Author's Note: Just a little bridge chapter between the elves and Orzammar. Normally these are a pain to write for whatever reason, but I had fun with this one.
Thanks as always to those who have read/faved/followed, with shout-outs this chapter to: hinatalover445, Killa1934, KalenCaelli, SuperGravyMan, AD Lewis, jnybot & Zachara!
Morrigan glared out the window at the snow-covered ground, trying hard not to think of the four walls that surrounded her. Granted, the fact that the Dryden clan had made extensive headway in their renovations of the keep at Soldier's Peak (a bit surprising, since the sheer size of the squalling brood of children suggested that most of their spare time was occupied by procreation) meant that she did not have to share a room with anyone, but being so enclosed felt uncomfortably like being in a cage.
Growing up, her time indoors was spent in the tiny hut with the constant presence of her mother. Outdoors was the only place where she had any degree of privacy, and as soon as she had grown competent enough in her magics to look after herself, she lost few opportunities to creep away, spending days at a time in the Wilds as a wolf or panther, raven or hawk. Freedom and solitude had been one and the same.
When they camped, it was easy enough to set her tent up well away from the others, and even though most nights found her too tired from the day's march to do more than think of exploring her surroundings in animal form, simply knowing that she could, if she so desired, was enough to satisfy her. Their infrequent stays at inns were as repugnant to her as they were welcomed by the rest of the group, the common rooms more than living up to their names: filled with the stench of unwashed bodies and bad ale, and crowded with unshaven men who thought lewd commentary and groping the best way to win a woman to their bed. The rooms were tiny and the beds were either too soft for one accustomed to sleeping on the ground or infested with bugs...or both.
She turned, her glower falling upon the bed currently in question, which had proven to be insect free but far too soft for her tastes; such coddling bred weakness. And this room...it really did resemble a cell: the stone walls bare of any adornment and a small table beside the bed the only furnishing. The only good thing to be said about her present accommodations is that she was finally away from the prying, knowing stares of her companions...and that fool of a Warden.
She spun back to the window, gritting her teeth. That Talia had been witness to her disgusting display of weakness among the elves had been bad enough; she, at least, had made no reference to it in either word, look or deed, and Morrigan was – for once – gratified by Sten's continued indifference. Either response – or even the Chantry wench's glower – were preferable to the compassion she'd seen in the eyes of that meddlesome old woman or the near constant smirk that played about the elf's mouth (he did have the good sense to stop at smirking; it would take little at this point for her to decide that the uproar that would result from her reducing him to a pile of char was worth it). And Alistair...
For the most part, things between them had returned to normal; she had taken great pains to make it so, despite the knowledge that the odd sort of honesty that passed between them in those few days could be exploited to more easily achieve her ultimate goal. She couldn't do it, couldn't bring herself to feign even a shadow of the dependence on him that had been forced upon her while she had been under the sway of the curse. But of course, the great oaf found a way to do so, anyway, springing to her defense when she had been knocked down by an ogre in the midst of battle a few days earlier.
It was ridiculous! She hadn't needed to be rescued; she'd simply been caught by surprise, but before she could unleash a wall of flame on the lumbering beast, he had been there, interposing himself between her and it with the idiotic brashness that he seemed to be picking up from their fearless leader. To be sure, he was far from an incompetent fighter (though that was not an opinion that she planned on ever sharing with him...or anyone else, for that matter), but he'd still managed to get his shield arm broken before his blade found the darkspawn's heart.
Damn him. She hated healing. Hated the way that it linked her life, the core of her being, to that of her target. No thoughts were shared, nor even emotions: simply a sense of being, a connection that made her want to pull away and run. Undoubtedly, the sweetness-and-light Circle mage delighted in that feeling of connection; Morrigan wanted none of it, but she paid her debts, and she already owed him considerably more than she wanted to think about. Not for this, though, and she had made quite certain to tell him that at some length before mending the break. She hoped that her harangue had covered her discomfort at how unnervingly familiar his presence felt. Hardly surprising when his magics had been used so often to sustain her in the nearly three days it had taken Talia to break the curse, but that made it no more welcome, all the more so because there had been a look on his face that made her wonder if he could feel the connection, as well. Normally, the subjects of healing were not aware of the link, unless they were mages, as well, but perhaps his templar abilities meant that he was more sensitive, or perhaps...
Muttering an oath, she reached out, her fingers finding the latch and swinging the window wide as her form blurred. She would dwell on this no longer, nor would she permit herself to be confined by the walls of men. Fur would offer sufficient protection against the cold; she needed no other. The great wolf paused for a moment on the window ledge, golden eyes surveying the empty courtyard. Her head lifted in a defiant howl, and she was out the window in a single leap, loping away into the gloaming.
