That drunken idiot. Damn him to the Void. Bugger him with a rusty mace. Damn it, damn it, damn it.
Moira lay wide awake in her bedroll, staring restlessly at the roof of her tent, trying to will her turbulent thoughts into submission. The party was camped a couple of miles north of Ostagar, in the lee of a rocky outcropping at the head of the valley, and few words had been exchanged by anyone as they set camp, still troubled by the ghosts of the dead. The melancholy of that cursed place hung over her soul like a shroud, but – as she replayed the events of the night over again in her head – she found herself dwelling more and more on what had happened with Loghain. Or, rather – thanks to the aforementioned buggered and damned dwarf – what had not happened with Loghain.
She had nearly kissed him. The memory of his arm, stiffening in surprise beneath her gentle touch, the low rumble of his voice sending a tremor of excitement through her blood, the closing distance between them, so close she could almost feel his breath against her – and then Oghren, ruining it all with his damned obliviousness. Moira tossed fitfully onto her side and punched her bedroll in a fit of pique. What would have happened if Oghren hadn't ruined the moment? Would she have kissed him?
Yes, her mind supplied absently. She would have. And, as she stared at the wall of her tent, she realized that she wanted to kiss him. Very much. She imagined what it would have been like – his lips against hers, perhaps his body too, if they had come together, if he had pulled her close, their armor clinking as his silverite plate came into contact with her white steel mail. The thought of it sent a shudder of longing through her blood, and she tossed over onto her other side with an agitated huff.
Where had this come from? She supposed Wynne was right – she could no longer deny that she had formed something of a bond with the taciturn general. Over the course of the past few weeks, they had certainly become closer – she had gradually come to understand why he had done the things he had done, and he had moved beyond his initial defiant arrogance and had softened towards her, recognizing where he had gone wrong and seeking to make amends. But there was a far cry between accepting him as a comrade at arms, and wishing that Oghren had not interrupted what was rapidly becoming an intimate moment.
She tossed over again. It was ridiculous, all of it. She had managed to travel with Alistair and Zevran for months without feeling any inclination to sneak off into the shadows for illicit kisses like a young love-struck fool. She was a warrior, a Grey Warden! She had bigger things to worry about than an amorous moment with a man who remained an enigma to her in many ways, a moment that had likely only transpired because of the emotional onslaught of Ostagar and all the skeletons it had disturbed. And yet the ghost of that moment haunted her, a spectral whisper tickling at the back of her mind and prompting her to fill in the missing pieces, to imagine what might have happened if Oghren had remained silent. To imagine Loghain's lips on hers, his body against hers, his arms around her…
Moira rolled over with a growl. She envied the damned dwarf, who likely didn't sleep so much as he passed out. She could do with a drop or two of a strong drink herself right about now. Anything to calm her rioting thoughts. She was being silly and childish. Loghain had been perfectly cordial to her afterwards as they had set up camp, but that was all – he'd behaved as if nothing had happened. She had followed his cue: remaining friendly, but fully prepared to put the nonevent behind them, because nothing had happened, and there was nothing to put behind them. He could be a mature adult about it; so could she. And she was prepared to bet any sum of sovereigns that he slept contentedly in his tent, entirely untroubled by what had or had not transpired between them, because he was Loghain and he was a stern, commanding soldier, a man who did not allow trivialities to distract him from his mission.
And yet… she could have sworn that she had seen something in his eyes, in that moment before Oghren had ruined it all. Something besides his typical laconic reserve, or even his occasional wry humor. Something that mirrored her own present thoughts: a spark, an interest beyond that of ordinary comradeship. Was she just imagining that, too? What if she wasn't?
Enough. She rolled onto her belly, burying her face in her arms. She could chase these thoughts around in a circle like a mabari after its tail, and it would get her nowhere. She considered Loghain a friend, as odd as that was to acknowledge, and she could even admit that he was an attractive man – she recalled thinking as much the night of the Landsmeet, when she'd accidentally intruded on him in his room, half-clothed. But thinking that there was anything more to their relationship was absurd – the product of a fevered mind. She was clearly exhausted, physically and emotionally, from the short- and long-term stresses of battle, the Blight, and the scars of terrible memories both old and new. He had put their encounter behind him already, and so would she, and that would be an end to it.
Thus decided, she snuggled deeper into her bedroll, willed her mind to accept her entirely logical and rational conclusion, and bade herself to rest. Sleep, however, proved elusive, and when she finally drifted off into a restless slumber, the darkspawn that awaited her there seemed almost a welcome respite from her tumultuous thoughts.
The morning dawned bright and early, and as Moira emerged from her tent, bleary-eyed and scarcely rested, she knew that they had a long day's march ahead of them if they wished to make it to Redcliffe within a week. She offered a silent prayer to the Maker that their way would not be barred by the darkspawn horde – although, she realized with a pang, if they did not encounter the darkspawn, then it would mean the horde had moved north, spreading a wider swath of destruction across Ferelden. All the more reason to make haste to Redcliffe, where Riordan had rallied the disparate armies she had gathered for the final push.
