Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 76: Songs of Love and Death

Weddings were supposed to be the happiest day of one's life. Bronwyn was not sure that was true in her case. Her midday meal roiled uneasily in her stomach. It was all a little like going into battle, without the comforting feel of sword in hand. She had been pleased with her gown and jewels before, but now found them heavy and confining.

Mostly, it was all rushing and hurrying and worrying, and then being made to sit still while Leliana and Fionn arranged her hair, and then painted and dressed her like a doll. Perversely, she was annoyed at Leliana's careful application of cosmetics to conceal her scar. Others came to witness the ritual humiliation: Morrigan cynically amused, Aveline a little bemused; Idunn appraising her with the professional objectivity of a jeweler.

Then the Dalish female contingent, Danith and Nuala, came to offer her their felicitations on her marriage, and tried not to stare disapprovingly at the extravagance of her gown. Maeve, being, like Leliana and Fionn, only human, thought it all wonderful.

"Oh, Commander! You look like a queen!"

Some polite, assenting murmurs followed. Morrigan merely cackled.

"Ha!"

She swept away shaking her head.

Leliana whispered to Fionn, "That woman is evil!"

Scout found the whole process tiresome, and abandoned Bronwyn to scrounge for treats in the Wardens' Hall. Fergus was coming with his knights; and they, along with her Wardens and other friends, would escort her to the Cathedral.

Actually, Bronwyn was finding the whole process tiresome too, and began to wish it was already over. She felt more than a little ridiculous, this being prepared like some sort virgin sacrifice. She could hardly blame Morrigan for laughing. It was unfair, too. Loghain would do no more than shave carefully and put on a handsome doublet, and be done with it. She wondered if he would bring Amber. That might be amusing. He ought to, really, since she was newly imprinted. She herself had absolutely no intention of leaving Scout behind. She had given him a bath this morning, brushed his coat until it shone like satin, and warned him not to do anything to dirty it. Now that he was out of sight, he would probably find a dust pile to roll in.

She would have to ride in a carriage to the Cathedral. Why had she let the dressmaker talk her into this style? However beautiful and becoming, it was quite impossible to ride a horse in this gown, and as chilly and wet as it was, she would likely to soil her clothing—and certainly ruin her boots— if she walked. So, yes. She would have to ride in a carriage like some sort of Orlesian princess. She should have proposed to Loghain that they both wear armor instead. He probably would have agreed to it. If there was a coronation, perhaps they could wear armor then.

Her handmaidens having done all they could do for her, Bronwyn left her room, head high. At least the men did not make her feel as absurd as her own sex did. They, indeed, seemed to think her appearance not contemptible. It pleased her: yes, it pleased her to see their admiration. Jowan, Niall, and Toliver blushing and diffident, Quinn and Carver grinning, Anders and Zevran clutching their hearts, pretending to be overwhelmed. Even the dwarves and elves had kind words, and nodded sagely amongst themselves.

"You'll do, Commander," rumbled Hakan.

Fergus arrived, looking splendid. His face lit up at the sight of her, and he embraced her gingerly, respectful of her gown and cosmetics, whispering. "Father and Mother would be so proud." Bronwyn hoped so.

Her amazing sable cloak was fastened over her gown, and Fergus, beaming, gave her his arm as they walked to the door. Bronwyn was glad of it, since she was forced to admit to herself that she would have to have some help climbing the steps into the carriage, unless she drew a dagger and slashed her skirts open. That would certainly make an impression, but perhaps not the one she desired.

And then, at least, she did not have to ride in the carriage alone, like a caged monkey, for there was room for Leliana and Morrigan and Scout, whose paws she hoped to keep moderately clean. The three puppies were put in a basket on the floor, and Scout was ordered to keep them there. Carver and Jowan would look after their own friends, and the little orphan, too, once they arrived at the Cathedral..

With the squirming puppies, and Scout's stern barks, and Leliana and Morrigan sniping at each other, Bronwyn was hardly aware of the crowd along the streets, and merely waved and smiled automatically. It seemed to suffice. They reached the Cathedral, and there was some sort of muddle or other, with various horses and carriages in the way, and people pushing and shoving to look. Scout leaped down, right into a puddle, gleefully splashing. Jowan and Carver quickly took the puppies and got out of the way.

In a blur, Fergus was handing her out, treating her like a piece of rare porcelain. Leliana removed her cloak, and tugged her gown to make it hang correctly. Awash with the sweet voices of the Chantry choir, Fergus escorted her up the aisle toward the front of the Cathedral. Loghain was waiting for her, not scowling, but not smiling, either. After all, he had been married before, and none of this would have the charm of novelty for him. She passed a sea of faces, some smiling, some impressed, some solemn, some crafty. In the front were the nobles, many of whom truly wished her well. And there were her Wardens. Leliana was hurrying up a side aisle to join them.

"Commander!" hissed a grinning Quinn, waving madly. "Over here!"

Feeling better, she grinned back at him. Maeve gave him a swat, no doubt telling him to behave himself. The dwarves were pointing out various pieces of Chantry regalia, debating their value. The elves looked ready to fend off any sudden attacks. Danith caught her eye for a moment, and seemed to be of the mind that Bronwyn was out of hers to put up with all this. Anders was winking at Morrigan, who appeared profoundly unimpressed at all the pomp and circumstance.

The Queen was in the royal pew, and Bronwyn and Fergus paused to make the appropriate obeisance. She was looking very nice, and gave Fergus a startlingly sweet and secret smile.

