She could feel their eyes – some filled with seething judgment, others merely with puzzled concern – turn to her as she entered the room. Wynne, in particular, glared at her in stern disapproval. Of course – she had liked Alistair the best of them all, and for him to leave, only to be replaced by Loghain, would be a bitter pill for her to swallow. Leliana looked uncomfortable, though her gaze was free of judgment or condemnation. Did her belief in the Maker's mercy extend to someone as infamous as Loghain? Time would tell. Morrigan merely looked bemused and slightly smug – but she'd always hated Alistair, and no doubt had found his distress amusing in the extreme. Moira shuddered and looked away, biting her tongue. Did they think she had driven Alistair away on purpose? She had only done what was best – hadn't she?

"So, then, have you news for us? Did our treacherous teryn survive his Joining? Will he now fight under your banner in Alistair's place?" Leave it to Morrigan to revel in the discomfort of others.

"Yes, he survived," she replied curtly. She had witnessed his Joining, and it had been as nauseating this time around as before. She had feared, for a brief moment, that he would not survive – he had cried out as the darkspawn blood poisoned his body, and fallen hard to his hands and knees, eyes clenched shut in agony. She was not sure she could have borne it if he had died that way – whatever his sins, he deserved a better death than the Wardens could offer. But he had not died, and now she – and he – had to live with what she'd done.

"I do not like this," Wynne said darkly. "Loghain, of all people? You were at Ostagar! How can you forgive him for what he did there? To the king, to all of us?"

"Who said anything about forgiveness?" she shot back, immediately annoyed with herself for sounding defensive. "Look, Wynne, Riordan was right. We do need more Grey Wardens. And if Loghain can be of use to us in fighting the Blight, then how can we, in good faith, turn down his help?"

"But we don't have more Grey Wardens," Wynne replied. "You have merely traded one we could trust for one we cannot. It is a poor bargain."

"I didn't ask Alistair to leave!" Now she was definitely getting defensive – this was going even worse than she'd feared. "He decided that getting revenge for Duncan was more important than staying to fight the Blight – how could I have foreseen that?"

"And how can you blame him? Would you have served alongside Arl Howe?"

Wynne's words took her aback as surely as if she'd been slapped in the face. "It is not the same! Not even close! Loghain didn't personally drive a blade through Duncan's chest as he begged for mercy! Howe was a venomous snake – he slaughtered my family for his own greed!"

"And you imagine Loghain's motives are nobler? That he betrayed Ferelden out of a sense of altruism?"

"I – " She did not know, really, what to say to that. She found herself growing increasingly angry – at Alistair, for deserting her; at Loghain, for forcing her to justify his crimes to her most loyal friends; at Wynne, for blaming her for the unintended consequences of her mercy; and at herself, for stumbling around in the dark, forced to choose between bad and worse, and watching it all spiral out of control faster than she could take stock of their losses.

"You heard Anora. I am the commander of her army, and I will lead us against the Blight. I will do what I believe necessary to destroy the archdemon, and I need to know that I have your support. I spared Loghain, and he fights with us now. My decision has been made and cannot be undone." She hated ending arguments this way – like an officer silencing dissent within the ranks, rather than as a companion persuading her friends to understand her perspective. But Maker, she was so exhausted; tired of fighting darkspawn, tired of being questioned and second-guessed at every turn, tired of making terrible sacrifices for the greater good, tired of being in charge, tired of losing people she loved. And she was tired of justifying her every bloody action.

"Get some rest while you can. We leave Denerim at dawn tomorrow." And with that, she was gone, not bothering to take stock of the reaction of her friends as she stormed out of Eamon's chambers. If they didn't like her decisions, they could leave, just like Alistair.

