"What did you say this bloke's name was? Anders? He sure picked a dismal place to set up a clinic." Alistair glanced at Moira as they threaded their way through the dank labyrinthine warrens of Darktown, the poorest quarter of Kirkwall's slums that made even Lowtown look positively plum. "And he's a mage? Are you sure about this? I've been in Kirkwall long enough to know that you don't want to be anywhere nearby when the templars start rounding up apostates."

"Well, Hawke knows him, and he's managed to avoid getting rounded up so far," Moira replied. "I need someone who can point me in the direction of the neediest refugees to bring back to Ferelden, and it sounds like this Anders fellow is my best bet. Besides, I can't imagine even the most zealous Knight-Commander provoking a diplomatic incident by arresting the 'Hero of Ferelden' for helping bring Fereldan refugees back home. It's bad publicity."

"I don't think the templars in Kirkwall care too much about their public relations," Alistair quipped. "But point taken." He glanced askance at her. "You know, this is a good thing you're doing, helping the Blight refugees come home." Moira sensed the undercurrent of guilt in his tone, though whether it was for his own previous harsh and uncharitable words towards her, or his comparative lack of charity for the Fereldan refugees, she couldn't be certain. She placed a reassuring hand on his arm.

"It's the least Loghain and I can do," she said. "And who knows? Perhaps you'll find some hale and hearty young men and women who might make good Warden recruits once we're back in Amaranthine port."

Moira was impressed that Alistair managed not to pull a face at the mention of her betrothed, though a twitch of his jaw muscle told her that Loghain's name had not gone unnoticed. Well – she supposed she shouldn't expect any miracles on that particular front.

"Perhaps so," he finally allowed. "And don't worry – I'll make certain they know exactly what Grey Warden service entails. I don't want any more Ser Jorys – or any more, well, yous." He cast a furtive and somewhat bemused glance at her. "Although you did turn out all right in the end."

She gave him a wry smile, sparing him from any need to elaborate. She knew well enough what he meant, and it gladdened her heart more than she could say that he intended to put an end to the duplicity, the secrecy, the forced conscriptions and the bad-faith 'recruitment' that Duncan had engaged in. "Thank you for doing this, Alistair," she said sincerely. "The Fereldan Grey Wardens are going to be in good hands."

"Don't thank me yet," he jibed. "You haven't given me a fair chance to muck things up."

Anders' clinic turned out to be hidden away in a forgotten corner of the Darktown slums, and Moira likely would have missed it if not for the crowd of ragged folk in threadbare clothing milling about outside. The crowd greeted them with a mixture of fear and suspicion, casting darkened glares and murmuring to each other in caustic whispers.

"Friendly bunch," Alistair said. "Not that I blame them. Neither of us looks like the sort who needs the aid of a healer in the slums. Maybe they think we're here on Meredith's behest, to shut the clinic down for good."

That thought honestly hadn't even occurred to Moira, and she felt a twinge of guilt as soon as Alistair spoke – the entire purpose of her visit would be thwarted if Anders didn't trust her enough to let her in the door. A brawny, stoutly-muscled man at the door crossed his arms, and Moira realized this must be Anders' bouncer – or, at least, a refugee who had appointed himself as such, whether at the mage's behest or not.

"What business you got here?" The man – definitely Fereldan – growled, cracking his massive knuckles audibly. "Don't look like you're in need of healing. Maybe you ought to just turn around and head back the other way, yeah?"

Moira decided that honesty – or at least, partial honesty – was the best policy. "I don't need healing, you're right," she said amicably. "But I do need to speak with Anders. I want to thank him for the kindness he's shown to the Blight refugees." She decided to omit the part about bringing the refugees home – she was certain that she and Loghain couldn't afford to bring them all home, and she didn't want an uncontrolled rush as people fought over the available berths. That was why Anders' advice would be invaluable – he would surely know which refugees were in the direst need, and she and Loghain could reach out accordingly.

"Yeah?" The burly man was unmoved. "And who're you? Our dear Queen Anora?" He scoffed. "Ain't blonde enough for that."

