A/N This is the same world as Sensible Creatures and Pretty and Pragmatic. It won't make sense without them; well it will but you'll be confused.

***PLEASE NOTE** This is being updated to correct some minor discrepancies with Dragon Age Inquisition lore and there WILL be spoilers. It will be continued and there will be spoilers there as well. Proceed at your own risk***

Being First Enchanter had sounded like an excellent idea, until it actually happened. And of course, technically she was only an apostate now and she was First Enchanter of nothing. That didn't mean she didn't cling to the title a bit, even so. Despite Adrian's protests, Fiona felt she should be more protected, not take a chance of being caught out in the open. They'd lost so many already and they didn't want to lose more, especially not someone Fiona felt could be more effective at negotiations than fighting. It was a ridiculous notion, but Fiona said tact had failed them. They needed representatives that were fiery and strong and passionate and Adrian couldn't deny that she was all those things. That didn't mean she wouldn't preferred to have fought with her fellow mages. They were out there dying and she was here unable to truly help.

Adrian disagreed vocally and venomously, but all to no avail. She was born to fight and for the first time in her life she was free to actually fight for what she believed in. It was the time and the place she had simply been born to live in, but instead of fighting they wanted her to play political games and hide far from the front lines. It had driven her mad, but even she had a threshold for arguing, though Rhys would probably have disagreed.

Not that he was speaking to her, despite Fiona sending him to Montsimmard as well where he and Evangeline were trying to figure out a way to counter Templar skills. He might have been in the same building, but he might as well have been a million miles away. He wasn't likely to speak to her ever again.

It still stung a little. She couldn't say she loved him - Adrian wasn't entirely sure she'd experienced enough actual love in her life to even identify the emotion. The only clear recollection she had of the feeling was her mother. She had a father, of course, but she couldn't even conjure up an image of his face. She remembered her mother trying to tame her unruly hair into braids, she remembered warm blankets and off key singing. She remembered her mother loved her, at least until she accidentally set fire to the barn.

That was a fragile, conditional love. Yet it was supposed to be the most powerful. Adrian had seen it first hand when Wynne sacrificed herself to save that Templar Rhys had fallen for. Adrian's own mother was not nearly so committed. But that was a good lesson to learn in the end. It was better to be strong than let love sway you to do crazy things.

Love didn't mesh well with being a mage anyway.

Either way, Adrian didn't love Rhys, but he had been her friend for more than a decade and he'd been a passable enough lover back in the day. Now he despised her for ending the life of that Tranquil. Well, not that as much, since he knew as well as she did the man deliberately wanted an end, but more for the desperate action she took to force Wynne's hand. Adrian did not regret what she had done. It had to be done or they all be locked up in the tower, if not Tranquil, by now. And she would likely have to sacrifice far more than just an old friendship to set the mages free from the yoke of the Chantry.

She often wished she could meet the apostate who blew up the Chantry in Kirkwall. He was a man after her own defective little heart.

So here she was, in Montsimmard where the mages still had their tower and with even the most minimal support of the Empress, they had some manner of protection from the conflict. It was somewhere Adrian could make plans and more importantly (or so the Fiona seemed to think) try to court the Grey Wardens to the mage cause. They were the strongest fighting force in Thedas after the Templars and despite claiming to stay out of anything that didn't involve darkspawn...well, everyone knew that was a lie. The Grey Wardens had been tied up in everything politic since they began during the first Blight.

Montsimmard was beautiful and remote, perched on the edge of a lake that seemed as big as the sea with forest and rolling fields and all the other beautiful pastoral things one saw in paintings of Orlais. It was one of the few Circles not totally emptied by the conflict due to the iron fist of their First Enchanter whom they appropriately called Madame du Fer. And since she was conveniently in the capital, Adrian found it possible to make herself at home for the time being. Even better, it didn't stink of fish and fear like the city did and for that she was thankful. It also had a significant lack of Templars and Seekers, at least for the moment and that was even better. All in all, it was hardly a terrible place to be stuck, despite her overwhelming urge to blow things up.

And then, there was him. That had been the most surprising...surprise of them all.

Adrian hadn't recognized his face when she first saw him, though that was hardly surprising. He wore nothing to show his affiliation, and there was this unmistakable aura about him that let her know he was a Grey Warden. He wasn't in a position of leadership or she assumed she would have met him by now, but he had the bearing of a man used to leading. She found him immediately interesting - no matter what else she found appealing, strength and leadership were the ultimate aphrodisiac for Adrian. Rhys's significant lack of backbone and drive had been the nail in that particular coffin after all.

