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, Harry Potter books, and WB Games' Hogwarts Legacy. Song lyrics included herein were used without permission.
Chapter Fifteen: Songs of Assassination
It was a roughshod affair, but everything and everyone was in place. Loghain's cold gray eyes restlessly scanned the many faces gathered 'round in the falling darkness. Loki's face shone in the torchlight, glistening with sweat. Loghain had never seen the boy sweat before. Stage fright, perhaps? Or something else? Somewhere out there among the men, his men, was at least one man plotting his death. Did they mean to act tonight? He would, in their shoes.
He wondered whether they were an outright agent of Orlais itself, someone who joined one of the noble's companies late, one of the ones who asked few questions if a certain amount of gold exchanged hands. There were plenty of those, being noble was no barrier to being greedy, and a lot of the lesser Banns were hardly rich, even by Ferelden's poor measure of that standard. Or was he, instead, a loyal soldier? Loyal to a bastard noble quite firmly in the back pocket of the Empress Celene Valmont the First? He might not even know why he was set to kill his General, only knowing that his Arl or Bann or whoever had commanded it of him. Or he might, also, be under whatever strange spell had caused Arl Howe's men to fight to the last gasp for his dead and traitorous cause. Those men could not possibly have been in their right minds. That there were men who would fight to the last for the men they considered their leaders was an unfortunate fact, but not so many for such an unworthy cause, such an unworthy man. There was some fell magic behind that. He would love very much to track that magic to its source and strangle it out.
Nords were often treated like gods for their natural powers, sometimes actually worshiped that way by peoples they encountered on less magical or more primitive realms. But Loki, for all his power, was no deity. He was just a little boy. It was putting far too much on him to expect him to track down all these bad elements scattered throughout the province and bring them to light. He would talk to the boy, find out what all he did know, and set proper spies looking for them and the evidence against them. The boy needed to focus on the Archdemon and its plans, and keeping it out of his head.
Elilia stood before him, Grace at her side. Bryce and Fergus stood behind her. Kiveal, on the other hand, sat at rigid attention next to Loghain, Cauthrien and Loki and his hounds were behind him. Zevon stood a little further back and to his right, more toward the middle of the stage. Cailan hadn't yet arrived. Doubtless he was delaying on purpose to make a grand performance of his entrance.
The ring boxes were, as tradition demanded, held by the Best Man and the Maid of Honor until the moment came to present them to the Bride and Groom. This meant that they were held in the jaws of Grace and Kiveal, and were quite covered in slobber, but if Elilia didn't mind then it was nothing to Loghain. More light went out of the day as they awaited His Majesty's convenience.
Cailan. There was a puzzler for the ages. When Cailan's mother died, Maric was thrown into such a fit of depression that Loghain had to leave Gwaren and go to Denerim to bolster his failing rule for several hundred years while he "got himself together." Loghain hadn't realized Maric cared so much for Rowan, whom he'd certainly never treated conspicuously well. During those several hundred years, he'd been more of a father to the young prince than Maric was – than perhaps he had ever been. And he truly loved the boy, little as he approved of his manner of ruling or of husbanding. The idea that the lad was now willfully among the number of those plotting his assassination was a hard pill to swallow.
Loki would know, he thought, if Cailan were to be the one to act outright against him. He had barely been introduced to the King, but he would not be "a stranger's mind in a sea of strangers," as he had indicated the assassin or assassins were. And Cailan would be twenty thousand times stupider than even he could possibly be, to act openly against him. The nobles of Asgard had never been happy with his ascent, but he had a great deal of local support, even among the high and mighty. If Cailan killed him without giving a damn good reason for it, he would find things getting very hot for him very quickly. No, if Cailan were to act against him himself, he would try very hard to make it look natural, or accidental.
And speak of the devil, there was the man himself, striding into the torchlight with his golden armor gleaming. He must have had a man polishing it all damned day long, for it shone like a bloody mirror with flickering glints of firelight. He walked onto the platform with both arms held over his head, smiling broadly, as if all these people were just standing around waiting to see him. Loghain glowered. What a frogging show pony the boy had grown to be, always preening and strutting about. He'd even had a whole passel of paintings of himself done up – on black velvet, of all the things! - because he thought people would buy them up like cookies. As far as Loghain was aware, not a one of them had actually sold. The average Ferelden could not afford to hang even an extremely tacky painting in their home, and most of the nobility had better taste than that.