Sure enough, Loghain had worn black. For all that, he looked very imposing and splendid in a gloomy way, with enough metal on him for him to look normal: superb chased bracers on his forearms, and a heavy gorget at his throat. It was generally considered very inappropriate for a man to marry in armor, unless he was marrying a ruling queen. Even then, marrying in armor smacked of marriage-by-capture, which while no longer openly practiced in Ferelden, was something remembered and retold in many Alamarri legends.

Where was the puppy? Oh, one of his knights was holding her. She was much too young to be able to play a dignified role like Bronwyn's own Scout, who was trotting along at her side, unruffled and debonair.

This marriage was something she had longed for since she was fifteen. Why was she so... unenthused?

Perhaps it was the oppressive smell of incense, or the knowledge that not all her companions thought she was making the right choice. Perhaps it was the presence of people like Habren, whom she disliked, or Kane Kendalls, about whom she cared nothing. Perhaps it was the Grand Cleric's voice, droning on about irrelevancies. Andraste was certainly not the shining exemplar of a woman who succeeded at marriage. She was, in fact, a woman whose husband had hated her enough to have her killed.

Or perhaps it was the knowledge that the only reason Loghain was marrying her was that he wanted to be king.

That was certainly a romance-killer.

She felt her pleasant smile slip, and forced her face back into its serene mask. She must not allow herself to grow maudlin. The likelihood of her marrying for love had never been particularly high. After all, she could have been sent abroad to a stranger, or she could have found herself bound to that ass Cailan. Loghain at least respected her and found her desirable enough. He was making the best of it, as should she. All the same, in none of her youthful dreams had she felt this cynical weariness.

Thank the Maker, they were standing before the Grand Cleric now, with their backs to the rest of the Cathedral. It was still important to maintain her facade, though, facing that sharp-eyed old woman and her minions.

Loghain thought Bronwyn was looking quite beautiful—very much the queen she would soon be. He approved of her restraint and dignity. She seemed quietly happy, too, having achieved the prize she had worked toward since she was sixteen. He hoped she found it all worthwhile. At least, she still seemed to want him.

That meant more to him than he would have cared to admit openly. From those first days at Ostagar, he had always thought her a remarkable girl: attractive, gifted, brave, and no fool. She often exasperated him with her independent spirit and her hot temper, but the fact was that she had grown on him. Quite a bit. He had not had a true companion since Maric died. Anora had come closest, but she was always, first and foremost, his daughter, and the best of her mother Celia lived on in her. Bronwyn, in contrast, combined much of what he had loved in the other people closest to him.

She was a strong, beautiful woman, like Rowan: a mighty warrior well on her way to becoming a shrewd politician; and still capable of great passion and tenderness. Like Maric, she knew what it was to suffer. Also like Maric, she was interested in the world, and had an odd, amusing way of looking at it. Only last night, he had enjoyed their time together—the way she had of instantly understanding what he was getting at—and her uninhibited love-making. In that respect, she resembled neither Rowan nor Celia at all. Celia was modest by nature, and had feared losing the respect of their vassals, and Rowan... Rowan had feared wounding her father, disgracing her family, and above all, becoming pregnant with a bastard. Perhaps, since Bronwyn believed that being a Grey Warden made her infertile, she did not worry about that last at all. He hoped she was mistaken. If they had no children, they each had heirs, but it seemed to him that Bronwyn would be a remarkably good mother, and furthermore, would enjoy being one, very much.

The Grand Cleric joined their hands, and began the wedding prayer. Bronwyn's face had closed down a little. He knew she did not trust the Chantry, and given all that had happened in the past half-year, she was right. There must be some way to rein in their power, without inviting an Exalted March. His people were gathering information on the Templars even now, trying to get a handle on how many were actually in Ferelden. Of course, if they were no more competent that the Templars here in Denerim, who had let blood mages prosper under their very feet for fifteen years, Ferelden had nothing to fear from the Chantry but hard words.

They would be crowned in the Landsmeet Chamber. The Grand Cleric could say the prayers, but Loghain did not like the idea of appearing to receive the crown from the representative of the Divine in Val Royeaux. Calenhad had made the Chantry one of the pillars of his rise to the throne of Ferelden, and ever since then the role of the Chantry had been a powerful one. Was there any way of minimizing the Grand Cleric's role without egregiously insulting her and the devout nobles? Probably not. However, holding the coronation in the Landsmeet Chamber rather than the Cathedral would somewhat emphasize the secular over the spiritual.

At last, the old woman was done talking. He and Bronwyn turned to face Ferelden together, and the choir burst into high, ethereal song once more. His eyes swept the surging crowd, glancing over to the pack of raffish outcasts that were the Grey Wardens and Their Campfollowers. They were more or less behaving. Some of them were more tolerable than others. That wretched blood mage he had commissioned to get rid of Eamon actually had a mabari!

He realized that he was smiling. Yes, things were working out well. Eamon was gone, and with him the most dangerous leader of any opposition to his plans. The bastard prince, Alistair, had been effectively neutralized by Bronwyn, and was happily—and even effectively—playing the Warden down in Ostagar. Loghain wished no harm to the lad, indeed. Perhaps when Bronwyn was tired of trying to be both Queen and Commander of the Grey, she could delegate the latter to Alistair.

Taking the throne had before seemed impossible, implausible—indecent even. Now Loghain realized that he wanted it. He wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything. How strange.

It was true, though. He wanted the power of the throne to shape Ferelden to his will: to make it the Ferelden of his mind, no longer the rather third-rate nation it now was. This country was rich with resources and fruitful land. There should be plenty for all. With prosperity would come strength and productivity. If they could be free of this darkspawn threat, Ferelden would move into the future he had always wanted for it.

