As they waded back, Loghain gave Alistair a sideways look. "Remind me to make sure that proper swimming in on the list of skills you learn this summer. As the other Grey Wardens and I have found, there's places in the Deep Roads where it's turned out to be a necessary skill."
"Swimming? In the Deep Roads!?" Alistair exclaimed, giving him a startled look.
"Unfortunately yes. The dwarven construction has stood up remarkably well for how many centuries it's been abandoned to the darkspawn, but there are still places that have flooded, not to mention the presence of underground rivers and lakes in the natural caverns. In fact one of the places that's at least partially underwater is just down from that cave. The fact that darkspawn made it out that way tells me it likely hasn't flooded any worse than it was thirty-odd years ago. Most darkspawn don't swim well at all; they generally sink instead."
"Well, that is good news," Alistair said, and made a face.
Loghain grinned briefly. "It is, if there's some place you can swim to and the darkspawn can't. A pity the concept of wet moats never really caught on in Ferelden; most of our keeps and castles are on rises with commanding views instead. And even if you do have a water barrier, there's always the problem of the bridge being a possible point of weakness anyway, as Redcliffe proved during the Blight year."
"Really? I hadn't heard about that. What happened?"
"That's right, you'd left the country by then, hadn't you," Loghain said, and frowned as they walked up the beach. "We arrived at Redcliffe for the gathering of the armies only to find the place had been invaded by a small force of darkspawn earlier that same day. There'd been enough warning for most of the villagers to get to safety, though sadly not all made it. And the darkspawn had crossed the bridge before anyone could be found who remembered how to collapse the centre span of it, it not being something that Eamon had bothered making sure his guards knew how to do, foolishly enough."
Alistair bit his lip, hearing in the tone of Loghain's voice just how little good opinion Loghain had of Eamon's intelligence. He checked over his armour, wiping off some patches of dried blood still adhering to the sun-heated metal, and pulled on the padded leggings so he'd at least feel more dressed than a pair of wet smalls made him. Though by the look of it, the leggings were going to need a thorough washing, having caught at least a few splashes of darkspawn blood.
"Arl Eamon, despite having the better part of an entire army holed up there at Redcliffe, had made no effort to kill the darkspawn, so our party ended up clearing the darkspawn out of the village and the castle courtyard. And then when we went indoors, we found the Arl and the others just standing around in full armour, apparently still debating over who was in charge and should go do something about the darkspawn or some such foolishness. Solona was livid, though she didn't really show it," Loghain explained, as he pulled on his own leggings, have given his own armour much the same examination and minimal start at cleaning as Alistair had. "She just smiled a lot, but you could see the anger in and around her eyes, if you knew what to look for."
Alistair nodded. He knew exactly the face Loghain meant; he'd seen Solona make it so many times during their adventures, holding back anger and forcing herself to smile, be diplomatic and charming... He'd expected it to be the expression he saw when he looked at her that last time, before turning and leaving the Landsmeet chamber, and her. But it hadn't been; her face had been blank instead, smooth and emotionless, and then she'd turned away, without ever meeting his eyes.
He felt a strange tightness in his chest, and lost track of what Loghain was saying, just standing there with his armour in his hands. He felt strangely aware of everything around him; the heat of the sunlight on his shoulders, the prickle of salt on his skin as the water dried, the sounds of the surf, the cry of a passing seagull, the faint scent of sun-heated oiled metal rising from the piece of armour in his hands. He swallowed thickly, and bent down, scooping up the rest of his gear, and silently followed Loghain across the beach, and up the path to where the soldiers had the camp mostly up already.
It was only when they reached their tent, close to Captain Dorn's as it always was, that he realized Loghain had stopped talking at some point, and looked up to find the man frowning thoughtfully at him. He expected a reprimand for his inattentiveness.
"Find me some clothes, then clean your armour and mine," Loghain said, voice unexpectedly gentle. "Then check on our horses. I need to go talk with Captain Dorn. We'll be going into Gwaren later, you and I, though likely not until tomorrow."
Alistair nodded, and put down his armour, then went in search of clean clothes and cloths and armour polish.
Loghain glanced sideways at Alistair. The boy had been uncharacteristically quiet since the day before; inattentive as well, his eyes unfocused and his thoughts clearly elsewhere. When given an order he carried it out, quietly and mechanically. He'd have worried, if he hadn't seen Maric in similar moods in the past; working through the aftermath of some decision he'd disliked taking, or dealing with some particularly haunting memory after events had raised it.
