Part 1

Rowan had been dead several months.

Her passing was not one to wish upon anyone. It may not have been violent or agonising in a physically painful sense, but it had been hard for those around her to watch as a once fearsome warrior and big-hearted queen and, more importantly, mother, wasted away, leaving only a shell.

If Loghain thought back hard enough, he could see that it was long coming. The warning signs had been there but had gone undetected. From the severe sickness she'd suffered during the major portion of her pregnancy with Cailan, to her loss of strength and inability to recover fully afterward. Oh yes. It was clear in Hindsight.

Oh, but Hindsight was a wonderful thing.

Thankfully, she'd not died alone or in discomfort. In those final days, she'd not been there. Physically, she'd been there of course. In the royal bed, her limbs withered and her skin a sickly grey. But Mentally, Rowan was long gone. She'd not responded to anything in days as her eyesight and hearing failed her and her will to fight slipped away.

Emilia had laid in the bed with her the night she'd passed. Maric had tried to remain in the room but had become so distressed, Loghain had led him away, into the parlour to wait for the inevitable

Marigold had crept from room to room, her steps quiet on the stone floor. She'd been a ghostly presence in the darkened royal chambers as she kept watch on them all.
Around dawn she'd entered Maric and Rowan's rooms and the two men sat in the parlour with Mother Ailis, had heard the pained sobbing coming from within. A short time after, Marigold had steered Emilia from the room, the younger woman clearly anguished. This unusual loss of control from Em had been enough to unnerve Loghain and Maric, already barely holding himself together, had lost it. He'd slid from his chair beside the dying fire and cried pitifully as Ailis knelt to console him.

The state pyre had been held two days later and national mourning was on show for all of Thedas to behold.

Loghain had helped carry Rowan to her pyre from the chantry alongside her younger brother Eamon, Bryce Cousland and Marigold. Emilia had walked with Maric, both looking haggard, but Maric more so.

Loghain, himself, had felt the aching loss of Rowan's death. How could he not? He'd once held feelings for the woman who was to become Queen of the country he held so dear and he was sure marrying Emilia had been his only deterrent from doing something that could have ruined that, and his friendship with Maric.

That hadn't stopped him caring however and even if he didn't break down in front of everyone in Denerim as Maric had done when it had come time to light Rowan's pyre, it didn't stop his own quiet tears to Emilia and Maric later that night as the three of them held each other in Loghain and Emilia's bed.

That had been months ago by then and life had to go on, or so Emilia kept saying.

Within a week of her cousin's death, Emilia appeared to have grown armoured skin and had shaken off the grief that had engulfed the palace of Denerim.

By contrast, Maric was more miserable than ever. As the pyre of his wife lay smouldering, Maric had gone back to the palace and locked himself in his room, curling up under the covers of his bed and cried.

He stayed there the rest of the day and most of the next and probably would have remained there forever more had Emilia not picked the lock on his door and she and Loghain had dragged him out to take him home with them to Gwaren house.

He'd stayed with them there for a month, practically stuck to Loghain and even sleeping in the bed with him and Emilia.

That had been their way of healing and though the group would never be complete again, Emilia, Loghain and Maric had drawn closer together in an effort to close the gaping void left behind.

That was until royal duties called. The King may still have been in mourning, but the kingdom had returned to it's usual, demanding self.

While gently nudging him, Loghain and Emilia had taken on as much of Maric's duties as they possibly could.

With his friend's rallying around him and Emilia encouraging regular time with his son, at first, Maric seemed to be coming around to something resembling functional.
All that had come undone when the first foreign dignitary to arrive in the country since the Queen's death joined them for a formal dinner one night.

There wasn't an exact moment Loghain could pinpoint that turned the dinner bad. The palace was still heavy with grief at the time and even with Emilia's efforts to try and ease the almost suffocating atmosphere, that night had been, for want of a better word, a disaster.

Maric had tried. They could give him that much. He wasn't quite back to his normal talkative self, but he had given it a good go. It wasn't his fault this particular Markham ambassador had been in such a foul mood.

He'd done nothing but whinge since arriving. He grumbled about his journey. He'd whined about his lack of proper greeting when he'd finally arrived. He was petulant about the rooms he'd been given and even when he'd been rehoused, still nothing was right. Marigold and Em had fielded him as best they could, which was quite adequate but during dinner he'd been insufferable. And it was obvious to all that King Maric was struggling.

He wilted in the light of the Ambassador's complaints. And there were plenty. The Teyrn and Teyrna of Gwaren did their best to shield him. Loghain could feel his blood beginning to boil early on and Em was very tense beside him.