"Maker's breath!" The woman stirring the massive iron pot jumped at the howl, sending a splash of stew to land on the flaming logs beneath with a hiss, but Mikhael Dryden didn't even raise his head.
"Not sure I want to know what you've been fighting," the smith grunted, studying the battered armor by the light of the great fireplace in the main hall.
"Oh, pretty much everything," Alistair replied, rubbing his sword arm with an exaggerated grimace, one eyebrow quirking as his gaze met Talia's.
She nodded, then shrugged. There were wolves in these mountains, but the single howl was most likely made by Morrigan. The witch was free to do what she wanted, however, and even if she weren't, she probably would anyway.
"Can you repair it?" she asked Mikhael worriedly. They had been making do with cobbled repairs for far too long; the side trip to Soldiers' Peak had been as necessary as it was welcome. Weapons and armor were in need of a skilled hand before they headed into the unknown quantity of Orzammar, and a night or two indoors was definitely not to be turned down. Fall was advancing steadily toward winter, and the closer to the Frostback Mountain pass they got, the lower the temperatures dropped, especially at night. They'd encountered their first snow two days earlier, as they worked their way through the mountain trails and tunnels that lead to the Peak. There would be more - likely much more - once they entered the Frostbacks.
"I can," the smith replied with his usual taciturnity. "And if you give me a bit of time, I can work the dragonscale you brought me into a set of dragonbone plate."
Talia shook her head. "That is to be made into leather armor for Leliana and Zevran," she said firmly.
Dryden nodded, not bothering to ask why. "My oldest son is skilled in leatherworking," he replied. "He can see to that while I work on the repairs. We've lyrium, too, if you want Feddic's boy to work any new runes into the metal."
"That would definitely be a good idea," Alistair agreed, then looked a bit sheepish. "Sorry for bringing the extra mouths along; we didn't realize they were following us until we were nearly here...though I'm not sure why we were surprised."
Mikhael made a dismissive sound. "Near the lot of you is likely the safest place to be these days; can't fault them for that. And the boy is damn talented." The smith had reached a deal with the dwarven trader that traded Sandal's enchanting skills for coin and overwintering privileges at the keep; considering that Bodahn had escaped from prison in Orzammar, Talia hadn't really expected the dwarf to follow them there. "It's almost enough to make up for his father's constant yammering." His eyes, as blue as Levi's, but flat where his brother's twinkled, stared past the Wardens to where Bodahn lounged before the smaller fireplace in the lower half of the room, talking animatedly with Levi. "Almost."
Then he shrugged, turning back to the armor. "At least it gives Levi someone else who likes to talk, so I don't have to. I'll get started on these first thing in the morning."
The hunter moved with stealth, eyes fixed upon its target as it inched ever closer, muscles coiling in preparation for the leap that would claim its prize. Sten watched with solemn approval, admiring the hunter's strength and grace, its -
"What are you doing?" The bard's voice sounded beside him, edged with curiosity. A moment later, she entered his field of vision just as the hunter sprang. "Oh, how cute!"
"Cute?" Sten scowled at her.
"Yes, cute," she told him smugly. "Playing with a kitten like that. I knew you were just a big softie!"
"I am a soldier of the Beresaad," he replied stiffly. "I am not a - softie." The word was unfamiliar, but the connotations seemed clear enough. "I was not playing with it," he added, dangling the bit of bright red yarn and watching the young feline gather itself and leap an impressive distance into the air, snagging the yarn with a paw. He allowed it to draw his hand down, then lifted the yarn out of reach again. "I am helping it to train."
"Of course." She crossed her arms, watching him with an annoying twinkle in her eye. "And the flowers that I saw you picking when we were in the Brecilian Forest?"
He stared at her, uncomprehending, until his memory supplied him with the moment she was referring to. "They were medicinal." The Circle mage had asked him to gather them to assist in healing the witch. It had seemed a proper thing to do for a comrade-in-arms, even if he would have felt little regret at seeing the witch succumb to her injuries. Wynne, at least, displayed a healthy respect for the magic that she channeled, and her advanced years indicated that she had mastered its dangers. He had expressed this to her once, and still did not understand why it had not been well received.
"And the fact that they were such a lovely shade of lavender had noting to do with it?" She cocked her head, eying him challengingly. "There's nothing wrong with liking pretty things, Sten. You like your paintings, yes?"
