Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel Comics, Dragon Age, Stephen King's Doctor Sleep, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, or any of their related characters. Character Warjen Zevonishki or "Zevon" is an homage to my favorite musician, long deceased, no disrespect intended, I included him because King dedicated the novel Doctor Sleep to his memory. 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 Doctor Sleep, Dragon Age Origins, Origins DLC, Awakening, and Dragon Age II, Dragon Age II DLC, Dragon Age Inquisition as well as the novels The Stolen Throne and The Calling. May also contain spoilers for Marvelmovies, series, and/or comics. Song lyrics included herein were used without permission.
Chapter Four: Denerim
They returned to Ferelden on the fourth day. The time difference bothered them, but there was little time to rest and reacclimatize. The diminished party drew notice, and people wanted to know why their numbers had shrunk. Certain people actually deserved to know.
One of those people was at the Palace. While not very grand in comparison to the residences of the High Kings of many provinces, it wasn't exactly a longhouse with a couple of braziers, either. Built many trillions of years ago when the Tevinter Imperium ruled the continent of Thedas, before all Asgard unified as one Empire, it was blocky and dark and grim and imposing, as the ancient Tevinters had liked their architecture to be. It had, once upon a time, also been filled with statues of dragons, which the Tevinters worshiped, but those had long since been replaced with depictions of Mabari War Hounds, which were far more Fereldan.
The current High King of Ferelden was an amiable young Nord named Cailan Theirin, only… acknowledged son of High King Maric Theirin, Loghain's old and grudgingly-admitted friend, who had been lost at sea while on a diplomatic embassy some two hundred years before. Maric had been a bit of a bounder, and that there was at least one other son from the other side of the sheets was something Loghain was aware of, though Maric had never actually come straight out and admitted it. He had, at the least, strongly implied it. That son was in the care of Arl Eamon Guerrin, brother of the late King's late Queen, and while Loghain supposed there could be more peculiar choices of guardian for the King's bastard, there couldn't be many. He often wondered why Maric hadn't asked him to foster the boy. He would have done it. Not to clean up after Maric's sexual misadventures, but for the boy's sake. He shouldn't suffer, or be used by anyone, because of who had sired him.
Of course, there was the matter of who he suspected was the lad's true mother. Certainly not, as the story was told, some Redcliffe serving girl! Perhaps that was why Maric hadn't considered him as guardian. He thought he would disapprove too much. Well, he certainly did, but he wouldn't hold it against the boy, for Andraste's sake!
In any event, it wasn't Cailan to whom he had to talk. When Maric sailed off into the sunset and drowned, the Bannorn had practically fallen to pieces. The Landsmeet tried to vote Teyrn Bryce Cousland, who was the nearest heir to the throne after Cailan, to the throne instead. No one had much faith in Cailan's ability to lead. In that, Loghain grimly admitted, they were all too right. The boy was cloud-headed, in the truest sense of the term. He believed he was the hero of his own little storybook fantasy, and that nothing could go wrong in his own little sphere of influence. If he was happy, the world was happy. A ruler like that was a terrible thing for a province.
Even so, Loghain had fought, tooth and nail, for Cailan's succession. He refused to give up on the idea of Maric's safe return, and would not have anyone other than his son ruling the province in his absence. The Landsmeet was pacified only when Loghain agreed to fulfill the terms of the marriage contract he had signed long ago with Maric, arranging a betrothal between his younger daughter Freya and Prince Cailan. Within the month, they were married, and Cailan was King, Freya his Queen. Many of the nobles were unhappy with the arrangement, but most were glad that they at least had someone as practical and intelligent as Freya ruling at Cailan's side.
Zevon left the party at the aerodome, promising to rejoin Loghain at any time he wished for that paternity test. He didn't honestly think the man was his father, but it would be good to have it settled conclusively. Everyone else headed for the Palace District.
It wasn't far. The aerodome was only a short walk from the district in which the Palace, and the houses of the highest nobility, were the main feature. Loki didn't make the walk, carried instead in Loghain's arms. He seemed reluctant to part from his father's strong arms these days, which was probably natural, especially since he knew of the sword dangling over his head. While ten Asgardian years was an unbelievably long time in mortal terms (if Midgard existed at this point, which it did not, one Asgardian year would equal a little more than one billion Midgardian years – indeed, the universe which Midgard would exist within had not yet been born), in Asgardian terms it was no time at all. Loghain still hadn't truly overcome the loss of his childhood Mabari Hound, Adalla, and he'd been all of two hundred years old when she died.
