Unbound, Chapter 9: Sunder Arms (DAO fanfic)

[morwen_eledhwen]

Title: Unbound, Chapter 9
Characters: F!Amell/Loghain Mac Tir
Rating: T
Summary: Action, reaction and counteraction: a little dance the Mage performs with some unexpected results.
 

This chapter has an Academy Award-type list of people to thank. First, as always, are ShiningMoon and Josie “Six-Gun” Lange, the Dialogue Tag Killer, for their usual stellar beta help (and ShiningMoon for impending Unbound art, of course!). For this chapter, however, I must also thank sleepyowlet (miss you! :*) and Tyanilth for help with the technicalities of swordfighting and the instruction of same. The sparring scene below would not be what it is without the help of those two.

And of course I must thank all those who read the previous chapters and have come back for more despite an unexpectedly (and unintentionally) long hiatus.

Reviews, even constructive criticism, are always welcome. I write for my own enjoyment, but part of my enjoyment comes from writing something that other people like to read.

This chapter contains a couple of tiny lines “spoken” by the Warden during gameplay of Dragon Age: Origins. Someone at BioWare wrote those. I wrote the rest.

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Dawn was breaking on their second day on the road to Denerim, and something was beating on the sides of her tent.

The Mage had had second watch the previous night. Normally, those pulling the middle shift were allowed to sleep in a little to make up for the broken night of rest. For some reason, however, watery early morning light was pushing its way through the front flaps of her tent. There was a shadow circling outside –a shadow shaped like the lower half of a man. It was swinging a sword in its right hand; the flat of the sword slapped against the cloth as the figure paced, round and round and round. The Mage threw her coverlet over her head, but the persistent whacks of the sword penetrated the last fogged remains of her sleep. She groaned.

“Up, Swordfighter!” barked a voice. “Come on, get those lazy bones moving.”

Loghain. The Mage fumbled for her shield –a targe of enchanted silverite that Leliana had stolen from Vartag Gavorn in Orzammar. As a lay sister, Leliana had used a single weapon for hand-to-hand combat and had only recently taken to the twin knives preferred by the Assassin. She had thought that she might return to her old style someday; but when her commander had returned from Haven with the arcane sword –which bore the name “Spellweaver” etched into its blade—she had immediately added the targe to the new Warrior’s equipment. Its enchantment provided extra defense that belied its relatively small size; perfect, said the Bard, for a lightly armed Mage inexperienced with close combat.

“As you command, Swordmaster,” said the Warden, yawning at the shadow. It stopped its pacing and withdrew.

She grabbed the shield by its buckled strap and used it to part the flap of her tent, Spellweaver already drawn and singing in her other hand. Loghain was standing a few yards opposite her in mismatched armor, the dented torso of his chevalier plate replaced by a cuirass of reinforced leather –no doubt borrowed from Bodahn’s collection of “found” odds and ends. She noticed that a targe similar in size to her own was resting against his left calf, while a collection of rather old, sad-looking swords lay before his feet. His hands were behind his back, a tightly curved smile and heavy brows sheathing the glint in his eyes. She shivered; his jaw twitched, and one corner of the smile crept upwards. He nodded at the sword in her hand.

“Give me that,” he said. She handed it over; he stooped and picked up each of the old swords in turn in his other hand, hefting their weights against the arcane blade. Finally he chose one that satisfied him and kicked the rest of them away.

“During my forced convalescence yesterday,” he said, “I had a rummage in the merchant’s cart and found these.” A wave of his hand indicated the discards. “Only one or two of them are actual practice swords, but the others are so poor and dull that they may as well be. This way, no matter how badly you miss your stroke, you won’t kill me –not with a blade, anyway. And you are strictly forbidden from using magic,” he admonished. “If I’m to train you, I don’t want to be dodging lightning bolts while I do it, understood?”

She nodded. Her stomach growled loudly; she laughed.

“Perhaps I should have something to eat first?”

He chuckled, hoisting his targe and sliding his forearm through the strap. He tightened the buckle.

“If you’re good, I might give you a piece of the beloved Andraste,” he said with a flash of teeth.

Despite nearly becoming a High Dragon’s chew toy, Loghain had not forgotten his promise to bring Alpha a new treat. Just before they had left the mountaintop, he had pried open the dead beast’s jaws, thrust his hand down her gullet, and drawn out about a forearm’s length of dripping, purple tongue. Smirking, he had planted a boot on the side of Andraste’s face and hacked the tongue free with the Starfang. The dead priest’s robes served as a wrapper for the grisly prize, which Loghain had placed with a loving smile in his pack. He had then spent most of the night back at camp smoking it slowly over the fire, carefully monitoring its progress and shooing Alpha away when the Mabari grew impatient. The Mage and Leliana had spent their respective watches begging him to go to sleep and rest from his injuries.

