A/N: Here is my usual apology for how long this chapter took to come out. Unfortunately, I'm in the middle of studying for the bar exam, so I doubt I'll have time to work on the story for the next month or so, so please be patient - this story is absolutely still my creative priority, and I will get back to work on it as soon as my life settles down a bit. To make up for your long wait, there is a lemon ahoy :D Thank you so much for all your support. I appreciate every single review, favorite, and follow.
The Siren of the Waking Sea was, to Loghain's mind, far too ostentatious of a name for the creaking merchant sloop on which he'd booked passage to Kirkwall, considering the shabbiness of the "luxury stateroom" in which he and Moira were now berthed. The captain, a grizzled old sea salt straight out of a bard's tale, had proudly escorted his esteemed guests to the largest suite, for which Loghain had paid a small handful of sovereigns; but now, as he sat perched on the narrow, uncomfortable cot that took up fully half of their "suite," he rather wished he'd saved his coin.
The main appurtenance of the luxury stateroom appeared to be the tiny porthole, out of which Moira now gazed, her expression one of quiet contemplation. He loved observing her like this, when she was unaware of his scrutiny. Her auburn hair was gathered in a loose braid, as she most often preferred to wear it when traveling, and it fell softly against the nape of her neck. Loghain found himself longing to get up and press his lips against the spot where her shirt's neckline fell against her soft skin, but he did not want to disturb her reverie. She was more pensive than usual this morning, and Loghain suspected she still felt the tremors of the emotional upheaval brought about by her inadvertent reunion with Rendon Howe's heirs. He suppressed a sigh, not wanting to disturb her with his own stew of jumbled thoughts. Maker knew she deserved a moment of peace after everything she'd been through in the past year.
"I never realized how much I missed the sea." Moira's voice broke the comfortable silence. "Sometimes, when Fergus got on my nerves, or if Mother was being demanding about my lessons, I'd take Dancer down to the cliffs just past Highever and sit there and watch the waves come in. It was nice to get away for a few hours, just me and Dancer and the sea."
"Dancer?" Loghain's tone was gently inquisitive.
"My mare. She was an Amaranthine Charger. She would've ridden into the Void if I'd asked her to." Her expression grew dark. "She died a couple of winters back. It was probably for the best, all things considered." She did not need to elaborate.
Loghain released his long-held sigh at last. "Moira –"
"No, it's all right," she said, and, when she turned to him, there was a brightness in her eyes that had been absent since Amaranthine. "I'm all right, really." She smiled, and though it was a wan, rueful smile, it was a smile nonetheless. "I can't drown in my grief forever."
"No, but you don't have to pretend it no longer pains you, either. Sorrow never truly leaves us. The best we can do is to make a home for what we've lost in our hearts, without closing the door to the joys that might find us along the way." He marveled at how unlikely it was that such words should come from him, of all people; he whose heart had been shut away, barred under the strongest lock and key for decades, impervious to any intrusion – until, of course, Moira had spared him, and begun, with that simple act of mercy, to dismantle all his careful defenses.
"How is it you always know what to say to make me feel better?" she purred, leaning into him in the snug confines of their cabin. "You told me once you were no poet. I beg to differ. You've quite the way with words."
Loghain harrumphed, though he could not suppress a slight half-smile for the woman whose soft curves pressed tantalizingly against his broad chest. "Perhaps you're just easily impressed."
She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Easily impressed?" Her palms slid down the plane of his chest, coming to a rest against his thighs. Loghain stifled a groan of want at the proximity of her hands, so close to his rapidly-responding manhood. Maker, what her simple touch could do to him! "You shouldn't sell yourself so short."
The innuendo of her words was not lost on Loghain, but her hand at his trouser laces left no doubt as to her intentions. A growl of desire escaped unbidden from his throat at her touch, and his heart hammered frantically against his ribs as his cock hardened under her dancing fingers. He could not stifle a ragged moan as she tugged his trousers open and took him in hand, her smooth palms sliding across his shaft in tentative but firm exploration. He dared a glance at her, and felt himself tenderly moved by her expression of reverent desire. He supposed she'd never really taken the time to caress him like this before; they were still relatively new to intimacy, and he usually insisted on attending to her needs before his own. Now, as he watched her touch him, he found his heart swelling with love for his sweet Moira, whose sincere ministrations moved him to pleasure her in kind.
He reached for her, his hands finding her hips and drawing her close, but to his surprise, she removed her hands from his manhood and placed them on his wrists, pulling them away from her body gently.