Was murdered, he thought bitterly, coming to the stairs at the foot of the palace doors. No, there was no timetable on grief. Expecting him to move on from Celia in ten short years was monstrous. Expecting Loki to embrace another as his mother so soon was monstrous, even if it probably would be best for the boy in the end. Just another example of Odin viewing people as tools to be used and discarded. It put another spin on him sending his adviser and his bodyguard to Gwaren so that their children could be raised side-by-side with Loki. It wasn't caring or concern. It was another move in whatever little game he was playing with Loki's life. He began seriously to wonder whether there ever had been a prophecy at all, or if it was just a way of shuffling the pieces around to his satisfaction.
They entered the Palace, and a servant scurried ahead to announce them to Their Majesties. After a moment, another servant came and led them to the Little Audience Chamber, a more personal and private meeting place than the Throne Room.
"Teyrn Loghain! I had not heard you were in town! To what do we owe the honor?" Cailan said, boundlessly amiable as always. He looked at the grim faces of his father-in-law and great-grandmother-in-law, and at the subdued child clinging to the big man, and his smile faded. "Has something untoward befallen you?"
"Father, what's wrong?" Freya said, always more perceptive than her husband. "Where is Mother?"
"Freya, dearest… I have bad news," Loghain said. "Your mother has… passed away." Never would it pass his lips exactly how she had died, or why. He had already warned Reyne and Loki both not to say a word about blood magic or daemons.
"Passed away? But… how? She was a young, strong Nord woman. She should not have simply 'passed away.'"
He had prepared for this question, and had an answer. An answer that shifted all blame smack where it belonged.
"We were vacationing, in Tenebrae. Celia wanted to see the city." He shook his head and hung it so that his hair fell in his face. He hoped his daughter wouldn't think too deeply on the oddity of him taking a vacation, of all things. "An assassin jumped us, some Thalmor agent. He missed me and struck your mother. I killed him, but the damage was done."
He hated to lie, especially to his own kin, but he didn't need the kind of strife that the truth could so easily engender. Freya, for her part, appeared shocked and dismayed enough to believe the whole thing.
"Is there to be a funeral?" she said, in a husky voice.
"We held one in Tenebrae. Not as well-attended as one could wish, but very well-administered. I have her ashes. I intend to inter them in her rose garden. I expect she would like that."
"We shall hold a memorial at the Palace," Cailan said, anticipating Freya's next words perfectly. "Everyone should attend. We must send the Teyrna to the Maker's side with the proper respect, Ferelden style."
A bloody party. Brilliant. The last thing Loghain wanted to do right now, aside from bride-hunting at least, was to attend a gathering of Ferelden nobility at which there would undoubtedly be heavy drinking and a lot of insincere sympathy. Granted, Freya would have arranged the same damned thing, it was the only proper response to the death of the Queen's mother or indeed any high-ranking Ferelden noble, but if Freya proposed it instead of Cailan it would no doubt be a more dignified affair. In Cailan's hands, it could well devolve into a fucking orgy. He gave Freya a significant look, almost commanding her to take charge of the matter. He hoped she understood. She usually did. His looks weren't all that subtle, after all, and she knew them well.
"We must take our leave, Your Majesties," he said. "I have yet to tell your twin the ill tidings. I would assume that he is at Gwaren House?"
"Most usually, Father. He is almost as unsociable as you."
With the quality of the company Ferelden nobility provides, who could blame the poor boy? Loghain thought, but did not say aloud. Freya had always had the political mind, of the children. Frigga was good about that kind of thing, too, but wasn't as deliberate about it as Freya. Freya had something of Odin's political outlook on people, though he hoped to the Maker and the Nine Divines she wasn't half as bad as he. She was pretty, too, which helped her out a lot with working people to her will, no doubt. Both his girls were pretty. They looked like their mother, thank all that was good and holy. Freyr did too, but with just enough 'male' mixed in that he didn't look too damned pretty. He was a handsome young man. It was a bit early to tell, but on balance Loghain thought Loki would grow to be a handsome lad too. If he could only keep his curse from striking them, then they were lucky children indeed. Noble born and attractive? The world lay at their feet, even if the world in question was only the province of Ferelden, rather a poor and backwater province by Asgardian standards.