Maric's eyes darted to him and then to Emilia for help several times but their interference was quickly noted by the Markham man and he began to sneer at them as they tried to protect their fragile King.

It had been painful. Eventually Maric had withdrawn entirely under the barrage of negativity the Ambassador unleashed. Loghain could seem Maric trying to sink into his seat, his food untouched and his face becoming pale. He hadn't been ready. Emilia had assured him this visit would be a nice, easy way for him to get back into his work, but it had gone horribly wrong. Maric wasn't himself and Rowan wasn't there to hold his hand. Loghain and Emilia could only do so much.

Em called an end to the dinner early and Maric slipped away before Loghain could grab him. Marigold escorted the Ambassador, now complaining about the King's early departure, back to his residence. Loghain later learned the Ambassador fell afoul of some "thugs" and was beaten horribly, returning to Markham with two broken arms and a ruptured stomach.

Marigold relayed the news with a relaxed, but very satisfied smile.

Maric relapsed. No words, good or bad, could get him to budge after that. He began to drink excessively. Loghain sat watching him from the other wing backed chair in the royal chambers night after night as Maric swayed between drunkenly jabbering, drink fuelled verbal-diarrhea to crying and silently brooding for hours on end.

It hadn't improved months later despite their best efforts and time was beginning to press down on them. The Landsmeet was on the horizon.

The Landsmeet had only been held a handful of times since Maric took the throne. The first had been, well, it had been more of a large meet and greet for old friends and rivals alike after the war. Redcliffe was still under Orlesian control and Eamon Guerrin had sent a message apologizing for his absence and requesting a handful of soldiers to help with a final push to take the castle.

Emilia had wanted to go, but Loghain had put his foot down. She'd not long had their daughter and even if she'd gotten straight back into the war after having Drake, Loghain was determined to keep her from doing something stupid when they were so close to totally regaining control.

There were daily attacks off the coast too, Orlesian ships daring to take on the raider ships led by Bann Mac Eanraig. These attacks were fended off well enough, even if their most efficient raider, Bann Mac Eanraig's daughter Eleanor, had been forced to pull out of the fighting, first to marry Bryce Cousland and after that, when she'd fallen pregnant.

Essentially, no one had been settled long enough for any of the nobles to really have any complaints. Many were no readier to take their positions as Maric had been to take the throne. In the camps, they'd all had titles. Oh yes, titles were plentiful in the muddy, bloodstained rebel camps. But then they'd been given their rightful lands and all those lofty nobles had no idea what to do with them and the people who resided in them.

The first landsmeet was quite laid back.

Many nobles had married or had children. Loghain and Em had had Anora while still trying to rebuild Gwaren and were living with her and Drake, then three, in one finished room of the keep.

Maric had called it a progress update and had laughed.

The years since were not as calm. The squabbles soon began over land boundaries and entitlements.

That year would be no different and Maric wasn't fit to rule.

The king's lack of will began to cause problems outside his political spectrum. Loghain and Emilia had begun to fight. At first, they'd both been tired, upset and a little stressed but there was hope Maric would step up again relatively soon and the pressure would ease. But after his relapse, their arguments got worse.

Emilia, whose temper was almost legendarily short, lost the last of her patience. She would snarl that Maric was weak and Loghain was allowing him to be.

Loghain would snarl back, naturally. He'd tried as hard as her to get Maric moving again. He was just as lost as she was with it all. But He'd sat with Maric night after night. He'd listened to his friend's fears and concerns, blurted out in drunken abandon. He was just as disappointed as Em and hated the allegation that he was allowing Maric to get away with shirking his duties.

One night, in the heat of the moment, he'd told her she was cold. That she was cold and unfeeling, not understanding that maybe Maric needed more time.

As soon as he'd said it, he knew he'd made a mistake. Something passed through Emilia's eyes, the rage dissipating, only to be replaced by shock and then sadness.

Rowan had told her the same thing the night Katriel had died at Maric's hand. The argument the two women had had shattered their good natured, if somewhat cool, friendship. Rowan had been the angriest Loghain had ever seen her. And Emilia, Emilia had been so cold. Mercilessly so.

"She needed to die." Emilia had said, her voice low in the dark room. Her face betrayed nothing, totally passive in the fury of her cousin.

"No, she didn't!" Rowan had ground out, her fists trembling with the force of her emotions. "you said she needed to die. You did. And he…" Rowan pointed to Loghain, his back pressed against the wall across from them as they fought. "He listened to you. Because you've manipulated him so thoroughly he'll do anything you tell him now!"

"Maric's a fool." Emilia replied, the moonlight catching her green eyes in the most sinister way. "He'd have put her on the throne in your place."

"He loved her!" Rowan cried. "She loved him!"

