Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.
Rating: T
Spoilers: Takes place ten years or more after the events of Dragon Age: Origins, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for Origins, Awakening, and Dragon Age II as well as the novels The Stolen Throne and The Calling.
Chapter Four: Fletching and Kvetching
"What are you doing, grandfather?" Duncan asked, interestedly.
"Fletching," Loghain said, not intending to sound curt, as he wrapped eagle feathers to an ironwood shaft.
"But why?"
"Because I was running low on arrows."
"You could take some from the palace armory," Duncan pointed out. "Or buy them at the market."
"I prefer to do it myself." He continued his task in his steady way, and the boy pulled up a stool and perched himself precariously upon it to watch.
"Why do you wind the feathers around the shaft so?" Duncan asked. "That's not the way the royal fletcher does it."
"Which is why I prefer to do it myself," Loghain said, with a wry smile. He saw the boy was curious so he explained. "It's called rifling, lad - makes the arrow spin as it flies so that it goes truer and further. The Dalish do it so, which is one of the reasons why they're such deadly archers."
"Have you known any Dalish, grandfather?" the boy asked.
"I've encountered a few of them. Can't say I know anything much about them except their arrow-craft, and through painful experience at that." His smile broadened a trifle as he remembered the arrow that had gone almost all the way through his shoulder decades before.
"Father uses a crossbow, when he uses a bow at all," Duncan said. "He says its better than a longbow."
"Your father wears plate armor," Loghain said. "When I wear plate, I prefer a crossbow myself - a longbow requires more dexterity and range of motion to use properly. A crossbow also is not dependent upon the strength of the archer but upon the strength of the bowstring and the mechanism used for firing it, and doesn't require as much training to use well. Despite that, I still prefer a longbow when I have the space to use one. My father taught me to shoot, as his father taught him, and there's an involvement to drawing a bow and firing an arrow that I don't feel when shooting a bolt, and I'm never as accurate with a crossbow as a longbow. It's also very much slower to load a bolt and crank the bow than it is to knock and arrow and fire."
"Are you a good shot, grandfather?"
They were sitting beneath the low wooden roof that protected the preparation table and weapon racks in the training courtyard. Loghain picked up his longbow, knocked a freshly-fletched arrow, and fired - straight into the center of the head of one of the stuffed men set up as targets on the far side of the open space, a perfect shot at three times the distance the royal archers stood when they trained, and from a seated position. "Fair," Loghain said.
Watching from a narrow balcony two floors above, Alistair saw the shot and heard his son's excited shout. He ran a hand through his short blond hair and grumbled aloud.
"My son is lost to me."
"Nonsense," Anora said, not looking up from the papers she was reading.
"He is," Alistair insisted. "He doesn't care to spend time with me anymore, your father is far too interesting, with his arrows and his…Archdemon-slaying."
"Father is new to Duncan, and unknown, and like any child he is curious and no doubt anxious to win his regard. He hasn't abandoned you, Alistair, and he'll come back around once the new wears off."
Alistair continued to grumble under his breath for a time, and like a wise woman Anora chose to simply ignore him. "At least I have my daughter," he said at last in an audible tone, for Baby Anora still steadfastly refused to acknowledge her grandfather. Anora did not rise to the bait, and Alistair subsided.
Later that night, when the whole family was gathered in the nursery to talk and watch the children play, Baby Anora decided to assert her superiority over all other living beings and her utter disregard for sleep. Her defiant screams were sufficient to keep her nurse at bay when that long-suffering servant came to put her to bed, and even her mother found it difficult to approach in the face of such volume. Finally, after a particularly ear-shattering roar, Loghain roared back.
That was all, an inarticulate roar with neither sense nor threat in it, only a degree or so louder than the child's. It was sufficient to give the toddler pause, and she stared at him for a moment wide-eyed. Then she opened her mouth and roared again, louder, still with her gaze fixed wonderingly upon her grandfather. With a narrow smile curving one side of his mouth, he echoed her cry again, and louder still. The child took a deep breath and emitted the loudest roar she'd ever managed in her short life, only to have it overshadowed once more by a roar from her grandfather, a sound loud and terrible enough to make a dragon blink. The nurse fled in terror, and even Alistair caught himself cowering involuntarily.
Baby Anora did not cower. Indeed, as the sound faded into a ringing silence her little bow-shaped mouth split in a huge grin and she held out her arms. "Up!" she demanded of her grandfather imperiously. He lifted her into his arms and she snuggled against his shoulder, vanquished but happier about it than most so conquered. Loghain carried her to her room and tucked her into her crib himself.
Anora looked at her husband's comically tragic expression as he saw his last hopes dashed and couldn't stop herself from bursting into laughter.