Author's Note – Damn … three and a half years since I updated this one. Did the math and realized that I lost my own Brego right around that time, which is likely part of what shut down the muse.
This is a labor of love, though, and one that I very much want to see through to the end, so here we go with a new chapter, this one taking place alongside the events in chapter 14 of 'Moments In Time'.
"Recollect that the Almighty, who gave the dog to be companion of our pleasures and our toils, hath invested him with a nature noble and incapable of deceit."
- Sir Walter Scott
"About Brego?"
He has been drowsing in the sun, watching the elf with half-closed eyes. His Talia has told him not to attack, and he will not … unless the elf tries to harm his Talia or any other member of their pack again. The sound of her voice speaking his name draws his attention now, and he lifts his head eagerly, then lowers it when he sees who she is with.
It is not that he does not like the old woman – Wynne is what his Talia calls her. She has a gentle voice and a kind manner … and she feeds him tasty scraps when she cooks. She reminds him more than a little of Nan, but like the old cook, she does not always seem to like Brego.
He sinks lower still and tries to sneak away on his belly, but his Talia's words stop him:
"Not so fast. It's bathtime, my friend."
And there it is: the indignity that he has been dreading since he heard his Talia talking with Wynne about it yesterday as they made camp. Baths had been required of him almost weekly at Highever, and while he would gladly submit to them even more often if it would bring back their old pack, he has not missed the ritual in the slightest.
But his Talia has called him, and he will obey her, though he is not above a bit of theatrics, creeping to her with his head low to make his misery plain.
"Go with her and behave yourself," his Talia tells him, scratching his head. He licks her hand and turns resignedly to follow Wynne.
"And don't cringe like that," the old woman tells him. "I may be wrong, but I don't think that a bath has ever killed anyone. Your smell, on the other hand, has the potential to be deadly."
His whine of protest is indignant. He is quite pleased with his smell! Just last night, he had found a fresh pile of deer droppings to roll in, putting the finishing touches on a potent and fascinating blend of aromas that would mask his own scent from any animal that he stalked. Now, he would have to begin again.
"I'm sure that it smells quite lovely to you," Wynne observes, "but human noses aren't quite as refined, I'm afraid."
He isn't sure what 'refined' means, but her tone is friendly, soothing, and he accepts her words with a friendly chuff, resigned to his fate and willing to let bygones be bygones. She stumbles a bit on the uneven ground, and he moves closer, letting her steady himself against his mass.
"Thank you, Brego," she tells him gratefully, pausing to give him a pat on the head. She has never complained, but he can smell the pain that stays with her always, low and persistent, sharpening in the chill of the evenings and early mornings. Like Morrigan and the others that they had helped in the tower on the island, she smells of what his Talia calls 'magic', but unlike Morrigan, she does not smell like many things all at once. Only the pain and weariness.
The river is not far, and is wide and deep, flowing fast. He follows Wynne to a spot on the bank covered with round, smooth stones, pausing to peer curiously at Shale. Only the top of the talking stone's head is visible above the water, which seems strange to him, as when he stays too long beneath water, it rushes into his nose, making him sneeze and cough. If he could do that, he would not simply stand there; he has never yet caught a fish, though he has tried many times, and being able to keep his head beneath the water longer might help.
"It's unusual, isn't it?" Wynne asks him, her gaze following his. "I never thought to see a functioning golem; it's a pity that he doesn't remember more of his past. All right." She sets down the bag that she carries. "Let's get you wet."
The water is cold, but no more so than the mountain streams where he played with his Talia, and he plunges in with a happy bark, wading out until the water grows deep enough to swim, feeling the current pushing him along. Swimming is much more fun than bathing.
"I hope you aren't planning on making me come out there to get you," Wynne calls to him.
He does not need his Talia to tell him that this would make him a Bad Dog, so he turns for the shore, paddling strongly but still fetching up a good way downstream. He does not make her come to him, bounding easily over the stones, settling to his haunches in front of her.
"Good boy." She smiles warmly at him, and his tail bobs at the praise. "That will do nicely." She withdraws a bar of soap from the basket, holding it out to him. "Won't that smell better?"
He sniffs it dutifully, sneezes twice and gives her a long-suffering look. He knows from experience that this type of smell is what humans like, but there is nothing in it of the rich, earthy tang of droppings from a deer or rabbit, the sweetness of grass or the pungency of a well-dead carcass. It smells a bit of flowers, but underneath is a bite that tickles at his nose, and he sneezes again
"It's not that bad," she admonishes him, taking a sniff herself. "It's better than plain lye soap, anyway."
