I thought of the concept for this when I saw that notice in the tavern about an archery competition, and I remembered that Loghain was an expert archer in The Stolen Throne. There's one minor Loghain/Maric reference but otherwise there's no pairing.

When one wasn't liked, you tended to keep to yourself. Not that he'd ever been an especially social person, of course. His few friends were long dead and he only lived in order to pay for his sins.

He watched the excitement around him at Skyhold from an outdoor table several feet away from the commotion. He was glad to see it, almost as glad as he was to be there. He'd spent too long holed up in that cave, living on rations and peering into Crestwood's clouded sky now and then. Skyhold was clean and beautiful, a sight for sore eyes.

He wondered what was going on. While nice to look at, the fortress normally had a much more somber feel to it. They were preparing to take on an ancient Tevinter magister after all. He waited until the flock of people had dissipated before hefting himself out of his seat and trying to look casual as he examined the notice tacked to the wall.

An archery competition. That brought back memories. He'd spent the last few decades fighting with sword and shield, but a long time before, when he'd been neither a hero nor a pariah to Ferelden, he'd been a decent shot. A good shot.

But should he join? He was Loghain Mac Tir, after all. It would cause a scandal. He was a Warden as well, and had other duties. He was too old for such things, and had never been disposed towards these kinds of events.

He hadn't allowed himself to have a good time more than a handful of times in ten years.

He briefly considered disguising himself when he signed up, but reason had won out. He was too recognizable, and he'd be laughed at if discovered he'd tried to hide. Besides, he'd told himself long ago that the day he stopped giving his full name when asked was the day he'd truly lost his pride.

When he worked up the nerve to approach the sign-up sheet, there was a woman there, lazily watching those that signed up.

"Who are you, then?" she said, raising an eyebrow and speaking with an accent that told him she was from the slums of Orlais.

"Loghain Mac Tir," he said as he signed his name, the blocky lettering unchanged from his youth. He had never been much with penmanship.

"Oh? The Loghain?" said the woman, straightening up. "The famous one?"

"Yes," he said testily. "The famous one. Is there anything I need to know for the tourney?"

"Only whether or not we have to provide you with a boy and arrows," she said. "I never heard that Loghain Mac Tir was an archer."

"I'm not surprised," he said irritably. "As for the bow and arrows, yes, I do need them." He hadn't had a chance to grab his set, nearly thirty years old and every bit as worn as he was, when he was running from the Wardens. It had made hunting nearly impossible, and if he hadn't found a village halfway to the Crestwood cave he would be a lot thinner than he currently was.

"Say please," she said, grinning at him. "I heard you was a hard eyes. Never asked for nothing, never said thank you."

"Have you heard a lot about me in the gutter, then?" he said coolly.

Her eyes flashed with anger. He met her gaze.

"I suppose you would have," he said, sighing and breaking the tension. He had ideas of another insult to add, but didn't bother. There was no point. The only way he'd ever change someone's mind about him was through his actions, not his words. He was not an eloquent man.

"Please," he said, the words coming more easily than he'd expected. "May I have use of a set of archery equipment for the tourney?"

"That's more like it," she said, smile returning and reaching behind her and pulling a bow and set of arrows from a pile. "Be back tomorrow at noon for the tournament. I wanna to see how you do."

He double checked the flyer to make she she'd told him the right time. She had, to her credit. She was probably expecting to make a fool of himself in the coming day. Maybe he would- he hadn't had need to hunt or fight with a bow in several years.

The bow she'd given him was old, and badly taken care of. Most of the fletching for the arrows badly needed replacing. He spent much of the next day taking care of that, fixing and updating all the equipment he had. If he was going to shame himself in front of an audience, he didn't want to be able to blame it on his weapons.

He found a secluded area to practice in, away from the others. He'd only begun to miss company the older he'd grown. There was a difference between choosing to be alone and being shunned, one he'd only learned in the past decade.

His own bow was better, and his skills were rusty, so he spent the night in that secluded grove. He practiced past dawn, finally giving it a rest when his stomach complained loudly enough, his Warden appetite protesting. The lack of sleep didn't bother him, as he rarely got any these days between the nightmares and his arthritis. Thankfully, the latter wasn't flaring up in his fingers, and he was fairly certain he'd be able to hold his own in the tourney.

After he'd cleaned up and eaten, he strolled over to the site of the event. It was already packed. The idea of so many watching him didn't sit well with him. He had never felt comfortable in front of others, and had only tolerated living in the public eye as the Teryn of Gwaren.

