Act 5: The part of the story that makes this a tragedy.
Celia can't be certain of time's passing any longer, the days melt together into a mess of silence and emptiness. Some short time after arriving back home after Eamon's wedding Loghain informed her of his decision to keep Anora in Denerim and he would be staying with her. Celia's response was simple enough.
"I'm paying a debt that is not my own, for sins I did not know existed. Perhaps it's for the best I live in seclusion, at least this way I never learn what else you could have possibly done to get me here."
He calls her a stubborn woman, that he knows better than to argue with, she wonders if she should be insulted or honored by that; especially when he once called her patient and generous. Instead she lives a quiet life, pouring herself into her people; making sure the city is built well, that trade agreements are worthwhile.
Her parents die of old age, her family all but forgets the lonely little girl living in the big castle on the hill. Celia would forget herself if she could, let the ghost story of her life fade away as all things should. But her Maker is not a kind god, her Maker forces her feet forward and gives her strength in silence.
There is a part of her that feels strong again, without the ever-present figure of her husband looming behind her. The Teyrn is well, the city is thriving, and she is at the head of it all. But in the back of her mind, she knows that these credits will not go to her, rather the husband that she has not seen in nearly ten years.
She receives a letter from Eleanor telling her about Maric's disappearance, asks her if she knows anything of the search efforts. Celia sits back in her chair that day, she looks at the letter and feels a mess load of things attacking her all at once. Grief, guilt, anger, relief, complacency; part of her is not surprised that the mythic legend of a king disappears from his lands as they always do in stories.
The great king who saved the kingdom vanishes to fight on until his kingdom needs him once more. Then again, she feels the very prominent reality that this great man was only man, no more no less. Still, he was a friend and ally while she knew him, he was not a perfect man, and somehow that makes him all the greater.
Celia has a drink for him that night, as she mulls over the possibilities of what will be said of her husband when he dies. She does not wonder what will be thought of her before coming to the realization that no one will remember her, and she is just fine with that.
Some months later, near the end of the summer, she receives a letter from her daughter; while not uncommon, they are rarely so urgently sent. Anora writes that her father has gone mad with his search of Maric, that the only one who could possibly help drag him into reality is her. While reluctant, Celia resigns herself to her daughter's wishes, the Teyrn is well, and it isn't as if she has much else to do.
She does not take a carriage, she rides for some days, absorbing the bliss that is travelling alone. The air is just cooling, and Ferelden is a beautiful place to call home; all the country side she had passed so many years in anguish seems different now.
Time has been rumored to heal all wounds, but now she asks herself if solitude can do the same. Is she not more whole now that she has only had herself to carry? She feels particularly old, knowing that this earth is still the same, yet she is not at all. For better or for worse.
She arrives in Denerim to find the city lethargic, the streets are nearly silent, as if they wait on bated breath for the return of their king. Celia goes to the Gwaren Estate and is unsurprised to find only the servants. Many of whom she does not recognize, still some look at her with familiar eyes and greet her warmly.
Washing up quickly, Celia heads on to the castle, having sent word ahead to her daughter. The childish part of her feels nervous knowing that she'll see not only her daughter, but her husband for the first time in over a decade. Women in their forties have no place feeling childish at all, but she does as she approaches the palace.
Anora is there, rushing into her mother's arms the instant she sets foot inside the palace. There's a surge of warmth that Celia feels the moment she wraps her arms around her daughter. The fair-haired girl that looks just like her mother, but is truly her father's daughter. A lethal combination that shakes Celia at her core, nevertheless she holds her beautiful girl and smiles at the man who stands behind her.
"Hello, Calian, you look well." She greets.
"I am, thank you. And thank you for coming." He's grown well, the young dreamy eyed boy, now stands as a determined young man.
"Of course," Celia places a hand on her daughter's cheek, "I must come wrangle that father of yours before he runs Ferelden into the ground." Celia gives a tender hug to the approaching prince.
"Oh mother, he's acting a fool and nobody is bold enough to tell him so." Anora says clearly frazzled and at her wits end. Her letter had been downright desperate, practically groveling in nature.
"Darling, at least he's alright." Celia says with a chuckle. Taking her daughter's chin to tilt her gaze towards herself. "Your father has always been this way, I'll take care of it."
"Maker I hope so." Calian says rubbing the back of his neck, "I just want this mess over with." There's a sadness hanging in his gaze, a longing that Celia is all too familiar with.
