Stone and Sky Ch 5: That would take some getting used to

[amhran_comhrac]

Title: Stone and Sky Chapter 5: That would take some getting used to
Characters: Jowan/f!Brosca
Rating: T for now, eventual M/AO
Word Count: about 4000
Summary: You can't erase the crimes of your past, but you don't have to let them decide your future.
In this chapter: Jowan is given a chance to redeem himself from an unlikely source, and Sif arrives at Ostagar.

New art by the awesome fon-ronsenbutt on DeviantArt, who does the very best Jowan.

Bannorn

Sif had decided something in her time on the surface. Ferelden was, overall, a very brown place. The dirt, the dogs, the houses, even the clothes people wore, seemed to be drawn almost exclusively from every shade of brown available. It was nothing compared to the Commons back in Orzammar, or even the average member of the merchant or noble caste.

It did remind her of Dust Town, though.

She hadn't decided if that was a good thing or a bad thing yet.

"You seem to be much more comfortable with the surface," Duncan commented as they walked.

Sif chuckled. "I knew this guy, he used to say if you went topside you could just fall off the world." Duncan laughed at that and she nodded. "Well, it made sense to me at the time! I mean, why else would we live underground when most of the food is up here? He said you had to hold on with your feet."

Duncan stumbled, trying to maintain a serious demeanor. He eventually gave up and burst into laughter. "With your feet?" he finally managed. "I don't think I've heard that one before, and I've known more than a few of the Dwarva in my years."

"Maybe the other castes know already," she said. "We don't hear much in Dust Town." He sobered at that, nodding. She had realized Duncan became extremely uncomfortable whenever the caste system was mentioned. He knew the king, though. Knowing someone at the top and someone at the bottom had to screw with your mind. "But I was trying to do that," she went on, hoping to cheer him up. "And… then it hit me: I was going to fall off the world it could happen when I was asleep, too." She paused. "And then I figured out that there wasn't much way for me to hold on with my feet in boots." Sif grinned. "I've been wandering around with my socks scrunched up between my toes for weeks, thinking it would keep me from flying off into the sky! Can you believe that? If it wasn't so funny I'd feel pretty stupid." She paused, letting Duncan laugh again. "By the way," Sif added, "you think anyone at that big camp might have some spare socks? I've worn right through mine."

When he nodded, laughing again, Sif smiled.

Humans aren't that bad, she mused. Less strange than the mages, at any rate. That was still her most uncomfortable experience since arriving on the surface. She had figured out just enough to understand that there were humans, elves, and mages on the surface, and they were all very different things. Although she hadn't met many elves so far, humans were, from what she had gathered, not entirely different from dwarves. They didn't look at her strangely, at least, and what was even better, none of them seemed to know or care about what the brand on her face meant.

A few had even seemed impressed when they learned she was going to be a Grey Warden. One innkeeper, who seemed to recognize Duncan, even called her Ser Warden.

That would take some getting used to.

Denerim

Jowan wrung his hands nervously, glancing around. He had never, to his knowledge, been to any city, and now he wasn't just in a city: he was in the largest city in Ferelden. There was no mistaking Denerim, even for someone who had been raised in the tower, though. He had seen drawings of Fort Drakon in books of Ferelden history before, there was nothing else quite like it in the country.

When he realized that was their destination, his initial excitement over seeing the capital turned to fear. For a moment he thought they would execute him publicly in some garish spectacle. He wasn't led to the cells, though, but rather through a series of hallways to what seemed to be a waiting room. When his captors went through a door, a guard in heavy armor nodded politely and gestured to a chair. He would, occasionally, speak to someone when the door opened a crack.

"They'll be ready for you soon, Ser Mage," the guard said eventually.

Ser Mage? Jowan had to suppress a snort of laughter at the bizarre term of respect. The templar had been left at a large estate near the center of the city, Jowan didn't know who lived there but he suspected it was someone important by the size of the place. The guard who had split off from the group escorting him along with the templar walked in and, after a brief nod, slipped through the doorway.

He was starting to relax. Jowan realized this with a start when he had actually gotten up from his chair to browse through a bookshelf against a nearby wall. Relaxing was, at the moment, probably not the best idea. It was just as well, the books were all dense looking volumes, with titles like Naval Strategies of the Nevarran Fleet, Training Techniques of the Orzammar Warrior Caste, and Magic against Science on the Tevinter/Qunari Front. Well, the last did sound like something he would enjoy. With a glance over his shoulder at the guard, who gave him a dismissive wave of his hand, he pulled it down and returned to his chair.

He was already on the third chapter, which theorized that the famed explosives of the Qunari were nothing more than their attempt to duplicate the power of the magisters without actually using mages, when the inner door was thrown open. "I see you can read," said a vaguely annoyed sounding man.

Snapping to attention, Jowan nearly fell over as he tried to stand up quickly. He had been so engrossed in the book that he had actually pulled his feet up onto the chair. Looking up, he had two thoughts. The first was that he had never seen someone look so imposing in nothing more than leather pants and a doublet.