"This time, I want to please you." Her voice was a husky murmur that sent a thrill of exultant desire straight to his rigid cock. Still, he could not stop his hands from threading through her hair and drawing her in close for a tender but passionate kiss.
"It's not in my nature to be a selfish lover," he responded, his voice a hushed whisper against the shell of her ear. "Nothing pleases me more than making you come."
She groaned against him, her lips warm and moist against his neck. "I'm sure you'll have ample opportunity," she said, her hands descending again to his manhood. "But you promised me once that I'd get the chance to return the favor, and I'd like to do that now." She took him in hand again, and any other thoughts fled from his mind.
She removed her hands from him just long enough to place them on his chest, pushing him down so that he sat at the edge of the cot. With swift purpose, she tugged his trousers down and out of the way, her hands sliding warm and tantalizing across the bare skin of his thighs and stomach as she settled between his legs. Loghain's breath caught in his throat as he watched her there, kneeling before him, her lips half-parted in anticipation, her hands sliding through the coarse hair that dusted across his belly before arriving at the base of his cock and wrapping around his girth.
"Moira." His voice was a ragged groan, and he lifted his hands, trembling with desire, to tangle in her hair. She met his eyes, and he saw in her gaze both desire and a shyness that reminded him abruptly that she had never done this before. He allowed himself a smile, stroking his hand through her hair.
"Maker, you're wonderful," he breathed, his fingers lingering against the soft skin of her jaw. The gentle reassurance elicited a wicked grin from his beloved, and, with no further hesitation, she descended on him, her lips parting to take in the tip of his cock as her hands gripped his shaft with firm purpose. Loghain's hips bucked involuntarily at the sensation of Moira's sweet mouth ministering to him, and a cry of pleasure tore from his lips as he buried his hands into her tresses, willing himself not to urge her in deeper.
She began to take him in, at first hesitant, almost nervous; but soon she boldly moved against his cock, her lips and tongue caressing the firm skin of his manhood, her hands following with eager strokes along his length. Loghain's muscles trembled at the feel of her, the sight of her: her mouth eagerly swallowing his cock, little purrs of pleasure escaping from her throat as she took him in as deep as she dared. With an inarticulate growl he gripped her hair tight in balled-up fists, unable to resist thrusting his hips along with the movement of her sweet mouth. A tremor of divine pleasure rippled through him, and he knew his peak was imminent.
"Moira," he gasped, releasing her hair and moving his hands to clench tightly against her shoulders. "Moira, I'm going to come, you don't have to…"
But his words trailed off as, with a bold glance straight into his eyes, Moira took him in even deeper than before, her hands pumping his shaft with firm purpose. Loghain could spare no further thought before his climax overtook him, and with a guttural cry, he spilled into her waiting mouth. She made no move to shy away from him, her hands gripping him tight as she swallowed his seed. With a final, trembling shudder, he felt the last tremor of his release, and he sagged back against the narrow cot, boneless and undone. Moira ran her tongue along the softening length of his cock, placing one final, gentle kiss on the tip of his cockhead, before sliding into the cot next to him, snuggling into his waiting arms. He stared at her in wonderment, while she greeted him with an impish smile.
"Thank you," she murmured, nestling into his chest. "I've been wanting to do that for ages."
Loghain stared at his bold, passionate lover with a renewed sense of awe. "Moira… that was incredible." He felt a blush of embarrassment as he recalled what little warning he'd given her before he'd spilled himself – he knew women did not generally enjoy the taste of a man's seed, and he prided himself on his control. To come inside her mouth like a young buck in rut was profoundly shameful to him. "But you did not have to…" He paused awkwardly as she cast a curious glance at him, her eyebrows knit in puzzlement. "You did not have to swallow me. I do not expect you to finish me like that. I know it's not pleasant."
She stared at him incredulously before bursting into an astonished laugh. "Not pleasant?" She grinned up at him. "Loghain, I wanted you. I wanted to pleasure you. I wanted you in my mouth." She leaned in closer, and with a boldness that really should no longer surprise him, she kissed him on the mouth. He could taste the lingering salty musk of his seed on her lips. "I wanted to taste you. When will you stop apologizing for giving me what I want?"
He could only stare at her in amazement, until a rumbling laugh forced its way from deep in his chest, and then he gathered her in his arms, pulling her flush against him. Despite the delightful attentions she'd just ravished upon his manhood, he was aware of his desire stirring at the feel of her body pressed against him.
"What else do you want from me?" he murmured wickedly, leaning in to nip at her ear.
