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: May contain spoilers for Origins, Awakening, and Dragon Age II as well as the novels The Stolen Throne and The Calling.
A/N: Obviously my title, along with the non-original and somewhat altered lyrics contained herein, are stolen directly from beloved Monty Python. Apologies and gratitude to Neil Innis and Eric Idle. The legend of Ferelden folk dancing is of course a modified version of the legend of Irish folk dancing.
Chapter Thirty-Three: The Ballad of Brave Ser Robin
That evening, with the festivities only heating up outside and Varric in particular ready and raring for round two, the party repaired to the village square again for food and drink. Minstrels tuned up in a rough-built pavilion while men with sharp axes entered a small windowless building and began hacking away at something inside.
"What are they doing?" Laz asked, gesturing toward the men with a toss of her head as both hands were occupied with skewers of meat.
"That's the ice house," Loghain said. "I expect they're planning to make ice cream."
"Ice cream?" Varric said. "What's that?"
In response Loghain merely smiled thinly and said, "Give it a couple of hours and you'll see."
Elilia wandered away from the others, not more than a few steps, to patronize a stand handing out fresh-baked cookies. As she took the first heavenly bite she overheard a couple of natives gossiping nearby.
"Whose that tall bird hanging around him?" one asked. "Camp-follower, you think? She's not much to look at."
The other snorted a derisive laugh. "I heard from one of the Newtakes that she's that Hero of Ferelden everyone's so thrilled about. They think she's the right shit, sure enough."
It was the other's turn to make noises of derision. "It's like they ain't even realized she couldn't face down that Archdemon without making Loghain stand with her."
"A right dirty trick, too, making him a Warden and taking away his proper title like that."
Disturbed, Elilia went back to stand with the others while the musicians prepared to play.
The minstrels were all natives, and once they had an audience they announced they were going to play "a song from the Exodus," which was what the locals called the mass emigration during the Blight. A drummer beat a steady rhythm while the lutenist plucked out a melody.
"Boldly brave Ser Robin rode forth from Denerim.
He was not afraid to die, O brave Ser Robin!
He was not at all afraid to be killed in nasty ways,
Brave brave brave brave Ser Robin!
Boldly brave Ser Robin rode forth to Ostagar,
There to face the darkspawn horde, O brave Ser Robin!
He would face the Archdemon at King Cailan's side,
Brave brave brave brave Ser Robin!
For he had faced the greatest men who sparred at Tantervale,
And at tourneys in Orlais and in Nevarr…AH!
And widely was his skill and strength betouted here at home,
Though none did see his name upon the rolls…O!
He stood there in a line of men,
With shield and sword and hound, and then
The darkspawn howled and swarmed the line
And all around, good men were 'dyne'…SO!
Brave Ser Robin ran away!
He bravely ran away, away!
When danger reared its ugly head,
He bravely turned his tail and fled!
Yes, brave Ser Robin turned about,
And gallantly he chickened out!
Bravely taking to his feet,
He beat a very brave retreat.
Bravest of the brave, Ser Robin!
And then the horde, it did advance.
Ser Robin shitted in his pants.
He lit out straight for Gwaren town
And hailed the first ship that came down,
And that is why we sing to you
This story which we swear is true…FOR!
Brave Ser Robin ran away!
He bravely ran away, away!
When danger reared its ugly head,
He bravely turned his tail and fled!
Yes, brave Ser Robin turned about,
And gallantly he chickened out!
Bravely taking to his feet,
He beat a very brave retreat.
Bravest of the brave, Ser Robin!
Ser Robin…'O SHIT!'"
"Who's Ser Robin?" Seanna asked.
"He was a knight in the service of Arl Urien of Denerim, a bit of a boaster who claimed to have won every tourney in the Free Marches, though no one seemed to be able to confirm it," Elilia explained. "He is listed as a casualty of Ostagar, but evidently the people of Gwaren feel he met a different fate."
"Hard to say for sure," Loghain said. "I doubt anyone here would know the man if they clapped eyes on him, and they always looked upon him as a sort of miles gloriosus. If they wanted to make up a song about a cowardly braggart fleeing the Blight, he's the one they'd choose."
