Wrote this for the anon who asked for Inquisitor Loghain- it got a bit longer than I thought, but I really like it. I'm glad I got this prompt.
The irony, he thought dryly, was astounding. The Breach had been momentarily quieted, the mark on his hand throbbing less and less every minute. The worry of demons pouring through the Fade and destroying the world was much less present than the worry that he would be executed on the spot.
They hadn't recognized him until they'd made it back from killing that Pride demon, not until he'd woken up the next day and his former quartermaster, a women he had known in another life, had gasped out loud and shouted his name. The Orlesian, Leliana, had smiled. She had known.
"Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir," said the dark-haired woman, teeth gritted. "What were you doing at the Conclave?"
"I'm not a Teyrn anymore," he said. "I'm a Warden, and now, apparently, your savior."
That wasn't received well. He chuckled. He hadn't meant it to be.
"You're going to need to decide between the mages and the templars, Teyrn."
The templar, Cullen, kept calling him Teyrn. Seemed that no matter how many times he told him to stop he kept on going. Loghain had long given up on that front.
"And you want me to go with the templars, isn't that right?" he said, sharpening a dagger as he leaned against the wall.
Cullen shifted uncomfortably.
"But the others want the mages," continued Loghain, waving the dagger in the air casually.
"Yes," said Leliana.
"Why not both again?"
"Because-" began Josephine.
Loghain shook his head. "Let me see the map."
The royal entourage walked in with little splendor, so Loghain was preoccupied in discussion with the rebel mage leader right up until they were upon them.
When he turned around his eyebrows raised. "Your Majesties," he said.
Alistair's mouth dropped. Anora looked a bit smug, which Loghain wasn't surprised to see. He had suspected she'd learn of his new position rather quickly.
"What are you doing here?" said Alistair.
"Did you know?" said Loghain. "I'm a big deal now. Saving the world from a demon hoard. Can you imagine if I'd have died before now? We'd be in trouble now. Good thing I was never executed."
Anora shot him a look. Don't goad my husband, it said. But she smiled at the end, softness in her gaze. It went straight through to his heart, and he wants to stride over, to say, "No, this time is for us," but he didn't. Loghain Mac Tir was a man who stayed professional.
"The mages are staying with us," said Loghain. "Bit awkward, with the templars we just recruited. I expect Teagan wants his estate back?"
"Yes," said Alistair, teeth gritted. "That's what we came here for."
Loghain nodded. "Makes sense. We'll be out of your hair, then."
He squeezed Anora's shoulder before she left. It was good to see her.
"Really," said Loghain, groaning as he pulled himself up from his seat. "We just sealed the Breach and now we're getting attacked?"
"I thought you'd be up for anything," said Leliana, whose joke was marked by tension.
"Not past eight," he said. "I'm a bit old."
"A bit?" said Sera, cackling as they went outside.
Fighting those red templar abominations was a pain in the ass, but he still managed to the time to adjust Cullen's strategies and get more people out. That was before Corypheus decided to pick him up by the arm.
"You are nothing," intoned that deep, demonic voice. The voice of power.
Loghain spat in his face. "At least I'm not Orlesian."
When Leliana handed him the sword, Loghain wondered at the turns of fate. How had he ended up here, when he could have died so many times? Well, apparently the Maker had other plans.
He raised the sword in the air and said, "As your Inquisitor, I stand for Fereldens. We have come back from subjugation and I am still here, still alive to remind you all that we are strong."
Someone in the crowd shouted, "You were stronger before you killed the king!"
Loghain's eyes narrowed and he pointed the sword down at the owner of the voice. "Say that again, boy. Do you want to fight?"
Josephine made something akin to a strangled sob behind him.
Loghain had to choose. Hawke or Stroud. Stroud or Hawke.
He grunted, rubbing that annoying mark on his hand against his pants leg.
"Well," he said. "It was nice knowing you Hawke."
She shrugged. "You're a bastard, Loghain Mac Tir, but you're a damn skilled one."