The empty lands to the west and south—and yes, even in the war-ravaged northwest—could be settled anew. Loghain would offer freeholds to those willing to work and earn them. The Dalish would be granted their own territory, and relieve the constant petty banditry and strife they caused with their endless traveling. Perhaps even some of the city elves might join them there. The loss of so many to the slavers had already driven up the price of wages, which was a good thing for the lower classes. Half of these nobles were nothing more than parasites, and could well pay a decent wage instead of buying Orlesian fripperies to put on their backs.

And he would have to do something about the mages: Ferelden's best weapon, locked away in a Chantry prison and their powers stifled, except for the few kept as nobles' pets. He had sent that letter to Ostagar, and Uldred would be among the mages coming to Denerim. Torrin, too was on his way: an intelligent man. With the Chantry wrong-footed as it currently was, Loghain felt that at the very least, he could lengthen the mages' leash. The precedent of Bethany Hawke, and years before of Wilhelm, would prove useful. Some, whose service in the war was outstanding, would be declared free of Chantry supervision as a reward to them and an encouragement to the others.

The Grand Cleric was pronouncing them husband and wife; teyrn and teyrna. It was an essential step to power. How odd, and oddly agreeable, that his path to the throne should lie between a woman's legs.

"Oh, how wonderful!" cried Leliana, on her first sight of the decorated Great Hall of Highever House. "This is really old-time Ferelden on a grand scale!" A babble of happy agreement broke out behind her.

Tables were set with silver and white napery. Light from colored glass in the high windows shone down in rainbow hues. The air was sweet with herbs and the enticing scents of the coming banquet. Easily identified by the grey ribbons on the chairs, the Grey Wardens' table was soon filled. Hungry Wardens speculated on the first course, fingering their spoons eagerly. Servitors filled the cups with what one fancied, whether wine, ale, or mead, so they could drink the health of the bridal couple.

Nuala murmured to Danith, "The rite in the priest-house was not as offensive as I feared, lethallan. The music was agreeable, and the old woman did not reproach those who do not follow her way."

"True," agreed Danith. "It is their custom, and one must allow for shemlen peculiarities. Nevertheless, it was not an experience I wish to repeat very soon."

"I thought it was nice," Idunn spoke up, overhearing their talk. "I like to see decent people getting together, though I don't quite see why they need those people in robes to tell them it's all right. Back in Dust Town, if you fancy a fellow, you take him, and that's that."

Aveline raised her brows. "Just...take him?"

Idunn made a snatching gesture and declared, "Take him!"

Hakan winked at her. "Sounds good to me!"

"Me, too," Anders agreed, speaking low into Morrigan's ear. "All the posh goings-on tempting you to make it official?"

"They do not!" Morrigan scowled at the table in general. "The inheritance customs of the nobles demand such officiousness, but I see no reason for any rational woman to wish to bind herself down."

Leliana looked at her solemnly. "It is not a mere binding. Both Teyrn Loghain and Bronwyn have made a mutual and honorable pledge of love and respect. I think it is a very beautiful thing."

"'Tis 'beautiful,'" sneered Morrigan, "only to the extent to which they each keep their pledge."

Carver did not like what Morrigan was insinuating about Bronwyn. "Well, I'm sure Bronwyn will keep her word. She always has."

Morrigan shrugged. "I suppose she will keep her word even if it kills her, but is it the best thing for her? Will it make her happy?"

Anders whispered, "Morrigan! I didn't know you cared. You're fond of Bronwyn, aren't you?"

She squeezed his thigh just enough to hurt, and hissed back, "Perhaps I am, but you shall not make sport of me for it. I do...regard her as a friend. I had not expected it, but there it is."

"Don't be mad. I like her, too."

The hall hushed, as people took their places and Fergus Cousland rose to speak.

"A hearty welcome to you all, guests of my house! Your Majesty, Your Graces, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen, welcome! A glad day, when I celebrate my sister's marriage to the man of her choice. Let us lift our cups to the Teyrn and Teyrna of Gwaren in the good old Highever fashion." His own goblet, massive silver sloshed a little as he raised it on high.

"Hail!"

"Hail!" the guests echoed.

"We can do better than that!" Carver muttered.

"Hail!"

"Hail!"

"Hail!" grinned Fergus, pleased by the enthusiasm.

"Hail!" roared the hall, and as one, they downed their cups.

Fergus wiped his beard. "So tonight is a night to remember, worthies all! Eat and drink your fill. Dance while you still have legs for it, and set all care aside. Let the feast begin!"

An army of covered dishes surged into the hall, and were distributed amongst the tables in marvelously good order. The Wardens, by now ravenous, were soon face-down in the trough.

Habren felt some satisfaction in seeing that Bronwyn's wedding was not at all as elegant as her own. Or at least as elegant as the first part of it, before everything turned horrid. Highever House today was arranged to avoid the least hint of Orlesian influence, which in Habren's opinion meant a decided decline in standards of food and decorations.

She looked at Kane, sitting next to her, and was glad that everything had turned out for the best. Bronwyn could have Loghain! He was old and rather scary, and was really just a jumped-up peasant, when all was said and done. He might be a hero, and all that, but no woman in Ferelden would have a husband as handsome as Habren's!

Kane gave her a smile and a wink. She was so glad he was wearing his new doublet. Now he looked as he should. What did she care if Father married that dowdy old woman? She herself would be married at the beginning of next month to Kane, and live in splendor at the Arl of Denerim's estate.

Father had given Bronwyn an expensive present, even though Bronwyn had never given Habren one. He felt that Fergus' big silver platter counted for the Couslands, and pointed out that it would all work out anyway. Bronwyn and Loghain would probably give something when she married Kane.

