A Thedas Carol
Stave 1: Maric's Ghost
Maric was presumed dead, to begin with. There was no doubt about it. His ship had left port in Denerim, but had never arrived in Kirkwall. The proclamation of death was made by Loghain Mac Tir. How could he be certain Maric was gone? Because he knew Maric better than anyone in Ferelden. Loghain, who'd partnered with Maric all those years of the rebellion. Loghain, who'd seen to the ruling of Ferelden when Maric was indisposed. Loghain, who'd even helped raise Maric's child. Loghain knew Maric as well as he knew himself, if not better, so it was that he knew Maric was not coming back.
And it is of utmost importance that we remember that Maric was presumed dead, to begin with. There was nothing particularly important about this. People were presumed and subsequently proclaimed dead all the time in Thedas. Particularly in the time in which we open: the age of the Fifth Blight.
With the presumed death of Maric, Loghain had taken up leadership of Ferelden, in spite of the fact that Maric's son had been crowned; and with the definitive death of Maric's son, Loghain had retained that leadership. King? Regent? It was all the same to Loghain, and he was inclined to continue ruling Ferelden in the same fashion as that of Maric.
Loghain was a tight-fisted swordsman if ever there was one, a swiping, swooping, slicing swordsman. He was hard, sharp and cold as the stone upon which Ferelden was built. He was secret and self-contained, solitary and mysterious as the ocean depths while still remaining solid, perhaps as solid as ice. The hard chill in him seemed to have frozen his features: carved hard crags in his angry face, made his eyes glint like morning frost on the grass, though no frost yet touched the dark hair at his temples. There was nothing that could warm him, not even sun, nor the companionship of others. Loghain had long ago eschewed such things.
Nobody ever stopped him to look upon him with pleasant expressions. Very few would deign to ask him how his day went, and how he fared in his quest to rid Ferelden of the Blight and keep it free of Orlesian influences. More often than not the opposite was true: commoners cowered and fled from his heavy, purposeful step. Soldiers stood straighter and tried not to tremble with the tempestuous mixture of respect and fear that Loghain inspired. And nobles murmured in disgust that his reign was one of icy fear and hatred.
And yet Loghain cared not for their views of him. If anything he preferred it. It was easier to edge his way around humanity, shutting out their pity, curiosity, and fear with his icy shell and focusing only on what he saw as most important. And that was the safety and integrity of Ferelden, even at the cost of all else.
So it came to pass that on the Eve of the Wintersend festival, Loghain sat in the royal study, having declared himself regent of Ferelden and taking upon him the ruling of all the land. He was often found in the study, dark head bowed over some army report, crafty mind pondering the enemy movements through the land. Little did he think on the past, turning his thoughts ever to the future of Ferelden and his role in bringing the country there.
On this night the fog was thick in the city of Denerim, and it permeated all the air as if it were a palpable entity. It obscured the way of horse carts, so that the curses of drivers who'd nearly collided could be heard drifting through the city. It made as if to snuff out the lanterns burning outside of shops, and the people moved in dark, fuzzy shapes like ghosts throughout the market district and within the courtyard of the palace. It curled into keyholes like a lockpick's tools; it pressed against windowpanes the way an orphan might on a chill winter's night, mournful as it begged for entry.
At a small desk across the study from him, Loghain's faithful lieutenant, Cauthrien, sat dutifully copying out his orders to send to the front lines. The room was chilly; for during the Blight, Loghain saw to it that all resources were rationed and appropriately appropriated. And that included the palace. Cauthrien had always been faithful and she did not complain even now, though occasionally she laid her quill across the sheets of vellum on the desk and rubbed her hands together.
The door to the study creaked open. "A happy eve of Wintersend to you, Father," said a confident voice, though not quite cheerful. It was the voice of Loghain's daughter Anora, Queen of Ferelden; she was his only living relative.
Loghain looked up, sighed, and went back to his work. "There is too much to concern myself with to bother myself with the silliness of Wintersend," he said without sparing his daughter even a sidelong glance.
"You can't mean that, Father," Anora said, a note of hope coloring her voice. She entered the study and closed the door behind her. "This is a time of celebration; the winter is ending and spring is coming. There must be some cheer in that."