It was a gamble to reveal her identity, but why not? Perhaps it would get her in the door and win the crowd's esteem, the way it had so moved the beggar she and Loghain had encountered at the docks. "I'm Lady Moira Cousland of Highever," she said. "The Grey Warden who defeated the Blight."

The man fell silent, as did the gaggle of people around him. Then he burst into a gale of laughter. "Look 'ere, folks – we got the Hero of Ferelden in the flesh!" The crowd tittered in amusement as he executed a mock bow. "Pleased to meet you, milady!" The smile faded from his face to be replaced with a surly frown. "Yeah, you're the 'Hero of Ferelden,' and I'm the prince of Nevarra. Listen, lady, if you came to cause trouble, I suggest you turn around and cause it somewhere else."

"Wow, you really are thick, aren't you?" Alistair drawled, to Moira's horror. "If we came to cause trouble, this is the exact opposite of how we'd be going about it, isn't it? Most trouble doesn't walk right up to the door and politely knock, you know. So – bear with me a moment – let's try a thought exercise. Entertain, if you will, the idea that we are, in fact, entirely sincere. That this is, indeed, Lady Moira Cousland, the Hero of Ferelden, and I am her erstwhile fellow Warden, Alistair of Redcliffe. Now – do you really want to be the lug who laughed in the Hero of Ferelden's face and turned her away?"

"Alistair!" she hissed.

The big man scowled, and Moira was certain for a moment that he was going to lay out Alistair right then and there, but then, with narrowed eyes, he nodded slowly.

"Eh, suppose you're right," he begrudgingly admitted. "It's just that there's a lot of folks what wouldn't look too kindly on Master Anders, and we're a mite protective of him. Not many folks bother with us Fereldans. If you're really here to help, then go on – but I've got my eye on you, don't forget it."

At last they entered the clinic, where a young, disheveled looking man muttered distractedly to himself as he rifled through a box of various unguents, salves, and potions.

"Go ahead and have a seat, I'll be with you shortly," he said, not pausing to look up at them. "Where did I put that elfroot balm?"

"It's all right," Moira said. "We aren't here for treatment. I just came to have a word with you."

Anders' head snapped up at once, and he regarded them with a wild, paranoid look of equal parts fear and distrust.

"Who are you?" he demanded at once. "Finnegan isn't supposed to let anyone but patients inside the clinic –"

"Please, calm down," Moira implored. "Finnegan is doing his job, and quite well, I might add. I'm Lady Moira Cousland, the Grey Warden from Ferelden. I'm here in Kirkwall on business, and I'm an associate of Galen Hawke. He sent me to you and said you might be of some help."

Anders relaxed at the mention of Hawke's name, but only slightly. "Hawke sent you?" He turned to Alistair, and his gaze frosted over. "Did he send the templar, too?"

Moira glanced to Alistair in concern – how had the apostate possibly known that Alistair had once been a templar?

"You didn't have to say anything," Anders said, almost as if reading her mind. "I can smell a templar from a mile away. And I'm not very keen on having one in my clinic."

"You can smell templars?" Alistair lifted his arm and made a show of sniffing his armpit loudly. "Hmm… must be the Chantry Springs soap. Made from lye, lavender, and the distilled tears of oppressed mages." He grinned. "You got me."

"You think you're funny." The mage's glare was hard and humorless. "I know you're not one of Meredith's goons, and that's the only reason you're still here. But know this – I will not stop healing these people, and I will not go quietly. If Hawke gave me up to the Chantry – "

"Relax, please. I am not here on behalf of the Chantry, Viscount Dumar, or anyone besides myself," Moira said, glaring at Alistair, who shrugged gamely. "My friend fashions himself a wit, but he's harmless – and yes, he's an ex-templar. An ex-templar from whom you have nothing to fear – he's a Grey Warden now. We fought the Blight in Ferelden, and we're here to help bring some of the refugees home. Hawke told me you could help."