"'Tis god's honest truth, it is, m'lord," a nearby local called out. He was sloppy drunk and waved a gigantic tankard as he spoke. "Seen 'im meself with me own eyes, all fancy done up in 'is shiny silver plate with the gold inlay an' the mark a' the arlin' on 'is shield, not an 'air out a' place on 'is pretty 'ead. 'Is eyes was a' buggin' out a' 'is face like that." He described a gesture of pop-eyed horror with both hands, a good trick as he never let go of his ale. "I ain't a' sayin' 'e ain't dead, no serrah…man was in such an ass-bustin' 'arry t' get aboard ship 'e knocked a little grey-'aired lady off the docks an' inta the drink, 'e did. Clam-divers was out, thankfully, an' they pulled 'er out afore she drownded or friz, but the look on that lady's daughter's face, an' the big tough-lookin' red-'eaded gal they was travelin' with…wouldn't doubt a mite they done for Brave Ser Robin afore the ship was fairly to sea."
"A grey-haired lady and a red-headed gal?" Varric said wonderingly. "Was the daughter perchance white-haired also, with a dark-haired sister?"
The man sloshed his ale happily in Varric's direction and nodded. "Aye, Ser Dwarf, that they was."
"Then Brave Ser Robin is dead, indeed," Varric said, with a chuckle. "That white-haired daughter was Kireani Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, and the red-haired gal was Aveline Vallen, best Captain of the Guard Kirkwall ever had."
"There was an officer of that name in Varel's company," Loghain said.
"That was Aveline. Tough lady. Hawke was at Ostagar, too, along with a brother that didn't make it out of Lothering, but I don't think she was in the army long."
"Carver Hawke," Loghain said, grim, and said no more.
"I'm impressed," Varric whispered to Elilia as Loghain stalked off to talk to another native. "I got the idea from Hawke that Carver didn't really get a chance to distinguish himself in the army, but…"
"There was a mage in our company as we were fighting the Blight," Elilia said. "Wynne, a Senior Enchanter of the Circle of Magi. She fought at Ostagar herself and never missed an opportunity to snipe at Loghain for quitting the field that day. It was hard not to overhear. She said the lives of the men he abandoned meant nothing to him. He said that they were his men, that he knew their names, their families. I used to think he was exaggerating, or that he meant just those who wore his heraldry, but I don't think that anymore. Remembering their names is, I think, one more penance he set himself."
"Why did he retreat, do you know?" Varric asked. "He doesn't seem like the retreating type to me. Was it blood mages, you think?"
"He called it a 'tactical error' when I asked. I don't know whether it was influenced by blood magic or not, but I remember something I was thinking that day, while Alistair and I fought our way to the top of the Tower of Ishal. I was thinking that if I were waiting for a signal to charge, and it was as late as ours was bound to be, that I would assume the opportunity to do any actual good had come and gone." She snorted a bitter laugh. "I also remember thinking that I might very well assume whoever had lit the signal late was committing an act of treachery against the King, and that I might well be leading a charge directly into a trap."
"So you think he thought you were a traitor?"
"I think he thought the Grey Wardens were traitors," Elilia said. "He may have had some justice on his side. I don't believe for an instant, after all, that the Orlesian 'support troops' that were going to come along with the Orlesian Wardens were really meant just to protect us from darkspawn. Then, too, it occurred to me once I actually knew a little something about Wardens that it was very odd indeed that none of them checked out the Tower of Ishal for themselves. Loghain's men checked it, not Duncan's. It was dwarven architecture, any Grey Warden ought to have known that it connected to the Deep Roads somewhere along the line, and the Grey Wardens were always supposed to be the only people who knew anything at all about the Deep Roads, other than the dwarves themselves. Now Loghain traveled the Deep Roads with Maric and Queen Rowan all the way from West Hill to Gwaren during the worst days of the Rebellion, but even so the Wardens should have insisted on checking the structure out for themselves. They were the only ones who could have sensed whether the darkspawn were massing there for a sneak attack."
"Wait - do you think the Grey Wardens were traitors?" Varric asked.
She sighed. "I've asked myself that very question a dozen times. No, I don't think they betrayed Cailan deliberately, they stood to gain nothing by it as far as I can see. He favored them, he fully intended to allow as many Orlesian chevaliers to billet in Ferelden as we could hold…hell, I've seen evidence that shows he intended to hand the bloody country over to Celene as a fucking wedding present - " she broke off and took a few deep, calming breaths. "Duncan wasn't at Ostagar while all this was going on, he was busy elsewhere, recruiting me. We only got back the day before the battle. Why he didn't immediately insist upon sending Wardens to investigate Ishal I'll never know, but I do know that he was close to his Calling - a Warden's death, essentially, the madness that eventually overtakes anyone infected by the Taint - and perhaps not as sharp as he ought to have been. Why the other Wardens never insisted themselves may be because Duncan left them with orders not to interfere with the army, or perhaps none of them had any initiative, or maybe it was all just pure hateful spite. Watching Loghain in action is inspiring, actually talking to the man tends to bring out the worst in people."
