Fic: "Two Roads" Dragon Age Alistair/Loghain - Chapter 3
Authors: ac1d6urn and sinick
Summary: A fight, another fight, and an uneasy truce.
Alternative links: AO3 ffn
Chapter 1: The Spirit Charm
Chapter 2: The Ruins of Lothering
Two Roads
Chapter 3: The Canticle of Shartan
It turned out that the campground wasn't completely empty. No, Alistair had left the ropes, probably as a taunt. They were lying draped around the tree, their ends thoroughly chewed and still damp with dog drool.
Even my damn dog can't be trusted around him! If Anora didn't have a use for him, I'd strangle the bastard with my bare hands!
Fortunately, Loghain still had his quiver and bow. They'd been lying right beside him as he slept; presumably that bloody thief hadn't dared to try and steal them too, and risk waking him.
As he rolled up the ropes, swearing under his breath, he noticed that he'd been left something else. A waterskin and the dried fruit from his supplies lay on one of his maps: the map of Denerim. It was a taunt as obvious as the ropes: evidently Alistair thought him a feeble enough hunter - an old man, as the brat was so fond of pointing out - that he'd need help not to starve as he made his way back to Denerim on his own, consulting the map at every turn of the road. The very picture of a spoiled noble caught outside without servants or guides, or an entire personal army to serve to his whims...
As if that's ever going to happen! I'd sooner swagger about in Cailan's gilt armor than adopt any of his abysmal habits.
Despite the possessive snarl on Loghain's face, his hands moved with care as he picked up the map and examined its parchment for stains or tears. He almost wished there were some, so he'd have a reason to flay the bastard and make a replacement map out of his hide.
Not that he needed his tracking skills to tell where Maric's whelp was headed: it was precisely the opposite way to where he should've been going.
Bloody typical.
Loghain was pleasantly surprised to catch up to his horse by midday, though the reason he'd managed to make up the distance so soon had nothing to do with any skill of his. The horse wasn't moving any faster than a walk, but even at that sedate pace, the rider still had all the grace of a sack of potatoes in the saddle. Loghain was forcibly reminded of Maric, who all his life had been hopeless on a horse. Pausing only to string his bow, Loghain closed the distance steadily, using the avenue of trees that lined the highway to stay out of sight until he was within earshot. Then he let out a brief burst of ear-piercing whistles in a carefully chosen tempo and pitch. In response to the signal, the warhorse reared at once, forehooves lashing the air in a well-trained battle maneuver. The sudden move deprived the incompetent rider of what little balance he had, and he toppled from the saddle with a cry of dismay.
Before the sprawled man could get up, Loghain loosed an arrow that buried itself in the road dust right by one outflung hand: it was both an announcement of Loghain's presence and a warning not to run. Alistair froze, staring at the arrow, and, when no more followed, he sat up and saw Loghain striding down the road toward him, bow drawn, another arrow ready to fly. "Ohhh no," Alistair groaned as he struggled unsteadily to his feet. "Not you again!"
The horse, relieved of its burden, trotted jauntily up to Loghain and nudged him with its nose.
As a side bonus to the whistle, the dog bounded out of the bushes nearby, as exuberant as a pup to see Loghain. But, reluctant to share Alistair's fate and be bowled off his feet by one of the dog's enthusiastic greetings, Loghain barked "Sit!"
The dog parked his furiously-wagging behind on the ground, lolling out his tongue in an utterly unabashed grin.
By the time Maric's bastard dusted himself off, Loghain stood there, strung bow slung over his shoulder where he could wield it at a moment's notice, the horse's reins and the dog's collar firmly gripped.
"Had enough of playing horsethief?" Loghain growled.
"You know what, this is getting tiresome, old man -"
"Oh, 'tiresome', is it?" Loghain cut him off, dropping reins and collar and striding up to Alistair. "Tell me, how tiresome is it to be a coward and a traitor to the crown? Whinging like a spoiled child at the first sight of duties. Abandoning your responsibility the moment things don't turn out exactly as you want. Come ON, boy! You're lucky I've spared you more times than I can count, but I've coddled you long enough." The steely clamor of a war cry rang in Loghain's voice. "You WILL march right back to Denerim and take your place supporting my daughter, and you WILL beg her forgiveness -"
The war cry rocked Alistair backward like a powerful blow, and he only managed to keep his feet by grabbing Loghain's shoulders. "NO!" he roared back, and it was Loghain's turn to stagger as he felt the full brunt of the holy rage that templars used to smite a foe. Now the tables were turned and Alistair's grip on Loghain was the main thing keeping him on his feet. "You expected a spoiled child so that's exactly what I gave you! And what did it get you? Nothing but a day's detour down the same road. And you - you don't know how lucky you are! Maker's breath, if you weren't already conscripted I'd execute you myself! Oh, I wish I could, but that wasn't what Duncan taught me. He taught me that Grey Wardens are family. And dishonoring that isn't worth the satisfaction of sending your soul to the Fade with the rest of the demons, you miserable. Wretched. Waste. Of taint!"
Loghain snorted, centering his stance and shaking Alistair's hands off his shoulders. Who knew that someone so fond of running away actually has some sort of a spine? I suppose that secretive sonofabitch Duncan was good for something after all. He bared his teeth in a morbid parody of a grin. "Impressive," he drawled, and it was anyone's guess whether he was being slyly mocking or dryly genuine. "You might even make a king after all... if you survive."
Alistair's face twisted in a grimace. "Are you deaf? I'm a bastard! Oh, stop smirking and listen to me! I wasn't raised to be Maric's son, I wasn't raised at all! First I was shoved in a stable, and then I was thrown to the templars! My father was noble, but I'm not. I don't understand anything about nobles, how they think, how they make alliances and stop wars and balance trade and gather taxes and dispense justice and all the other things. And for a king to do his job, he'd have to understand all of that, and more." Alistair's eyes narrowed. "...Or don't you care if Ferelden's stuck with a king who doesn't have a clue what he's doing? Do you want someone on the throne, who's completely lost at court? Do you want a "king" who's so out of his depth he'll be easier to make into your puppet, or Anora's?"
"Of course I don't want that," Loghain snapped, nettled at Alistair's accusations, mostly because he had considered the idea of a puppet king: considered it, and then dismissed it. "Cailan didn't have the vaguest idea how to rule. All he knew was how to be superficially charming and how to look good in gilt armor, and in his time as king he certainly didn't do Ferelden any favours. If it weren't for Anora, doing all the work of monarchy and getting damn little of the credit, Ferelden would've descended into anarchy mere months after Cailan took the throne."