Cailan dismissed them, not that Loghain wouldn't have left without official permission, and Loghain led the way to Gwaren House, one of the smaller noble residences in the Palace District. Indeed, it had once been the Denerim home of the Bann of Oswin, not considered fit for a Teyrn, but longtime financial mismanagement of the Teyrnir had led to the original house being sold to the Arl of Redcliffe and this far more modest estate being purchased in its stead. That had all happened long before Loghain's time. He hadn't been at all displeased to inherit the former Oswin House, however. He had spent his earliest childhood on a freehold near Oswin, and he felt it ironically appropriate.
He also didn't mind that it was relatively small and humble, by noble standards. It was still a thousand times grander than anything he'd ever expected or even desired to own. Freyr's opinion of the house might differ, considering he'd been born a nobleman. He lived in Denerim full-time these days, taking care of Gwaren's interests there while his father was in the south. He seemed to be handling things competently, despite his youth. Of course, he hadn't been put to any great tests as of yet.
The doorman let them in and made them comfortable, and a footman dashed off to summon "Lord Freyr." Before the young man arrived, however, a courier from the palace came by, with a message from Freya for her father.
Father,
I just received communication from the Sacred City that the Alfadir has given you ten years to find another bride or he will execute you for High Treason? I have to assume this is the truth, although I question strongly why you did not tell me yourself. Please, for all our sakes, do not delay! I will inform the nobility. Many of them have unmarried daughters of reasonable age. Some of them are not quite suitable for a man of your standing, but under the circumstances no one will be concerned about which one you choose.
Your worried daughter,
Freya.
He crumpled the parchment into a ball in his hands, fuming. Mag-nificent. Now Cailan's bloody memorial service would be a damned livestock auction, with all the nobles with eligible daughters looking to sell them off to him. He doubted he would be any readier to marry ten years from now, but he certainly wasn't ready to marry now, with Celia's ashes barely cooled and not even properly interred yet.
Freyr strode in, dashing and well-dressed as always. He was nowhere near as tall as his father, but he was still quite tall, and well built. He was unmarried, but Loghain had no intention of forcing a change in that situation. He hadn't been given an option with his girls. Freya, at least, seemed happy enough in her situation. There were rumors, though, about Cailan and his proclivities… Ah, if only he could fix every problem the world possessed. He rose to greet his son.
"Father, what an unexpected surprise!" Freyr said, clasping his offered hand. He looked uncommonly nervous, as if he'd been taken unawares at a bad time. "What brings you to Denerim?"
"I have bad news, son. You may want to be seated."
Freyr sank into a blue padded armchair with his green Al Bhed eyes wide. They flicked from the face of his father, to Loki, to Reyne, and back again. "What's wrong? Mother's not with you. Has something happened to her?"
"I'm afraid so, son. She passed on."
Freyr was by far the more sensitive of the twins, and he and his mother had always been especially close, while Freya had been more of a Daddy's Girl, not that both of them hadn't loved both of their parents. He immediately burst into stormy tears. He didn't even question how a strong young Nord woman happened to die out of the blue. Loghain hadn't expected him to. He might wonder, after the first flurry of emotion had settled, but he would never question. It would never occur to him that his father would deceive him in any way, so he would come to the conclusion that there had been some sort of accident or assassination attempt (his father received quite a few of those) on his own. He was not without guile, but he was a far more trusting soul than Freya.
Loghain sat down and waited, quietly and patiently, while his son worked through his initial storm of grief. It did not even occur to him to offer comfort. He hadn't had comfort for any of his great losses since he was extremely young indeed, so he didn't truly know what was appropriate. He hoped, just by being there, Freyr would know how he felt, but he doubted it. He had never been an especially demonstrative parent, and Freyr was the type of boy who probably would have benefited from a more openly affectionate father.
Freyr finally pulled himself together enough to dab at his eyes with a handkerchief and look at his father. "I… have something to tell you, Father," he said, in a shaky voice. "I had told Mother already, but… I hadn't the courage to tell you. Now is not a good time for it, but if I do not tell you now, I will never find the courage again. I have… been a bad son to you."
"In what way?" Loghain said, quite mildly.
Freyr choked on his next words, but got them out at last. "I have… worn ladies dresses and… I sleep with men," he said.