"Grey Wardens," Anders repeated, his expression shifting from hostile to deeply skeptical. "I didn't think helping refugees was under the Grey Wardens' purview." Suspicion shaded his features once again. "Are you here to conscript me? I suppose being a Grey Warden would keep me safe from the Chantry, but I've no desire to exchange one prison for another. I am helping these people – "

"And I'm not here to stop you!" Moira was beginning to lose her patience with the sullen, paranoid apostate. Maker's balls, was he always this prickly? She couldn't imagine Hawke carrying on with someone so dour – but then again, despite his temperament, Anders had apparently been among the only people in Kirkwall who'd bothered doing anything kind or charitable for the Fereldan refugees, and she knew that had to grant him a fair amount of esteem in Hawke's eyes – and in her own. She had never really thought much about the Chantry's proscription on mages living outside the Circles, though she supposed she was as naturally suspicious of apostates as any other citizen, but this man didn't seem to be doing anything untoward or dangerous.

"I think it's disgraceful how Fereldans are treated in Kirkwall," she began again, willing her voice to remain calm and even. "What you're doing for these people is a kindness, and I'm not interested in stopping you, or reporting you to the Chantry, or anything of the sort. I'm returning to Ferelden in the next few days, and my associate and I have chartered a few ships. We mean to bring as many refugees back to Ferelden as we can. Hawke told me you could point us towards the ones in greatest need – orphaned children, widows, families, the sick and frail. Please – help us."

Anders wavered for a moment, and in his expression she saw reflected a fierce inner struggle – his jaw twitched, and for a moment she saw a fiery anger in his eyes, and he almost seemed ready to become aggressive; but then his features relaxed into something more affable, and an almost relieved look passed across his countenance.

"That's unexpectedly kind of you," he said, his voice softer and warmer than before. "I… apologize for my reaction. Kirkwall is not a good place to be an apostate, and you'll forgive my suspicion, especially when well-heeled templars and Grey Wardens find their way to my clinic."

"Of course," Moira said smoothly, and Alistair, to his credit, had seen fit to dispense with any further jokes. "You can feel free to ask Hawke about us, if you like. I understand your concern. But truly, I only mean to help the Blight refugees."

"Oh, I'll certainly be asking Hawke about you," Anders said, although Moira detected more of an undertone of wry wit than mistrust in his voice. "The man does get around – he never mentioned knowing the so-called Hero of Ferelden before. Why didn't he come along? It would have allayed my suspicions – well, mostly allayed them, at any rate."

"He's with his sister and a strange elf man, investigating a Tevinter slaving operation," she said, unsure why she didn't feel comfortable disclosing the truth of the Grey Warden connection that had sent Loghain along with Hawke, Bethany, Fenris, and Stroud to the Wounded Coast. She decided that Hawke could fill Anders in later, if he so wished.

Fortunately, Anders didn't seem obliged to press for details. "Fenris," he said, his lip curling. "Just as well he didn't bring me along. We, er, don't get on."

Moira had gathered that, based on the elf's reaction to Hawke's mention of Anders back in the mansion. "I'm sorry for dropping in uninvited," she said, bringing the topic back around. "I really don't mean to take up much of your time. We can probably take about four hundred refugees on the ships."

"There are dozens of orphans," Anders said. "Maybe they still have family back in Ferelden they could go to – here, they're forced to live in the streets and beg and steal just to feed themselves." He spat. "But Viscount Dumar is too busy bowing and scraping to Meredith and her thugs to bother caring about what goes on in the streets of his city."

And so on it went, Anders providing names for the Blight refugees he judged to be most in need of a return trip to Ferelden, interspersed with muttered curses and invocations against the perfidy of Kirkwall's governance, the templars, and the Chantry for turning a blind eye to such rampant suffering. After securing a promise to direct the relevant refugees to Hawke's manor, Moira and Alistair thanked Anders with a few sovereigns for his troubles, and made their way out of Darktown.

"Interesting fellow," Alistair said lightly as they headed back towards Hawke's manse. "Bit of a zealot, though. He tried to give me his manifesto when you stepped out to use the privy."

"He has a manifesto?" Moira said. "I'm surprised he thought the former templar would be more receptive than the so-called 'Hero of Ferelden.'"

Alistair shrugged. "He asked me if I'd ever been in a Circle, like he was ready to hang me for all the crimes of every templar who's ever abused his authority, but he came around a bit when I said I'd been recruited into the Wardens before I finished my templar training. Maybe that only makes me half-evil, or something."