"Mmmm," she purred, her hands finding their way under his shirt. He obligingly lifted his arms as she slipped it from his back, tossing it to the deck of their cabin. "I'd like to admire my future husband's manly physique," she said, caressing her hands down the wiry hair that carpeted his chest. "And I suppose a bit of reciprocity would not be unappreciated."
He hummed in response, the thought of plunging his tongue into her sweet cunt sending another jolt to his rapidly-reawakening cock. "As my lady commands."
As it turned out, the private cabin had been a good idea after all.
Loghain leaned against the deck railing on the foredeck, enjoying the salty sea breeze that riffled through his hair. Moira still dozed in their cabin, and Loghain allowed a smirk of satisfaction to flit across his face at the memory of how thoroughly he had sated her. It had been a pleasant interlude, the likes of which they had not been at much liberty to enjoy in recent days, given the tensions in Denerim and Amaranthine. His smirk disappeared, replaced by a scowl as he considered what awaited them in Kirkwall. Dealing with the politics of Ferelden was bad enough – the notion of navigating foreign halls of power filled him with even less enthusiasm. Not to mention that he – and Moira, too, he knew for certain – felt well rid of the Grey Wardens, and had little enough desire to go courting them. And yet, it was a necessary duty, and he had always been one to understand and accept the demands of duty.
That did not mean he enjoyed the sight of the city approaching rapidly off the bow, with its dour black walls and forbidding statues flanking the port. He'd heard nothing good of Kirkwall from the traders and merchants who plied the seas between Gwaren and the Free Marches – they invariably described a teeming, desperate city filled with vagrants, pirates, and all other manner of distasteful rabble, ruled ineffectually by governing forces that were alternately tyrannical or toothless, and almost always corrupt. He scoffed. The sooner he and Moira could find a Grey Warden to drag back to Ferelden to look into the darkspawn situation in Amaranthine, the better.
"Well, that's a grim sight." He turned his head at the voice of his beloved, and banished the grimace from his face. He afforded her a knowing smile at her unintentional echo of his own thoughts, and shifted his arm so that she might lean against the deck rail next to him.
"Indeed. Welcome to Kirkwall," he intoned dryly.
"My tutor said they called it the City of Chains," Moira said. "I wonder if Andraste was brought through here when the Imperium enslaved her."
Moira's mention of Kirkwall's sordid history of slavery sent a ripple of discomfort through Loghain, and he pursed his lips and did not reply. He had tried not to dwell overmuch on the increasingly catastrophic decisions he'd made during his regency. Down that path lay madness, and he had certainly had enough of madness to last himself a lifetime. His relationship with Moira and his experiences at the Temple of Sacred Ashes had forced him to reckon with his guilt, for which he was grateful; but he was mindful as well of what the spirit of Maric had told him, that he served no one well by allowing regret and remorse to paralyze him. All he could do now was apply his lifetime of experience in battle and governance to help rebuild his country, and allow Moira's pure love for him to guide his heart to a place of genuine happiness.
And yet, of all his sins, the one he had reckoned with the least was the one that continued to trouble him. He could help rebuild Ferelden, and right what wrongs he'd committed in allowing the Blight to continue unchecked for far too long as he'd wasted valuable time and resources fighting Moira instead of the darkspawn. He could do what he could to ensure that Anora's reign was peaceful and prosperous, thus granting the country the stability it required after the death of the last Theirin king, a death he had done nothing to prevent. But of the Fereldan elves whom he had allowed Tevinter slavers to spirit out of Denerim and off to Maker knew where – what could he ever hope to do to make amends for the betrayal he had inflicted upon them? Had they passed through Kirkwall on their way to Minrathous, like the millions of slaves of the Old Imperium who had given the city its terrible name? Did they live comfortably in the manor home of a wealthy magister – as he'd once salved his conscience by imagining – or were they beaten, whipped, sacrificed as blood tributes to sate that same magister's insatiable hunger for ever greater power? He would never know, and it was the not knowing that galled him the most.
"Love?" Moira's voice cut through his ruminations, and he realized from her tone that she'd been trying to get his attention for some time. "Are you all right?"
"Just gathering wool." He did not want to burden her with memories of what a terrible man he'd become in the madness of the Blight – not after he'd so brutally reminded her in Amaranthine of the part he'd played in helping Rendon Howe avoid justice. For reasons unfathomable to him, Moira had chosen to forgive him, even in spite of all that he had done. He would never understand why, but he resolved to himself each morning that he would never allow her to regret her decision – to spare him, to forgive him, or to love him. And so he forced a wan smile to his lips, and took her hand in his.
