A/N: CJK has held my hand through this, any remaining mistakes belong to me.

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

-Wilfred Owen

"This should not take long."

The witch makes certain the door shut behind them as she leads them to her quarters that are smaller than his own, containing scarcely more than a bed and a cabinet.

"You certainly pride yourself on your abilities," he snaps, looking around at the surroundings. He wonders what sort of paraphernalia are required for a blood magic ritual and wonders, too, how it will be performed. All scenarios playing out in his mind are rather gory.

He reminds himself that he is here because he decided so.

He agreed.

After a year of bloody disastrous decisions, what is one more?

And then the woman behind this particular decision leans in, her face approaching his own and nearing him so close he can feel her breath on his cheeks; her lips are parted and wet. Loghain averts his own.

"Careful, witch, or I will break your neck."

"My," she withdraws a little, eyebrows raised and he truly cannot tell if his words excite or anger her. "How very hostile you are."

"This is not a game for your entertainment." He tries to glare at her but his gaze wears off, sliding over her face and down over her body, as if he's subconsciously trying to convince himself about her supposed allure."Just do what you need to do and get this over with."

A smile, and the witch is close again, one hand on his shoulder, stroking it.

"Oh, you are indeed a vast improvement over Alistair," she says, low and purring in that presumptuous way he finds himself confused as to why certain women adopt.

"I think this will be easier the less you attempt to seduce me," he shoves her hand off his body and walks up to the open window. "Explain this ritual."

"You want details, do you? 'Tis not necessarily something that is going to help you perform-"

"Explain – the - ritual." He stresses every word, furious behind his forced calm.

The witch chuckles, rummaging through a pack that she eventually tosses away. Loghain returns to staring out the window and she doesn't speak until she is next to him, carrying a little bowl in one hand, a cup in the other. Her scent is thick and spicy, and the smell of whatever she is holding out for him promises nothing that he will like.

"I shall provide you with answers to satisfy your curiosity," she says. "But I would rather think you are going to want this, even so."

He frowns. "Poison? How unimaginative."

Hope is the last thing to abandon mankind, or so he's told.

"Certainly not. 'Tis a draught based on a few roots that do no harm. The opposite, in fact." She holds the bowl under his nose, as though he would be able to discern the nature of the herbs by smelling them. "Should you feel less than certain about your – ah – abilities."

Loghain grits his teeth, hesitating for less than a second before snatching the bowl without a word, downing its content while doing his best to ignore the witch's bemused expression.

"And this," she continues, handing him a cup, "is plain old wine."

He swallows that draught, too, along with his pride.

"So, Loghain." She stands slumped against the wall, carelessly holding her own serving of wine. There is no doubt that she's a woman who is familiar with this form of exchange of power, the wordless hierarchies of intimacy. Loghain is a man who isn't. He feels entirely misplaced, grateful for the pot valour that slowly creeps into his blood. "What is it that you would like to know?"

"How can you possibly ensure that you will be...with child after tonight?" For all he knows of the matter, it might take considerable time to achieve. It had taken Cecil a little over a year. "What sort of magic is involved?"

"Blood magic," she says simply. "I shall cast a spell that temporarily gives me control of your body while we... engage in the ritual. That way the taint in you will find its way."

"I see."

He nods, still feeling the bitter taste of those roots in his throat, their very implication. But he is nothing if not stubborn and this is his task, his duty. It's a dark promise for the future they might never see and a gruesome thing to do, but they can't afford a better bargain at present.

Nothing I would not do, he swore once. And he is a man of his word.

"Anything else?"

"No," he says, clearing his mind and sealing it shut.

.

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.

.

It's the largest army he has travelled with in a very long time.

When they prepare to leave Redcliffe they do it as a small country marching off to invade another: a legion of Dalish archers scouting in front, followed by a large amount of footsoldiers and knights, carriages carrying the Queen and the nobles; they are accompanied by dwarves and mages and even templars which - given the situation in the Tower and the Chantry's general predisposition towards any matter not directly beneficial to themselves - must be considered impressive.

The Warden and her odd group of wanderers have worked hard.

They have not spoken since last night. When he returned to his own chamber he half suspected, half feared she would be there for the third time in one night and he is still grateful she wasn't. The less he has to speak of that, the better.

