Author's Note: The title of this segment comes from the Linkin Park song of the same name. I had my Cailan playlist on in the car the other day (yes, yes, go ahead and mock the fangirl) and this song came on and the line, "Sometimes solutions aren't so simple; sometimes goodbye's the only way" really struck me. I knew I wanted to show Cailan from Loghain's perspective at the end right along, and that line really summed up Loghain's decision. Two more chapters after this... the entire story will be done before November. I promise that.
Chapter 25: Shadow of the Day
He stands on the precipice watching everything he loves, everything he has worked for, fall apart. He watches the darkspawn rush into battle like breaking waves while flaming arrows rain overhead in some grotesque mockery of a storm.
The plan could work, if their numbers were greater. "Numbers alone do not win a battle," Cailan said as he donned his armor earlier. He smiled and his eyes were hollow as he said it. Even the king knows it is hopeless.
Loghain calculates: something he's always been good at. The Redcliffe army could have increased their numbers dramatically, but Eamon and Cailan were too proud to back down from some idiot argument. Maker forbid that anyone in that family actually yield and put himself aside for the greater good, after all. Amaranthine has not come, an instance Loghain finds most interesting, and intends to squeeze the reasons out of Howe the next time he sees him. And the two dozen Grey Wardens, against the never-ending tide of darkspawn are laughable. Even if they had their fabled gryphons they wouldn't stand a chance.
He watches from his precipice, the Gwaren forces awaiting orders. Ser Cauthrien stands at his side, her clever eyes darting between the battlefield and her general. "Orders, Your Grace?" she asks yet again. She casts a look over her shoulder, to the Tower of Ishal. "What's taking so long?" she asks, more to herself than to Loghain.
Damn Cailan for forcing Maric's… indiscretion and Bryce's… embarrassment to do what the mages could have done much sooner. The two newest and most inept Grey Wardens sent to do the most important task? "We must send our best," Cailan said in that tone that brooked no argument. "And you will remember who is king," he told Loghain before Loghain could dare to question the boy.
The problem is that Loghain remembers who was king. He remembers a man who had a backbone, and who was willing to give everything of himself to make Ferelden a better place. He remembers Rowan, who supported Maric even when it caused her great pain and she turned to Loghain out of desperation. He looks at Cailan, gleaming like a beacon on the battlefield and resents everything that boy is. Ferelden deserves better than a child playing at war, to whom knights and regiments are but toys to move about for his leisure and amusement.
A cheer rises from the field and Loghain bristles in his suit of heavy plate. The front lines, including the Grey Wardens and King Cailan, have moved. "Damned fool," he grumbles, but whether he means Cailan or Alistair and whatever the Cousland brat's name is, he's not sure. And as he watches the Fereldan army funnel out of the gorge and onto the field, Loghain knows all is lost.
He remembers what Maric said, all those years ago while the three of them huddled in the cold after the disastrous rout at West Hill. "I would rather die than have the blood of all those men on my hands," he'd said. Loghain closes his eyes and listens to the fighting below. Is that what motivates Cailan? Is he truly Maric's son, that he would rather die than lose Ferelden to the soulless things that threaten it? But try as he might, Loghain cannot see past Cailan's gilded vanity. Not even the Grey Wardens are entirely convinced this is a true Blight.
Next time I don't come to your rescue. You're on your own. His own words to Maric echo in his mind. The discussions they had replay in his memory. "Don't let West Hill happen ever again," Maric had told him. "One man isn't worth losing everything. Even if it is me." In which case 'me' meant Maric, the king. And Loghain promised. Even if that one man is his best friend's son, shining on the battlefield in all his glory.
"Teyrn Loghain! The beacon!" Cauthrien's voice slices through his memories as effectively as her double-edged greatsword slices through darkspawn.
The cheer from the army, awaiting Loghain's flanking maneuver, is like thunder. He stares at the beacon, lit too late, but he honestly didn't expect much else from Maric's bastard and Bryce's youngest; apparently the only thing she can do quickly is a roomful of nobles' sons, if the rumors are true. The orange glow of the Tower's flame is a saving grace to the men on the field, waiting for the Gwaren reinforcements. He imagines Cailan turning to stare up at the signal fire. Imagines Maric's son waiting with that goofy, overconfident grin plastered on his face. He tries not to see Maric and Rowan in that face, but it is impossible.
He looks over his men, waiting for orders. He looks at Cauthrien, snapped to attention. "Sound… the retreat," he says slowly.
Her eyes widen even as icy wind lashes loose locks of dark hair about her face. "But what about the king? Should we not—"
Loghain grabs her wrist. "Do as I command," he growls. Cauthrien's question is justified, but it only reminds him of what he will have to bear. It stings worse than the whipping wind sending shards of ice into his eyes. Cauthrien meets his eyes and stares into his gaze longer than most people can. It's part of why he chose her as his second. When she rips her arm from his grasp she nods grudgingly. Her capacity to take orders, even when she disagrees, is another part of it.
"Pull out! All of you! Let's move," she shouts to the ordered ranks of troops. Loghain turns his back on them. He hears the clank of armor behind him as his men retreat. Hears the murmurs of confusion, of relief. He can't save Cailan, but he can save his forces, and just maybe save Ferelden.
He stares up at the Tower of Ishal, a spike piercing the stormy night. He cannot look back down into the chasm.
Maric. Rowan. Anora. Forgive me.
He turns his back and begins the long march north to Denerim.