"I suppose I'm just missing Ferelden already," he said. It was not a lie. "The sooner we can retrieve our Grey Wardens, the happier I'll be."
"Me too," she agreed, leaning into him. She glanced to him with an impish look. "I've got a wedding to plan, you know."
He smiled back at her, and squeezed her hand. Yes, they sooner they were out of this city, the better. It would be far easier to confront the ghosts of his past with such a pleasant future ahead of him.
The ship laid anchor at the Kirkwall docks, and the fetid smell of fishmongers and refuse assaulted Loghain at once. From the grimace on Moira's face, it was plain her reaction mirrored his.
"Lovely place," she said drolly. "Where do you suppose the Grey Warden garrison is?"
"Not here," he replied with equal lassitude. "I suppose we'd best make our presence known to the viscount. He ought to be able to steer us in the right direction."
Loghain took in the spectacle of the Kirkwall slums with a curious eye. Shortly past the docks, they passed a fortified compound, curiously guarded by a hulking horned qunari, who regarded Loghain and Moira with an intense but somehow non-hostile scrutiny. Loghain shared a puzzled glance with Moira, who shrugged – it was extraordinarily odd for the ox-men of Par Vollen to live among the Andrastian nations of the south, but the qunari occasionally ventured beyond their own lands, and – ever since the Llomerryn Accords, at any rate – were rarely openly hostile. The Kirkwallers seemed nonplussed by the presence of the great horned guards, and so Loghain and Moira continued through the throngs of beggars and vagrants, making their way towards the great gates at the top of the hill that divided the impoverished lower slums from the wealthy districts beyond.
"Excuse me, ser, I don't mean to be a bother, but just a copper, if you please, for my family?" A filthy man in rags materialized from the masses to offer a discreet tug at Loghain's sleeve. He turned toward the man, prepared to offer a curt dismissal, when the tone of the man's voice caught at his attention. The man's voice – and his features, and clothing – were Fereldan, and Loghain found himself both moved and angry that a fellow countryman had been reduced to such ruin in this fetid sewer of a city.
"You, man," he replied to the man. "Where are you from?"
The man brightened considerably, whether because he recognized that Loghain was a fellow Fereldan, or simply because someone had deigned to pay him the time of day. He did not seem to recognize Loghain in particular. "South Reach, ser," he said proudly. "The Blight drove us from our homes, and we had to sell everything we owned to get here. But the Kirkwallers don't want to hire us Fereldans for an honest day's work, and I can't feed my family without coin. Seeing my little ones' hungry faces is more than I can bear, and even though it shames me to beg, it shames me more to see them suffer."
Loghain's heart twisted in sympathy and indignation, and memories of long ago, of Fereldan peasants starving and begging for food while their masked overlords dined on the rich harvest of their fields, boiled to the surface.
"Here," he said, impulsively reaching into his coin purse and handing the man a silver. "Your children won't go hungry tonight. Take what's left and share it with your fellow countrymen. The Blight is over – Ferelden needs its sons and daughters, now more than ever. There is a place for you back home."
The man stared at Loghain in open-mouthed astonishment. "I… I can't believe… oh, thank you, ser!" A slow smile began to steal across his face, as though he were still skeptical of his sudden reversal of fortunes. "I'd heard that the Blight was over, but I never thought… I can't afford the trip home, but to go back, to rebuild my farm…" He shook his head, as if trying to dispel a pleasant but impossible dream. "I do appreciate your generosity, ser, make no mistake, but I can't afford passage for myself and my family. I'll at least rest easy knowing they won't go hungry tonight. Maker bless you and Maker bless the Hero of Ferelden!"
Moira, who had been watching the conversation with a quiet expression of loving pride, started when Loghain gently grasped her elbow and drew her close.
"Thank her yourself, good man," he said. Moira blushed deeply at Loghain's words, and at the man's eye-widening expression of growing disbelief.
"You're… you're the Lady Cousland, the Hero of the Blight?" he stammered. Moira smiled, and prepared to greet him, when at once he cast himself on the ground, at her feet.
"You saved us all! You saved Ferelden! Maker bless you, my lady! Maker bless your soul!"
"Oh! Oh, please, that's not necessary, kind sir," Moira stammered, and Loghain bit back his chuckle at the shade of bright crimson that suffused her cheeks. "No one needs to bow before me, please."