Alistair. The shock and sadness of his departure had dulled somewhat, only to be replaced by swiftly mounting anger. In truth, she could not now honestly say that she was surprised by his actions. How long had she made excuses for Alistair's weakness? How many times had she allowed him to glibly pass all responsibility on to her, when by all rights he was the senior Warden and should have been the commander of their mission? How often had she listened sympathetically while he waxed tearfully about Duncan, his hero and father-figure, while she'd had to bite her tongue to keep from saying what she truly thought about the man who'd ripped her away from her dying parents in their hour of need, who had not bothered to tell her one damn thing about just how thoroughly the darkspawn blood would poison her body and soul? And now he had the nerve to leave her to fight the sodding archdemon alone because she hadn't cut "Duncan's killer" down like a dog in front of the entire assembled Ferelden nobility?

Well, no, that was not strictly true. She was not alone. For better or worse, Loghain was with her, and whether or not he would be a more reliable companion than Alistair remained to be seen. She scoffed. Well, he could hardly be much worse – she didn't imagine that Loghain, whatever his faults, would run away from a battle because of a perceived personal slight.

In the midst of her agitated wanderings, she abruptly found herself staring at the door to his room in Eamon's estate. If he had been anyone else, she would have gone to him at once after the Joining. She knew how it felt to be changed irrevocably by the taint, how utterly hopeless and isolating and dreadful it was to know that your life was now forever bound to the vilest of corruptions. And yet she had avoided him. What could she say? Would he even want to talk to her? Did he hate her for what she'd done to him – would he have preferred that she'd simply put a blade in his heart and been done with it?

Oh, sod all this mewling indecision – she was starting to feel like Alistair. She had to speak to Loghain sometime. It might as well be now. With a bold hand, she turned the door handle and strode into the room – to the sight of Loghain, clad only in his breeches, wrapping a bandage around his arm.

"Oh," Moira bleated, face reddening. "I'm sorry – I should have knocked."

He turned halfway to face her, arching a supremely wry eyebrow. "Yes, you should have."

"Um." She should have just walked away immediately, but since she hadn't, she felt it would be worse to leave now without speaking a word – and yet, whatever words she'd meant for him had momentarily vacated her brain as she was confronted with the sight of her once-nemesis bereft of his mighty armor and clad only in a pair of workmanlike breeches.

"I just… wanted to see how you were feeling," she managed. "The Joining is rather unpleasant."

"That is putting it quite mildly." She noticed that the wound he wrapped, while bloody, was nevertheless fairly superficial, and she could not help but survey the rest of him as he stood there before her. He looked none the worse for wear, and certainly not as though he'd just fought a duel not six hours ago.

"Am I then to take this as concern for my well-being? I find that difficult to believe." He had returned his attention to his bandage and refused to look at her, and her irritation mounted.

"I was not a willing participant in the Joining, either," she snapped. "Did you think I wanted to be a Grey Warden any more than you did? Did you think I had more choice in the matter than you? I assure you, I did not."

"Then I can only conclude that you believed this to be a more fitting punishment for me than a swift death," he said. "Congratulations, Warden. You have won the day, and I will submit to your command. More than this I do not believe I owe."

"I should have thought that the chance to continue fighting for Ferelden would be welcomed by you," she retorted angrily. "But perhaps I was wrong about you, in which case, I am sorry for depriving you of your martyr's death."

"Do not attempt to draw me out with insinuations of cowardice, Warden. I have nothing I need to prove to you or anyone else. I know what I have done for my country."

"So do I – you plunged it into civil war!"

"Enough!" he roared, ripping away the end of the bandage and tying it off with a hasty jerk. "If you have intruded on my privacy to further hector me with your moralizing, then your presence is most unwelcome. I will follow you into battle, because I have sworn to do this. But I do not owe you my penance."

"I did not come seeking your penance," she said hotly. This had gone pear-shaped rather quickly, just as the conversation with her friends had. Clearly, nothing was going to go right today. "You may believe it or not, but I did come to you out of concern. The Joining is an impossibly lonely and terrible thing, and while I had the benefit of Alistair to help me come to terms with it, you have no one. No one other than me. So here I am."