“You’ve ordered me a full day of rest tomorrow as it is,” he had argued when it was the Mage’s turn. “Riding in the merchant’s cart like an old woman. I shall sleep then. This takes care, and patience, to be done properly.” He had hidden his gaze in the smoke and that was the end of the discussion. In the morning he had declared the tongue fit for a warhound’s consumption and, while his companions trudged around him, he had spent the day sprawled over the heavier goods in Bodahn’s cart, alternately dozing and carving off chunks of dragon meat with his knife, tossing them about the road for Alpha to chase and devour.

Now the great hound barked stridently in protest at the idea of sharing his new favorite snack. The Mage looked at him.

“Don’t worry, Alpha,” she said. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She sighed, resigned to fighting hungry, and adjusted her own shield on her arm.

He began by showing her some elementary moves with the sword and shield. Depending on the arm being used, he would place himself to her right or her left side so that she could mark him properly. He told her the name of each type of jab, slice and hack, as well as those of the shield techniques required to block them. When he was satisfied as to her basic knowledge, he began to circle her, calling out names of moves at random and watching her from all angles as she performed them. She accepted some minor corrections and adjusted her techniques accordingly.

Though it was a surprisingly gentle start to her instruction, after several minutes she could feel her muscles reacting to being pulled and coerced into such unaccustomed directions. The Presence of the Arcane Warrior in her head ensured that she had enough strength to repeatedly lift and move these heavy objects, but that was not quite the same as wielding them. And it was early, and she was hungry. She knit her brow and willed herself to focus on her task.

“Now,” he said at last, “let us see if you can think on your feet. Instead of performing the stroke I call out, you shall block it, and then send the same back to me.”

He hefted his sword-arm and began. The Mage winced in anticipation as she brought up the targe –correctly, but tremulously—to block the first blow. But the Champion’s sword merely connected with the boss in a perfunctory manner and withdrew. She took a breath and relaxed; this was not meant to be a show of power, then, but simply an exercise of reaction and counteraction. Loghain had continued to pace around her as they worked, requiring her to move with him in order to keep up with his strokes and respond appropriately. After several rounds in which the Mage demonstrated her quick study, both she and her instructor had developed an easy rhythm. The Warden, her confidence bolstered by her progress, tried a few more forceful swings on the counterstroke, hoping to generate a combat-level sensation of impact, but Loghain swatted them away as easily as he would a leaf falling from a tree. Their swords and shields continued to meet with a force little greater than the clapping of hands.

“I am armored after a fashion, you know,” she prompted him at length. “And the Darkspawn are hardly restrained when they swing at me.”

“They are trying to kill you,” he answered. “I am not –this time.” His lip curled; she bit hers and sighed. They continued, the two of them trading mock blows in silence, like polite old gentlemen.

“Are you trying, with that wearied expression, to tell me that you wish your first swordfighting lesson to take on a more –practical tone?” he asked after a minute, between orders. “Do Mages usually practice their spells on each other in the Tower, even as they’re learning them?”

“Well, not at first, it’s true,” admitted the Mage. “Not until they have a certain amount of control over the spell. But quite soon, yes. It helps the participants to concentrate if the training atmosphere feels –real,” she said. “And it also encourages the development of defensive spells, which some Mages would otherwise never bother to learn. Some of us do get hurt—”

“I can imagine,” said Loghain with a grimace. “My sympathies go out to the poor bastards forced to spar against you.”

“—but there are always healers and Templars nearby, just in case.”

“Well, as we have neither here with us,” said Loghain, “I will try your patience a little longer. Tomorrow, you will be allowed to practice hitting with your full strength –but not on me.”

“In the Tower, we had a room full of rough statues, shaped like men, to be used as targets for apprentices learning a brand new spell.”

“Even so with Warriors in training,” said Mac Tir, nodding. “Though our statues are usually made of wood and old sacking. You shall choose a tree that offends you and punish it to your heart’s content. But I won’t have you flailing away at it in an undisciplined fashion. Precision and control are as important as strength in swordfighting, Warden. And so, you will practice these moves until your bones and muscles remember them in your sleep. Then, you can apply them as needed, at will.”

She bowed; they continued. Now he swung without announcing the stroke; the Mage was forced to identify what was coming on her own, and to act accordingly in time. She found this part of the exercise challenging and rather enjoyable, but she could not muster the same level of enthusiasm for counterattacking with a tame, immature echo of whatever he had just sent her. The Presence grew impatient, as well; it kept invading her consciousness with visions of strokes and offensive shield tactics that had not been part of the lesson. With an effort, she fought off the urge to act them out; still, however, her thoughts lingered inward, and the subtle shift of focus in her eyes betrayed her.

So it was that she failed to notice Loghain’s countenance darken, failed to see the change in his breath and the heft of his arm as he aimed his next blow.

Suddenly a shockwave slammed up her shield arm, jolting her with pain. Her eyes flew to Loghain’s face. Thunder lowered across his brow; his sword, with which he had gotten her attention, left the boss of her shield and returned to the ready position. She gulped, caught; her shoulder throbbed but she dared not shake off the sting of her punishment. He shook his head at her.