"Well, whatever Anders' issues are with the Chantry, at least he's helping the refugees," Moira said diplomatically. "Hawke certainly seems to keep an assortment of interesting friends. His sister was an apostate, so perhaps he has a soft spot for Anders. Who can say?"

"This is the sister you're foisting on me?"

"I'm not foisting anyone on anyone!" Moira said, rolling her eyes. "Maker's breath, I forgot how tiresome you can be."

"Now, that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me since Morrigan told me I was dumber than the dog."

"You are dumber than the dog, but that's not your fault. My Dane is a very bright fellow, I'll have you know."

They continued on in such a vein all the way to Hawke's manor, Moira's heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

Her bright humor did not long survive her return to Hawke's mansion. Loghain, Hawke, and company had already returned by the time Moira and Alistair entered the manor, and from the looks of things, the expedition had not gone well. Bethany's expression was troubled, and Hawke too was broody and silent. Stroud and Fenris were nowhere to be seen. And Loghain…

Moira could not recall her lover ever looking so profoundly heartsick. Angry, upset, sullen, aggrieved, yes – but his expression now was none of those things. Instead, he looked ashen, as though he'd just witnessed an atrocity. He barely met her gaze as she entered Hawke's parlor, and did not seem to register Alistair's presence at all. To his immense credit, Alistair too picked up on the dire mood, and kept his witticisms to himself for once.

"What's wrong?" she said without prelude. "Where are Stroud and Fenris?"

"Stroud's off preparing a report for the Wardens," Hawke said, his voice subdued. "Fenris… left. He's fine, don't worry."

Bethany was regarding Alistair with a curious gleam in her eye. "You're a Grey Warden," she said thoughtfully. "I can feel you." Bethany blushed crimson as Alistair's eyebrows quirked in amusement. "Er, through the taint, I mean."

"Guilty as charged," Alistair said, clearly relieved to be given an opportunity to dispel the tension in the room with a quip. His own gaze was intrigued as he took in Bethany for the first time. "You must be Bethany."

"Um, yes," she said, her blush deepening. She cleared her throat, apparently realizing how awkward she sounded. "Yes, I'm Bethany Hawke. You've, um, heard of me?"

Alistair rubbed at the back of his neck, a tic Moira knew he only indulged in when nervous. "I, uh, was told you might be coming back with me to Ferelden. To be a Grey Warden. Obviously. Er… I'm Alistair, by the way."

"Why don't I get you two a drink in the study," Hawke said, his eyes meeting Moira's for the briefest of moments. "I'm sure you have lots of Grey Warden business to discuss." He herded his sister out of the room, and Alistair was wise enough to follow without complaint, leaving Moira alone with Loghain.

"Loghain, what's wrong?" Moira said softly, approaching her betrothed, whose expression remained faraway and haunted.

"Not here," he said quietly. At Moira's alarmed expression, he took her hand and gave it a gentle kiss. "Upstairs. Hawke set aside a guest bedroom for us. I'd like some privacy."

"Loghain, what is it? What's happened?" Her heart hammered a rapid drumbeat as she followed Loghain up the stairs, her mind concocting a more dire explanation for his mood with every step.

At last, when they were in the bedroom and the door shut firmly behind them, Moira went to him, taking his hands in her own, her thumbs rubbing vigorous circles against the back of his hands.

"My love, please, what's bothering you? You're scaring me. What happened?" she whispered, pulling him close, begging him to look at her. At last, he did, his expression as dismal as Moira had ever seen.

"I suppose I should start at the beginning," he said quietly. "We followed the elf's lead to a cave on the Wounded Coast. His source was a slave broker, a middleman who'd helped move the slaves through the tunnels of Kirkwall 'for a fee.'" Loghain looked disgusted. "Fenris apparently… persuaded… the broker to share what he knew of his employers. The man claimed that the slaver ringleader was an Orlesian, who'd brushed aside any queries of his involvement in the trade with the excuse that it was 'Grey Warden business.' Fenris thus brought the information he'd obtained to Stroud, and we all journeyed to this meeting place where the broker had claimed to have met this Warden contact."