Now Kane was bending to the other side to talk to Lady Amell about those grubby little sisters of his. That was really the only thing to trouble her. Just as she was able to get away from her awful little brothers, she now found she was saddled with those wretched girls. Kane liked them, and insisted that they would be no trouble at all. Habren had given it some thought, and decided it would be all right. She had been all over the estate when she was being practically kept a prisoner there after Urien got himself killed. There were some perfectly nice rooms upstairs that would do for a nursery and a schoolroom for the girls. Kane was already looking for a tutor and a nursemaid for them. They were really too young to dine in company every day. Once they had their own apartments—upstairs and on the other side of the mansion—it was likely as not that Habren would hardly ever have to see them.

At least Father's prospective bride and the rest of the poor relations had made themselves useful, hurriedly making some dresses for the girls to wear, so that Habren did not have to be ashamed of their appearance today. They were mourning their brother, so that had to be taken into consideration. Habren was annoyed that they were not left at home, since they were in mourning. She was still angry at Father for making her stay home an entire month! Here were the girls, their brother only a few days dead, stuffing themselves with delicacies and staring about them as if they had been in decent company all their lives. The only concession to mourning was the boring dark colors the Amell woman had dressed them in. At least the cloth was good, and someone had taken the trouble to comb their hair.

Kane, for his part, was genuinely grateful, "Lady Amell, I'm so obliged to you for all your kindnesses." He nudged Faline. "Did you and Jancey thank Lady Amell for your new dresses?"

Leandra laughed. "Of course they did! And very nicely, too!"

"Yes, indeed," Faline said softly. "You were very good to make them. Thank you again, Lady Amell."

Jancey echoed her, "Thank you, Lady Amell, for giving me a blue dress, so I could come here today. This is fun."

Corbus and Lothar were not quite sure what to make of the little girl visitors, but Father had insisted that they had to be polite. At least these girls weren't cowards, as many girls were, and didn't scream at Killer the way Habren did. It was too cold to play outside much, and so the boys had to share their toys. The younger girl had a doll, and that was no good at all; but they knew how to play hide-and-seek, which was fairly good fun in the big townhouse. The ceiling was high enough in the schoolroom to play at battledore and shuttlecock—when their tutor was out of the room. And when Lady Amell visited, she had the strange idea that it would be a good thing for them to learn to dance together. Bethany brought her lute and played, and Charade pushed them through the steps, pointing out that they might want to dance at all the weddings that were upon them. Corbus had to dance with Faline, and Lothar with Jancey, who giggled all the time, but it could have been worse. In between the grand dances they played Musical Chairs or Musical Statues or A Cold Wind Blows, and there were treats afterward.

Lothar whispered, "Do you suppose we'll have to dance today?"

"Absolutely," Corbus whispered back. "And we'll have to dance with those girls. I heard Father talking with that Kane fop."

Lothar bubbled with laughter. "Habren likes him."

Corbus, older and more cynical, muttered, "Habren would like the Archdemon if he'd make her an Arlessa."

Lothar clapped his hands over his mouth and kicked the table in glee, earning a brief glare from his father.

Corbus, even faced with the prospect of dancing with girls, was in a fairly good humor. Killer had been allowed to come, as long they didn't let him wander away. It was only fair. The Girl Warden had her big dog Scout with her, and Teyrn Loghain had a new puppy that was smaller than Killer. Bethany's brother had a puppy, too, and one of the other Wardens as well. The dogs were getting along together, with Scout in charge, and who could be a better watchdog than Scout?

The guests looked up from food and drink to cheer Pol Pollen, dressed as a wooer, here to entertain them with a song and dance. With him was the pretty young thing who had played the part of the Rabbit in the Satinalia masque. She was dressed in not much more than some flowery scarves. Pol accompanied them with a big theorbo, the neck of which he handled with a decidedly phallic air. The song was traditional and mildly bawdy, and half of the guests sang along with the jester.

"I sow'd the Seeds of Love
And I sow'd them in the spring,
I gather'd them up in the morning so soon,
While the small birds so sweetly sing.
While the small birds so sweetly sing.

"The gardener was standing by
And I ask'd him to choose for me.
He chose for me the Violet,
the Lily and the Pink,
But those I refused all three;
But those I refused all three.

"Instead, there was a red Rosebud—"

Here he gave Bronwyn, glorious in scarlet, a naughty wink. She took it in good part, while the hall rocked with laughter.

"—And that is the flower for me.
I pluck'd then
that red Rosebud,
And it opened its petals free,
And it opened its petals free.

"Come, all you false young men,
Do not leave me here to complain,
For the grass that has oftentimes
been trampled underfoot,
Give it time, it will rise again.
Give it time, it will rise again."

Everyone was in the spirit for dancing themselves. Pol tuned up with the other musicians—for he was actually quite a good player of lute, theorbo, and flute—and people sorted themselves out for dancing. Loghain had resigned himself to dancing with his new wife, and Fergus and Anora had made their own arrangements beforehand. Bryland led Leandra to the floor, and Kane took a glowing Habren by the hand. Rothgar Wulffe asked Charade, and the little Bryland boys were frog-marched into doing their duty to the little Kendalls girls.

Nathaniel Howe caused a great deal of talk by asking Bethany Hawke to dance with him. He was perfectly aware she was a mage, but she was also the prettiest girl sitting down, and it was not as if he had asked her to marry him. Nonetheless, the Grand Cleric and her priests whispered together, looking concerned.

After the next course came more entertainment, but this was a grander and more serious affair. A minstrel-scholar, Benedick Agravaine, presented himself before them, His tall harp was positioned so all could see and hear him, and the old man bowed low.

"We are not the first," he proclaimed, his voice resonant and strong. "We are not the first to face the threat of the darkspawn. Let us all take comfort in the tales of battles of old, and know that those who lived before us endured similar trials, and lived to tell of them. I shall recite to you a part—only a small part—of the Lay of Hafter, a great hero of Ferelden, and the noble ancestor of many before me tonight. This is the Tale of Hafter and the Darkspawn."

