L is for Loghain
Even among the Dalish, the name of Loghain Mac Tir was known. They could hardly not have known of him; the Brecilian Forest was a large part of his Terynir, and he had long been a friend to all elves, going back to his organization and leadership of the Night Elves during the rebellion so many years before. While the Night Elves had mainly been comprised of city elves, some few Dalish had been involved as well; they had little more liking for Orlais than the Fereldans did, and were just as happy to help to remove the invading Orlesians from the country.
In the long years since, Loghain had maintained cordial relations with the Dalish that haunted the forests of his lands; he had been known even among the Dalish as a man of honour, one with a great sense of duty, and fair-minded.
Had been. Clearly he was no more; not when he could so cruelly allow the city elves of Denerim to be sold off into slavery. Not when he could authorize the hiring of assassins and mercenaries to try and eliminate the last remaining Grey Wardens in Ferelden, blaming them for the death of King Cailan. Not when he might even have agreed to Anora's captivity in Howe's blood-stained hands.
Arren wondered more than once what had happened to change the once-great man into a petty tyrant. What decisions, what accommodations with 'convenience' over 'right' he had made, what hatreds or jealousies or fears festered inside him to have so changed him. Perhaps it was grief that had changed him; grief at Maric's disappearance, Cailan's death, the potential ruin of the country he so loved.
Arren didn't know. Perhaps might never know. But watching Loghain at the Landsmeet, seeing the expression on his face when the man's own daughter denounced him, hearing the break in his voice as he talked of all he had done for Ferelden... he was certain of one thing. Loghain was a once-great man who was aware of his fall. Who despaired for his country. Who was in terrible pain, like a hamstrung halla watching the wolves closing in, its coat already ribboned with blood from their tearing bites. He deserved a merciful ending, Arren judged – his past greatness demanded no less.
"Make it fast," he whispered to Alistair, after naming him champion for this fight. Alistair nodded, and walked forward, head held high.
It was very fast; a few passes, a blindingly fast exchange of strokes, a stunning blow from Alistair's shield followed with a vicious scything cut... Loghain's head flew free, nobles skipping aside from it as it rolled across the floor. A great silence fell, while Alistair stood staring in disbelief down at the corpse, taking great breaths like a bellows, and Anora stood stiffly by, blinking back tears. Arren walked slowly over and knelt, picking up the still-warm head – carefully, in both hands, showing respect to the man that Loghain had been – and carried it back over, setting it on the floor by the body. A single one of the nobles stirred, and walked forward; Bann Teagan. He removed his own cloak, and spread it over the corpse, hiding it from view.
"Let his body be treated with all respect," Arl Eamon said in a carrying voice. "He was a great man." Arren suspected his motive in speaking so was as likely to be hope of garnering favour with Anora, now Queen of Ferelden in her own right, as any real respect for the man. Yet it would do; of such muddled feelings and compromises were events shaped.
A sad end for a once-great man.