None of this sounded too far outside the boundary of what she already knew of the situation to account for Loghain's change in mood, and Moira's apprehension mounted. "What happened? Did something happen there, Loghain? Talk to me."

Loghain sighed, a long, drawn-out and defeated sound. "No one was there. No slaves, no Grey Wardens, no Tevinters, no one. It appeared as though whoever had been there, however, had left in a hurry and hadn't managed to pick up after themselves. We found a trove of documents that proved to be quite illuminating."

Moira stared at Loghain, an ill feeling churning in her belly. "And? Is that a bad thing? Were you able to prove that the slavers were working with the Grey Wardens?"

"Not definitively, no, though there were some damning associations – a letter, for example, detailing a request of 'C' for, and I quote, 'specimens from Ferelden – preferably Blight-afflicted regions' and 'in particular, specimens with Blight-sickness highly desired.' The latter bit was underlined several times. What ordinary slaver wants a slave with a dangerous, lethal illness?" He shook his head. "That's when I started to suspect something terrible. But then Fenris found another document."

"What other document?" A cold, twisting anxiety coiled through her as Moira began to understand where the tale was headed.

Loghain was silent for several moments, and Moira felt a gentle pressure as he squeezed her hands in his, his rough fingerpads tracing a delicate pattern against the soft pulse of her wrist.

"A copy of the bill of sale for several dozen elves from the Denerim alienage, signed and sealed by the Teyrn of Gwaren." He closed his eyes and released another sad, defeated sigh. "Fenris found it, and rather quickly put the pieces together. Of course, I didn't bother to deny it. How could I?"

His voice was quieter and more pensive than Moira had ever heard before, and instinctively, she moved close, releasing his hands to slip her arms around him, gathering him in an embrace.

"Loghain," she whispered, her own feelings a roiling tide of confusion – sympathy and sorrow for her beloved and his distress, mixed in with her own unresolved anger and sense of profound injustice regarding his unconscionable actions in the alienage. They had confronted many of Loghain's demons from the Blight, and they had discussed this issue, too, but they had been so swept up in the battle against the darkspawn that there had been no real time to revisit the topic – and, if Moira was being honest, no real point. It had happened, it was done and couldn't be undone, and while she knew Loghain regretted all the terrible things he'd done, all they could do from this point on was move forward. But now, it appeared his demons from the past had come back to haunt him in a very real way.

"Fenris was furious and disgusted, and I didn't blame him. Do you know what those marks on his body are?" Loghain said, his eyes bright. "They're lyrium brands, seared into his flesh by his own master. And for what? So a magister could have a unique plaything to show off to his fellow slavers?"

"Loghain – " Moira reached up to touch his face, but he shied away from her.

"Please." His voice was strained with anguish. "Do not attempt to assuage my guilt. I deserve everything he said to me, and more." He shook his head in a gesture of despair, but this time he did not shy away from Moira's hands coming up to gently rest upon his shoulders.

"Loghain, listen to me," she said, gently but firmly, squeezing him for emphasis. "What you did, then – it was inexcusable. I won't try to tell you otherwise. You went mad –"

"Did I?" he pressed her, his voice strained with a quiet urgency. "Did I truly 'go mad,' Moira? Or did I decide that money for the war coffers was worth shipping off a few inconvenient rabble-rousers starting riots in the city? Do you really think me above such a moral calculation?"

Moira shook her head slowly, unwilling to believe such a heinous thing of the man she'd come to know and to love. "You weren't in your right mind," she said firmly. "You had Howe whispering in your ear, I know the slavers were his idea –"

"An idea I did nothing to discourage!" he exclaimed. "I could have – should have – had Howe executed for what he did at Highever, but I didn't. I allowed him to prop up my 'regency.' I let him talk me into hiring assassins to send after you and your comrades. I let him convince me to sell our people to Tevinter. What does that say about me, Moira? I was either weak-minded and easily led about by the nose, or entirely complicit. I cannot decide which is worse." He moved to turn away, but she gripped his shoulders tighter and pulled him around to face her.

