Morrigan turned up her nose, pointedly ignoring the older mage seated beside her. She would far rather have been sharing the seat with Arren, but he was sitting by Zevran on the centre seat, that lummox Alistair sitting in the bilges between them, frowning and gently prodding at the bandage wrapped around his head.
"Alistair, if you disturb that bandage one more time I am going to give you such a pinch..."
"Sorry, Wynne," the warrior said, looking temporarily abashed and quickly withdrawing his hand. He turned to look up at the slowly darkening sky. "How long were we in there, anyway?"
Arren glanced up at the sky, reading the position of the moon, she assumed by the direction of his gaze. "One day," he said. "Though it certainly felt like a lot longer, didn't it?"
Zevran shuddered. "You have no idea," he said fervently. "It felt like sheer torture at times..."
"Oh, please," Morrigan said in a bored tone of voice. "All you had to do was sit around down in the apprentice dormitories with the surviving mages and apprentices while the rest of us cleared the place of blood mages, abominations, possessed templars, and demons..."
"Exactly my point, my dear," he said, giving her a toothy smile. "Bored and surrounded by children, and several admittedly quite delectable mages as well, but with no chance to get to know them better. Every time I thought I was about to convince one of the mages to go off with me for a little mutual comforting, one of the brats would start howling again, or want a story, or complain about how hungry they were, or ask how much longer until the doors would open. Torture!"
Morrigan snorted, then smiled slightly. "I will allow that being around children for so long might indeed be considered torture of a kind, to those not used to their company."
Zevran shuddered theatrically. "You understand, I don't have anything in particular against children – I was one myself, after all – but I much prefer the company of adults. Especially if they're consenting adults."
Wynne harrumphed, and Arren hid a smile.
"We're, err... back to shore now..." Carroll called hesitantly from the front of the boat as he reached out and caught at one of the pilings of the dock.
"Good!" Alistair exclaimed, and leaned forward to catch at the dock as well, the shift of his weight making the small boat pitch dangerously. Mouse, up at the front, yelped and scrambled out, making it rock even more.
"Alistair!" Wynne snapped. "Sit still!"
The man froze. Morrigan hid a smile, and glanced up to find Arren doing the same. She might not particularly care for the elderly mage, but the woman certainly had a way with the ex-templar. It was the tone of voice, Morrigan suspected – half grandmotherly and half commanding officer. She supposed it would continue to amuse her as long as the mage didn't think to attempt using such a tone with her – she didn't take orders from anyone, least of all interfering old women. Well, apart from mother, of course, she mentally corrected. But that was Flemeth, not some old baggage of a circle mage. Flemeth had ways of making her displeasure felt if you crossed her.
Once the boat had steadied they all disembarked in turn, then made their way to the inn. They found Leliana sitting alone in the bar, a barely touched glass of wine on the table in front of her. Her face brightened with a welcoming smile as soon as she saw them.
"I am so pleased to see you returned!" she exclaimed, and went on to gush, in a barely-lowered voice, about how dreadful the inn was – the rooms too small and cold, the food terrible, the wine worse, and there being no entertainment of an evening. "Not at all like an Orlesian inn!" she finished with a disdainful sniff.
"Yes, well, this is Ferelden, not Orlais," Alistair pointed out dryly, and moved off to thump down in a seat at a nearby table and loudly order a plate of stew and some ale. Morrigan concealed a smile.
Arren went off to talk to the innkeeper about rooms for the night for the whole party, and the rest of them sat down with Alistair and ordered food and drink as well. The stew was no worse than their own cooking produced, and if anything was better seasoned, the gravy thick with onions and herbs. Most of the vegetables were even still identifiable, not cooked down to a grey-brown mush as it quickly became in their own pot.
It being too early to retire to their beds, the others decided to remain in the common room, sitting around talking and drinking. Morrigan had had more than enough of other people's company over the last day and a half, however, and quickly found an excuse to leave. She sighed in relief as she slipped out of the inn and walked across the clearing to the lakeside. Far out in the lake she could see the rowboat sculling jerkily along, doubtless that foolish templar Carroll returning to the tower after delivering them to shore and a message to Kester. She could hear occasional mumbling and swearing coming from inside the boathouse off to her left, and judged it was likely Kester preparing his ferry to be put back in service the next day.
She had been sitting on the rocky shore for some little time, watching the sunset and enjoying the relative peacefulness of the evening, when she heard footsteps approaching. She glanced back, and smiled slightly when she saw it was Arren.
"I think you have the right idea," he told her with a smile. "Getting away from everyone else for a while. Mind if I join you?"
"Not at all," she said.
He remained on his feet, but moved to stand nearby, arms folded, looking out over the lake and watching the sunset as well. "We still have legends about this lake, you know," he said after a while. "Though few Dalish have seen it in the long centuries since we retreated into the forests of this land. It was considered a place of great natural beauty once."
"I think it is still beautiful," Morrigan said, turning her head to nod at the fading sunset reflected in the waters, the great tower rising against the darkening sky, as stars appeared one by one.
"Pretty enough," Arren agreed. "But even more beautiful once, when the forests still lapped its shores and a great city lay at the river mouth to the north, where the immortal elves lived for endless centuries. Very little has come down to us of that time, but a song about the beauty of the towered city on the lake is one of them."
"What happened to it?"
Arren gave her a crooked smile, shrugged one shoulder. "What happened to the elves everywhere... humans came. The Avvar, their predecessors... it doesn't matter. The world changed, and that city's towers fell long ago, in darkness and bloodshed. Nothing remains of it now except a few tumbled stones buried in the marshes and fens between here and the Wakening Sea. This became human lands. The forests retreated, as men cut them for wood, cleared them for fields. The lake, once known for its beauty, is now considered by the Dalish to be a dark and fell place, its waters haunted by beasts bred by the malice and magics of man."
Morrigan nodded slowly. "I have heard my mother speak of such," she agreed. "Of the beasts in the deeps that make this a dangerous lake for boating or swimming. Of the strange things fishermen find caught in their nets sometimes."
Arren nodded in agreement, then glanced almost shyly at Morrigan. "I was thinking of taking a walk along the shore, before I saw you already out here. Would you like to join me?"
She smiled, and rose to her own feet. "Why not," she said agreeably.
They headed off together to the north, having to work their way around the ruined causeway but then having a long unbroken stretch of shoreline to stroll along. They walked along in companionable silence, a careful distance apart, until the lights of the inn were almost out of sight in the distance behind them. Arren finally slowed and turning to look out over the lake again. He took a few steps closer to the lake, stopping with the toes of his boots just inches from the water's edge. It was full dark now, the lake a smooth dark mirror reflecting the star-filled sky above, the tower of Kinloch Hold visible only as a greater darkness, silhouetted against the star-filled sky.
He sang, then, not in a full voice as the bard would have, but almost under his breath, an eerily beautiful song, soft and sad. He broke off after a while, darted her a sidewise look. "That's all of it I remember. Doubtless it was sung quite differently by the immortal elves; it was a song of celebration once. Now it is only ever sung as a dirge, a memorial to the beauty that has passed."
Morrigan nodded, then moved to stand beside him, looking out over the lake as well. She hesitated, then reached out and took his hand in hers. He gave her a startled look, then shyly smiled, and laced his fingers into hers. They stood there a long time, just watching the lake, before finally turning away and walking back to the inn and their companions.