“I’m sorry, Warden; was I boring you?” he asked. He swung the blade again and this time she saw it, could see the muscles in his arm flexing; another heavy blow was coming. She forced herself not to flail at it but simply to remember the moves he had taught her. The shield came up in time and stopped the sword right in front of her face. She gasped: would he really have struck her between the eyes if she had failed to block him? But no –he was still holding back. The thunderclouds were rolling but the eyes beneath them were cool, studying her.

“You said you wanted to learn to be a Warrior,” he taunted, still pacing. She turned with him, eyes darting back and forth from his face to the blade that turned and twitched with the flicks of his wrist.

“What did you think swordfighting was going to be like? A dance of shiny blades and dashing acrobatics? All heroics and stuff of legends? Huh,” he snorted. He drew another breath; she saw his right shoulder heft and roll and she tensed, nerves singing out.

“Very well, then: here comes the next important lesson every Warrior needs to learn.” The arm came up, the eyes glittering darkly. “How to take a beating.”

The sword crashed down again, and the shiver that coursed through her body was partly from the shock of impact –but also from the knowledge that he was still only using a measured portion of his strength and speed. What if he let go; what would happen to her? The others, who had been resting or bathing when the lesson started, had gathered around to watch. She could see them out of the corners of her eyes. Their presence, she supposed, ensured that things would not go too far –though she was no longer sure what “too far” might mean.

At first she had no thoughts about attacking; all of her strength of mind and body was focused on Loghain’s right arm that ascended and descended in a relentless onslaught of blows. Soon, however, she tired of merely enduring the Warrior’s assault. She felt like a mouse trembling helplessly beneath the battering of the hawk’s talons on the roof of its hole, and she struggled against the impulse to curl up mouselike and cower. Clearing her head, she anticipated the next hammer-stroke and thrust her shield out to repel his force with her own. She was rewarded with a different sensation of impact; her entire body was jolted, but to a lesser degree, instead of her arm being cruelly wrenched in its socket. The Mage straightened, took an upright but flexible stance, and prepared herself for the next attack. Though she did not realize it, her feet were imitating the rocking motion of the Hero of River Dane as he prepared to do battle.

A few blows later, her own sword arm came up to the attack. Just as before, he blocked it with barely an effort, but now she swung for real and the collision of her sword rang with the same force against his shield as his did against hers. It jarred her at first, but she soon learned how to absorb the impact through her weapon as she had with her shield arm. Now the Mage felt the space between herself and her partner as filled with lines and webs of energy, such as she often saw through the Veil when she reached into the Fade. Instead of coming from nowhere, however, or from the remoteness of the Black City, the energy in the clearing passed from her to her fellow Warden and back again. On her right hand, she gathered her strength into her sword arm for a strike, and felt it buffeted to fragments by Loghain’s shield; on her left, her body sensed the oncoming rush of the attack, braced itself, and was rocked back by the pounding of Loghain’s sword.

All of a sudden Mac Tir’s eyes grew wide and furious. Before the Mage knew what was happening, his shield had swung over and connected sharply with her forearm. She dropped the sword with a yelp. There was a gasp from Leliana and a rustle of armor as the Bard moved to come to her Commander’s aid. The Mage waved her back.

“I’m all right,” she called out. Loghain’s jaw was clenched; the summer firestorm she had seen just before the Landsmeet duel had begun to flicker across his countenance. He threw a disgusted sidelong glance at the Mage’s sword where it lay on the ground. She looked, and flinched; lightning was arcing along the blade and scorching the grass. The Mage blushed. She had not cast a spell without meaning to since she was a child.

“What did I say when we began this lesson, Warden?” said Mac Tir with a menacing growl.

Her eyes were still on the ground. “No magic,” she said guiltily.

“Hm,” he snorted. “You are not deaf, then. Did you think I was joking? Or do you think yourself above anyone else’s little rules, Commander?”

“No, ser,” she answered, shaking her head.

“I cannot and will not continue with this whim of yours if you fail to obey the instructions I give you,” he said, leaning over so that her downcast eyes must meet his. “Is that clear?”

She flushed; her chest heaved once as though he had struck her in the face. She blinked, and swallowed. She straightened, like a soldier.

“Yes, ser,” she answered. He cocked his head at her skeptically.

“Then shall we continue?”

Her voice fluttered low so that only he could hear her. “Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”

Silence. She looked up to find that his eyes had gone almost completely dark. He seemed simultaneously shocked and incensed, and for a moment she feared that he would stop the lesson. Then he lifted his lip in a snarl and raised his sword again. In a panic she remembered that her own sword was still on the ground; she looked at it and back at him, and realized that he was not going to give her time to pick it up.