"It will be, have courage, Calian." Celia gives her… future son-in-law, a kiss on his cheek. For so long he's practically been a son to her, it jars her that the couple is still not married. Perhaps that is for the best. Marriage is neither for the young nor the faint of heart; a lesson she had learned brutally.
"Where is your father? I'd like to get this done." Celia says.
"I can take you-"
"No no, I believe it will be best if I speak with him alone." She assures her daughter, Anora nods her agreement and points her mother down the correct hallways.
Celia uses the small bit of silence to gather herself before she stands in front of the very door that hides her husband. Her hands shake and her heart races; the man has some kind of hold over her that even she did not know the extent of until this moment. Still, she steels herself and knocks on the door.
"I'm busy." He responds. She cracks a smile, quite typical of him. She opens the door anyway, "I said-"
"I heard perfectly well what you said." She responds as he takes a moment, reeling at her presence.
"Maker's breath… Celia… What… Why are you here?" He asks, speechless and startled.
Celia looks at him and realizes just how old he looks; all the years of being weathered by the world are starting to settle in his features. His eyes are surrounded by darkness, his skin settling into his bones. If she didn't know better, she'd say he looks weaker, not the strong no-nonsense man she'd married.
"Your daughter contacted me." She says closing the door behind her. "She's worried about you."
"Why?" He shakes his head, stubbornness overriding shock.
"She thinks you're driving yourself mad, looking for Maric."
He sighs, clearly frustrated, "I'm fine, I'm the only one who'll keep up the searches."
"Because you're the only one who hasn't accepted the reality of the situation."
"Don't… Celia, don't waltz in here and start with me."
"That's why I'm here, to be the utter bane of your existence."
"We will find Maric-"
"Do you believe that he's still out there?" She asks truthfully, not an ounce of anger in her tone.
"I do."
"It's been two years, darling." He seems to startle at the way she acknowledges him, eyes softening at her just the slightest bit. "There are thousands of people who want him alive. Who hope as greatly as you, but the reality is that we can't find him."
"We just haven't tried hard enough."
"You have tried far too much." She says, "Be honest with yourself, don't you think Maric will make it back on his own? If he is meant to come back."
"I have always been the one to pull his ass out of trouble." He raises his tone.
"And death catches up to everyone." She responds in equal measure.
"He is not dead. He's… He's Maric." Loghain runs a hand through his shaggy hair, franticly looking at the notes on his desk.
"Maric is only a man, and he… He had his time just as we all do."
"Stop it."
"You will go insane if you keep this up." She says.
"You know nothing." He growls at her.
She steps forward bracing herself for the path she's embarking on. "Loghain, you're not the only one who's lost someone dear to you. Calian has lost his father-"
"The boy is too young, he doesn't know enough-"
"Nobody ever knows enough." Celia retorts, "Maric told me that once, because believe it or not I had a friend in him as well. Is your loss greater than that of Calian's? Anora's? The country's?"
"Damn you woman." He mutters, a beat of silence follows before he punches the desk.
"Will cursing my name help? If so do it, not that I've ever stopped you before."
"You're just as blind as everyone else, they've given up on him!" He shouts at her.
"Or maybe we've laid him to rest." She retorts walking even closer to him. "Perhaps we want to lay our king to bed, so that Ferelden can go on. Life is about moving on."
"What do you know about moving on?" He asks, voice jarringly even.
"Why can't you just accept that the world doesn't revolve around you?" She asks, tone equal to his.
"Then why are you here, Celia?" His voice is a growl as he reaches to grab her shoulders, "Tell me."
"Because my daughter asked me to come and smack some kind of sense into you." She retorts, "Was that wish too much to hope for, husband?"
There's a beat of aggravated silence, their breath mingling in the space between them. He's got what can only be described as a grimace on his face as he inches closer. "You never did know what too much hope was, wife."
Before she can respond he's kissing her, hot breath and tight hold on her arms, at first she starts to writhe in his grasp. But his touch melts a part of her that she'd previously thought to have been stone. His lips are so foreign and familiar that she is caught in the most sudden whirlwind. It is the most selfish thing in the world, and she knows that; but she revels in selfishness. Revels in the way that he too seems to become a puddle of a man in her touch.
He bites her lips and she shoves him in the direction of the nearest wall; they are angry and brutal, but that has never stopped them before. She practically rips the buttons of his shirt, shoving her hand to touch the skin beneath; she bites him back and tries to keep her composure as he elicits sounds she's never heard before.
