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.
Chapter Forty: I Shit You Not
"I shit you not, this thing was only about this shy of being a bleeding High Dragon, and the man just rips into it like a log saw. Didn't hesitate, didn't even blink! And he's not wearing enchanted silverite like the fabled Armor of River Dane, either - just a set of rotting old leathers. I tell you truthfully, Hawke, I thought right then and there that the man knew no fear."
"You sound like you had quite the adventure, Varric," Hawke replied, and called for another ale. "So you and Teyrn - former Teyrn - Loghain are…friends?"
Varric shrugged. "I don't know if I'd go so far as to say that, but once you've stood next to him in a scuffle its hard not to respect the man. And for his part, he occasionally deigns to address me as 'Varric' rather than 'Dwarf,' so I guess that means he doesn't entirely resent my existence, which may be about the best he feels towards anyone other than maybe his daughter and the Hero."
"I thought the Hero was his daughter?" Merrill said.
"No, Daisy, the Queen is his daughter."
"Wait…but the Hero was the tall lady whom we were introduced to before he came from the alienage, right? I thought they were sisters, they look so much alike."
Hawke, Isabella, and Varric shared a look between them. "Kitten…Elilia Cousland and Queen Anora don't look anything alike at all," Isabella said.
"That's not true," Merrill replied. "They're both blonde. Anyway, the Hero certainly seemed to have a daughterly sort of affection for him. She jumped right up and gave him that big hug right in front of everybody. The Queen didn't."
The trio shared another look. "Oh, Kitten," Isabella said. She shook her head and downed her glass.
"Merrill, I think that Loghain and the Hero are…lovers," Hawke said, as delicately as possible.
"Oh that can't be, ma vhenan. He's so much older than she."
"Daisy…you're sleeping with…another woman," Varric pointed out.
"Aye, but we're about the same age."
"Look, it's not important, let's just drop it, okay?" Hawke said. "So you say you respect Loghain, Varric. Fine, I can see that. But tell me, do you trust him?"
"In a fight, or just in general?"
"Either-or. Both."
He gave the question due consideration. "Yes."
"You know what he did."
"Yes, Hawke, I do. But much as he seems to want to believe that was all him out there, deserting kings and selling elves to the Tevinters, personally I think it was mostly the blood mages."
Hawke spit out the sip of ale she'd just taken. "W-what?"
Varric slapped the tabletop. "Oh ho! That's right, we didn't get around to telling the Court that particular bit of gossip, did we? It seems the Empress and perhaps a Tevinter magister or three may have been using blood magic to 'influence' certain decisions made before and during the Fifth Blight - not just of Loghain, but of a lot of Ferelden's high and mighty. Loghain, though, seems to have been the Empress' main prize. The guy we yanked the information out of said she kept a vial of his blood in a golden stand on her vanity table."
"Kinky," Isabella said.
"Dear Maker…the Queen won't be pleased to hear about this," Hawke said.
"I suspect she'll shit bricks," Varric said comfortably. "But she doesn't have to worry so much about it. The Hero's friend Seanna has been keeping him safe with the Litany of Adralla, which disrupts a blood mage's efforts at mind control or some shit like that."
"Is that the little redhead that was with her?" Isabella asked. "She was cute."
"Birdie has lived a gentle, sheltered sort of life, Rivaini," Varric said. "Don't go corrupting her."
"Oo, speaking of corrupting elves," Isabella said excitedly, "have any of you heard the rumor floating about town? They're saying some elf from the local alienage enlisted in the bloody army last night. Care to place bets on how long it will be before the other recruits beat him to death with socks filled with bars of soap?"
"That seems like a nasty sort of thing to bet on," Merrill said. "Why not take wagers on something more cheerful?"
"Chances are that even if the rumor is true, they're not seriously going to put an elf in the regular army. He'll probably be stuck digging ditches or running errands. And that's if he's lucky," Varric said.
"King Alistair gave Fenris a bloody knighthood just based on Hawke's introduction," Isabella pointed out. "I don't think he's afraid to have an elf in the army. The elf ought to be afraid, I think."
"I hate to agree, but I agree," Hawke said. "Even if the man never sees actual combat, the other soldiers are not going to be easy on him, I should expect."
Varric sighed. "Probably true. A toast, to foolhardy idealists - human and elven." He downed his mug.
"So what else did you do out in the wilderness for all that time?" Merrill asked after a bit. "I honestly can't picture you sleeping under the stars, Varric."