She braced both hands against the back of her shield and drove them outwards as his stroke fell. He staggered back and flung out both arms to keep from falling. Then, using the same backhanded sweep he had just employed on her, she caught the inside fore of his sword arm with the hard edge of Vartag Gavorn’s shield. He yelled in pain but did not let go of his weapon. As he shook the stinging out of his arm, the Mage stooped and picked up her practice sword. She gave the blade a meaningful glance and the lightning on its surface died abruptly. Loghain was regarding her from beneath his lowered brow. His nostrils flared, his shoulders lifted and fell. One corner of his mouth was pushed up in a grudging expression of approval.   

“Good girl,” he said, and then the smile faded.

He came at her like a bull. This time there were no instructions, no jibes or taunts, just the heave of his breath as he swung and the grunts and snarls of impact. The Mage found that she was panting as well; worse, she heard her own voice making shameful little grunting and whimpering noises as each blow connected. She couldn’t help it –she felt as if her entire frame was being shaken apart, and the noises she made were both the sound of her impending collapse and the only release she had so that the rest of her could remain intact. Loghain heard her, too; each cry he drew from her stoked the fire of his assault. The cords on his neck were taut, straining, his teeth bared, the broad mouth drawn back, his ragged breath coming from deep in his chest. His eyes, deep and black and furious, locked on to hers, and her lips parted in a small, lost sigh. And then she felt a sizzling pain in her shoulder and cried out; he roared a curse and withdrew, dropping his sword. There was a rush and several yells from her companions. The Mage cleared her head with a shake and looked around her. Sten, Zevran and Leliana were surrounding Loghain; Sten had his sword drawn. Loghain had shucked his targe as well and was turning from one to the other with his hands raised.

“Stop, all of you,” ordered the Mage. “Sten, put down your weapon. I’m all right.”

They turned at her voice. Sten slowly, reluctantly, lowered the Summer Sword. Leliana ran to the Warden’s side and stood by, wringing her hands. The Mage looked down at her shoulder. The point of Loghain’s sword had broken the skin just by her collarbone. The blade was too blunt to do any real damage, but the force of the thrust had been just strong enough to pierce the flesh. The Mage looked with fascination as a small spot of red slowly spread on the white robe.

Loghain’s face was a mask, his shoulders heavy with his breath as he approached her. He ran a hand across his mouth.

“I’ve hurt you,” he said thickly.

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

He sniffed in disgust; she looked up at him. His eyes were flat, his lips pressed together. She tilted her head at him.

“Lesson over for today, then?” she asked.

He blinked at her, frowned, and then nodded. He jerked a hand in the direction of the stream by which they had camped. “Do you—”

“No, you go,” she said calmly, indicating her robes. “I’ll get this stain out first and then have some breakfast.” She smiled weakly at him. “Thank you,” she said.

“Huh,” he barked in reply, as if the sound had been yanked out of him. He turned away. The Mage nodded at Leliana, walked calmly to her tent and ducked inside. She could hear Loghain snarling, tearing at the buckles of his cuirass, and the punishing tread of his feet as he stalked out of the clearing. Her knees buckled; she threw out a groping hand to catch herself so that she would not fall on her face. Trembling, she removed her robe and lowered herself to her bedroll with it clasped between her hands like a novice with a candle, or a young lover with a bunch of flowers.

The moths in the Tower, she thought –at night, heedless, blind with desire, the moths had fumbled and pushed at the glass of the study lamps, and the Mage had tried to move them; partly for their safety, but also because she herself felt ashamed, embarrassed, to be a witness to such an intimate act. It did not even seem as if the moths were trying to launch themselves into the little fire, really. It was rather as though they strove out of some primal need to draw the fire inside them.

Inside her tent, the Mage shivered. One arm had wrapped itself around her breastband, which suddenly seemed ill-fitting, as though a draft of chill morning air was working into it from outside. Her other hand still clasped her robe between her knees. She shut her eyes and drew a single great, shuddering breath. As she let it out, she touched her fingers to her lips, and smiled.

That night, as the companions sat around the campfire, Leliana peered closely at the Warden’s right shoulder. She frowned.

“You have not healed yourself from this morning?” she asked. “It seemed a simple wound; either you or Morrigan could have made it disappear easily.”

The Mage shrugged.

“But you will have a scar!” exclaimed the Bard. “Why, if it is not necessary?”

“Presumably she means to shame me with it,” barked Mac Tir.

“No,” protested the Mage, “I—”

But Loghain had already risen and was retreating to his tent. “Next time the Elf or the Orlesian will spar with you,” he called over his shoulder. “They’ll remember to play nicely. Get the blood up on a beast like me, and you’re likely to wind up with more than you can handle.”

 

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The next morning, the Mage emerged from her tent to find Leliana standing nervously a few paces away, looking like a schoolgirl called upon to recite her lessons. She had her own practice sword in her hand.

“Loghain has ordered that I shall practice with you from now on,” she said meekly.

The Mage frowned. She had not quite known if Loghain’s insinuation that she was not up to the challenge of sparring with him was in earnest. Here was proof, however; and Leliana looked about as excited at her appointed task as the Mage herself was. Reluctantly, she smiled.