Hasty hands and clumsy fingers, trying to remember a dance that has been all but forgotten for a decade. Loghain is impatient, furious in the way he gropes the laces of her dress, practically clawing her undergarments off. There is no passionate grace here, only primal want, the rawest kind of lovemaking any Maker could imagine.
Her body acts, pulling his hair and yanking his body closer when the space between them is far too great. They are greedy and anxious with the way they unravel before one another; Celia all the while wondering if he cares much at all or even notices the ways she's aged. She notices the specks of grey littering his body, sees the way he favors one hand over the other.
Love has always been hard to swallow, but this, whatever it may be, is nearly impossible. The taste of his tongue in her mouth is so unpracticed it's as if they're newly married; trying to discover the parts of one another that they should know by now. He feels so strange inside of her, with his awkward jerking motions and restless gasping breaths.
Celia is struck once again, realizing that they are old, nearing the end of their middle age, yet here they are fucking in his office. Maker help her.
When the passion between them has become only tiredness in their bones, they sink to the floor; clothes hanging off of their bodies, and themselves in a heap. Celia still straddling her husband, holding him as if her arms are broken and she can no longer move. His hands walking the lines of her body, breath tumbling out in tatters.
She lifts her gaze from his chest, sees the glossiness coating his eyes as the silence settles. He looks at her, takes her head in his hand and kisses her forehead, tender and sweet, an action that feels like an artifact from better days.
"I love you, Celia."
As if by spirit possession or muscle memory she responds as ever, "I'm yours."
They take a moment staring at one another in the aftermath of their escapades, looking for something in the quiet.
He speaks first, "Why did you come here?"
"I told you my truth, Anora sent for me."
He looks at her, eyes lighting a fire almost to conceal the sadness which lingers just beyond. "Does he not deserve the best?"
"You have given him the best, does he not deserve to join the Maker's side and finally know peace?" Celia places her hand over his heart, fingers brushing back the loose fabric of his shirt. She sees a sort of shiver pass through him as she touches him, a similar feeling passes through her.
"I can't give up on him."
"Then don't, give him peace." She feels her voice soften considerably.
"It can't have been for nothing." His voice breaks as he says this.
"It wasn't for nothing, it was for you." She assures him, he melts beneath her touch, growing closer to the floor as if he wishes to become it. Kissing the top of his head she continues, "Much of what happens after loss, is not meant for the lost. It is for those of us who remain.
"It feels like giving up."
"Sometimes, the right thing to do, is to give up." She says softly.
"Celia." He sighs looking up to kiss her once more, "What would you have me do?"
"Truthfully?"
"Yes."
"Come home, Loghain." She says, her voice so small she hardly registers that it is her speaking. "Come back to me."
He pulls her in, tighter, stronger, and it is then she realizes that he's just as broken as she is. Maybe there are parts of him that hate the way he treats her, hate the way she treats him. Perhaps they really are made of the same metal, what if they both have lyrium hearts? Dangerous, brutal, life giving.
When she notices he's crying, tears dripping down her back, she pulls her face from his chest and kisses his jaw.
"There is no one in this world that I have neglected as you." His voice is weak, hand curling up in her hair, fingers locked in the tangles. "I have not done right by you."
She doesn't know what to say, she merely cups his face and watches him disappear into himself for a moment.
"I… I'm sorry. I could not even give you my devotion, and you have asked for so little in our marriage."
"I know who I married, Loghain."
"I am not the man you married."
"Yes, you are, the Maker has not been kind to us… but we've made due the best we could. We are but men in a world that is imperfect." She presses her cheek into his chest, listening to the shuddering breaths he takes and the breaking of his heart.
"You're too good for me."
"Then give me what I want most. Come home with me, let us live the rest of our lives in peace. Leave Denerim to the young and hopeful." She feels her own tears melting onto his skin as she speaks, "Let Anora and Calian take up what you could not fix."
"I don't want to leave her."
"You have to."
He cradles her head in his hands as he says, "I'm afraid." It's the most plain he has ever been with her, and she takes his words with as much gentleness and kindness that she can. Shoving aside all the years of pain and anguish she takes his hands and holds them firmly.
"I mean what I say, I am yours, I will not abandon you no matter how tempting you make it. Despite all the broken promises we have left in our wake, I adore you. I hold you above all else. I may not always agree with you, or even like you, but I am always on your side. Even on the days that I hate you, I am sincere when I say that I love you. All the days of my life."
He kisses her then, and when they breathe he reminds her that he does not deserve her; as if she doesn't know this already. He proclaims her faithful, Maker-sent, devoted, states that every man should covet her if they are the slightest bit wise. She tells him to dress, as she herself stands to prepare herself to leave.