Cailan began extolling the men about nobility and virtue and gods only knew what else. Loghain had too much on his mind to listen to the rather lengthy speech the boy gave as he continued to surreptitiously sweep the audience for assassins. Even if he wasn't keyed for an assassination attempt he probably wouldn't have listened to the happy bullshit the boy spewed like sacramental wine. It was probably a good thing for a King to be able to speak, at length, of the sort of political nonsense Cailan was so good at saying, but to Loghain it was all just double-talk.
Cailan went on and on about the bonds of love and wedlock until Loghain wanted to smack him and tell him to wrap it up already. It became impossible to tell if anyone was acting suspiciously, because soon enough all the men were shuffling and uncomfortable, tired of standing around listening to this long spiel and ready to get on with it. When the attack came, he would have fallen if it weren't for Loki. The arrow loosed at his head stopped, dead, inches from hitting him, and simply floated there, in the air, quivering as if it railed against the forces holding it back. Then, some generous distance away, behind the crowd of soldiers in a tree, something made a loud, authoritative fwooom sound that Loghain remembered well as the same sound the Marilith made when Loki blew it to pieces five years ago. He had no doubt that sound spelled the end of his would-be assassin.
The soldiers didn't seem to know what had happened. They heard the loud noise, and saw the arrow, but it didn't register. It was, they thought, part of the show, though a strange part that they didn't understand. Loghain reached up and grasped the arrow. He felt the force holding it release when he did so, and he was able to take the arrow out of the air. Cauthrien drew her sword, a look of panic on her face.
"General, what just happened? Was that magic? Are you injured?" she said.
"It was not magic, and I am fine, Commander. At ease."
"That was an arrow! Did someone try to kill you?"
"Unsuccessfully."
"General… what fell force stopped that arrow? You say it was not magic, but what else could it have been?"
"It's called telekinesis, Commander. Don't ask for a detailed explanation because I couldn't possibly give you one, but basically it's the power of the mind to move and manipulate objects."
"You stopped that arrow with your mind?"
"Not I, Commander. My son. He also killed the would-be assassin, although I would have preferred he imprisoned him so that he could be properly interrogated."
"Sorry, Papa," Loki said. "I'm pretty sure we couldn't have gotten anything useful from him, though."
Cauthrien was not the only one looking wide-eyed at Loki in the wake of this confession. Even Cailan appeared shocked, and he had believed in Loki's abilities as a Seer, if nothing else. And, unfortunately, an uninvited guest apparently had observed the whole thing, and now approached, skirts hoisted, face blazing red, eyes popping.
"I demand an inquiry!" the Revered Mother said, so badly enraged that she panted heavily. "It is my contention that this boy is a maleficar!"
"And you base your assumption that he is all that is evil in a mage on the fact that he saved my life?" Loghain said.
"Magic of the nature he exhibited here tonight can be none other but the foulest blood magic!" she snarled.
"A reasonable assumption, except for the fact that the boy has come into absolutely no contact whatsoever with blood."
"He might well have bit his own tongue to perform his blasphemous rites!"
Loghain turned to the boy. "Loki, stick out your tongue." The boy did. The tongue was pink and unmarked.
"That proves nothing. He has magic, he could have healed himself after the ritual was done."
"Pardon me, Mother, but the lad does not have magic. He's psychic. I know. I'm the same way. Not to the same extent, but I have similar powers," Zevon said. "I've never stopped an arrow, but I can do things just with the power of my mind that couldn't normally be done without magic."
"There is only one way to prove the boy is no mage," the Revered Mother said, sneering triumphantly. "Knight-Commander Tavish, front and center!"
She shouted this last in a startlingly powerful voice, and a tall templar broke from the mages' encampment and trotted over in the fastest and most dignified manner he could. He saluted. "Yes, Revered Mother?"
