A/N: I make no claim to any of the characters in this story (except for Kayla) – they belong to others, and I simply borrowed them for a while.
This is set before Shades of Grey, and takes place shortly after the Landsmeet, during the journey to Redcliffe.
Any comments/reviews will be greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading.
The Sound of Silence
Loghain surveys the busy camp around him sourly. He is no stranger to such things: he has spent many, many hours on the road with his armies over the years. But the sheer level of noise that this unruly group produces... He has never known anything quite like it.
It's starting to give him a headache.
He finds it hard to believe that this group of misfits actually manage to survive from day to day. The Cousland girl – his commander now, he reminds himself with a grimace (and is that not a bitter pill to swallow, that he, Loghain Mac Tir, who has been answerable to no-one but Maric and then Cailan for so long, must now defer to this slip of a girl?) – does not appear to have imposed any kind of discipline on her companions whatsoever.
And yet survive they have; not only that, but they have achieved things he would have thought impossible.
That, too, makes his head hurt.
He stares grumpily at the campfire, doing his best to ignore the babble going on around him, but it proves impossible.
The Cousland girl herself is quiet, as she's been since the Landsmeet. Brooding over the departure of Maric's bastard, no doubt. Loghain snorts quietly to himself. Good riddance, if you ask him. Which no-one has, of course.
She's barely spoken to him since the Joining ceremony, which suits Loghain. He does want to learn more about the girl – it's essential if they're going to work together – but he can do that just as well by listening and observing. And there's more than enough inane chatter in this group already.
A girlish shriek makes him look up in alarm, his hand going automatically to the pommel of his sword. But no, they're not being attacked by darkspawn (pity – at this point, that might actually be a welcome relief). It's just that wretched Orlesian bard (she can call herself a Ferelden all she likes – Loghain knows an Orlesian when he hears one), running away from the elven assassin, who is pursuing her with a lascivious grin on his face. The redhead shrieks again as the elf lunges at her, making Loghain wince as the sound pierces through him like a rusty dagger, and then darts away, laughing.
No, not laughing. Maker help him, the bard girl is giggling, as she circles the camp with the former Crow in hot pursuit. Loghain groans, and puts a hand to his head.
"Kayla, help me!" the bard giggles as she passes by the fire. The Cousland girl looks up with a slight smile, and the assassin slows momentarily to favour her with a lecherous grin, instead. Loghain frowns in disapproval, wondering why she allows such wanton behaviour from the elf. She catches the frown, and her smile turns to a hard glare for a moment, before she returns to her own moody contemplation of the fire.
And now the mabari is joining in their frolics, bounding along beside the redhead and barking loudly. Loghain sighs heavily. The girl's hound is a fine animal, to be sure, but sadly lacking in discipline. No great surprise, in this company, he supposes.
At least the hound is clearly well looked after. Commander or no, he would have taken issue with the girl had that not been the case.
Another shriek, this one higher pitched than the last, issues from the bard as the elf finally catches her, wrestling her to the ground and leering over her as she half-heartedly attempts to wriggle away. Loghain almost expects the sound the shatter the Veil itself.
"Zevran!" a shrill voice lances out, doing nothing for his headache. "Put Leliana down, or Kayla's mabari will get your serving of stew!" Wynne shakes her head, muttering about 'children', and then glares at Loghain as if it's somehow his fault, as she passes him a bowl of the stew she has made. Ignoring the glare, he grunts an acknowledgement and digs in. He is uncommonly hungry tonight.
The shrieking and the giggling and even the chatter dies down as they all settle around the fire to eat, and Loghain takes that as a mercy; but the relative quiet is soon filled by the disgusting slurping sounds the dwarf – seated next to Loghain – makes as he eats his stew.
Loghain wonders idly whether the rest of them would kill him or cheer him if he beat some table manners into the foul little berserker. True, they're not at a table, but even so...