"Top secret business for the King and Queen I'm afraid, Daisy," Varric said. "I can't tell you the details - not just yet at any rate, not without running the risk of being mashed into a gooey dwarven pulp by rather an angry Loghain, but I can tell you a bit more about the side-adventures we had. How would you like to hear about Harvestmere in Gwaren? It was a hell of a party, I've got to say."
Hawke smiled. "I missed Feast Day when we were living in Kirkwall. Marchers - or at least Kirkwallers - just don't seem to notice it. Even in Lothering Harvestmere was always as big an occasion as we could make of it, the whole village gathering to swap food and stories and drink as much as they possibly could. It doesn't seem to be quite as popular here in Denerim. Must be that city folk don't quite understand the joy of a good harvest."
"Well let me tell you something, this city slicker understands now, and next Harvestmere will find me somewhere out in the bannorn - Gwaren if I can manage it, because those folks know how to celebrate, even if some of them have odd ideas about what is and is not food - chowing down and partying with the lumberjacks and fishermen."
"Maybe I'll go with you," Hawke said, with a laugh. "Did you exchange pranks and gifts?"
"Er, no. Is that a tradition here?"
"It was in Lothering. We'd each receive two gifts - the first one was something horrible and funny, the second something that was usually not terribly grand but very special and deeply personal. It was a way of showing each other how much we were understood."
"Oo, I like the sound of a tradition like that. Tell more, ma vhenan," Merrill said.
Hawke laughed. "Well, one year I remember the prank we gave our father was a book written by some Chantry scholar or other that was all about how wonderful and necessary the Circle of Magi was. His gift was a pair of thick woolen socks that Bethany and I knitted for him ourselves, because his feet were always cold. They were terribly mismatched, since we each knitted one, and a bit…lumpy, because mother couldn't knit to save her life and Bethany and I basically taught ourselves, but father loved those socks and wore them constantly. He was wearing them the day he died, as a matter of fact."
"Oh, that's sweet."
"I agree. But I don't think I'd ever quite have the stones to give Loghain Mac Tir a prank, even if I knew him well enough - although if I did have the stones, I'd give him a toy jumping spider. He'd love that," Varric said, with a smirk.
His three companions all raised questioning brows. "Are you suggesting that the Hero of River Dane, co-slayer of the Archdemon, a man who leaps into battle against mature dragons without compunction...is scared of spiders?" Isabella asked.
"Much as I teased him over it, no, not scared exactly. Skeeved-out would be the better terminology. And in all fairness, he only shows it when they're the size of houses." Varric ordered another mug of ale. "So tell me, Hawke - what were all of you doing while out from under my watchful eye? Any great adventures that require chronicling?"
Hawke shrugged. "Just keeping away from the Chantry, mostly. Honestly I'm surprised I didn't decide to come home sooner, but even if the Divine is Orlesian there's still a hell of a lot of templars in this country. I figured it wasn't any safer for me here than it was anywhere else."
"I came to Ferelden looking for you, because I got plucked by a Seeker of Truth named Cassandra Penteghast. She wanted to know all about you. It seemed like she wanted you to help broker some sort of peace agreement between the mages and templars, but she wasn't exactly gentle in her hospitality, so I thought you needed to be warned."
"Thanks for the heads-up, Varric. Well, I think I'd better get back to the palace and Bethany. Will you come along? I'm sure there's room for you there."
"Thanks, but from the outside at least the Royal Palace doesn't strike me as particularly palatial; more cold and draughty. I'll be here if you need me, Hawke."
She chuckled. "Just like old times, eh? Sure you won't be too busy chasing after the Hero and Loghain to pal around with me?"
"You'll always be my best girl, Hawke, you know that. And anyway, I've got a feeling we'll all be chasing after the Hero and Loghain in the coming days."
Anora quite happily showed them the rest of their new wardrobe - trousseaus, Loghain was forced to think of them with a fair degree of sourness, though thankfully if his daughter had caused to have made new smallclothes for him she did not choose to show them. She did display rather a fetching nightgown she'd had made up for Elilia, a confection of sheer and very nearly sheer white silk done up in ruffles and flounces and designed with an eye to concealing just barely enough to tantalize. Frankly he couldn't imagine Elilia ever wearing the thing voluntarily, but the thought of what she'd look like if she did was certainly intriguing.
At the very last Anora brought out the new winter cloaks she'd had made by Pramin el Sulabar, who specialized in furs above and beyond his work with men's tailoring. Elilia's was a lovely hooded cape of silver fox fur, trimmed with sable, that would look well over her Satinalia gown especially. Loghain's was…
"Maker's breath…is that a bloody lion?" he asked.