She winked and shouldered past him. She was a mean woman, but a good one. He toasted her that night, alone in his quarters, that portrait of Maric he'd found in Redcliffe's castle watching over him.
"Why me?" said Stroud as they left the Fade.
"You're a Warden," said Loghain. "I've already killed enough of those."
"I hate Orlais," said Loghain loudly, frowning as he entered the ball. They'd forced him out of his armor and into some terrible Orlesian fashion. He'd pinned several medallions Anora had sent him for the occasion to his chest, a brazen reminder that he'd kicked Orlais's ass out of Ferelden.
The muttering as he entered the ball was not subtle. Good. He was sixty five years old and still around to make these noble bastards uncomfortable. Even better.
"I'll save the Empress," he promised, but he found himself suspiciously absent when that whole assassination thing went down. By that point in the night he'd had three gloves thrown at him, two guards asking for proof of his invitation, and strangely, several people asking for his autograph. One woman asked him to sign her breast. He did not.
Gaspard wanted to invade Ferelden. He said so to Loghain. Loghain didn't usually make a habit of spitting in people's faces, but he seemed to have gotten into the habit. The thought about this strange occurrence as Gaspard spluttered in rage, drawing his sword to defend his honor.
Several minutes later Gaspard was on the floor, laying in his own blood, and Loghain was looking at the elven woman, Briala.
"I have some mistakes to make up for," he said. "And while I don't think this makes up for them, the throne of Orlais going to an elf might help, don't you think?"
Briala smiled. Loghain liked her.
Loghain didn't want anyone's affections, so he stayed in his quarters with his maps and his portrait and that locket his wife had given him so long ago, wondering why he should live so far past the people he cared about.
"You want to be my advisor on elven magic?" said Loghain.
"I am your advisor on elven magic," replied Morrigan.
Loghain stared at her. "I might be mistaken, but last I checked you weren't an elf."
She scowled. "The Dalish don't know-"
He snapped his fingers, wincing internally. Bad idea. They were swollen from-well, old age.
"Find a Dalish who does know," he said. "Failing that, teach one."
Her scowl deepened. He had a feeling she'd be making that face around him a lot.
"Please," said Morrigan.
"Please," said Merrill.
He looked at them. He certainly didn't want to drink it.
"One of you is an elf," said Loghain. "And one isn't. And since this is an elven place…Merrill, drink up."
Morrigan was angry, but Loghain had dealt with many angry people before. He seemed to have a knack for inspiring that particular emotion.
"Flemeth," said Loghain, crossing his arms. His heart was beating rather fast. He'd come full circle, except now he lacked his other half.
"You again," she said, tilting her head, hands on Morrigan's child.
"Yes," he said. "Me."
"Do you remember what I said to you last time we met?"
He shut his eyes, his ears roaring like he was standing under a waterfall.
"Yes," he said.
"And was it true?"
He felt twenty again, tied up by Flemeth's vines. He'll betray you, she had told Maric, each time worse than the last.
"Yes," he said, the word harsh against his lips.
There was sympathy in her eyes. "Not as badly as you think."
She said more, things that were more important, that she was a god, things that shocked her daughter, but that wasn't what stuck in Loghain Mac Tir's mind.
When Loghain faced Corypheus the second and final time, he spat in his face.
That was after the battle, of course. After his old bones were nearly popped out of their joints from hard falls and his hair nearly singed off by the dragon's fire, after he fought like he rarely had before, the same blood pumping in his veins that that been there at the Battle of River Dane.
And when Corypheus was finally, blessedly, dead, Loghain collected salvia in his dry, coarse throat and spat.
"It's over then," he said.
Josephine, ever the kind one, hovered by him. "Are you okay?"
He waved his hand dismissively. "I'm fine."
"There's much to be done, you know," she said. "We need you."
"I know," he said. "And I'll stay. Maybe…"
She waited.
"Maybe invite the Ferelden royal family," he said. "You know, for a diplomatic dinner."
"That can be arranged," she said.
She squeezed him on the shoulder. He stared over the balcony.
"I wish Maric was here," he said, but she was already gone. He was talking to himself.