"Hafter?" Lothar piped up. "I like Dane better. He was a werewolf for awhile."

"Hush, Lothar," Bryland said, ruffling his son's hair. "Hafter is our ancestor, too." He leaned over to the Kendalls, smiling kindly. "And yours as well. It is a fine thing to hear of the deeds of our forefathers. As the scholar says, we are not the first to live through hard times and the threat of Blight."

The Minstrel's Tale of Hafter and the Darkspawn

Hear me! We've heard of the lords of the Alamarri,
Doughty teyrns of old, and the glory they cut
For themselves, swinging mighty swords!

Greatest of swords Dane gave to Hafter,
Yusaris, Bane of Dragons, a blade of worth;
Well-forged the steel, shining and sharp.
And gave him eke a helm and byrnie,
hard and hand-linked.

Carver blushed happily, thinking about the greatsword in his quarters. Hafter had used it long ago, and it had passed through countless hands. One could hardly claim to own such a blade. It was passing through time, and he was simply a link in the great chain of its history.

All these he had; and had beside his lady,
Daughter of Helming, ring-bedecked teyrna,
Often in hall to offer the jeweled mead-cup
To young and old, the loyal retainers.

"'Tis a translation," Morrigan remarked dismissively. " A translation only. The poem is far more impressive in the original Alamarri."

Her tablemates hushed her. Luckily the rest of the hall had not noticed the exchange.

Across the seapaths came tidings;
the ancient evil risen and raging.

Up rose the mighty one, ringed with his warriors,
Shieldmaidens and thanes, bravest of bands.
Some bode without,battle-gear guarding, as bade the chief.
Then hied that troop where the hero led them,
To front the fiends and fight for life,
Foe against foe.

Then spoke Hafter, wise words and ready,
"Oft luck spares a man if his courage hold."

Through wan night striding came the walkers-in-shadow,
Foulest of fiends, the children of darkness.
Wakeful, the warriors, war-weal weaving,
Bided the battle's issue.

Then splintered many a shield,
And many a worthy warrior went down to the halls of the dead.
The sky resounded with the strain of the struggle.
Alamarri with fear and frenzy were filled, each one,
Who from the strife that wailing heard,
The foes of the gods in their grisly song,
Cry of the Tainted, clamorous pain from the
Captives of hell.

Not in any wise would the hero Teyrn
Suffer that slaughterous spawn to survive.
Many a thane brandished blade ancestral,
Fain the life of their lord to shield,
Their praised prince, if power were theirs.
They slew the foe, hardy-hearted heroes of war,
Aiming their swords on every side
The accursed to kill.

To Hafter now the glory was given,
And the death-sick spawn their dens in the Deep Roads sought,
Noisome abode. To all the clans
By that bloody battle the boon had come.
Their burden of battle borne so long.

Many at morning came the wonder to view,
Folk-leaders faring from far and near.
The fulsome foe, blood-dyed in death,
On the mirksome moor lay slain.

Then Hafter's glory eager they echoed, and all averred
That from sea to sea, or south to north,
There was no other in Thedas,
Under vault of heaven,
More valiant found;
Of warrior none more worthy to rule!

Then Hafter spoke, foster-son of Dane:
"This work of war most willingly
We have fought, and fearlessly dared the force of the foe.
No longer live they, loathsome fiends,
Sunk in their sin.
In baleful bonds they bide until such awful doom
As the Mighty Maker shall mete them out."

There was hurry and hest in the hall of Hafter
For hands to bedeck it, and dense was the throng
Of men and women the wine-hall to cleanse,
The guest-room to garnish. Gold-gay shone the hangings
That were wove on the wall, and wonders many
To delight each mortal that looked upon them.

Bowed then to bench those bearers-of-glory,
Fain of the feasting. featly received.
Many a mead-cup raised the mighty-in-spirit,
Kinsmen who sat in the sumptuous hall.

Glad rose the revel, with harp and hail.
Came forth the Teyrna Winifrith, hand in hand with the hero.
A brimming cup she gave him, with kindly greeting
And winsome words.

"Kill darkspawn, and then have a party," muttered Hakan approvingly. "You can't improve on a classic."

Then gave Hafter from his own rich hoard:
Gold rings and war-steeds and weapons,
Wished his warriors joy of them.
Manfully thus, the mighty teyrn, hoard-guard for heroes,
That hard fight repaid with jewels and treasures contemned by none;
An heirloom to each that did his due.
Home then rode the clansmen from that merry journey.

Past and present, forever prevails the Maker's Will.
Therefore is insight always best,
And prudence of mind.
For whoso endures long in this mortal life,
How much awaits him of pain and pleasure!

Master Benedick was applauded and rewarded, and the descendants of Hafter were sufficiently flattered into a glow of self-satisfaction. Even Bronwyn felt something of the general pride in having such an ancestor. Of course, while many Fereldan nobles claimed descent from Hafter, only Nathaniel Howe had the documentation to prove the links. For that matter, the Couslands claimed descent from Hafter through their intermarriage with the Howes, as did the Brylands and Wulffes.

After the last round of dancing. Fergus promised them a special treat: the Warden minstrel that many of them had had the privilege of hearing down in Ostagar. Wulffe began applauding immediately. Leliana smiled, sweeping gracefully into the center of the room, accepting from a servant the lute she had sent to Highever House earlier in the day.

"The most beautiful song I know is a song I learned from the elves," she said, her sweet voice easily filling the hall. "Tonight I share the best I have you." She strummed her lute thoughtfully, and then her voice rose, swirling like perfumed smoke, singing in a language known to only a few.