After supper, the redhead produces a lute and sings for them. In marked contrast to the shrieking, her singing voice is surprisingly pleasant, Loghain notes, and she plays the instrument nicely. But the effect is spoiled by the Orlesian accent, and his head begins to throb again.
The dwarf gets up and lumbers over to his pack, returning with a jug of ale. Thumping back down to a sitting position and letting out a hefty belch, he takes a long swig from the jug. With a sound of satisfaction, the dwarf then offers the jug to Loghain, who recoils from the appalling smell drifting up from the jug's open neck and growls a curse at the dwarf.
The Cousland girl looks across at him with her eyes narrowed. "Oghren was trying to be nice," she says shortly. "That language was uncalled for."
Under her hard stare Loghain finds himself grunting a terse apology, which is dismissed with a shrug and "Eh, I've heard worse, boss, never fret," by the dwarf. Oghren takes another long pull at his ale jug, and then to Loghain's dismay begins singing along loudly – and tunelessly – with the Orlesian.
"Parshaara," the big qunari warrior speaks up suddenly in a deep, rumbling voice. It's the first thing Loghain's heard him utter since leaving Denerim. "It is time to train."
Loghain looks on with some interest as the Cousland girl nods, and gets to her feet with an easy grace. Stopping at her tent to retrieve an impressive looking two-handed sword, she and the qunari walk a short distance from the fire, and begin sparring.
He watches for a while, studying her form. The sword is far too big for her, and she looks exceedingly awkward swinging it; the two lighter blades she normally wields are far better suited to her, as she demonstrated to his cost at the Landsmeet. Still, she is making a valiant effort to learn the moves the qunari is attempting to teach her. Loghain approves the effort; whether she ever wields the weapon in combat or no, learning those moves will aid her in countering them when used against her.
It isn't long, though, before the clash of steel on steel begins to grate on him, and his headache worsens.
He jumps up, hand on his sword, at the sound of a wolf howling close to the camp. No... Maker's blood, it's in the camp – a large white wolf is coming outof the marsh witch's makeshift shelter, erected at the far end of the camp. How did no-one notice the beast entering the camp? And where is the witch?
The bard breaks off her song to give a musical laugh. "It is only Morrigan. She often prefers to hunt for her own food."
Loghain stares at her in disbelief. "That... that animal... is the marsh witch?"
The white wolf growls menacingly at him, and then howls again and stalks out of the camp in a most un-wolf-like manner.
He sits down dazedly and puts a hand to his pounding head, trying to wrap his thoughts around the concept of a shape-shifter in their midst. It could be useful, he supposes, but he wishes someone had warned him. He dislikes surprises.
The dwarf begins to sing again, if you can call it that, this time improvising wildly with his own words – which are far cruder than is appropriate in the company of young women. Nobody tells the dwarf off for his language, though. On the contrary, the elf simply nods sagely. "Ah, yes... I do believe I know this one now." He winks at the bard, whose eyes sparkle with wicked delight as she adjusts the speed of her playing to keep better time with the dwarf. The mabari starts barking again, as if joining in the song.
Loghain can take no more. He leaps to his feet and strides towards the edge of the clearing they are camped in. The Cousland girl lowers her massive sword and frowns suspiciously at him as he passes by. "Where are you going?"
"Somewhere quiet," he snarls.
He makes for the stream he'd fetched water from earlier, remembering a small pool that looked deep enough to bathe in.
It's not far enough from the camp. Loghain can still hear the bloody dwarf, singing at the top of his voice, and the harsh ring of steel meeting steel as the qunari and the girl train. Even strains of the bard's lute still reach his ears.
He swiftly sheds his armour and strips out of his underclothes. Wading out to the centre of the pool, he immerses himself completely, letting the water close over his head. He feels the tension flow out of him as the cacophony from the camp is dulled.
Finally. Finally. Some blessed peace and quiet.
He lets himself sink lower. Never before had he realised silence could sound so sweet.