A/N: Thanks for bouncing ideas back and forth with me, icey cold! It helped a great deal!
War and Remembrance
Part 2
Loghain was furious. With everyone. Furious with Leonie for taking such foolish risks. Furious with Phillipe for being younger and faster to react. Furious with Anders and Travis for doing nothing to help the situation. Mostly he was furious with himself. He had been too far away from Leonie to do more than run in her direction and watch as Phillipe threw himself at her and rolled away, clutching her tightly in a clang and screech of metal armor on metal armor. He saw the blossoming of crimson on the white snow and heard Leonie's cry, ripped hoarsely from her throat. He was there, pulling Phillipe away and kneeling beside her.
The broken shaft of the arrow had pushed deeper into her shoulder when Phillipe had thrown himself at her, up and to the right. The Orlesian had saved her life, Loghain knew that, but to see her in pain, the blood forming scarlet fingers in the snow, made his own vision darken.
"Anders!" he roared as he knelt beside Leonie. Her eyes were wide and glazed over. He thought, with the bitterness that was so deeply ingrained in him, that it would be the ultimate irony if he lost her at Ostagar.
The mage, his own face flowering colorfully with quickly forming bruises, nodded and reached into his pack for a vial of lyrium but Travis was already there, kneeling beside Leonie and making soothing clucking noises, his hand passing across her eyes as he began to whisper words that were foreign and ominous to Loghain.
"Get her breastplate unbuckled," Travis told him without looking at Loghain. Loghain's clumsy gauntlets made the task more onerous than it should have been. Once done, he slowly removed the cuirass afraid he would further injure her, before he unlaced her upper padding and cut away an area around her shoulder. Very little of the shaft was left to grasp, having been forced at an angle further into her shoulder.
"I seem to be getting slow in my old age," Leonie murmured, trying to smile but it came out as a grimace that made his nerves tight and his heart hammer. A rush of memory, the sound of his own men dying in agony as he retreated with the bulk of the army. He blinked, trying to focus on Leonie.
"Yes, an odd choice for a birthday celebration," he finally managed, his tone more ragged than dry but her smile was a bit stronger at that.
"The lengths you go to just so you need not buy me a gift," she replied and then her eyes closed and the gasping, painful breaths stilled.
Loghain's eyes shot up to look at Travis who was nodding. "Sleeping. Necessary. Get my kit."
Anders knelt beside Travis. "Oh, you put her to sleep? How did you do that? You're not a mage, are you?" the mage asked in tones that conveyed both awe and suspicion.
Loghain glanced at Phillipe as he brought Travis's kit back to the two men kneeling beside Leonie. Phillipe's pallor had a sickly green tint to it and there were scratches marring his handsome face. He too was in shock and had no doubt never fought in anything other than a duel. It wasn't in Loghain to pity a person, least of all an Orlesian, and that he owed Phillipe a debt further tightened his already tight jaws.
"I can't tell where it's lodged now so we'll need to pull it out, not push it through."
Loghain blanched. "I'll do it," he finally said in a tight voice. He removed his gauntlets and flexed his fingers.
"One slow steady pull," Travis warned quietly without looking up. He placed he hands on the tops of her shoulders and held her firmly. "Now," he instructed.
Loghain grasped the broken end of the shaft between his thumb and forefinger and slowly pulled back, half afraid that the blood would cause his grip to loosen. He watched for any sign of renewed bleeding. She shuddered but didn't wake up as he continued to pull steadily. Sweat beaded on his forehead, cooled by the brisk wind. She woke up as he was nearly done. Her eyes on his were trusting. He was the last person she should trust. If returning to Ostagar had reminded him of anything, it was that he would go to any lengths to secure Ferelden's safety, no matter the cost. But that wasn't true any longer; his allegiance was to the Grey Wardens. The irony crashed over him like a wave hitting a boulder.
"Duncan's weapons," Leonie whispered. He frowned, tossing the broken arrow aside.
"What are you on about?" he asked, voice brusque.
Leonie sighed and struggled to sit up. Travis still held her in place as Anders pressed a bandage into place before incanting a spell that flickered blue as it enveloped Leonie. "In the ogre," she mumbled.
