Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.
Rating: T+
Spoilers: May contain spoilers for Origins, Awakening, Origins DL content, and Dragon Age II as well as the novels The Stolen Throne and The Calling.
A/N: There are some potentially very thrilling things coming up once I finally get to the Blight; I've got several scenes playing out in my head that look like summer blockbusters in my brain. Hopefully when the time comes to put them down in writing they'll retain something of that feeling. Excitement about getting to them (they're not as far off as it might seem) is part of the reason why I've been rather neglecting The Return lately (also the simple truth that while I know where that story is going next, I am painfully undecided about exactly how to get there). I will return to The Return as soon as my mental blockage subsides. I think it's loosening up a bit.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Time Marches On
After the excitement of the execution Ferelden returned to something approaching normal. That was not to say that it returned to the exact state it had been in previously. After a month of round the clock care, Wynne, the white-haired Circle healer, declared that Urien's health was as good as she could make it. He would extend his life and improve its quality, she claimed, if he relocated to a warmer, drier climate. And so the Arl of Denerim packed up his household and moved to Starkhaven, where he had relatives. Succession of the Arling was a tense situation; Harwen Raleigh had been the Arl's closest living relative, but after him came the Howe family. Rendon Howe seemed eager to inherit Denerim, to the point where he promised to recall his eldest son Nathaniel from Markham, but the boy had already been mysteriously disinherited. No one particularly wanted to know what sin the boy, always seemingly so steady and sober-minded, had committed or would in the future commit. Thomas was unsuitable in any case; the heir to Amaranthine even if one believed the twelve year old could sober up. The girl Delilah, between the boys in age and nearly as old as Elilia Cousland, was said to be too shy and soft-spoken for rule. That, the gossips claimed, was why she had been passed over in favor of her little brother. They seemed to believe she might be lacking somewhat intellectually, perhaps she was even what Fereldens called an "innocent."
And so, to Arl Howe's evident fury, his claim to the arling was passed over in favor of a more distant cousin from the bannric of Westfaire, Bann Hardridge, a widower with a teenage daughter named Nicola. This appointment was a relief in many ways: Hardridge was a stern man but considered a fair and just administrator, and his daughter was purported to be sharp of wit and canny with finances. The future of Denerim seemed rosier than it had for some time.
Bryce Cousland took his family back to Highever following the execution, their plans for a light holiday once again disrupted by violent death. In another world perhaps the coincidence would have caused a father to rethink the idea of his daughter marrying a man who seemed to be stalking Death as opposed to the other way around, but in Ferelden violent death was a common occurrence. He was only happy that his daughter would be wed to a man who was capable of protecting himself and her as well.
Elilia returned to her training and wrote to her future husband weekly, bright chatty missives that let him in on her day-to-day life better perhaps than experiencing it firsthand. He tried to write back but felt awkward and stupid with nothing whatsoever on his mind to say, much as he felt every time he was compelled to put words to parchment. His responses perforce were terse in the extreme, which was only in character, and her weekly letters did not indicate that she mistook his lack of information for lack of interest. Before the summer had ended he received word that his bride-to-be was now officially "Ser Elilia of Highever." The congratulations he sent her were brief but sincere, and her reply seemed to suggest that they meant more to her than the fine tooled-leather sword harness he sent along with them, suggested and in fact selected by Anora.
Silas Corthwaite came to Loghain almost directly after the execution, wanting to speak of his plans for his future. He said he was thinking of joining the templars. Loghain gave the idea due consideration - or rather pretended to, for his initial reaction wouldn't change with all the contemplation in the world, joining the Chantry at any level was in his opinion a Bad Idea - and suggested an alternative, since he could see no reason for the man to discuss his life with a near-stranger unless he was hoping for alternative suggestions. And Silas latched on to his alternative with evident relief, and accepted a commission in the army. It was a good outcome: the army got back a seasoned veteran which it would always sorely need, and Silas' life once more had the structure and purpose that it had lacked since he resigned from the service.
