Stave 3: The Second of the Three Spirits
Loghain's own snoring woke him, and he was amazed that he'd been able to fall into such a deep sleep in such a short amount of time. But when he did wake to the darkness of the room, he was ready for just about anything to appear: darkspawn, an ogre, a mage, demon, or even another apparition. He sat up in his bed staring across the room and through the sea of darkness with narrow eyes. "Where are you at?" he shouted at last. "I'm ready for you!"
The silence was as thick as the darkness and fog, and he was ready to relax and believe that he would have peace the rest of the evening. So he settled back and allowed his eyelids to drop.
But as he lay back a ruddy light began to glow around the windows and the doorways. He couldn't quite make out what it meant, and as he thought about it the light grew brighter until he was obliged to squint. The light filled the room, outlining everything. A rich laughter emanated from somewhere outside the room, as bright as the light. Loghain climbed out of bed and this time his feet did hit the floor; he took comfort in the feel of cold stone beneath his feet. In his mind that meant that he was safe from being haunted, grounded in the solidity of the real world.
He placed his hand upon the door handle and looked out into the hallway, bathed in the same ruddy glow as his bed chamber had been. And as he looked upon it all a strange voice called him by name and bade him come closer to it. Loghain traversed the hallway, his heart beating in trepidation; and the laughter grew louder the closer he came to the study.
Loghain flung wide the door, finding his nerves to be a mark of cowardice that was unseemly in a man of his stature. Within the study the light was of a blinding brightness and he found it necessary to cover his eyes with his hands. The laughter boomed, deafening as the thunder of battle, and the bright light faded away. When he was able to open his eyes again he saw the study full of a bounty of such fruits and meats as he'd not seen in Ferelden since the years when Maric was the king. In the time of the Blight such copious amounts of food had been scarce, particularly since he'd so stringently rationed it. To see it now filled him with wonder.
In the center of the bounty on a raised couch, and bearing a golden torch in his hand, sat a jolly Giant, glorious to behold. Upon Loghain's entrance he turned and looked down at him. "Come in!" he exclaimed. "Come in, and know me better, man!" This was followed by a lengthy bout of laughter. "I am the Ghost of Wintersend Present. Now look upon me!"
Loghain did as commanded, since the voice of the spirit was so commanding. It was clothed in a simple robe of golden cloth trimmed in white ermine. Its breast was bare beneath the robe, as were its feet. He wore no covering upon his head; but his long, flowing golden hair, kept pulled back from the face by two thin plaits on either side needed no crown or wreath to decorate it. When he paused in his laughter long enough to look down upon Loghain, the Spirit's eyes were a blue as clear and bright as a spring sky. Everything, from his hair and eyes to his laughter, reminded Loghain most uncomfortably of his recently deceased son in law. But for all his resemblance to the late King Cailan, the spirit did not look upon Loghain with bitterness or spite; he retained his glittering joviality.
However, girded round his middle was an ancient scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the antique sheath was spotted and dulled with rust. "Spirit, why do you wear a scabbard with no weapon in it?" Loghain asked, his military sensibilities taking over his amazement at the presence of the Spirit.
The Spirit of the Present was not offended, however, as Loghain had feared he may be. His twinkling blue eyes gazed at Loghain, then glanced at the scabbard hanging empty and useless at his waist. Then he shrugged and his smirk brightened his face to near-blinding. "Wintersend celebrates the passing of winter and the hope of spring; mankind must also celebrate the passing of war and the hope of peace, when there shall be no need to carry a sword."
Loghain had no retort to this, except to cynically believe that there would never be a time without war; indeed he'd not known it in all his years, and did not deign to hope that he would ever know such a thing. "Spirit," he said in the most submissive tone he could muster, which made him sound gruff and defiant instead. "Conduct me where you will, and if there is a lesson which I am to learn, let me profit by it."
The Spirit's laugh rumbled from deep within his chest and the pile of plenty upon which he sat as a king on a throne began to shrink. Also his form became more akin to Loghain's in size. "Touch my robe, Loghain Mac Tir," he ordered, and Loghain did as bidden. All vanished from around him instantly. The ruddy glow of the Spirit, the crackling fire in the hearth, even the walls of the study itself were gone as suddenly as they'd appeared. Oddly though, even the darkness disappeared, and as Loghain watched, his surroundings materialized again and he found himself standing in the Denerim market on the morning of Wintersend.
There was nothing particularly cheerful about Denerim on this moring. The sky was gloomy, as if the clouds draped across it were a funeral shroud. The streets were icy mud, and a thick mist choked the alleys. And yet for the dull aura that permeated his surroundings, Loghain still perceived a glee in the air as if the day was the brightest one in the summer.
