Loghain stood by the railing, watching the passing shoreline. They should be docking in Amaranthine in another hour or two, the captain had told him. He glanced at the dwarf standing nearby. "How's the boy doing?"
Oghren grimaced. "About what you'd expect; too nauseous to eat or drink much of anything, even if he had any appetite. Can't sleep, but too depressed and exhausted to do much more than lie there and moan. About what I was like, only not anywhere near so bad, since he hasn't been at it as long. He'll live, he just won't thank any of us for it for a while yet. If ever."
Loghain smiled slightly. "As I recall you weren't exactly full of thanks yourself."
Oghren grimaced. "Maybe not, but I still know I'm better off now than I was before. Give him time; maybe in a year or three he'll start to see it that way too. Once he's got enough time and distance to have some perspective on it."
Loghain snorted. "Distance isn't something I can give him. And precious little time, too, most likely. I wish we'd found him sooner."
"Wouldn't have done us much good to have found him during all that business with the talking darkspawn," Oghren pointed out.
"No, maybe not... but I still resent the wasted time. Still, the past is not something I can change," he said tiredly.
Oghren nodded. "I better go check on him again. Get him changed and ready to go ashore."
Loghain nodded acknowledgement, and turned his attention back to the passing landscape, feeling happier to know that his boots would soon be on Fereldan soil once more.
The boy looked just as bad as Loghain had expected; skin pale and clammy, with great dark circles under his eyes. He walked unsteadily – more so than could be explained simply be being on shipboard for a handful of days – and there was a slight tremor visible in his hands. He was also visibly nervous, head and eyes jerking around at every little sound or movement, of which there were many on the crowded waterfront, his eyes wide and almost frightened. Loghain grimaced, and turned away, knowing all too well just exactly how bad the boy likely felt at the moment, and how little he probably wanted any witnesses to his distress.
Though he didn't allow his pity to overcome sensible caution; he'd ordered Cale and Edrick to stay close to Alistair until they were all safely back at the Keep, and he was sure the men would do so. Cale, once a blacksmith before darkspawn had killed his family, was bigger and brawnier than Alistair had been even at the peak of his condition; a peak he had slid some considerable distance from in his years of dissipation. And Edrick, though not as large, was the veteran of many a nasty bar brawl before an accidentally broken neck had landed him in jail, accused of murder. What he lacked in brawn compared to Cale he more than made up with in brains and dirty tricks. Between the two of them and Oghren, it was highly unlikely that Alistair would go anywhere but where Loghain wished him too.
The walk across the crowded city to the stable where their mounts waited was tedious, even with most people hastily clearing the way for the uniformed wardens. Loghain allowed himself a slight smile, and nodded gravely to those who recognized him and called out his name. He was a hero here, both for saving the city during the Plague Year after the Blight War, and for all of his work as their Arl ever since. Yet he'd never grown to like the adulation they gave him; it was an emotion he distrusted, having seen before how easily it could turn to dislike and distrust, even outright hatred. He'd been a hero before, after all.
He was pleased to be reunited with his horse, a rather fine gelding imported from the north that had been a present from his daughter; as hard as horses were to come by in Ferelden, it was a rather princely gift. A pity he'd been cut; by Ferelden standards he'd have made a good breeding stallion, but the standards of Ferelden were of necessity rather lower than that of places such as the Free Marches, the Fereldans having lost most of their own horses during the years of the occupation and rebellion. The Orlesian invaders had, rightly, considered them to be valuable in war, and hence had killed off any local horses than came into their hands, apart from a few particularly well-bred ones they'd either taken for their own use, or shipped west to Orlesian markets.
Most of the horses he and his wardens had – and they had very few – tended therefor to be of very low quality; nags and culls, mostly geldings, and a handful of mares, only a couple still young enough to breed. In horse-poor Ferelden, even these poor beasts were grounds for jealousy, most people having to make do with shank's mare or ox-drawn carts.
It wasn't long until they had their mounts tacked up, their excess gear stowed on the pair of pack mules they'd also left here, and were able to mount up and go. It was too late in the day for them to make it all the way to the keep before dark, but Loghain felt that he'd rather make camp partway there than stay overnight in the city. And it was pleasant, to be back in his own lands, riding home.
Though clearly not as pleasant for young Alistair; not too far out of the city they had to stop long enough for him to dismount and vomit in the bushes, the movement of riding clearly disagreeing with his already sensitive stomach. After the third time it happened, Loghain ordered him to walk, with Cale and Edrick keeping him company.
"We'll go on ahead and set up camp at the usual spot," he told them, and then rode off with Oghren, Jowan and the pack mules. It wasn't very much further – less than an hour's ride at a decent pace - before they reached the spot he'd meant, a small clearing in a copse to one side of the road, by the foot of a tall rock-face. Water trickled out of a crack in the rock, outflow of some underground source, and gathered in a small pool by the base of it before overflowing into a brook not much wider than his outspread hand and flowing away downhill. A fire-pit ringed with soot-blackened stones stood to one side, wood already chopped and stacked to dry under the shelter of some tall pines at the clearing's edge. One of many such spots along the warden's most regularly travelled routes where such could be found, one of the local farmers or woodsmen paid to see to it that the stack of wood was topped up regularly.
He'd considered more formal shelters – small cabins, kept stocked with food and blankets and the like in addition to firewood – but had to reluctantly agree that such would merely end up a target for thieves, or home to squatters, if left unguarded. And it wasn't as if this arling was as unsettled as the Teyrnir of Gwaren had been; there were few places in his lands that weren't within a couple hours walk of some village, town, or cluster of farms. Shelter and supplies could always be found in a pinch.
Oghren laid a fire and started hauling out supplies to make their dinner while Loghain and Jowan saw to putting up the tents. Something Loghain had done so many times in his life he barely needed to pay attention to the work, his body almost automatically going through the motions of spreading canvas, raising poles, pounding in pegs, tying off ropes and the like. Jowan had a frown of concentration on his face as he worked, and occasionally muttered or swore to himself. Loghain had two of the three tents up before Jowan had even finished one, and shooed the mage off to go help Oghren with the cooking while he finished raising the third tent himself.
By the time their missing wardens finally arrived, Alistair looking foot-sore and tired, the pot hung over the fire was already giving off good smells, the three wardens sitting at their ease. Alistair sat down in what was close to a collapse, not even bothering to make use of any of the log seats by the fire. Loghain frowned, then looked to Jowan, and nodded his head toward the boy. The mage hastily rose and went over to check on him. Loghain carefully closed his ears to whatever response the boy made, aware only of the surly tone of it.
Jowan returned to the fireside a couple of minutes later. "Blisters," he said. "Feet and, err... saddle-sores. I've healed them and put him to sleep for now; he's exhausted. I'll wake him again when it's time to eat."
Loghain nodded, and dismissed any further worry about Alistair from his mind; his men had the boy well in hand.