“Come now, Leliana, it can’t be as bad as all that,” she said. “And he did say that either you or Zevran would be a suitable partner for me. If you’d rather not spend your mornings playing taskmistress, just get him to do it instead.”

The Bard shook her head. “No,” she said. “This morning Loghain said specifically that it had to be me. Zevran has not fought with a single weapon for years, you see. Whereas I, as you know, had only the one while I was with the Chantry. So… ” she trailed off and looked at the ground.

“That makes sense,” admitted the Mage. “And he does know best in these matters, after all. So… ?” She shrugged. “Shall we get started?”

“I have never trained a novice before,” said Leliana miserably. “I would not wish to hurt you as –as he did.”

“Ah,” said the Warden, understanding her friend’s nervousness at last. “I don’t believe that you ever would hurt me, Leliana –and I imagine everyone else here feels the same.” The Rogue smiled sheepishly and relaxed somewhat.

“I promise, though,” said the Mage, fastening her targe to her arm, “that if I should sustain a –purely accidental—wound during my lessons, I shall heal it immediately.”

As it turned out, Loghain had resigned the role of sparring partner only. He still held himself responsible for the Mage’s tutelage overall. He would assign tasks and issue instructions at the beginning of the lesson, demonstrating with the Bard if necessary; otherwise, he observed the two women from his place by the fire and indicated his approval or displeasure in their turns. Zevran lounged on the opposite side of the arena, drinking in the view with a satisfied smile on his face.

“What a way to spend a morning, eh?” he called across the clearing on the second morning of this routine. “I confess that I was disappointed at first, not to have the honor of instructing my lovely mistress. I must say now that you knew what you were doing, ser. It is quite exhilarating to watch two such women facing off in combat.” He sighed contentedly and nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “you were quite right to insist on this arrangement.” He gave Mac Tir a comradely salute.

Loghain refused to be baited, but the Mage spared the Elf a glance and a smile. “I’m sure if aesthetics were behind his reasoning, he would have demanded that you participate, Zevran,” she said. “You’re far more graceful than either of us.”

“Mm… I’m afraid our Warrior would disagree with you on that point,” answered Zevran cheekily.  

Later that morning, the company entered the Denerim Market for the first time since the day of the Landsmeet. The Mage was sure that she would not be alone in noting the occasion. This was also the first time that Denerim would see Loghain since his regency had ended on the Landsmeet chamber floor. He had left the city in disgrace; in the Mage’s opinion, it would be best for everyone if he could be seen to re-enter it as one of Ferelden’s two Grey Wardens, rather than as a subjugated conscript. Mac Tir, as usual, was walking behind and to the right of his commander. As they proceeded from the gates and towards the market area, the Mage subtlely slowed her pace so as to draw him up alongside her.

Evidently, Loghain was of the opposite opinion as to how he should appear to his former subjects. As she first slowed, and then shortened her strides, he adjusted his own pace to match. Within a few yards the Wardens, still maintaining their original formation, had begun to disrupt the rest of the companions behind them, so that more than one of them was forced to break their own stride to avoid having their toes stepped on.

“When I was standing immobilized in the Honnleath Village square,” remarked Shale more loudly than was necessary, “the villagers used to assemble on the green and form lines sometimes eight or ten bodies deep all around me.” The Mage could hear the golem’s shudder of disgust. “They wore flowers in their hair and played awful jangling instruments, and then they all followed a leader and began to move in a big mass, back and forth.”

The Warden touched her hand briefly to her eyes.

“Back and forth,” repeated Shale in pointed tones. “At the time, I thought that such scenes especially angered me because the flowers and seeds and nuts and fruit that they brought with them on these occasions attracted all manner of loathsome flying creatures all around me.” The golem’s voice crackled with rage. She shook her head; the Mage could hear the grinding of the joints in her neck.

“Alas for my innocent and charitable heart,” she concluded bitterly. “I realize now that it was just an incredibly stupid little dance.”

With gritted teeth and a heavy sigh, the Mage resumed her usual pace. If it was possible for a tread of boots to sound smug, she thought, those of her fellow Warden behind her were bordering on the insufferable.

She had decided to make the best of their time in Denerim by cashing in on a number of jobs and tasks that she had agreed to perform before the Landsmeet. One of these had been commissioned by the Chantry, so the company turned first into the little courtyard where Sister Theohild still stood butchering the Chant of Light. The cleric who watched the Chanter’s Board and dispensed coin in exchange for proof of deeds accomplished merely smiled at the company and emitted a verse in a kindly tone. The Templars at the Chantry door, however, glared openly at the former Regent. No doubt they had not forgotten that he had conscripted a blood mage to poison the Arl of Redcliffe. Presumably, thought the Warden, they must also have heard that the disaster in Kinloch Hold had begun with Uldred’s promises of freedom from the Chantry –to be granted by Loghain as a reward for the Mages’ support in the civil war. Mac Tir stood at attention behind his commander and ignored the glares, answering respectfully when spoken to but remaining otherwise silent. The Warden sensed that the Templars approved, were pleased to see the erstwhile Regent compliant and submissive –to a Mage, it was true, but one who was by all accounts a good girl.