It was a good day for archery. The sky was clear, the sun hot on Loghain's neck. He'd put his Warden armor back on for the day, but he'd begun to think that was a mistake. He'd practiced without it, and it was heavy. His armor hadn't been comparable during the rebellion. The tunic under his armor began to stain with sweat as he joined the other competitors. He didn't recognize most of them, which was fine. A couple he'd seen traveling with the Inquisitor.

When he joined the group waiting for the competition he earned a few looks. At first he thought they'd recognized him, but the expressions didn't fit. When he realized it was due to his age, his frown grew and he crossed his arms.

"Didn't expect to see you here."

Loghain looked. Not seeing anyone, he looked down. Varric Tethras, the dwarf, was standing a few feet away. As Loghain watched he took a seat nearby.

"The Inquisitor is taking her time in getting ready to storm Adamant," he replied. "I am occupying myself."

"Fair enough," Varric chuckled.

"You're an archer, if I remember right," said Loghain. "Why aren't you joining in?"

Varric threw up his hands. "Believe it or not, Bianca and I don't qualify! Apparently my crossbow is too complex and kept throwing the results."

Loghain let out a quiet noise that could have passed for a chuckle. "So you've tried."

"You're going to melt in this heat," said Varric. "How heavy is that armor?"

"I'll be fine," he replied.

They began to call for the competitors. He turned from the dwarf, readying to follow the crowd.

"I'll be rooting for you," said Varric, calling after him. "Someone has to."

Loghain appreciated it. He had never been good at expressing that sort of emotion, so he grunted and went on his way.

The first round of the tourney was easy, there to root out the overconfident amateurs and ambitious civilians. The only thing eventful was a Dalish elf getting disqualified for trying to use a staff to hit the target with her staff. He easily shot well enough to proceed to the next match, and the next, until there were few enough people they could start announcing names. The sun was beating high overhead, and his armor shifted and clanked when he drew the bow.

"Good luck," mouthed the dwarf as he started another round. He nodded to him, waiting with baited breath for the announcer to start speaking.

"This round starts off with our head scout, the Inquisition's own Lace Harding!" began the announcer, voice booming so loudly over the chattering crowd that they instantly fell silent. "Today she faces off…" The announcer paused, obviously not sure if he was seeing correctly. Loghain waited. He cleared his throat and finished with, "Warden Loghain Mac Tir."

The gasps from Orlesian ladies were the first reactions. Then came the whispering and the staring, the crowd moving almost as one to stare at him. He squared his shoulders and stood his ground. Sure, this had probably been a mistake, but he had to own up to it now.

"Way to steal the spotlight," said a voice, again from below. He greeted his competitor and she smiled in return. "I don't mind. They weren't supposed to use my first name."

The dwarf went first. Three shots each, the best shot winning the round.

She was good. He examined her carefully, watching her aim the bow to make up for her shorter stature. Before she nocked the arrow he noted that it was probably the weapon she took scouting, due to the damage. Almost no one was watching her but him. Everyone was too busy spreading the news that Loghain Mac Tir was taking part in the archery contest.

Her first two shots were almost perfect. He felt like they were in the finals rather than the early stages. This was a match best saved for the end.

Her third shot fell short of the mark, her bow wobbling in the last second. It didn't matter if you were an inch off when you were hunting or killing, you could always finish the shot with another arrow. Her bow wasn't designed for competition.

It was his turn then. He could feel everyone's eyes on him as he stepped forward. His armor chafed his shoulders as he strung his bow, and his shot was off. The idea of hundreds of people watching him disgrace himself did not appeal to him, and his second shot was much better, on par with Harding's first two. His third surpassed hers.

It was close enough that the judge, Sister Leliana, had to walk up to each target and examine it. When she passed Loghain she shot him a highly amused look, red eyebrow raised. He shrugged. Had she wanted to be informed he was joining the tourney? They'd traveled together ten years earlier and had both knew the Hero of Ferelden, that was about it.

"Warden Loghain has it!" Leliana announced. His expression didn't change as he shook Scout Harding's hand.

"You should get a new bow," he advised solemnly.

She laughed. "Are we giving each other advice? You should take your armor off. That was the only reason the match was so close to begin with."

Loghain almost didn't reply. "Fair enough."