"Knight-Commander Tavish… Smite this child."
The helmeted templar looked at the boy. The closed helmet did not disclose his expression, but his hesitation evinced some dismay at the command. "Revered Mother… a child so young… even were he not a mage, a full-strength Smiting could kill him."
"Then you most certainly will not be Smiting my son this night," Loghain said, stepping in front of Loki with one hand behind his back, on the hilt of his sword.
"You would stand in the way of a templar's sacred duty?" the Revered Mother said.
"Damned straight, especially when the templar himself already said he doesn't really want to do it."
"Papa, it's all right," Loki said, surprising everyone. "I'll take the Smiting."
Loghain turned at the waist to look down at him. "Loki, you heard what he said -"
"It won't kill me. I'll be fine."
"I've been Smited before, Loke… it's not pleasant, even when you're not a mage," Zevon said.
"I'll be all right."
"There. The boy gives his permission. Smite him, Tavish," the Revered Mother said, without any hint of mercy.
Tavish was not well-known for his mercy, either, but he seemed inclined to show a bit, now. "I will… withhold some of my power, so that the Smite is not so strong as it could be," he said. "It will still be strong enough to definitively prove whether or not he is, in fact, a mage."
"I will stand alongside Loki," Zevon said. "If he has to be Smited, then so will I."
"And I as well," Loghain said. "And the both of you had just better hope to the Maker and all the Immortal Divines that he comes through this intact."
Tavish drew back momentarily, then gathered himself and nodded. Everyone arranged themselves so that they were either out of the way or in the way, accordingly. Haakon and Fen'Harel and Grace growled low and menacingly at the Chantry people who threatened their pack members, just awaiting the signal to attack.
Tavish gathered whatever it was that templars gathered to themselves and cast Smite. He may have been speaking the truth when he said he did not cast the strongest Smite of which he was capable, but apparently he was quite a formidable templar, because it was quite a powerful Smite all the same. Zevon went to his knees, and even Loghain was rocked. He crouched down and checked Loki all over immediately.
"Are you all right? That was worse than I expected," he said.
"I'm fine, Papa," Loki said. He seemed fine. He was bleeding from one nostril, just a thin rill of blood, but the boy was prone to nosebleeds so it didn't have to mean anything too drastic had happened to him.
In truth, Loki had exerted all his considerable will to keep from passing out. He knew what almost no one else knew. He was indeed a mage. It was the true reason his biological father had sent him off to live with his grandparents. His mother, a Seer in her own right, had a vision that he would one day be a mage of untold power. She rarely remembered her visions once she spoke them, and she did not remember this one, but Odin remembered. He wanted nothing to do with a magical offspring. Better to fob him off on Loghain. It would keep him out of the Circle, which would keep the world from knowing Odin had the shame of a mage son. Loghain wouldn't give an old sock to the Chantry so Odin knew he'd keep Loki away from the templars if it was at all possible.
Tavish was satisfied with his reaction to the Smiting. He stood back and saluted the Revered Mother again. "The boy is not a mage, Revered Mother. There is no chance he could have withstood my Smite if he had any magic in his blood whatsoever."
"You held back! You must have! Smite him again, full strength!" she shrieked.
"It would be no different, Mother," he said gently, "and would only endanger him. The boy is no mage. I promise you."
"If he is not now he will be one day!" she said. She was absolutely hysterical. "You should take him to the Circle and make him tranquil before he becomes possessed by a demon!"
"He will not be a mage someday, Mother," Tavish said firmly. "While magic most often manifests in children considerably older than he, if he were adept, he would react to a Smite now just the same as he would when those latent powers onset."
"He is evil! Evil! I swear it! We are all in grave danger!" The Revered Mother was firmly off her twig now, ranting like a streetside prophet of doom. Knight-Commander Tavish gently ushered her away from the gathering, with apologies.
"Her Reverence has had a nasty shock, I fear," he said. "I will see that she has some rest."
"I wonder," said Elilia, as she stepped back onto the platform, "whether the Knight-Commander would have shown such understanding toward young Lord Loki had he been close enough to the ceremony to actually witness what he did?"