Her errand completed, she turned from them and caught Loghain’s eye. Her fellow Warden’s face was as empty as that of the man who had awaited his sentence in the Landsmeet chamber.

“I guess they don’t like your mismatched armor,” she suggested drolly. He had insisted on wearing the River Dane gloves and boots, but had “borrowed” a chestpiece of heavy plate from Bodahn’s cart.

“Huh,” said Mac Tir, but his mouth twitched just a bit.

As they entered the Market proper, they encountered more commoners, children, and regular soldiers than Chantry representatives. Everyone stared, but some of the soldiers and citizenry looked with defiant respect at Loghain, addressing him proudly as “my lord”; one or two of them even saluted. They aimed disgusted faces at the Mage, as though scandalized by her gall in leading their hero like a conquered enemy through the streets of the city he had saved and served. The company had not passed halfway through the market square when Loghain coughed and, with a grumbling noise to match any of Shale’s, hove up next to his commander. The Mage smiled. The two Wardens proceeded through Denerim side by side, receiving stares of no more than curiosity from then on.

When they had reached the center of the market, The Mage signaled a halt and addressed the party.

“Morrigan,” she said, “you have some items to purchase in the Wonders of Thedas, do you not?”

The Witch, who had been sulkier and even more silent than usual over the past few days, nodded.

“Fine,” said the Mage. “You may use whatever our friend at the Mage’s Collective gives you for your purchases. When you’re through, you won’t mind waiting there for us, will you?”

Morrigan made a sarcastic bow and sauntered away. The Mage shrugged and turned back to the others.

“Lel, if you would be so good as to give these to the man from the Blackstone Irregulars in the Gnawed Noble,” she said as she handed the Bard a couple of receipts and a note that she had dug from her pack. “Afterwards, you may use some of the proceeds to make a few friends in the tavern.” She smiled. “Buy a round or two, see what gossip you can collect, that sort of thing.” Leliana smiled back eagerly; this was the kind of job she was best at of anyone in the company.

“Sten,” proceeded the Mage, “you go with her, in case anyone tries to get too friendly. Everyone else stays with me.”

“Hey, why can’t I go and gather intelligence too?” objected Oghren. “I’m the life of the party, don’t you know. People tell me everything.”

“Probably,” said Sten, “they know that you will forget it as soon as you lose consciousness.”

“You are coming with us to Wade’s,” explained the Mage, “because he needs to fit you for your new set of dragonscale armor.”

“Me?”

“Think of it,” said the Mage. “The next time you walk through this market, you will be covered in High Dragon from your collar to your toes. No one will have seen anything like it.”

“Hey… yeah,” exclaimed Oghren, rubbing his beard. “Good idea, Warden; that’s the ticket. Heh, wait’ll Felsi gets a load of me in that. She’ll flip that bar over, she won’t be able to jump me fast enough.” He snickered to himself, eyes distant with lust. “I tell you what,” he said, “as soon as that Archdemon’s heart stops pumping, I’m heading for the Spoiled Princess.” He coughed in a conspiratorial manner.

“Say, uh, Warden –heheh—you think I could tell Felsi I took down Her Beloved Ugliness myself?”

“That’s up to Sten,” answered the Mage. “She was his kill.”

Oghren punched the giant gamely in the thigh.

“Whaddya say, there, buddy?” he asked. “You know what it’s like, huh? Ever pad the old resume to impress a girl?”

“No,” said Sten. “The mates of the Qunari are chosen for them by their elders, based on the Qunari’s own merits. This is the only way to ensure a proper match and the continuation of –”

“All right, all right; forget I asked, you pompous meatwad. Sheesh.” He spat through his teeth in disgust. Sten turned away and followed Leliana’s back down the side street to the tavern.

“That guy is about as much fun as a cold Nug salad,” observed the Dwarf.

Outside the door to Wade’s Emporium, Loghain hesitated.

“I think –I’ll just wait out here,” he said.

The Mage frowned, but could see no reason why he had to come in. She shrugged and held out her arms. “Fine,” she said, nodding at the damaged armor that was slung over Loghain’s shoulder. “I’ll take that in for you, then.”

Loghain looked at the Warden. He hesitated another moment, and then shut his eyes with a sigh. “Never mind,” he said. “I can run my own errands.”

“Suit yourself,” said the Mage as she held the door for him. “After you.”

As usual, the Emporium was empty of customers and Wade was nowhere to be seen. Herren, the proprietor, saw them come through the door from his spot at the counter. His initial welcoming smile turned to a grimace.

“Oh, my head,” he moaned, slumping against the counter and clutching his temples. “Both of you at once? Well, that’s this day gone to the scrap pile.” He looked up and offered the Wardens a sickly grin.