"You listen to me, Loghain Mac Tir," she snapped, her miasma of conflicting emotions coalescing into an unexpected anger. "I forgave you for what you did! It wasn't easy, at first – for some time after the Landsmeet, all I could see when I looked at you was the man who'd enabled my family's murderer. But then I saw a different man – a man who was deeply troubled by the things he'd done, a good man, a man who truly loved his country and wanted to make amends for his wrongs. I fell in love with that man. And if I can forgive you – I, who know full well the litany of your sins – then you can forgive yourself. Yes, what you did was terrible – to me, to the elves, to Highever, to the country. You were wrong. But please, my love, you serve no one with this wallowing."

"Fenris didn't see fit to be as generous as you," he said, his mournful gaze focused in the distance. "He called me a monster, a slaver – names I've well-earned. He was going to kill me, you know – it was only Hawke's pleas that kept him from finishing the job. I truly believe he only stayed his hand out of respect for his friend. So tell me, Moira, was he wallowing?"

Moira felt a burning tear slide down her cheek, but she did not move her hands from Loghain's shoulders to brush it away – her need to touch him, to maintain contact with him, was imperative, as though if she let him go, he would be lost forever, swept away in a tide of remorse and vengeance. She was surprised when he drew her in close – ever since their conversation had begun, he'd tried to distance himself from her, avoiding her eyes, turning away from the outrage and the accusations he'd thought – or, perhaps, hoped – to see in her eyes.

Moira was torn in two. She loved Loghain, desperately – yes, even knowing this about him, even knowing everything about him. Maker forsake her, but she loved him anyway. She wanted to help him, to pull him out of this misery, to tell him that everything would be all right. But how could she? She realized, with a dismal clarity, that he was right. How could he forgive himself for such a monstrous act, especially when no forgiveness was offered by those who had suffered greatly at the hands of the evil he'd enabled? How could anyone forgive him for what he'd done in Denerim?

The answer came to her as a lance through the heart, equal parts painful and joyous. She could forgive him because she loved him – and he could forgive himself, had to forgive himself, because he loved her.

"Loghain, I can't wipe away your guilt," she said, drawing back from his embrace to meet his gaze, blinking tears from her eyes so that she could see him clearly. "And maybe I shouldn't try. What you did to those people was awful and cannot be undone. But when you hate yourself for it – when you punish yourself like this – you're hurting me, too. I know you hate what you did, and you should. But it cannot be changed. You just… you have to find a way to move forward, and be better now. If not for yourself alone, then for me."

Loghain stared at her for several long moments, his arms warm and snug around her, his expression undergoing a gradual transformation from anguish to awe. At long last, he closed his eyes, and leaned in to rest his forehead against hers. Seizing his nearness eagerly, Moira's hands traveled from his shoulders to thread through his hair, holding him in place against her.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice harsh and raw with grief. "I love all of who you are, Loghain, because you're strong enough to admit that you've done wrong, and you're strong enough to make things right. I know you are."

She felt a splash of moisture against her cheek as another tear dripped against her face, and only belatedly did she realize it had fallen from Loghain's eyes. "Twenty-three men, seventeen women, and two children," he whispered. "That was the 'description of goods' on the bill of sale that I signed and sealed for those monsters. Forty-two people – my people, our people – gone forever, because of me. How can I make that right, Moira?"

"Maybe you keep them with you, in your heart, to remind you," she whispered. "Use their memory to avoid making the same mistakes of the past. Honor them by being a great and noble teyrn, a champion for those who can no longer speak for themselves."

Loghain released a long, shaky sigh, and Moira felt his head move gently against hers as he nodded. "You're right," he said, voice quiet with subdued resolve. Moira squeezed him in response, her heart leaping as her beloved found his emotional bearings once again. "I'll make things better, in the alienage, for those who remain. It's a travesty that has gone unaddressed for too long, and I won't be party to it any longer. I won't allow the same thinking that led me down that path to take root again, I swear it."

"Oh, Loghain," Moira sighed, melting into him, burying her face in his neck. She inhaled deeply, reveling in the scent that was so uniquely him, feeling her skin against his. "You know I'm here with you, every step of the way. I love you so much."