"Whenever you're ready to depart for the estate, please come get me. I'm going to inform Anora and Calian of your decision."
"Is… Is three weeks enough time for a wedding?"
"Plenty." She replies, shivering as she exits the study. The castle is much too large, the building feels eternally cool despite the summer air outside.
Celia finds her daughter and son-in-law in a small lounge by the library, Anora is up and out of her seat the moment her mother enters the room.
"Is everything alright? We heard shouting all this way down the hall and-"
"Everything is fine Anora." Celia says with a sad sort of smile. "Calian, dear… It's time we lay your father to rest."
"He's agreed to cease the search?" Calian is out of his seat and beside Anora in an instant.
"If you are ready to take the throne, Gwaren stands firmly behind you." Celia says, watching his face light up followed by immediate panic and sweeping grief.
"Maker's breath."
"You're ready Calian." Anora assures him, hand squeezing his shoulder. "Does that mean…?"
"We will stay for the wedding, but I'd like to bring your father home before winter."
"Of course… I… Anora-" Calian is suddenly tongue-tied, clearly overwhelmed with all that is occurring.
"You don't have to Calian. I'm here, as always."
"I'll be taking care of your father, should you require anything of me, please do not hesitate to contact me." Celia looks at her daughter and sees a startling sight. A glimmer of herself hangs in her daughter's eye as she gazes at Calian.
Celia's heart stalls, thinking back to when she had first married Loghain, how young and naïve she had been. Part of her wants to hide Anora away from this, convince her not to marry, inherit Gwaren and live without the grip of a husband. But the coldness in her heart ebbs away as she sees Calian take Anora in his arms. She prays then, that if the Maker has ever held a glimmer of care for her in his heart, that Calian will treat Anora better than the marriages they were born from.
Celia takes Loghain back to the estate, he does not see his daughter that night for fear of her seeing him in such a state. Over the next few days the city swells with nobles, and the Mac Tir's remain uncharacteristically quiet, keeping out of the business within the castle.
By the end of the week, a wake is finally held for the missing king; Celia stands by her husband holding his hand as the country mourns their king. Calian's coronation is two days later, the ceremony is solemn and extravagant. There's a part of Celia that has never felt so removed from court life, seeing the aged remains of her former tormentors and friends.
Ginevra is dead, has been for half a decade, Eleanor's two children flank her at the ceremony tall and strong. Time has taken its toll, the consequence of passing time is merely the loss of life, Celia finds herself content with this, despite the fear in her chest at the realization.
Three days after the coronation, Celia stands in her daughter's chambers, adorning her with trinkets and jewels for her wedding day. Again, she is struck with the urge to warn her daughter, tell her to run into the wilderness and escape this sentencing.
"Mother, what is that?" Anora asks drawing Celia's attention towards a crudely wrapped mound on her dresser. It's a silly thing at best, truthfully, all the same she presents the pin to her daughter, the first gift Loghain gave her. One of the few if she's honest, and she is so brutal in her honesty these days.
Her daughter's eyes water as she gazes at her mother, silently she hugs the woman who brought her into this world.
Celia allows herself to grip the fine fabric of her daughter's dress, inaudibly begging her, "Please don't do this."
Anora smiles at her mother, "I hope to find my own marriage as great as yours."
Celia's heart breaks, knowing that her child thinks so highly of her when the truth could not be more the opposite. "Calian will do right by you." She answers meekly.
The procession to the chantry feels like an extension of the funeral march, and Celia doesn't know if she should beg the Maker or threaten him. This world cannot be so devoid of joy and happiness that her daughter must also suffer the great trial of marriage. At the least she prays it be not as harrowing an experience for the young girl.
Celia is the last to enter the hall, every last person staring at the tearful mother of the bride; they must think her a joyous blessed woman. They must not know the grief that wraps her heart. Calian looks at her with a sense of pride and a promise, one she is desperate for him to keep.
She is nearly deaf to the proceedings, feels her husband's presence beside her once he has given their daughter away. Watching the revered mother speak but missing every word of it, the smile her daughter wears is undeniable, and it destroys her.
It is all over so fast she almost forgets to leave the chantry after her daughter, how cruel a tradition, to follow in the footsteps of the child that is no longer yours. Loghain holds her hand in a way that is unfamiliar, he's keeping up a distance from her that is heavy in the air without his reluctance.
