For the first time in her life, Moira was disappointed that there were no darkspawn to fight.

The march from Denerim was hot, dry, and uneventful, and as they made camp, she found herself wishing that there had been a nice, bracing battle to take her companions' minds off of the events of the Landsmeet. It was plain that they resented and despised Loghain to the last man, and Moira had to wonder just how much of that venom had bled over into their opinions of her. Even the party members who ordinarily had little use for human politics were plainly displeased. Oghren, mumbling incoherently between indiscreet swigs from his flask, had offered his opinion about the fate that "sodding traitors" deserved. Zevran, meanwhile, had been unusually quiet, his usual jibes and japes either muted or absent – which Moira took as a sign of his disapproval.

Her other friends were even worse. Wynne made her censure clearly known, and every time Moira tried to make eye contact with her, she looked away hastily, always finding something trivial with which to busy herself. Leliana was not nearly so rude, but she had an air of sadness about her, and the way she looked at Moira – as if she were disappointed in her – was almost worse than Wynne's stark displeasure. And, of course, Alistair was gone, and she would never be able to talk to him about any of her troubles again.

As they set up camp, she found herself growing ever more resentful of her companions for their lack of support. The Landsmeet was supposed to have brought Ferelden together, united under one banner, once and for all; and yet for all that it had been resolved, her camp felt more fractious than ever. Feeling broody, she took out her knife and began dressing the rabbit that had wandered into her snare, taking solace in the simple, repetitive motions. She was so engrossed in the process that she did not notice anyone approaching her until a shadow blotted out the glow from the fire. She looked up, startled, to see Loghain standing over her, holding a small satchel.

"I believe these are of interest to you," he said, holding it out for her. The documents from Highever.

"Maker! You actually – I mean, thank you," she said, cursing herself for her fumbling.

"You sound surprised that I brought them to you. Did you not believe I would be true to my word?" He scowled, thrusting the satchel towards her as if eager to be rid of it. "I must reiterate that this curiosity of yours is foolish in the extreme. Your parents have been avenged, and, assuming you survive the battle with the archdemon, Highever will no doubt be returned to your family once the Blight is over. Whether these missives are genuine or not is now irrelevant."

She glared at him as she grasped the satchel and withdrew the stack of bound correspondence from within. "My family's good name is not irrelevant!"

"Your family's good name is not in doubt. That is what I am attempting to impress upon you, to no avail, it seems. So be it, then. I hope you find whatever it is you are looking for." With that, he stalked away, leaving her to wonder how it was possible for a man to be so utterly unpleasant even while being ostensibly helpful.

Well, if Loghain wanted to snarl around the camp and glower at the others in his leisure time, then by all means, he was free to do so. Unable to wait any longer, she eagerly untied the string binding the letters and took them out to read.

The first one was a short, simple letter addressed to her father, and dated a month before the fall of Highever:

Bryce,

Per our earlier discussion, I think the time has come to make our overtures, and sooner rather than later. You know the Bannorn as well as I do; they are a contentious lot at the best of times, and downright mutinous at the worst. If the situation continues unchanged much longer, then we will no longer be in a favorable position to wring concessions – that is why I have decided to travel to Orlais next month, rather than waiting until after Summerday. I would be honored if you would accompany me – I wish to portray Ferelden's nobility as a united front, and your presence as a teryn would bolster our credibility immeasurably. I know you have had your reservations in the past, but you know as well as I do that as long as the king lacks an heir, the stability of the throne of Calenhad is in doubt. You also know that we will not be able to address this issue to any satisfaction at the Landsmeet – that old war horse Loghain still commands sufficient respect among many of those who recall the occupation, and he will protect his daughter's position to the end, even if it means sacrificing the Theirin line to do so. He can also be reliably counted upon to rally the troops at the merest mention of Orlais, and while I sympathize to a certain extent with his reluctance, after thirty years of peace, his paranoia has descended into irrationality. I dislike all this subterfuge, but what I mean to do is ultimately in the best interests of Ferelden, and if that means circumventing the Landsmeet, then so be it. You need not worry about Cailan; he has rebuffed me in the past, but I believe he is coming around. All the more reason for us to move now, before he has a chance to change his mind.

Let me know as soon as you are able. As always, give my regards to your lovely teryna and your children. Perhaps we will even find a suitable husband for that fiery daughter of yours in Orlais – I can certainly attest to the benefits of taking an Orlesian for a spouse, after all!

