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.

A/N: No, you're not crazy, I skipped chapter thirteen. I'm not superstitious, but a story I wrote long ago (See "Captain Hook: Damnation/Redemption") was about superstitious pirates so I skipped the chapter "in deference to their sensibilities." I can't explain why some things are so gratifying to me, but I've been merrily cutting Unlucky Thirteen from any and all fanfics with titled chapters ever since (I don't do it in my original works, but fanfic is a very different beast for me as it is solely for my personal pleasure). If the disconnect between the chapter number on site and the chapter number henceforward appended to the title makes your head explode, I personally guarantee your money back. (Which, since you never paid me any, costs me absolutely nothing to promise.)

Chapter Fourteen: Victory March

Most of the mages casually melted into the wilderness before the army even began to march, but a small handful stayed on, hoping their service would gain them clandestine support from the King and Queen, and perhaps under-the-table appointments in the army or the palace itself - and they probably would, too, as long as they continued to behave themselves. After all, as the Divine had apparently once again come down in favor of Orlesian occupation of Ferelden, the royal family wasn't likely to be tremendously popular with the Chantry for the foreseeable future, even if the Ferelden clergy had not received any word. Loghain was of a mind to suggest kicking the bloody Chantry out of Ferelden, but even he could see the flaws in that plan. People needed their godhead, of course, even though he couldn't quite understand why the Maker required demure women backed up by a well-supplied army to liaison with what was supposedly His favorite creation. Not that everybody in the clergy is a corrupt hag, he thought to himself in an effort at fairness. He was thinking of one sister in particular who had come to be very like a mother to him in a very bad time, not that he'd ever told her so even years later when she showed him the place where she'd laid his father's ashes to rest and he'd wept openly before her.

He didn't like to think such things, but from time to time he questioned not only the Chantry but the Maker Himself. It seemed to him rather suspicious that the "true" god did not seem to be the first. And how could any other god, real or false, ever usurp power from the ultimate god? He was not much given to the sort of deep philosophical musing that engendered such questions, and he certainly didn't have the education required to support or refine his wonderings, but sometimes that whole story of Andraste - how the beauty of Her song caught the Maker's attention and so He whispered to Her wonderful things and convinced Her to raise an army in His name - sounded more than a little dubious, at best. Either the Maker was something a clever and powerful woman created out of wholecloth to raise support for her crusade against Tevinter, or perhaps the Maker was real…but not strong enough to depose the old gods on His own. A sly Trickster god lurking in the shadows until He found a strong Champion to do His dirty work for Him. And then He left her to the bloody flames. Or he supposed there was a third option, that Andraste was off her bleeding conk.

Or a fourth option: that he was a paranoid old man who spent too damned much time thinking about things he knew nothing of.

Elilia had tracked down her mage, at last. Loghain vaguely recalled speaking briefly to a healer shortly before being dragged off into the mountains on a quest he would still consider a tremendous waste of valuable time had not two rather dreadful mistakes been rectified: neither the King nor Elilia were now Wardens, which meant they were now free to do their proper duty by their country without interference from foreign powers. With the full pouch of ashes at his belt holding the hope of a fruitful future for the bannorn he felt pretty good about that particular day's work. He would have to warn Alistair and Anora not to speak of the ashes he'd taken, not that he expected Anora at least would require that warning, because it seemed likely enough to him that the Grand Cleric would consider sowing the earth with the ashes of the Prophetess rank sacrilege. If it didn't work they could always put the ashes in a vault at the palace, for emergency use, or he supposed he could even be persuaded to return them to the temple if Alistair wheedled hard enough, though he wouldn't relish telling that Guardian fellow that he'd taken two scoops of Andraste. The mere fact that he hadn't reappeared immediately seemed to suggest a sort of tacit approval, however - it was hard to imagine a creature like that did not know what they were doing at all times in his domain.