"What reason should we have to be cheerful?" Loghain asked, at last looking up and resigning himself to the fact that he would get no work done while Anora was in the room. "The Blight advances upon Ferelden every day. This is the greatest threat to Ferelden's freedom since the occupation, and you speak of a happy Wintersend?"
Anora smiled. "Please don't be cross, Father. Your attentions to everything have blinded you. Pause tomorrow to celebrate."
Loghain smacked his palm on the desk. "If I live long enough to write my will, anyone who goes about during a Blight wishing a Happy Wintersend will be fed to the darkspawn and left to rot upon the melting snow they so blithely cheered about!" He gazed upon Anora with narrowed, icy blue eyes. "Keep the holiday in your way, and let me keep it in mine."
Anora's own blue eyes widened slightly, but to her credit she kept her composure. "I find great hope in the end of the winter and the start of a new year. And though there is much sadness and destruction in Ferelden at the present time, I will continue to keep that hope and celebrate it!"
To the surprise of both Loghain and Anora, Cauthrien, who'd up until now remained silent, clapped and a smile was upon her face.
Loghain stood and leaned over the desk, fixing his glare upon the lieutenant. "Another sound from you, Cauthrien, and you will celebrate Wintersend by going to the front lines yourself." And at that, Cauthrien nodded quickly and returned to copying Loghain's letters.
Anora made one last attempt to appeal to her father. "Come, dine with me tomorrow. Now that Cailan has passed I find myself wanting the company of the only family I have left."
Loghain snorted. "I am still in awe of the fact that you mourn the fool's passing."
"He was my husband, and I loved him; of course I shall mourn him, especially during this season of the year," she said.
"Good afternoon," was all Loghain said, meaning quite clearly that the conversation was at an end. Anora watched him for a moment longer, then turned to leave, but not without pausing to wish Cauthrien a happy Wintersend.
But as she left, two more unbidden visitors entered through the open door before she'd had a chance to close it. "Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir?" one asked, and Loghain only leveled his glare at them in the hopes that they would leave.
Two gentlemen, portly and pleasant of face in spite of the present Blight, stood before him. "We come on behalf of the Blight Orphans," said the one who'd addressed Loghain, while the other nodded solemnly. "We hope to find that the liberality of Maric the Savior and his recently passed son, King Cailan, Maker rest his soul, is still represented in their surviving advisor." Talk of orphans and liberality caused Loghain to frown, which deepened the crags in his face.
"Many children have been left orphans by the Blight; darkspawn have claimed their parents' lives, and still more have traveled to the walls of Denerim as refugees in the hopes of finding asylum here," said the second man. "We've endeavored to create a fund to buy them some meat and drink and means of warmth." This from the second.
"We choose this time because it is a time of hope and joy, and we perhaps may restore some of that to these orphans," said the first.
It was too much for Loghain, who all this time had, in spite of his icy exterior, been smoldering inside like a long-dormant volcano, which has grown weary of its long rest and prepared to erupt. "Leave here, immediately!" he shouted to the surprise of all in the room. "I don't make merry myself at Wintersend, and have no desire, nor ability, to make idle orphans merry. I am trying to run a country and keep it safe from the Blight and the unfounded discontent of the nobility."
"Many Blight Orphans will die without assistance," said the second man gravely in a last appeal to Loghain's compassion.
He didn't count on the fact that Loghain had none. "Then perhaps they should, and decrease the surplus population," Loghain said. "Good day." He didn't care if they had a good day or not; he only cared that they left. And leave they did, as downtrodden that if they'd been Mabari hounds, they'd have had their tails between their hind legs.
Darkness and fog seeped all over Denerim as night fell, and when only the yellow glow of the low-burning candles lit the study, Cauthrien stood. "I don't wish to be impertinent, your Grace, but the hour is late, and tomorrow is Wintersend…"
He stared at her, the candlelight casting even deeper shadows over his stern face. "You plan to celebrate the holiday?"
She looked at the ground. "The men have planned a celebration because they feel the need for hope in this present darkness. They look to me to bring reports that might encourage such hope, and would be glad of my presence tomorrow."
Loghain shook his head. "It's a silly thing, but very well. Take the day. But be at your post all the earlier the next morning!"
