Disclaimer: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.
Summary: A City-Elf/Bann Teagan collection of drabbles and one-shots based on a prompt table from an LJ-community. These will be more or less in chronological order with the faintest traces of added plot here and there. Will vary from drabble length to one-shot.
Author's note: Dearest gods, this one was hard to get out. I have a writer's block the size of the moon and these two idiots were just. being. ridiculous. It's silly because I can't manage to make them serious without pain. That said, tell me opinions, please. I mourn every time I stare at the hits page.
In this chapter: He expects her to be disagreeable. Hence, what comes around...
034.
When Loghain had found himself in the Landsmeet, he had not expected to be defeated. Not with words, not with actions and especially not with weapons. He was strong, stronger, especially stronger than that wisp of a pack rat with a wish to become more than what she was. He knew better than to allow himself to make hasty judgments – don't let anyone tell you that you don't belong. Ironic. He had been the one to tell her not to run, not to turn back. She hadn't, blasted luck, she hadn't.
When he had left the Landsmeet, he had not expected to be spared. To the victor go the spoils, to the victor belongs the leadership. He expected the same fate he destined her. Death maybe, a cell in the Fort she had so disdainfully avoided.
This, he didn't expect.
The blade she places in his hands is used, worn but with a special shine which indicates constant use and steady care. Scratched but scrubbed clean, not a spot of blood in its surface, the hilt carefully enfolded in new leather already soft from a hand's touch. He knows it, has seen it close enough to fear its touch, has felt it enough to grasp it with careful fingers and wary disposition.
The elf sits to the side without a comment, eyes unwavering in that manner which makes him believe she is not exactly there in the sanest meaning of the expression. There is no interruption and so he proceeds his analysis.
It is a beautiful sword, dragonbone and silverite underneath the handle, an inscription nested beneath, core of true family beyond kin and allow the fallen to rest. It feels sturdy and too light for his hand, used as he is to silverite and iron.
Again, he looks at the elf, watching as she pretends to stare at the landscape, at the old castle where they will arrive the following morning. She is waiting for a question, any kind of reply and Loghain is more than happy to allow her to wait. After all, the night is cold enough to freeze bones, even when those are protected by good quality armor. They have this game between them, enemies forced into bonds of kin and fellowship. She will stumble and he will be to claim the cause. He will trip and she will be right behind him, bitter amusement all over her expression.
It is expected, after all. They don't like each other. They don't stand each other. And moments of every day are spent making the other aware, uncomfortable and even disgusted.
"What is this all about?" He asks finally.
The night is cold and he is but a man.
"Your sword is chipped." She doesn't look away, glazes and uninterested. "I noticed earlier."
"This is yours." I don't want anything from you. Not after what she took. He took her dignity for a moment, she took his for the rest of his life, a life she has taken from him too. A servant, glorified but a servant is what he is. But, as always, the most important things cannot be said, weapons that cannot be given away so freely.
The elf takes a long time to reply, skin rippling with shivers at random moments, inching closer and closer to fire. A false step and she'll be in it. He does not feel like pushing. Of course. It would be far too underhanded.
"Alistair didn't understand. Didn't want to." The game board topples over, turns and falls to the ground. Again, unexpected. "He thinks that if I kill you then he'll stop mourning and hurting. He thinks that he can jump off the wagon and be safe while we all fight in his name. He thinks he can be accepted because of what he was born as and not what he is, that he's a king when, right now, he's little more than a pretender. A king has to rule. A good king has to rule fairly. He's no king." Blue eyes and this imitation of a smile that speaks of words halted.
Neither is your daughter, he can hear it without a word being said.
"You're here because I need a good warrior," she continues, fiddling with the straps of her armor like a five year old. "I need to know I can turn my back and won't find a dagger in it. And I may despise you but at least you'd go through the front. You'd kill me only if you knew I would see it." Yes and no. A good dagger makes wonders. "I cannot have you die without doing your task properly. That said, use that one. I think it taught me everything I could learn from it. I'll eventually find another."
Loghain allows himself to wonder just lightly, staring at the veridium sword which she persists in using. He doesn't get this woman.
"It might teach you something."
She's off before her parting words sound. And there's something in them, something that makes him think that the board is once again between them and a smile – truthful and amused – was shown as they were said. The former Teyrn grasps the sword once more, turns it in his hands, searching for something, maybe a message, maybe a bitter remark or a cheap shot.
It takes him one hour to find it, scribbled in a side where time has made its mark. Two sole words and her childish remark suddenly makes sense.
Topsider's honor.
And this, Loghain thinks dryly, he certainly expected.