A Fereldan Carol (A Dragon Age fanfiction)

Stave 3

Loghain twisted in the bed again, unable to find a comfortable spot. He punched his pillow, angry with the spirit and Maric and the world in general because he couldn't stop thinking about everything he'd seen. He sighed loudly, turning over again, blinking at the bright light that shone in through his door.

Bright light? He sat up, tossing off the covers, striding toward the door. That door had been closed when he went to sleep, and the light was entirely too bright to be coming from a candle. It was almost a relief to think of this being the second spirit—maybe if he got through them all quickly, he could go back to bed. It was a vain hope, he knew that, but it kept him from having to admit the possibility that he might believe in this ridiculous farce.

Throwing a dressing gown on over his nightshirt, he strode to the open door, putting a hand up to shield his eyes from the brightness. To his surprise, instead of standing in the hallway of the palace, he stood in a large room, in which a gigantic man in silverite armor sat in the midst of an entire armory's worth of weapons—all kinds, from daggers to giant mauls to crossbows. Loghain could only dream of supplying his men from an armory this vast.

The gigantic man turned, grinning widely. "Ah, Loghain, there you are. I thought you were going to sleep forever."

"I wish," Loghain grunted. "What's all this, then?"

"It's the eve of battle, of course. Time to make preparations for war!"

"I thought that's what I was doing."

"You have been. Would you like to see how it's going?"

"You say that as though I have a choice," Loghain grumbled. "Let's get on with it."

"As you wish, Loghain." The giant spirit put down the sword he was polishing. "I think you'll find this quite educational."

"Educational," Loghain repeated. "I can't wait."

The spirit held out a massive silverite shield with a dragon emblazoned on it in red. Loghain's eyes were drawn to the open mouth of the dragon, the glittering eye. He felt a momentary dizziness and out of the corner of his eye saw a swirl of colors come to a halt.

Disoriented, he blinked hard at the gray blur in front of him until it coalesced into a stone wall. A familiar stone wall. It was, in fact, the dungeon of Fort Drakon, where he had been just this morning. Was that this morning? It seemed like last year suddenly. It had, he reflected, been a long night.

The spirit didn't say anything, merely stood looking at him expectantly.

"Fine," Loghain muttered. He turned around, looking into the cell, seeing exactly what he had expected—the bastard and the Cousland, sitting on the stone floor in their smallclothes. All right, he conceded, stripping them had been unnecessary. They did look awfully cold. He'd never been that friendly with the Couslands, but he could imagine what Eleanor Cousland would say to him if she saw what he'd done to her son. He shuddered at the thought.

"Well?" Alistair asked. "What would you eat, if you could eat anything?"

"What difference does it make, Alistair?" snapped the Cousland. "We're in a jail cell, and breakfast is likely to be more stale bread and water, just like dinner was."

"Right. The night's going to be equally long whether we sit here and rage against fate, or find something interesting to talk about." The corners of his mouth turned down. "Duncan taught me that."

"Where was all this philosophy after Ostagar, then?" the Cousland asked angrily.

There was silence in the cell as Alistair stared at his friend and the Cousland looked away, flushing.