They are tired, nothing like themselves and there's a part of Celia that is afraid to live with Loghain again. Knowing that after this they will be left alone together once more, it frightens her and yet she is far too tired to dwell on it too much.
Of course, the reception hall is filled with well wishers, people who approach Celia and her husband to remind them of how proud they should be. Their daughter, now a queen, Celia imagines that many of them would remind the couple that they are of common blood. She wishes to remind them that she has not ever forgotten the past, but is at a loss for the right words.
It all goes by in a blur, the music sounding softer than the reality, dancing faster than Celia's mind can keep up with. People pass her by with congratulations on their tongues and tears in their eyes, she isn't sure any of this is real until she and her husband are the last ones to leave the palace. The sun bright in the sky, though Celia swears there is a layer of smoke remaining from Maric's funeral service.
The world is cold as if in spite of the sun, and she feels emptier than she has in her whole life. Somehow the weight of this is unbearable, between herself and her husband. The reverence that hangs between them is thick and unreadable, yet all too familiar. So, when she feels the snaking of his fingers towards her, she knows all too well what's coming next.
It's exhausting, being married to a man who tries so hard to change, while his character is set as stone. Even so, she completes his tentative motion, grasps his hand and squeezes it tight, she hears the heaviness in his breath as he kisses her fingers. It's as gentle as she can expect of him, and it's enough for her to see him as soft as he'll ever be.
She expects there to be whispered wanting's and a grip that turns rough the moment his body overcomes her. But he doesn't, instead they get home, they get changed, and they lie beside one another.
At first in silence, and then he speaks, "Today was a lot to handle."
"That it was."
"Are you alright, love?" His voice is thick and muffled by emotion.
"I am, are you?"
"I… I don't know just yet."
"We'll get there." She reassures him, brushing back the tangled locks of his far too long hair.
"Why do I find that doubtful?"
"Because you're stubborn, part of me thinks you enjoy being miserable."
He chuckles, "That would be you."
"Hm… Well look who I married."
"Look indeed."
They lie there, hands tied up with one another just staring at each other in aw and shock. How they got to this place is so far beyond her comprehension, time has fluctuated so often and so strangely part of her thinks that all of this could be a dream.
She isn't certain sleep comes for either or both of them, before she knows it they're packing the last of their things. The carriage is ready to go, and Celia has a funny feeling that this will be her final goodbye to the Ferelden capital. She is both grateful and worried by this.
There is an ease that captures the two of them as they ride towards home, he speaks softly and shortly. At first Celia is afraid that this is his grief coming through, that he is so tired and so far, gone. But then one day when she catches him smiling for no reason at all, she realizes that this is who he is.
A quiet boy in a body far too grown up, too tired and too afraid to give up all of the responsibilities he's shouldered in his lifetime. Celia wonders what kind of child he was, what his mother would have said about him, if his father were loud or quiet like her own.
She imagines them a different life, one where she ran away from home to marry the farm boy. With a small house but a big family, no kings or queens to tear at the seams of their marriage. She imagines this man instead of the one she married and finds herself content.
Gwaren is bitter and cold, they spend the winter holed up in the castle, speaking softly and barely noticing the ever-changing world outside their stone haven. Calian is a popular king, although he finds himself still retconning the damages Ferelden sustained during the search for Maric, the people are happy with the current situation. The royal couple writes often, asking advice of the Teyrn and his bride, and this becomes a new normal for them.
Receiving letters to which they respond swiftly, usually sometime during the afternoon, together yet buried in their separate works. Celia has never felt closer to her husband, not just by proximity but in the way, he says her name effortlessly. Then how he decides not to attend that year's Landsmeet, it is the first time since their first year of marriage that they spend a full year together. It's his first full winter in Gwaren and he is left in awe the whole season long.
What a strange yet quiet existence she lives now, was this the life she'd always longed for? Is this her reward for all the suffering she's endured over the years? To have the quiet reverie of a life long unreachable?
Perhaps it is too much to hope for, a life in quiet domesticity, and for the year she is skeptical. Until she notices the rough edges of his tone never return, that his eyes are both relieved and bright. It's like he's become a person all over again, and this person is someone she is content to love.
One day, with the spring late and falling slowly into summer, they sit in the courtyard reading through missives and letters. His hands playing mindlessly with her hair, and she is so unconvinced of her reality she speaks without noticing.
"This isn't real." She says, confused when the words manifest in the air.
"What?" Loghain asks, looking up from his reading.
"I…"
"What is it, Celia?"
"This feels… I don't know."