"Hahren na melana sahlin
emma ir abelas
souver'inan isala hamin
vhenan him dor'felas
in uthenera na revas"

Danith hardly knew how to feel about this. How had Leilana learned such a song? Her voice was agreeable and her pronunciation correct. Still—it was a thing of the Dalish.

"She sings beautifully," whispered Nuala. "It is an honor. Still—it is odd to hear this song at a wedding..."

Steren agreed. "Perhaps she does not understand the words."

Leliana's voice soared on, filling her listeners with a kind of silent peace.

"vir sulahn'nehn
vir dirthera
vir samahl la numin
vir 'lath sa'vunin'"

Carver leaned forward, urgently whispering to Danith. "What is she singing about?"

Danith murmured, unwilling to miss a note. "It is difficult to render it in the common tongue." Seeing that the boy was still eager to hear, she relented.

"Elder your time is come.
Now I am filled with sorrow.
Weary eyes need resting;
Heart has become grey and slow.
In waking sleep is freedom.

We sing, rejoice,
We tell the tales,
We laugh and cry,
We love one more day."

Bronwyn leaned on Loghain's shoulder, the song working its magic on her as well. After a day of such frantic bustle, it was sweet to have a moment of peace like this. Faces had softened with the lulling of the gentle music: the guests would depart in a glow of good spirits, happy to find their beds, but glad they had spent the evening here.

She told Loghain, "Keeper Lanaya gave me an elven songbook, and I passed it on to Leliana."

Loghain nodded. "She made good use of it."

The wedding guests, gorged and drunken and merry, cheered the bride and groom as they left for the Palace. Fergus embraced his sister, a little maudlin with drink.

"Are you sure you don't want me to go with you, pup?" he asked plaintively.

"I'll be fine. And this way I won't have to put up with anything resembling the hideous old bedding customs. It's time to put those traditions behind us. Loghain and I will retire in decent privacy, and I hope to someday do you the same courtesy."

"If that's what you want," he said, smiling fondly and smelling a bit like a distillery. He gave her another hug, and escorted the Queen out to her carriage, with Loghain giving his arm to Bronwyn.

Bronwyn was once again resigned to riding in the carriage, with small, incredibly hard pearl beads pressing into her back, packed in with Leliana, Morrigan, and the dogs. They were now joined by the dwarf Soren, strapped to the top of the carriage, completely overcome by West Hills brandy. Once secured, no one in the street would see him, and it was really too dark for resident of upper stories to look out and be puzzled by the sight of a snoring dwarf on top of the Teyrn of Highever's carriage.

Loghain, for that matter, smirked when he was handing his lady into to the coach, their conversation nearly inaudible due to the atrocious noises issuing from just above their heads.

"Fortunate for him that that we can hear him," Morrigan remarked contemptuously. "Else he would likely sleep all night and the following day up there."

Truly, not all the guests were the highest spirits. The children were exhausted. Rather than force them to stay until the bride was seen off, they had stayed just long enough for Leliana's performance and the serving of the aromatically spiced wedding cake, and then were sent home, accompanied by their tutor and a suitable guard.

Others were made sad by too much drink, or too many memories. Nathaniel brooded over his own prospects, rather put out, now that it came to it, that Loghain should carry off such a prize. Habren was tired and sulky, loath to share Kane's attention any longer. There were those, like Aveline, who were widowed, and for whom the celebrations of a wedding brought home their own bereavement.

For that matter, Anora had had all the feasting she cared for. She liked to keep regular hours, and it was now considerably past her usual bedtime. She looked forward to returning to the Palace and the familiar comfort of her bed. Not wishing to seem a poor sport in Fergus' eyes, she smiled graciously, but he, made observant by love, could see how her eyelids drooped and her smile faltered. He handed her into her own carriage with careful tenderness, and his arm received a discreet pressure in thankful acknowledgement.

Loghain mounted his horse and rode just in front of Bronwyn's carriage, tolerating the usual quips and drunken advice in good part. He certainly did not need the input of noble lackwits, but it would be foolish to antagonize them, and thus lose the good will the marriage had gained him. It was growing cold, and a thin, icy mist lay heavy on the city. The horses' hooves struck the cobbles with a sharp and heightened clatter. Altogether it was just the sort of night, and just the sort of scene, that one could imagine being the setting for an attack. Loghain peered into the shadows, into dark alleys and up at nearby rooftops, searching for the tell-tale glint of steel.

A pack of random beggars at the end of the Gate Bridge briefly alarmed him, but they were no more than they seemed, and the guards got rid of them without trouble. No doubt they were making for Highever House, and would be among the first in line for the remnants of tonight's feast come tomorrow morning.

Anora fell asleep in her coach; and somewhat to their later embarrassment, so did all the occupants of Bronwyn's. Even the puppies were quiet in the basket, twitching a little in soft and milky puppy dreams.

Morrigan roused first, hearing the raised voices in the Palace courtyard, as the staff (many of whom had attended the wedding at the Cathedral) came out to welcome home the bridal couple. She laughed sharply at the sight of Leliana fast asleep, her mouth open, and at Bronwyn, her ruby headpieces askew, Bronwyn heard the sound dimly, and then sensed the brighter light and sat up.

"Holy Maker!" she groaned. "I must look a sight."

"You do," Morrigan agreed helpfully.

Leliana, when awakened, went to work repairing the damage, and Bronwyn emerged from the conveyance with dignity intact. Anora's seneschal was a considerate man, and quietly awakened her and gave her time to put herself in order before stepping from her carriage.