He is reminded of it all the same as he passes the carriage where the Orlesian has gathered most of the Warden's companions, all of them seemingly thrilled at the prospect of not having to walk. The chatter coming from it sounds almost too high-spirited for the dull task ahead.

Loghain himself feels slightly out of place.

It is odd being a stranger in one's homeland, even more so in an army, any army, when he has spent more than half his life building them. Odd and as much of a relief as it is a cause for annoyance, watching his own daughter and the Warden rally the troops upon departure.

Soldiers, he has learned, need morale to be maintainable at all. And morale isn't built by training. Maric knew this, early on as though almost by instinct; he would throw around bottles of wine and old tall tales by the fire, opening himself to both mockery and adoration in equal measures and Loghain had thought him a fool, but eventually found that he was right. Of course. The soldiers would have followed them anywhere – followed Loghain for his skill and Maric for his heart and never made much of an distinction between the two.

The Warden seems to struggle with both extremes in front of the crowds, too young to have done it before and not yet cynical enough to explain to people why their certain deaths will benefit Ferelden. Yet it seems unnecessary this morning. The swords are raised to the sky and the ground tremble with feet that move wherever she leads.

She's still their hero, of course. Until she does something to brutally upset this ideal, she will be able to ignite passion merely by appearing before them.

"For Ferelden!" she roars, finally, as they take their places in the ranks, in carriages and roles.

Loghain adjusts his breastplate, almost certain he can feel the endless road ahead in his body when he walks away from the knights to take his own place in this battle.

"The stable boys are waiting for you, my lord, I mean -s-ser." A young soldier breaks into his path, nervous and pale, looking up at him like a servant waiting for his beating.

"Noted." He nods and the boy scampers off, visibly relieved.

On Loghain's orders, Anora has seen to equip the Fereldan Wardens with warhorses and it doesn't strike him until just now that he has no evidence and scarcely more than speculation regarding the Warden's prowess as a rider. But the moment he notices her face as she tends to the brown gelding beside his own dapple-grey mare, he gathers he made a correct assumption.

The mabari sits at her feet, decidedly jealous and not letting his mistress out of sight for a second. Only when Loghain leans down to offer him a piece of meat does he get up and accepts the treat - with suspicious glares at the horse.

"He is used to horses," the Warden comments, arranging her saddlebags and weapons. "But he doesn't take kindly to other animals in the slightest. He'd be jealous of a rabbit if there was one here."

Her dog growls disapprovingly at that statement.

"You would, silly boy."

"You should be back there with the other wardogs," Loghain says, gesturing to a vaguely defined spot behind them. This receives another growl followed by a drawn-out whine.

Loghain snorts and after greeting his horse with few strokes over the muzzle, he mounts it, while the dog plants his body over the Warden's feet.

"No, boy. We have discussed this – you are a fearsome warrior, no?"

Without further ado she untangles herself and once his mistress is in the saddle, the irritable animal seems to accept defeat and leaves. For a moment the Warden looks forlorn, like she regrets the decision to ride and wants to call the dog back. Loghain has nearly forgotten the mabari can do that, insinuate themselves into their owner's heart by acting human.

She turns her head to the side, looking at him. Maker knows Loghain isn't a communicative man, but even he can see that her very body is taut with unspoken questions and desired confessions and he rolls his eyes. He won't speak. Not of this. Not today and possibly not ever.

Shrugging, she lets him be.

"We scout together," she says instead. "I'd suggest we ride in front of the Dalish archers, try to get a sense of the darkspawn activity. You're a good marksman?"

Loghain sneers. "I get by."

"Good. Watch my back if we get too far away from the others." Her voice is even and authoritarian, cleansed of every allusion of last night. He gratefully slides into his own part.

"As you command, Warden."

And then they set off at full speed and the war is finally upon them.

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.

.

The second day of their journey is as uneventful as the first. Unfortunately that does not bode well for Denerim, but there is no change they can make to their plan now, he knows with a little stab to his conscience. The civil war cost too much and took too long.

They set up camp for the night, on Eamon's orders and in spite of several protests from the knights. Having covered more ground than expected, even Loghain can see the value of a night's rest.

