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 Eight: Dog Lord
He received many invitations to pay social calls to people's estates and manors over the next few days. That was telling. He'd always been invited to whatever parties the nobility were throwing, even though he'd always refused to go to them – not inviting the Teyrn of Gwaren, no matter what you thought of him personally, was a terrible political move – but no one, not even the ones who actually rather liked him, were bold enough to invite him over for tea and cakes. His impulse was to throw away all these invitations unanswered, but Freya caught him at it – as she would, of course, she knew him well – and told him in no uncertain terms that he must accept at least some of them and sent polite regrets to the rest. It was "the politic" thing to do. Freya was very concerned that he be politic. She never forced him to go to parties unless they were in his honor, but it was she who, at a remarkably early age, forced him to stop tearing up those invitations and start sending his "polite regrets." She had quite the will. In that way, at least, she was definitely her father's daughter.
So he refused the ones that were the furthest away and the most odious company, and accepted the nearest and most tolerable, and spent the next few days involved in uncomfortable social calls. Just about the only person in Asgard, it seemed, who hadn't wanted a piece of his time was Arl Urien, and as he had neither daughter nor, thanks to Loghain, any longer a son, that was hardly surprising.
It was a little better than standing around at a party. Tea was served, not alcohol, so there was no danger of anyone getting drunk and stupid. Stupider. And the invitations were left rather open, as was custom, so he could bring Loki and Reyne along to chaperone. They could, hopefully, keep his temper in check.
On the second day of these visits, with probably another three days to go, some uninvited guests showed up at Gwaren House, pale and scared and hopeful. Just walking through the Palace District had taken tremendous courage, and how they'd managed to summon the strength to knock on the great front door of the estate was anyone's guess, but they were there now, and awaiting the Teyrn's notice in the receiving parlor. His doorman, a trusty elder Bosmer named Haederith, led them there and offered them refreshments. This rather took them aback.
"Um, no, no thank you," the dark-haired young male said, dark eyes wide. "We don't require anything, but thank you very much for offering."
"I don't know, Loghain," the red-haired female said, in a low, quavery voice. "I could really use a stiff drink about now."
"Shianni," the male hissed. "Control yourself."
"I can't help it, Cousin," she said. "I'm scared. Maybe… we shouldn't have come here. The Hahren said it would be all right, but what if it isn't?"
"It will be. Our Hahren wouldn't lie to us."
The doorman left them and in a few minutes the Teyrn himself appeared in the doorway, looming over them, and even the sturdy young male quailed at his presence.
"I recognize you," Loghain said, without waiting for introductions. "You, young lady, are Shianni, the one who knocked out Lord Vaughan with a bottle. I saw you there that day as well, young mer, though I didn't get your name."
The young male looked embarrassed. He made the proper introductions, but he seemed a bit unwilling to do so in his own case. "My Lord Teyrn, this is my cousin Shianni Imura, and I am… Loghain Tabris."
Loghain was taken aback. While many young people in Ferelden were named after High King Maric, Alfadir Odin, and Queen Rowan in the wake of the war, he had never met another Loghain, and with good reason.
"Were… you born on the seventy-third of Wintersend?" he asked. He had always thought that the Curse of the Doomed Lover was an Alamarri superstition, but perhaps it had come from his mother, a Bosmer.
"Er… no, my day of birth is the twelfth of Harvestmere," the young mer said, dark eyes wide and surprised.
"Did anyone involved in giving you that name know its meaning?" Loghain asked.
"It has a meaning?" the Elven Loghain said.
"It means 'doomed lover' in old Alamarri," Loghain said. "My parents gave me that name because of an old superstition that children born on the day of my birthing were cursed that all whom they loved dearly would die horrible, early deaths. My parents didn't believe in superstition, so they named me thus as a sort of thumb of the nose at fate. But thus far, everyone I've ever loved, with the happy exception of my children, has died a horrible early death. I sincerely hope this curse, if it be a curse and not merely a vast unfortunate coincidence, spares my children."
"Oh. Well. That's… sad. I was named… after you, my Lord. My mother served under your command in the war."