“And how may I assist you in ruining my life?” he asked.

“Is Wade in a working mood today?” said Mac Tir. “I have a damaged chestpiece that needs repair in short order.”

At the sound of Loghain’s voice, something clattered to the floor in the back room and was hastily swept up. Presently Wade appeared, wiping grit off his hands with a towel. “Your Grace!” he called out, beaming. “I mean, Your Majesty!”

He stopped, abashed, and put a hand over his mouth. “Hm, forgive me,” he said. “Force of habit.” He spared the Mage a bitter look before taking the dented chevalier armor from Loghain’s hands.

“This armor,” he clucked in admiration. “Well-worn, but still magnificent. And so fitting, for one such as—” He stopped himself with a nervous cough. “But I think it must not fit you anymore,” he continued, eyeing the Warrior. “You've lost weight since you left us.”

“Huh,” said Loghain. “Rather, staying too long at the Royal Palace was making me fat, I imagine.”

“Never!” Wade protested. “Why, every time I saw you pass by from our window, you always looked perfectly—”

“This armor fits me as well as it ever did,” said Loghain firmly. “I am prevented from wearing it only by these dents you see here.”

Wade looked more closely at the chestpiece and gasped.

“These are teeth marks!” he cried. He whirled on the Mage.

“What have you been doing to him?” he demanded. “First you starve him, and then you throw him to the wild beasts? They said you were heartless, but to think—” The smith grew nearly inarticulate with fury. “And there you stand just as cool as ever, not a hair out of place, not that there's much to disturb—”

“Actually I confess that I rather provoked this particular beast,” interjected Mac Tir as the Mage gazed placidly at the ceiling. “It was through the Warden's efforts that I sustained no damage worse than this.”

“Oh… well… thank you, I’m sure,” stammered Wade with a hasty, apologetic grin. “I mean, we all thank you –Ferelden thanks you, that is—”

Loghain coughed. The Mage sweetly returned the armorsmith’s smile. “That’s quite all right, Wade,” she said. “Your concern is much appreciated.” Zevran snickered quietly to himself.

“I hope I may earn your thanks still further, though,” she added. “I believe you once told me to come straight to your shop if I ever came across some of these?” She held up a couple of scales that had once plated the side of the beloved Andraste.

The smith inhaled with an ecstatic squeal. He clutched at the scales greedily. “These –these are from a High Dragon,” he said. “Mature, but not too brittle; substantial, but not too large –perfect. But how in Thedas did you get them?”

“His Grace here distracted the beast,” said Zevran, “by placing himself between her jaws.”

Wade looked shocked, but then shook himself back to attention. “Well,” he said, “we shall certainly make it worth your while, ser.” He flew to a shelf of tools and came back with a strip of leather that had been marked at regular intervals for measuring. “You shall have the most exquisite suit of dragonscale armor ever seen. Oh, I’ve been dreaming of this for years,” he crowed. “But it may take just a tiny bit longer than I promised the Warden originally. Just to make sure that it’s perfect, you see. You may have to spend the night—”

“Wade,” interrupted the Mage, “the Hero of River Dane already has his armor. Could you see him in anything else?” The armorsmith bit his lip, reluctant to answer.

“The dragonscale armor,” said the Mage, “is for Oghren, here.”

The Dwarf, who had been conducting a ribald conversation with his flask throughout this scene, belched.

“Oh,” said Wade.

“What?” said Oghren.

“So,” said the Warden, “when can we expect that armor, Wade?”

“This afternoon,” answered Wade dejectedly.

“You’re the best,” she said with a winning smile. “We’ll be back in a few hours, then. Grey Warden business, you know, of some urgency. Can’t possibly stay.”

“Must we all go?” asked Shale unexpectedly. “The Casteless Smith’s forge intrigues me. I am curious to see how the humans practice Caridin’s art.”

“Of course,” said the Mage, “if Wade will give his permission.”

“Whatever,” muttered the smith. He tossed his head over his shoulder at the Dwarf and sighed. “Come on, then.”

“Watch where you put that measuring thingy,” said Oghren.

Outside the Emporium, the four remaining companions gathered their thoughts. The Mage grinned up at her fellow Warden; as she opened her mouth, he raised a hand to silence her.

“Not,” he admonished, “a word.”

The impending remark turned abruptly into a coughing fit that forced the Mage to prop herself against the side of the building for over a minute with her arm across her face. Loghain stood glowering at the square with Duty jammed on his head, which could almost be seen to steam lightly as he waited for her to recover.

“So, where to, then?” asked Zevran as they set off. “I would not mind a visit to the Pearl –not to spend any of our hard-earned war funds on whores, of course, my dear Warden. But perhaps the lovely and recently widowed Isabela has not yet sailed, and is still drowning her sorrows in ale and the blood of the foolish and unwary. I could offer my assistance in comforting her.”

“Actually, I wasn’t lying when I said we had an errand in Denerim,” said the Mage. “Though I may have exaggerated its urgency just a bit,” she added with a smirk.

