Once again, fate had shown her sense of humour.
That was what crossed Loghain's mind when he read his new orders. He had been training with the Warden's in Orlais for over a year now, surprising both his commanders and himself with how easily he'd taken to fighting again at his age. After years embroiled in politics, there was comfort to be found in the simplicity of killing darkspawn.
And now, according to the missive he held in his hand, he was being reassigned to the Free Marches. He'd felt a momentary sense of relief upon reading that. While the last year had not been the waking nightmare he had expected, he would never be at peace in Orlais. Every room he stayed in, every tavern he drank at, was undercut with the low thrumming knowledge that he was in enemy territory. Starkhaven would not be home either, but at least it had a chance of being neutral.
But neutrality, it seemed, would have been more comfort than he deserved. Because the new commanding officer he'd been assigned to was one Jean-Marc Stroud – a former chevalier.
Loghain had rented a small room above an old tavern. This was to be home while he was in Starkhaven. The furnishings looked ancient but at least they didn't seem quite seem to have started rotting yet so that was something. He had a bed, a desk, and a wash basin in the corner – for a man who had spent half his life living out of a tent, it was more than adequate.
He'd unpacked the few possessions he had then set to work pouring over his maps of the area. He'd been to the Free Marches on several occasions for various diplomatic talks, but he'd rarely ventured outside the palace estates so getting to grips with his new surroundings was his first priority.
His concentration was broken by a knock at the door.
"What is it?" he shouted, without getting up.
"Note for you, Messere." he recognised the voice of the tavern waitresses who had seen him to his room earlier. Begrudgingly, he opened the door and took the letter from her with a grunt of thanks.
It was just a plain piece of paper folded over. No unnecessarily fancy royal seal meant it couldn't be from Anora and no one else really ever wrote to him. Curious, he opened it.
Greetings Warden Mac Tir,
I am told you are rooming here. Coincidentally, I intend to take my supper in the tavern this evening (I am rather fond of their stew). You are welcome to join me if you would care to meet informally before our expedition begins. I shall be here around sundown. If not, I shall see you tomorrow morning as per our orders.
Regards,
Senior Warden Jean-Marc Stroud.
Loghain stared down at the elaborate, curly handwriting of the note. It did not bode well that even the man's penmanship was ostensibly Orlesian. He couldn't discern the note of the brief note, nor the man's motive for inviting him. Perhaps the man was hoping to size the Hero of River Dane up before they had to fight alongside each other. He had spent enough time with Orlesian diplomats glaring at him over the years to know that they had not forgotten him in the years since the rebellion. It occurred to him that this chevalier may be just as uneasy about this arrangement as he was. He smirked to himself, the thought that he could still make chevaliers nervous was a pleasant one.
Still, that did not mean he relished the thought of spending his evening with this Stroud, plus he had planned to spend the evening writing some letters. He spent the next few hours busying himself with his work, but curiosity still stirred in the back of his mind. By the time the sun went down Loghain found himself heading downstairs to confront his new commanding officer.
This Stroud was impossible to miss. He was sat alone in the middle of the tavern, in full grey warden uniform, slurping down his bowl of stew like a ravenous hunger demon. He was good-looking, with a thick moustache that made it difficult to discern his age, but Loghain guessed the man was at least ten years his junior.
He strode over to the table and cleared his throat.
"Warden Stroud," the other man looked up from his bowl, "I am Loghain Mac Tir."
"Ah!" the man exclaimed, and the Orlesian accent was obvious from just that syllable. "Warden Loghain." He stood and offered out his hand to Loghain, who shook it firmly. Stroud gestured for him to take a seat at his table.
"I am glad you came down," his tone seemed friendly enough, "Would you like something to eat? The rabbit stew here is truly excellent."