Alistair scowled, "So you waited until it was convenient and left him - left Duncan, left all of us - to die, so you can rule Ferelden your way."
"I did nothing of the sort!" Loghain hissed, stepping up so they were practically nose to nose. "I told Cailan all the reasons why being in the vanguard of the army was suicide. I asked him not to throw his life away. If it would've stood the faintest chance of changing his mind, I would have begged him not to go!"
"You. Beg him?" Alistair scoffed.
"Yes." Loghain answered simply, and let the truth stand. "But Cailan's mind was already made up. Nothing I said made any impression on him. And do you know why he was so determined to be at the forefront of the fight? Because that's where the Grey Wardens would be. Because he wanted to fight darkspawn in their company. Because your precious Duncan had so filled his impressionable mind with legends of the Wardens and their heroic prowess, that Cailan was utterly obsessed. He was smitten by the tales that Duncan spun for him, and he followed them - followed Duncan - to his death. And if I hadn't led my part of the army to safety - after you failed to light the beacon in time - then Cailan would have taken all of Ferelden's military with him, into useless death."
"Wait," Alistair's eyes narrowed. "'We failed'? Oh, nonoNO! That beacon was lit! Bright and clear for all to see! We made great time, and if you don't believe me you can go and ask the dead ogre at the top of that tower. It was lit and it stayed lit! We made damn sure of it! We almost died for it! But you..." He stared at Loghain, and his gaze was dark and damning. "you can't even take responsibility for you own bloody choice."
"Cailan's choice condemned his part of the army to death," Loghain replied in a voice as level and hard as bedrock. "My 'own bloody choice' saved mine. Given the same circumstances, I'd make the same choice again. How is that not 'taking responsibility'? Or am I to be held responsible for King Cailan's choices as well as my own? Should I have thrown away all the lives under my command, for no military goal, merely to salvage your illusions about Cailan's heroism, or Duncan's?"
"Enough!" At the mention of his Grey Warden commander, Alistair's face twisted predictably into an outraged, reddened grimace. "Duncan was a hero. A true hero. All the way to his death. You will not use his name to excuse your cowardice!"
Loghain's eyes narrowed. "Tell me," he asked quietly, "what exactly is your definition of a 'true hero'? I'd really like to know. Because from where I'm standing, Duncan didn't just beguile Cailan to his death, he hung recruits like you out to dry. Solona told me that she had to learn everything from Riordan. Duncan didn't tell her - or you - the formula for the Joining. He didn't even tell his own recruits why Wardens are necessary to stop Blights, any more than he told Ferelden's King!"
"Of course he didn't! Who would expect your troops to stroll out and abandon the rest of us to be slaughtered on the very first battle. He was out of time."
"'Out of time!'" Loghain quoted scathingly. "Bullshit! How much time does it take to explain? A minute? Two? Nothing excuses Duncan's secrecy! That was vital strategic knowledge, that the king of a country threatened by a Blight had every right to know! And I know for a fact that Cailan never even suspected the truth." A bitter laugh burst from Loghain; he was appalled to realise it sounded almost like a stifled sob. "Did you know, Cailan carried Maric's sword with him to Ostagar? But he didn't wield it in that final battle, ohh no. He told me he was saving it for the Archdemon. As if Cailan had a hope of stopping the Blight himself, that poor deluded sonofa..." Abruptly Loghain's throat closed; he turned away from Alistair, his entire face clenched in a thunderous scowl. Better that than let all that buried pain burst the dam.
An awkward pause hung between them. All was quiet, and then the sound of a cleared throat broke the silence. "No," Alistair said. "I didn't know, actually. I guess I'll see for myself soon... Er, look -"
A burst of barking overrode whatever Alistair was going to say next. The hound was facing away from them, growling and barking furiously.
They weren't alone.
Bad Brad was the biggest, baddest boss bandit along this stretch of the Imperial Highway. He knew it because he'd beaten the shit out of all of the other members of his bandit gang at one time or another, and because all of the half-starved refugees that came this way last season had cowered before his brutal badness and begged for his mercy. So of course he'd had to kill them all in inventively messy ways, just to impress the boys in the gang.
So when he'd walked over that last hill and spotted the two men arguing in the middle of his stretch of highway, he'd swaggered closer, drawing his big, bad two-hander with a nice slow shinnng of sharp steel. He propped the claymore on his hip and struck a pose, angling the blade so the sun glinted off it for maximum menace. He drew a deep breath, and delivered The Line. The one that made burly farmboys shiver and ladies shriek.
"Your money or your life!" Brad gave his nastiest sneer. "... Oops," he added insincerely, "I get that wrong every time. I meant to say: Your money AND your life!"
There was the usual appreciative chuckles from the gang, but this time there was nothing from the victims. Nothing. The lads' chuckles trailed off, and for a long, weird moment it felt as though everything had frozen. Then, with pointed slowness, two heads, dark and fair, swivelled in his direction. Two pairs of eyes, pale and dark, fixed him in a stare that should've been glazed with fear, but wasn't. Instead, it reminded Brad of when he was just a kid, and he'd made the mistake of interrupting Mum and her latest man in their daily brawls. Mum had been every bit as likely to tan his arse as the men had.
The two travellers sighed wearily and turned to face him, their movements dragging as though they were facing a humdrum duty, not the Terror of the Imperial Highway and his Desperado Gang. Both of them stared him up and down. Neither of them looked at all impressed at what they saw.
The old one drawled in supremely bored tones, "Fuck off."
The youngster, who was the only one actually armored, eyerolled and added, "Seriously. While you still can."
Brad swallowed. Then he scowled, furious that his throat had gone dry without his permission. Two travellers, against him, his two-hander, and his whole gang of cutthroats? They should've been pissing their pantaloons, like all his other victims had done. He pasted a ferocious snarl on his face and sneered, "Ohhh, are we interrupting something? You two lovebirds having a little domestic spat?" The gang chimed in obligingly with another chorus of laughter.
"Yes, yes. Ha-ha." The youngster spoke up. "You've had you fun. Now turn around and leave like good little minions."
Brad's sneer widened. Behind him, the lads growled and drew weapons.
