Loghain has missed sleeping out in the wilds.

He has missed the morning air that is thin and crisp and easy to breathe, has missed the hunting and the archaic cooking rituals, the night watch by the fire and the endless roads. His body is older than last time he was living like this, but all it takes is a few nights to remind it. His bones remember battle, his heart recalls being forever travelling.

The novelty is how much time he has to spare. Without his maps and quills, without commanders to command, banns to argue with and kings to coddle he finds the long stretches of evening and the quiet hours of night almost unsettling.

When they are not in motion, everyone has their occupations and those are the fixed spots in this quickly changing world, impossible to upset. Loghain knows the pattern well.

He hunts when he can, bringing back rabbits and birds to their camp; he skins the animals with the eager assistance of the Mabari and if he becomes too restless, he sometimes takes over the Warden's duty to gather wood for the fire. And he tends to his weapons and armour, which is less and less satisfying the longer they travel.

As they leave the Dalish outpost and head west, Loghain's breastplate is rammed by a Hurlock axe and he lets out a litany of curses – not for the wound, but for the tear in the metal.

"I suspect that suit of armour has merged with your skin by now," Maric says in his head, in a tone he developed over the last couple of years of his life. Those years when they had made too much of a ruin of each other to truly be friends, but neither of them knew anything else so they kept at it.

And the Maric in his memories is right, of course. The Battle at River Dane was more than a battle, it was a birth of sorts. He had rode into the horde of his men – beaten, bloody and exhausted – carrying the helmet of the defeated Orlesian Commander and they had all roared in response. In that moment it was all worth it, for all of them, no matter the cost of victory. He kept the armour. Dressed in something belonging to the enemy, something that had been wielded and measured after someone else's dimensions, Loghain found that it was simpler to transform himself.

Running his hands over the metal, he is in another army, fighting another war for another cause, and he is reluctant to let the image go as a voice calls out for him.

They have stopped to heal their wounds and rest; the others have scampered off to perform their little habits after battle and he remains with their packs and tents, trying to decide if there is still a point in mending the holes and dents in the massive silverite.

"Loghain!"

He looks up to find Wynne staring at him, hands on hips and a displeased expression in her face. Had the Warden been present, he would have expected a reluctant healing spell but the Circle mage, when not following orders, has no sympathy to offer him. Not that he has any burning need for it, but he had perhaps thought her the subtle sort. One of those self-righteous cows who hide their cowardice behind a scholar's wording or a Chant of Light. But he has learned in recent days that the mage is anything but discreet.

"Yes?" he replies, stopping the movement of his hands.

"I want to talk to you."

Loghain shrugs, and rises to his full height, leaving the armour on the ground. The mage looks over her shoulder very briefly, as if she must ensure that nobody else will hear them.

"What are you playing at?" she asks.

He hesitates before answering, uncertain of what exactly he is being asked. "I beg your pardon?"

"She's young, but she's no fool," she clarifies. "She hasn't forgotten what you've done."

This is the remarkable thing about true fools, Loghain thinks wearily. Their tendency to believe everyone is as insipid as they are when they present their revelations to the world.

"Madam, I have no idea what you're trying to suggest." He makes an effort to sound respectful, civilised. Maker knows he has had practice over the years. "Speak plainly. If you wish to accuse me of something, do it. But if the crime you're suggesting is one of underestimating our general, then I am not guilty. I have no delusions about being able to fool her."

"I'll be watching you, Loghain Mac Tir," she scoffs, in some half-hearted conclusion. He still is unsure what the inquiry truly was.

"Certainly. If that amuses you, feel free."

The mage just shakes her head and walks away, and Loghain grinds his teeth as he squats down among his things again. The pulsating ache in his back seems to move up along his spine, towards his temples and forehead. He grimaces at his distorted reflection in the surface of what has been his second skin for almost thirty years.

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All night the blasted woman's words bother him.

He, too, wonders what in the Maker's name he is playing at.

Loghain prides himself on being a practical man. He isn't superstitious, does not dwell on the concept of sin and knows, better than most, the difference between duty and desire.

He holds very few regrets. Regret is simple and choices never are. There are moments – growing in numbers the older he gets – when he mourns the choices he has made but he does not regret them because regretting something means you would have done differently if given the opportunity. And he would not have.

What he has done he would do again. To Maric, to himself, to Rowan, to Cailan, to the men and women sacrificed in the name of Ferelden. Necessity will always be more important than sentiment and someone has to shoulder the responsibilities. This is a clear-cut fact.

And yet.

Yet he suddenly finds that he regrets this past year, in a way that tugs at his defences and exposes parts of him he has not acknowledged in years. And in these moments he is a young man again, on his knees in front of Sister Ailis. He is young, and he cannot recall ever having asked forgiveness for anything before, yet there he is and the words that come out of his mouth are crushed beneath their own weight.