"Doubtless he would have been ranting as fervently as she did," Loghain said. "Are you really all right, Pup? That Smite was actually quite nasty."
"It was bad, but I'm all right. Really."
Loghain pulled a handkerchief from his belt pouch and wiped the blood from the boy's face. "Here, let's clean you up." He kissed the boy on the forehead and stood up. "Thank you for saving my life, Pup, but maybe be a bit more circumspect with the execution of your powers in future."
"If I could have thought of a clandestine way to do it, Papa, believe me, I would have used it."
Cailan stepped back onto the platform from the back, looking shaken and bemused. He looked at Loki with a new respect, and was that a trace of fear as well? Loghain rather thought it was. Perhaps it had finally occurred to him that Loki could well be the undoing of whatever plans he had for Ferelden with regards to Orlais. Pity that he was really so stupid it took him as long as this.
"What do we… do now?" he said, his voice trembling a bit. "Do we just… go on with the ceremony as if nothing happened?"
"Yes," Loghain said. "Nothing did happen."
"Loghain, an attempt was made on your life," Cailan said.
One you had hoped would be successful, Loghain thought. Out loud he said, "It didn't work. They never do. Best thing is to move on."
"It didn't work through what could be construed almost as Divine intervention," Cailan said.
"Don't. Don't go making the boy into a god. Don't go piling all kinds of unnecessary pressure on the pup. He's smart, yes, and undoubtedly powerful, but he's still just a kid."
"I don't know about anyone else, but I still want to get married here," Elilia said.
"How are you so bloody calm in the face of what happened?" Cailan said.
She shrugged. "I dunno. A man I called my Uncle my whole life long recently attacked my home and tried to kill my whole family. I guess I've become inured to assassinations. As for what little Wild Child did… well, I admit I've never seen anything like that before, but I've seen enough of him not to put anything past him. And evidently it wasn't magic, or he would've been knocked out by that Smite."
"It does seem I underestimated his powers considerably," Cailan said. "Although I could never have guessed…"
"Are we doing this, or are we just going to stand around jawing all night while the men get hungrier and hungrier? They haven't had their dinner yet, you know," Loghain said. "Neither have I, and you know how I get when I haven't eaten."
"Well, then let's get on with it," Cailan said. Instead of finishing his interrupted speech, thankfully, he skipped right to the exchange of rings. "Lady Elilia, you have a ring for your groom?"
Elilia looked down. Grace looked up at her, ring box still clenched in her teeth. Elilia smiled and took the box. She opened it and removed the ring, closed it again, and handed it back to the dog, who chomped down on it, careful not to bite fingers. She stepped closer to Loghain and he held out his hand for her to take.
"With this ring, I thee wed," she said, and slipped the ring on his finger. Loghain looked at it for the first time. It looked much like his prior ring, being a large gold band, mostly plain. It did, however, feature a bit of decoration, which the other had not. Etched onto its surface was a touch of Dalish-style ideography, just a swooping flourish calling to mind whispering branches or something like. She must be aware of his heritage. She spoke her vows in a low, clear voice, and then it was Loghain's turn.
He turned to Kiveal, who relinquished the ring box with good grace. Her ring was far more ornate than his own, which was as it should be, he felt. Jewelry was fine as a symbol of fidelity, but actual jewels were meant for ladies. He hadn't pegged Elilia as much of a one for jewels, but any young lady would probably like to feel she warranted a decent wedding ring, even for such a makeshift wedding as this, so though the Gwaren jewelers were no great shakes and they'd had absolutely no time to work he'd had them do their best. A two-carat blue aquamarine, almost exactly the color of her eyes, surrounded by one-carat diamonds. Not the highest quality diamonds, but he'd make it up to her when they had their proper ceremony.
"With this ring, I thee wed," he said. His words did not come out as steadily as Elilia's. He felt like he was betraying Celia with every word he spoke. It was irrational, and he knew it – Celia would have been the first to tell him to move on - but he couldn't help the way he felt. He said his vows, but the words scorched his gut like Antivan food. He put the ring on her finger and kissed her, and she kissed back. The men sent up a cheer, though whether they were happy that he was married now or just happy that the ceremony was almost over and they'd be getting their grub soon was hard to tell.
