Loghain knew that his swing was wide and wild before he began it. Perhaps it was the pain, or the exhaustion. Perhaps it was the deathroot extract he knew full well coated the blades in the young warden's hands. It was like being outside his own body, watching from above. At the very least his mind was still quick. He anticipated the sinuous duck and twist that put the elf beneath the swinging sword and the deft, brutal lunge that stabbed the blade under his pauldron and through the chink in his mail. The pain was a bright flash. All he could see for a moment were stars tumbling through his vision and suddenly he was back in his own aching body, on his knees.
The warden leapt back, his guard up and glowering, his lips pulled back from his teeth into a snarl as he prowled back and forth around Loghain. He looked like a wolf circling its prey.
"I underestimated you, warden." Loghain bowed his head as he spoke. "I thought you were like Cailan; a child wanting to play at war…" there was a pang somewhere deep as he mentioned Cailan. Cailan who had looked so much like his father. If anyone had asked what it was Loghain would not have been able to tell whether it was sorrow or anger or guilt. All he knew was that he was very tired. 'Not on your knees.' he thought to himself and he exhaled with the effort of getting back onto his feet.
"I was wrong. There's a strength in you that have not seen anywhere since Maric died…" he looked up at the assembled nobility of Ferelden and dragged the words from deep inside his broken, bleeding body. "I yield."
The warden narrowed his eyes and flicked his sword, spattering Loghain's in a trail across the floor. He glanced over his shoulder at the other grey warden, Maric's bastard. Then he glanced over the other shoulder at Anora, who was watching stoney still and whey faced. "I accept your surrender." the warden finally replied. Loghain nodded distantly. He was watching Anora. He always found it hard to believe how beautiful she was; how beautiful and how strong. Her face was still as their eyes met, and the corner of his mouth twitched up as he imagined the cogs whirring around in her mind behind those blue eyes.
The three grey wardens were speaking, but it was only when Anora spoke that Loghain heard them. "The Joining itself is often fatal. Is it not? If he survives you have a general. If not, you have your revenge. Doesn't that satisfy you?" Loghain found himself wondering what she might have done, had he taken more open council with her. 'Better than I, I suspect' he mused. He wanted to laugh. Maric's bastard was speaking; shouting. So that hound did have some bite, after all. The boy had been all diffidence and dissembling jokes before, a little like another prince Loghain had once found, mud-stained and shivering in a forest, long ago. Still, it was when he finally heard him speak in anger that Loghain could hear Maric's voice in him. Strange, that the son would be most like the father in his most uncharacteristic moments.
"You can't do this! My father may have been wrong, but he is still a hero to the people." Anora snapped. 'My girl, still fighting', Loghain thought to himself. Yet he was watching the two grey wardens; Maric's son and the elf. The elf was stock still, save for his shoulders gently rising and falling with his breaths. His feet were set and his fists still bunched around the hilts of his blades. His eyes were very dark and Loghain met them. There was anger there; anger born of pain that went down so deep and back so far that you had no idea where it ended and you began. It was an anger that you held onto to keep you warm in the darkness. It was a rage that you tempered into a blade of fine steel. Loghain knew that anger and he knew that person. Once, he had been that person. 'Into whose heart will you plunge that one day, I wonder?' he thought to himself, silently. The elf warden's face wavered for a moment. Perhaps he knew it, too.
Yes. Loghain knew this person, and he knew what must happen now. "Anora. Hush. It is over." he said, gently.
"Stop treating me like a child. This is serious."
"Daughters never grow up, Anora. They remain six years old with pigtails and skinned knees. Forever." he replied. He felt light, probably the blood loss and the deathroot. Probably.
Loghain straightened up and looked his enemy in the eye. The dark, angry man and the lost prince, standing side by side. "Just make it quick, warden. I can face the Maker knowing that Ferelden is in your hands." He found himself remembering his father, and how he had faced his death. How he had gone to it with his head held high knowing he was giving Ferelden back its King. How could Loghain do any less?
The elf narrowed his eyes and nodded and lifted his blade. Loghain ripped off his gorget and threw it aside, lifting his head high. The blow, when it came, was swift. The elf murmured something under his breath as he struck it, so low that only Loghain heard. "Like dogs, Shianni. Like dogs."