The first day was angry. He hammered on the door and shouted, to no avail.
"Maric, blast you! I rode a good horse into the ground to get here and you're going to let me in!"
.
The second day, he tried logic, though he knew it had a slim chance of success.
"The country won't run itself, Maric. Are you going to starve yourself to death and leave me as regent? Maybe Eamon, young as he is, or Bryce Cousland? None of us are you, Maric, none of us could be king without a fight, and you know that."
.
The third day, he tried guilt. (To be truthful, it wasn't the only time he tried guilt.) He thought he heard someone stir, but was never certain. When the day was done, he had a blanket and a cot brought to him.
"My daughter was ill when I left, Maric, but I came, because I knew you'd fall apart. Celia was angry with me, leaving with no notice when word came in."
.
On the fourth day, he went for a ride and pretended the problem would solve itself. It didn't.
.
On the fifth day, he invoked family ties, though he didn't bring the crying boy to the door. He only hoped that the quiet inside didn't mean he was talking to a corpse.
"Your son doesn't know what's going on, Maric. He lost his mother, and now you're trying to take away his father as well. He hasn't stopped crying, that I can tell."
"Go away." He also hoped that wasn't his imagination. He had considered breaking down the door the next day, but if Maric was still alive and still listening, then he would keep talking.
.
On the sixth day, he shared his grief. He tried not to remember the words later, but he poured out his heart about everything from the moment he found out she was betrothed to Maric to the realization that he had arrived in Denerim after her death. Celia had healed his heart, when he had shattered it on the rocks himself, but like a mended bone, it ached when the weather was poor.
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On the seventh day, he tried a completely different tack. He gave up on persuading Maric for the moment and instead began to tell stories about everyone who was still alive from the rebellion, the most amusing gossip he had heard and generally only repeated to Celia, punctuated with sardonic comments. He chose to maintain his reputation for being a humorless bastard most of the time, but this was an emergency.
He thought he heard a snort or two at some of the best lines.
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On the eighth day, he ran out of ideas and just talked about nothing. He told children's stories and ridiculous jokes and said whatever came into his mind.
"Maric, do you really think you can be more stubborn than I can?"
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Ten full days after his arrival in Denerim, and two weeks after the death of Queen Rowan Guerrin, the king finally opened his door. He looked very nearly like he had risen from his own funeral pyre – he was pale, and he had dark circles under his eyes, and he had lost a tremendous amount of weight. (They later found his empty wash water pitcher.)
Loghain hadn't slept for about two days at that point, but he shakily pushed himself to his feet anyway. Maric attempted to swing at him and had to catch himself on the doorframe to keep from falling.
"You… you son of a whore. Why wouldn't you let me die?" croaked from Maric's dry throat.
"All that work to get your throne, to keep you on it, and you thought I'd let it go to waste? Thought I'd let you stick me with it, maybe?" he rasped back. Maric looked with disbelief at him for a moment before the pair more or less fell exhaustedly into a manly embrace.
"Because you're my friend, damn it."