Written for the Secret Santa gift exchange on the People of Thedas DW community, as a gift for sleepyowlet, who requested "Loghain solo or Loghain/f!Warden (perhaps one of mine?)."
Based on her "Simple Things" artwork on deviantART, and references her character Ceridwen Amell from "Truth or Dare"and "A Sensible Reason", which can both be found on her fanfiction profile.
Loghain leaned back against the door of his room, and squeezed the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply several times. It was all going straight to the black city, and all thanks to that damnable mage. Well, that damnable mage, and that damnable man Howe, who was now dead at the Amell woman's hands.
Not that the man hadn't deserved the death he'd had; if Loghain had been aware before Howe's death of half the things that Arl Rendon Howe had been up to behind his back, he would have killed the man himself, he thought with a scowl. But it was only after Howe's death three days before that the truth had been discovered; the abductions, the torture and killings, the blackmail, the lies... the man had been a power-hungry rabid weasel, and he had been a fool to have ever put any trust in the man. Too desperate for help to question the source of it. Desperate anda fool.
Whatever support he might have still had before Howe's death was now evaporating, melting away like snow in spring, as rumours circulated among the gathering Arls and Banns about Howe's clandestine activities and his daughter Anora's disappearance. Rumours seeded with far too much truth to be easily denied. Not that he had any wishto deny them, not any more, he thought bitterly as he crossed the room. He stopped in front of the armour stand, and began to strip off his armour, methodically undoing buckles one by one, removing each piece in turn and inspecting it carefully before hanging it on its appropriate place on the stand.
He still remembered the day he'd earned this armour, killing the commander of the Orlesian forces and thereby ending the infamous battle of River Dane. He'd claimed the man's ornate silverite armour for himself, discarding forever the well-worn leathers that he had used until that moment, work of his father's hands, in favour of this glittering set made by some unknown armourer somewhere in hated Orlais. He'd been a hero then, one of the saviours of Ferelden, Maric's boon companion, one of the most beloved commanders to have survived the wars that ended the occupation, or at least beloved among the commoners who saw him as one of their own made good. Few among the nobility had ever been particularly enthralled with him, especially after Maric had gifted him with the title of Teryn of Gwaren, making him second only to the Cousland's in stature.
And now look at him; one of the most hated men in Ferelden, and all because he'd tried to continue doing his duty after that damned fool Cailan had gone and got himself killed in the front lines at the ill-fated battle of Ostagar. He'd told the young pup that the risk was too great, but King Cailan had been too stubbornly determined on plotting his own course rather than listening to advice from an old man.
He had actually never felt particularly old before, at least not until the moment when he'd had to order a retreat, seeing that any effort at rescue of the beleaguered forces was impossible, their position untenable, his only hope remaining to save as many as he could in order to carry on the fight later. And then it had felt like the weight of his entire 40-odd years of life had fallen on his shoulders in a single unendurably long, far-too-short moment, as he'd turned his back on the rain-swept battlefield where Maric's son was undoubtedly about to meet his death, if not already dying or dead, and quit the field.
He drove down the familiar bitter grief the thought raised in him. Too late now to change the past. And even if he'd had a chance to, he would not have taken it; salvaging what he could of the army gathered at Ostagar had been the right choice, and anyone who thought otherwise was a bigger fool than he was.
The last piece of armour carefully hung on the stand, he pulled off his gambeson, putting aside the heavy padded linen shirt with a feeling of relief, then unlaced and pulled off the tough leather leggings he wore under his armour, leaving him dressed in nothing but the knee-length linen breeches he wore under them. He stretched luxuriously, working the soreness out of his back and shoulders from bearing the weight of his armour all day, scratching absently at the long puckered scar crossing his right shoulder, souvenir of the same battle that had won him the armour. An old habit, one he'd never been able to break himself of, particularly when he was feeling melancholy, as he was now. So many years since that fight... so many years of bearing the weight of not just the armour, but all the responsibilities and duties that had been piled on his shoulders ever since. So very many years in service to Ferelden, to Maric, then to Cailan in his turn... so many years of trying to do the right thing for king and country, of sacrificing his own happiness for that of others... endless years of doing what was needed.
Well, it would all end tomorrow, one way or another; the Landsmeet that interfering prat Arl Eamon had called for would begin then. Either he would be upheld and he could move on to stabilizing the country and fighting this damned blight, or he would be castigated and put aside, and it would all become someone else's problem. 'Put aside' most likely meaning dead– people were harsh on their heroes, especially fallen ones; if he failed tomorrow, he would die not as the Hero of River Dane, but as the most reviled villain Ferelden had seen since the Orlesian occupation.
He poured himself a goblet of red wine, and drank most of it off, then refilled it, and walked over to the window, standing with the goblet forgotten in one hand, looking out through the wavy surfaces of the roundels of glass. They distorted the view, of course, but he was familiar enough with it for his mind's eye to sort out the visual mess before him. The city of Denerim, and beyond it, the forested lands edging the great plain of the Bannorn. Behind him, he knew, rose Mount Drakon, towering over the city that sprawled at its feet.
Maker, but he loved this country; he could see it all so easily in his mind's eye. He had crossed and re-crossed it so many times, from his youth as an outlaw in his father's band and later rebel in Maric's army to the long years spent helping Maric unite the country after the Orlesians had finally been driven out. And he loved it all, it and its people, from the hard-headed farmers of the Bannorn to the hardy, independent souls that inhabited his own Terynir of Gwaren, the elusive bands of Dalish that haunted his forests, even the arrogant nobles in their castles and keeps, seeded throughout the land like choice bits of candied fruit in a festive bun.
He smiled crookedly, and sipped at his wine, then put it down. He was getting maudlin now. Better than melancholy, perhaps, but neither was a fitting emotion to indulge overmuch in on the eve of what was likely going to be one of the most fateful days of his life, second only to that unexpected meeting in the forested lands near Lothering with a mud-daubed, blood-spattered, arrogant young man. Whom he'd disliked pretty much on sight, yet had come to love like a brother, and mourned unceasingly every day since his disappearance at sea five years before.
He put aside those thoughts as well, as too conducive of a return to melancholy, and fell back on old habits instead; the comforting routine of caring for his gear. He got out the soft rags, the polish, his little repair kit full of bits of leather and buckles and stout waxed thread, and began to go over his armour. He took it down off the stand a piece at a time and sat on his bed, minutely examining each strap and buckle – none of which turned out to need any form of repair – then polishing the metal, rubbing the rouge-dipped cloth over and over the surface until it gleamed softly, then rubbing it a second time using a clean cloth to remain any traces of the polishing compound.
As he worked at the familiar task he felt his sense of peace returning. Tomorrow would happen as it would. All he could do was as he had ever done – his best. He owed it to Ferelden, to the ghosts of Maric and Cailan. More, he owed it to himself.
Tomorrow would see only one victor in this contest of wills and politics between himself and the young Grey Warden. At the end of the day, either he or this Ceridwen Amell would emerge victorious. He would not worry about afterwardsuntil then.
Maker willing, there would be an afterwards to worry about, for all of them.