But they weren't married, not yet, and he withdrew from the kiss and drew the silverite hunting knife from his belt. This knife was almost as old as he was, and he'd had it most of his life. It was a wicked blade, thirteen inches long, with an ornately carved hilt of halla horn. His father had given it to him when he was a child, but he believed it had once been his mother's. He cut the pad of his thumb just enough for a small bead of blood to well up. He wiped this across the bridge of Elilia's nose.
"By blood bound," he said. She took her own belt knife and did the same thing.
"By blood bound," she said, wiping her own blood across the bridge of his nose.
"Let the Immortal Divines stand witness," Cailan said, raising his hands over his head again. "This man and this woman are wed!"
The men cheered again, quite lustily. Zevon began to play, a quiet, lilting song that was rather unlike anything Loghain had ever heard him play before. The words were simple, but sweet, and the song was short, which was good for the men, who were likely impatient for their supper by now. The gist of the lyric was "Please stay with me until the end of our lives, and beyond if possible." After it was over Loghain turned to the men and said loudly, "Get these boys their supper!"
The head of the kitchen staff raised his ladle and shouted, "Extra rations for everyone in celebration of the General's wedding!"
The men cheered their loudest cheer yet, and began to queue up at the serving tables for food. Loghain and the others joined them. It took awhile to get everyone served, but the army was efficient. It was still early evening when everyone was done, and some of the nobility – and a lot of the soldiers – wanted the party to continue.
"There must be dancing!" they said. "You cannot have a wedding without dancing!"
Zevon was easily persuaded to play, although he warned everyone that he had few "dance worthy" tunes.
"I'll play what I've got," he said, "but you may not like the content. They're what the Chantry might call… subversive."
"These men are soldiers, they'll probably love it," Loghain said.
Zevon pulled a mouth organ from his pocket, and drew a strange neck holster contraption from his guitar case. "Good thing I never leave home without this," he said. "I honestly didn't think I'd need it." He put the odd contraption on, and inserted the mouth organ into it. It proved to hold the harmonica in front of his mouth so that he could play it while still playing his guitar. He climbed back up on the platform and started in playing, both harmonica and guitar at once, a spritely tune that had everyone dancing. Then he started to sing, and it was a good thing that the Revered Mother had already been removed from the premises.
"I like to think I've earned my reputation,
For rushing in where angels fear to tread.
I'll take you home to meet the congregation.
We'll all get together in my tent.
"I make a dirty little religion outta lovin'.
I'll make a dirty little convert outta you.
I make a dirty little religion outta lovin'.
I'll make a dirty little convert outta you.
"They treat you like a red-headed stepchild,
And try to keep you nailed to the floor.
Join us for the countdown to the Rapture.
We've never turned a sinner from our door.
"I make a dirty little religion outta lovin'.
I'll make a dirty little convert outta you.
I make a dirty little religion outta lovin'.
It's a dirty little religion, hallelujah.
"Dirty little acolyte, dirty little one.
Learn the fundamentals of desire.
Now can I get a witness to my testament?
Can I get an 'amen' from the choir?
"Dirty little religion…
Dirty little religion…
Dirty little religion…
Dirty little religion…
"I like to think I've earned my reputation
For trying to take the bull by the horns.
I'll show you where I get my inspiration.
Where we plow, and where we plant the corn.
"I make a dirty little religion outta lovin'.
I'll make a dirty little convert outta you.
I make a dirty little religion outta lovin'.
It's a dirty little religion, hallelujah.
"Dirty little acolyte, dirty little one,
Learn the fundamentals of desire.
Well, can I get a witness to my testament?
Can I get an 'amen' from the choir?"
The men cheered this blasphemous little ditty as it ended, and Loghain was gratified to see that even a few of the templars at the enclave applauded. Maybe they didn't all have giant sticks up their asses after all. It was a good song, though most Priests would call Zevon a heretic for writing it. Loghain was actually rather proud of the young man for having the balls to say such things. Few did.