"Forgive me," he says. Over and over he says it. "Please, forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," Mother Ailis whispers, stroking his hair, and Loghain hates her, almost as much as he hates himself, for lying to him.

He wonders if it's the same twisted mercy he seeks in the Warden, if that is nature of the hold she has on him, the inexplicable grasp around his throat. He wonders if he wishes to kill her or prove his worth, confirm the reason behind her disdain or be the hero he never was.

And he wonders what a man who no longer wants to be forgiven and who doesn't forgive anyone for anything, would even do with her mercy if she offered it.

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Two days from the Circle Tower, they stop near Lake Calenhad and strike up their camp for the night. Loghain has slept badly, his dreams disturbed not only by the taint but also by injuries that won't heal, that illogically seem to get worse the more he rests. He doubts the mage would degrade herself to touch it, and he can't find the energy to care.

After the Orlesian bard has served her stew – that he has to admit doesn't taste half as bad as he would like to be able to claim – and the witch of the wilds has washed the pots and bowls, he reaches for one of his packs and walks down to the lake to wash himself.

At least the water offers some alleviation for whatever it is that pains him. He does not know how much time has passed while he has been down there, but upon his return to the place where he left his clothes, he finds that he's not alone.

"Oh!" His intrusive general lets out a little sound of surprise when she notices the same thing.

"Warden," he greets her, dispassionately, turning his back on her to put on his trousers.

"My apologies," she says, her voice not betraying any embarrassment she might feel. "When I followed you here I didn't think you would... well, I wasn't planning on invading your privacy."

It amuses him to think of what a sheltered soldier's life she must have led if she still considers privacy an option. Perhaps they have drawn a bathing schedule.

"Since I have a hard time imagining it was an overwhelming urge to see me without clothes that brought you here, I believe you." He works on the laces without looking up, then he turns around. "What do you want?"

She gives him a strange look that he can't interpret. Her gaze is firm and scrutinizing but she shifts a little where she stands, folding her arms. A moment passes between them where he is certain he is being watched, like a curious object put on display, and possibly measured. Against what scale, he thankfully does not know. He looks around for his shirt.

"You were hurt," she says finally. "In the battle, before. And you didn't receive any healing."

Loghain scoffs at her. There is no rest in this blasted company, no single spot where he can be alone.

"So you followed me here to inform me of something I already know?" The words come out low, ragged. Raking one hand through his wet hair, he sighs heavily. "Just... leave me be."

Amazingly, she steps closer, until she is only inches away. He can feel her breath on his skin and it makes the hair on his arms stand up.

"You have a wound on your back," she says matter-of-factly. "It looks infected."

"I'm sure it will heal in time," he snaps, grabbing the shirt and striding quickly back to camp. But she follows suit, stubborn as sin, catching his arm before he has time to escape into his tent. He jerks away at her touch. "Don't -"

"Andraste's flaming sword, Loghain! Don't be an ass!"

"I don't need a nursemaid." He lowers his voice when the assassin is giving them wide-eyed glances. Without looking back at her, he proceeds into the tent.

She is right about the sodding wound, of course. It does feel terrible and he is in no particular hurry to have his shirt chafe against it again.

In truth, he chides himself for being ridiculous – he spent the better part of his youth tending to wounds among the rebel army soldiers; both Maric and Rowan and several of their loyal warriors had bandaged him up, sucked poison out of his flesh, washed him and tucked him into bed like a child.

This is different.

He did the same for them, all those years ago. They all did, for each other. That is how you live, pressed so tightly together there are no longer clear lines where you end and someone else begin. It had felt seamless. But this is a grown man's memories of youth, he realises, made smooth and soft by age and time when in reality it was an awkward struggle. All transformation begins with tearing something away, melting it, burning it down – and then reshaping it, pretending it has always been clay.

This is not so different. He is different. He is an old, bitter man who is unused to following orders he does not intend to dismiss from superiors he does not intend to disrespect.

Loghain groans irritably to himself, burying his face in his hands.

"Good, you haven't put the shirt back on again," Elissa's voice startles him, as does the chilly gust of wind from the opening in the tent when she steps inside. Obviously unperturbed by his overly emotional denial before, she brings a handful of bandages and a few bottles that she places on the ground beside his bedroll before closing the tent, carefully.

And then she sits down behind him and Loghain just can't find the strength to argue so he takes a deep breath and leans slightly forward.

"Now, I do not possess a gentle touch so this will probably hurt a lot."

"I am so glad you decided to come over then," he mutters.

He flinches and feels his entire body tense when she puts a wet piece of cloth to his back and slowly drags it along the injury, every inch of the process leaving a stinging ache behind; then she repeats it so many times he has to battle the urge to yell. But at least the touch is softer than her words implied.