The men left behind at the battlefield would be in charge of continuing the burning of the Orlesian dead, which was going to take awhile. They'd been left with five large chests that had been emptied of the medical supplies they'd carried, and most likely they were going to fill all of them with the ashes once they were done, which would certainly be a "message" to the Empress and her toads. A smaller vessel containing a portion of the communal ashes of the Ferelden dead rode in state with the Revered Mother and her priests, and the rest had been respectfully buried before they began burning the Chevaliers. They'd left a decent force of men at the border to guard it under the command of Ser Cauthrien - King's Protector Ser Cauthrien, these days, governing the teyrnir of Gwaren held in conservatorship for Baby Anora, and Loghain was quite proud of his protégé, though he thought she looked rather more harassed by the tribulations of governance than she ever had as a commander of soldiers, something he could certainly sympathize with - and the rest of the army was now two days out of Sulcher's Pass, on their way back to Denerim and the grand victory celebration that Anora was probably already busy planning, if the number of scouts she was sending ahead of them meant anything. Knowing her, it meant several days of meticulously-detailed festivities, with parades, feasts, ceremonies, and dances. He glowered in her direction. As much as he wanted to see Duncan and Baby Anora again, the idea of the celebrations that lay ahead filled him with a sense of dread. Hopefully, not having any title or even official rank within the army, he would not be forced to attend…but he seriously doubted that.

Thinking about the prospect of being put on display galled him, and he turned his gaze back to Elilia and her new pet. He had not yet been introduced to the mage and remembered little about her since he'd been too busy trying not to choke on his own blood at the time he met her, and Elilia seemed to have decided to take her brother's warnings about propriety to heart, at least for the march home. Probably for the best, truth be told, but he still felt a pang of disappointment every time she briskly steered her charge away from him if he strayed too near, or favored him with a supercilious smile and a nod of condescension as she passed by wordlessly in camp. One might have thought that she was old enough by now to have settled a bit, but it seemed she was still the same coltish spitfire that had been simultaneously the trial and pride of her parents.

Elilia - for the moment at least still known as the Warden to the others marching with them - had not yet noticed his eyes upon them, so he was free to look his fill. The mage was quite petite, particularly next to the young giantess with her mighty sword, and though he could not tell beneath the tasseled hood she wore, Loghain thought she was probably an elf. The bodice of her dull buff-colored robes was quilted and the faintly ridiculous hobble skirt was patterned oddly like snakeskin, though he did not believe it to be made of any sort of leather. He had but limited experience with the Circle, not enough to know for certain that there was any sort of uniform for the mages, but he had a vague understanding that robes of that style were supplied only to elven females. There appeared to be no difference at all in the style of robes worn by human and elven men. Made no sense at all to him, but what did he know of magic aside from the fact that it was useful when it was on his side and deuced annoying when it was used against him? He wondered at the color she wore. Most of the Circle mages he'd met dressed at all times like gaudy peacocks, but this one seemed more like a peahen. He found it hard to imagine that she would have the guts or the stamina to be of any use to them on a long hike through the bannorn, but she'd survived the battle so she was either tougher than she looked or smart enough to keep the hell out of the way. And it would be useful to have a healer along, he supposed. Even though he was working on changing his fighting style to suit his advancing years he always ended up bloody sooner or later, and Elilia was a magnet for trouble. If they were lucky she'd know a good fighting spell or two, as well.

Too old to keep using myself as a battering ram, Loghain thought grimly. Too bad I'm also too old to fight with much nimbleness, instead. Perhaps it would be best to just keep throwing myself headfirst into the thick of things. Dying in battle would be far preferable to wasting away of some disease or even just the steady ravages of cruel Time.

It was funny to think about, but not in a laughing sort of way, that of the triumvirate of friends that led Ferelden to victory over their oppressors, he was the only one still living. He'd always expected to die first - if not in battle then by hanging, as an old woman rumored to be a hedge witch near where he'd spent his earliest childhood said he was born for. Certainly he'd never thought to worry about the possibility that he would one day be old. Yet here he was, silver-haired and if not exactly sage then at least beaten into a weary sort of wisdom that was as close as he was likely to come. In the fewest possible words, it sucked.

He supposed there was still every possibility that he could one day be hanged.

"What thought makes you so cheerful all of a sudden?" a voice at his elbow said, startling him. He turned his head to see that Elilia had dropped back to walk beside him.

"Oh, does the Lady deign to speak with me, a lowborn soldier?" he asked in mock surprise. "What will her noble brother say?"

She waved it off with an expansive gesture. "I've decided that its time I inflicted you upon our new companion. It would be well to see if she can survive the shock."

"Very droll."