"He doesn't seem all that bad to me," Varric said. "A bit testy, maybe, but kind of…nice…ish, actually."
Elilia shook her head. "If you could go back and meet him as he was, you'd never recognize him. I don't know if age has mellowed him, or shame, or being a grandfather, or ten years in Orlais, or finally being out of Orlais, or the fact that we're sleeping together…or all of the above…but this Loghain did not exist at the Battle of Ostagar."
"Huh. Well, the love of a good woman does work wonders for a man. You should have seen me before I met Bianca," Varric said, with an affectionate pat for the stock of his crossbow.
Loghain, meanwhile, sought out a relatively sober native and grilled him with questions. "How badly did the town suffer from darkspawn attacks?"
"Not bad, milord. We saw a few stragglers, nothing much to speak of, killed 'em all and burned the bodies real careful like, like you're supposed to."
"I heard there was a riot, I believe?"
The man scoffed. "Pshaw, milord, 'twas more of a stampede than a riot, if'n you ask me. The Newtakes - the people what spilled in from elsewhere - they raised a bit of a ruction when they found out that there wouldn't be no more ships leaving port and tried to take some of the fishing boats that were at dock. Didn't go over well with the fishermen, you can imagine. Some heads were knocked pretty keenly, but eventually the Newtakes figured out the way things work in Gwaren Town. 'Fit were up to me, I'd say let 'em leave. Ferelden don't need the yellow-bellied."
The festival only became more…festive…as evening drew on and the torches were lit. The minstrels played "Green Broom" and an extremely colloquial version of Elilia's childhood favorite, "The Three Ravens," the dialect so thick that she could barely understand the words, and as it got later they turned to tunes so bawdy they made "The Ballad of Brave Ser Robin" seem like something the Chanters might sing at mass. Powerful Gwaren ale flowed like water, children and hounds gamboled about in merry chaos, and eventually a barrel race was organized. Two great empty kegs were laid on their sides and the goal was to balance on top of the barrel and run it from one side of the square to the other faster than the man next to you, without falling off. The Gwaren timber jacks, drunk as they were, were exceptionally skilled at this, and made it look so easy that Varric - by that point quite deeply into his cups himself - declared he could do it, and set himself to try.
"Hold Bianca," he said, and pressed the crossbow into Loghain's hands, a dwarf on a mission.
The barrel slid out from under him as he moved to step up onto it and he fell on his ass in the dirt, and lay there laughing until a couple of burly lumbermen hoisted him back onto his feet, with some good-natured ribbing and congratulations for at least having the stones to try.
It was shortly thereafter that a tall, severe-looking woman announced that the ice cream was nearly ready. As if by orders everyone still in enough command of their senses to stand upright crowded around an enormous container that looked something like a huge butter churn, with a crank handle instead of a pole. The top was lifted off and a large bag of white powder was emptied into it, along with several bushels of tiny purple berries - elderberries, Loghain identified for his companions, only just recently ripened.
"Is that white stuff sugar?" Varric asked. "You can't tell me you folks grow sugar cane around here."
"No, sugar beets," Loghain said. "Only one local farmer grows them - Waltir Fitzgideon, he was bloody ancient when I first came to live here and the old fart is still alive, I see - but they're very popular. Thanks to his beets and maple sugaring time, Gwaren has the worst teeth in Ferelden," he added, sourly.
The lid was replaced on top of the ice cream grinder and a man with arms like tree trunks climbed up to turn the crank about a hundred fast rounds. It looked like tough going, and his face was a brilliant shade of crimson by the time the lid was once again removed and the stern-faced lady declared the ice cream ready. There was a general rush, and when at last the stampede subsided everyone had a bowl full of frozen purple cream - with the exception of Loghain, who abstained from sweets on general principles.
"I've never had ice cream before," Elilia said, as she glommed into the treat with a will. "I've heard of it, but I never had it. In Highever when there was a fresh powder snow we'd go out and grab up platefuls and Nan would pour maple syrup over top of it, and we'd eat it that way."
"They do that here, too," Loghain said. "They make a festival out of maple sugar season, with candy-making and all sorts of nonsense. Gwareners will grab any excuse to throw a party and get drunk. Life is tough here, so I suppose they've got to grab any fun they can latch onto."
"Only a Ferelden," Varric remarked, and sucked his spoon clean, "could take snow and ice and turn it into an asset."
After the ice cream came dancing, a score of young ladies in their finest clothes - the rough, heavy fabric clearly of home weave, but sewn with care and attention to flatter the figure and swish and whirl becomingly as the steps twirled and bounced. They had white flowers in their hair, Andraste's Grace, and their legs flew gracefully and they seemed almost to float as they pranced, flashing shy smiles and tipping pretty winks at the burly young men in the appreciative audience. Elilia suspected that more than a few of them would put those little white flowers to more practical use in the morning.