Bronwyn, still dozy, smiled on the assembled staff, deferring politely to the Queen. Loghain, who had had just about enough of ceremony for the day, hurried things along, reaching into the coach to claim the sleepily whimpering Amber. Bronwyn said her farewells to her grinning…or smiling…or wistfully nostalgic Wardens, and entered the front gate of the Palace on Loghain's arm. In his other, he held his puppy close. Scout trailed behind, eyes half-shut, tail down, ready to sleep at a moment' notice.

"Don't forget Soren!" Bronwyn reminded them, and disappeared behind the heavy brass-bound oak doors.

The coach she had ridden in was Fergus', and the driver was obliging enough to take the "Warden ladies" around to their own entrance.

"I wonder," mused Anders, swaying gently, "how many Wardens would fit in the Teyrn of Highever's carriage."

It was the signal for a crazed scramble. Seeing Anders lunge, Carver grabbed him by the back of his doublet and dashed in ahead of him, pulling the basket of puppies protectively onto his lap. Anders shouted, "Oi!" and fired a spark in his direction that hit Jowan instead.

"That was a mistake," declared Hakan. "He has the power to boil your brains."

"That's 'cos he's e-e-e-e-vil," said Anders.

"Am not!" Jowan shouted. He scrambled up the steps to the carriage. "Let me in!" he demanded. "Lily needs me!"

"Are too," Anders muttered, dusting himself off.

When Hakan dwarf tried to get into the carriage next, Idunn roared, "Ladies first!" and slugged him.

By this time Anders had managed to get into the carriage, his arms around Morrigan, taking advantage of the dark interior. Morrigan's throaty laughter was later agreed to be "creepy and inappropriate" by Leliana and Aveline, who had discovered that they saw eye to eye on many matters.

"I can walk," Danith said with stiff dignity. "It is but a few steps to the Compound."

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no!" Anders protested, coming up for air from a liplock. "Plenty of room, plenty of room! Everybody in!"

"It's a bit hard on the horses, Warden," the driver protested mildly.

"There now," Quinn interrupted. "You see? Not right to hurt the horses."

Steren thought the same. "I wish to stop at the stables and see to the halla anyway. I shall return to the Compound later."

"Good idea!" cried Quinn, looping his huge arm over the slender elf's shoulder. "I'll go with you and help!"

"Have fun!" called Carver. "Meanwhile, I would like to recapitulate tonight's fine…old…song!"

"Oh, don't!" pleaded Leliana.

"I sow'd the seeds of lo-o-o-o-ove,

I sow'd them in the spri-i-i-i-ng…"

Servants and officials, knights and men-at-arms waited in the entry hall of the Palace and lined the corridors to the private wing. Once inside, almost impulsively, Anora and Bronwyn kissed each other's cheeks, while Loghain looked on, inscrutable. It was a long gauntlet of bows and the reciprocal gracious nods until they bade Anora good night and were within sight of their own apartments. At Loghain's darkening scowl, the beaming or merely curious servants who did have an extremely good reason to be there slipped away, and the newly-married couple could converse quietly in something resembling privacy.

"Well," said Loghain. "That's done."

His new wife stopped in her tracks, and threw him a look that suggested that that had not been the most tactful remark to make at the moment. Scout stopped too, staring up at Loghain quizzically. Bronwyn took a long, deep breath, and resumed walking.

"Yes," she said. "What's done is done."

He must not let her retire on that note. He walked her to her door, which opened to reveal a smiling, excited Fionn, waiting to help her remove her finery. Ignoring the maid's presence. Loghain took Bronwyn's hand and pressed a grave kiss on it. Amber whimpered sleepily.

"Soon," he said, raising his brows.

That wrung a smile from her.

"Not too soon. This wedding regalia is more complicated than my armor!"

He gave a half-smile in return, as the door shut behind her. He picked up his pace and strode into his quarters without ceremony.

His manservant, Cashel, bowed in greeting.

"Good evening, my lord. May I offer my felicitations on this happy occasion?"

"You may make me presentable to my bride, Cashel."

"Indeed, my lord. The bath is drawn and ready."

After an afternoon and evening of ornate and heavy clothing, dancing, feasting, drinking, and breathing in the exhalations of hundreds of people doing exactly the same things, Loghain thought that was a brilliant notion. He sank into the hot, herbed water, wishing briefly that he could just sleep in the tub. Impossible. He must not disappoint his bride and scandalize the servants. To his annoyance, Cashel was proposing to shave him for the second time that day.

"One ought to put one's best foot forward, my lord. Shows respect for the importance of the occasion."

"She'd better not expect me to shave every night,"

The girl ought not to expect him to make love to her every night, for that matter, though she was a young thing and hot-blooded. A man needed his sleep sometimes, and they had been together only last night. Still, it was her wedding night, and she had a right to his undivided attention. Possibly he could pleasantly surprise her…

Bronwyn was so tired of her finery that it was difficult not to snap at Fionn and rip it all off. She forced herself to sit, hands folded, while the maid untangled tendrils of hair from her beaded collar and her headpiece. The jewels were removed and put aside, and then, in a tiresome reversal of the earlier process, the massive weights of corset, bodice, skirt, and underdress were lifted away.

"Let me get your hair up out of the way, your ladyship," Fionn said soothingly, "and I've got a nice hip bath waiting for you."

"Thank the Maker!" Bronwyn moaned. "I feel so grubby!"

Scout snorted and found his cushion by fire. Bronwyn smiled fondly on the dog.

"Maybe you should be next, old fellow. You're pretty ripe, too, after such a busy day. A bath would be just the thing for you."

Scout feigned sleep—or total deafness- with the skill of a bard.

Much refreshed, Bronwyn allowed Fionn to dress her in her prettiest silk nightdress and her mothers gorgeous scarlet dressing gown. Thus washed and arrayed, she felt better about being a noble bride, and sat complacently while her hair was brushed and braided.

