Just a little fic about Loghain having PTSD- but it kind of got away from me, whoops. Hope you like it!
He had trouble sleeping.
He always had, ever since he was a teen. When he was in his father's camp he would patrol the borders, trying to keep the images from his mother's death out of his mind's eye. During the Rebellion he'd keep himself busy with army plans. When he was in Gwaren Celia would be there to calm him down. She knew his moods better than anyone else had. The last few months…well there had been nothing to soothe him, not really. In hindsight he could see it reflecting on his actions, his stability.
Well, it was over now either way.
He sat in the night air and watched the stars, unwilling to go back to his nightmares. His nightshirt was damp with sweat. He ran a hand through his hair, watching the fireflies make circles under the stars. They were traveling through the heart of Ferelden, where Loghain knew the land like the back of his hand. He'd lived and fought here a long time ago. The very grass he sat on was stained with Orlesian blood.
"Are you okay?"
It was the old mage. He frowned. He had enough trouble sleeping as it was without the things she liked to remind him of.
She had her hair down, grey locks cascading down her neck. She looked younger like that. Her nightgown, however, was pink, frilly, and did not make her look younger at all.
"Why do you ask?" he said gruffly, laying an arm across his upturned knee. He watched her carefully, waiting for the inevitable judgment.
"You sounded like you were…" She paused, obviously trying to think of a way to phrase what she wanted to say. "In distress."
He cursed under his breath. Why had he set his tent up near hers again? Why had he set it up near anyone's? He should have known he wouldn't be able to sleep through the night.
His lack of reply was apparently enough of an answer for he that she sat on the ground across from him. Up close she seemed younger even. The lines on her face were relaxed.
"Your nightgown will get dirty," he said.
"I know," she replied. "Have you ever had a mage look at your sleeping problems?"
Did he want to tell her the truth? He turned his head upwards, watching the fireflies. When he looked back down her gaze was kind. "I have," he said. "A long time ago. Maric asked me to."
"The King knew about your sleeping problems?"
Maker, he was a mess. "I," he began, clearing his throat awkwardly.
She laughed. "No need to explain. You two were one of the poorest kept secrets in Ferelden."
He felt his face heat up and stared off into the black night, where the trees rustled in the wind. The air was nice and cool. He still found joy in this land of his.
"You were saying about a mage?"
"He couldn't solve my sleeping problems," said Loghain absently. "Said it was all in my head."
She made a small noise, perhaps of sympathy. "You're an old soldier," she said. "It happens."
"Every night," he snapped. "It happens every night."
It was more than he wanted to reveal about himself, and he shook his head in annoyance at his own weakness. Wynne watched him, clearly trying to think of something to say. He expected something about his sins catching up with him.
"Old battles never leave you," she said simply.
As she never liked to let him forget, she had been at Ostagar.
"I just want to sleep," he said softly. "Just a night or two. Or have I lost the right to that too?"
"I'm not accusing you of anything at the moment," she said, an edge to her voice. "Just talking."
"That was directed at the Maker more than it was to you," he said, chuckling. "No offense meant."
"Ah," she said, pausing. "You know, Loghain Mac Tir, you look rather good with your hair down."
He was startled looking at her directly, eyebrows raised. "Excuse me?"
She laughed. "Just stating a fact."
He grunted, "I suppose you do too."
"Oh? Are you trying to say something, young man?"
"No," he amended quickly. "I'm not."
She laughed at that. "Thank you for the compliment."
"You can't really be that much older than me," he said. "I'm fifty-one, after all. We've see the same events, same the shared history."
Her mouth opened and shut, and he detected, even in the dark, a flush across her cheeks. "I'm forty eight," she said. "It turns out we have this all backwards."
Loghain's resounding laugh probably disturbed a few sleeping birds from their perches. It certainly made a sleeping Warden shift in the tent they shared with the assassin.
"We do," he said. "I'm the oldest one in the party after all. I'll have to share a few war stories while I smoke a pipe in the morning."
"Is that any different than normal?" she asked.
"I don't own a pipe."
She stood, wiping the bottom of her nightgown off, shaking it to make sure it was free of dirt. "I hope you have better dreams, Loghain Mac Tir,' she said. "You have much to make up for, but that will be done during the daytime."
"Goodnight," he said, staring at the lightning bugs.
She took a few steps away, bare feet crunching dry leaves. "Do you think…anything I said helped?" Do you think I made a difference, she wanted to say.
"Who knows," he said. "But I think so."
She smiled before she was out of sight. He did too, even though he had added lying to his list of sins.