Certainly, it didn't hurt that he was tall with piercing eyes and dark hair and he was typically attired in well worn Grey Warden armor that had seen its share of battle. Most in the tavern opted for more comfortable clothes, but he seemed at home in his armor. Everything about him was simple and strong and reminded her of something out of a storybook.

He didn't speak much and kept to himself. She watched him for several nights in the common room of the tavern near the Warden compound before she heard him say a single word. Even then, it was just to grouse that his drink of choice was currently unavailable. He'd requested some specific honey mead, something about Bannorn clover honey or some such that sounded foreign. His accent was clearly not Orlesian either, but she couldn't quite place it. Then again, Adrian had never been outside of Orlais, so her skill there was lacking.

She caught him watching her on the fourth night. She was frustrated by that point, having spent another day being given a thousand and one excuses why the Warden Commander couldn't see her again. She had more to drink than she should have and when an even more inebriated Warden bumped her table and knocked over the candle, she didn't even think about it before she righted it again and lit the wick with her magic.

First Enchanter or no, it wasn't a good idea to go around advertising her magic. She wanted to be free, but she wasn't stupid. She knew many feared magic - it was why she'd forgone her enchanter's robes for something nondescript when she visited the tavern, especially since she used it as an excuse to get away from her three fellow mage chaperones. First Enchanter yes, but entirely trusted to keep her temper on her own? Not so much.

Adrian caught him looking at her when the little flame danced from her fingertips. But he didn't seem frightened or even the least bit concerned. He also didn't look intrigued which was the other common reaction to a display of magic. Instead he looked oddly wistful, like he'd just seen something that reminded him of home. He discovered her catch him looking and he didn't bother to look embarrassed. He nodded at her in greeting, downed his tankard and left.

She was immediately even more intrigued. Who was this man that had neither fear nor interest in her magic? Who was he that looked like a general but drank mead alone like a commoner? Why did he look so lonely?

When she heard his name, it explained most of that away, though she definitely still had questions.

Loghain Mac Tir.

Maker's Breath. Everyone in Orlais, even mages, knew who he was. Libertarian mages like Adrian often had a special fondness for him and she was certainly no exception. The Chantry was all tied up with the nobility in Orlais and often seemed like one in the same, so anyone who knocked one or the other down a peg was a hero in her book.

Adrian was no romantic, certainly, but the stories of Loghain Mac Tir and Maric Theirin were legendary. There were even new stories of how Loghain had been redeemed from the death of King Cailan and helped to end the Blight, then came to Orlais the heroic Warden. Some of the stories said he and the Hero of Ferelden were lovers, but in those stories he was usually dead, so she never gave them much credence.

It was as if a dashing knight in shining (tarnished and slight dented) armor walked out of the pages of a book. When he'd walked out that door, she somewhat expected she wouldn't see him again. Once she realized who he was, well, characters from stories rarely show up at your front door.

Of course, she was wrong.

The next morning, he was waiting for her outside the tower. She came outside in her black and green First Enchanter robes, expecting to see the same set of Grey Wardens that had accompanied her to the compound every morning, despite never getting to see anyone of importance. Instead, it was Loghain Mac Tir waiting for her.

"Good morning Warden," she said, wondering if she hid her surprise as well as she hoped.

"Enchanter...Adrian, it is?" he asked.

She liked the way he said her name. His Fereldan accent was exotic and his voice was deep and gravelly.

"Yes, though you aren't my usual...escort," she said. She was pleased to see him, but that didn't stop her from being annoyed by the constant watching. She pursed her lips. "One would think the Wardens would be less suspicious of mages."

"Warden mages, perhaps, though the current conflict being what it is," he shrugged and his creaked a little, "You can hardly blame them. That is not why I am here, however. I am here to tell you to not waste your time, today at least. I would not bother yourself for a month or more. Warden Constable Bernard sent word to Weisshaupt. He will not meet with you until then."

"Where's Warden Commander Clarel? I was to speak with her," Adrian asked. Her brow furrowed.