Alistair remained conflicted by his feelings about apostate mages, though Loghain could see the lad struggle mightily to come to terms with Sketch's presence. He was aided greatly by the low profile the mage kept, rarely surfacing from his clinic near the alienage. He also outgrew his boots, and smiled crookedly when Loghain wryly mentioned that his plans for making a giant of him were proceeding well.
Leliana recovered quickly from her past - quite literally, as in a matter of days she told Loghain the story of her life and he was quite certain that not a word of it was true. She claimed to be a born Ferelden, her mother an unwed servant of an Orlesian noblewoman who was kind to her, who took them both with her to Val Royeux when the political climate of Ferelden meant even well-disposed Orlesians were unwelcome, and who took Leliana in when her mother died. Loghain didn't discount the possibility that Leliana was native Ferelden, though he doubted it severely, but there was not a chance in the Void, to his way of thinking, that she'd ever lived anything approaching the luxury and privilege of even an Orlesian noblewoman's pet peasant. But her eyes when she told him this were wide and innocent: she believed what she was saying. And as time went on and the lie became more elaborately embroidered, she became more deeply enmeshed in the fantasy past she'd created for herself. It made him somewhat nervous, the way she convinced herself so utterly that everything she said was true - it struck him as a type of insanity - but if she didn't want to remember the past as it actually happened who was he to judge her for that? There were things he'd quite happily forget if only he could.
The baking heat of summer turned abruptly, as it always did, into the cold, drizzly dampness of autumn. It was at this time, and contrary to popular wisdom, when Loghain would typically retreat to the colder, damper climate of Gwaren. He did not mind the cold and defied the rains; what he despised was the Denerim "social season," running from late autumn to early spring, when all of those who could afford to do so - i.e. the nobility - moved to the city to avoid the snows and spend the cold months drinking hot brandy and criticizing each other's fashion sense. Loghain would sooner spend the entire winter snowbound with only one book to read, and had done exactly that in the past. But this year, as his daughter informed him, he had responsibilities in the city. For of course her wedding would be held there, on the fifteenth day of Firstfall, and his own fiancée would be moving to Denerim after the Harvestmere tourney in Highever. They were expected to be seen, Anora told him, and they were expected to be seen together.
Around this time, the Commander of the Grey came to seek audience with King Maric. Loghain had never liked nor trusted Duncan, any more than he liked or trusted anyone who was involved in all that shady business years back when Maric first allowed the Warden Order to return to Ferelden. Duncan came to report a disturbing increase in Darkspawn raids in the south of the nation, and attempted to raise fears that they might be looking at the start of a Blight. Fear-mongering, hoping to make his outdated kindred look relevant, in Loghain's opinion. He did not miss and did not like the way the man, who ought to have been focused on his business alone, kept cutting his eyes to Alistair in the gallery. The secret of the lad's parentage was barely secret at all, and if Duncan knew or guessed who his mother was then perhaps that explained the acquisitive gleam in those black eyes. If Loghain could have, he would have moved to stand directly in front of the lad with his best scowl in place. As it was, as his self-appointed position in any audience Maric gave when he was present, his job was to stand directly in front of the King doing the same. But evidently the message in his particularly fierce glower on this occasion was readable to someone, because from the corner of his vision he saw Anora step in front of Alistair with her own particular well-bred version of the Mac Tir scowl on her face. Duncan kept his eyes to himself from that point forward.
The autumn passed in a dreary haze, and Elilia placed a respectable fourth in the single combat portion of the Harvestmere tourney - not bad considering her youth and the number of veterans who participated. Doubtless she had hoped for better, judging from the tinny note in the cheery words she wrote to tell him of the event. Something in what she had to say made Loghain think she'd expected to see him there, and he fairly smacked himself in the head when he realized that by rights he ought to have been. Anora was increasingly distracted with plans for her wedding, and without her there to point out the expectations and social niceties he was absolutely hopeless. He passed along his congratulations, and regrets that he had missed it, and felt he was off to a terrible start at being a better husband even before they were married.
As winter drew its white blanket over the southlands Loghain felt increasing dread for his daughter's marriage. Cailan was…unworthy. A decent boy, no doubt, but not a King, and not a fit husband for a woman like Anora. Like his father, Cailan had a fondness for drink and pretty women. Unlike his father, he did not seem capable of keeping this fondness even remotely in check. He was almost as old now as Maric had been when he took the throne at last, but he was not even a fraction as ready. He was…a child.