She spied Loghain across the camp, expertly disassembling his tent and packing his things together for the march. Her stomach flipped over, leaving her feeling unsteady and anxious, and she sternly cursed herself, reminding her foolish body that she had resolved not to allow the… incident… with Loghain to affect her further. Deciding that idle hands were the enemy of the Maker, she set herself firmly to the task of packing up the camp, and once everything was loaded onto Bodahn's cart, she felt somewhat more settled, her equilibrium regained. When Loghain approached her, she felt no nervousness beyond another slight flutter in her belly, which she firmly refused to acknowledge.
"Are we for Redcliffe at last, then?" he asked her, falling in beside her at the head of the column as though he belonged there – which, she reflected, he probably did, as the only other among them who routinely led soldiers into battle. She was relieved, in a way, that he had gone straight to business – they were simply two Wardens, fighting the Blight. Comrades and friends, perhaps, but nothing more. That made things simpler.
"We are. Riordan sent out the call to the allies I've gathered that the time has come to honor their commitments. When we arrive at Redcliffe, the Circle mages, Dalish elves, and an army of dwarves from Orzammar will be waiting for us, along with all of the soldiers Ferelden could spare."
"It makes me uneasy, leaving our border unprotected," Loghain groused. He caught her glance askance at him and snorted. "Oh, don't give me that look. I know the Blight is our primary concern, and it must be stopped. It will be stopped. But do not discount the notion that Orlais will seek to take advantage of Ferelden's crisis to make a move."
"We will cross that bridge if and when we come to it, Loghain," Moira said patiently. "We cannot fight two battles at once."
He grunted in assent. "Of course you're right. It was a tactical error to divide our forces. I realize that now. I am only urging you to keep one eye firmly trained on our western flank. It would be a rather unpleasant surprise to find a legion of chevaliers at our doorstep while the army marches off to fight the darkspawn."
Moira frowned, scratching at her ear in mock confusion. "Wait. Did I hear that right? Did Loghain Mac Tir, scourge of the Orlesians, Hero of the River Dane, and all-around stubborn arse, just admit that he was wrong about something? Without prompting? Truly, this is a day the Maker has made! Let us rejoice and be glad!"
He scoffed and cast her a withering side-eyed glare, but she saw, to her satisfaction, that a glint of humor danced in his pale eyes. "I have been doing rather a lot of that lately, in case you hadn't noticed. Impertinent woman. However, my contrition has limits. I will not don sackcloth and ashes and crawl on my hands and knees along the Pilgrim's Path."
She laughed out loud at the image of Loghain clad in penitent's garb. "No, I don't suppose you would, although I would pay my weight in sovereigns to see such a sight." He snorted in amusement, and they lapsed into an amiable silence. The fluttering in Moira's belly returned, reminding her uncomfortably that she had not been in such proximity to Loghain since the night before. An agitated sigh escaped her before she could hold it in – why was her body betraying her like this? She had already decided that nothing was amiss between her and Loghain, and nothing had changed. And yet every time he neared her, she quaked like a nervous lass. If Loghain noticed anything amiss, however, he mercifully gave no indication, and she resolved to let the foolishness trouble her no further. She was merely stressed, and her newfound friendship with Loghain was a bright spot in an otherwise unremittingly dark few weeks; that was all it was. Once the battle had been joined, there would be no more time to dwell on such silliness.
The march was long, hot, and uneventful, and by the time they stopped to make camp, she was thoroughly worn out, and her earlier nerves had long since subsided into a weary exhaustion. She gratefully collapsed on the ground near her tent, tugging off her boots and unbuckling her armor, thankful that Leliana had volunteered to head into the woods with her bow to hunt for supper. The grass was cool and soft against her aching feet, and she longed to lie down and pillow herself into its lush comfort; she realized, as the fatigue rapidly overtook her, that she must have gotten far less sleep last night than she'd thought. However, she could hardly justify lazing away while the others prepared the fire and foraged for food, and so, reaching deep into her reserves of stamina, she staggered to her feet and into her tent, at least determined to get out of her oppressive armor.
When she re-emerged, clad now in a simple linen shirt and trousers, she saw Zevran expertly dressing a small roe deer that had no doubt fallen prey to Leliana's arrow. Her stomach rumbling in anticipation, she made her way to the campfire to join her fellows.
"Oh, there you are!" Leliana exclaimed. "I think you will enjoy supper tonight. Venison stew, prepared with some herbs I was able to gather along the way. Not as many as I had hoped, but the darkspawn corruption has tainted so much of the land."