Loghain frowned and looked a bit as if he'd tasted something bitter. "She's been...away for some time. Along with many of the others. There's only a few of us left here and the Warden Constable was left in charge. I don't know that anyone planned to let you in on that bit of information. That Wardens are...," he paused as if he was debating how to continue. "We are having internal issues at the moment."

"Why are you telling me this?" Adrian was honestly surprised. It was more open than anyone else had been, though she'd already worked out that something was amiss on her own. "None of your fellows seemed inclined to tell me anything."

Loghain gave her an expression that might almost have been a smile, though it reached nowhere near his eyes. "I have seen what happens when politicians make mages wait. And here in Montsimmard, that is what the Constable is, just a politician. He's hardly a warrior and no hero." He grunted in obvious disgust. "But whatever he is, he's also too stupid to know leaving a mage pacing outside his door every day is a bad idea."

Adrian laughed.

"Do you think I'll get frustrated and shoot a fireball at the door, Monsieur?" She clucked at him. "Do you think I am so foolish?"

"No, not foolish," he said perfunctorily. "Just with a mage's temperament. And a woman's. I've known both well enough."

"But you do not know me," she cocked her head at him and considered. He didn't seem the type to be turned away by a bit of flirting. Adrian was lonely. She rarely indulged herself in anything beyond flirting - men became too attached and it was too awkward in the tower where one could never get away but that didn't mean she didn't enjoy the flirting, the wordplay, the chase. And he was just standing there, flouting the rules as if he hadn't a care in the world. It was immeasurably arousing. "Though I would not mind if you did, know me, that is. It does seem I will have much time to wait, after all."

"Are you propositioning me?" He wasn't embarrassed, but did seem a bit taken aback by her bluntness.

"I didn't expect to get your armor off quite so swiftly, if that's what you mean," she grinned at him, not bothering to be coy. Despite her intoxication by powerful men, she only knew of them by reputation and in stories. She was flying on instinct, but she knew she wanted nothing more than to get and keep his attention. "But I know no one but my assistants and they are driving me to...what did you say...express my mage's temperament? I could use something to distract me."

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

"I'm hardly the best company for conversation," he said. "But I," he paused and shook his head. "Am I actually considering this?" He said it as if he was thinking aloud. "I am clearly a madman."

"Good," Adrian laughed. "That will be distracting."

Loghain reminded himself that he was dead, so whatever ridiculous thing he did to entertain himself didn't really matter.

When he left the mage at her tower with the promise to meet her for the evening meal, he was feeling an interesting melange of emotions ranging from anxiety and arousal mixed with a significant amount of guilt.

Thinking in Orlesian words like melange wasn't helping either. He'd been in this Maker forsaken place for entirely too long. And the worst part was that sometimes he was even beginning to like it.

He liked the food. He couldn't really articulate how much that vexed him.

This little mage, she was a brash one, and he couldn't deny that he liked that in a woman. There was something about a woman who wasn't afraid of what she believed in, even if that thing was finding a way to seduce him. During his long years of celibacy, between Maeve's death and meeting Kya (ignoring the ritual with the swamp witch, of course, which he always did since he liked to be able to sleep at night) he had moments of wishing for a woman like that to appear in his life. Like Cauthrien yet she was only bold on the battlefield and so timid everywhere else, at least when it came to him. Now that his old life was far away, he allowed himself more moments of idle speculation.

Loghain had more regrets than he had once realized, though dying wasn't one of them.

It wasn't that he didn't desire things to be different. He couldn't fool himself that much. There were nights that there was a burning in his chest so visceral he thought for certain he was dying. It wasn't a lie, the letter he sent to Kya.

The Deep Roads are calling, and as much as I have fought it, it is to no avail.

The nightmares and the pain of being apart from her were killing him. He wrote each word in agony, fingers stained with ink, hands shaking with the effort. The dreams were horror; a bloated thing that stalked him, screamed vulgarity at him, threatened him by name. Sometimes, he saw it even when he was awake. His fingers were numb all the time.

There were Wardens going on their Calling, heading to Orzammar once their goodbyes were done. He planned to meet his end with them.

But then suddenly, the nightmares were gone. It was like the sun broke through the clouds or some other terrible metaphor he was useless to come up with. Whatever best described it, it was over. The hallucinations ended.

Instead of leaving for Orzammar with the latest group of Wardens, they gave him recruits to train in sword and shield and in archery from cover, all well within his area of expertise. He thanked the Maker for the distraction and worked himself and his recruits so hard it was surprising he didn't kill them. But no matter how hard he pushed himself, there was still this persistent energy in him. Despite fighting against it, he penned and then burned a new letter to Kya Amell every night.