Loghain turned to look at the ogre that had nearly killed her. Weapons were still embedded into the creature's chest. Loghain gave a bitter, mocking bark of laughter. Of course they were. And of course they would be Duncan's. He nodded and stood, crossing quickly to the ogre and jerking the weapons out. They were pitted now and covered in ichor and gore, rust along the once sharp edge.
"How long until she can move?" he bit out at Anders. Anders shrugged and began to list reasons why she shouldn't move.
"Now," Leonie intervened, slowly sitting up. Travis and Anders helped her stand before moving away to repack their medical kits. She was pale but standing without assistance and he was struck again by how brave she was, how fearless even when she should be afraid.
"Then let us be done with this cursed place," he growled, handing her the weapons. He braced himself, waiting for the inevitable blame and accusations. She stared at the sword and dagger now in her possession and then at him, her eyes dark and her expression impossible to decipher.
"Yes, we need to find Cailan's chest and be done with it," she agreed calmly.
"And we need to do something about that body," Anders said and there seemed to be an accusation in his voice. Loghain raised a brow at him before he moved off.
Phillipe hovered in the background, near enough to Leonie to make Loghain's headache flare into life. He took Duncan's weapons from her with a devout promise to treat them with reverence. Loghain's headache nudged along his temples and round to the back of his head, sending painful fingers into the base of his skull.
The ghosts of his soldiers haunted Loghain's every step. He could feel their anguish, hear their screams, smell their fear, taste the salt of their tears on his tongue. His back rigid, shoulders squared, he led his group, away from the battlefield, feeling oddly grateful that it was covered in snow. Only Leonie's blood was visible and that was an irony he couldn't overlook either.
As they approached the body that hung rotting on the defiled statue, Loghain heard the echoes of a stubborn child condemning Loghain's men to death with his need for glory, his threat to bring in the Orlesians and thereby destroy everything Loghain and Maric and the others had sacrificed to achieve. A glorious moment for us all. His words, twisting like a knife in him. It was then, during the war council, that the iron resolve in him formed fully and irrevocably. He would leave Cailan to die rather than lose an entire army pandering to the king's selfish vanity.
It was never a battle they could win and Loghain had spent two years replaying it in his head, every conversation, each decision, always to no avail. The outcome had already been determined and replaying those final days served no purpose. The what ifs and should haves, the futile anger at Duncan for not telling him the reason the Wardens were needed, Cailan's fascination with legends and glory and his stubborn refusal to stay off the front line, his need to have the Wardens all together rather than split into at least two groups, even Loghain's own blind paranoia had all conspired to bring defeat to them.
"You recognize this body," Leonie said softly and it was not a question, it was a statement.
"Yes, allow me to introduce you to the late and lamented leader of Ferelden, King Cailan Theirin," he said, sardonic and acerbic.
He was grateful enough that she said nothing else. What was there to say? Surana had accused him of regicide and Loghain had shot back with a pithy reminder that Cailan had far more blood on his hands. Staring up at the wrecked features, the broken body, that had been Rowan and Maric's son, he felt a stirring of pity for the boy king and that made him angry.
Cailan had been beyond saving, he reminded himself bitterly. He had been a vainglorious, egotistical child whose vanity and need for glory had cost Ferelden dearly. But Flemeth's words haunted Loghain as he stared up at Cailan. Betrayal. Whose betrayal was worse? Cailan betraying his nation for glory or Loghain's betrayal of Maric's trust? Would he ever know? Did it even matter? It was the past, over and done with. Yet still it held him in an iron grip.
He let out a low growl of disgust. He'd done the only sensible thing. He'd tried to save as much of the army as he could. Having them all die to fight a battle that had always been impossible to win would have been a far greater betrayal. Maric had told him never to risk the entire nation, the army, for one man because of a title. Loghain had sworn an oath that he would not do so ever again. Was that how he justified the debacle of Ostagar? He rubbed a weary hand across his forehead.
"Let us leave this place," he ground out, stepping away from the body.
Leonie protested immediately. "We cannot just leave him here, Loghain."
"Can we not? Do you suppose he cares?" Loghain asked, his voice caustic and short.