With reluctance, the man stood up, still gazing at Moira with unabashed reverence. "I'll tell my children that I saw you here – that the Hero of Ferelden came for us! You don't know what you've done for us today!" With a flush of overwhelmed gratitude, the man bowed deeply, again, and made his way, half-running, back into the slums, no doubt to tell his grand story to his family.
"That was a kind thing you did for that man," she said, taking Loghain's hand in hers and glancing up at him.
"All I did was give him some coin. You gave him hope. I'd say you deserve the greater thanks." He returned her smile, but it was soon chased away by thoughts of the man's dire predicament. "The Kirkwallers are no better than the Orlesians – treating us like mongrel dogs, unfit for anything but their scraps. I suppose at least Kirkwall didn't have the audacity to reduce us to penury in our own land."
"We have to do something for these people, Loghain," Moira said. "Hire a ship, bring them home, something! There's so much work to be done rebuilding the country, and they could help – they deserve better than being consigned to poverty in Kirkwall's slums!"
Loghain had known Moira long enough now that her essentially generous and kind nature should no longer come as any surprise to him, and yet he felt his heart constrict at the passion in her voice. "We will," he agreed. "We'll bring as many of them with us as we can. But first, we need to find the Grey Wardens." His countenance darkened. "It won't do any good to bring the refugees back to Ferelden if there are still darkspawn waiting to chase them from their homes."
They made their way through the city, observing as the streets became brighter, wider, and cleaner as they ascended the hill from the slums of Lowtown to the manors of Hightown. By the time they arrived at the Viscount's Keep, they were no longer pushing through throngs of beggars, but rather richly-attired merchants and nobles, all of whom cast withering glances at the two Fereldans as though they were as shabbily dressed as the slum dwellers of Lowtown. Loghain felt his ire building at every sideways glare and sniff of disdain, until he felt Moira take his hand in hers and give it a gentle squeeze.
"Just ignore these fools," she said. "I couldn't give a tinker's damn for Kirkwall's nobles, unless they can tell us where to recruit some Grey Wardens. Let's just find the Viscount's office."
When they at last arrived, they found themselves stymied by the most obnoxious bureaucratic gatekeeper Loghain had ever had the displeasure to meet in Seneschal Bran. At once supercilious and condescending, Bran tried to inform them that the waiting time for a meeting with the Viscount was approaching three weeks, and just when Loghain had angrily opened his mouth to retort, he felt the gentle pressure of Moira's hand on his arm.
"Oh, perhaps you misunderstood," she said sweetly. "I'm certain Viscount Dumar wouldn't want to keep the Hero of Ferelden waiting so long on Grey Warden business."
"Grey Warden business?" Bran sputtered, clearly taken aback. "Well… in that case… I'm sure some exceptions could be made… I'll handle the inconveniences, of course, although Lord Parkton is sure to raise a fuss…" The seneschal continued to mutter to himself as he brusquely showed them into the Viscount's antechamber, where a servant bowed deeply and immediately served them tea and biscuits on a silver tray.
"How quickly our fortunes have changed," Loghain quipped, picking up a tiny, delicate teacup between his thumb and forefinger. "Thank Andraste that little toady decided we were worth impressing after all. Maker forbid he permit mere peons to breathe such rarefied air."
"You're in fine form," Moira chided wryly, casting a sideways glance at him. "Do try not to antagonize the viscount before we find out where we can recruit the Grey Wardens."
"He has earned every ounce of my antagonism with the way he permits his city to maltreat the Blight refugees," Loghain growled. "He's no better than the Orlesians." That wasn't quite true, but his ire was rankled, and he was in no mood to be generous.
Viscount Dumar's appearance did little to alleviate Loghain's surly mood. The Viscount, a thin, balding man with watery eyes, hastened into the room from a private chamber, his manner distracted and weary. Loghain and Moira, both accustomed to the rituals of court, rose deferentially at his entrance, offering him a polite bow as he bustled to his seat. With an impatient hand, he waved at them to be seated.
"Bran tells me I speak with the Hero of Ferelden herself. You honor Kirkwall greatly with your presence, Lady Cousland." Moira bowed her head in acknowledgment of his praise, while Dumar turned his eyes to Loghain. "I'm afraid he did not get your name, serah. You must be a fellow Grey Warden?"
Loghain steeled himself and delivered the least complicated version of the truth. "Of a sort. I am Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, of Gwaren. Lady Moira is my betrothed."
Dumar's eyebrows shot up in curious interest. "Ah! I see. I did not realize the Hero was already spoken for. Congratulations." The viscount's eyes narrowed as he regarded Loghain with a more thorough scrutiny. "Teyrn Loghain, you say? Weren't you the regent for Ferelden's throne during the Blight? I'd heard you were deposed."