She runs the bar over his wet fur, then uses her fingers to work up a thick lather, and despite the smell, he rather likes the attention, sinking to the ground contentedly, rolling to his back willingly when urged.
He smells his Talia's scent in the air even before he hears her steps approaching. Bounding to his feet would likely knock Wynne over, so he settles for wagging his tail and craning his neck until he can see her, upside down.
"Everything all right?" she asks.
"Very well," Wynne says, giving his belly a scratch. "He's been quite the gentleman."
"Good." His Talia crouches beside them. "Good boy," she tells him, scratching his chest. He closes his eyes, basking blissfully in the approval and attention.
"Leliana is all right?" Wynne asks, scrubbing each leg.
"I think so," his Talia says. "You heard?" Anger touches her smell now, and Brego opens his eyes, watching, wanting to be ready, but there does not seem to be trouble. Leliana was sad before, and his Talia and Alistair had comforted her, as they had in the town that had smelled of death and taint. She is not angry with Leliana. Maybe the elf? Maybe he will get to bite the elf. That would be good.
"I did," Wynne says. "I have heard tales of how the Orlesians play what the call 'the Great Game'. The rules are quite formalized, but for all that, it is brutal, particularly for those who serve as the proxies for the true participants."
"Bards."
Wynne nods. "She is fortunate to have survived, and even more fortunate to have put that life behind her."
"And the one who betrayed her got away with it," his Talia says darkly. "Marjolaine." He does not fully understand what they speak of, but he heard Leliana speak that name; it is the cause of her sadness … and his Talia's anger. He growls softly.
"Stop that," Wynne chides him gently. "He is sensitive to your moods," she tells his Talia.
"He always has been," his Talia replies, rubbing his belly affectionately, and he wriggles on his back in sheer delight, suds flying from his legs. "Enough," she tells him gently, and he stills as she wipes the soap from her face. "But he won't attack unless I tell him to." She rises, shrugging, "And, as Leliana said, Marjolaine is in Orlais, and she doesn't want to go after her."
"It's easier sometimes to look past wrongs done to ourselves, rather than those done to the ones we care about," Wynne says as his Talia steps away.
"Yes," she agrees, bending to something on the ground. "Is this Andraste's Grace?" she asks, turning back with a bunch of white flowers in her hand.
Wynne looks at them. "I think it is. It has no medicinal properties that I know of, but the flowers have a nice scent."
His Talia lifts the flowers to her nose and sniffs, then nods. "Must be, then." He whines a bit, and she bends, extending them for him to smell. "Don't get soap on them," she warns him, so he sniffs them very carefully. They smell better than the soap.
"Leliana told me once that her mother liked Andraste's Grace, that she could remember the smell on her clothes," she explains, then shrugs. "I thought they might cheer her up a bit."
"That is a very thoughtful gesture, Talia." Wynne's voice is warm with approval, and Brego wags his tail, no less pleased than if he had been the target of the praise. "I'm sure she will appreciate them."
"Hope so," his Talia murmurs, lingering a moment longer. "Did you want me to help you finish?"
"I think we can manage," Wynne replies with a smile.
"All right, then." She stands again. "Good boy, Brego," she tells him, and that is worth the bath and the smelly soap many times over.
"She has a kind heart." Wynne says softly after she has gone, urging him to his feet and scrubbing up his neck to his ears. Brego tilts his head and leans into the scratching with a happy groan. "I worry about her, though. She lets herself be led by her emotions, and that is not always a good thing."
His whine has a quizzical note. He does not quite understand her words, only that she speaks of his Talia.
Wynne chuckles. "She has you, at least, and that is a very good thing. And I think we're done." She pushes herself to her feet, grimacing in pain, and he watches her worriedly, but she smiles. "Go and rinse off."
He does not need to be told again, reaching the water in two great bounds. He rolls in the shallows, churning the water into a froth of foam, bubbles floating in the air, then plunges out into deeper water, paddling and ducking and splashing until the last of the suds are rinsed from him.
He leaves the water, bunching his muscles in preparation for a good, hard shake.
"Wait."
He obeys, thinking that Wynne wishes to move further away, as his Talia's mother would always do, but instead, she comes closer and crouches before him, holding his head in both her hands, a gleam in her eyes.
"How would you like to have a little fun with Morrigan?" she asks him with a sly smile.
His tail wags so hard that his whole hind end wags with it: Yes, yes, YES!