He guessed it might have been his own talk about either Arl Eamon or Solona that had done it. And more likely the girl, he doubting that Alistair had any particularly haunting memories of Eamon. So he gave him some space, and left him to work it out on his own.
It was a nice morning for a ride along the coast; cool, but sunny, with an offshore breeze. He found himself thinking wistfully of times long-gone, when he was young and newly married, and he and Celia would often go for rides or walks together along the coast, picnicking in some secluded cove before returning to Gwaren and their duty of Teyrn and Teyrna. She'd never really taken her title very seriously; it was all too unreal to her, born and raised a mere cabinet-maker's daughter and happier with a carving tool or gardening implement in hand than doing needlework or whatever else it was that noblewomen were supposed to spend their time doing. Not that it had always seemed entirely real to him either, at least at first, but all the duties and responsibilities associated with the position had quickly dispelled any doubt he might have felt over whether or not he was really the Teyrn of Gwaren.
Celia had been well-loved by their people; the townsfolk had considered their marriage to be a great romance, like something out of a fairy tale. And at times it had almost seemed that way to him as well, especially coming home tired from labouring with words or hands or both at once to rebuild the city, much of it destroyed during the rebellion, and finding her hard at work turning the old manor into a comfortable home for the two of them. He'd find her busily canning fruit in the kitchen with the cook and his scullions, out working in the gardens she so loved, or sneaking off to the workshop he'd built for her when she could find time to work on the projects dearest to her own heart. They'd been good years; happy years, for her, and he supposed for himself as well.
Until word came that Rowan was dying. And he raced off, leaving wife, young daughter, and teyrnir behind in his race to Denerim, and then arriving far too late anyway, of course. Truthfully it had been too late for years at that point. And yet it was one of the great regrets of his life; that he'd never had a chance to tell Rowan good-bye. That he still, after all those years, loved her, and yet had never told her so.
It seemed one of the great patterns of his life; that those he loved most, he lost, without ever having a chance to tell them good-bye, or how much they meant to him. Mother, father, Rowan, then Celia, falling prey to some sudden sickness of her own just a few years later, while he was occupied in Denerim, with another fruitless race to be there and another failure at the end of it. Maric, lost at sea, no body ever found. Cailan, lost at Ostagar. Though at least Solona had let him know that Cailan's body had been recovered and properly burnt, small comfort that such news was.
Such thoughts had him as distracted and sombre as Alistair by the time the city came in sight. He felt a familiar lift of his heart at seeing its so-familiar walls and roofs, the breakwater protecting the long piers where the fishing boats and trading ships docked, the clock tower on the old merchant's hall and the even higher peak of the chantry. And perched atop a cliff overlooking the town, the old manor, as much a proper keep now as close to thirty years of work could make it, surrounded by the high walls he'd insisted on building, and which Celia had insisted must be more than just utilitarian structures, pleasant to look upon as well as serving a proper defensive purpose, if he was going to, as she put it, spoil her view. Foolishness, he'd called it, and she'd just smiled and laughed, and talked him into doing it anyway, to please her.
Maker, but he missed her still. She'd had the gift of being able to make him smile. He regretted... so much. But never would he regret choosing to marry her, no matter what others had said about her unsuitability. He'd never wanted to be a noble; he'd chosen to marry for comfort, not advantage.
He brought his thoughts back to the present as they neared the city gate, where he exchanged greetings with the pair of guards on duty, before leading his small group into Gwaren. He'd brought the new recruits along; Wilf wanted to see his family, and the hunters all had belongings they wished to retrieve. He was momentarily thankful that they were hunters, and that there weren't encumbrances like a house to worry about.
The hunters went their own way once they'd entered the city, Lem heading off in one direction and Gabe and Bekka in another, all to meet up later at the manor where they'd be staying, guests of his daughter. A courtesy he hadn't taken advantage of before, this being the first time he'd returned to Gwaren since being made a Grey Warden and stripped of all titles. It felt very strange to ride through the streets, to greet and be greeted by people he'd known and ruled for so many years, and to know that all this was no longer his. Not his lands, not his people, and no longer his to worry about apart from within the context of whatever threat to them any lingering darkspawn might represent.
And yet... he felt a certain degree of relief at that realization. He still cared greatly for the people here, some of them even on a personal level, not merely as the man who'd once been their Teyrn, but their problems were no longer things that he had to worry about and solve. That was now Anora's headache to deal with, and would continue to be until such time as she passed the title on to someone else, either by choice or once she eventually died herself. Or some other misfortune came to pass, such as another Orlesian invasion. Or even a qunari invasion; Chasind legends spoke of a village of giants that had existed in the wilds at some point hundreds of years ago; where qunari had once been, they might yet some day return. But none of that was his concern any more, other than in the abstract.