Loghain's brows creased into an involuntary scowl, but before he could respond, Moira's voice cut smoothly through the palpable tension. "There was a great deal of confusion and chaos during the Blight, Viscount. King Cailan was lost at the Battle of Ostagar, and most of the Grey Wardens were presumed dead. In the end, Teyrn Loghain joined the Grey Wardens, and I could not have ended the Blight without his assistance. He is as much a hero of Ferelden as I am." It was a heavily sanitized version of the truth, but none of it was technically untrue, and it would nip any gossipy speculation in the bud. Once again, Loghain marveled at how adroit his beloved was at navigating the halls of power.
"Of course. I meant no offense," Dumar replied with practiced ease. "But I am certain you did not travel all the way to Kirkwall to personally announce your impending nuptials."
"Unfortunately, no," Moira said. Loghain noticed as she paused briefly and bit at her lip, a habit she only indulged in when she was trying to figure out how best to begin an uncomfortable conversation. "As I'm sure you are aware, the Grey Wardens keep their – our – secrets close to the vest. I am not at liberty to tell you much about the recruitment process, but I can tell you that, unfortunately, the Grey Wardens in Ferelden do not currently have the strength of numbers necessary to defend our country. We have come to Kirkwall to recruit a small number of able Grey Wardens for the Ferelden garrison. We were hoping you would point us in the right direction."
Whatever Dumar had been expecting Moira to say, it hadn't been that. "You want me to help you recruit Grey Wardens?" he said disbelievingly. "You've come to the wrong man. The Wardens are not accountable to me, nor I to them. I'm afraid I can't help you."
Loghain fixed Dumar with a steely glare. "You're telling me you don't even know the name of the Warden-Commander of Kirkwall?"
"I – no, I do not know the Warden-Commander, nor any other Grey Wardens. The Blight did not threaten us here across the sea, and I have had no shortage of other crises to attend to in the past year. There are entrances to the Deep Roads scattered throughout the Vimmark Mountains – perhaps you'd have better luck searching for them out there. Between the qunari encampment and the ongoing tensions between Knight-Commander Meredith's templars and the apostates she seems to root out of every rat warren in the city, my hands are too full to be keeping tabs on the Grey Wardens, if you'll pardon my candor." Though Dumar's tone was irritable, the man himself seemed far more frazzled than short-tempered, an expression of strained anxiety stretched across his face like an ill-fitting mask. Loghain saw before him a weak leader, overburdened by the weight of his crown, and he realized that they'd gotten as far as they were going to get with the viscount.
Moira seemed to have come to the same conclusion, and she stood cordially, offering a perfunctory incline of her head to the beleaguered ruler. "I apologize for intruding on your time, Viscount. I am sure we will find the Grey Wardens with or without your assistance." Dumar frowned at the dig, but before he could reply, Moira turned to Loghain with an expression of innocuous curiosity. "We couldn't help but notice that your city is host to an overabundance of Fereldan citizens displaced by the Blight. They did not seem to have adequate means or shelter. It distresses me to see my countrymen treated so poorly in their time of need."
Dumar scowled deeper. "We opened the gates of our city to your Blight refugees, but Kirkwall is already overcrowded! There's little enough in the city coffers to provide for the needs of Kirkwallers, let alone foreigners with nothing to offer. I beg your pardon, Lady Cousland, but you must understand that my citizens' needs must come first. The Fereldans have brought crime and plague in their wake – even now, Lowtown is besieged by gangs of pickpockets and mercenaries, whose ranks have swelled ever since the Fereldans began entering my city in force. I have sympathy for the plight of your nation, but I cannot feed and clothe every Blight refugee. It simply can't be done."
"Then you should not object if we hire a merchant vessel to return our people to their homeland," Loghain rejoined, unable to keep the sneer from his voice. "If displaced Fereldans are such a nuisance to your otherwise orderly city, then perhaps it would be cost effective for you to subsidize their return. Five ships would be able to carry sixty refugees apiece – that's three hundred Fereldans out of your hair, and back where they belong. I think two hundred sovereigns ought to split the difference quite nicely."
Dumar glowered, and Loghain could even feel Moira glaring at him out of his peripheral vision. No, he hadn't been especially diplomatic, but hearing the problems of this dysfunctional city blamed on innocent Fereldans who had fled here for their lives had roused his ire ferociously.
"I suppose we could work out an agreement," Dumar said frostily. "If you promise to take these… refugees… with you on your return."