Elilia gestured to the little mage, who was still walking ahead of them, casting shy peeks over her shoulder every few steps. She fell back to join them, and Elilia put an arm around her shoulders companionably, or perhaps protectively. Loghain couldn't quite tell which.

"This is Seanna Surana, late of Kinloch Hold. Seanna, this is Loghain Mac Tir. He used to have a lot of high and mighty titles, but he's just a regular slob now. Except for being the Queen's father, of course, which I suppose is a high and mighty title on its own."

Seanna? That was a slippery-sounding name, and he doubted he'd be able to manage it without a lot of practice. The mage pushed back her hood for the first time, revealing the expected pointed ears and large, luminous eyes. "An honor, Ser," she said, in the same very quiet, deferential voice he vaguely remembered.

"Your skills as a healer will be greatly appreciated, I expect. Can you do anything else?" he said, and then silently cursed his clumsy tongue for its perpetual brusqueness as she flinched at the question. He sincerely hoped she hadn't taken it to mean…anything untoward.

"I know a few elemental spells," she said shyly, "and a lot of spells of support. Useless in terms of bolstering an army, but quite handy for aiding a small party that may have need to fight. I can also cook, and fetch water, and dig latrines if that's what you need me to do. I can even provide some entertainment - " here she looked momentarily both embarrassed and alarmed - "by which I mean I know many stories and can sing a few songs."

"What has the Warden told you about our plans, exactly?" he asked.

She looked momentarily confused, and Elilia said cheerfully, "Well, I told her not to call me 'the Warden,' for starters, Loghain, so it is unnecessary for you to stand on foolish ceremony."

"I see. Elilia then - what has she told you about what we are to do?"

"She said that you would be making an expedition into the Blighted lands, possibly all the way into the Wilds."

"It is indeed possible, though I couldn't guess at this point whether it is likely. You understand that even if we do not go so far as that, we will be traveling light and likely living rather rough? If our plans meet with success there is no telling how long we'll be on the road, either."

"I understand, Ser. I don't mind hardship." A bitter edge crept into her voice at those words, and Elilia's look to him over her head said that she would have things of significance to tell him at a later time.

The little mage still looked young and weak to him but Elilia had a keen eye for allies, so he supposed she'd work out. And despite the deference and respect in her voice at most times, there was a wary underpinning to her shyness, an almost feral mistrust dancing beneath the layer of unassuming civility. He suspected she had a Past, despite the way the Circle seemed tailor-made to prevent its inmates from having any lives at all. He made an effort to speak kindly as he told her she was very welcome to join their venture. It was best to tread lightly with mages, after all, and if she'd suffered in her life he had some sympathy for her. It couldn't be easy to be locked away and reviled for an accident of birth, and being an elf as well probably made it all the harder, no matter what they said about mages being treated equally. They could not offer her the freedom and safety she would have enjoyed as a Grey Warden, of course, but if she sought to escape the Circle's confines by joining them - well, in the current political climate, Loghain was quite willing and happy to defend her from any Chantry stooge that came to harass her.

"I told her she could stay with me while we're in Denerim, so the Queen doesn't have to put herself out finding her another room," Elilia said, with a significance to her voice Loghain understood. Anora might order suitable lodgings for the guest of her favored champion and her father, but the servants who fulfilled that order would have their own ideas of what was "suitable" for an elf. The visitor's suite Elilia would be occupying, since she did not wish to stay at the Warden's compound, would no doubt be large enough and comfortable enough for the two of them, particularly since it was doubtful that the mage was truly any more used to grand luxury than Elilia was these days. It was a good arrangement in another way, as well, for Elilia would be present to stop any impertinent inquiry into the girl's talents as well as to chaperone her integrity, since even well-disciplined palace guards were not unknown to treat female elves as fair game, despite the penalties enforced by royal decree.

"So we keep waving to the freeholders and pandering to the Banns that offer us their rather limited hospitality on the way, and when we reach Denerim its 'Smile Smile Smile' - 'Scowl Scowl Scowl' in Loghain's case, since that's the only facial expression he's capable of - and play up the victory for the cheering masses. I only hope the Royal Personages don't make us detour to any of the larger cites along the way for more of the same - I'm ready to have it done with already and it hasn't even started."

"You and me both," Loghain muttered.