"Just the fur, I'm afraid, and a few claws for fasteners. A gift to you, father, from the King of Nevarra, who is evidently a fan of your work." Anora pulled it down off the dress form. "Try it on: I'm eager to see for myself how it looks on you."
Loghain hated trying on clothes for the benefit of others, whether they be tailors or his daughter. It made him feel like a child, standing before his mother while she critically eyed her latest efforts to keep him clothed. That criticism in her gaze had been reserved solely for the fit of her work on her son's ever-growing frame, but it hadn't felt that way to him at the time, and the way she would laugh and call him her "weed" hadn't helped, no matter how affectionately she said it.
He pulled on the tawny hooded cloak obediently but with a scowl firmly affixed on his face that neither woman took note of. Anora stepped back and eyed the way the garment hung off his shoulders with that same critical eye he remembered from his mother.
"Pull the hood up, father - let me see it." He rolled his eyes expressively but obeyed without comment. The hood was lined with the same tawny fur that made up the rest of the cloak, but on the outside it was covered with the long, dark mane of the beast. Elilia burst out laughing immediately.
"What?" Anora asked, in the same irritated voice Loghain had been about to use. "I think it looks magnificent. I take it you do not agree?"
"Oh, it looks wonderful," Elilia said. "It just struck me that he doesn't really look a whole lot different with the hood up - its just Loghain with bed hair."
Anora chose to ignore the comment, and after a moment's thought so did Loghain. There was nothing he could think of to say in response that he would ever say in front of his daughter.
Before allowing them to escape, Anora presented them with a pair of mabari collars made from the dark blue leather of the Archdemon's hide. Topaz glittered from the middle of the silverite tag that bore Champion's name and tourmaline glittered from Haakon's. "I had them made a bit large, so they've room to grow for a time," she said. "There's plenty of leather leftover when they need bigger collars. In fact, there's still enough bone, hide, and scale to keep a small army outfitted for years to come."
"You've made good use of it so far, Anora," Elilia said. "Our armor is utterly glorious, and I thank you for it."
"I'd have to say that even though the Archdemon was ultimately just a beast, smarter than most perhaps, I feel a bit odd about wearing the skin and bone of a slain foe," Loghain said, "but I will confess it sets an interesting precedent for the Orlesians to ponder."
Anora laughed lightly. "It's not so very different to what you did at the Battle of River Dane, father; stripping the Orlesian commander bare and donning his plate right then and there. At least this suit fits you. As a child I always suspected your near-perpetual scowl was the result of wearing armor designed for a man some inches smaller than you."
"The legend of how I put on the commander's armor 'right then and there,' Anora, is slightly exaggerated," Loghain said. "The man was no less than a foot shorter than me, and I had to have the armor reworked before I could wear it. The enchantments upon it made it difficult for the smith to make adequate adjustments."
"Orlesians are rather a short people, by and large," she said. "I was always rather surprised the armor fit as well as it did."
After a few pleasantries she dismissed them, and on the way back to the living quarters Elilia slipped her arm through his.
"I look forward to seeing you in that beautiful white shirt and Archdemon-hide doublet," she said. "You'll look exceedingly…romantic in it, I think."
He grimaced. "Buttons. I've never worn buttons in my life, fussy stupid things. What's wrong with lacings and buckled straps, I ask you?"
"If you've never worn them, how do you know how fussy they are?"
"Maric had garments with buttons on them," he said grimly. "And he needed a manservant just to help him fasten them, and at least three maids to chase the buttons down when they came flying off his clothes."
"Well, I'll help you fasten them," Elilia said, with a chuckle, "and I'll gladly help them come flying off your clothes when I unfasten them."
It was his turn to chuckle, a deep rumble that didn't quite rise out of his chest into his throat. "I'm looking forward to seeing you in that nightgown."
"That was obviously meant to be saved for the wedding night, Loghain. A flutter of virginal white to inflame the masculine desire to dominate. I shall have to shriek and struggle as you throw me down on the bed to ravage me and rip from me my perfect, unspoiled maidenhead."
"Ha! You've spent too much time around Varric, my dear - you're inventing all sorts of wild fictions. Someone beat me to your perfect, unspoiled maidenhead long before I ever even met you, though I don't begrudge the loss as long as I have the rest of you now. And I can no more see you 'shrieking and struggling' like some helpless little girl before a gang of bandits than I would want to see you do."
"I'll shriek and giggle, then."
"Now that has a certain appeal to it."