Cauthrien kept her face just as stern, though she was trying to keep her smile at bay. She left, and Loghain soon put out the candles and did the same. He traversed the darkened, lonely hallways of the palace. Servants scuttled out of his way; even the shadows seemed to bend away from him. He paused at the door to his chambers and fumbled for his key.
Loghain kept his chambers locked from even the servants. He'd installed a knocker on the door himself in the event one wished to enter with news or meals. He did not care for surprises. Unfortunately, a surprise was what awaited him. As he worked the lock, he looked up and the knocker suddenly was not a knocker. It wavered with a strange blue-green light, like sunlight playing upon the ocean, only more dismal. And it took on the shape of a face. The face of Maric.
The strong features of the face were cast in the light and the long light hair stirred as if by a wind, or more accurately as if it were floating in a current of water. The eyes were wide open, staring into Loghain's own. He stared at the horror before him, unable to move or scarcely breathe. And then just when he began to question his sanity, it was a knocker again.
He entered the suite of rooms, caring nothing for the darkness. However, after the shock at the door, he did search the sitting room, bedroom, and bathing chamber. All was as it should be, and when he checked the hallway again, a servant had left a tray with a meager dinner for him.
He locked himself in for the night and took his meal before a cold, dark fireplace. But as he began to eat he heard a curious noise. It sounded as the rippling of water mingled with the cries of people. The strange greenish light began to glow here and there at the edges of his vision, only to disappear whenever he looked at it directly.
But the glow began to intensify as he stared at the door, shining first dim, then more brightly until he had to squint. The light took on the shape of a man, and as Loghain looked the features came into focus. The cloak swirled about the arms and legs, still clad in doublet and hose. And the hair floated about the face and shoulders as if in a swirling underwater current. The limbs were fettered by flowing strands of seaweed that clung to him like chains. And though he was transparent and covered in seaweed, he still smirked and Loghain fell to his knees in the presence of Maric's ghost.
The ghost paused in front of Loghain. "What do you want with me?" Loghain asked in a hoarse whisper, hardly daring to believe that Maric had returned in such a way.
"Much," the ghost replied, taking the seat across from Loghain. The perpetual smirk was still upon his face, as if Loghain's skepticism amused him. "You don't believe in me," he said suddenly.
Loghain took his own seat again, his dinner quite forgotten. "Why should I? I've been at work on military orders all day. My mind is full of darkspawn movements and how to fund this infernal war on the Blight, and all that has turned my stomach. You are little more than a hallucination; or perhaps a demon come from the Fade to torment me."
Maric fixed him with a gaze colder than Loghain's own and suddenly flung out his arms. The seaweed strands wrapped around Loghain's own limbs and held him more tightly than any chains. "Do you believe in me or not?" Maric demanded in that tone of voice that he'd used with so many traitors to Ferelden's throne.
"I do! I believe in you!" Loghain cried, and he did. "But why do you come to torment me?"
"I've come in the hopes that I can stop you from this course of life before it is too late for you," Maric said. "The years have made you hard and unfeeling to those around you. I come at this time of the year, when the hope is the highest, and yet you see none. I come to warn you, that you may yet have a chance and hope of escaping the fate laid out for you."
"You were always a good friend to me, Maric," Loghain said, feeling especially good once the chains of seaweed retreated and he was free again.
Maric did not address this compliment. "You will be haunted by three spirits," he said in the voice he used for proclamations. And with that tone, Loghain knew there was no arguing. "They shall attend to you this night. I leave you with the tiniest chance of hope that the morning will see you redeemed."
He rose from the chair and stood, regal in mien. The greenish light wavered around him; the seaweed and his hair stirred; the cloak floated around his transparent body. He retreated, head high and shoulders back, as regal in death as he'd been in life, and disappeared through the door.
Loghain stared at the darkened door long after Maric's ghost had disappeared. Finally he got up and checked the door, finding it locked tight. Darkness was all around him, and silence filled the air in his room as the fog filled the courtyards and streets outside.
Loghain sniffed in disgust and went to sit upon his bed to think, but exhaustion got the better of him. He closed his eyes, forgot the Blight, forgot the nobles, and most of all, forgot Maric's ghost.