"With my Night Elves? I don't recall a Tabris, but I do recall an Imura. Adaia Imura. I take it then that she is your mother and her aunt?"
"Was, my Lord. She has, unfortunately, passed away."
Loghain grimaced. "I'm sorry to hear that. She was a fine soldier, a fine lady. My Night Elves never did receive anything like what they deserved, in coin or respect."
"Thank you, my Lord."
"That still begs the question, why are you here? It must have cost you a lot in courage to come traipsing openly all this way through all the highest enclaves of shemlen stupidity. Why risk it? I would assume this isn't a social call."
"Er… no, my Lord. We spoke to our Hahren, Valendrian, for a good long while, about his service under your command, and the others who served with you as well. They told us that you were fair-handed toward Elves and not a man to be afraid of – at least, as long as you were not made an enemy. We asked them, our Hahren especially, if it would be possible, and a good idea, to seek employment in your service, and they all said it probably would be the best thing we could hope for."
"What a shame that is. Well, if you have come seeking employment, I'll not disappoint you, but you do realize I don't spend much time in Denerim? I do leave some employees here full-time, to help my son about the house and stables, but most of the people in my employ have to relocate to Gwaren in order to serve me. That's a long way from your home and families."
"We're fine with that, my Lord," red-headed Shianni said, squeaking with excitement.
Loghain raised a hand. "Now wait, you may think you are, but have the two of you ever been out of Denerim in your lives? There's a big difference between Denerim here in the north, and Gwaren down in the south. Those three hundred miles might as well be three thousand."
"What do you mean, my Lord?" Tabris said.
"I mean that, compared to Gwaren, winters in Denerim are warm, mild, and not particularly snowy. That's why all the southern Nobility migrate to their Denerim estates during the winter. Even for the south of Ferelden, Gwaren has a nasty winter reputation. Winds rage off the Frozen Sea, blizzards dump tens of feet of snow, and the temperature drops so low you'd think you were in the way of a Starkblast. It's survivable, but I wouldn't say it's not a trial."
"Why would anyone live in such an inhospitable place?" Tabris said, agog.
"Gwareners are a peculiar lot. They take a certain pride in the hazards of living there. And there are quite a few. If the cold isn't enough for you, there's also the Frozen Sea itself, which even if you avoid as much as you can, sometimes throws up a really big wave that washes away half the village, and the Brecilian Forest, which is just plain creepy. Then, too, there's only two ways in and out of Gwaren, at least on the surface, and neither is particularly safe and easy to travel except by air, which isn't an available method for a lot of travelers."
"What do you mean, 'two ways on the surface?'" Shianni said.
"There's a Deep Roads entrance under Gwaren. I managed to cross the whole of Ferelden during the war using the Deep Roads, and popped up in Gwaren to surprise the Orlesian-Thalmor forces garrisoned there. I had it sealed, of course, so that no one else could do what I did, but seals can be broken. That entrance preys on my mind more than a little, along with all the other Deep Roads entrances I do and do not know about, scattered throughout Ferelden."
"How did you survive the Darkspawn?" Tabris exclaimed.
"We didn't see much of any," Loghain said. "Spiders, there were scads of. Huge bloody things, big as Mabaris." He shuddered at the memory. "There's something else you should know about Gwaren before you agree to go there. There's no Alienage. It is a mixed community but not terribly, most of the people are Nords. But Elves do live there, most of the time peaceably enough. I like to attribute it to the peculiarity of the village, that the hardships they face put them above the petty prejudices of other places, but the fact that I absolutely will not tolerate any abuse of anyone under any circumstances may be part of it."
"Well, Gwaren doesn't sound like a great location for a village," Tabris said, "but it sounds like a great place for an Elf to live, nevertheless."
"You understand, I hope, that I can't have eyes on everyone at all times," Loghain said. "I haven't really had much of note to do since the White Gold Concordat was signed, other than the yearly Landsmeet, but sooner or later there will be war, and I will be called away. I won't leave the place without supervision but I can't guarantee that they'll be quite as stringent as I am in their belief in equity."
