Little fic I wrote based on a friend's headcanon. Hope you like it! :)
Loghain didn't used to ride in many carriages. He preferred to ride with the men, to keep a personal lookout on the road ahead and to stretch his legs. Horseback riding was far more natural to him than sitting in a carriage…it was more natural for him than many things, really, from sitting in a mansion having a quiet dinner to walking the streets of town without his head on his weapon.
But Anora couldn't ride all the way to Denerim despite how accomplished of a rider she was (she was very skilled, and when Loghain was home sometimes they went on trails together, which he hoped help make up for him not being the one teaching her). Instead of out in the open air he was crammed in a carriage, legs squeezed together, the leathers he was wearing instead of his full armor beginning to feel very uncomfortable.
"Is it always so hot in these things?" he said, peering out the window at the Ferelden landscape. They would be passing a battlefield from the Rebellion soon. He always had to look.
"I don't spend a lot of time in them," said Anora, whose hair was pulled up and off her neck because of the heat. She looked a little more comfortable than he was. She did take up less room after all. How she could read as the carriage bumped along the road was beyond him.
He rubbed his jaw, keeping an eye on the window. She looked up from her book. Something in his gaze made her put it down. She stood up, a feat that only an eight year old could accomplish in a carriage that size.
"Father?"
He turned his full attention back to her, banishing the broken images of gore and cries of pain from his mind, trying to forget about the soldiers who'd died in that battle. "Hm?"
"I need to practice braiding my hair."
"Ah," he said. "I…" He was at a loss for words. He searched Anora's expression for clues, searched the drapes on the carriage window, the hideous Orlesian wallpaper on the walls on the carriage. It was old, and repurposed.
"It's okay," she said. "You can help."
His eyes slid to her hair. He had no idea where to begin undoing that bun.
"No, no," she said, smiling. Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled. He was glad he was bringing her to Denerim. "That's not what I meant. Can I practice on you?"
Apparently his expression gave him away, because she giggled and switched sides of the carriage, sitting on his lap. The position was awkward and a little uncomfortable. She reached to his face and tugged his lip up. "You don't always have to frown, you know," she said softly.
"Just because I look like I'm angry doesn't mean I am," he heard himself say. Still, he smiled for her.
She reached for his hair, pulling it out of the messy ponytail he'd put it in and running her fingers through it to ease out the knots. She eventually had to retrieve a brush from her bag and pull it through his hair. Her touch was none too gentle as she wrestled with his uncombed hair, but he didn't mind.
"Mother said she'd teach me how to braid hair when I got back," confided Anora. "But I want to impress her and know before I see her again."
"How can I say no to that?" he said, chuckling. A small, pleased smile appeared on her face as she set down the brush and pulled several locks of his hair forward, twisting them together. Loghain was no expert on braiding hair, but he was fairly sure that the messy, confused end result was not what he was supposed to see. Her young soft fingers had never done this before- neither had his own large, clumsy, scarred ones, to think of it.
"It looks good," he lied, wincing as the badly done braid tugged on his scalp. It was lumpy and she seemed to have dropped one of the locks of hair halfway through.
"It's not good enough," said Anora firmly, taking it out again. "Let me try again."
They spent much of the afternoon like that, Loghain shifting every now and then when Anora's bony knees pressed into his thighs. He didn't notice that they passed the battlefield until some time later. She got a bit better with each attempt, until finally she sat back, crossed her arms, and said, "There."
He raised his eyebrows. "Do I get to see?"
She reached into her bag and fished for some time before she pulled out a small mirror. Loghain squinted into it, leaning toward the light. The braids framed his face rather well, he thought. He wouldn't call his own face handsome, but perhaps it approached that with this addition. He lowered the mirror and saw Anora looking at him expectantly.
"I like it," he said. "I think I'll keep them in."
"You don't have to spare my feelings," she said, sticking her lip out.
"I mean it," he said. "I'm wearing them, and you can't stop me." He offered a hint of a smile, which she returned. Maric might laugh when they made it to Denerim, but Maric laughing was nothing new.
She climbed onto his side of the carriage, picking her book back up and leaning her head on his arm. "Next time it's your turn to do mine," she said. Her tone brooked no argument.
He shifted so that he could wrap an arm around his daughter, pulling her in closer. The braids swung on the edge of his vision. He looked out the window and didn't feel so cramped.