Elilia grabbed hold of his arm and drew him away from the applause. "Let's go," she said, with a certain meaningful look.
"Go where?" he said.
"You know where. We're not going to have a better chance for a private wedding night than now while everyone is distracted by the party."
"Elilia," he said, rather slowly, "Loki already took the dogs and went to bed."
"I don't know where the young Lord went," she said, grinning mischievously, "but it wasn't to our tent."
"Then I need to find out where he is."
"He'll be fine for one night! He probably went to bunk with Fergus, or maybe even Zevon. He knows Zevon, right? He's a most sensitive and discretionary young lad," she said, and giggled.
He honestly hadn't realized she was counting on this, an actual wedding night. They barely knew each other, it was a marriage of convenience, they were living rough in the middle of an army camp… she really wanted this?
He sighed, and allowed her to lead him back to their tent, which, as she said, was devoid of boy and dogs. It wasn't situated far enough away from the revelry for his liking, but they couldn't be far enough away if the tent was in Gwaren, honestly.
She went into the tent and pulled him after her. He ducked inside, not at all happy but resigned. The worst thing was that his body apparently had other feelings about what was coming, and was getting ready for it. He had never had much difficulty getting ready for it. Elilia was on her knees in the middle of the tent, expectant, awaiting him, at least a little nervous.
He got on his knees before her and put his arms around her. He pulled the tie out of the tail of her hair, so that it fell down about her shoulders, and he kissed her. She closed her eyes and kissed back eagerly. Her hands plucked at his leather armor. He removed her hands from his fastenings and pulled back to look at her. "Just be patient," he said.
"Come on," She urged. "I want to see you."
"It's really not much to look at, dear."
"Hmph! I doubt that very much!"
"Male anatomy is actually rather comical. Particularly at times when a man is aroused. I don't know why the Maker decided to make us the way He did, but He didn't do us any great favors."
"Hmm… I can honestly say I've never met a man who didn't see his equipment as anything other than a Divine Gift to Womankind. In any event, I think I can promise you I won't laugh."
"Don't make promises you can't keep," he said dryly. "All right then, you want to see? Go ahead and strip me."
"Really? All right, but you're taking off your own boots and socks. I'm not going near your feet until I know for sure what they smell like."
According to Celia, extra mature Comte, though how she knew what an especially expensive Orlesian cheese smelled like was a question for the ages. He'd never even seen the stuff served at the most lavish of Royal soirees in Ferelden, it cost more than forty-two Sovereigns a pound according to Maric, who'd clued him in on the existence of the stuff ages ago. It was probably more expensive than that now. She'd been joking, of course, when she said it, but his feet probably did smell. Men's feet usually did. Without a word about the past or the presumed odor, he kicked off his boots and socks and left them in a heap at the mouth of the tent.
She sniffed the air. "All right… shades of 'Ami Du Chambertin'… I can live with it."
Ami Du Chambertin was another very fancy Orlesian cheese, one that Loghain had encountered on a number of occasions at various events. It was actually quite tasty, but while he had no idea what a slice of Comte smelled like, Ami Du Chambertin was renowned for its putrid, almost barnyard aroma. He grimaced, and she laughed.
"I'm kidding, it's nowhere near that bad," she said. "I actually don't smell much of anything, really."
"Are you finished?" he said.
"Probably I'm just getting started, but I'll leave you alone about your feet." Her hands moved back to the buckles on his armor, and she worked on the straps holding it on him. She proved to be a bit fumble-fingered, either out of nervousness or eagerness, but he did not offer to help. He waited patiently for her in her own time. Eventually, she had his chest piece off. His bare chest seemed to unnerve her somehow, and she stopped for a time and just stared at him.
"Problem?" he asked.
"I didn't realize… there'd be so many… scars."
"I've been in many battles, my dear, most of them without the aid of magical healing. It leaves a mark."