"I know," he murmured into her hair. "Maker's mercy, I love you more than I can say." They held each other tightly for a long time, reveling in the closeness and intimacy of their contact. At last, he sighed, and detached himself from her gently, with a soft, rueful smile.

"Whatever would I do without you, my sweet?" he said, leaning in to give her a gentle kiss.

"Sit around feeling sorry for yourself, most likely," she replied with a wry smile. He harrumphed.

"Impudent woman," he chided good-naturedly. "I'll have you know, I'm not one to 'sit around.'" He regarded her with a thoughtful look. "I saw you managed to retrieve your friend. Did you have much success with Hawke's contact, the healer?"

"He was an odd fellow, but he's been a great help to the refugees, and he was able to point me in the right direction. With his and Hawke's assistance, I think we'll have enough folks to board the ships for home."

Loghain sighed in relief. "Then at least one good thing will have come of this whole blighted adventure. Well, two, I suppose, since we are coming home with a pair of Grey Wardens in tow. Fereldan Wardens, at that." He furrowed his brows. "I am grateful for Ser Hawke's hospitality, but I will not be sorry to leave this miserable city behind."

"That makes two of us," Moira agreed. "It will be good to be home. I'll have to smooth things over with your daughter about the Alistair situation –"

"Don't worry about Anora," Loghain said. "I know her judgment at the Landsmeet was harsh, but Eamon's scheming had put her entire reign in jeopardy. Now that the threat has passed, I'm certain she'll consent to allowing Alistair to resume his Grey Warden duties." He raised an eyebrow. "I still can't say as though I'm eager to have the lad back myself, but I trust your judgment. It's certainly proved sounder than mine."

"Hmm," Moira purred playfully. "I'm going to remind you of that the next time you're being a stubborn arse."

Loghain harrumphed in faux dismay, even as he pulled her in for a decidedly more intimate kiss. Moira groaned eagerly against his mouth, the heightened emotions of the day coalescing into a burning need for him that flamed through her blood. She pressed her body tight against his, her tongue seeking and gaining entrance to his mouth, tangling with his as their kiss evolved from heated to desperate. With a ragged moan, her hands found their way to the hem of his shirt –

A firm knock on the door sent the lovers reeling apart, cursing vehemently under their breath. "What is it?" Loghain snapped irritably, too afire with his interrupted passion to bother with manners.

"Sorry to interrupt," Hawke's droll voice through the door made it obvious that he felt nothing of the sort. "But I really should see about dinner, and it certainly won't do for the guests of honor to hide upstairs all night. Besides, if I leave my sister and that Warden boy alone for too long, I'm afraid they'll be consumed in a sinkhole of their own awkwardness. I haven't heard this much fumbling and stuttering since the first time I snuck into the hay loft with a milkmaid."

Moira shook her head to clear it of the unwanted mental image Hawke had so graciously provided. "Lovely," she said, hoping she managed to disguise her own irritation at their thwarted tryst a bit better than Loghain had. "We'll be right down."

"Splendid," Hawke said, and Moira narrowed her eyes at the ebullience in his tone – he sounded like a cat who'd found the cream, and she suspected he knew full well what he'd just interrupted.

"Splendid indeed," Loghain groused. "Certainly I'd prefer to baby-sit a pair of mooncalves than take my woman. Maker's balls."

Moira's face flushed hot with desire at his bald words. "Oh, don't fret, dear – I'm sure you'll have plenty of opportunities to take your woman later."

Loghain gave her a wicked half-grin. "I had better," he murmured, leaning in for one last ardent kiss before begrudgingly opening the bedroom door. Moira took a shaky breath as she followed him down the stairs. Though she enjoyed Hawke's – and Alistair's – company, dinner was guaranteed to be a long, fitful affair, knowing that her shamelessly lusty future husband would be sitting mere feet away.

But she could hardly complain – the Hawkes were good folk whom she was pleased to have met; she'd found Alistair and was bringing him home, and their friendship was on the mend; and she and Loghain had managed to bring aid to hundreds of Fereldans in need. It had been a successful journey, despite the painful reminders of past sins.

But all in all, she was eager to get home: to Ferelden, to Denerim, perhaps to Gwaren at last – and to their future together.