The second was that he knew this man.

Staring intently, he tried desperately to determine where they had met before. He wasn't a templar. He wasn't a mage. For a brief moment Jowan wondered if the man was his father… the coloring fit, after all, and it had been a long time. But no, his father was shorter, and didn't look like he was in peak fighting condition even when he was a young man. The person in front of him looked more than capable of picking up a sword if needed.

Picking up a... "Maker's breath!" Jowan gasped, jaw hanging open for a moment. He had seen the man before. Seen him dozens, hundreds, maybe even thousands of times, and each time he was holding a sword. The only reason he hadn't realized it earlier was because paintings, as a rule, don't age. A young man was pictured fighting the Orlesians alongside the late King Maric and Queen Moira, and he would be a young man for as long as that painting in the tower library existed. "You're Teyrn Loghain!" When the man groaned, an apparent acknowledgement that he was correct, Jowan dropped into a rough bow. "Um… your…. Lord-ness?" he said after a moment of deliberation, realizing he hadn't the faintest idea how nobles were supposed to be addressed.

"Damned Circle," came the reply. "Can't they at least make some effort to prepare you people for the real world? Lordness? Really? Is that even a word?"

"Um…no, it's not," Jowan admitted. "Sorry, ser."

He sighed again. "It's your grace, but don't call me that. You can call me General Mac Tir, or Ser. Now stop groveling and come in." Jowan nodded, shuffling after him. The Teyrn sat down behind a desk and gestured at the door. Jowan closed it and stood across from him. "Sit," he said. "We have very little time and much to discuss."

Redcliffe

Duncan was speaking with a bearded man. She had only seen a glimpse of him before the door was shut, and now again as it opened. She had been left to sit quietly in a hall while they spoke, and was happier for it. Going with Duncan on his various errands as they made their way south was one thing, actually joining him to speak to these important people seemed well beyond what she was capable of. In truth, he always hesitated before they approached some enormous castle or manor, very briefly. She suspected Duncan wasn't any more comfortable with the idea than she was.

Kicking her legs on the high bench, she sharpened her daggers to kill time. A woman in fine clothes poked her head out, eyes narrowing at the sight of a dwarven woman with a whetstone in her hall. Expecting to be yelled at, Sif set the stone aside quickly. The woman only ignored her, though.

"Come along, Conner," she called to someone unseen. "Your new tutor will be here in a few days, we need to talk."

A little boy ran from one room towards the voice, hair sticking up in the front, and was gone around a corner.

The door beside her opened and she forgot about the momentary distraction of the child. "The king is young, he's too impulsive." That was an unfamiliar voice.

"True as that may be, I will try and encourage him to wait," Duncan replied.

Sif rolled her eyes. Sodding surfacers, she thought to herself as it became clear yet another attempt to gain allies against the darkspawn had failed. What could they be doing that was so vital he couldn't send his toops now, she wondered. Nothing came to mind. They weren't being attacked, and there were darkspawn: the response seemed painfully obvious.

It was almost as though no one really believed Duncan. Even if they did, it seemed like they didn't much care. It seemed like no one really believed in darkspawn, or understood how dangerous they were.

While she didn't want them to learn better… it seemed pretty clear they would, and quickly.

She didn't feel bad at all for slipping a few tiny, valuable looking trinkets into her pockets before they left.

Bannorn

Jowan clung to a stack of books nervously, glancing around. He was in a coach, an actual coach, on his way to Redcliffe. Taking a breath, he glanced out the window again at the unchanging countryside. Stop worrying, he tried to tell himself. You're doing a service for your country.

Having had no idea what to expect from meeting Teyrn Loghain, Jowan couldn't exactly claim the request was unexpected. Anything would have been unexpected, shy of orders to kill himself for the good of Ferelden.

"There is a traitor among the nobility," he had said almost as soon as Jowan was seated.

"I'm sorry," Jowan had replied, still not sure what this had to do with him.

"You should be," came the reply. "It's a sad day for us all when someone from a line of such true patriots decides to betray his nation." Jowan had only nodded, still on uneasy footing. The man seemed to be speaking more to himself at that point, anyways. The teyrn sighed heavily. "I have recently learned that this man's son has shown signs of magical ability. His wife has been less than… discrete, as she hopes for an apostate to train him."

Without realizing it, Jowan narrowed his eyes, contempt almost choking him. While he had always suspected that was the way of things, that the Circle and the templars and all of the pain that went along with them, were reserved for the common people, while nobility found a way around the rules as always, hearing such flat confirmation made him enraged.

"You do not approve?" Loghain had asked him, the faint hint of a smile at one corner of his mouth. He seemed to misunderstand.

"No commoner could get away with that," Jowan said flatly.

"Probably not," Loghain agreed. "We're not Orlais, but there are two sets of rules here, as with anywhere."

"It's not right." He almost groaned as the words left his mouth. Stop whining, Jowan!