"Why do they dance like that?" Laz asked. "They don't move their arms."
"The Orlesians outlawed folk dancing, during the Occupation," Elilia explained. "They said it was obscene."
"It was just another way to squeeze the peasantry as hard as possible, trying to subdue us," Loghain added. "We just took our dances indoors, and kept our arms still so that someone looking in through a window couldn't tell what we were doing. Now we dance out in the open, thumbing our noses at the bastard Orlesians, showing them that eighty years of tyranny wasn't enough to break Ferelden."
"Well, whatever the reason for it, I like it," Varric said. "Ferelden girls are cute as hell." Loghain snorted but didn't argue.
About an hour or so later, a commotion at the edge of town captured everyone's attention. The festivities ground to a wary halt as a group of Dalish elves walked boldly right into the torchlit square. Gwaren was on relatively friendly terms with the Dalish, with whom they traded on occasion, but this had the appearance of an invasion, and no one knew quite how to react.
"Peace, good people," the tall Keeper said, holding up an open hand. "We apologize for interrupting your celebrations, but our Elder wishes to speak to the one called Loghain."
Loghain stepped up and crossed his arms over his chest. "Hello again, Verrithal. So your Elder wishes to speak to me. What you should ask is do I wish to speak to her?"
"Peace, Loghain," the old woman said, stepping out from behind the line of hunters. The look on her face expressed the fact that what she had to say cost her a great deal. "I have thought long on what you said, and spoken long on it with my clan. The ones who killed her…they threaten this land again?"
No need to ask whom she meant, and he appreciated her circumspection. "They do."
"And you can stop them?"
"I can."
She nodded then, as if in decision. "Our clan would stand with you in this endeavor, if you have need of us."
There were gasps of astonishment from those onlookers sober enough to grasp what was being offered. The Dalish would stand alongside Ferelden against the Orlesians? It was unfathomable, a miracle that every native son of Gwaren felt could only have been wrought by Loghain. "The man's a canny devil," they would say to each other later, and toast the occasion with many cups of ale and whiskey, "even if he is a foreigner."
"No assistance would ever be turned aside," Loghain said slowly, "but why would you offer that?"
"She was mine, once," the Hahren said. "She was ours."
He nodded understanding, and the Hahren spoke again. "We have sent runners to the last-known locations of other clans that ought to be in this area at this time of year. We cannot promise that they will join, but we will see what they have to say. It is time, I think, that the Dalish made a stand for their people, even if we must do so by standing for yours. Some evils are inflicted upon all the races, and should not be permitted. We will make camp to the north, below the mountain upon which sits the great shemlen city, to avoid the worst of the approaching winter, but when you have need of us, we will answer the call."
The Dalish made to leave, then, but Loghain stopped them with a word. "Hahren…might I know your name?" he asked.
She smiled a bit at that, her green-grey eyes sad. "Neriah, Loghain. My name is Neriah."
"Hahren Neriah. I am more pleased on this occasion to meet you than I was on the last. I believe your words for farewell and safe journey are 'dareth shiral?'"
She bowed slightly, her smile now touched with something that might have been pride. "Dareth hashamval, da'len…walk with courage."
The elves disappeared then, melting back into the shadows of the forest as quietly as they'd stepped out of them. Loghain turned to his people.
"Let's go back to the Keep and get some sleep," he said. "Tomorrow comes early, and we need to be on our way."
"Aw, dad, can't we stay?" Varric said. "This is the best party I've had since the time I passed out at the Hanged Man and woke up tied to the rafters ass-naked and painted with kaddis."
"You and yours are welcome to do whatever you'd like," Loghain said, "but Elilia and I must get back to Denerim, and I assume, Seanna, that you want to stay with us?"
The mage nodded. "I've heard about Gwaren winters, and I don't think I'm ready to experience one just yet. Although it is really very nice here, I wasn't expecting that."
"Ah, me and Laz and Paragon have got to get back to the city, too," Varric said. "I never have done well at country living, and I probably shouldn't make my first Ferelden winter a Gwaren winter - it has a rather ominous ring to it. Besides, Hawke might be in Denerim by now."
"Do we really have to tramp all that way back to Denerim?" Laz asked. "Isn't there a shortcut we could take, like a boat or something?"
Loghain nodded. "We'll take the Brecilian Passage. It cuts the trek down from weeks to just days."
"They say its overrun by werewolves," Elilia warned.
"Then we'll clear it out," Loghain said simply.