"A painting is the result of discipline," he replied, wondering why he was bothering to explain himself. If she were not so highly valued by his kadan, he would have simply carried her to the broom closet and locked her in. "Each stroke of the brush is the result of years of training, as a warrior trains to wield a sword as part of himself. Your music required a similar discipline and training to learn, did it not?" Though he did not care for most of the tunes that she favored, he could nonetheless appreciate the skill required to draw the complex notes from a lute or harp, and the memory needed to recall the words to dozens of songs and tales.
"Of course it did!" She seemed almost offended by the question, which had seemed a reasonable one. "I spent many years learning how to play and sing, because I loved music, not simply to further my career as a bard!"
"I made no statement regarding your reasons for learning," he replied, wondering if every female in Ferelden besides the kadan was afflicted with this curse of hearing things that had never been spoken. "Merely that you had. It required time, effort. Such things are worthy of appreciation. Flowers grow on their own, whether I pick them or not; it requires no effort to make them do so."
"Ah, but you would not say this if you could see some of the gardens of Val Royeaux!" Her mood shifted with typical abruptness. "I know one gentleman who had dozens of tiny trees; he spent hours each day tending them, training them to grow just as he wished them to."
"How does one train trees?" Perhaps they were like the sylvans of the Brecilian Forest?
"By pruning them, trimming them, wiring the branches so that they grow just so. None of them is more than a foot high, yet they resemble full sized trees, and no two ever look alike."
He was silent for a moment, considering. "Such an effort would be worthy of notice," he said at last, adding another item to the list of things to be preserved after the inevitable Qunari conquest of these lands. It was - unsurprisingly - a short list.
"So glad you approve." Her tone had changed again, and after a moment, he was able to identify it as 'sarcasm'. "And do they have qunari bards?"
"Why would they not?"
She shrugged. "You just do not seem like a very musical people to me."
"You base this upon me?" He frowned at her. "I am a soldier. The Beresaad does not do battle with lutes. Drawing such a comparison makes no more sense than if I were to decide that all Orlesians have orange hair and enjoy music, simply because you possess these traits."
"My hair is red, not orange!" she protested, her voice growing heated again.
"The actual color is closer to -"
"It is red!" She glared at him, then spun and marched away, declaring, "You are just mad because I found out that you're a big softie!"
"I am not -" He brought his teeth together, grinding off his words, and glanced down at the young feline, who was climbing his leg to reach the yarn in his hand. "I hate humans," he muttered, settling onto a wobbly stool to resume the training.
"Is the painted elf not feeling well?"
Zevran took a swallow from his tankard of ale and glanced up at the golem quizzically. "I am feeling fine, my large friend. Why the concern?"
"I simply noticed that there are a large number of females here, yet it makes no attempt to convince them to couple with it. That is nearly unprecedented."
The elf chuckled, draining the mug and offering a warm smile to Levi's youngest sister as she approached to offer a refill. He waited for her to leave before replying.
"Time and place are everything. All of these lovely ladies have fathers, brothers, husbands here. This is a large clan, and very closely knit. Were I to incur the wrath of one, all the others would likely follow suit." The five among Levi's siblings and cousins who were married had between them close to thirty children, ranging from Mikhael's eldest, a broad shouldered young man of twenty five, to an infant that could not have been more than a month out of the womb...and two of the women had bellies rounded with pregnancy. Truth be told (not that he intended to, mind you), he wasn't certain they would be able to work him into the schedule.
"I see." The glowing eyes regarded him for a long moment, the thoughts behind the stone features impossible to discern. "So, it fears these traders? Not an impressive trait in an assassin, I should think?"
"Fear? No." Zevran leaned back in his chair, his eyes shifting between the small clusters of conversation that had formed: Talia, Alistair and the smith were hovering over their battered armor; Wynne sat at the large table with the Dryden wives, holding a small child contentedly on her lap as she examined skeins of brightly dyed wool yarn with interest. Levi and Bodahn sat talking before the lower fireplace, while Sandal played with the younger Dryden children in the middle of the floor, Brego sprawled out at his side. As though sensing his scrutiny, the dwarven lad turned his head, his eyes meeting Zevran's for a moment before giving the elf a smile, sunny and artless.
The assassin found himself smiling back, the expression very different from the one he had used on the pretty girl. No, nothing to fear here, which was likely why it felt so strange. "There is a saying in Antiva: Do not make your toilet and your bed in the same place." Actually, the most common version of the phrase was, Don't shit where you sleep, but Zevran thought his own wording vastly superior. "These folk are true allies to the Wardens: a relatively rare commodity. I have little doubt that I could escape any wrath that I might incur - and in case you ever find yourself in the situation: if you have to choose between having a husband or a father angry with you...choose the husband. They will give up the chase much sooner."