"It's not." That reply was accompanied by a shrug. "But this time, it is to our advantage. All of Ferelden's advantage."

With that, he set out a plan. Jowan would be the apostate sent to save their child from the Circle of Magi. While there, he would slip a powder into the traitor's food or drink. Not a lot, just enough to take him 'out of the equation,' as the Teyrn put it. In exchange, Loghain would pull strings to keep Jowan safe. Let him go back to the Circle, or another Circle… that was the implication. While… not ideal, it seemed clear the man wasn't about to simply let him go free.

It was better than death, though. He might be able to get out again. It had happened before… he could even run away once he made it to Redcliffe.

"Will you do this for your country, mage?" Loghain stared at him, eyes as pale as his own but far, far colder glaring across the desk.

Without a word, Jowan nodded.

What choice did he have?

The Imperial Highway

Sif watched the others on the road carefully. It was the perfect opportunity for someone to make a good bit of coin. Too many people, and every single one of them was distracted and occupied with their worries about what waited for them at the end of the road. She reached back, checking once more to ensure her weapons were still in place.

It took several days of traveling like this, waking every morning and carefully taking inventory of her meager possessions, before she realized she was likely the only person who saw a group marching to war as a pickpocket's bonanza.

Considering that as they walked on, towards the ever-larger white towers, she realized that probably said more about her than anything else.

Arriving at Ostagar was a blur. She met the king, who seemed absolutely thrilled to speak with her, for reasons she couldn't understand. When he asked about the King of Orzammar Sif realized he must have mistaken her for someone far more important than she actually was. Probably thought she was warrior caste or something. He could have used a few Orzammar warriors, she soon realized, from the way he talked about the darkspawn as nothing more than a chance for glory.

After that Duncan basically sent her off to hunt for one specific human in a camp entirely full of humans and find something to eat. She decided to avoid thinking about his vague comments about some 'ritual' she would need to participate in.

The food was easily accomplished, at least. Surface food had strong smells, and she just followed them. Finding the human, less so.

There seemed to be several distinct groups. The first had tattoos on their faces and dogs. They were surprisingly polite, even moreso when they realized she wasn't a surface dwarf. Well, she was , technically, at this point. But not surface-born, and that did seem to be a major deciding factor.

Finding someone selling armor was a pleasant surprise. In exchange for several of the objects she had pocketed in their travels Sif received a new set of light armor, new boots, and a pile of new socks. The armor wasn't as covering as her old handmade gear, but much nicer. The man selling it said something about enchantments, apparently that was why she didn't have to worry about having all her skin covered. And it was easier to move around in.

Walking off, she noticed a man who, for some bizarre reason, reminded her of Leske. He had the same dark hair and pale eyes, the same ineffective way of flirting, and if she wasn't mistaken, the same kind of lockpicks in a pouch on his belt.

After watching him fail at enticing a young woman, she was surprised he turned to her next. Instead of a pickup line, though, he just said "well, you're not what I expected."

"Oh yeah?" she replied, wondering why he would have expected her at all.

"You're the last recruit, right?" he said. "I'm Daveth. We've been waiting for you an' Duncan to get back."

Sif nodded, not surprised. In the camp there was no denying she stood out: if he had been expecting a Warden recruit from Orzammar there were no other likely prospects. All the other dwarves she had seen were busy repairing weapons and armor.

Asking how he had met Duncan, she grinned as Daveth told her of his attempt to pickpocket the Warden Commander. "He's faster than he looks!"

"I bet," she replied before sharing her own story. "Must have a thing for street rats, too." She had to admit, there was a certain appeal to the idea. Being surrounded by others with pasts as checkered as her own… well, they wouldn't look down on her for being nothing more than a thug.

"I guess so," Daveth laughed. "This Joining thing, though… well, if I had anywhere but a death sentence waiting for me, I might not stick around for it. The whole thing is really…"

"Yeah," she agreed. "Secretive. Makes me think he's hiding something bad. Like, real bad."

She nodded, waving as he went off to meet up with Duncan after managing to get a joke about watching her back in. Following the directions Daveth had given her, she found a blonde man in armor arguing with a man in a dress.

Oh good, more mages, Sif thought, bracing herself for another question about life in Orzammar. He didn't seem to notice her, or care, though. After the argument was finished the mage pushed past her, leaving Sif with the blonde in armor.

He was, like most people, polite to her. More than polite, really… he was friendly. And cheerful. She didn't think she had ever met someone quite so cheerful. "Did you meet the others?" Alistair asked as they walked back across the camp.

"I met Daveth," she said.

"Right… the cutpurse," he said, face twisting slightly. "No idea what Duncan sees in him."

Smile crashing, she could only follow him back to Duncan in silence.

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Guess who spilled another glass of water on her laptop and lost almost-done chapters to not one but three stories? If you guessed me... you'd be right!
Thanks for reading and reviewing... so sorry about how long it's been since I updated.