Indeed, there were scars in the process of being formed, as some of his wounds from the battle with Howe's men had yet to fully heal. He could have sought the aid of the mages Cailan had wrangled from the Circle of Magi, but there were only seven of them, and it seemed more important to him that their talents were saved for battle. They should be set to healing the wounded men as well, but that nasty bitch of a Revered Mother refused to let them near the makeshift infirmary, saying that wounded men needed no demons set loose upon them. He didn't know if all seven of the mages in the encampment were able healers, but one of them, an older woman, had sent several healing spells his way mid-battle in the sorties against the Darkspawn, and there was no sign of scarring from those wounds now. She would be a welcome addition to the infirmary, if it weren't for that bitch the Revered Mother. He wasn't afraid to stand up to the Chantry, but he didn't want to cause trouble for the mages. They had enough trouble in their lives.
He was so glad that Loki came through the Smite all right. He'd been terribly afraid he would be knocked out by it, at best. He had nothing against mages, although their magic did make him somewhat nervous – he didn't have much defense against it, after all – but he didn't want Loki to be a mage. Loki had enough to worry about, and if the templars proved him a mage they would demand to take him to the Circle, where who knows what would happen to him. Loghain would be forced to slaughter every templar in Ferelden, and probably every Priest, too, which would, of course, lead to an Exalted March on the province. Not a good thing.
Elilia fingered the knotted white tissue of a scar on Loghain's left shoulder. "How did you get this one?" she said.
"Pike. My first real battle. It was a more grievous wound than it looks; I was a lot smaller back then. I probably wouldn't have made it, but Rowan Guerrin rode to my rescue with her company. She was pretty good at that. Riding to the rescue, I mean. She saved a lot of assess from a lot of fires, back in the day, mine included."
"Queen Rowan saved your life."
"She wasn't Queen at the time, but yes, she did, quite a few times."
"And this one?" she said, stroking a long, jagged scar over his right pectoral.
"A more successful than usual assassination attempt. You're not going to make me tell them all, are you? I can hardly remember which were incurred where anymore."
"There's a lot of history written in these scars," she said.
"Easy on that," he said. "I'm not all that much older than you are, you know."
"Maybe not in years," she said. "But in experience… you've lived a helheim of a life."
"I suppose that much is true."
She seemed content, for now, to look at the scars on his chest, so he let her be. In all honesty, he wasn't eager to get naked. He'd never been especially comfortable with his own nudity, he'd told her no more than the truth when he said he considered the male form rather comical when aroused. Celia had never laughed, nor had Rowan, nor even Barra, and of them all, the latter had the most cause to, for he had only been a stripling when he lay with her. He wondered about that, fairly often. Why had she taken him to her bedroll that night? He didn't wonder too much about why he'd gone along with it, he'd been a young boy, frightened and alone, and new to the raging feelings of adolescence, she didn't really have to coerce him. But why did she do it? Did she see something in him that made her feel he was worthwhile, despite his youth and inexperience? Or was she a pervert who preyed on children, and probably would have preyed on her own son if she had lived long enough to see him grow? It seemed a fairly important question, though of course there was nothing he could do about it now either way.
After fifteen or twenty minutes of her leisurely exploring the evidences of past battles and assassination attempts on his chest, she decided it was time to move on to the lacings of his greaves. This was the part he dreaded. In the contrary nature of hormones and blood flow, it seemed that the more anxiety he felt about the process, the harder he became. He wondered if that was a common reaction or if there were something seriously wrong with him. She peeled his leather trousers and smallclothes off of him, with his assistance, and looked at what was revealed for a long time. She did not laugh, but she also did not speak. He had no idea how to take her reaction at all.
"Frankly, my dear, I'd prefer it if you just went ahead and laughed," he said.
She shook her head vigorously. "I don't want to laugh. Not at all. You're… beautiful."
His lips quirked in a crooked smile. "Women are beautiful. Men are ungainly. Especially me."
"I don't know who convinced you of that, but that hellacious bitch was wrong. You are… gorgeous."
"No one had to tell me anything, I am familiar with the function of a mirror."
She looked up into his eyes, a quizzical expression on her face. "Your late wife never told you that you were good looking?"
He blushed. "She did, often, but Celia was the type who tried to make everyone feel good about themselves."
"So there's no chance in helheim she was telling you what she really thought?"
He shrugged. "Look at me."