He and Alistair accompanied Wilf to the mill, a large structure on the north side of town, built near the base of a bluff where a small stream tumbled down to feed a large pond, the overflow of which drove the water-wheel and thereby turned the gears inside the mill. There wasn't a great deal of grain grown around here, not like up north in the bannorn, but what was grown here, and most of what was imported, were processed for further use here, whole grains being easier to ship and capable of being stored for longer before they began to go stale, at least assuming they were properly protected from things like damp and heat.
The mill was grinding today; corn, by the smell of it. Wilf's sister Aretha – Reet, to anyone she liked enough to allow the use of her nickname – was sitting on a stool by the bagging chute, watching as fine golden cornmeal poured out into a tight-woven canvas sack. A muscular young man was pouring whole dried kernels of corn into the chute that led to the grinding wheels. Aretha glanced up as they entered, then smiled happily as she spotted Wilf.
"Tim! Shut 'er down!" she called out loudly, to be heard over the rumbling of all the gears. Timothy looked up, saw the three of them, and put down his sack, then went over and yanked on a lever, disengaging the drive wheel from the rest of the structure. The giant gears groaned to a halt. As soon as things stopped moving, Reet leapt to her feet and hurried over to give Wilf a hug, little slowed by her bulging belly.
"You're looking well," she told Wilf, smiling happily, then turned to Loghain and Alistair. "Teyr... Arl Loghain, it's good to see you again. I hope Wilf hasn't been being any trouble to you?"
Loghain smiled, hearing the anxious note in her voice. "Quite the opposite. He's proving to be very useful as a Grey Warden. While I'm sorry that he had no choice about becoming one, I'm quite pleased to have him and that mallet of his in our ranks."
Reet smiled, looking happy and relieved. "That's good," she said, her hand tightening in a brief, approving squeeze on Wilf's arm. "That's very good."
Loghain nodded. "I thought I should come and talk to you and your father, and answer any questions the pair of you might have about what Wilf will be doing now. And of course Wilf wanted to see you both, and pick up his belongings."
"Of course," she agreed. "Why don't we all go next door, and I'll make us some tea."
Loghain smiled. "Thank you, that would be pleasant," he agreed.
Next door was the miller's house, far enough from the mill that the gears would just be a background noise when the mill was running, not the rumbling din it was in the mill itself. Old Wilmot had noticed the silence when the mill stopped running, of course, and come out on the porch, leaning heavily on the cane that he'd needed ever since he'd slipped and had his foot crushed between two gears some years ago. He looked pleased when he spotted Wilf, a grin lighting his face, and then startled and more than a little nervous when he noticed Loghain among those accompanying his son.
Reet took charge and soon had them all indoors and seated on benches and stools and an upturned barrel around the kitchen table, while she made tea, and Wilf proudly told his father about everything he'd been up to since he'd become a warden, including a reasonably accurate description of the fight the day before, and how he'd hit the ogre with his mallet "just like re-seating the third gear when it starts to creep". They'd all had several cups of tea and a large quantity of cookies by the time he finished.
"It sounds like you're doing well in the wardens, then," Wilmot said.
"He is," Loghain assured the old man.
Wilmot nodded, then frowned slightly, and darted a look at Wilf. "Wilf, why don't you go gather up your things while I talk some more with your commander."
Wilf nodded and rose to his feet, Reet rising as well. "I'll help him," she said. "And then I'd best get back out to the mill. Corn won't grind itself and Mistress Peggety will be by wanting to pick that up later today."
As soon as the two were out of the room, Wilmot gave Loghain a very sharp look. "Is he really all right in the wardens? He's a good boy, but you and I both know he's not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer."
Loghain smiled. "He's fine in the wardens; I'd even go so far as to say that he'll likely do very well among us. He's already making friends, he follows orders well, and he keeps his head in a fight. We're far more concerned about whether or not someone can hold up in a fight against darkspawn than how intelligent they are, and Wilf is very good; he was no more frightened of that ogre than he is of the millworks, just kept his distance, stayed calm, and used his mallet where and when it would do the most good. Or harm, as the case might be."
"He's deadly with that mallet," Alistair spoke up. "He fought beside me for a while yesterday and I didn't have any worries about how well he could handle the darkspawn. That ogre was trying to squeeze me in half when he hit it; he may well have saved my life. "
That made Wilmot beam, pleased to hear his son praised.