"That sounds perfect. Thank you, Leliana. Your skill with a bow has been a gift from the Maker."
Leliana flushed at the praise. "I am happy to contribute in whatever way I can." She handed Moira a basketful of herbs, which Moira, eager to help out, began to strip apart.
She felt a pair of soft hands move through her hair, loosening the braid, as she sat and worked. "Your hair is so beautiful," Leliana cooed. "I have wanted to play with it for ages. Will you let me?"
Moira laughed, her fingers working at the stalks. "If you like," she said. "I imagine it's rather sweaty and dusty from the road, though." She felt a peace settle over her as Leliana's fingers worked through her thick hair down to her scalp. The simplicity of the domestic task of preparing the herbs, the pleasure of sitting back and letting someone fuss over her hair, just like her mother used to do – it was almost enough to make her forget her present circumstances and the ever-present anxiety that haunted her dreams and waking moments alike.
"You know, you really should try another style sometime," Leliana suggested. "You are from a noble family. In Orlais, a noblewoman's hair is reflective of her station. The more important you are, the more elegant your style must be – I once saw a Grand Duchess who had a bouffant nearly twice as high as her head, and throughout it she had displayed a variety of gemstones, feathers, and other baubles – I believe she even had a gold-embossed fan stuck in the top!" She giggled at the memory. "Perhaps nothing quite so outrageous for you, but your hair is so full and luxurious – it would look so lovely curled and swept up, perhaps pinned in place with a ruby pendant to accent the dark red undertones? And with just a few tendrils falling across your cheeks? Oh yes, you would look so lovely!"
"Moira is pretty enough without your Orlesian ostentations." Loghain's voice sent a sudden, violent jolt through her, and she started in surprise – she had not even noticed him approach, so absorbed she was in her task and in Leliana's ministrations. "A Fereldan woman does not require such preening to be beautiful." Moira's face burned hot – had Loghain just called her pretty? Beautiful, even?
"I never said she did," Leliana protested. "And I am Fereldan too, you know."
"Bah," Loghain scoffed. "You may have been born here, but your heart is in Orlais. You speak so longingly of their frills and fripperies that you no doubt grew accustomed to in the salons of Val Royeaux."
"Not everything is about nationality, you know," Leliana replied calmly. "Pretty hair transcends all borders."
Loghain snorted loudly. "That… atrocity you just described is hardly what I would call 'pretty hair.' A woman does not require excessive ornamentation or garish trinkets to accentuate her beauty. She is either pretty or she is not."
"This is true. Look at Moira," Leliana agreed. Moira felt the heat rising to her face, and knew it must be a particular shade of crimson right about now. Were they blithely discussing her "beauty" right in front of her? Was Loghain? "I was merely making the point that I would love to be able to prepare her for a fancy ball. If she is so lovely dressed in mail and with her hair pulled back into a warrior's braid, how lovely would she be dressed in the finest silks and with her hair styled like a queen?"
"Only an Orlesian would be thinking of fancy balls and fine silks on the eve of the greatest battle of the age," Loghain muttered disdainfully. Leliana sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes as she stood up, collecting the basket of herbs Moira had prepared.
"Ah, you are impossible, Teryn Loghain!" she exclaimed. "Someday, the battles will be over, Maker willing! And then there is no shame in celebrating with the finer things in life. But you would probably wear that oversized suit of armor even to a victory ball. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen you out of it."
"Perhaps that is because we are at war," Loghain ground out with exaggerated patience. "With the darkspawn. In case you had forgotten."
"War, war, war! That is all you can think of! What will you do when the war is over, I wonder?" Shooting him a mischievous but significant look, Leliana traipsed away towards the fire, where Zevran was putting the finishing touches on the deer that would soon become their supper.
Her face still burning hot, Moira chanced a glance at Loghain, who appeared entirely nonplussed. If he had intended his comments about her looks as direct flattery, he showed no sign of it. Running a trembling hand through her hair, ostensibly to smooth it out after Leliana's ministrations, she took a steadying breath and refocused her attention on Loghain, who studied her passively.
"You shouldn't be so rude to Leliana, you know," she chided. "She is a sweet girl. And she's actually nice to you, which is more than you can say for the rest of the group."
Loghain harrumphed. "I was not rude to her. I said nothing untrue. I think I have been rather restrained in my dealings with her, considering she is an Orlesian spy."
Moira sighed in exasperation. "She is not an Orlesian spy anymore, Loghain! People can change, you know."
"Can they?" He regarded her steadily. "You seem very invested in this notion for some reason. The reformed Orlesian bard turned Chantry holy woman. The fallen hero who betrayed his country, now become a Grey Warden." He chuckled darkly. "I'm starting to wonder if you wouldn't give the Archdemon a second chance, were it to ask for one."
"I highly doubt the Archdemon is capable of redemption. Do you believe the same of yourself?"