Your humble friend, &c.,

Eamon

She frowned at the paper, her thoughts churning. She was not familiar with Arl Eamon's handwriting, and she could not therefore tell if this letter was a forgery, but if true, she was unsure what to think. It was clear that Eamon had arranged some sort of meeting with the Orlesians, though to what precise end was unclear – some sort of alliance, judging from the tenor of the letter. The references to Anora were plain – she had known, from overhearing drawing room gossip at Highever, that many of the nobles were beginning to believe the queen was barren, and should be set aside so that Cailan could produce an heir to the throne. She had always assumed that if that had happened, he would merely take a new wife from the ranks of the many young unmarried Ferelden noblewomen, but Eamon seemed to be suggesting an alliance with an Orlesian noblewoman instead. And what was this about marrying her off to some Orlesian noble? She cringed at the thought. She'd found Isolde shallow, foolish, and grating, and she could hardly imagine that Orlesian noblemen were any better.

She smothered a wry smile. Now I'm starting to sound like Loghain.

Hesitantly, she withdrew the next paper from the stack, and saw that it was her father's reply, dated some two weeks later – just a fortnight before the massacre at Highever. If this was indeed his genuine reply, then it was clear he hadn't found the time to send the letter with a courier to Redcliffe, which explained why Howe had found it at Highever. She scanned the manuscript quickly. If it was a forgery, it was a damned good one – the words sloped to the right, and the t's were crossed asymmetrically. It had to be her father's elegant, precise handwriting which flowed across the page – it was vanishingly unlikely that anyone else could have penned such a precise replica. Moira's hands began to tremble slightly. She remembered Loghain's stern warning – 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. Damn and blast him, he'd been right – she should have refused to look at them, should have been content in her belief that they must have been forgeries produced by Howe to discredit her father and justify his own treachery. But it was too late to go back now, and, swallowing her fear, she read on.

Arl Eamon,

I must admit to a great deal of trepidation regarding this venture, particularly in light of recent tensions along the border. It is not that I believe what you say to be without sense – on the contrary, I think you are accurate in your reckoning, both regarding the necessity of producing an heir, and of forging closer ties with Orlais, preferably on our own terms. But I dislike the idea of going behind the backs of the Landsmeet. Loghain can certainly be a disagreeable curmudgeon, but he remains the only other teryn in the land – his will, and those of his vassals and allies, cannot be dismissed so blithely. But, of course, you are entirely correct that he will never willingly support any overtures, no matter how lukewarm, to Orlais, nor would he allow Anora to be dispossessed without a fight. Nevertheless, I feel that we cannot make any decision – particularly one so momentous – without the Landsmeet's approval.

With that in mind, I will accompany you to Orlais, assuming you can provide me with assurances that you have the King's full support in this endeavour. You are correct that presenting a united front will strengthen our negotiations – but I will only undertake such a mission if I know that it is his will. Couslands have always served at the pleasure of the king, and I would not undermine his authority in this, or any other, matter. However, it appears as though any trip we might make shall be delayed anyhow – I have received news of the darkspawn massing in the Korcari Wilds, and I believe the King will call his armies to go and meet the threat. If that is the case, then Fergus and I shall certainly take our forces to join him. Perhaps I can discuss the issue at length with him there, and once the darkspawn have been dealt with, we can proceed, depending upon the King's grace, of course.

I have conveyed your felicitations to my family, and likewise hope you will convey mine to Isolde and young Connor. I must implore you, however, to never allow my Moira to hear you speak of setting her up with an arranged match, let alone one to a foreigner – she is quite determined to follow her own path in life, and woe betide anyone who tries to advise her otherwise! Ah, I can hardly complain – she is entirely like her mother in that regard, and in that I can find no fault.

We shall speak soon. Until then, walk in the Light, my friend.

Bryce

The words slowly began to blur together, and Moira remembered that she was sitting out in the open just in time to stifle a sob. Wiping hurriedly at her eyes, she dashed the tears away, sending droplets down upon the parchment and causing the ink to run across the page in spidery rivulets, blurring the words until they were indecipherable. Oh, Father. Maker keep you and Mother at His side. The pain of losing her parents was a wound that had, slowly but gradually, begun to knit together; now it was ripped open anew, and she felt her loss as keenly as she had that first, awful night.

She stood, ignoring the curious gazes from the others, who – thank the Maker for small mercies – sensed her distress and were respectful enough to keep their distance. Without a second thought, she threw the letters into the fire, watching through a veil of tears as they curled into the flames and were quickly reduced to ashes. Whatever those letters proclaimed, whatever significance they had, at least now no one else would ever know of them.