"I fail to see how that makes you a bad son to me."
Freyr looked at him with hope and surprise blooming in his eyes. "You… you are not angered?"
"Why would I be? However you want to dress and whoever you want to love, you're still my child, Freyr. I love you. Full stop. There are no conditions. I am sorry if I raised you in a way that made you doubt that."
"You didn't even seem surprised."
"I wasn't. Your mother, Maker bless her, couldn't keep a secret from me."
"She told you?"
"Everything but his name, which I gathered she didn't actually know."
"Yes, I… I never told her that," Freyr said, head hanging.
"Would it be possible for me to meet him?" Loghain said.
Freyr's head jerked up, eyes wide and startled. "Meet him?"
"Yes, you know, as parents often do. Unless, of course, you're just not that serious about this fellow."
"That's not the issue, it's just… oh by the Divines… all right, but just you, right? There may be bloodshed, and I don't want innocents involved."
Loghain passed Loki off to Reyne and stood up. "Well, I don't know why you expect such bad behavior, but no time like the present, eh?"
Freyr got up and led his father deeper into the estate, down familiar corridors to a room the Teyrn himself had seldom used, the Conservatory. As they walked, Freyr gave him some information about his significant other.
"His name is Auryen Morellus, he's relatively high-born but not native Fereldan, and his life's dream is to found a great museum of Asgardian history."
"A worthy goal," Loghain said. "History should never be forgotten."
It did not escape his attention that "Auryen" was a faintly elven-sounding name. He knew nothing of the name Morellus at all, nor of its racial origins, but there was only one type of Mer in Asgard that had any real claim to highborn status. Altmer. High Elves, as they were more commonly known. Altmer were, for reasons unknown to Loghain, the only race of people exempt from the Chantry's rules against free mages – possibly because almost all Altmer had magic of some degree. That didn't make it fair, in his view. Either all mages should be locked up or all mages should be free, no exceptions, and he leaned toward the idea that people, no matter what their… "gifts"… should be free. But if Altmer mages were locked up it would have made the wars he fought a whole Helheim of a lot easier, since it was from the Altmer that the Thalmor drew their ranks, and that meant that most Thalmor had magic. Potent magic.
He supposed then that this Auryen was an Altmer, and that was why Freyr expected bloodshed. Silly boy, there were all kinds of people in the world. Not all Altmer were Thalmor cocksuckers. Not even most of them, just an unfortunately vocal minority. But this Altmer who had insinuated himself into his family would bear watching all the same. The Thalmor were always looking to assassinate him, after all. It would be like them to try and kill his children, first.
Of course, if this Auryen was an Orlesian Altmer, there might well be bloodshed.
The mer himself awaited inside the Conservatory, lounging on a chaise, listening to a sphere of some symphony or other. He was tall, for an elf, though Altmer were tall by elvish standards to begin with, with a long, narrow face and yellowish skin native to his people, and dressed similarly to Freyr in a fine velvet doublet and silk breeches. He rose when they entered, a look of welcome mixed with a certain degree of concern on his face. It was clear enough he knew who Loghain was. It was also clear he didn't entirely know whether his presence now heralded good or ill.
"Father, this is Auryen. Auryen, my father," Freyr said, and stood aside with his chest out and his shoulders back, like a proud man awaiting execution.
"Teyrn Loghain. An honor, Ser," Auryen said.
Loghain put his hand out to shake. "Auryen," he said. He eyed the young mer with frank consideration. No Orlesian accent, which was definitely good. Loghain couldn't quite place his accent, actually, but guessed it was from somewhere in Tamriel, the nearest continent to Thedas. That included the Summerset Isles, the home province of the Altmer and the seat of Thalmor power, so more scrutiny was necessary. He had trusted agents, he would get them on the matter. But his overall impression of the mer was an innocent young person who was mostly guileless. His instincts were usually pretty good.
Auryen seemed taken aback by being offered a handshake by the great General who had brought the Thalmor to their knees in Ferelden and so many other places. He looked from the massive hand in front of his face to Loghain's cold, wintry blue-gray eyes high above several times before actually reaching up to allow his own hand to be seized and pumped once. Freyr let out a heavy breath and laughed weakly.
"Thank you, Father," he said, with great feeling. "You cannot know how much this means to me."