Leonie placed a hand on his arm and told the others to go on ahead. "Do you hate him so much?" she asked him in her calm, gentle voice.
Loghain stared at her for a moment and then up at the body that had come to represent every failure in Loghain's life. "Yes, I find I do."
Leonie touched his cheek, a delicate touch that struck deep into his resolve. "Do you hate him because he made terrible decisions or because he forced you to make the impossibly difficult decisions that he was not capable of making?" she queried in that same calm, gentle voice.
"Does it matter? In the end he didn't have the best interests of the nation at heart, only his own selfish needs," he snarled. His anger, his bitterness and hatred, had kept him company for far too long to just be whisked away by a woman's soft touch or tender words. He stepped back and stared up at Cailan. But it did matter, he discovered, because she had struck closer to the truth than he wanted to admit.
"Do what you will but don't expect me to be a party to it," he said coldly and walked away.
He was busy looking for the chest when he heard the soft keening notes of Travis's chanting. It was his tribe's chant for the dead, a sound he had heard before and the mournful notes seemed to be caught between the mountains, echoing softly all around him, floating on the whipping wind. A bitter reminder, plucking at his resolve.
Tensing, he waited for Leonie to condemn his actions, to accuse him, finally, of murdering her husband. He had been waiting for that accusation since she had first torn up his orders for Montsimmard and he'd discovered who her husband was. A Rivaini pirate, she had called Duncan, her face illuminated with her love for the man. And Loghain was just a farmer's son, a poacher, a killer.
He stood at the site of the King's tent, now only a few strips of colorful material that caught the wind and were whipped about. His head throbbed, his shoulders frozen in their tense posture, every muscle coiled and aching with the strain of holding himself aloof from the scenes around him, the memories that enveloped him.
Once more his mind's eye saw Cauthrien's expression when he had grabbed her wrist and told her to do as he had commanded, as if he had ever wanted to sound the retreat. He had been given no choice. The darkspawn horde had outnumbered them so drastically that even a thousand more troops would not have helped find victory against them. He closed his eyes, seeing the long snaking trail of thousands of torches stretching to the far side of the valley and winding up the mountainside. Thousands upon thousands of darkspawn.
Why hadn't Duncan told him the truth? Why hadn't he argued with the battle plans or the low number of Wardens? Why had Duncan calmly accepted Cailan's bravado as truth? Loghain's laugh was low and harsh. He knew why. Loghain had opposed him at every turn, had made Duncan's tenure as the Commander of the Grey of Ferelden miserable and impossible.
Each moment, every step he took, was a reminder of failure and impossible choices and duty and defeat that had spiraled out of control once he'd retreated from Ostagar. He stood motionless, caught in the web of tortured remembrances that would not lie silent.
"It is done," Leonie said, breaking into his reverie. He looked down at her pale face, saw there were tears dancing like diamonds on her lashes and he felt himself tensing up again, waiting for the accusations.
"Is this where you finally tell me what a right bastard I am? That I'm a regicide? That I murdered your husband?" he sniped at her coldly.
She blinked up at him. "I will do no such thing, Loghain. I think we must leave here, set up camp, and clean up. We shall come back later to find the letters, yes?"
He nodded sharply and issued the orders. Anders looked relieved, Travis curious and Phillipe was still confused and disillusioned that fighting darkspawn was neither romantic nor glamorous. Loghain thought Phillipe and Cailan would have gotten along famously. The thought did nothing to lighten his mood.
Leonie was silent, walking beside him as closely as their armor allowed. He was thankful for the silence. He felt the urge to stop her, to take her into his arms and drift away with her. But of course he couldn't, she was already moving to unpack her gear, favoring her right arm, her look still calm and thoughtful.
There was very little talk as they began the task of setting up camp, collecting firewood and deciding who would cook. The only thing they all agreed on quickly was that Leonie would not cook. She shook her head with a smile and continued with her tasks.
"I am quite a good cook," she said with regal dignity, " but I choose not to show off."
Anders howled at that and proceeded to tell Travis and Phillipe about some of her cooking disasters. Loghain felt far removed from them in those moments. He bent to his tasks, ignoring the light banter.