The two travellers exchanged glances, and a nod of agreement.
Then they moved, faster than any man could move, and everything went to shit. There was a shout like thunder or a shield to the face and a blur of fur and fangs and the lads were screaming instead of laughing and Deadly Dirk dropped like a felled tree and arrows were everywhere and was that whimper Billy the Butcher? The youngster was chanting like them templar fuckers oh shit "Edric, RUN!" Mage's no good if he can't hex...
Where's the old one?
Brad never saw the arrow, so he was really confused when everything went hazy and wobbly, like the air over a fire. He only realised what had happened when his late unlamented Mum appeared. "Bradley!" she shrieked, "You've been a very bad boy!"
I'm in the Fade! … Does it mean it's all... over?
"Bugger," Brad said. That pretty much summed it up.
Whew. That's all of them, I'm pretty sure. Alistair straightened up and pulled his blade out of some poor sod's gut. Behind his back, he'd heard Loghain grumble, "Do you know the meaning of stealth at all? Standing in the middle of the Imperial Highway and shouting your head off; what a brilliant idea! And you wonder why those bandits found us..."
"Yeah, yeah..." Wait! The bushes rustled. Alistair's eyes went to the road... I could've sworn there was a mage. Where is he? Not lying in the ditch with the others, that's for sure.
Alistair gripped the hilt of his sword tighter and stared at the bushes.
Right, best keep the chant going. Better safe than sorry.
How bad can one mage be if he's run off already... but what if he hasn't? Fine. Ho-hum, I'd better concentrate. Holy thoughts. … blessed are the peacekeepers... - Bleargh, Benedictions is boring as sin - ...the champions of the just... Alistair glanced at the nearby corpse, thinking that it looked like a porcupine, what with all those arrows in it. His smile widened as he switched to something more appropriate for the occasion. ... though stung with a hundred arrows, though suffering something-something great and small... How'd it go again? Oh, blast it.
"At Shartan's word, the sky grew black with arrows," a verse Alistair actually liked came to mind, "... ten thousand swords rang from their sheaths..."
A good find it was. Dissonant Verse or not, with the right tempo and beat, Shartan's Canticle dampened magic just as well as any other. And unlike a lot of other verses, it didn't drone on about the blessings of the righteous or heaven's wrath. Shartan and all of his archer elves were proper heroes, like Duncan. And even if the Chantry had declared that verse forbidden, the Chantry wasn't here to hear. Loghain probably had as much to do with the Chantry as the dog did. He wouldn't know Dissonant Verses if he heard them. Alistair was safe.
So he took great pleasure in reciting all about the Valarian Fields, as he examined the bushes from another angle.
Alistair was prepared for the lash of a hex or the slash of a knife. What he wasn't prepared for were his words echoed back at him. Bushes weren't supposed to echo like that, nor did they speak, nor did they recite the highly forbidden Canticle of Shartan back at Alistair.
Alistair peered past all the leaves into the center.
A small elf with a thick branch for a makeshift staff stared back. The elf cowered away from Alistair, his eyes wide and dark and scared as any kid's. All the while, the boy was mumbling that same verse about the big elven hero who'd been stricken from the Chantry's approved Chant.
Huh. Younger than Solona... Alistair thought, as he met that uncertain, shifty gaze. And what are the odds... where'd he even hear that verse? Not that he's going to get much of a chance to hear more. For a hedge mage, he's rotten at picking hedges to hide behind. Any templar worth his chants will find him, and squash him like a bug.
"Are you going to gape at the corpses till nightfall? Loot them already!" Loghain yelled from the distance. "Or are you waiting for more of those ever so scary bandits to find us?"
Alistair narrowed his eyes. "All right. All done," he shouted back. And then he sheathed his sword and turned his back on the bush. "All done, all dead..."
Wouldn't hurt to leave the kid. Seems like he's got a good head on his shoulders... A year before, Alistair probably wouldn't have left him, but travelling with Solona and Wynne and Leliana had taught him to rebel, just a little. Besides, the boy and he had just committed secret heresy together...
Oh, fine, just this once. For Shartan's sake. With a smile on his lips, Alistair started to walk away...
A cage of magic slammed down all around him and he was yanked off the ground, dangling helpless in midair like a hanged man, agonised, pressure like an ogre's fist crushing the air from his lungs; he couldn't chant, or speak, or even breathe.
Ow. Ow. OW! Damn! Alistair felt himself blacking out. Spirit damage... He's draining me!
He was growing dizzy from lack of air when he saw a dark blur of movement, saw Loghain's fierce snarl as he drew, aimed and shot in one smooth reflex. Then did it again.
Alistair's senses were overloaded with the sheer intensity of being slowly restrained, not by rope, not in cages, but by crushing columns of sheer magical force. His heart pounded, his lungs burned and he saw white, and then the spell cut off, with the suddenness and speed that only meant the death of the caster - or 'mage, pacified', as templars said. Alistair fell out of his agonised hover, and his shaking limbs folded under the shock of his own weight. He collapsed to the ground, chest heaving ecstatically for air, sweet air! When at last his gasping slowed, he blinked through the dizziness, and met Loghain's heated gaze.
Alistair's heart was racing. His breath was panting past parted lips. His blood was hot in his face, tingling in his fingers, throbbing in his sprawled limbs. He'd never felt more alive.
He'd never realised before how intense one man's stare could be.
"What in Thedas made you lose your focus enough to almost lose your damnfool life?"
"He, uh... he chanted Verse at me." Alistair croaked. It's true. More or less. Dissonant...Verse.
"So he chanted," Loghain snapped, hard-eyed and agitated. "Brilliant! Now maybe can you finally get it through your thick templar skull that in battle everyone's out for himself! So unless you know for certain that someone's on your side, then no matter what they say or do to keep themselves alive, you can't trust anyone!"
"I know, I do!" Alistair knew, dammit. He did. He wasn't a child, and he'd been through a lot and made some damn hard choices along the way. Still, this stung. The kid who'd cursed him was just a few years older than Eamon and Isolde's son. Actually, after Connor, Alistair ought to have known how dangerous a rogue mage could be. But... what about Morrigan? She was about as close to maleficar as they came, and yet, even though she was a wicked, wanton bitch, even he had to admit she wasn't evil. She'd saved all their lives, including his own, at one time or another. So how was Alistair supposed to draw the line between evil mages and good? He couldn't.