And what significance, exactly, did they have? Loghain had told her that the documents exposed her father's treachery, his plot to sell Ferelden's honor for Orlesian gold. But all he'd agreed to do was meet with some Orlesian delegates at Arl Eamon's behest – and then only with the assurances that he was acting on behalf of the king! Her anger began to mount as she recalled his conviction – for those letters, he was willing to believe that her father was a traitor, and therefore felt justified in his alliance with that murderous fiend Howe? But really, what more had she expected from the regicide himself?

Furious, she stormed away from the campfire and into the woods, needing desperately to be alone, away from all the concerned eyes trying not to glance her way. She thrashed through the underbrush until she found a small clearing, and, at last alone, she proceeded to pace back and forth in agitation, willing herself to calm down until she had mastered her emotions enough to return to the others. She snarled a series of curses, most of them directed at Loghain – perhaps Alistair had been right after all, and Loghain did not truly deserve to join her as a Grey Warden, and –

"I take it, from your reaction, that you believe the documents to be genuine. I warned you, did I not? I warned you that you stood only to lose from reading those letters, and yet you insisted on doing so." His commanding, gruff voice cut through her thoughts, and she started in shock as he emerged into the clearing to join her, the moonlight glinting off his silver armor. How long had he been there? Long enough to overhear some choice remarks regarding his character and parentage, no doubt.

"You son of a bitch!" She strode towards him, glaring into his impassive icy blue eyes. "You told me those letters exposed my father's treachery! That he was planning to sell out Ferelden to Orlais! They prove nothing of the kind!"

"Warden, I understand your loyalty to your father," he grated. "But you have now read the letters for yourself, and you cannot deny his own words! He intended to meet with Orlesian nobles to decide the fate of Ferelden – what, pray tell, is that, if not treason?"

"He didn't – all he planned to do was talk!" she burst.

"Talk? How does one 'talk' to a wolf at his doorstep, I wonder? Does he think to convince the wolf not to eat him, if he asks nicely enough? Or perhaps he knows that the wolf is a ravening beast which will not leave without its tribute, and so he prepares a sacrifice in order to sate its bloodlust?"

"A ravening beast looking to sate its bloodlust?" She stared hard at Loghain, shaking her head slowly. "Sweet Maker, listen to yourself! Eamon was right – your paranoia about Orlais is irrational!"

"You were not there!" he bellowed. "You did not live through the occupation! I did! You did not bear witness to the atrocities and barbarisms their chevaliers and painted lords inflicted upon our people! I did! You would presume to lecture me about Orlais when you know nothing of what it is capable?"

"You cannot blame all Orlesians for the occupation! You know Leliana, and Riordan – they are hardly 'ravening beasts!' You wouldn't even be here were it not for Riordan! You have to let go of the past!"

"Let go of the past?" His voice was full of incredulity and disgust. "We can no more 'let go of the past' than we can shed our skins. The past is always with us. It is in our blood and in our bones and in every beat of our hearts."

She struggled to respond to that, to his forthright certainty, and found she could not understand it at all.

He sighed irritably. "You think me an old, mad fool, fighting a battle that has long since been won. But you are wrong. Well, perhaps you are right that I am an old, mad fool – but the battle against Orlais is not won. It will never be 'won.' Not as long as the Masked Empire still hungers for Ferelden's crops to fill its belly and Ferelden's soldiers to fight its wars. The price of our freedom is eternal vigilance. I have never forgotten that, nor will I ever. Nor will I apologize for moving against those who would seek to forget."

"My father didn't forget," she said quietly. "You read his letter – he would have done nothing without the Landsmeet's approval, or the support of the king! Whatever you may think of his plans to travel to Orlais, he was not a traitor!"

He sighed. "It is plain enough that your father was attempting, somewhat, to rein in Eamon's impulses," he admitted. "But it matters naught, as Howe had already butchered him before I knew of any of this. I admit that when Howe presented these letters to me, I… found myself trusting him, in retrospect, more than I should have."

She wanted to rage at him, to howl at him for ever having thought for even a moment that Howe was worthy of trust, but found that she could not. Perhaps his somewhat conciliatory tone had ameliorated her anger, or perhaps it had just burned itself out, like a white-hot burst of flame, to be replaced by a hollow melancholy.

"You were not the first to be deceived by Rendon Howe," she said bitterly. "He was only able to slaughter my family because he and his soldiers were already safely inside our keep. My father trusted him and he paid for that trust with his life."

"A bitter price," Loghain agreed. "And yet here we stand, despite my numerous attempts on your life. Why did you spare me? You could have had me executed. I would have done, in your place. Perhaps you hoped I would perish in your Grey Warden ritual? You must be sorely disappointed that I refuse to die. What is it you want from me, Warden?"

