Damaged

The door closed behind him with a reverberating thud and he quickly locked it. Finally, far from prying eyes he let himself slump tiredly against it. His body ached and his head throbbed. Taking a few deep breaths to fortify himself he heaved himself away from the door and towards the chair in front of the fire.

Settling down heavily he moved to remove his armor, starting with his sabatons and working his way upwards. Free of his armor he gingerly removed the tunic he wore and took a look at the sodden bandages underneath.

Gritting his teeth he unwound the bandages, trying not to look at the damage underneath. The bandages were tossed into the fire as quickly as he had removed them. Acrid smoke filled the room as he toed off his boots. His trousers slid down his legs followed by his smalls and then by the bandages that encased both of his legs as well as more delicate parts, or at least what was left of them.

He swallowed down his bile at the smell rising from his body, his useless, traitorous body. Rising from the chair he strode across the room to the basin and filled it with water; then began methodically washing the mercury salve from his body being mindful of the open sores of dying flesh covering different parts of his body.

Once he was thoroughly cleaned, free both of the salve and his own tacky sweat he picked up the draught of guaiac and drank the bitter brew down quickly. He closed his eyes and sank down to sit on the side of the bed. He was so very, very tired. Large calloused fingers loosed his dark hair from the fine braids and combed quickly through his hair.

He glared at the small canister on the table next to him. It contained the vile salve that would cause him to sweat and drool for half the night, just another of the many indignities his body made him suffer through. His mouth filled with the acrid taste of anger and betrayal.

The small window was still opened and he moved to it, eager for a breath of air not filled with the smell of the burnt bandages or his own rotting body. Dark clouds roiled in the sky overhead blotting out all the stars as well as the moon. "Not the Blight yet, but soon; and if not the Blight than a tide of Orlesian Chevaliers. Cailan, you were a fool."

He stood at the window taking deep breaths and trying to work himself up to covering his rotting skin in the awful salve. "I just want to go home."

Impatiently, he turned back to the table and grabbed the canister, wrenching it open before working to apply the salve over every inch of his skin he could reach. Covered again in the salve and wrapped in fresh bandages, he fetched a fresh set of clothes to sleep in. No one could see him in the bandages; there would be chaos if anyone suspected his illness.

He slid under the covers, turned on his side so that he would not choke when the inevitable drooling started. Closing his eyes he thought about praying to the Maker for sleep, but he was a practical man and the Maker had turned his back on the world an eon ago.

Distantly, he realized that he needed sleep soon; his thoughts had felt muddled for months. Even when he did sleep now he was plagued with nightmares. The country flattened by an unnatural and terrible army; Chevaliers and Darkspawn working side by side, Empress Celine riding on the back of the Archdemon at the fore.

He had the dream so often he sometimes woke confused about what was reality and what was dream. He felt fully twenty years older than he was, and found himself relying more and more on those that surrounded him, for good or ill. He could not argue their successes though.

The rebellion in the Alienage had been ended rather handily. Eamon was no longer meddling in affairs that were none of his business. And the only other family that could have truly opposed him in the Landsmeet had been…disposed of.

Now if he could only get rid of the accusatory looks and questions from Anora. Didn't she understand that he had done this all for her, for his beautiful little girl? He would not see her humiliated by a fool like Cailan. He would protect her from everything, even herself, if need be.

His aged body started shivering as the sweat began to pour from his skin. He needed to get the upstarts from the Bannorn under control before his body submitted to the disease and he rotted away entirely. Huddling under the blankets he whispered, "Ah Maric, I told you your penchant for wine, women and song would kill us someday. But I confess old friend, this is not how I saw myself going. I fear I will join you in the Fade soon." He felt his clarity slipping away as it was wont to do.

If there were any real justice in the world he would be able to die bravely fighting the Blight instead of putting down a rebellion, or wasting away in his bed. Drooling profusely, sweat already soaking the bedclothes he slipped back into his nightmare.

The first time I played Dragon Age and saw Loghain my first thought was that he looked tired and sick. Then I read The Stolen Throne and this idea has been in my head ever since. I have tried to ignore it for the better part of a year. But it finally won. Not sure I'm happy with this, any thoughts would be appreciated.

In case you're not sure Loghain is suffering from 'The Great Pox' otherwise known as tertiary, or end stage, Syphilis, contracted after his wife died.