And neither could the templars. So they just assumed that all mages were evil until proven good. They dragged them away from their families and friends and locked them all in a glorified cage, and only let them out once in a while, if they'd been model prisoners.
But Solona had taught Alistair that this was wrong; not by preaching at him, but by the example of her life. Mages were no more evil than anyone else. If everyone else were treated like mages, the whole world would be one huge cage.
So, Alistair had used his father's name to unlock the cage door and throw away the key. He'd made his position clear when he'd pressed the issue of self-governance of the new Circle Tower with the templars' Knight-Commander. It was the least he could do for Wynne, for all the others... in Solona's memory. The mages were free to think for themselves now. No one deserved to be a templar puppet and prisoner, and without their jailors the mages could finally lead some sort of a life. Alistair was only too glad to see it happen.
"And by the way," Alistair told Loghain, who was about to turn away, "stop calling me a templar." Although the words seemed simple, it felt like he was turning a new leaf on life. "I'm not."
"Oh?" Loghain glanced up from going through the pockets of the latest corpse, "Could've fooled me, what with all that templar talk and templar chants, and your 'Chantry boy' ways."
Alistair winced, and it wasn't just because of the calmly methodical way Loghain recovered his arrows. What had he said to Loghain yesterday? 'Chantry boy, through and through.' But he hadn't been planning to stick around long enough for Loghain to bring it up. Yesterday, he hadn't cared if Loghain had thought he was an Archdemon short of a Blight. Today... well, today was different. They'd fought, but then they'd fought together, and what with one thing and another, it looked as though maybe he was going to see more of Loghain than he'd planned.
And of course Loghain just had to go and remember his babble from yesterday, as if it had meant anything. Talk about awkward!
Alistair sighed. "If I were a templar, I'd be terrible at it. Every templar I've ever known is self-righteous, and they treat the mages like cattle or worse." He waved his hands about, to emphasise the utter wreck of the situation. "Ugh! Why would anyone get off on keeping a mage on a leash?"
Loghain gave Alistair an oddly assessing look. "Not one for holding onto leashes, are you?" he said in a strange, low drawl. He drew breath as if to say more, but apparently thought better of it.
Alistair shrugged off the weird remark. "No. Not really. If I hadn't been conscripted, I still wouldn't have taken the vows. I would've come up with something."
"Yes, you would've run away." Loghain said with a sarcastic twist to his lips. "That does appear to be your primary talent..." Loghain bestowed him the sort of disappointed look which Alistair was used to getting from the Revered Mother, or Wynne, not Loghain Mac Tir. "... so far."
"You don't know anything about me!" Alistair bristled. Wynne's allowed to give me disappointed looks, he isn't!
"Oh, you'd be surprised," Loghain tilted his head, and was that a smirk? Alistair disliked Loghain's smirk as well. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
"I didn't fall from that tree, I was tossed out, all the way past the fence. Look, I already told you," Alistair sneered, "I just wasn't raised to be royalty."
Loghain shook his head impatiently, "I wasn't talking about how you were raised, or what you do or don't know about nobles or politics or ruling a country. I was talking about you. I knew Maric long before he was king, back when he was an orphaned boy running from his mother's murderers. But even then, he was already a stubborn hothead."
"Yeah, well, he grew out of it, I hope..." Alistair bit his lip as Loghain checked the horse's saddle, called the dog over. I am not a hothead, he thought. And I'm not stubborn either, no matter what he remembers about my father, I'm not him. And I'll prove it to him! "Um, listen. You can try tying me up again and sticking me on that horse, but I'll fight you. And you might get wounded... or I might. And if you're wounded you won't be able to track me, and if I'm wounded I certainly won't be in any shape to marry your daughter or wear that crown. I'm already sore from riding that horrible nag you call a warhorse. So." Alistair took a deep breath. "How about this. I will follow you to Denerim. Willingly. But we have to take a detour first. Anora's waited this long, she can wait another week." Ostagar first. And as for later? A lot of things can happen in seven days.
Loghain's eyes narrowed to distrustful slits. "And just where does this 'detour' go?" he inquired in too-light tones.
"Ostagar."
"'Ostagar.'" Loghain echoed flatly. He folded his arms.
Alistair sighed. This whole persuasion thing is harder than I thought. "Yes. It's close, and there are things there that we need. First, there's the king's sword, you mentioned it yourself. And as well as that, there are artifacts that belong to Grey Wardens. It's about time they were recovered." There, Alistair thought with satisfaction. He can't argue with that. The way the greedy sod hunts down every stray arrow, he simply won't stand for leaving anything behind.
Loghain gave Alistair a scathing look. "So, you want my help in this adventure of yours. But how can I trust you not to run again, the second we head for Denerim?"
"I said, I won't run," Alistair assured him hotly. "I give you my word." He stared at Loghain and hoped that everything he'd proposed was enough to make Loghain see sense.
Otherwise, they'd both be playing hare and hound all over this particular piece of Ferelden 'til Wintermarch.
I'd wondered how long it'd take him to bring up Ostagar... still, it's been fun pulling the brat's chain and watching him squirm, Loghain thought. I suppose a week's not too bad. I'd probably lose a week wrangling the stubborn sod back to Denerim anyway if he didn't cooperate.
"My word's good," Alistair added, when the silence had gone on long enough.
At last, Loghain smirked. "Is it now? We'll see, then, won't we?" He stuck out his gloved hand. Might as well do this properly.
Alistair eyed it and then cautiously extended his. "All right then. To Ostagar!"
"To Denerim, through Ostagar," Loghain clarified, before he took and shook the offered hand. "By the way," he added quickly, "Five days' time should be more enough for this detour of yours. We're on a schedule."
It took my troops five days for a round trip through these parts and that was more than generous.
Ostagar... Next best thing to the Black City. And here I thought I'd never have to travel this Maker-forsaken part of Ferelden again. Loghain sighed. Hopefully this is the very last time.
Footnotes
1. The Chant of Light which Alistair usually uses to power his templar abilities used to contain quite a number of excised and banned parts (Dissonant Verse) including Verse 10:1 from the Canticle of Shartan. The mention of the elf struck a nerve with the Chantry during the Exalted March on the Dales and thus Shartan was conveniently struck out from the official versions many ages ago, and now only the historians, enthusiast scholars, and interested bards would know the relevant verses.