The bells of the Chantry called the good people to service. Away all the people came, flocking through the streets in the finest clothing they could find. Nobles in bright silks and peasants in rough but clean and mended clothing all processed through the Denerim streets. In spite of the Blight without the walls of Denerim, they all wore facial expressions that seemed to glow through the mists. The mists parted from the processional of people like curtains withdrawn to allow the sun to shine in. Outside of the Chantry, lay sisters and revered mothers alike stood to welcome the people on this morning. Their welcomes mixed with the voices of the people into a cacophony that was as lovely as music.
Two small boys began to quarrel, and the peasant woman who looked to be their mother gently parted them. Their small, balled fists still flailed at one another, but she did not get angry; merely knelt off to the side of the path and looked at the both of them in earnest. She explained that it was a shame to quarrel upon the morning of Wintersend, and the boys nodded, chagrined, and yet smiling in agreement with their mother.
"Come, Loghain," said the Spirit. "There is still much to see!" He spoke with such earnest and genuine excitement that even Loghain could not help but gladly touch the Spirit's robe again with his eagerness to see what else awaited him.
They flew high over Denerim, and the sun, even though wan and pale from the winter season, began to burn away the fog like fire through a giant spider's web.
Perhaps it was his generous nature, and his sympathy to all men, that had the Spirit lead Loghain to the barracks of his faithful Lieutenant, Cauthrien!
Up rose Cauthrien's close friend, Ser Tristan, his armor dented and dulled with use, but quite clean and serviceable. He carried a cloth out from the kitchens, the staff having the holiday off. Ser Miles was poking the fires in the kitchen while the recently knighted Ser Griflet stirred a pot of Ferelden lamb and pea stew. Other soldiers milled about, basking in dreams of Wintersend stew, and the treat of all treats, fresh-baked bread not hardened by days of marching to battle!
In came Cauthrien herself, assisting the knight Ser Tomas, who was not armored; he limped along on a crutch, and Loghain saw with horror that the man's leg was missing from below the knee. Cauthrien helped him to a seat where he sat down, the firelight dancing in his dark eyes. The scents of the meal brought a smile to his face in spite of his lost limb.
Ser Miles touched Cauthrien's elbow as she walked by. "How was the Chantry?" he asked, but his eyes were on Ser Tomas.
Cauthrien's smile softened her serious face, and made her features less angular and angry. "It was better than the purest shimmering silverite," she said. "And it did some good for Tomas, too. Since being so badly wounded, he spends a lot of time alone; makes him thoughtful, it does. He said…" She paused to swallow and clear her throat, and her eyes looked somehow larger and softer, and not nearly as shrewd as usual. "He said he hoped the people saw him in the Chantry, so that they might recall upon Wintersend that the Maker works in mysterious ways, and there is life still to be lived even when it seems it might be over; much like the spring coming after winter."
Ser Griflet laughed, but his eyes sparkled, belying how deeply Cauthrien's story had touched him. "Thoughtful, indeed! There was a time before this injury when he would have preferred to chase skirts rather than religious visions!"
After that they all sat down to the table and began to eat, passing fresh hot bread. Cauthrien, the lieutenant and their leader, stood at the head of the table and ladled out stew. And such a stew it was! "Such a meager feast," Loghain muttered, keeping his eyes narrowed so it sounded more of an observation than an expression of compassion.
"And yet much appreciated and enjoyed," the Spirit pointed out. "In their minds it is the most glorious meal of which they've partaken all year, even before the Blight began and rationing had to begin in earnest."
As they watched the men and women eating and laughing, Cauthrien stood. The talk faded to reverent silence. Cauthrien smiled and raised her goblet of mulled wine. The soldiers joined her. "And now let us drink to the founder of our feast," she began. "Teyrn Loghain! May the Maker smile upon him!"
Silence reigned more heavily than had King Meghren during the years of the occupation. There were thunks and sloshing noises as the soldiers set down their goblets, much to Cauthrien's confusion and dismay. "Founder of our feast?" Miles asked. "If he were here, I'd let him feast on a piece of my mind. And I hope he'd choke!"
"And get indigestion for a month!" Griflet added, not to be outdone.
Cauthrien looked from them to the others who waited with hands on goblets, unsure of whether to toast or refrain. "The other men! The day of Wintersend!"
"It has to be Wintersend for us to toast the health of the Teyrn," grumbled the grizzled Ser Bastian. "You know it better than most, Cauthrien," he said in a tone most accusing. "He works you to the bone and gives little thought to the soldiers starving and dying on the front lines. Why, I hear he's even taken to selling the Alienage elves to Tevinters to finance his war! Tell us how we might drink the health of such a man!"
All this time Loghain was aware of the Spirit of the Present's gaze upon him. He tried to avert his eyes, but whenever he did the glorious golden sheen of the spirit made it so that he had to look back upon the scene playing out before him.
Cauthrien straightened up. "Nevertheless he is a great general, by whose commission and generosity we were able to get food for our holiday celebration when rationing is so stringent, and we shall drink to him on this most blessed holiday."
And wonder of wonders! It was Ser Tomas who leant up on his crutch, and with the other hand lifted his goblet. "To the founder of the feast, Teyrn Loghain!"
