Loghain did not forget the first time he met the Warden. It was on the eve of the battle at Ostagar, and he had already made his plans within plans. When his guard told him the Grey Warden recruit wanted to see him, he knew he would be talking to a dead girl. He had no reason to speak with her, but he refused to spare himself another pair of innocent eyes to haunt his guilty dreams. It was the least he could do for her.

Despite Cailan's enthusiasm, Loghain had no particular expectations. Nevertheless, he was surprised by what he saw, and didn't quite manage to hide it. He'd never seen anyone, let alone a dwarf, wearing blue lipstick before, and managing to carry it off as well. It matched her facebrand, and reminded him, oddly enough, of the kaddis that clad the hounds. She was painted for battle.

Presumably Duncan knew what he was doing.

He spoke briefly with her, watching her absorb impressions like a sponge, her eyes bright and determined.

But he had things to do, and never expected to see her again.

It didn't occur to him, days later, when a battered group of his own men passed on a message from the surviving Wardens, that she might have been the one to send it. She'd been a recruit, after all, and despite the fact that someone survived to light the beacon at the top of the tower, he could hardly imagine anyone surviving the descent.

The message was laughably childish, but Loghain had not forgotten hurling similar taunts at Orlesians.

"You'll have to do better than that."

And then they vanished, and trying to track them down was like trying to nail smoke to the wall. The next time he saw the Warden she was on his home turf, in Denerim.

She was standing with Arl Eamon, and Maric's bastard son. The latter did not look particularly happy to be there, and Loghain knew instantly who was behind this challenge to the throne; who his real opponent was and had always been.

She looked older, the kind of age that was acquired not through the agency of time, but of things done and seen in the course of war. She was still wearing blue makeup though, and her short gold hair was braided just as before. She was coldly insolent, and completely unintimidated by Ser Cauthrien. Or him if it came to that, although she watched him like one would watch a sleeping bear.

The next few days saw the foundations of Loghain's carefully constructed plans turn to sand. Anora vanished into Eamon's estate, and no one could tell him for certain if the Wardens had actually ever been incarcerated at Fort Drakon let alone when and how they'd escaped. Rendon Howe got what was coming to him, and Loghain was furious but couldn't deny a certain sense of relief that justice, of a sort, had been served.

All his machinations had been in vain; it had come down to the Landsmeet, and Loghain could sense disaster in the air as strongly as he had at Ostagar. Disaster for whom, it was impossible to say.

He watched her as the bannorn gave their loyalty to the Grey Wardens, to her and her would-be puppet-king. How a Dwarf, and a Casteless one at that, had convinced the banns to follow her was beyond him. Dispassionately, she laid bare his crimes, and those of Howe, and he snarled and defended, even when his own daughter spoke against him - a blow he had never seen coming.

Despite everything, despite the danger she would be in if she lost this fight, he could see her mind was on something else; the danger on the horizon. He was not, and had never been, her greatest enemy. He was just another obstacle on the way to defeating the darkspawn. He understood that kind of single-minded devotion to duty. He respected it. And when the time came that they would fight, as he knew it would, he respected her.

"'A man is made by the quality of his enemies.' Maric told me that once. I wonder if it's more a compliment to you or me," he told her, as the crowd parted like a spectators at a drunken fight at an inn to allow them room.

He saw her smile then, the crafty, crooked grin of a street-rat. "That depends," she said, flicking her blades out of their scabbards, "on who wins, doesn't it?"

And then she attacked. She used her smaller frame to great advantage, sliding under his blade, tumbling like an acrobat, striking out with blades and feet at weak points in his armour. Loghain knew his sword would go right through her leather armour, and that she was relying on speed to keep herself alive. The knowledge didn't help him much.

It was a long, gruelling fight. Her blades had found the gaps in his armour in dozens of places, and the floor beneath him was slippery with blood, most - but not all - of it his. He'd managed to hit her with his shield, and her nose was a bloody mess. He could barely hear the shouts of the crowd above the sound of his own harsh breathing, and the blood pounding in his ears.

He was old, she was young, and the fight was ending. She caught his blade with one of her own, metal sliding against metal as she deflected the force and kicked viciously at the back of his knee. It must have been a dwarven thing, because she'd done it half a dozen times before, and this time was one too many. His knee buckled, refused to hold his weight any longer, and he fell.