"No thank you. I ate earlier." The man's attitude took him by surprise. Primarily, because nowadays it was rare for anyone who knew who he was to be this friendly, let alone an Orlesian officer. But also, because he had dined with enough Orlesians over the years to know that the majority of them were much more discerning about their food. Even the notion of eating a dusty tavern's rabbit stew would be horrifying enough to make most them collapse in a dead faint.
"I am Jean-Marc Stroud, as you know" he began explaining as Loghain took a seat across from him. "You may simply address me as Stroud, most people do." His smile seemed genuine but that only served to deepen Loghain's discomfort.
"I'm sure 'Commander' will suffice."
"Nonsense, Serah. You were a general and I require no deference." His commanders in Montsimmard had known that too, of course, but it had never been acknowledged. He assumed some of them had enjoyed the idea of having him on their leash, even if they had all been professional enough to keep it to themselves.
"You can address me as Loghain." it sounded more like a command than he had intended.
"Very good." Stroud said and then returned his attention to his stew. The Orlesian seemed perfectly comfortable with the silence and Loghain certainly wasn't going to fill it with chatter. Instead he simply sat and wondered what he was doing there.
"Could I interest you in a bottle of brandy?" Stroud suggested, smiling mischievously. "I dared not order one for myself alone, but I'm sure between the two of us we could make short work of it."
Without waiting for an answer, Stroud beckoned a waitress over and ordered a bottle of West Hill brandy. West Hill? Loghain scowled. It was an odd choice. It could be that this chevalier just so happened to have a taste for a Fereleden brandy from the very region where the rebel army garnered one of their most significant losses to the chevaliers. Or it could be that the man was toying with it.
"Should I trust you not to spike it, Chevalier?" he said coolly. Stroud barked out a laugh.
"You do not disappoint, Hero of River Dane. I was told your hatred for the empire still burns as ardently as it did decades ago." He sounded delighted at having provoked a reaction.
Loghain just glared across of him. He had swallowed too much poison in his lifetime to lose his composure over a single insult.
"Is that why I'm here then, for you to gloat?" he said, dryly. Stroud's smile faltered.
"You misunderstand me, friend." He was interrupted by the waitress placing down two glasses on their table and a large bottle of brandy. Neither man moved to pour it.
"I am no friend of yours." Loghain sneered, "I have known you Chevaliers. I know you speak of your code of honour, yet honour is the very last thing I have seen from you." He paused a moment to regain his composure. "I am no animal incapable of civility. I will take my orders from you, as is my duty as a Grey Warden. But I will not stay here to be goaded." He kept his voice even, controlled, but it did a poor job of masking his anger.
As Loghain stood to leave, Stroud reached out to grab Loghain's arm, willing him to stay, but snatched his hand back immediately when he saw the look of utter revulsion on the man's face.
"Please sit back down. You really do misunderstand me." he looked sincere. Reluctantly, Loghain sank back into his seat.
Stroud slowly reached for the brandy, took out the cork and poured out two glasses. He pushed on towards Loghain, who was still glaring at him with suspicion.
"The Academie des Chevaliers does teach a code of honour." his Orlesian accent became even more pronounced as he said it. He took hold of his glass and looked Loghain directly in the eye.
"They speak of little but their honour. And yet their honour was nowhere to be found when they slaughtered my family in our home in the name of the Great Game." The blunt revelation took Loghain aback, whatever he had expected the man to say, it wasn't that. Stroud continued,
"As far as I am concerned, any honour the empire might have had was lost long ago. And if you care to," he nudged Loghain's glass towards him, "I will happily drink a toast with you to its downfall."
Loghain took hold of the glass and slowly raised it up.
"To the fall of Empire." said Loghain, testing him.
"To the death of Orlais." echoed Stroud, and for the first time his Orlesian accent didn't grate on Loghain's ear.
They both downed their brandy, its honeysuckle finish tasted stronger than usual.
"Welcome to the Free Marches, Warden Loghain." smiled Stroud, refilling their glasses. Surprising himself, Loghain smiled back.