"Interesting," Shale responded, "if as useless to me as the flimsy pieces of cloth that the rest of you use to cover your squishy parts."
"The level of squishiness is highly variable, given time and the right company," the elf replied with a wink, "but come to think of it, said parts usually aren't covered at such moments...but I digress."
"Badly," the golem opined flatly. "I was forced to observe many couplings while I was immobilized in that horrid little village. I have no interest in hearing about still more; it was, in fact, about to explain to me why it is indulging in a rare bout of self restraint."
"Indeed, I was," Zevran agreed, "but if you do not understand the pleasure of the act itself, you will not be able to truly appreciate the heroism of my restraint. I feel for you, my sturdy friend: unable to partake in the pleasures of the flesh, to know love to its fullest..."
"Unable to age or bleed, or to become sick or to die," Shale finished as he trailed off. "Without doubt a tragedy of epic proportions, yet it will pale in comparison to its own fate if it does not either return to the question that it is plainly attempting to avoid or leave me in peace."
"Fine." He rolled his eyes and shifted in his chair until he was facing the golem, deciding not to mention that it was Shale who had initiated the conversation. "As I said, I am confident that I would be able to escape, should my affections be poorly received by the relatives of these lovely ladies...or gentlemen," he added, though in truth, the men of the Dryden clan were not to his taste. With women, he was content to enjoy the wondrous variety that the Maker had provided, but a male had to be exotic, with a healthy hint of danger, to arouse his interest. "It is likely, however, that their displeasure would then be extended to those I travel with, putting the Wardens in an awkward situation. This would be unwise of me, considering that I live only by Talia's continued benevolence."
"So it restrains itself in the interest of self preservation?" The massive stone head nodded slowly. "A most wise decision, considering that I am still not certain why the Warden spared it. Had the decision been mine, its skull would be so much pulp right now."
"Oh, come now!" Zevran feigned a wounded expression. "How could you destroy something as pretty as I am, hmm?"
"A shiny gem is pretty," Shale corrected him. "You are simply squishy, but regardless, I fail to see how any measure of attractiveness would make one difficult to crush."
"Perhaps you simply do not know how to look, then?" the Antivan suggested, gesturing to where Talia stood, her features illuminated by the light of the dancing flames. "Take a long look at our leader, my stony friend. Surely something of such beauty is worth preserving?"
"If I did not consider the Warden to be of some worth, I would have crushed it long ago, but its appearance had nothing to do with my decision." The eyes were on him again, brighter now. "Nor do I think it has a great deal to do with the painted elf's decision."
"Perhaps, perhaps not," he replied smoothly. The golem had learned more of human nature in its years in Honnleath than it let on. "Friendship is a new experience to me, and I cannot define it easily in the terms that I know. Suffice it to say that I find her pleasing to the eye, and would not object were she to trip and fall into my tent one night."
"No, it would not object," Shale agreed with the odd, grating noise that passed for laughter. "It would be far too busy trying to avoid the blades of the sister!"
"Perhaps you are right," Zevran conceded, giving no hint of his satisfaction at having drawn his inquisitor off track. Now, to see what he could learn from the golem's unique point of view. "Perhaps I should set my sights on a less hazardous target. What is your opinion of our dear witch?"
"It's glad I was to see you arrive, Warden," Levi offered with a smile as Talia and Alistair approached, having been dismissed by Mikhael with his usual brusqueness. "I'd begun to think we'd know aught of you but what the rumors told until the spring thaw."
"And what, exactly, do the 'rumors' tell?" Alistair wanted to know, one eyebrow quirking as he glanced at Bodahn.
"Well, that depends largely upon who you're talking to," the dwarf replied, seemingly unaffected by the pointed gaze. "You're either Ferelden's last hope or the murderers of King Cailan." Seeing the near-identical expressions on the faces of the two Wardens, he hastened to add, "More of the former than the latter, especially now that Ter- that Loghain has gotten so heavy handed."
"What's he doing now?" Talia asked as they settled to the rugs that covered the floor in front of the fireplace.
"What he's not doing would likely be easier to answer," Bodahn said, shaking his head. "It seems he's gotten it into his head that he can force the nobles into line behind him. I've heard of his troops attacking bannorns and arlings, nobles who stand against him vanishing...there's even a rumor that he tried to have Arl Eamon poisoned."
"Shocking," Alistair murmured. The trader was a good enough man, but his fondness for rumors and gossip was a double edged blade that they did not allow themselves to forget. Perhaps realizing that what he didn't know he couldn't be forced to reveal, he never pressed them for any details of their activities, and they shared little.