2. Wintermarch is Ferelden's version of January according to the calendar.
Summary: A fight, another fight, and an uneasy truce.
Alternative links: AO3 ffn
Chapter 1: The Spirit Charm
Chapter 2: The Ruins of Lothering
Two Roads
Chapter 3: The Canticle of Shartan
It turned out that the campground wasn't completely empty. No, Alistair had left the ropes, probably as a taunt. They were lying draped around the tree, their ends thoroughly chewed and still damp with dog drool.
Even my damn dog can't be trusted around him! If Anora didn't have a use for him, I'd strangle the bastard with my bare hands!
Fortunately, Loghain still had his quiver and bow. They'd been lying right beside him as he slept; presumably that bloody thief hadn't dared to try and steal them too, and risk waking him.
As he rolled up the ropes, swearing under his breath, he noticed that he'd been left something else. A waterskin and the dried fruit from his supplies lay on one of his maps: the map of Denerim. It was a taunt as obvious as the ropes: evidently Alistair thought him a feeble enough hunter - an old man, as the brat was so fond of pointing out - that he'd need help not to starve as he made his way back to Denerim on his own, consulting the map at every turn of the road. The very picture of a spoiled noble caught outside without servants or guides, or an entire personal army to serve to his whims...
As if that's ever going to happen! I'd sooner swagger about in Cailan's gilt armor than adopt any of his abysmal habits.
Despite the possessive snarl on Loghain's face, his hands moved with care as he picked up the map and examined its parchment for stains or tears. He almost wished there were some, so he'd have a reason to flay the bastard and make a replacement map out of his hide.
Not that he needed his tracking skills to tell where Maric's whelp was headed: it was precisely the opposite way to where he should've been going.
Bloody typical.
Loghain was pleasantly surprised to catch up to his horse by midday, though the reason he'd managed to make up the distance so soon had nothing to do with any skill of his. The horse wasn't moving any faster than a walk, but even at that sedate pace, the rider still had all the grace of a sack of potatoes in the saddle. Loghain was forcibly reminded of Maric, who all his life had been hopeless on a horse. Pausing only to string his bow, Loghain closed the distance steadily, using the avenue of trees that lined the highway to stay out of sight until he was within earshot. Then he let out a brief burst of ear-piercing whistles in a carefully chosen tempo and pitch. In response to the signal, the warhorse reared at once, forehooves lashing the air in a well-trained battle maneuver. The sudden move deprived the incompetent rider of what little balance he had, and he toppled from the saddle with a cry of dismay.
Before the sprawled man could get up, Loghain loosed an arrow that buried itself in the road dust right by one outflung hand: it was both an announcement of Loghain's presence and a warning not to run. Alistair froze, staring at the arrow, and, when no more followed, he sat up and saw Loghain striding down the road toward him, bow drawn, another arrow ready to fly. "Ohhh no," Alistair groaned as he struggled unsteadily to his feet. "Not you again!"
The horse, relieved of its burden, trotted jauntily up to Loghain and nudged him with its nose.
As a side bonus to the whistle, the dog bounded out of the bushes nearby, as exuberant as a pup to see Loghain. But, reluctant to share Alistair's fate and be bowled off his feet by one of the dog's enthusiastic greetings, Loghain barked "Sit!"
The dog parked his furiously-wagging behind on the ground, lolling out his tongue in an utterly unabashed grin.
By the time Maric's bastard dusted himself off, Loghain stood there, strung bow slung over his shoulder where he could wield it at a moment's notice, the horse's reins and the dog's collar firmly gripped.
"Had enough of playing horsethief?" Loghain growled.
"You know what, this is getting tiresome, old man -"
"Oh, 'tiresome', is it?" Loghain cut him off, dropping reins and collar and striding up to Alistair. "Tell me, how tiresome is it to be a coward and a traitor to the crown? Whinging like a spoiled child at the first sight of duties. Abandoning your responsibility the moment things don't turn out exactly as you want. Come ON, boy! You're lucky I've spared you more times than I can count, but I've coddled you long enough." The steely clamor of a war cry rang in Loghain's voice. "You WILL march right back to Denerim and take your place supporting my daughter, and you WILL beg her forgiveness -"
The war cry rocked Alistair backward like a powerful blow, and he only managed to keep his feet by grabbing Loghain's shoulders. "NO!" he roared back, and it was Loghain's turn to stagger as he felt the full brunt of the holy rage that templars used to smite a foe. Now the tables were turned and Alistair's grip on Loghain was the main thing keeping him on his feet. "You expected a spoiled child so that's exactly what I gave you! And what did it get you? Nothing but a day's detour down the same road. And you - you don't know how lucky you are! Maker's breath, if you weren't already conscripted I'd execute you myself! Oh, I wish I could, but that wasn't what Duncan taught me. He taught me that Grey Wardens are family. And dishonoring that isn't worth the satisfaction of sending your soul to the Fade with the rest of the demons, you miserable. Wretched. Waste. Of taint!"
Loghain snorted, centering his stance and shaking Alistair's hands off his shoulders. Who knew that someone so fond of running away actually has some sort of a spine? I suppose that secretive sonofabitch Duncan was good for something after all. He bared his teeth in a morbid parody of a grin. "Impressive," he drawled, and it was anyone's guess whether he was being slyly mocking or dryly genuine. "You might even make a king after all... if you survive."
Alistair's face twisted in a grimace. "Are you deaf? I'm a bastard! Oh, stop smirking and listen to me! I wasn't raised to be Maric's son, I wasn't raised at all! First I was shoved in a stable, and then I was thrown to the templars! My father was noble, but I'm not. I don't understand anything about nobles, how they think, how they make alliances and stop wars and balance trade and gather taxes and dispense justice and all the other things. And for a king to do his job, he'd have to understand all of that, and more." Alistair's eyes narrowed. "...Or don't you care if Ferelden's stuck with a king who doesn't have a clue what he's doing? Do you want someone on the throne, who's completely lost at court? Do you want a "king" who's so out of his depth he'll be easier to make into your puppet, or Anora's?"
"Of course I don't want that," Loghain snapped, nettled at Alistair's accusations, mostly because he had considered the idea of a puppet king: considered it, and then dismissed it. "Cailan didn't have the vaguest idea how to rule. All he knew was how to be superficially charming and how to look good in gilt armor, and in his time as king he certainly didn't do Ferelden any favours. If it weren't for Anora, doing all the work of monarchy and getting damn little of the credit, Ferelden would've descended into anarchy mere months after Cailan took the throne."