"He lusted for her." Em cut across her. "And she was doing her job. Fools are dangerous, Rowan. Fools blinded by lust and love are the most dangerous. The girl knew that and used it. Props to her. I'd have done the same."

The horror that crossed Rowan's face was enough to make Loghain's stomach lurch. She stared at her cousin stood before her. Had the moon not been full and peering through the window at them, Emilia may well have been invisible in the darkness, dressed in her blackened armour and cowl. Her eyes showed no emotion. They were cold. Calculating. Just as they'd been when she'd spoken with Rowan and Loghain in the dilapidated chantry down by the Gwaren docks to tell them of the elf's betrayal at White river and that she'd journeyed to Denerim days before when Marigold had followed her.

Emilia had made up her mind then, that Katriel needed to die, regardless of her change of mind. Rowan had disagreed of course. If Katriel was repentant, if there was truly a bounty on her head by then, then Maric's lover should live and they should be happy together.

Both women knew Maric would make the elf his Queen. Rowan had come to terms with that fact in the deep roads and had turned to Loghain for comfort.

Emilia was not content however. That was not what she'd returned to Ferelden to let happen.

Loghain wasn't entirely sure how to feel. The woman was a bard. She could have killed Maric. She could get Maric killed. But Emilia had known or at least suspected such and had not said, not even to him. That had hurt. And he'd been angry with her for it.

It was decided Loghain would be the one to tell Maric the truth. He'd tell his best friend what he'd allowed into his bed and what had to happen now.

Rowan had had full faith in him. She'd thought he'd tell Maric all of it. Tell him what Katriel was or had been. That she'd changed her loyalties and she was now wanted by the Orlesians for joining the rebels. Her eyes had been so sad when she looked at him, but there was hope there. She'd be free from the marriage arranged for her by her parents and Maric's and she'd get on with winning the war and building a life afterward.

Perhaps Emilia thought he'd tell Maric the truth too. Perhaps that was why she cornered him in the dead of night, using the wiles she'd used right from their first meeting to charm him, satisfy him and then make him hungry for more. It made him pliant to her hands.

She wore him out. Wore him down. Caressed him until he pawed at her for more and then cradled him as he trembled with aftershocks. It brought his guard down completely and she knew it.

She whispered ideas into his ear, putting down poison in between words of devotion she knew he craved to hear spoken from her lips.

Emilia was a force to be reckoned with and Rowan had been no match.

Ultimately Loghain had given Emilia's suggested tale to Maric, leaving out that which would have threatened Rowan's place at Maric's side.

Rowan was right. He'd allowed Emilia to manipulate him with words and sex and it made him feel sick.

"There's something very wrong with you." Rowan whispered incredulously. "Very wrong indeed. You're so cold. So..So evil. That's the only word I can think to describe you right now."

"I did this for you." Emilia ground out through gritted teeth. Evidently Rowan had hit a nerve somewhere.

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare use me as your scapegoat, Emilia." Rowan nearly gagged, slowly backing away from the other woman. "You did this because you're merciless. You did this because You're unfeeling. You don't care about Maric. You did this because you think this is the right thing to do!"

"And putting an elf on the throne of Ferelden is?" Emilia's voice rose for the first time that entire conversation. "That throne is yours Rowan. I'm fighting this war for you. Maric's the moron that will put you there or tear it away from you and that's exactly what he was about to do!"

"I can't hear anymore!" Rowan turned away, desperate to leave the room. "I won't hear anymore. You're dangerous Emilia, even to us. You have some sort of complex that will turn against anyone you deem in your way."

Rowan paused with her hand on the door handle. Her eyes met Loghain's reluctant ones. He'd betrayed her trust in favour of Emilia's will.

"You want to be careful, Loghain. My cousin's dangerous to you too. She's far too cunning. She'd turn on you too, faithful fool or not. She'd see you dead too if she felt it necessary."

With that last warning, she left the room, no doubt to find and comfort Maric.

The silence was deafening. Loghain continued to stare at the space Rowan had left, his eyes refusing to seek out Emilia, watching him in the darkness.

"Loghain."

Her voice was achingly soft. It was the same voice she'd used the night before to beckon him to her. The same voice that had sang so sweetly as he took her.

His back tensed instinctively. He needed to get out of the room.

He made a break for it, his feet taking him toward the door before he could even process what he was doing.

"Loghain, please…"

The lump in his throat was growing and it simply wouldn't be swallowed. He was beginning to choke. He needed air.

He clutched the door handle and tried to turn it with all his might but the pain in his chest was too much. He needed air. He needed a wash. He felt used and dirty.

"I thought you'd understand…" Was the last thing he heard as he wrenched the door open and left the room at a fast clip.