"Why wouldn't this be real?"
"Have you met us? We don't…"
"We don't what?" He asks, hand laying gently over hers.
"Do… this." She says still clearly confused by the words she speaks.
This? You mean, live in peace?" He asks with a chuckle.
"We aren't quiet people." She says.
"Perhaps once we would have found this to be… strange, wrong. But maybe we've grown up."
"Finally?" She chuckles.
"It took us some time, I'll admit."
"Do you wish this were different?"
"I can't say I do." He admits.
"Why not?"
"You may not believe me, Celia, but I have missed you greatly." He sighs, "I know… I know that I have not been the most… Anything. I've never been the most affectionate, or kind. You deserved better from me, allow me to make up for our past troubles."
"I do wish things were different, I wish we'd had more time like this."
"Ah… Yes, I'm afraid I did waste many of our good years together."
"These aren't good?" She smirks.
"You are good, as for myself, I am uncertain as of now."
"And if I said that I feel as though I shouldn't love you, but cannot help myself?"
"Then I'd say you are but a fool in love, not that I'd mind. You always manage to make me the happiest I've ever been." He laughs.
"Is that so?" Somehow her hands had found the curls of his hair, fingers lazily dancing across his hairline.
He takes her hand and kisses it, "Perhaps we were never meant for a young sort of love; maybe the two of us were always meant for a quiet life."
"If you'd said that to me twenty years ago I would have smacked you."
"And now?"
"I wish you'd said it ten years ago." She admits feebly.
"Oh, love." He says, voice turning into a hushed apology, "I have done many things in my life, none worse than the way I've treated you."
"I… I suppose that goes for the both of us… Much as I tried to act otherwise."
"You are… If I were in your same position, I don't know if I could act half as graciously as you."
She looks away from him, "I am not certain of many of the choices I've made in my life… But I am certain that I hold our marriage above all else."
"I don't know what I did to deserve you."
She scoffs, "Neither do I."
"In a good way, love?"
"I can't be entirely certain."
"Perhaps then, I am not worthy."
She laughs, "Is that so?"
"Shall I make my atonement dear? As your husband in the eyes of the Maker and his own bride?"
"We've spent so much time apologizing, Loghain."
"We've spent far too much time on things less worthy." He kisses her jaw, soft kinds of kisses that are feather light and sickening in their sweetness. "You deserve this world and the next, allow me to show you my gratefulness."
"I'm not stopping you, am I?" She teases so coyly he looks at her in what is nearly shyness. Blushing as he is, he takes her, nestling into the crooks of her body, skin flushed and warm all the while.
They are not as young as they used to be, they are not wild with their dalliances; rather they are controlled and dignified truly a fear for most lovers growing old. But it is control that gives them peace, to know and feel security in one another. Something so foreign yet known all too well to them in this moment.
The two of them are embarrassed and shocked by their own inability to regain their breath and footing once all is over.
Celia laughs, "What a pair we make."
"Perhaps Rowen and Maric had the right idea, getting out before all of this."
"You'd prefer to be dead than dead tired from lovemaking?"
"Maker no…" He laughs nervously, still shaking as he lies back down on the floor, "I just wish I didn't feel like sleeping now."
"As I recall, you've never been a particularly active partner." She teases.
"What are you implying?" He laughs.
"I'm not implying anything, you've never been the type to indulge more than once a day."
"Would you have had me?"
"There is no denying you, love."
"Really? For someone who believes that sentiment, you really have tried me over the years."
Celia hovers over him for a moment, eyes deep and desperate as she expresses, "I am yours Loghain, I always have been, Maker knows how or why… I am yours, before, now, and always."
His eyes have watered as she speaks, his hand reaching up to tie up his fingers in her hair, "I could never express my gratefulness to you Celia, I love you so much." He pulls her to his chest and kisses her head for a long while, breathing her in as if suddenly realizing how quickly moments like this pass. "I thought I knew love before you, but I clearly did not."
Part of her cannot believe he's mentioning this now, the other wants him to continue, "What do you mean?"
"The way that you love… it is so total and pure, you have the patience and grace of a goddess; you are steadfast and loyal."
"Yet stubborn and spiteful." She adds.
"Maker knows I've given you reason to have more sins than you harbor." He says, but before he can say anything more she kisses him quickly.
"Let us not speak of deserving any longer, we'll go in circles."
"I love you."
"And I love you."
But pretty things, Celia had learned, never last; though this time the quiet and sweetness lingers beyond the days and weeks. Melting into months and even two full years from that day.