Alistair scowled, "So you waited until it was convenient and left him - left Duncan, left all of us - to die, so you can rule Ferelden your way."
"I did nothing of the sort!" Loghain hissed, stepping up so they were practically nose to nose. "I told Cailan all the reasons why being in the vanguard of the army was suicide. I asked him not to throw his life away. If it would've stood the faintest chance of changing his mind, I would have begged him not to go!"
"You. Beg him?" Alistair scoffed.
"Yes." Loghain answered simply, and let the truth stand. "But Cailan's mind was already made up. Nothing I said made any impression on him. And do you know why he was so determined to be at the forefront of the fight? Because that's where the Grey Wardens would be. Because he wanted to fight darkspawn in their company. Because your precious Duncan had so filled his impressionable mind with legends of the Wardens and their heroic prowess, that Cailan was utterly obsessed. He was smitten by the tales that Duncan spun for him, and he followed them - followed Duncan - to his death. And if I hadn't led my part of the army to safety - after you failed to light the beacon in time - then Cailan would have taken all of Ferelden's military with him, into useless death."
"Wait," Alistair's eyes narrowed. "'We failed'? Oh, nonoNO! That beacon was lit! Bright and clear for all to see! We made great time, and if you don't believe me you can go and ask the dead ogre at the top of that tower. It was lit and it stayed lit! We made damn sure of it! We almost died for it! But you..." He stared at Loghain, and his gaze was dark and damning. "you can't even take responsibility for you own bloody choice."
"Cailan's choice condemned his part of the army to death," Loghain replied in a voice as level and hard as bedrock. "My 'own bloody choice' saved mine. Given the same circumstances, I'd make the same choice again. How is that not 'taking responsibility'? Or am I to be held responsible for King Cailan's choices as well as my own? Should I have thrown away all the lives under my command, for no military goal, merely to salvage your illusions about Cailan's heroism, or Duncan's?"
"Enough!" At the mention of his Grey Warden commander, Alistair's face twisted predictably into an outraged, reddened grimace. "Duncan was a hero. A true hero. All the way to his death. You will not use his name to excuse your cowardice!"
Loghain's eyes narrowed. "Tell me," he asked quietly, "what exactly is your definition of a 'true hero'? I'd really like to know. Because from where I'm standing, Duncan didn't just beguile Cailan to his death, he hung recruits like you out to dry. Solona told me that she had to learn everything from Riordan. Duncan didn't tell her - or you - the formula for the Joining. He didn't even tell his own recruits why Wardens are necessary to stop Blights, any more than he told Ferelden's King!"
"Of course he didn't! Who would expect your troops to stroll out and abandon the rest of us to be slaughtered on the very first battle. He was out of time."
"'Out of time!'" Loghain quoted scathingly. "Bullshit! How much time does it take to explain? A minute? Two? Nothing excuses Duncan's secrecy! That was vital strategic knowledge, that the king of a country threatened by a Blight had every right to know! And I know for a fact that Cailan never even suspected the truth." A bitter laugh burst from Loghain; he was appalled to realise it sounded almost like a stifled sob. "Did you know, Cailan carried Maric's sword with him to Ostagar? But he didn't wield it in that final battle, ohh no. He told me he was saving it for the Archdemon. As if Cailan had a hope of stopping the Blight himself, that poor deluded sonofa..." Abruptly Loghain's throat closed; he turned away from Alistair, his entire face clenched in a thunderous scowl. Better that than let all that buried pain burst the dam.
An awkward pause hung between them. All was quiet, and then the sound of a cleared throat broke the silence. "No," Alistair said. "I didn't know, actually. I guess I'll see for myself soon... Er, look -"
A burst of barking overrode whatever Alistair was going to say next. The hound was facing away from them, growling and barking furiously.
They weren't alone.
Bad Brad was the biggest, baddest boss bandit along this stretch of the Imperial Highway. He knew it because he'd beaten the shit out of all of the other members of his bandit gang at one time or another, and because all of the half-starved refugees that came this way last season had cowered before his brutal badness and begged for his mercy. So of course he'd had to kill them all in inventively messy ways, just to impress the boys in the gang.
So when he'd walked over that last hill and spotted the two men arguing in the middle of his stretch of highway, he'd swaggered closer, drawing his big, bad two-hander with a nice slow shinnng of sharp steel. He propped the claymore on his hip and struck a pose, angling the blade so the sun glinted off it for maximum menace. He drew a deep breath, and delivered The Line. The one that made burly farmboys shiver and ladies shriek.
"Your money or your life!" Brad gave his nastiest sneer. "... Oops," he added insincerely, "I get that wrong every time. I meant to say: Your money AND your life!"
There was the usual appreciative chuckles from the gang, but this time there was nothing from the victims. Nothing. The lads' chuckles trailed off, and for a long, weird moment it felt as though everything had frozen. Then, with pointed slowness, two heads, dark and fair, swivelled in his direction. Two pairs of eyes, pale and dark, fixed him in a stare that should've been glazed with fear, but wasn't. Instead, it reminded Brad of when he was just a kid, and he'd made the mistake of interrupting Mum and her latest man in their daily brawls. Mum had been every bit as likely to tan his arse as the men had.
The two travellers sighed wearily and turned to face him, their movements dragging as though they were facing a humdrum duty, not the Terror of the Imperial Highway and his Desperado Gang. Both of them stared him up and down. Neither of them looked at all impressed at what they saw.
The old one drawled in supremely bored tones, "Fuck off."
The youngster, who was the only one actually armored, eyerolled and added, "Seriously. While you still can."
Brad swallowed. Then he scowled, furious that his throat had gone dry without his permission. Two travellers, against him, his two-hander, and his whole gang of cutthroats? They should've been pissing their pantaloons, like all his other victims had done. He pasted a ferocious snarl on his face and sneered, "Ohhh, are we interrupting something? You two lovebirds having a little domestic spat?" The gang chimed in obligingly with another chorus of laughter.
"Yes, yes. Ha-ha." The youngster spoke up. "You've had you fun. Now turn around and leave like good little minions."
Brad's sneer widened. Behind him, the lads growled and drew weapons.
The two travellers exchanged glances, and a nod of agreement.
