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 Fifty-Four: Father of the Revolution

After the drink, conversation turned to comparatively safer topics: children and grandchildren. Comparatively safer, because no man present didn't have some sore spot when it came to children at least. Wulffe, of course, had lost his two sons during the Blight. Sigurd's boy had been badly tortured by Howe. And Bryland, of course, had Habren. He hadn't noticed the spoilt little bitch his daughter was becoming until the Blight came knocking, and since she was only fifteen at the time he'd been given some hope she'd outgrow it, but she hadn't. If anything, she'd only gotten worse. Sigurd had told him then that "either she'll outgrow it, or you'll strangle her and dump her body in the river." Sometimes he wasn't sure how he'd managed not to.

"You're a lucky bastard, Loghain," he said, and he drank down another glass. He wasn't exactly drunk, but he was getting a damned good buzz on. "Your daughter turned out well."

"She did." Loghain took a deep swig of Wyvern's Ridge and tried not to think about the two daughters - and one son - who didn't get a chance to turn out at all.

"I have to say, I'm interested to see what the Next Wave will turn out like, though I suppose I won't live long enough to see the finished product," Wulffe said. He chuckled. "A child of Loghain Mac Tir and Elilia Cousland. You hear that odd rattling sound? That's Orlais, shaking in its boots."

"Speaking of Orlais, have you heard the latest rumor?" Sigurd said. "Seems they're having a spot of trouble with their peasantry."

"Tell on, man: what kind of trouble?" Wulffe said.

"The rebellion kind of trouble. Seems like there are pockets of revolution in the empire, and spreading."

"From whence do you get your information, Sigurd?" Bryland asked.

"Some Antivan traders I have contracts with. They didn't see the trouble firsthand, but they were in Orlais shortly before sailing into port here, and they claim its true. Evidently people there are getting fed up with the way the Chantry has been handling the mage situation, and the way the templars have become ever more uncontained. They also say," Sigurd said, and shot a significant look at Loghain, "that for a couple of years recently there was a man traveling through the empire, killing Chevaliers and stirring up the natives. A 'Ferelden rabble-rouser,' according to them."

"Hmph. An astonishing coincidence, if true," he said, innocently.

"Mmm. Well, whoever he was, evidently he gave some very impassioned speeches about freedom and fair treatment, in the midst of killing all those Chevaliers all on his own, and a lot of Orlesians began to feel that perhaps they did have a chance to break free of their tyranny. There have been some major skirmishes, and the Chevaliers haven't always come away what you would call 'unquestionably victorious.' Word is, the peasantry are using hit-and-run tactics not unlike what we used during the early days of Maric's rebellion."

"Smart of them. If they tried to take Chevaliers head-on they'd be slaughtered."

Sigurd never took his eyes off Loghain, who continued to act innocent. "The traders said that the peasants have given the Ferelden rabble-rouser a nickname. 'Father of the Revolution.'"

"That's not a very good nickname. I should think, if one were to 'father a revolution,' one might prefer something a little more inventive. Or at least tougher-sounding. Especially once you realize what it must sound like when you say it in Orlesian. In that language, your nickname could be 'the Disemboweler' and it would still sound weak and little-girlish."

Sigurd held that steady stare for a long heartbeat, then burst out laughing. "I don't know how in the name of the Void you managed it, Loghain, but if this revolution heats up it can only be a good thing for us. Perhaps the Empress will be so busy fighting her own subjects come spring she won't have time to spare another thought for Ferelden."

"If there's one thing I'm good for, it's stirring up trouble," Loghain said, not in a particularly happy or humorous way. "At least this time I may have put the talent to good use."

He called it a night then, and stood up to leave. Champion rose to her feet and panted, stumpy tail wagging, to show that she was happy to go, and happy she hadn't had to bite any of those other men. Loghain turned and saw that the Gnawed Noble was astonishingly full of people who might well have been sent by his daughter or his bride-to-be, to watch over him. In addition to Varric there was Laz and faithful Paragon, Captain Isabella who gave him a saucy wink when he caught her eye, Seanna, Champion Hawke and that odd tall Dalish woman she was in love with - the one he suspected was the "sweet blood mage" Varric had mentioned to Seanna after the Orlesian ambush on their way to the Blightlands, Champion Hawke's sister, Queen's Guard Ser Aveline and her husband Ser Donnic (assuredly sent by Anora), and that white-haired elf, Ser Fenris of the King's Guard (almost assuredly sent by Anora). Then again, perhaps they simply frequented this tavern; it was relatively close to the palace.

Except they all got up to leave at the same moment, right after he did, practically emptying the tavern. He chuckled, found Edwina, and paid up the tab for every one of them, including the two Arls and the Bann. "I don't know why the Hero was so worried; I thought they seemed rather nice to him," Champion Hawke's floaty-headed lover said.

"She wasn't, Daisy, she just wanted us here for insurance purposes," Varric assured her. "For him and forthem."