"Your brother-in-law is holding a memorial party in honor of your mother," Loghain said. "You should be there. Why don't you bring Auryen along?"
"In public?" Freyr said, surprised once again.
"Yes, Pup. In public."
"All the nobles in Denerim will most likely be there. What would they think?"
"Who gives a good gods damned? You can't live your life afraid of what others think, son."
Freyr blushed and shuffled. "Of course you would say that, Father, but I'm not like you. I've never been… strong."
Loghain hugged him. Freyr was surprised but pleased. "You're stronger than you know. Even if you're nothing like me, you're still strong, because you're certainly a lot like your mother, and she never gave a damn what anyone thought of her, either. Do you know what those noble assholes called her after my rise? I'm ashamed to say the words. Not only was she peasant-born like me, but she was Al Bhed, which was just about as bad as if she were an Alienage elf, to them. But she refused to be cowed. She held her head up, and dazzled them all with her grace, her poise, and her intelligence. And her beauty, too. And you know what? I think you're more like me than you realize. You just haven't been put in the situation yet where you had to tap into that side of yourself. Maker take me, I hope you never are."
Reyne opted to remain in the comfort of Gwaren House, for she was fatigued, but Loghain took Loki with him and went to visit the local Alienage. He hadn't done it in quite some time, but he liked to check in with the elves of Denerim. Quite a few of the older ones had served in the war against the Thalmor with him, in a hastily-assembled company that was his very first command, and they had, as he had rather expected, received rather shabby reward for their heroism. There were elves who served in that company in other Alienages across Ferelden, but most of them wound up in Denerim, as it was the largest city with the largest Alienage.
Much as he despised it, not all people were equal in Asgard. Elves, or at least most elves, were pretty far down the food chain from Nords in most people's eyes, and lived in walled-off slums in any city large enough to support such a place. Small villages usually weren't segregated, at least, and some cities, he'd heard, didn't totally wall off their elven populations, though they did keep them segregated. Ferelden was, unfortunately, no different in that regard. Altmer could live freely and even hold high office, but Bosmer (wood elves) and Dunmer (dark elves) were not so fortunate, probably because they were not as powerful and capable of defending themselves. There were few Dunmer in Ferelden, but there was a reasonably large population of Bosmer. Some of them, called "Dalish" because of a long-breached treaty that had granted them permanent lands in Thedas in the south of what is now Orlais, called the Dales, lived wild by traditional ways. Bosmer traditions included eating the flesh of their enemies in accordance with "The Green Pact," an accord with the god Yffre, who was their primary deity.
Loghain's own mother had been a Dalish, but she'd given up most of her traditions when she met and fell in love with his father. She had chosen to live an extremely secluded life on their little Oswin freehold so that no one in the town would know he was an elven half-blood child. But it hadn't saved her in the end. And the people who raped and murdered her? Hadn't cared that she was a Dalish or an elf at all or even that she was married outside of her race, but only that she was a Fereldan peasant who had the audacity to defy the Thalmor and the Orlesian Lords who held sway over their lives at the time. And people wondered why Loghain was so bloody adamant that there should be no capitulation with the Thalmor or their blasted Orlesian lap dogs!
The Alienage was, of course, quite a fair distance from the Palace District, all the way on the other side of the Low Market Square near the northern city wall, almost on the extreme opposite side of the city. Loghain didn't mind the walk, and Loki didn't mind riding in his father's arms. Loghain's long legs chewed up the distance quite quickly, and even in the rougher areas of the city, no one tried to accost them. His face wasn't all that well-known in Ferelden, thanks to the fact that he had never once sat for a portrait and rarely stood still long enough to be captured on a holosphere, but his reputation – and his height – were wide-spread knowledge.
As always, upon entering the squalid Alienage, Loghain looked about and wondered at the circumstances of Fate. If he had been like the majority of children born to Nord men who impregnated elven women, he and his mother would have ended up in a place not unlike this. Many things in his life wouldn't have happened the way they had, for better or for worse, but it certainly would have been different. On balance, despite how awful it had been, he believed it would have been worse. Probably a lot worse. The Thalmor made no particular distinction between Ferelden Nords and Ferelden Bosmer when they committed their atrocities, but the Orlesian nobility, who were mostly Imperials and Nords, most likely did. Loghain didn't like thinking about what sort of poison was in Orlesian water that made Imperial and Nord minds susceptible to Thalmor rhetoric, but then, millions of years of Orlesian "culture" made them very much aligned with the Thalmor's "me first, me only" ideology.
