A Fereldan Carol (A Dragon Age fanfiction)

Stave 1

Maric was dead, to begin with. That had started all this mess, Loghain reflected darkly. If the impetuous fool hadn't taken off in that ship none of this would have happened. Maric would never have been in the front lines at Ostagar, the way Cailan had been, Loghain told himself as he slogged through the muddy streets of Denerim. It rained all the time these days, as though he had brought his own personal thundercloud with him when he'd taken up residence in this Maker-forsaken den of blackguards and fools.

Two of those fools, thorns in Loghain's side for months now, had finally been captured. As the doors of Fort Drakon opened before him, Loghain felt a small amount of satisfaction. And gratitude to his daughter Anora and his lieutenant, Ser Cauthrien, for managing to put Maric's bastard and his companion, that Cousland puppy, behind bars. With those two out of the way, maybe Ferelden could finally make some headway against the darkspawn.

As he approached the cell, the two nearly naked occupants scrambled to their feet, standing at attention. Despite their wounds and the filthy smallclothes, there was a dignity about the two young men, one so fair and one so dark. Loghain was struck again at the extraordinary resemblance the bastard bore to Maric. Cailan had looked like his father ... but this one, this Alistair, was Maric all over again.

"Teyrn Loghain." It was the Cousland, impatient and imperious, like all his ilk. "Is there something we can do for you?"

"I believe you've done it already," he said, nodding at the bars that imprisoned them. "Wouldn't it have been easier to have turned yourselves in after Ostagar, saved us all the time and trouble you've caused?"

"We've caused!" It was the bastard, his hands gripping the bars of the cage, white-knuckled. "You dare to speak to us of Ostagar, after what you did?"

"Alistair," the Cousland said, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. The bastard subsided, but his eyes still blazed. "Loghain, what do you want down here?" said the Cousland brusquely. "You need the Grey Wardens to end the Blight—we all know that. So either let us out now so we can finish this, or get out of the country and wait for the horde to come for you."

It was funny, Loghain reflected, looking at the two of them, how much they reminded him of himself and Maric at their age. What a long time ago that seemed, their whole lives ahead of them. Loghain shook his head impatiently. No time for mooning about like a ninny. "I just wanted to be sure you two were comfortable down here."

"Peachy," the bastard sneered sullenly. "Just like being back in the Chantry."

"Well, you should feel right at home then," Loghain said. He turned his back to them, leaving the jail cell. Whatever had possessed that fool of an Eamon to send Maric's son to the Templars? It never ceased to amaze Loghain that Rowan, who'd had the heart of a lion, had such milksops for brothers. He supposed Teagan wasn't too bad, but Eamon was the most hidebound stuck-in-the-past old fogy Loghain had ever had to deal with.

It was a relief to exit the dungeons, smelling as they did of blood and sweat and excrement. Almost as much a relief as knowing that the Grey Wardens were safely under lock and key. Loghain strode through the ever-present drizzle toward the Alienage. Even if he hadn't known where it was, the smell would have led him there. It was only marginally better than the dungeons, and the sounds, the shriekings and moanings, were worse.

Looking neither right nor left, but always wary—most of the elves were pretty downtrodden, but some still had the energy to band together—Loghain strode through the filth, ignoring the dead dogs and other refuse that lay strewn across the ground. His destination was a small shack, impossible to differentiate from the other shacks if it weren't for the forbidding men in Tevinter robes standing guard.