Then they moved, faster than any man could move, and everything went to shit. There was a shout like thunder or a shield to the face and a blur of fur and fangs and the lads were screaming instead of laughing and Deadly Dirk dropped like a felled tree and arrows were everywhere and was that whimper Billy the Butcher? The youngster was chanting like them templar fuckers oh shit "Edric, RUN!" Mage's no good if he can't hex...
Where's the old one?
Brad never saw the arrow, so he was really confused when everything went hazy and wobbly, like the air over a fire. He only realised what had happened when his late unlamented Mum appeared. "Bradley!" she shrieked, "You've been a very bad boy!"
I'm in the Fade! … Does it mean it's all... over?
"Bugger," Brad said. That pretty much summed it up.
Whew. That's all of them, I'm pretty sure. Alistair straightened up and pulled his blade out of some poor sod's gut. Behind his back, he'd heard Loghain grumble, "Do you know the meaning of stealth at all? Standing in the middle of the Imperial Highway and shouting your head off; what a brilliant idea! And you wonder why those bandits found us..."
"Yeah, yeah..." Wait! The bushes rustled. Alistair's eyes went to the road... I could've sworn there was a mage. Where is he? Not lying in the ditch with the others, that's for sure.
Alistair gripped the hilt of his sword tighter and stared at the bushes.
Right, best keep the chant going. Better safe than sorry.
How bad can one mage be if he's run off already... but what if he hasn't? Fine. Ho-hum, I'd better concentrate. Holy thoughts. … blessed are the peacekeepers... - Bleargh, Benedictions is boring as sin - ...the champions of the just... Alistair glanced at the nearby corpse, thinking that it looked like a porcupine, what with all those arrows in it. His smile widened as he switched to something more appropriate for the occasion. ... though stung with a hundred arrows, though suffering something-something great and small... How'd it go again? Oh, blast it.
"At Shartan's word, the sky grew black with arrows," a verse Alistair actually liked came to mind, "... ten thousand swords rang from their sheaths..."
A good find it was. Dissonant Verse or not, with the right tempo and beat, Shartan's Canticle dampened magic just as well as any other. And unlike a lot of other verses, it didn't drone on about the blessings of the righteous or heaven's wrath. Shartan and all of his archer elves were proper heroes, like Duncan. And even if the Chantry had declared that verse forbidden, the Chantry wasn't here to hear. Loghain probably had as much to do with the Chantry as the dog did. He wouldn't know Dissonant Verses if he heard them. Alistair was safe.
So he took great pleasure in reciting all about the Valarian Fields, as he examined the bushes from another angle.
Alistair was prepared for the lash of a hex or the slash of a knife. What he wasn't prepared for were his words echoed back at him. Bushes weren't supposed to echo like that, nor did they speak, nor did they recite the highly forbidden Canticle of Shartan back at Alistair.
Alistair peered past all the leaves into the center.
A small elf with a thick branch for a makeshift staff stared back. The elf cowered away from Alistair, his eyes wide and dark and scared as any kid's. All the while, the boy was mumbling that same verse about the big elven hero who'd been stricken from the Chantry's approved Chant.
Huh. Younger than Solona... Alistair thought, as he met that uncertain, shifty gaze. And what are the odds... where'd he even hear that verse? Not that he's going to get much of a chance to hear more. For a hedge mage, he's rotten at picking hedges to hide behind. Any templar worth his chants will find him, and squash him like a bug.
"Are you going to gape at the corpses till nightfall? Loot them already!" Loghain yelled from the distance. "Or are you waiting for more of those ever so scary bandits to find us?"
Alistair narrowed his eyes. "All right. All done," he shouted back. And then he sheathed his sword and turned his back on the bush. "All done, all dead..."
Wouldn't hurt to leave the kid. Seems like he's got a good head on his shoulders... A year before, Alistair probably wouldn't have left him, but travelling with Solona and Wynne and Leliana had taught him to rebel, just a little. Besides, the boy and he had just committed secret heresy together...
Oh, fine, just this once. For Shartan's sake. With a smile on his lips, Alistair started to walk away...
A cage of magic slammed down all around him and he was yanked off the ground, dangling helpless in midair like a hanged man, agonised, pressure like an ogre's fist crushing the air from his lungs; he couldn't chant, or speak, or even breathe.
Ow. Ow. OW! Damn! Alistair felt himself blacking out. Spirit damage... He's draining me!
He was growing dizzy from lack of air when he saw a dark blur of movement, saw Loghain's fierce snarl as he drew, aimed and shot in one smooth reflex. Then did it again.
Alistair's senses were overloaded with the sheer intensity of being slowly restrained, not by rope, not in cages, but by crushing columns of sheer magical force. His heart pounded, his lungs burned and he saw white, and then the spell cut off, with the suddenness and speed that only meant the death of the caster - or 'mage, pacified', as templars said. Alistair fell out of his agonised hover, and his shaking limbs folded under the shock of his own weight. He collapsed to the ground, chest heaving ecstatically for air, sweet air! When at last his gasping slowed, he blinked through the dizziness, and met Loghain's heated gaze.
Alistair's heart was racing. His breath was panting past parted lips. His blood was hot in his face, tingling in his fingers, throbbing in his sprawled limbs. He'd never felt more alive.
He'd never realised before how intense one man's stare could be.
"What in Thedas made you lose your focus enough to almost lose your damnfool life?"
"He, uh... he chanted Verse at me." Alistair croaked. It's true. More or less. Dissonant...Verse.
"So he chanted," Loghain snapped, hard-eyed and agitated. "Brilliant! Now maybe can you finally get it through your thick templar skull that in battle everyone's out for himself! So unless you know for certain that someone's on your side, then no matter what they say or do to keep themselves alive, you can't trust anyone!"
"I know, I do!" Alistair knew, dammit. He did. He wasn't a child, and he'd been through a lot and made some damn hard choices along the way. Still, this stung. The kid who'd cursed him was just a few years older than Eamon and Isolde's son. Actually, after Connor, Alistair ought to have known how dangerous a rogue mage could be. But... what about Morrigan? She was about as close to maleficar as they came, and yet, even though she was a wicked, wanton bitch, even he had to admit she wasn't evil. She'd saved all their lives, including his own, at one time or another. So how was Alistair supposed to draw the line between evil mages and good? He couldn't.