Timid eyes peered out at him from glassless windows, young people who had probably no idea who he was other than a very big Nord in their safe space. But others were coming out to greet him, older men and women, some with graying hair and lined faces, some younger and haler, with smiles of welcome on their faces. His soldiers. His Night Elves.
"Commander! Elvhen vir nah'dal tirdas val'tar din!" the eldest of them called, clapping a fist to his bicep. Loghain took his hand off Loki's back and clapped his own fist to his bicep in return.
"Night Elves watch the line," he said. "Nice to see you alive and well, Sargent. Report."
"All is as well as can be expected, Commander," the old Bosmer said, with a sad smile that was partly a grimace. "The Arl is… not a generous man to his elven vassals."
"The Arl" was Arl Urien Kendalls, Arl of Denerim, the man in direct control of the Alienage and conditions there. Few nobles of Ferelden were particularly good at caring for their elven vassals. Even in Highever, where Teyrn Bryce Cousland held ultimate sway, the Alienage was absolutely wretched. Cousland was a good man and well-meaning, but he didn't put his foot down when the Bann of Highever spent his tax money on "more important concerns" than the appalling conditions of the Highever elves.
Other elves were creeping out of their houses now, timid, easily startled. Adolescents, children. Younger people who hadn't served, hadn't seen him on one of his prior visits. They were curious, why their elders and these others greeted him with respect and without fear. Curious, but still afraid.
Loghain grimaced more openly than the former Sargent. "If Denerim was part of my Teyrnir, I would do make him do more for you. I'm sorry that I have no gift for the political game. If I could somehow sweet talk Bryce Cousland, I'd get him to put a boot up Urien's ass."
This brought smiles from the elves' faces. "Thank you, Commander, but you do enough for us. We are grateful, truly."
He reached to his belt and removed his coin purse. He held it out. "It's not much, but I expect it will do your people more good than it will me, Sargent."
"Thank you kindly, Commander. I will see that this is distributed fairly. Er… it is copper and silver, isn't it?"
Loghain chuckled ruefully. "Yes, Sargent. No gold. I know full well that elves are likely to get arrested for theft if they flash gold sovereigns in public."
"Thank you, Commander."
Quite a young pair of elves – one male, with liquid dark eyes and long dark hair done in a single braid, the other female with short red hair done up in knots – stepped cautiously up behind the Sargent and the female poked him in the back.
"Hahren, tell him about Vaughan!" she hissed, quietly but quite audibly.
"Vaughan Urien Kendalls?" Loghain said. "The Arl's son? That Vaughan? What has the little shit done?"
"Shianni, Teyrn Loghain has no jurisdiction over Vaughan Kendalls," the Sargent said over his shoulder.
"It may not matter, depending on what he did. Tell me."
The Sargent looked back and shrugged helplessly. "Lord Vaughan… comes here, from time to time. When he does, he takes a girl or two and… abuses them. Sometimes they are never seen again. Just a this morning he was here, and tried to take Shianni. She hit him with a discarded bottle and knocked him out, and his friends carried him away, shouting threats of repercussions."
"Do you know the names of his friends?"
The Sargent shook his head. "They are usually the same friends, but we have never heard their names. They dress as nobles, and they are roughly of an age with Vaughan, and that is all we really know."
Loghain nodded once, decisively. "Well, since they didn't stay to exact the revenge they threatened you with, it's fairly clear that whoever they are, they have not the courage to act without Vaughan to lead them. Sargent, could I impose upon you to watch my son for a time? I am uncertain whether to expect Vaughan to accept my challenge or not, given what he stands to lose, and I don't wish him to witness bloodshed."
"I would be happy to, Commander."
"Thank you. Pup, this is the Alienage's Hahren – that means Elder – Valendrian. He was one of my soldiers, long ago. A very brave and good man. Go with him, now, and behave yourself well for him, all right?"
"Yes, Papa," Loki said, and transferred himself to Valendrian's arms with no sign of concern at all. Loghain grunted. Little tyke probably already knew the outcome of Loghain's challenge to Lord Vaughan, and may have already seen it happen, even if there was bloodshed. No matter, he would try to keep him from seeing the actual, physical reality of person-to-person violence for as long as possible.