She reached into her pack and pulled out a handful of documents. They varied in age, author and state of decrepitude. One parchment still carried a whiff of the Deep Roads as the Mage passed them to her fellow Warden.

“I have heard of this Vilhm Madon,” said Mac Tir thoughtfully after reading them. “He lives in a hovel in one of the back alleys here in town. I have never met him personally, however.”

“I am impressed, ser,” said Zevran. “No magistrate where I come from would ever bother to learn the names of every tenement rat in Antiva City.”

“I claim no such knowledge myself,” answered the former Regent. “This man is not your average tenement rat, however. He is alternately described as a decrepit old beggar, or as a proud, well-dressed, well-educated man. Yet there is only one Vilhm Madon and he lives alone. Also, he never leaves that hovel of his –not ever, as far as anyone knows. He has his provisions and other goods delivered to his door, which otherwise remains locked at all times. It may just be idle back-alley gossip about an old eccentric; there is plenty of that sort of thing in any town or village. But we were aware of him.”

“Well, he may not leave his hovel, but somehow the stories about Gaxkang lead back to him,” said the Mage. “It is possible to spread stories and rumors from the safety of a back alley, I suppose; but then what about this account here?” She pointed to the oldest of the documents. “A host of henchmen pursuing the reluctant adventurer… where? To Denerim? Or is Gaxkang lurking somewhere else? And if so, why is Vilhm Madon acting as his procurer?”

“But,” Loghain argued, “is the Unbound spoken of in this document the same as in all the others? And if so, how?” He shook his head, frowning. “I don’t like it –and I’m not happy that such a thing, or such a person, has been operating in Denerim all this time with impunity.” He scratched at his temple. “All the same, Warden, is such a matter really worthy of our attention at this point?”

“I had never thought it important enough to take us out of our way, of course,” the Mage agreed. “But since we are in Denerim and have some time to spare, I would consider it a more worthwhile use of our time than others. You yourself said that it doesn’t look right. Hundreds of years apart, these messages –and yet it is always the same message, the same lure, the same fear. Not to mention that nearly everyone who pursues what the Unbound seems to offer has disappeared. If the same person is luring all these people to their deaths, it is unnatural and quite possibly demonic. If successive generations of persons are carrying on some sort of tradition, that could spell a different kind of danger. Either way, Vilhm Madon is involved somehow. And the army is gone, the city guards reduced to a minimum and those remaining naturally preoccupied by the Blight. It could not hurt for us to remove the spider from its web, if we can.”

Loghain shrugged, and sighed. “It beats hanging about out here, anyway, or ignoring polite stares in the Gnawed Noble.”

It took some time for the four of them to find the right door in the right alley. At first they followed Loghain’s recollection of the intelligence he’d received; when it failed them, they made inquiries, which produced conflicting results. Vilhm Madon seemed at once to live everywhere, and nowhere.

At last, they stood on a stone threshold before a plain wooden door. It looked like every other poor man’s door in Denerim, except this one bore the letters “VM” in a faded script just below the lintel. The Mage knocked politely.

“Hello?” she called out. “I wish to speak to Vilhm Madon. I was told that he lived here.”

There was no answer, but the Mage heard something behind the door: a shifting. No windows faced the alley, but the Mage felt as though something inside was looking at them, all the same.

“We have come because of the stories of Gaxkang! We’re not leaving!” she said, her voice suddenly and unnecessarily shrill. The back alley turned blank walls and shuttered windows to them like cold shoulders and deaf ears. Only the house of Vilhm Madon seemed awake, receptive –listening. Still, no one answered. Then, they all heard the metallic tumble of the door being unlocked.

They waited, but the door did not open. All at once, the Mage understood.

He’s giving us a choice, she thought, and waiting to see what we do.

She shivered suddenly, just for a moment; then she straightened her back, nodded at her fellow adventurers, and turned the handle.

Comments

[le_monde]

All caught up, finally.

I do enjoy your Loghain. [Oh please don't think I don't love Zev as I say the next bit - I am a Zevran/Loghain girl to the end, but I love them for very different reasons.] In comparison to Loghain, your Zevran seems light and fluffy -this is not his story as so it is appropriate that he does not steal the show. Loghain is solid, strong, a force to knock you over, blended with a bit of dry humor. I think you have captured this essence very well.

I nearly missed this chapter however because it didn't have its usual picture with it :) *Yes, I'm teasing!*

[morwen_eledhwen]

Thank you! :) (and the lack of artwork is not my illustrator's fault --I sprung this chapter on her rather suddenly and she didn't have time to whip something up before publication. I'll tell her you were looking, though. :D)

It's true what you say about Zevran, and part of that is the Mage's fault. She takes his breeziness at face value and therefore dismisses him and his protestations of regard/desire as frivolous, shallow, and meaningless. Later chapters will cause her to revisit this opinion somewhat. But she is Loghain's girl to the bone.