Softness so palatable, even Anora and Calian notice when they come for a visit in the early days of spring. They seem to relax in mere moments of entering the home, something that would have been unfathomable some time ago. And would become unfathomable again much faster than any would expect.
For now, Celia finds what she has become used to, contentedness, listens to the soft tones of her husband's voice and holds her daughter's hand. It's a life kinder than any Maker she knows of would have allowed, so she cherishes it as such.
The same cannot be said for her husband, she finds out much too late, one morning before the sun is but a sliver in the sky she sees herself wandering through the castle. She is not late in years, but she is late in life, though she would not guess such so quickly. It truly is as if the world is taunting her, that life cannot be so content without the added pain she must endure.
In his office she finds letters and journal entries, writings that detail his longing for war, for simpler days he calls them. Celia would have never guessed in a thousand life times that Loghain would keep a journal, but the writing is undeniably his. His most recent works elaborate his own thoughts of loneliness in Gwaren, how truly he believes that his wife deserves better.
Celia, my dear Celia, sometimes I think it a pity how much I love her. She would have lived a life much better without my presence, I only seem to bring her devastation. Perhaps that is all I have ever and will ever cause, chaos. Yes, war is much more my pace, without it I feel as though I have no worth, and this place is so dreadfully quiet. But Celia, she loves this self that I have created for her, so I continue on; perhaps it is wrong to lie like this, but I fear she could not handle the truth. Maker knows I have put her poor soul through enough.
And what would I say to her? That I must leave her once again because I cannot stand to stay here a minute more? That I resent the place the bore her? Do I abandon the only pillar of righteousness I have managed to hold in this life? She is much too good for that, but does she deserve to love a lie of a man?
Some nights, I blame the Maker, think that he would have been kinder to allow her to die in the hands of Orlesians. Other nights I know the only one to blame is myself, for it is I who has taken everything from her. It is a better fate to endure this silent life, if for no other reason than the poor girl deserves a break.
Maker have mercy on my beloved wife, the one who called me a monster, and was not altogether wrong.
She doesn't know if she should feel anger, sadness, or disappointment. She settles on exhaustion, the easiest of all of these, because it is truly impossible to believe that the only time in her life she has found contentedness in her marriage is a façade. Created out of pity no less.
It is one thing to be lied too, it is another altogether to be pitied. Without a word to her husband she sets herself up in her private study; picking up on an old nervous habit of nail biting to cope. Martha had told her once that life isn't fair, but did it have to be such a bitch?
In all the times in her life that she has wanted to die none have been quite so prominent as this. This time, she feels as if it would do her better to commit the deed herself, and that is a thought she would have never imagined herself possessing. What scares her more, is that she filters through the easiest ways to follow through with the act.
What a silly thing to kill yourself over, she chides herself internally before running through every pain that this marriage has ever caused her. People have certainly killed themselves over less, and barely a year after she would have called herself the happiest she's ever been. Her mind is sick with heartache, and this time it feels as though her heart is struggling to beat. The chest pains leave her aching with each swelling beat, it's hesitant and lingering as if her body wonders if in fact it should be continuing on.
"How much life am I meant to endure before you let me fucking be?" She vocalizes to the sky above, even with the ceiling blocking her, she imagines the Maker in his throne glaring as her insolence. Tears streaming down her cheeks as she glances skyward. "You're just as cowardly as the men you abandoned, you are no god… If you made us this way, then I cannot imagine all the flaws and sins you possess."
She weeps into her hands, "I am so tired."
She does not see Loghain that day, when he inquires about it as they ready for bed she responds, "I apologize, I'm afraid I'm not feeling well."
"Would you like to send for a healer?" He asks.
"I'd like to sleep, see if that helps any. Perhaps I should sleep in my own chambers?"
"No." He says, resolute as ever, "Should you require help in the night, I want to be there."
Resentful yet passive, she nods towards him and crawls into bed. His heat is stifling as the night progresses, she feels the fever creeping up her skin like the tendrils of a beast. Is it possible that for once if her meager life, the Maker listened to her? Is he finally granting her the wish she has been harboring in her heart?
Damn the bastard if so, damn the cruel creation that man kind has chosen to worship, imperfection named god. Can't anyone name anything a god if the wind blows in the right direction? Can't the Maker simply be a farce? All of this suffering for one lifetime is strictly impossible, it has to be.