After an almost boring battle – the occasional crowd of darkspawn is simply no match for the sheer mass of this army – they have settled, regrouping and reorganising, filtering their impressions and frustration. And the camp quickly grows into a big, boisterous city of tents and carriages in the outskirts of the forest.

The special bond of soldiers marching off to war. He hasn't been this close to it in many years, has forgotten its deep-rooted fear and defiantly loud masks to conceal this; he has forgotten how quickly groups are forged. The Warden's friends have found company in Teagan and a handful of soldiers from Alfstanna's bannorn; the dwarves have gathered among the footsoldiers in the far right corner of the area and most of the nobility seem to be re-enacting the Landsmeet, forming minor nations all over the field.

Loghain has laid out his shield and weapon in front of him in the grass and rests his back against a tree trunk. The lack of sleep for the past few nights has made his head feel swollen, pulsating with a dull pain and full of muffled fragments that never make it into proper thoughts.

The others, for all their grouping, keep their distance to whatever formation he is a part of, which is a right blessing. If the Warden is next to him, they steer away from her too, he notices, with the exception of the Orlesian who all but basks in the possibility of fraternising with his brother and sister.

"So. Morrigan confirms that you... carried out the deed." The Warden stands in front of him, unsheathing her sword and wiping it clean with a piece of cloth that looks like it once was a scarf. If it wasn't for the slight twitch to her mouth as she speaks, he would never have picked up on the bloody concern in her voice.

"That would be correct," he grunts.

It's pathetic, but he feels an overwhelming reluctance to even think about what he did in that bedroom, the never-spoken request that's allegedly going to spare them one life at unknown costs – and the fact remains that he did it, teeth clenched and mind blank like a sodding maid tending to her master's whims, because he was not asked to.

Life is as unpredictable as fate, and apparently his mind is even worse.

Loghain presses his thumbnail to a dirty spot on the shield, scraping without any illusion of getting it all off. Genlocks bleed like pigs and they stain worse than humans.

And the Warden hovers near him, a cloud of discontentment around her shape wherever it appears. She's mirroring what once was, the uneasy company and that peculiar loyalty expressed in few words and many gestures. He had learned to like it back then. Like it and expect it – against all better judgement - so that when he tore it to pieces, he broke his own heart as well.

"I'm-" she begins, quietly.

"No," he cuts her off, shaking his head.

"-sorry."

She looks away as she finishes her sentence, her word nothing more than a hiss in the air between them.

"Don't be." He throws her a quick glance. "If it's fodder for self-flagellation you seek, I suggest you go find our very own Circle mage. What's done is done."

"That's..." She hesitates momentarily. "No. It's not what I seek, no."

"Very well."

Loghain tosses the shield aside and pulls the sword closer. It's getting difficult to see in the dusk, and he wants to finish preparing for tomorrow before it's too late.

The Warden remains, saying nothing for a long while. Her own sword is beside his shield in the grass and she's standing up, still, trampling like a restless horse. When he offers her no conversation, closing himself to any invitation of the sort she she usually wants, she leaves, only to return a moment later.

"The dwarves have found ale," she comments dryly.

"Yes." He sneers. "They're dwarves."

"At least the Legion of the Dead can fight." She smiles at him, a quick and hesitant smile. Searching his memory for accounts of King Maric's life and doings, he wonders if she knows that he met this legendary little group, too. "The others have yet to prove themselves."

"Not tomorrow, by the sound of it."

"Likely not." She stoops down, dropping what she has carried onto the ground. "King Bhelen owes me his life and the crown, however. I dug up so much dirt there he wouldn't dare not to send the best of Orzammar."

The Warden killed a group of his strongest men outside Orzammar, as he recalls it. He had learned this through messengers and Howe's badly disguised glee at seeing Loghain nearly helpless, always several steps behind. Howe wasn't stupid, but he was indeed self-serving enough to consider a Blight his personal arena for political advancement. At least Loghain, for all his inane previous mistakes, acted on the real threat once he acknowledged it - a fact that rings dully and without comfort in his mind because in the end, he was too late.

"I heard you settled the dispute over the throne there as well," he says. It's half a question, and it seems to bring with it some unpleasant memories; her posture changes and a touch of defence creeps into her voice.