"And now," Bronwyn declared solemnly, "We await the enemy's next move. I'll stand the watch. You go to bed."

"I should be here to open the door…"

"I am perfectly capable of opening my own door," Bronwyn assured her. "To bed with you. We'll be busy enough tomorrow."

Fionn paused, her eyes wide and damp with sentiment. "My lady…Teyrna Bronwyn… Maker watch over you!"

Bronwyn rose, and kissed the maid's brow, and then smilingly gave her a little push to send her on her way. Did the girl imagine she was some sort of trembling virgin? It was possible, she supposed. The maid went back through the study and shut her own door. Bronwyn at last had a moment alone to reflect on the day.

Teyrna Bronwyn. It did sound very well. To be Teyrna of Gwaren was something.

Should she pour some wine for Loghain? No. She could not imagine that either of them needed anything more to drink. Better to get on with it right away. Or did the proper protocol demand that they talk to each other for a specified period of time? Mother would have known, but Mother was not here. Were they supposed to protest their affections to one another? Doing that in cold blood would make her feel very, very silly.

"Bronwyn?"

Loghain's voice was low and questioning, muffled by the heavy door. Trying not to seem pathetically eager, she slowly opened the door, and could not help smiling at the sight of him, prepared for bed in proper Palace style, in a velvet dressing gown. She looked again, and noticed that there was no sign of a night shirt underneath. Perhaps the evening had real possibilities, after all.

"Where's Amber?"

"Dead asleep in her basket. Just as well. Come."

Ah, so much for romance. No sweeping off her feet, but a practical walk, side by side, into her bedchamber, and a brief discussion about who preferred which side. Loghain, of course, wanted the side nearest the door, so he could leave when duty called.

She sniffed. "What about when my duty calls?"

"Then you can crawl out over me. I don't mind." With a shrug, he cast off his splendid dressing gown, and stood naked before her. Being a sensible man, he folded it carefully, and laid it on her long rosewood chest, lest it be creased.

Bronwyn wondered if she was supposed to disrobe so casually, but he had different ideas: unfastening her red wrapper with a dark smile and a searching glance; and then gently unlacing her fragile white nightdress, allowing it to pool on the floor. Bronwyn noted—in the back of her mind—that he was not so particular of her clothes as he was of his own.

But these were minor matters. She was in his arms, and he smelled very nice and clean, which was something of a surprise after today's events.

"I had a bath, too," she murmured, responding to his hands and lips.

"I noticed. You deserve a special reward for such thoughtfulness."

"I didn't really… what are you doing?"

"Shhhh…."

She was being pushed back onto the bed, onto the lovely silken pillows that were lately the property of diabolic blood mages. They were very nice pillows all the same. Loghain was intent on kissing her: his lips warm and agreeably soft, traveling from her brow and mouth and jaw, to the joining of her neck and the curve of her breast. And he kept moving down, tickling her, warming her and startling her all at once. His fingers were gentle and probing, and his tongue… She had heard of such things, of course, but they were foreign…arts… and Loghain surely would not…

"Oh!"

"Shhhh…"

Outside, the mist thickened, and as the temperature dropped, snow fell softly on Denerim. Everything sordid was masked in purest white: the open sewers of the Alienage, the filth of the streets. Even the rough stone and timber of the buildings was made beautiful—if only for a brief moment in time. The snowfall grew heavier. and Denerim grew quiet: the curses of drunkards, the cries of lovers, the pleas of beggars, and the moans of the dying all muffled alike.

Thanks for my reviewers: Chandagnac, Oleander's One, Blinded in a bolthole, EmbertoInferno, Jyggilag, almostinsane, riverdaleswhiteflash, Nemrut, Shakespira, Zute, Guest, Mike 3207, Robbie the Phoenix, Have Socks. Will Travel, Rexiselic, KnightOfHolyLight, EpitomyofShyness, timunderwood9, ShyWriter413, Jenna53, MisterSP, Phygmalion, JackOfBladesX, Juliafied, mille libri, Herebedragons66, DarkSky01, AD Lewis, COL-Goodall, Josie Lange, arutka2000, Cobar713, Doom-N-GloomGal, Psyche Sinclair, Tsu Doh Nimh, and chocolatebrownie12.

The Borders Yet to Be map is canon. If you recruit Loghain, it's part of his equipment. He's not exactly planning war, but he has a picture in his mind of what Ferelden ought to be, and he'd be quite opportunistic about making it a reality. If you look at the whole map of Thedas (especially in the compressed view), it becomes even more obvious that Jader geographically should be part of Ferelden.

If you look at the compressed map of Thedas, the fact that Jader seems to be geographically a part of Ferelden is very apparent. Based on what we know about Orlesian history, I suspect that Jader—since it's so remote—was an independent territory until around the times that the Dales fell. The nearest large city to the west is Halamshiral, which was the elven capital. I believe that Jader was in fact an Alamarri settlement, and the Orlesians extended their border to include it only after they had conquered the elves. I find it interesting that one of the DA wiki's maps of the Orlesian Empire does not even extend far enough to include Jader.

As to the Arl of Denerim's estate. It is clearly from the outside not all on ground level plus dungeons. There have got to be some staircases to upper case of the outside not matching the inside.

My excerpt of the Lay of Hafter is obviously a shameless pastiche, using of bits of Beowulf taken from various translations: the impossible-to-translate opening from Burton Raffel, and other parts from Seamus Heaney, Howell Chickering, and R. M. Liuzza. A huge debt is owed to the brilliant site Beowulf in Hypertext. Look it up! And some of it I just made up.

I've published another story! See my author page for the link. Reviews would be appreciated.