He looked at her askance at this, his skepticism written plain across his face. "And what comfort do you presume to bring me? I have survived, and I am not otherwise injured. Whether or not this is the fate I would have chosen for myself is entirely irrelevant, as my freedom to choose my own fate ended when I submitted to your mercy."

She looked at him, standing there imperiously before her, the bandage on his arm the only outward indication of any injury. He was, she had to admit approvingly, in fine shape for a man of his years – for a man of any years, really. Which begged the question…

"Why did you submit to my mercy?"

He frowned, and, becoming aware of her scrutiny, turned his back to her and walked over to stand against the bookshelves, pretending to peruse the titles on display. "What a foolish question. Because you had beaten me, and because I wanted to take the time to gather myself so I could die on my feet."

"I beat you, and yet here you stand before me, virtually unharmed," she countered. She could see her point hit home; the muscles on his back rippled as he stiffened in response to her words. "Had you wanted to continue the fight, you no doubt could have. I see no debilitating injury that necessitated your capitulation. And yet you did capitulate. Why is that?"

"I told you – "

"And I don't believe you," she shot back. "Come now, Teryn Loghain. You are a warrior of many years and many more battles than I. I do not believe that I bested you so easily."

"You underestimate yourself," he said baldly. "I told you that you possess a strength I have not seen since Maric died. Did you imagine that my words were empty flattery? I do not flatter, Warden."

Despite herself, she felt a warm glow of satisfaction at his words. "Then I appreciate your praise, but nevertheless, it is plain to me that I did not defeat you as decisively as you claim. And so I am left with a conundrum – a man who has chosen, for whatever reasons, to submit himself to my authority, and yet who will not accept my offer of – " She broke off at once. She could not, in honesty, say "friendship" – such a word was far too intimate to describe whatever it was she felt for Loghain. What was she offering him, exactly?

"Camaraderie," she finally supplied, lamely.

"Camaraderie?" His voice, to her chagrin, sounded amused. "Is that what this is?" He left the question hanging, but she did not answer it, partly because she could not and partly because she did not want to allow him to continue deflecting the conversation.

"Very well then, Warden," he said at last when it was clear no answer from her was forthcoming. "If you wish me to acknowledge that we are of shared circumstances because of our poisoned blood, then I will do so. It is true, at any rate. If, however, you are seeking a… companion to replace your misbegotten Alistair, then I am afraid I must disappoint you in that regard."

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" she said hotly. "Are you insinuating –"

"I was insinuating nothing, Warden." He turned around to face her, and she was irritated to see a ghost of a smirk on his face. "But your reaction speaks volumes."

"There was nothing between Alistair and me!" she exclaimed. "Nothing beyond friendship. I find such an accusation petty and beneath you."

"Interesting." The wry arched eyebrow reappeared. "I would imagine that there is very little that you would find beneath me. It is curious that you apparently believe me capable of some standards of decent conduct. And I would like to reiterate that I made no such accusation. I merely meant that if you wish for me to seamlessly replace your lost friendship with Maric's wayward bastard, then I have no interest in doing so. That you assumed something more lurid speaks far more to your feelings than to mine."

Maker, what an infuriating man. "Well, there is nothing lurid about my feelings for Alistair, I assure you. And yes, he was my friend. But that does not mean I am not angry with him for deserting me."

"Yes, the man Eamon would have crowned showed his true colors today, didn't he? I would hope, at least, that you recognize that, whatever your feelings for me, Anora makes for a far superior monarch."

"Of course I recognize that," she snapped. "That is why I supported her claim over Alistair's. Alistair is… a good man. But he is not king material. He knew it and I knew it, even if Eamon was in denial."

"Eamon was not in denial, he was seizing an opportunity!" Loghain retorted. "Who do you think would have truly been ruling Ferelden if your boy Warden had taken the throne? To whom would Alistair have run for advice every time a decision more complicated than what to eat for breakfast arose? Why, to his beloved Uncle Eamon, of course."