When he walked back to the competitor's area, which now had a tent set up since their numbers were diminishing, he found Varric there. "I'm an honorary competitor," was all he would say about it.

"You know, you've definitely caused a scandal."

"I know."

"Why'd you do this again? That doesn't seem your type."

"You don't think I like to shock Orlesians?" he said, snorting.

"No," said Varric. "I don't think you're the type to put yourself in the spotlight."

He didn't answer.

"No one's going to change their opinion of you if you win an archery contest."

He frowned. "I'm not asking them to."

Varric grunted noncommittally.

The next few rounds were much easier. He faced more scouts, mostly, or the more talented archers in the Inquisition's forces. A couple multi-talented mages joined, as well as a former Templar. His shooting began to get worse as they day progressed, sweat dripping down his forehead and into his eyes, his armor chafing and dragging on him. It was the middle of the summer and it didn't seem likely that the heat would be decreasing any time soon. He was beginning to think Varric and Harding were right. Maker, he knew they were.

"Why won't you just take the blasted armor off?" asked Varric after a round, when Loghain doused himself with half a bucket of water to cool off. He glared at him from under his wet hair.

"I'm a Warden," he spat. "I'm here as a Warden. If I take the griffon sigil off, I'll be nothing but the traitor Teyrn to them. I don't want that."

"Sorry to disappoint you," said Varric, sympathy written in the lines on his face. "But that's already all they see you as. Maybe a couple of them see you for the Warden you are, but that crowd isn't out there placing bets and fainting every time you win a round because you kill darkspawn for a living. The Orlesian half wants to see you fail because you're the reason Ferelden isn't annexed into their country and the Ferelden half-"

"I know what the Ferelden half wants," he said shortly. "And I know why."

"I like rooting for the underdog, Mac Tir," said Varric. "But I'm going to change my bet if you don't take that armor off."

He sighed. "You aren't completely wrong. Look away, now, I don't need someone watching me while I take this off."

"You're not going commando under that plate?"

"No," he snapped, deciding that it didn't matter. He began undoing the straps on his armor, sighs escaping him as the heavy metal came off.

"How old are you, anyway?"

"That's rather rude, don't you think?" said Loghain, chuckling. "I'm older than you, that's all you need to know." His mood was lifting the less armor he had on his body.

"The Ferelden rebellion started…forty years ago? Fifty?"

"Maric and I didn't start the rebellion. His mother did," he said, Maric's name bringing the pain back to his chest. When he thought of Maric he remembered his mistakes, remembered how he'd failed his country. He could feel the sting of the salt air as he stood on the prow of a ship, searching for the man he loved, searching until his face was whipped and raw from wind or tears, he could never recall which.

"I'm sixty-five," he admitted when he came back to himself, hoping Varric hadn't noticed him step into himself for a moment. Varric had, but he didn't say anything.

"Whether you win or not, getting this far at your age is nothing to scoff at," said Varric.

Loghain rolled his eyes. "I'm going to be late for the next round."

When he returned to the field he realized belatedly that this was the semi-finals. There was a woman he hadn't faced yet, and he wouldn't get to face her unless he won this match. She was an elf, one who traveled with the Inquisitor, and she was good. Very possibly better than he was.

He stood there in his sweat-stained shirt and trousers, with only a knife on his belt for a weapon. He hadn't felt this exposed in a long time. The man he was facing lumbered over, sizing Loghain up. It was not a friendly gaze.

"The Loghain?"

"The one and only," he replied, watching as the larger man began to shoot.

The man paused as he nocked his arrow. "I'm going to pretend the target is your face," he said casually. "The way you did to the King."

The hate in his voice took Loghain's breath away. He watched as one, two, three arrows smacked right into the middle of the board, all in a row. The man looked distinctly pleased with himself.

Loghain could feel the tension in the crowd behind him. They wanted him to lose. The dwarf only wanted him to win because he had money on his success. It was exhausting to be hated

When he raised the bow, he could feel the weight difference. He'd been good with the armor on, but he was better now. He shook his head, hair already dried from the hot sun. When he shot the bow, he did it quickly, nocking another two arrows together and shooting them at the same time, a trick he hadn't used since the rebellion.

It was a perfect shot, and Leliana didn't have to move from her podium to see that he'd won.

Sera was the last opponent, the elven woman he'd admired from afar. She laughed wildly when she saw him. "You look terrible!" she practically yelled. "All sweaty and gross, ew!"

Well, she wasn't wrong, he supposed.