Tents set up and armor removed and cleaned, Loghain and Leonie made their way back into the ruins while the others set about cooking and cleaning weapons. Still not touching him, silent as a wraith, she walked beside him as they made their way across the encampment that once rang with the sounds of soldiers calling out the watch, barking dogs and the usual cacophony of an army camp. Hushed now; lost to war and elements and scavengers.
"Will you always hate yourself?" Leonie finally asked. He stopped, staring at her in surprise.
"Probably," he finally said when it became apparent she wouldn't move until he answered.
"Even though we both know you acted in the only reasonable manner available to you?"
He snorted derisively. "Yes, because waiting for relief troops was certainly unreasonable."
"A great commander once said that no victory comes without great cost but that no price is too great a price to pay for freedom. I wonder if that man was a liar?" Leonie asked, her voice still soft and oddly serene.
He hadn't expected her to be so calm. Or forgiving. It confounded him. He could understand when they were far removed from the actual battlefield, where the memories of Duncan were bathed in softer hues, but here, standing amidst the turbulent landscape of defeat, she remained strangely at peace.
"No doubt a great Orlesian general spoke such rubbish," Loghain finally said with contempt.
"Actually, it was a Fereldan who spoke those words after the victory at River Dane. He was speaking to his troops and he had, by all accounts, lost nearly half of his men in the battle but they had routed the great Orlesian army. I believe his name was Loghain Mac Tir. At least that is what Varel told me and he was there so I suspect he knows," she finished, smiling tenderly at him.
"Be angry, damn you!" he demanded harshly of her, hands coming to grip her arms. He didn't shake her but, by the Maker, he wanted to; he wanted to get her to understand what he was capable of and what he had done. Why must she refuse to acknowledge his guilt?
"I do not need to be angry, Loghain. You have enough anger in you for all of us who lost someone here," she replied and her tone was still calm and tender and loving.
He pulled her roughly to him, his mouth hard on hers, tongue demanding entrance. He felt her fingers tangle in his hair and pull him closer as if she could somehow block his vision in doing so. He was lost; lost to the scene around them, lost to everything but the moment, the space of time with her.
He should be gentle, she had been injured. He should be tender and loving because she was but he couldn't find it within him. A passion that heated his blood, sent it pulsing through him, a primal need to feel her, taste her, devour her was taking away any sense in him at all. She was salvation. She was forgiveness. She was peace. If he lived to be one hundred, he would never understand the kind of strength and grace in her that allowed her to accept him, to forgive him, knowing what he was.
He gripped her leather clad bottom and lifted her, felt her legs wind around his waist, her lips never leaving his. Her moan filled his mouth, her breath warm against his tongue, setting his need on fire, raging out of control. Despite it being the worst place and the worst time, he wanted her. Her ragged breath heated his skin when she drew back. He stumbled forward, searching for somewhere to lay her. She was already unclasping his cloak and he found a small copse of woods, a bare patch of ground. She dropped his cloak and he knelt down. She was still wrapped around him and her fingers were busy with the buckles and laces of his trousers.
Their coupling could hardly be called love making. He entered her with rough, graceless strokes and she clung to him, wrapping arms and legs around him, meeting his thrusts, rocking with him, murmuring words against him as they sat facing each other and his hands guiding her hips urgently as his need screamed incessantly in his blood, his heart, his soul.
He was shattered and made whole. There was no other way to describe the way he felt in the minutes following. He tumbled backwards, bringing her with him and his mind was spinning into the darkness that was growing around them, the air cooling but her breath still warm as she whispered her love into his ear. His eyes were damp, his voice rough as he replied in kind. They clung to each other until the night rose up to greet the sky.
Returning to the camp, they found the others busy eating. Leonie showed Phillipe the letters from Celene and then she carefully placed them on the fire. The letter from Eamon to Cailan was in Loghain's kit and he would make sure it found its way to Anora. Eamon would pay for his interference, his conniving. Loghain was sure Anora would see to that. He no longer felt the need to assist. That was a strange feeling. A strange admission.
Later in their tent holding each other like young lovers, he realized a remarkable thing. The heaviness of his guilt and anger had lessened, as if somehow the ground had been consecrated by their act and made clean.
And knowing that it was her birthday, he couldn't help but think that he had somehow been given a gift.