Loghain frowned, and leaned forward. "Now, you and I both know that fighting darkspawn isn't exactly the safest of occupations, though all jobs have their hazards," he pointed out.
"Aye, I know that well," Wilmot said, tapping the knee of his damaged leg. "I know he might be killed. I could wish he'd not sickened, and been able to stay on here at the mill; Reet and her Tim would have seen to it he was looked after proper, even once I'm gone. Though it was a good thing he did, trying to save those youngsters, and I'm proud of him for that."
Loghain nodded. "I can't promise you that he'll have a long life; any of us could die tomorrow, and being a Grey Warden is far from a safe occupation. But the Grey Wardens look after their own, and I can promise you that for as long as he lives, Wilf will never have to worry about having a roof over his head, food on the table, and pocket money to spend. He's proud to be one of us; he understands that it means he's doing something useful, that protects people from things like what happened here."
Wilmot nodded slowly. "He looks happy enough, I'll agree. And as long as he's looked after, I suppose I'm happy for him. I guess he'll be going off up north now, to where that keep you have is?"
"Vigil's Keep, yes, though he might not remain there. We're talking of starting a second establishment down here in the south, so we can cover the country better, if we can get enough wardens to man it. But for now, yes, he'll be going north. We've people who can read a letter to him, or help him write one, so that he can stay in touch, and he'll have time off every now and then, if he wants to come visit."
Wilmot smiled. "He may be slow, but he has his letters. The wife taught him and Reet, before she died. She kept the books for me, since I never knew more than making my mark and keeping tallies."
"Then I'll be sure he knows that it's all right for him to write to you and Reet, and has writing supplies. And I'll write to you and Reet myself, if you'd like, and let you know how he's doing," Loghain offered.
Wilmot nodded. "I'd appreciate that. I'm sure there's things he wouldn't think to tell us that we might like to know."
Wilf and Reet came back in, Wilf carrying a wicker chest in his arms, the lid tied on with rope, and a full pack on his back. He said his farewells to his father and Reet, and promised to write, and to come visit and see the baby once it had been born, and then they set off together to the manor.
"You'll have to sort through your things before we head out again," Loghain told Wilf. "We can send most of your things to Vigil's Keep with the next messenger I send north; you'll just need a few clothes. And while we're here in town I suppose I should see about purchasing some armour for you and the other three to wear; something good enough to use until we're back at Vigil's Keep and can get you outfitted in proper Grey Warden armour."
Wilf looked worriedly at the two of them "I won't have to wear heavy stuff like what you're wearing, will I?" he asked anxiously. "I don't know that I could swing my mallet well in that."
Loghain smiled reassuringly at Wilf. "Not unless you'd like to; you'll find it's not as confining as it looks. But I think you'd be best off sticking to lighter armour than this anyway. More like what Nathaniel and Brann are wearing; something you can move quickly and easily in."
Wilf nodded, looking happier. "That sounds good," he said.
As they turned onto the road leading up to the manor house they spotted someone not far ahead of them; Lem, trudging along with a pack on his back almost as big as he was, a waist strap and a forehead band making it easier to carry.
Loghain hailed him, and the hunter turned around, smiling when he saw them. "That's quite the load," Loghain observed as they caught up with him.
Lem nodded. "Gave away most of my gear to a friend, since I won't be needing it any more. This is just my clothes and things. A few keepsakes I've managed to hold on to over the years, like a quilt my mother made."
Loghain told him the same thing he'd told Wilf, about sending some of it north.
Lem smiled. "That's just fine with me. I'll get it all sorted this evening."
The manor looked much the same as it had the last time Loghain had seen it, a pleasant structure built of large blocks of the pale cream-coloured limestone so common around here, with a roof of blue slate tile, and a forecourt paved with slate flagstones. Flowering vines climbed the pillars to either side of the front entrance, cuttings from the vines that had bracketed the door of the house Celia had been born and raised in. He was pleased to see them in bloom; it had been years since he'd last been in Gwaren at the right time of year for that. Their scent brought back memories, of when he'd first met and began courting Celia. Not that he'd realized at first that that was what he was doing; it was only when her father had asked him one day if he was at all serious about her that he realized why he'd been seeking out her company so often.
The door opened as they crossed the courtyard, the seneschal – once his man, and now Anora's – stepping out to greet their arrival.
"Arl Loghain," he said, bowing deeply. "Queen Anora sent word that you and some of your wardens might be guesting with us for a while. Is this them?"