"I'll tell you that story once this is over. You are holding your breath, I'm sure."

Placing a cast-off canvas on the grass she kneels beside it, and beside him. She unfolds a scroll that has been tucked under her belt, and puts it down on the cloth. It's a rather old but well-preserved map of the city of Denerim, he notices, and he does a terrible job of hiding his fascination.

"That's a fine map," he admits when she raises her eyebrows, having spotted his glances.

"Isn't it?" A smile again, and a gleam of pride in her eyes. "I've had it since I was ten."

He wonders what a child would do with a map but being reasonably well acquainted with this woman by now, it's not difficult to picture her, a stout little field marshal in Highever, commanding the imaginary troops over planned routes and made up country borders.

"I used to sneak into father's office and steal his letters and maps," she continues, ever oblivious to his lack of questions. "Sometimes I'd make new nations of them, taking them apart; I invented signs for everything since I couldn't write yet."

From afar, he can hear singing and eventually someone blowing horns, as to salute their sad little path across this particular map, to this particular end. Maric once berated him for not letting the soldiers enjoy what could be their last night and Loghain still wishes he could adopt that idea. It seems a waste, even now. Even with all his experience and memories of nights just like this one, he finds it excessive and overly sentimental, not to mention detrimental to his strategy.

Grimacing, he turns his thoughts back to what the Warden is telling him.

"Father made me clean the floor in the great hall every day for a week when I drew dragons over his ancient map of the Tevinter imperium."

He doesn't know what he is supposed to answer, so he says nothing, rubbing the hilt of his blade harder, vainly hoping for the blood to come off through sheer force.

"Can I ask you something?" The Warden puts the map down, turning her attention to him. She seems troubled.

"I suppose I have a moment." Loghain shrugs, feeling every pound of the armour and wishing he had been sensible enough to change out of it earlier. "As you may notice."

"Let us assume that the darkspawn horde is already in the city," she tilts her head, eyeing the map curiously.

"A likely scenario."

"Yes. What would you do to give us at least a fraction of a chance to drive them out and secure the gates?"

"Well." He leans forward to share her view of the map. Every street is painstakingly drawn, every filthy street corners seemingly there, before his eyes, because of the massive amount of detail. "First of all I'd urge you not to launch a large attack-"

"Urge me?" She frowns.

"Yes, you." The surprised offence in her tone makes him stifle a laugh. In a way, those he has served have all been the same in this aspect – willing to admit almost anything but their own shortcomings. This one is no different. "You harbour a ridiculous fondness for frontal assault."

The Warden snorts. "I do not."

"Yes, you do." Loghain reaches for the top of the map to pull it closer, his right index finger tracing the northern city gates. "Here, look. This line there is full of spots that lend themselves to cover. I'd send troops there, and I'd make certain the back alleys are cleared out before even thinking of moving forward."

"I wonder if the best approach is to split us Wardens into three separate units or to go together," she says.

He looks at the map, ineffectually searching it for answers. "Either way, it's unlikely we will all survive the battle long enough to find this Archdemon."

And when he says that, when he speaks those words, it all becomes real. What they have done. Loghain sighs heavily, all too familiar with these kinds of bargains over the past years – over the past thirty years, a nasty voice in his head reminds him – and not at all used to them ending even moderately well. He can tell by the expression in her eyes that she understands this is unsteady, uncertain ground, too.

"We might." She looks down at her hands, rapping a finger against the canvas.

"Is that what you believe or what you wish for, against all sense?"

"A bit of both," she says, voice heated and complete, leaving no room for contradictions.

"I gather the important thing is to keep the witch close," he offers eventually. "If she's telling the truth, she needs to be where the Archdemon is."

"Yes," she nods. "You're right. And I hope she is... honest."

"So do I," he responds darkly.

As the crowd grow louder and the night darker, Loghain puts down the weapons entirely and the Warden gathers her map. They have sat in silence together for so long speaking seems odd when she rises to her feet. He watches her silhouette clash with the other shadows in camp and rubs his head, slowly.

"Loghain?" She turns around and her gaze is brushing over his face.

"Yes?"

"I have a standing order for you." She pauses. "Sleep. Please."