"Aye. Hard to believe that it's the same man who was the Hero of River Dane," the dwarf agreed grimly. "He's king in all but name now; Anora is hardly ever seen, and Rendon Howe is so close that rumor has him wiping Loghain's arse after he shits."
"That would at least be a proper use for his talents," Talia replied bleakly.
"True enough. There's no love lost for the man among the nobles, from what I've heard. Ever since the Teyrn of Highever and the Arl of Denerim both met with shady ends, no one trusts him, but no one wants to cross him, either...at least, not openly."
"Not so openly, though?" The key to Bodahn was patience. He relished passing on the news that he gleaned on the road, and had a fair knack for separating the kernels of truth from the chaff, but he loved to tell his stories, and it was hard to rush him. All you could do was channel him with the occasional question.
He smiled thinly beneath his mustache. "Let's just say that he and Loghain are doing almost as good a job of uniting Ferelden as the pair of you, though not in the way they'd like. What started out as pockets of defiance has grown into an organized rebellion: there's an army of several hundred that's been raising all sorts of havoc in the Bannorn the last few weeks, and I've heard that they've got quite an assortment: freemen, men at arms of the Banns and Arls that Loghain has put down, apostate mages - I heard tell that quite a few got loose during that nasty business at the Circle - elves, even a few dozen of the Chasind." His smile broadened. "I even heard one rumor that the rebels are being led by a Chasind, if you can believe that!"
"I'm not sure I do." Alistair's expression was openly skeptical, a sentiment that Talia shared. "I know the Chasind would have been driven out of the Wilds by the Blight, but I can't see Fereldans following one into battle."
The dwarf shrugged. "That's what I've heard on the road, anyway. Take it for what it's worth. The rebels are real, though, no matter who's leading them, and they've been keeping Loghain's forces hopping from one end of the Bannorn to the other." Eyes as brown as new turned earth gleamed with the knowledge that would remain unspoken: the focus on the rebellion had likely kept Loghain and Howe from any harder pursuit of the two Grey Wardens.
Talia nodded in acknowledgment. "I wonder if he has any idea what we're doing?" she mused. If he did, it seemed to her that it would have been a comparatively small matter to set up more ambushes on the limited routes they had to reach their prospective allies, but there had been nothing since Zevran's attempt, even after the near disaster of her encounter with Howe in Denerim.
Bodahn shook his head. "From everything I've heard, it sounds like he's seeing Orlesians behind every tree and outhouse, though."
"That's ridiculous," Leliana scoffed as she joined them, sinking to the floor beside Talia and resting her head on the Warden's shoulder. "No self-respecting Orlesian spy would be caught dead skulking around an outhouse."
He chuckled. "Be that as it may, I've spoken to more than one who has heard him claim that the Wardens are nothing more than Orlesian puppets. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say that he thinks that you're stirring things up to make it easier for them to come in and take over."
"Now that's ridiculous," Talia replied, perversely irritated at the idea, however much it might have benefited them. "And stupid, to boot. It wouldn't be hard to find out about the treaties; Eamon had a book on the Fereldan Wardens in his library that mentioned them; Cailan probably had one, as well." This was the man whose military skill had helped to free Ferelden?
"Cailan wasn't much for reading," Alistair said wryly, "but Maric would undoubtedly have had a book - books, more likely - that mentioned the treaties. I doubt Loghain considers us much of a threat, compared to an uprising in the Bannorn, though." He quirked a grin at Talia. "Whoever's leading those rebels, I think I'm going to buy him a drink when this is all over."
A.N. - Not many changes beyond the cosmetic ones to this chapter. It was a fun one to write, if a bit challenging, because of the multiple POV changes, but it gave me the chance to explore interactions between characters that we normally don't see chatting much. Leliana's in-game banters with Sten were obviously the inspiration for their conversation, and let me write a bit from his perspective (I actually felt a bit sorry for him). I intended to do the same with Shale, but Zev – being Zev – grabbed the spotlight and took off.
And, as I mentioned in the first version of this chapter, the lack of any real pursuit of the Wardens in the game always struck me as a glaring logic hole. The rebellion in the Bannorn was mentioned in passing, but never expanded upon, but it had to be significant, to cause the problems that Loghain was having. I'm not going to spend a tremendous amount of time on the rebellion itself, as I would like to actually finish this someday, but since it did offer me the chance to close up another gaping plot hole that always bothered me in the game, I decided to kill both birds with one stone in the next chapter.