It was a question she had been asking herself since that fateful moment at the Landsmeet. Her gaze met his in the moonlight, and, as usual, whatever emotions or thoughts he concealed behind those piercing pale blue eyes remained hidden from her view.

"I'm offering you a second chance. I want you to take it," she said finally. "You were a hero to all Ferelden, once. Perhaps you can be again, if you help me end this Blight."

He looked at her long and hard, and she felt as besieged by his penetrating gaze as she ever had by the blades and arrows of her foes.

Finally, he broke the silence with a snort of disdain. "Sentimental nonsense," he said, but there was an undercurrent of amusement in his gruff tone, and Moira supposed that had to count for something. "But nevertheless, I am a man who has always believed in taking whatever chances fate might offer." He paused, as if wanting to say more, but then seemed to abruptly change his mind.

"Come," he said suddenly, in that imperious tone of his that brooked no debate. "We should head back to camp. I imagine your friends are preparing to organize a search party, for fear that I have slipped a knife between your ribs."

The camp was quiet, her friends scattered about around the fire or in their tents, but she allowed herself a private chuckle of amusement as she saw Zevran, Leliana, and Wynne visibly relax their postures as she came out of the woods. Perhaps Loghain's jibe had not been far from the truth.

A maelstrom of thoughts swirled through her as she headed back to the fire, thinking on the conversation she'd just shared with Loghain. He had been right – reading her father's missives had only brought her more questions and no answers. She did agree with Eamon that Loghain was paranoid and irrational regarding Orlais, but… it was true she had not lived through the occupation herself. Her father had spoken of it sparingly, and only in the vaguest of manners, telling her that it had been a "dark time for them all."

She sighed irritably – there was no use ruminating over the past. The Orlesians were gone, and her father and Howe were dead. All that stood before them now was the Blight, Maker help them all.

She resumed her seat before the fire, recalling that she had skinned a rabbit for supper, but Loghain had interrupted her before she'd been able to cook it on the spit. So where was it? She looked all around, to no avail – until she spotted a pair of very guilty eyes peering at her from a few paces away.

"Dane!" she scolded indignantly. Her mabari hound was the absolute picture of remorse, his head tucked shyly between his outstretched paws, tail wagging guiltily. "You ate my rabbit, didn't you?"

A low, slow whine confirmed her hypothesis. "What do you mean, it was just laying there? I was planning to come back for it, you know!" She glared at him until, unable to bear his mistress's scolding, he rose and trotted over to her, laying his head on her lap and giving her a soft, apologetic snuffle.

"Yes, well, you should be sorry! That was my supper, you hairy beast! You already had yours! And don't think those gooey eyes will get you out of this one. What a bad boy you are!" Another long, sad whine.

"You can hardly chasten a dog for being a dog, Warden." Loghain's voice appeared suddenly behind her, sounding (to her considerable annoyance) rather amused. He appeared to her left, taking a seat near the fire as he rummaged through a travel pack, pulling out a wrapped bundle which turned out to be a wedge of cheese and some purloined roast from the palace.

Dane, his attempts at earning his mistress's forgiveness forgotten, appeared at once at Loghain's side, his eyes bright as he stared soulfully at the new source of food. Loghain shot him a look of wry amusement, and Moira realized that this was the first time she'd ever seen the taciturn man without his customary mask of hard indifference.

"Oh no, you're not getting any of this, I'm afraid," he chided gently, though he did spare a hand to scratch Dane behind the ears. "You've had quite enough already, it seems! I don't think your mistress would be very pleased if I rewarded you for stealing her supper." With a whine of disappointment, Dane sat down next to Loghain, abandoning his quest for extra scraps. He sniffed at Loghain's hand, tentatively at first, then, with a cheerful snort, he began to bestow affectionate licks. With a deep chuckle, Loghain allowed the dog to perform his greeting, and when Dane was done, resumed idly stroking the dog's head as he bit into his cheese.

Moira watched the scene with growing fascination. Her other companions' attitudes towards Dane had ranged from amusement to toleration, and he – being a good dog, and obedient to her every wish – tolerated them in turn, but he had taken to none of them the way he had just taken to Loghain. Mabari hounds were renowned across Thedas not just for their ferocity in battle and their utter devotion to their masters, but also for their remarkable intelligence – Moira had, in her younger days, ruled out many fellow youths as potential friends or suitors based solely on Dane's reaction. That he had taken so readily to the man she trusted least in the entire camp gave her considerable food for thought.

"He likes you," she said at last. "You're lucky – he doesn't take to very many people that eagerly. I think he can barely restrain himself from growling at Morrigan, actually."