"And that is better than you ruling from the shadows as Anora's 'regent?' You had your own daughter imprisoned, for Maker's sake! In that vile bastard Howe's mansion!"

"Anora told you that, did she?" Loghain, for the first time, seemed troubled. "It is true that perhaps I… mishandled her. She has always been a wilful one, and Maker knows she can manipulate just about anyone to get what she wants, as she so cleverly did with you. But if you think I would have harmed my own daughter, then you are grievously mistaken."

"Then why was she at Howe's estate? Surely even you knew what a vicious brute the man was!"

"I was trying to protect her from my enemies! There was no doubt in my mind that those who sought to undermine me would not hesitate to harm her if they found the opportunity to do so. Howe would never have touched her. He would have known better than to provoke my wrath so blatantly. I would have destroyed him." Moira knew, from the vehemence of his tone, that he spoke the truth.

"And all the other people Howe hurt and destroyed? They were just collateral damage?" Even though it was Loghain who stood before her, half-dressed, it was she who felt dangerously vulnerable and exposed. This conversation was striking far too close to home, and yet she had said too much to calmly extricate herself now.

"Howe's sins are his to answer for," Loghain said brusquely, as he began to realize where their dialogue would inevitably lead. "He offered me his support, and I took it. I did not interfere in the administration of his arling – that was his business."

"That's it?" She knew, knew that picking at this scab would lead to nowhere good, for either of them, but the words came pouring out anyway. "You knew – even before Ostagar – what he'd done to my family! And you accepted his support anyway!"

He stared hard at her, silent for long moments. Then, finally: "If you are suggesting that I played a role in Howe's takeover of Highever, then you are wrong. I knew nothing of Howe's plans. But once Cailan had decided to throw himself on the pyre in a foolish suicide charge, I could not afford to alienate him. Howe commanded vast tracts of land and fielded many soldiers for Ferelden's armies. I had to consolidate whatever allies I could, to avoid tearing the country apart."

"Yes, well, you did a bang-up job of that, didn't you?" she said bitterly. "And now my family is dead and gone and I have nothing." Oh, Maker, she hadn't meant to say that out loud.

Once more he looked at her for some long moments before speaking. "I did not kill your family," he said at last. "When Howe came to me, he presented evidence that your father had been treating with Orlais, plotting to sell our country out from beneath us. The documents were stamped with the Teryn of Highever's personal seal. I… do not now know if they were legitimate, or forgeries. It hardly matters now, at any rate, as you have taken your vengeance on Howe for his deeds. But know this: I would die before I saw Orlais take back even one acre of Ferelden soil. I would most certainly kill before I allowed such a thing to happen. Everything I have ever done was to protect my country."

Moira stared, dumbstruck. This was the first she'd heard of any Orlesian plot to regain influence in Ferelden, outside the vivid imaginings of Loghain himself; and certainly the first she'd ever heard of her father being involved in anything remotely treasonable. Her dumbfoundedness quickly gave way to anger.

"My father was no traitor! He was a loyal subject of the king! How dare you – how dare you try to justify Howe's treachery with such a base accusation!"

"I am trying to justify nothing," he grated. "I am telling you what happened. You may do whatever you wish with the information. I have no incentive to lie to you now."

"Where are these 'documents'?" she demanded. "I want to see them. You couldn't have known my father's handwriting as well as I do – I need to see them! Clearly Howe stole my father's seal after he sacked Highever and composed these false 'documents' for your benefit –"

"Warden, enough." He did not yell back at her; his voice was oddly subdued. "I imagine the documents are with the rest of my correspondence in the Royal Palace, but they will not remain there for long, now that I am… no longer in residence. But I can see no good coming from this. If the documents are forgeries, then it is plain Howe murdered your family without justification and lied about his motives to ingratiate himself to me. You have since exacted your retribution upon him for this. But if the documents are genuine, then you will have discovered that your father was indeed planning to betray his homeland for Orlesian gold. It seems to me that you have much to lose and nothing to gain from this. I do not think it wise. Let the dead lie, Warden."