And neither could the templars. So they just assumed that all mages were evil until proven good. They dragged them away from their families and friends and locked them all in a glorified cage, and only let them out once in a while, if they'd been model prisoners.
But Solona had taught Alistair that this was wrong; not by preaching at him, but by the example of her life. Mages were no more evil than anyone else. If everyone else were treated like mages, the whole world would be one huge cage.
So, Alistair had used his father's name to unlock the cage door and throw away the key. He'd made his position clear when he'd pressed the issue of self-governance of the new Circle Tower with the templars' Knight-Commander. It was the least he could do for Wynne, for all the others... in Solona's memory. The mages were free to think for themselves now. No one deserved to be a templar puppet and prisoner, and without their jailors the mages could finally lead some sort of a life. Alistair was only too glad to see it happen.
"And by the way," Alistair told Loghain, who was about to turn away, "stop calling me a templar." Although the words seemed simple, it felt like he was turning a new leaf on life. "I'm not."
"Oh?" Loghain glanced up from going through the pockets of the latest corpse, "Could've fooled me, what with all that templar talk and templar chants, and your 'Chantry boy' ways."
Alistair winced, and it wasn't just because of the calmly methodical way Loghain recovered his arrows. What had he said to Loghain yesterday? 'Chantry boy, through and through.' But he hadn't been planning to stick around long enough for Loghain to bring it up. Yesterday, he hadn't cared if Loghain had thought he was an Archdemon short of a Blight. Today... well, today was different. They'd fought, but then they'd fought together, and what with one thing and another, it looked as though maybe he was going to see more of Loghain than he'd planned.
And of course Loghain just had to go and remember his babble from yesterday, as if it had meant anything. Talk about awkward!
Alistair sighed. "If I were a templar, I'd be terrible at it. Every templar I've ever known is self-righteous, and they treat the mages like cattle or worse." He waved his hands about, to emphasise the utter wreck of the situation. "Ugh! Why would anyone get off on keeping a mage on a leash?"
Loghain gave Alistair an oddly assessing look. "Not one for holding onto leashes, are you?" he said in a strange, low drawl. He drew breath as if to say more, but apparently thought better of it.
Alistair shrugged off the weird remark. "No. Not really. If I hadn't been conscripted, I still wouldn't have taken the vows. I would've come up with something."
"Yes, you would've run away." Loghain said with a sarcastic twist to his lips. "That does appear to be your primary talent..." Loghain bestowed him the sort of disappointed look which Alistair was used to getting from the Revered Mother, or Wynne, not Loghain Mac Tir. "... so far."
"You don't know anything about me!" Alistair bristled. Wynne's allowed to give me disappointed looks, he isn't!
"Oh, you'd be surprised," Loghain tilted his head, and was that a smirk? Alistair disliked Loghain's smirk as well. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
"I didn't fall from that tree, I was tossed out, all the way past the fence. Look, I already told you," Alistair sneered, "I just wasn't raised to be royalty."
Loghain shook his head impatiently, "I wasn't talking about how you were raised, or what you do or don't know about nobles or politics or ruling a country. I was talking about you. I knew Maric long before he was king, back when he was an orphaned boy running from his mother's murderers. But even then, he was already a stubborn hothead."
"Yeah, well, he grew out of it, I hope..." Alistair bit his lip as Loghain checked the horse's saddle, called the dog over. I am not a hothead, he thought. And I'm not stubborn either, no matter what he remembers about my father, I'm not him. And I'll prove it to him! "Um, listen. You can try tying me up again and sticking me on that horse, but I'll fight you. And you might get wounded... or I might. And if you're wounded you won't be able to track me, and if I'm wounded I certainly won't be in any shape to marry your daughter or wear that crown. I'm already sore from riding that horrible nag you call a warhorse. So." Alistair took a deep breath. "How about this. I will follow you to Denerim. Willingly. But we have to take a detour first. Anora's waited this long, she can wait another week." Ostagar first. And as for later? A lot of things can happen in seven days.
Loghain's eyes narrowed to distrustful slits. "And just where does this 'detour' go?" he inquired in too-light tones.
"Ostagar."
"'Ostagar.'" Loghain echoed flatly. He folded his arms.
Alistair sighed. This whole persuasion thing is harder than I thought. "Yes. It's close, and there are things there that we need. First, there's the king's sword, you mentioned it yourself. And as well as that, there are artifacts that belong to Grey Wardens. It's about time they were recovered." There, Alistair thought with satisfaction. He can't argue with that. The way the greedy sod hunts down every stray arrow, he simply won't stand for leaving anything behind.
Loghain gave Alistair a scathing look. "So, you want my help in this adventure of yours. But how can I trust you not to run again, the second we head for Denerim?"
"I said, I won't run," Alistair assured him hotly. "I give you my word." He stared at Loghain and hoped that everything he'd proposed was enough to make Loghain see sense.
Otherwise, they'd both be playing hare and hound all over this particular piece of Ferelden 'til Wintermarch.
I'd wondered how long it'd take him to bring up Ostagar... still, it's been fun pulling the brat's chain and watching him squirm, Loghain thought. I suppose a week's not too bad. I'd probably lose a week wrangling the stubborn sod back to Denerim anyway if he didn't cooperate.
"My word's good," Alistair added, when the silence had gone on long enough.
At last, Loghain smirked. "Is it now? We'll see, then, won't we?" He stuck out his gloved hand. Might as well do this properly.
Alistair eyed it and then cautiously extended his. "All right then. To Ostagar!"
"To Denerim, through Ostagar," Loghain clarified, before he took and shook the offered hand. "By the way," he added quickly, "Five days' time should be more enough for this detour of yours. We're on a schedule."
It took my troops five days for a round trip through these parts and that was more than generous.
Ostagar... Next best thing to the Black City. And here I thought I'd never have to travel this Maker-forsaken part of Ferelden again. Loghain sighed. Hopefully this is the very last time.
Footnotes
1. The Chant of Light which Alistair usually uses to power his templar abilities used to contain quite a number of excised and banned parts (Dissonant Verse) including Verse 10:1 from the Canticle of Shartan. The mention of the elf struck a nerve with the Chantry during the Exalted March on the Dales and thus Shartan was conveniently struck out from the official versions many ages ago, and now only the historians, enthusiast scholars, and interested bards would know the relevant verses.
2. Wintermarch is Ferelden's version of January according to the calendar.