"We would be happy to," Moira agreed, her tone conciliatory but firm. "Please understand that we mean no offense; we only care about the welfare of our citizens, as I'm sure you understand well."
Dumar softened slightly at Moira's proffered olive branch, and he nodded. "Of course. I shall draw up the contract for the ships and have it delivered to you. Where in the city will you be staying?"
Loghain and Moira looked at each other – truthfully, they hadn't gotten that far. "Er, if there are any inns you'd recommend in particular, Viscount, we have not yet had a chance to secure lodgings. We came to speak with you straight away."
The Viscount hummed. "There are fine taverns in Hightown, of course, though some of them are… less seemly… than others. Lowtown is out of the question, of course –"
"No," Loghain interrupted suddenly. "If Lowtown is where the Fereldans are living, then we should stay there. I want to get an idea of how many refugees to account for, and if there are too many for us to take at once, then I want to speak to someone who knows them, to make sure those in the greatest need are prioritized – families, children, widows, the like."
Dumar looked uneasy. "Er… I would not presume to dictate to your lordships, but… Lowtown can be rather, er, seedy and dangerous. I would not wish you to experience any trouble while you are guests in my city."
"I assure you, Viscount, we can handle ourselves," Moira said with a sly grin. "The darkspawn are far more threatening than any two-bit alley thug could ever be."
So it was that they were given directions for the Hanged Man, a "typical Lowtown hole in the wall" according to Viscount Dumar, but one apparently known to be frequented by many of the Fereldans who had made their homes in Kirkwall. The sun had dipped just below the horizon as they passed through the gates of Hightown, and Loghain's senses were on high alert, knowing that whatever unsavory elements did skulk about in the slums would be out and about after dark.
They stuck to the main streets, avoiding the dark warren of narrow alleyways that crisscrossed the slums, but even that level of caution proved to be inadequate when a leather-clad rogue, a dagger held in each hand, materialized out of the shadows in front of them to block the thoroughfare.
Loghain and Moira instinctively reached for their blades, but the thug raised one of his daggers and waved it at them, as a parent might wave a chastening finger at a child.
"Ah ah," he said, in a thick Fereldan accent. "Wouldn't do that if I was you. I've got some mates with me, and it wouldn't end pretty for you." At his words, more thugs appeared from the shadows, and, with a sinking stomach, Loghain realized they were surrounded.
"What are such a finely-tailored pair as yourselves doing in Lowtown at this time of night, anyhow?" the thug mused. "Newcomers, must be? Well, I imagine this is the last time you'll make that mistake. Don't worry – we just want your coin, not your lives. Unless you fight back. Which, to be clear, I wouldn't do if I was you, because me and my boys – well, we're spoiling for a fight. Been a long time since we got to stick it to such fine Hightown toffs."
"We're no more from Hightown than you are," Loghain snarled, and boldly drew his sword. "But if a fight is what you want, you'll have one. I've handled worse from better men than you."
"Oi! Seamus! They're from the old country!" one of the thugs next to the boss said. "I don't think Boss wants us attacking our own. He said just to stick to the Hightown types and the Orlesians."
"Shut it, you!" Seamus snarled. "I'm in charge! These berks got gold that'll spend as good as anyone else's! I don't care if they're from Ferelden or not!"
"Well, I do," another thug chimed in. "Boss said we gotta stick together, not fight amongst ourselves. And he's in charge, not you, Seamus, so suck it."
"You suck it, you floppy twat!"
"Well, we'll just be going, then," Moira chirped, and cast an emphatic glance at Loghain, jerking her head towards the street corner and away from the squabbling thugs. Loghain agreed without protest, and they had just begun to move past the gang when a voice cut through the bickering ruffians like a cold steel blade.
"Is there a problem here, boys?" This voice too belonged to a Fereldan man, though it lacked the rough, guttural inflection of the street thugs. At once, the quarreling rogues fell silent.
A man in leather armor slipped from the shadows so close to Moira and Loghain that they were certain he must have been there the entire time, watching the scene play out. He was lean, but well-built, and his armor was of decent quality, as were the vicious looking daggers that were sheathed casually at his sides – he was certainly no starving refugee.
"My sincere apologies," he said, fixing a hard-eyed gaze on both Loghain and Moira in turn, though a hint of a sardonic smile played at the corner of his mouth. "My Dog Lords can be a bit overzealous at times. I've strictly instructed them not to harass any fellow Fereldans, but apparently Seamus here didn't receive the memo." He shot a dagger-sharp glare at the first thug, and Seamus swallowed audibly, unable to meet his 'boss's' face. "We have to stick together in these troubled times. Maker knows Kirkwall won't give us a copper, so we decided to take what we need – but never from each other. Isn't that right, lads?"