"Well…" and Tabris looked at Shianni nervously "…perhaps when that day comes you might want to… take us with you?"
"Well, there's always some use for people in an army camp to fetch wood and dig latrines," Loghain said, "but I had intended you for slightly more dignified work than that. There is certainly no use for household servants in such a place."
"Aunt Adaia taught us how to fight!" Shianni said. "I don't have a bow, the one I learned on was for a child and it snapped, but Loghain has a dagger, and we're really very good! And she taught us all about detecting and disarming traps and making and using poisons and bombs!"
"Shianni!" Tabris hissed.
"Adaia Imura was one of the finest stealth reconnaissance agents I have ever had the honor to work with," Loghain said. "If she passed her skills on to the two of you, even in part, I suppose I could hardly pass up the opportunity to put them to use. But I expect you to put in a lot of practice at those skills before I actually have you use them in any real combat situation. I'll get you a proper bow, Shianni. Tabris, let me see this dagger of yours."
Tabris blushed furiously, but reached beneath his blouse and withdrew the dagger from his belt. He handed it over hilt-first.
"Ironbark? None too shabby. I expect this will do you just fine. Could you use an offhand dagger?"
"Yes, my Lord. That was the style Mother trained me in. But she was only able to hide away this one dagger for me, the Fang of Fen'Harel, she called it. It was her mother's."
"I'll find you something for your other hand," Loghain said, and handed the Fang back to the young man. "It won't be Ironbark, I daresay, only the Dalish know how to work that stuff, but I'll make sure it's quality enough not to let you down. I'm sure, with Urien's restrictions on Elves bearing arms, that you haven't had much practice, so I expect you to work hard to hone your skills."
"We will, my Lord," Tabris said, and bowed. He grabbed Shianni's wrist and gave it a tug until she bowed as well.
Loghain really didn't want to be here.
It wasn't the bulk of the company that bothered him, else he would have turned the invitation down. Leonas Bryland was a good man, and his two sons Lothar and Corbus were, as much as he could tell, fine boys, though a bit too young for the Landsmeet. But Lady Werberga was an old shrew, and under her influence it seemed that Lady Habren was well on her way to becoming one. Her wrinkled nose and ugly smirk at the memorial party had kept him far away from her the whole night long. Perhaps she felt it passed as a smile?
But here he was, with Loki and Reyne, to drink dirty dishwater and eat chokingly sweet things he could not stand, and listen to Bryland desperately make the pitch to him that his daughter was just the one for him to marry, since he had to anyway.
A servant led them into the sitting room. Bryland himself was not there, nor were Corbus and Lothar, the two boys, but unfortunately, Lady Werberga and Lady Habren were already seated there. Lady Werberga stood up and curtsied, as was proper, but Habren remained stretched upon the chaise lounge, the picture of indulged indifference. On her lap were a pair of tiny Mabari puppies, one white, and one black with white-tipped ears and a blaze on its nose. She was holding them rather tightly as they squirmed, and they were making a great deal of unhappy noise.
"What in the Maker's holy name is she doing with those puppies?" Loghain asked of Werberga, cocking his head toward the corner in which Habren sat.
"Oh! She's imprinting on them, my Lord," Werberga said, with another shallow curtsy and much fluttering of eyelashes. "Isn't it wonderful? Our dear Habren will have not one but two fine Mabari!"
"That's not how imprinting works. You can't force it upon them, they have to actually like you before they'll imprint."
"They love me," Habren said, with a curled lip that he supposed was another version of her smile. "We're becoming the best of friends."
"Then why are they squalling like they're being tortured? Let those pups go, you wretched girl!"
"You can't talk to me like that!" Habren said, and he scowled thunderously at her while her aunt edged cautiously toward her.
"Actually, my dearest, he can. He's the bloody Teyrn of Gwaren. Your father is his vassal."
Habren made a terrible face, but she let the pups go. They immediately jumped off her lap and ran for it. They crowded around Loki and sniffed and sniffed him, then began yipping happily and frisking and licking at him.
"That's what it looks like when imprinting starts to happen," Loghain said.