Cauthrien raised her goblet anew. "To Teyrn Loghain; may the Maker smile upon him!"
"Maker smile on all of us," Ser Tomas said, raising his glass and tipping it back so he could chug his wine mightily. The men drank the health of their general and regent and dissolved into laughter and song. Then the Spirit of the Present waved his torch and a shower of golden sparks showered down upon Loghain and began to obscure the scene. As the sparkles diminished he found that the Spirit had brought him to another place whereupon the Wintersend celebration was in full swing.
He recognized it as the dining room of the palace. The candles and torches danced merrily in their brackets and holders, and a gleaming spread of plates, goblets, and silverware had been laid out on the tables. The Spirit stood smiling by Loghain's side, gazing upon the Teyrn's own daughter, Queen Anora.
Anora's laugh tinkled in the air like chimes, in response to some joke made by a guest prior to Loghain's arrival. "As long as I live, I do solemnly swear that he cursed the Wintersend holiday and called us all fools for holding out hope," she said, her blue eyes all but glowing with mirth.
"More's the shame for him," said one of the few nobles who'd gathered in the palace to celebrate with the Queen.
"With that I'll agree," Anora said with a nod. "It is most unfortunate, however; he is the only one who does, and always has, suffered by his ill whims."
"Let's not have Wintersend spoiled by that insufferable Loghain," came the slurred and half-drunk voice of Vaughn Kendalls, newly named Arl of Denerim. Loghain set his jaw and maintained his composure, even after the Spirit reassured him that these were but shadows with no consciousness of their own. Such a concept didn't reassure Loghain though, who'd never much cared for the young nobleman.
But Anora just smiled. "Come. Let us have tea and dessert, and then perhaps we might play some party games to help us forget there's a Blight on outside." Her guests nodded eagerly, and the subject of Anora's father did not come up again. Loghain wouldn't have minded them saying decent things about him, and nor would he have much cared about less than favorable things said, either. But somehow being forgotten so easily, even by such as his own daughter, left him with a strange pang that he didn't care to qualify.
He turned to see the Spirit and ask a question, but the Spirit only smiled and waved his torch once more. Now they stood upon a bleak, deserted moor, somewhere in the far reaches of Western Ferelden near the Frostback mountains. Rocks had tumbled down from the mountains and their foothills, and lay strewn about like some giant's playthings long discarded. "What is this desolate place?" Loghain asked.
"A place where dwarves live," the Spirit said. "Even as they labor beneath this earth, close to the Deep Roads, they still know of me and carry in their hearts the hope I represent."
But Loghain and the Spirit did not tarry here long; the Spirit bid Loghain to take hold of his robe again, and once again they took to the skies. The sun was setting in the west, casting shadows over the land as it sank below the mountains. They flew north until the rough land gave way to the sea. Off the coast of the Waking Seas bannorn was a dismal reef of sunken rocks, upon which a lighthouse had been built. The waters battered the walls and seaweed clung to the surrounding rocks like shipwrecked sailors. It was perhaps the most dismal and lonely place Loghain had ever laid eyes on; yet when the Spirit paused for him to look inside, the keepers were toasting the holiday with mugs of hot grog.
Everywhere they flew the people were celebrating Wintersend; even the elves, who had celebrations of their own still welcomed the ending of winter and the hope of coming spring. And finally they landed atop a stone roof with the setting sun turning the sky an ominous shade of rust. "Spirit, this is the roof of Fort Drakon," Loghain observed. He turned to see the Spirit and was shocked to find him dangling over the roof in the fist of a huge ogre. The Spirit's feet dangled limp and lifeless from his twisted and broken torso.
The spirit hung in the ogre's hand. The torch dangled from his own hand, darkened and the flame doused. Then it fell and clattered and shattered on the rooftop, before a hot, fetid-smelling wind blew it away in a shower of charred bits that were so completely opposite from the golden sparkles Loghain had known. The Spirit hung limp, but he still grinned and picked his head up to look at him.
"Spirit, are you dying?" Loghain asked, unable to account for the sick feeling he felt in the pit of his belly.
The Spirit's golden hair hung limp and lank and drifted away in clumps on the wind. His skin clung to his skull in drying strips and the blue eyes were losing the luster. "Spirit's lives are quite short," he said with a rueful smirk that made the image all the more ghastly. "I leave you to face the days to come."
"The future?" Loghain asked uncertainly.
"Yes. And may it be glorious," the Spirit said, the head pitching forward and the entire body going limp. The ogre's hand squeezed around the body in a colossal fist. Loghain heard the sound of cracking bones over the winds that blew past him. With each breeze more and more of the Spirit blew away until Loghain was alone on the rooftop in the darkness that suddenly descended. Far away, the bells of the Chantry rang melancholy tunes over the city. And standing before him was a figure darker than the darkness, draped in a cloak and reaching out a shadowy hand toward him, beckoning Loghain forward.