"The Hurlocks use poison sometimes," she explains conversationally. "We learned it the hard way in the Deep Roads. Leliana got an infection that Wynne almost couldn't heal."

Loghain says nothing in response to that. He closes his eyes. Soft fingertips trace the outlines of the wound and then further to the left, putting mild pressure to the flesh and muscles below his shoulder blade.

"Did that hurt?" she asks.

"Yes." He swallows a deep, throaty moan of pain. "Why?"

"I'm checking to see if it has spread." The light touch is back again; he relents somewhat against her palms and it makes it a little less painful. Her hands move along his sides and up towards his shoulders. "You're a poor soldier if you're dying from darkspawn infections."

"Isn't that precisely what we are doing?"

"Yes, but not today." Her hands disappear from his back for a few moments. Then they return and she is holding up a shred, wrapping it around his chest to fasten the poultice over his wound. Whatever the ingredients in it, it seems to burn away his flesh. As she changes position to tighten the knot, her kneecaps bump into his lower back; she uses his shoulders to regain her balance, her fingers digging into his skin. "Understood?"

There is something that wants to be said, but the words don't agree, he can't find them. Loghain stares ahead, observing the contours of the others outside the tent where they are walking around like characters in a play, mutely showing them something.

"Are we allies now?" he asks eventually. "Is that it? Just like that? I can't imagine it can be this simple."

The Warden is quiet for a while, moving from behind him to sit face to face.

"This is hardly simple." Her voice is terse, slightly bitter. "It is what it is."

"And what is that?"

They look at each other for a long period of time, in a manner that most of all reminds him of the duel at Landsmeet; threading carefully but refusing to back down one inch for fear – or anticipation – of losing. He is suddenly very old. And she is dark symmetry and ugly reflections, reminding him all too much of who he used to be; at the same time she is a well of light, the blade-sharp edge in her isn't cold and cracked like his own but just and good. Like Maric, she knows the power that lies in goodness, knows the weight of it, its valueand use.

Not turning her eyes away from his, she he reaches for his hand and places it on a bit of exposed skin along her neckline while putting her own on his chest. Loghain is about to object to the ridiculous idea when, like a hammer blow in his brain, he feels the dark surge of power inside him respond to the one that flows in her. Rushing between their bodies is the darkspawn taint, the noise and songs of her blood swirling around his heart, the fire in his veins battling the fire in hers. They are kin, connected, tied to each other and their common duty. And he knows, without words, that he will be able to feel her from now on, sense her presence inside his own. There is a painful intimacy in this. He tears his hand away.

She looks at him, her lips parted as though she is about to smile, but she doesn't.

"There you have it," she says, almost breathless. "This is what it is."

She withdraws her hand from his chest, leaving a warm trace behind. "So what shall it be, Loghain. Will you stand with me?"

In his memories he is asked the same question, just as belated, by the only other person he has ever served. Back then he had sworn his oath out of shame and guilt and gratitude – and meant it, more than he had meant anything else in his life - and perhaps nothing ever truly changes after all.

In his tent in this blasted camp on the way to certain death, Loghain offers his oath, again.

"If you can make this war end, Warden, I will follow you." He feels like he's down on one knee, looking up at her. "I swear it."

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He wakes up of his own accord the following morning, his head heavy with sleep but clear in a way that tells him the bandages have been of use. Even bread and cheese taste better than yesterday. He packs his things for departure, allowing the discarded armour to remain in the grass where it resembles the skin of a snake, shed and useless.

"Elissa!" he calls out.

She looks at him across camp, in the process of stuffing her pack.

"Yes?"

"I need a new suit of armour." He nods towards the pile of silvery plates that glimmers faintly when the morning sun hits them.

"We have a few spare suits in Sten's pack," she says, coming around to talk to him. "Some of them ought to fit you."

Loghain nods. "Very well."

It's a simple enough conversation and a simple enough choice. He picks the only armour that allows him to breathe freely and doesn't leave gaps along his sides.

The memories of his past are so far away they have become another life altogether, all the colours faded like old paint, all the edges eroding with time. But here, in this place, he can feel them. He remembers vaguely how it felt, fighting for something he gradually understood he believed in; he remembers what it was like, not yet knowing the price of ideals. And how the costs, once he understood them, were made part of his new person and hidden well, deep beneath skin and scars, so nobody would have to know.

But the Hero of River Dane is finally gone.

Loghain wonders how many lives one man is granted and he swears to himself, adjusting the buckles and breastplate of a massive Warden commander armour, that this will be his last.

:

Notes

The memory with Ailis is borrowed from The Stolen Throne.

We're approaching Ostagar. Yes, we are.