"Seneschal Liam," Loghain said, nodding in acknowledgement. "These are three of them; I'm sure you already know Wilf. This is Lem, and this is my squire, Alistair. There are two more coming – a married couple, Gabe and Bekka."
Liam nodded. "I will see rooms are supplied for all. I assume you'll want your squire in with you?" And at Loghain's nod, "Good. I'll see that a bed is set up in the foyer of your rooms for him."
Loghain blinked. "Foyer? I need no more than one of the regular guest rooms..."
Liam smiled. "Anora insists. She gave very specific instructions as to which rooms were to be put aside for your use if you ever visited, and how they were to be decorated. She'd have my hide if I put you anywhere else."
Loghain blinked again. "Which rooms am I in, then?" he asked cautiously.
"The garden rooms, she's decided to call them; what was Teyrn Celia's sitting room."
That made him draw a long, deep breath. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I know the way, if you would like to show Lem and Wilf where they'll be staying while we're here?"
Liam agreed, and led the way into the house, taking Lem and Wilf off upstairs to where the regular guest rooms where, while Loghain walked through the manor to the back, nodding in greeting to a couple of servants he passed, too stunned to speak. Celia's sitting room... it had always been a quiet room, Celia not given much to entertaining. If she wanted to see her friends, she would change into simpler clothing and walk down the hill, and spend an hour or an afternoon with them, much as she had before she'd married him and become Teyrna. But he and she had sometimes spent a quiet afternoon in there together, Celia drawing up ideas for whatever project she was currently working on, Loghain reading, or answering correspondence, or the two of them talking together. It had a row of large windows overlooking her flower gardens, and to one side was a short hallway leading to a withdrawing room, a small bathing chamber, and a door to the terrace outside the windows. Those and the small foyer separating the sitting room from the main hallway made him suspect that the room had originally been a small ballroom, before a previous Teyrn had expanded the house and added a larger one.
He supposed it had made sense to turn the trio of rooms into a guest suite. With no one in regular residence here, the sitting room would have sat empty and unused; as guest rooms, it might at least see use on the rare occasions when Anora visited Gwaren and brought a train of guests of any real size with her.
The foyer looked much as it always had; mostly empty, except for a cabinet against one wall and a chair against the other. There was certainly more than enough room to fit in a bed and whatever else was necessary for Alistair. The sitting room itself... he stopped, sucking in a deep breath and then holding it, eyes widening as he looked around.
The walls had been recently repainted, though still in the same pale yellow Celia had chosen so many years ago, the drapes framing the windows the same mossy green, though they were clearly of newer cloth, replacing the old sun-faded drapes. Celia's desk and desk chair were gone, but the chairs they'd sat in when not working were still there, moved from pride of place by the windows to over near the fireplace. There was a small table with four chairs by the windows, rather rustic in style but with beautifully carved details, the seat cushions worked by hand in a pattern of green leaves and small white flowers; all Celia's work, that she'd made to occupy the private dining room in their quarters upstairs. Against one wall were the desk, chair, and bookcase that had once occupied his private study, also Celia's work. Odds and ends of things that had been precious to either himself or Celia were scattered around the room; the bow he'd used during the rebellion rested on pegs set in the wall above his desk, a wood carving made by Celia's father hung over the fireplace, a collection of sea-polished stones and seashells that Celia had gathered during their walks were spread out decoratively along the mantle.
Seeing all of that made him less surprised when he walked into what had been the withdrawing room and was now a neatly laid out bedroom, furnished with the bed he and Celia had shared, and the clothes-press and chest and bedside tables that went with it; a wedding gift from Celia's father, carved by his own father and used by Celia's grandparents all of their lives. He remembered how she'd teared up when she'd first seen the dark wood furniture in its place in their room, and found himself having to pause and swallow once or twice before entering the room.
The quilt on the bed was one worked by her mother; the rag-rug beside it one Celia and Anora had made together; the wrought candlesticks on the bedside tables had been made by a cousin of Celia's, a blacksmith. Everywhere he looked was something else he recognized; something else he remembered. Reminders of his years here, and especially of his years with Celia. He was touched that Anora had had these rooms so obviously decorated just for his use; he couldn't imagine her putting any casual guest in this setting, with these particular items of furniture and treasured keepsakes.
A sound startled him, and made him turn; Alistair, opening the clothes-press to put away Loghain's belongings.
He left Alistair to it, and went to sit in Celia's garden, wanting some privacy while he dealt with the thoughts and emotions that returning here had raised.