answer, the Mage stared balefully at Loghain, then at the Starfang, then back at Loghain. With a weary sigh, he took it from her, hefted it, ran it through a series of swings and jabs, and finally thrust it into the bole of a young pine, which shuddered and creaked ominously. As he dislodged the blade with a flick of his wrist he ground his teeth in a vain effort not to look pleased or impressed. The Mage turned away and looked at the sunlight bouncing off the high windows of the Peak so that he could belt his new sword at his back without her gloating. Presently the snow crunched briskly behind her, and a cough at her side indicated that Loghain was with her again.
"Anyway," she resumed, "you know as well as I do that the Archdemon hasn't made a move yet. We still have time and I'm going to make the most of it. I certainly don't want to loiter in Redcliffe Castle any longer than I need to."
"Warden, we are in complete agreement on that point at least. Lead on." He gestured towards the mountain path.
"Hang about, I want to check our supply cache."
With a groan of impatience, Loghain followed her back to the north side of the clearing. "Levi," called the Mage. "You still have that suit of armor I left here, don't you?"
"Yes, my lady."
She trotted ahead of Loghain to fetch a piece from the merchant. Choosing the massive plated torso, she hoisted it over her shoulder and started to bring it over to where Loghain was still plodding up to meet her. As soon as he caught sight of the armor, however, he shook his head defiantly.
"No. Not a chance," he bellowed. "You are not taking this armor away from me. Are you even aware—"
"Oh, save your breath," she rasped, plunking the torso she was carrying on the ground and eyeing it dismissively. "I can tell from here that your armor at least is better than anything I could possibly give you. In fact—" she scanned the plate once more—"I can sell this lot now; I was saving it for Alistair if he should ever be strong enough—"
A snort. "Poor armor, I'm surprised it hasn't rusted into bits, waiting."
"But. . ." considered the Mage, falling to her knees in the snow and rummaging through a large chest that sat between Levi Dryden's stall and the steps leading up to Soldier's Peak: "we can use this-" she placed a nearly invisible item in her own pack—"and I think Zevran's about ready for this-" she laid a wicked-looking axe on the ground—"and. . .ah. Yes, I'd almost forgotten about this." She stood up, holding out a small object wrapped in a leather cord. "This is for you."
One eyebrow pointed at the contents of the Mage's hand; the other invited her to explain.
She began to unwrap the object. "After my Joining I was given this amulet" –she paused to lift the Warden's Oath from her throat, then resumed picking at the knots into which the leather cord had tied itself. "It contains a bit of Darkspawn blood, which gives me some extra protection, and is also meant to remind me of the sacrifice made by those who did not survive the Joining." She gazed at Loghain with a rueful smile. Loghain looked as though he might once have scoffed at such a statement but now knew better. "I don't suppose, however," she continued, "that Riordan happened to have one of these in his pack for you."
Loghain shook his head.
She shrugged, and sighed. "Unfortunately, neither do I, so this will have to do." She held up the amulet for him to see. He blinked, looking not at the amulet but at the Mage, and held out his hand.
She dropped it gently in his palm. "Just because we're a little disorganized these days, it doesn't mean you deserve less than any other recruit." She smiled warmly. "Take it, Warden -and welcome." Loghain looked thunderstruck. The Mage hoisted up the armor and a handful of other castoffs from the supply cache, and walked over to the merchant with Loghain still staring at her. With her back to him, she could not see when he finally looked at the object in his hand, but she could hear it: A short, sharp breath, quickly cut off. A pause.
"The Silver Sword of Mercy. Ha."
But when she turned back from selling off her loot to Levi, the amulet was around his neck.