"I am looking. I find it hard to look away."
"They say it's hard to look away from the site of an airship wreck, as well."
She balled up her fist and socked him on the shoulder, not especially hard, but enough to sting a bit. "Stop that! Damn, one thing I never expected when I married Loghain Mac Tir was that he'd have such low self-esteem!"
He actually felt a bit sheepish now, though he wasn't entirely sure why. Because she seemed genuinely angry? He supposed so. Celia rarely lost her temper with him, she didn't have much of a temper to lose, but when she did, he definitely had it coming. He dropped his gaze and mumbled an apology without really realizing he was doing it.
"What are you sorry for? You didn't do anything wrong!" she said, sounding angrier than ever. "Damn, you're like a whipped puppy."
Celia had not had much of a temper, but Loghain did. He found himself beginning to lose it now. Whipped puppy?
"Now you listen here, woman -"
"Spirit! So you do have some! I was beginning to wonder how you managed to do everything they've said you've done if you were really that beaten down. So how does this work, you have confidence on the battlefield, but none in the bedroom?"
He was still rather angry, but it didn't take much reflection for him to know that her words were more true than he liked to admit. He glowered at her, but she knew she'd won her point.
She put her hands flat on his chest, above his pecs, on his collarbones. "You do realize, I hope, that I am a virgin?"
"I suspected as much, not that I required it or anything."
"Well, I hope you know that means that you don't have any high bars to clear on my account. I have no set expectations."
"You're clearly expecting something. What, exactly, remains to be seen."
"What do you mean?" she said, sounding a bit cross again.
"I think you came into this marriage expecting me to be the Loghain Mac Tir of legend, but you've already begun to learn that he just doesn't exist."
It was her turn to look a bit downcast and sheepish. "Loki already gave me this talk, more or less. He said everyone expects everything of you, but you're not a god. Just a man. I guess it's easy to forget."
"I have a bad habit of forgetting that Loki isn't a god."
"He is… kind of frighteningly godlike."
"He's a good boy. But I have grave fears for his adolescence."
"Oh… yeah, that kind of power in a rebellious teenager isn't exactly a happy thought, is it?" she said. He shook his head in response.
"Well, the future will have to wait, right?" Elilia said. "No sense worrying about what may be. For now, he's a good kid, and dead useful to boot."
"A child his age shouldn't be put to this kind of use."
"You were, weren't you? 'The Little General' and all, though I honestly can't picture you as a child, or any smaller than you are now."
"I was somewhat older, though still far too young. Old enough, legally, for a peasant boy to enlist in the army, if that was what I chose to do, but nowhere near old enough to actually deal with the reality of warfare. And I certainly didn't start out a General."
"I bet you rose through the ranks quick as anything."
"Considering I was nothing and no one, I suppose I did at that. But Maric had an odd notion that I could do anything and everything, right from the beginning."
"And Odin?"
"I wouldn't say that Odin had such insane faith in my abilities, but he believes in putting people to what use he can get from them."
She was silent for a moment, then said, "We sure are doing a lot of talking, aren't we? One might think someone was trying to get out of actually, you know, doing anything."
He probably was. He sighed and began to work the buckles on her armor. "My apologies, my Lady. This is always awkward, but nothing is ever so awkward that I cannot make it worse."
A/N: "Comte" is a real cheese, from France. I do not know whether it is a stinky cheese, but all cheeses have some aroma that could be termed foot-like, though few are truly horrible. It is aged for an extraordinarily long time, and as a result costs "a smidge over" $42 US dollars a pound. It is the most expensive cheese France currently exports. Ami Du Chambertin is also a real French cheese, quite a tasty one, but it is very much a stinky cheese – it's aroma has been described as somewhere "between barnyard and putrid." The processes that make a cheese stinky are the same that make feet stinky, which is why they smell like feet in the first place; the rinds are bathed in some kind of preservative, usually either a pickle juice or similar, that prevents the formation of certain bacteria and promotes the growth of a particular bacteria (the same bacteria that grows on smelly feet). Fortunately, once the rind is off, the cheese generally does not smell so bad, and tastes amazing.