But also as winter closed in around him he had some compensations. The Couslands came down from Highever shortly after the tourney, daughter in tow. Despite the bother of attending salons and soirees, Loghain found Elilia's company surprisingly congenial. Like himself, she didn't particularly care for such matters except as an excuse to dance, and he found the terpsichorean exercise more pleasant, too, than he might have anticipated, no matter how goony he felt he must look prancing around like an Orlesian ponce. When they weren't dancing or being complimented by smiling back-biters they were generally making their own pithy commentary on the persons surrounding them. He found that they had quite a lot in common, at least concerning their opinion of various members of the Landsmeet. He was startled, and more than a trifle embarrassed, to discover in himself an increasing libido - he wanted her, or at least that most unruly member of his body wanted her. Perhaps Maric was right, and it really was unhealthy to deny onesself too long. Perhaps it was a good thing, that he was sexually attracted to her - she seemed to be hoping for something of the sort, after all, and she was at an age where both drive and curiosity were near their peak. As aged as he was, he might well need all the attraction he could find to keep up with her.
There was another compensation, as well; something he'd been waiting for a long time, practically ever since the day he picked up that dirty, ill-used scythe-wielding waif and put a sword in her hand: Cauthrien earned her promotion to Commander.
There was a brief ceremony at the proving grounds, and then he invited her back to Gwaren House for a celebratory drink. He left her waiting in the main receiving hall, where the bulk of his weapons collection was displayed on the walls, for a few calculated minutes.
As she was inclined to do when left alone here, Cauthrien made a circuit of the room, hands clasped behind her back, inspecting the weapons lining the walls. The blade Loghain carried was a plain, workmanlike blade of good Ferelden iron but far from top-quality. These blades were showpieces, masterworks combining form and function for turning warfare into art. They were all of them trophies, taken from the dead hands of noble enemies felled by a common blade. Cauthrien saw the poetic inferences of that. Loghain did not.
What he did see was where she inevitably fetched up. He had to admit she had excellent taste, though he could have wished she would give over the greatsword for the agility and defense of a longsword and shield combination.
"It's called The Summer Sword," he said, startling her. She spun quickly to see him step back into the room from the side hall where he'd been lurking, watching. "I'm told there's quite a story behind its forging but the only one I know is the story of how it came to me. Rather humorous, in a dark sort of way. Fool who carried it clearly knew nothing whatsoever about fighting with it. Can't imagine why any man would encumber himself with such a beast of a blade and never use it. Taking it from him was child's play."
"At the battle of Denerim, correct, Ser?" Cauthrien asked. She turned back to look at the magnificent sword again.
Loghain nodded. "That's right."
He walked up to the sword and took it down from the wall. With one hand, he held it out before him and sighted down the length of the blade. Cauthrien couldn't help noticing that the steel wavered not a bit despite the fact that most men would have a hard time holding the great weight out straight before them even with both hands. It was a feat she did not believe she would ever be able to duplicate, no matter how hard she tried to become the warrior he was. He simply was not the same as ordinary humans, he was…whatever it was that made a man a Hero. A Legend.
"This isn't my kind of sword," he said at last, once his inspection was complete. "I'd rather I had to strike two blows with a light sword than one blow with something so heavy, but for those less concerned with defending than raw power this is definitely the sword to use." Still with one hand, he held the pommel of the blade out to her. "I expect you can put it to much better use than the decorative."
Hesitantly, she put out her hand. She looked up at him for confirmation, which she received in the sardonic quirk of an eyebrow, before placing her hand on the sword hilt. When she gripped it he let go, and even though she'd prepared herself for the weight of it her one arm could not support it and she had to grab quickly with her other hand as well to keep it from knocking hard against the flooring stones.
"Take good care of it, my girl," Loghain said, as he poured two tumblers of whiskey from the drinks tray on the sideboard. He turned back and held one of them out to her. She lowered the blade carefully before freeing one hand to take the glass. "And may it always take care of you."