It cannot be possible that she has been put in a story where she is but a means to an end. Where she, the brave Garrison girl who stood at the feet of dictators and spat at them, the girl who took thirty lashes and lived, the one who lay in her own blood and dirt still swearing and squirming beneath her oppressors. That girl, the bold, bright, beautiful girl who once was a shining example of all Gwaren has to offer; will only ever be Anora's mother, the queen's mother, and Loghain's bride, the wife of the hero.
The wife he never truly wanted, the one he merely chose out of convenience and lust yet had the audacity to fall in love with her. Celia wants to fight this fate but knows it's futile, perhaps that's why she's really dying. Because she has nothing left to fight for, who has ever won their fight against fate?
Yes, it's for the best she succumbs to her fever, it will all be for the better that she dies and become what she was always meant to be, a footnote in a text. Maybe a higher being than the Maker is at work here, is there a higher power than the one who wrote you into creation?
She entertains the thought, perhaps the Maker is not the one she wants to blame. Perhaps it is the one who breathed life into her and gave her the voice to speak; a mind to reason her way through the madness that has encapsulated her life. Yes, that must be it, it is the one who breathes life into you, not the hand that crafts you, a statue does not learn to hate after all.
Her blood boils beneath the fever flushed skin keeping her trapped, there is sweat and blurred vision as the sun sweeps its way into the room. She is not in pain, merely uncomfortable, and oh so very tired. It may in fact be time to rest, for once and for all.
Just as her eyes flutter shut she hears her husband rouse from his sleep; she wonders what will become of him once she passes on, the possibilities are endless and frightening. His hand is on her forehead, checking for temperature no doubt, and by the franticness of the bed's spring beneath her, it can't be good.
Blurred as her senses are, she can't help but open her eyes, watching him as he stumbles into clothes. There is a startling lack of pain, a mercy even, as he calls for a healer. She manages to rest a bit before the healer arrives, in her state she does not catch his diagnosis, but she does not need to.
Celia knows that death is just outside the chamber doors, waiting for what? She cannot say, she merely knows that when he comes her way, it will be the relief of a lifetime.
Loghain is back by her side, chair pulled up to the bed, he takes her hand and kisses it softly, "You'll be alright, love, the healer's a right fool if he thinks a little bout of sickness will… will…"
"It's alright, Loghain." Her voice is not her own, it is far too deep and strained to be hers.
"It is." He agrees before standing up to meddle with something or another.
Time becomes but the color in their chambers to Celia in those last few hours, from the blue of night, to the purple of sunrise, then pale yellow of daylight to the copper of evening. Loghain grows more frantic every time she opens her eyes to find the light and the colors. She always did love colors, all kinds of colors that truly only Gwaren has to offer. Something her husband never stopped to notice no doubt.
The room is purple when she sees him crying over her, pity takes hold of her for a moment, watching the man lose the last bit of life he has. First Rowen, then Maric, and Anora to Calian. It is cruel that Celia abandon him too, but this, dying, it is the most selfish thing she has ever done. She relishes in it.
Still, she loves the man who has never deserved her, and it is with grace that she speaks, "Loghain."
"Don't leave me, Celia." He says, voice drenched in weakness and despair, "I can't live without you, I can't keep going on like this. I fear what I will become without you."
"Haven't I given you enough?" Celia asks weakly, "I have given you everything I have and still you ask for more. I have given you my body and soul, my heart, my mind, my fidelity, my sacred honor. I gave you all the love I have ever held in my heart. I bore you children, Loghain… And now you want to take my death away from me too?"
He lets out a whimpering sob, "Am I truly such a tyrant to you?"
"You are a complicated man."
"Please Celia… I love you. I love you. I love you." His weeping leaves her unfazed, death is so close to her she can almost see his looming figure.
She is reminded of her place, that she has always been his atonement, and now she gives it to him. "Do right by me then."
"Celia-"
"You know how, you have always known how. Just, this time… do it."
He does not wipe away his tears, instead he holds her close, "I'm yours."
Despite everything that has ever happened between them, all the history and pain. They harbored love and hate like no other romance could handle; she stood by him when he should have knelt beside her.
And though the future holds betrayal to this, her final wish; even with the haunting of her voice in the back of his head all the while he will betray her son. He will become to monster she foretold, and brings Ferelden with him in his spiral of insanity. All the while, knowing that his bride will look at him from the beyond in resentful disappointment, one last misuse of her trust.
The cognizant part of her knows that the man she's married and loved is a liar, a traitor even. There are so many reasons that she should go into the beyond with resentment in her heart, and yet in her final moments…
For the first time in her life, she believes him.