A chorus of 'ayes' greeted their ears, and Boss nodded at them sagely. "Good boys. Now run on home – I'll see to it that these fine folks make it though without any further delays. We'll talk later." Seamus nervously darted his eyes to the ground as the thugs melted into the shadows, and Loghain couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the reaming that awaited the poor stupid sod.
"Once again, my sincere apologies," Boss said. His tone was sincere, but there was a hardness to his voice that betrayed his suspicions of what, exactly, would have brought Moira and Loghain – obviously Fereldan, but just as obviously not refugees – to Lowtown at night. Loghain couldn't help but respect the man's canny instincts, even if he did appear to be some sort of criminal ringleader. "I try to keep my Dog Lords on a tight leash, but times are tough. It's best that strangers not move through Lowtown at night by themselves. So," he said, fixing each of them with that hardened stare once more, "you're not from Kirkwall, that much is plain, so you're here on business. The question becomes: is your business legitimate, or less so?" He chuckled. "Not that I care, mind you. Maker knows I'm not in a position to cast any stones. But let's just say that I like to be apprised of everything that happens in Lowtown. So – what brings you to the slums of Kirkwall after dark?"
Moira and Loghain exchanged a wary glance – this man had stopped his gang from attacking them, but that didn't make him trustworthy. Still, his words held wisdom – they were strangers, and this was clearly a dangerous place to wander around alone without a local guide to keep the seedier elements at bay.
"We're here to find Grey Wardens to recruit for Ferelden," Moira replied. "Viscount Dumar was no help."
Boss scoffed audibly, and spit on the ground. "Viscount Dumar is fucking useless. That's no surprise." He sobered, and gave Moira a thoughtful look. "And who from Ferelden is recruiting Grey Wardens? You're surely not the Hero of the Blight."
An uncomfortable silence stretched on for a beat, and as Moira uncomfortably shifted, the man's face blanched.
"Oh, Maker, you are," he said, and there was no trace of hard cynicism in his voice. "You're Lady Cousland, aren't you?"
"I am," she admitted. "Just – please don't bow." She gestured at Loghain. "And this is Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir. He fought the Blight alongside me, as a Grey Warden." At the introduction of Loghain, the man's face darkened considerably.
"Teyrn Loghain. That's right – I'd heard you became a Grey Warden after your fall from grace." He regarded Loghain with a searing scrutiny. "I was at Ostagar, you know. With my brother. I was there when you sounded the retreat and betrayed the king. Never thought I'd actually see your face."
Loghain felt his stomach clench. "I am sorry you had to witness such butchery," he said. "But I am not sorry for the decision I made. The battle was doomed from the start. Had I not sounded the retreat, we would not be having this conversation, because we would both be dead. I did what I thought was best. I will not apologize for that."
Boss stared hard at Loghain for several tense moments, and Loghain was unsure if his revelation had just squandered the fellow-countrymen camaraderie that the stranger had extended to them. At last, however, he rocked back on his heels, exhaling a long breath and running a hand through his hair.
"It can't have been an easy decision to make," he said carefully. "Still… best you avoid Aveline. She's still pretty bitter about the whole thing." Shaking his head, he regarded Loghain and Moira with a glimmer of newfound respect.
"So – Grey Wardens, you say? I think I might be able to be of some help. I… know some Grey Wardens. And I think she – they might be amenable to going to Ferelden."
Loghain and Moira shared another curious glance. "Well, that's a better lead than we've had all day," Moira said. "Do you mind showing us to the Hanged Man? We'll be staying there while in Kirkwall. Perhaps we can speak more about these Grey Wardens there."
The man's eyebrows shot up. "The Hanged Man? Well, there's a coincidence. I was headed there myself. My friend… well, he claims he doesn't run the place, but that's a lie. Most everything Varric says is a lie, but he's the most trustworthy man you'll ever meet. I'll make sure your drinks are on the house. The least I can do for the Heroes of Ferelden." His smile was wry, but sincere.
"Thank you," Loghain said. "We appreciate the hospitality. There's been little enough of it in this town. We are grateful, Ser…" He trailed off, realizing that the man had never introduced himself.
"Oh, how rude of me," Boss said. He thrust out a hand, which Moira and Loghain took in turn. His handshake was firm and sure. "The name's Hawke. Galen Hawke. Welcome to the real Kirkwall."