It was like drowning. He struggled to breathe at times.

He wrote one final letter and bared his soul to her in it. He explained that somehow his Calling had faded and he'd been given yet one more chance to live and be alive, and by Andraste please come to Orlais. It was unbelievably selfish, but he'd missed out on a life already and if there was still a chance...

He asked her to marry him but left the letter unsent on his desk, waiting. He didn't know what he was waiting for until it happened.

Eventually, official word came from Ferelden that Warden Commander Amell had dispatched a sentient broodmother. One of those talking darkspawn she told him about, and although he'd never had the misfortune of seeing one in person, he heard Kya's tales of the broodmother they dispatched in the Deep Rods outside Caridin's Cross. It explained his nightmares and their secession.

Unofficial word trailed along with it, as it always did. What he'd insinuated, what he'd pushed them into, what he'd wanted when he wasn't being a selfish old prick had happened...after he died. Warden Commander Amell moved the Howe boy into her rooms in the Vigil and it was almost scandalous that way they were carrying on.

They went to Gwaren together and put up a memorial for Loghain Mac Tir and wasn't that funny?

Hysterical even.

He burned the letter.

That was almost a decade ago, but if he thought about it too much, it was still raw, like poking the socket of a lost tooth. He hated that it bothered him. He went to Montsimmard with a clearer heart and purpose than he'd had in many years. He was happy to see the little light that flickered in Nathaniel Howe's eyes when he said Kya's name.

But when he left Ferelden, he thought he was dying. Any man can be alone for a time and be selfless, especially when that time is so perfectly limited by death in battle on the other side.

Now? Now the Blight was over, and though there was certainly war, technically it was a war that didn't concern the Grey Wardens - some lordling trying to take the throne, and mages trying to blaze their way to being free and rogue Templars chasing at their heels. Once, he would have not had a second thought siding with the Templars. Loghain was not a devout man by any means, but he was just a man who's first taste of magic was almost dying at the hand of a Witch of the Wilds.

But things change. Mages, it turned out, were just people, much as Grey Wardens were. Some were decent and some were assholes. And the uncontrolled force of the Templars without the tempering of the Chantry mothers behind them was frightening indeed. It was like a sword wielded by a madman. The sword wasn't evil, but evil was being done with it. Granted, the mages had some things to answer for certainly, but all the colors in the world were now grey.

It was easier when the world was black and white.

That was where war came into play. There was your comrades and your enemies. It didn't matter in the soldiers in the other uniforms were decent men that loved their mothers. All that mattered is they opposed you and you need to end them. Loghain knew the drumbeat of war, and it was a dance he preferred if he could have it. Though the Wardens had more than enough problems of their own right now, so many of them suddenly struggling with nightmares and hallucinations, but if anyone asked his opinion, he would tell them to side with the mages. No one deserved to be locked away for an accident of birth. He knew that blood and the name you were born with didn't have to define you. Everything about Loghain was not what he'd been born to. Besides, Wardens were supposed to protect the people and he didn't see why that only meant from darkspawn.

It didn't have anything to do with the little curly haired mage he'd pegged as the rebel mage representative the first time she sauntered into the tavern, all red hair and bravado. Of course not. That would be absurd.

He was sixty, by the Maker. He should grow a beard and tell stories about past battles and make jokes about his lack of libido. That was what old men did, after all.

This damned Grey Warden business was not letting things progress naturally, as it were. He was blasted sixty and he'd been celibate for more of his life...Maker, longer than he'd ever had a lover, despite being married for fifteen years. And here he was, with a Grey Warden appetite that was most certainly not going to be contented or sated with food.

For the past eight years, he'd visited more brothels than he had the entire rest of his life combined, but that was empty and afterward he often wished he's stayed in his quarters and taken care of it himself. Until the next time, and then the next. It seemed immeasurably more wise than getting involved with someone again. Despite knowing Kya was likely Kya Howe by now, it almost felt like betrayal.

Then again, the opportunity hadn't ever just dropped in his lap before. And wasn't Kya the one who taught him that regrets were the one thing you couldn't change? Didn't she tell him not to waste the life he still had in worrying about what came before?

Maybe this wasn't what she had in mind, but he was dead. Might as well live it up.