"When I beat you, it'll a big win for the little people, yeah?" she said in the few minutes between their rounds. "I mean, you're the big bad Teyrn. The biggest of the noblemen. It'll be like I'm robbing from the rich and givin' to the poor, right? Not that I'll be giving my money to anyone."

"Is there a cash prize?" he asked.

"What, you don't know? I'll get a hundred sovereigns when I kick your ass."

Charming, he thought, but he found that he wasn't truly annoyed. She was more open with him than anyone he'd seen so far, and that was refreshing.

"I just wanted to see if I was as good as I used to be," he said, nights waiting with the Night Elves coming back to him, dozens of arrows whizzing by his ears when he gave the command.

"And are you?"

"We'll see."

He looked toward the audience, which was growing by the minute. Apparently this match had become the talk of Skyhold.

"I'm not a nobleman," he said, initiating conversation only to distract himself. "I used to be one. I wasn't born one, either. My father was a farmer."

Sera leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees and staring at him. "Hey, don't tell that kind of thing. You can't go making me feel different about you right before I beat you. Is that true?"

"Yes, it's true," he said.

"Your dad tilled fields and all that?"

"Yes."

"And your mom, she probably did the laundry and kept the house and worked real hard?"

"Something like that."

"All proud of their young son, raising him right?"

He didn't say anything, his jaw working with annoyance.

"They failed, didn't they?" she said, snickering, badly cut blonde hair quivering with amusement.

Their time was up, and they went back onto the field, Loghain's sleeves pulled up to reveal his arms.

"Oohh, nice muscles," said Sera, somehow making it sound like an insult. He could feel the flush rise on his cheeks.

This time, he went first. He could hear betting and yelling and laughing behind him, waves of heat filling the air as he tested his bowstring and the fletching on his arrows. The crowd went silent as he aimed. He'd wanted to feel the way he'd felt as a young man, fighting for his country and knowing he was right. He'd forgotten the pressure that he'd had back then, a completely different kind than he felt now.

He shot the bow, smiling when he saw the result. He'd always worked well under pressure. His second shot was the same, but his third was off. Way off. His smile disappeared. Sera was too good to mess up like that. The audience was tittering behind him. He'd already lost.

Sera's first two shots were the same as his, right on the mark. He prepared for the third to be the same. When she went to make her third shot, she aimed the bow so high the arrow went up, past the target and into the air.

"Oops!" she yelled, grinning. The audience collectively let out the breath they'd been holding.

Sister Leliana stood. "The winner is Loghain Mac Tir!"

He stared at Sera incredulously. She'd thrown the tourney for him.

"Why?" he said, voice deeper and angrier than he intended.

"Because I wanted you to win!" she said, laughing. "I wanted you to win, old man, so you did. I felt like aiming high that time."

She danced away, and he let Leliana take him up the stage to the front of the crowd and throw his hand up, announcing his victory again. He'd won, but there was no cheering. He wasn't smiling. He looked at those faces and felt like he had ruined their day, their tournament.

"Good for the Warden!"

It was Varric Tethras, clapping for him. Soon there was a smattering of applause, including from a few whoops from Sera and a couple cheers from the scout he'd beaten, Harding. Eventually the whole crowd was halfheartedly pulled into the clapping, until there was a wash of noise coming towards him.

"Anything to say?" said Leliana, Orlesian accent still jarring after all this time.

He raised his voice, knowing full well the last time he'd spoken to a group of people this large was at the Landsmeet eleven years before, when he was Teyrn Loghain, Regent to the Throne.

"I didn't know there was a cash prize," he said. "Give the money to the orphans you must keep stashed around somewhere in a place this big. Maker knows I've got some sins to make up for." He hadn't meant it as a joke, but some people laughed anyway. "As for the honor of winning this tourney? It can't restore mine, but I had a good time."

"Nice speech," said Varric as Loghain descended the stage. "You think of that all by yourself?"

"If you didn't like it, you should be ashamed," said Loghain. "You're the one who put it into my head, what with what you said earlier."

"Hey, I won a bunch of cash thanks to you today," said Varric, walking with him. "Why don't you join me and a few others for a drink?"

"I left my armor back in the tent," said Loghain.

"I'll come get it with you. You could use a second hand."

"Yeah," he heard himself say. "I guess I could. Keep up now, I've got long legs."

Varric teased him back, but he hardly heard a word. Maybe only one or two minds had been changed about him, but they had changed.