She danced away from him, wary of some trick, but Loghain knew it was over. He'd done his best, he believed, and he'd lost. He let his weapons fall.

"I yield!" He was aware they might be the last words he'd ever say.

No blade descended on his neck, however, not yet at least. "Did I ever tell you about the time I snuck into the Proving Grounds and nearly won?" she asked in nasal tones, ignoring her ruined nose. She was out of breath, and a gash on her leg was bleeding freely, but her eyes were bright with battle fever, and the fight still in her. She looked more animated now than she had when talking to the Landsmeet.

Loghain bowed his head before her, and awaited his fate. Anora would speak for him, but he knew it was not her decision to make.

The circle mage approached and tried to inconspicuously heal her nose as the dwarf held it in place with a confidence that suggested this sort of thing had happened before. To Loghain's surprise the Warden with the hateful accent, the one Howe had quietly removed (of course they would have freed him; Loghain doubted there were any occupied cells left in the city) came up with a suggestion. Recruitment, rather than execution.

The dwarf tilted her head, rubbing blood off her face with the back of her hand.

"Huh, that's not a bad idea." He couldn't suppress a jolt of hope, even as he watched his own blood drip onto the floor. No matter how hard one tried, it was difficult to resign oneself to death. He didn't deserve more time and he wanted this to end, he told himself. But a human heart never wanted to stop beating.

"You could have one of Fereldan's greatest generals at your side," Anora offered, seizing the chance to save her father's life.

"No, wait! I can't believe you're considering this." It was Maric's bastard, of course. He'd been radiating utter hate ever since he'd stepped into the Landsmeet. "Becoming a Grey Warden isn't a punishment-"

"I know that-" She was arguing back. He didn't know why.

"I'm not going to let you do this. I'll, I'll become king, and I'll take the crown. Or are you going to oppose that too?"

"No, of course not. I support you-"

"But you promised you'd support me." That was Anora, furious at being out-manoeuvred. Loghain cursed the older Warden then; if he hadn't suggested the Joining, whatever that was, Anora at least would have remained queen. Now he'd lose that as well as his life.

"Sorry, Lady, politics." The Warden didn't sound particularly sorry.

"As my first act as king, I call for this man's execution."

Loghain closed his eyes. If not redemption, then at least he would get peace.

"Not so fast, Sire." He could hear the pleading tone in her voice as she willed him to see her reasoning. He'd been in the same position hundreds of times with Cailan, and he knew it was hopeless. "I can invoke the Right of Conscription."

"You'd do that? You'd save the man that betrayed his king, and killed Duncan?" Ah, so that was the root of it. Loghain had been having trouble believing the bastard was so fond of his legitimate half-brother.

"Yes, I would." Loghain's curiosity got the better of him; he tilted his head and tried to catch her expression from the corner of his eye. She was defensive, jaw set and determined like a mabari. "It's what Duncan would do," she said carefully. Her gaze slid down to him and their eyes met before he bowed his head again. "I think," she added quietly.

"I refuse to call this man brother. And how dare you invoke Duncan's name for this, this…" He ran out of words vile enough to describe Loghain.

"Are you going to defy me on this?" she asked icily.

The whelp backed down, as Loghain suspected he did on a regular basis. "Do what you will; I'll have no part in it," he said, in a voice rich with fury and hurt. "You, of all people…" And with that stunning display of temper, the new king turned his back on them. The Warden drew breath to argue, but the rising murmur of the crowed must have reminded her of their audience.

"I see," was all she said. "Let's get this done. Wynne?" Loghain could feel the mage already starting to heal his wounds.

Anora was being dealt with, and Loghain was relieved to note that she wasn't going to be harmed. He'd started getting to his feet when he felt himself yanked upwards. She'd hooked her hands under the edges of his pauldrons and had pulled until they were eye-to-eye, Loghain still on his knees. He didn't resist. He'd lost the right to.

"You'd better be worth it," she growled.

He could have told her then. Said all he wanted was peace, and a swift death, that her mercy was misplaced. But his human heart stopped his voice, and he said nothing. He would live, at least a while longer, and atone for some of his mistakes.

Her eyes were grey.