Loghain snorted in amusement. "That makes two of us." Moira could not help but snigger in response to that. Loghain actually smiled, and she again found herself wondering at the change in him, when he wasn't scowling and snarling and ranting about Orlesian treachery.

"I had a mabari, once," he said, and from the faraway sound of his voice, she knew that if she interrupted him, for any reason, the spell would be broken, and so she remained silent. "Her name was Adalla. We found her in the woodshed one night, when she was just a pup. She had the most beautiful chestnut brown coat, the most intelligent, understanding eyes. My mother said she was a gift from the Maker. And she was… she really was." Dane let out a happy little woof of agreement, but Moira was utterly still, afraid that even the slightest movement would tear Loghain from his reverie.

"We grew up together, she and I. She never left my side, not once. Ten years I had her, before she was taken away." Dane cocked his head inquisitively, emitting a small whine of confusion. "An Orlesian lordling came to our farm and took her from us. You see, he wanted to mix the blood of our noble mabari with his frail, wasp-waisted game hounds, which were bred for looks, not intelligence. I tried to keep her, but there was little I could do to stop the Orlesian. I wasn't even a man yet. You can imagine what it was like for her – being torn away from her family, from the boy she was bonded to." Dane gave a long, mournful cry. Moira recognized the dampness brimming at the corners of her eyes, but she dared not move to wipe them away.

"It was a year before we saw her again. The Orlesians finally returned her – well, when I say 'returned,' I mean that they pushed her out of the back of their moving wagon in front of our farm. She was skin and bone, and still carried the scars from where their pronged collars bit into her neck." His voice, which had grown angry and bitter, again became subdued as he lost himself in the memories. "She never was the same. She passed away a week later, with her head in my lap. I like to think at least that she died happy." Dane howled softly, and nudged his nose into Loghain's hand. Moira could no longer ignore the tears running down her cheeks, so she reached up to swipe them away, sniffling. The sound abruptly tore Loghain out of his reminiscences, and he started, his gaze snapping over towards her in surprise, and for a moment he scowled savagely at her, as if furious with her for eavesdropping on such intimate memories. But then his expression softened, and, with a sigh, he turned away, looking steadfastly down at Dane as he scratched behind the dog's ears.

"That's horrible," she said softly. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

He scoffed, but there was no malice in it. "Of course not, how could you? I've never told anyone that story. Not even Maric." With a final caress of Dane's head, he stood up, wrapping the cloth around the remainder of his food. "But I do believe we've stirred up enough ghosts for one night. Here," he said, handing her the wrapped cheese and roast. "Next time, you should be more careful with your food when there's a hungry mabari around."

She took the proffered food with a perplexed frown. "Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"What?" he asked irritably. "Giving you food? I should have thought that was obvious."

"Not just that," she said. "Being… well, not nice, exactly, but… considerate… of me."

He glared down at her, his countenance plainly vexed – though there was another emotion there that she could not quite define. "I should hardly call sharing cold leftover palace roast with you an act of consideration worthy of note. Or is it that you think me such a monster that even the most basic of courtesies is unexpected?"

She was taken aback by that. "I don't think you're a monster," she immediately protested, even though she knew in her heart that there had been times, in the past few weeks, that she had thought so ill of him as to make no substantial distinction.

To her surprise, he smiled, though it was more of a slight, barely perceptible quirking of his lips. "You are a very poor liar, you know," he said, his tone almost warm. "But it is kind of you to say, all the same." He turned, as if to walk away, but stopped short of the fire. "This… situation we are in – all of it can rightly be called my fault. I did what I thought was best at the time, though in retrospect, it has become clear to me that I made… many mistakes. Whether or not you will do any better remains to be seen. But if you can end the Blight and bring peace to Ferelden where I failed, then you have my solemn oath that I shall follow you to the very end. This I swear."

"I…" She had not expected such an unsolicited vow of loyalty, and was struck momentarily dumb. "Thank you. I am glad to have you, Loghain."

He laughed. "Well, we shall see how long that lasts," he said wryly. "Good night, Warden." With that, he walked away, towards his tent, leaving her alone with the fire, her dog, and her thoughts.

A/N: Thank you to all of you who have read, reviewed, and followed this story! As we get further away from the Landsmeet, the dialogue will gradually become all original, but while we are still dealing with some of the 'canon' issues in the aftermath of Loghain's Joining, there will be a few pieces of dialogue you'll recognize from the game -specifically, in this chapter, Loghain's tale about his mabari hound. I thought the original conversation was so moving and poignant that I reproduced it here with minimal changes, but rest assured that Loghain and Moira will grow closer than canon allowed (damn you Bioware!). I really appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read, review, and favorite/follow this story - it means a lot!