Moira did not know what made her angrier: that he was so calmly discussing her parents' murder and alleged treason, or that he was absolutely correct in his judgment, and she knew it.

"Very well," she said tightly. "Keep your 'secret documents.' But I want them destroyed, and so help me, if you ever speak of them to the Bannorn – "

He interrupted her with a harsh bark of a laugh. "That is hardly a concern, as I am not likely to ever be invited to address the Bannorn again. But, if it would bring you peace of mind, then I will ask Anora to deliver my personal documents to me before we depart Denerim tomorrow. I will even allow you to review them yourself, though I must reiterate that I think it a poor idea and unlikely to bring you the peace you seek."

She stared at him in confusion. Was Loghain Mac Tir offering to do her a personal favour for no apparent personal gain of his own?

"I… thank you," she blurted. "Why?"

"Because until you've seen the damned papers, they will be gnawing at the back of your mind like a mabari with a bone," he said. "And you cannot afford any distractions before we join the battle with the darkspawn."

"Oh." She was angry with herself for feeling so disappointed. Had she really expected selfless altruism from him? "Well then. I will review them once we make camp tomorrow." The implications of the documents sent her mind reeling, and she suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. She needed to be alone, before her careful façade of military control fell away entirely.

"Then I will bid you good night. We march from Denerim at dawn." She turned to leave his room, and was halfway out the door before she remembered, from her first night as a Grey Warden…

"You'll have dreams," she blurted out to him, turning in the doorway to face him again. "Nightmares. It's the taint, working its way into your blood. It gives you a connection to the darkspawn, and you can hear them in your dreams. If you're really unlucky, you might even see the archdemon."

Again with the arched eyebrow. "I am certain I can handle unpleasant dreams," he said dryly.

"You don't know what an unpleasant dream is until you've had a Grey Warden dream," she said. "I just… wanted you to know. So you don't wake up the way I did after my first night as a Warden. No one warned me."

Something seemed to waver in his eyes, some emotion other than wry sarcasm that tentatively struggled to emerge from behind his mask of indifference, but then it was gone, and Moira wondered if she was just imagining things.

"Then thank you for the warning," he said briskly. "Now I must ask you to allow me to finish undressing in peace. We have few enough hours left for sleep, and a long march ahead of us."

"Right." She turned again for the door, and again hesitated. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you survived the Joining." Unwilling to see what reaction that statement garnered, she quickly fled and closed the door behind her.

In her own bedroom that night, she tossed and turned, unable to sleep. She had entered that advanced state of exhaustion that made sleep untenable, and the events of the day weighed her down like an anchor. The Landsmeet, and the fateful duel; Alistair's rage at her decision to spare Loghain and his desertion; her companions' near-universal disapproval of her choice to enlist their once mortal foe into their ranks; her acrimonious sparring with Loghain and his revelation of Howe's spiteful allegations against her father. All were bitter pills to swallow, but, surprisingly, she found herself most troubled by Alistair. Her anger had burned itself out, to be gradually replaced by a simmering resentment. He had so blithely told her on so many occasions that he didn't like being in charge, didn't like making decisions, and wanted to follow her lead. Did he buggering well think she wanted to be the one on whose shoulders the fate of the world rested? He was the one who had thought being a Grey Warden was a dream come true and an escape from his dreary life in the Chantry – and yet he had abdicated his vocation in a fit of pique because she had failed to deliver him blood vengeance for Duncan, even though Loghain had not put his blade to the man himself. And now she was alone, facing a hopeless battle against a darkspawn horde not seen on Thedas in centuries, and her only real comrade was the man who had been trying, up until about eight hours before, to kill her.

For the first time since the night Highever fell to Howe's thugs, she rolled over against her pillow and allowed herself to cry.