He continued to regard her with a curious gleam in his eyes. "I suppose I should not be so arrogant as to place my misdeeds alongside those of a fallen god, no." His expression held nothing out of the ordinary, his face as indecipherable as ever; and still Moira was unprepared to meet his eyes, lest her face blossom into a scarlet bloom all over again.
She was being ridiculous. An offhanded, indirect compliment from Loghain Mac Tir, and she was as pitiful as a fumbling, besotted milkmaid! She mentally shook herself and sternly told her nerves to settle down. For the Maker's sake, she was more composed when facing a band of darkspawn.
"Well, I still think you should apologize to Leliana," she said, as much to redirect the conversation away from Loghain – and whatever his attitudes towards her might be – as anything else. "She means well. I know she can be very… Orlesian… but she can't help that. She didn't ask for her mother to pack her up and move her there, you know."
"Did her mother force her into a career in espionage, as well?" he muttered darkly. At Moira's unamused glare, he relented. "Oh, all right, fine. I am sure I will have ample opportunity to make nice with your little friend later. I suppose she is bearable enough for an Orlesian, after all."
"How generous of you."
"Your sarcasm is neither needed nor appreciated," he grumbled, but she heard the undercurrent of wry amusement beneath his surly tones, and she grinned at him in response, which earned her a "hmph" of bemused disdain. She realized she really was learning to distinguish the meanings behind each inflection of his various "hmphs" and harrumphs.
"You know, I think you are capable of communicating more through grunts than most people can through words," she said. That, predictably, earned her a righteous scowl.
"I do not grunt."
"You're not serious?" She laughed, enjoying his deepening frown. "You growl more than Dane does."
When he harrumphed in reply, she burst into laughter.
"Oh, yes, very well, mock me if you must," he said. "If I do, occasionally, 'grunt' as you say, it is because I am confronted with such foolishness that it is not worth the words it would take to respond."
"Oh, relax," she said, through the dying spasms of her laughter. "I'm only teasing you. You're quite fun to tease, actually. You're so dreadfully serious all the time."
"Yes, well, I am not like your Antivan assassin. I do not find everything in the world to be a grand joke for my personal amusement."
She shrugged. "Zevran is the way he is because otherwise I suppose he'd go mad, wouldn't he? How else could he make peace with taking lives for a living?"
"It is not an easy thing." Loghain was serious again, his gaze fixed now on the erstwhile assassin, who was busy cutting the deer into stew sized chunks while Leliana added the herbs to the pot over the fire. "You cannot become so hardened to it that you lose sight of the value of a life. But neither can you allow yourself to be so affected by each loss that your compassion paralyzes you into inaction."
"But what happens when you look behind you and all you see are corpses?" She thought of all the carnage she had left in her wake in the past year – the blood mages who had defied her in Kinloch Hold, the dwarves loyal to Bhelen Aeducan whom she'd been forced to kill in Orzammar, the numerous street thugs, mercenaries, and cutthroats in Denerim who had unwisely chosen to provoke a confrontation with her, and – worst of all – the loyal soldiers of Ferelden whose only crime had been to end up on the other side of a civil war. "How can you justify the cost when it runs into the hundreds, or even thousands, of lives?"
"The currency of war is life," he said grimly. "You pay it, and hope that the outcome was worth the price."
"That seems easy to say when it is not our lives that have been offered as payment," she said, the memories of faraway places and the lonely deaths of so many intruding on her thoughts.
"It is a reality that every warrior must learn to accept, if he wishes to keep his sanity." She knew that they were no longer talking, even hypothetically, about Zevran. "He must be close enough to his soldiers to understand the importance of what he is risking, but detached enough to see them as pieces on a chessboard, which can and must be sacrificed to win the war."
"That's monstrous." She shuddered at the ghastly logic, but also because she knew it to be true.
"I never said it wasn't."
No response seemed appropriate, and so she joined him in silence, watching the stew now merrily bubbling away as it cooked over the fire. She mused again over her strange kinship with this man, who had gone from being her enemy – moving his chess pieces around the board with the sole purpose of ending her – to her friend, with whom she now shared an intimate moment before the campfire. Her thoughts returned to the night before, to a similar moment of silent companionship, interrupted before it could perhaps have become something more.
She chanced a glance over at Loghain. He sat quietly, his shoulders sagging forward, as though the weight of the world pressed heavily upon him. He'd removed his gauntlets before approaching her and Leliana, and his bare hands rested against his knees, the fingers of his right hand idly rubbing at a spot of dirt that had splattered onto the gleaming armor. The urge to reach over and take his hand in hers was nearly overwhelming. She had taken his hand last night, before Oghren had interrupted them, but he had been fully armored, and all she had felt against her skin was cold metal. She wondered what his hands themselves would feel like – so large and imposing, so much bigger than hers. Were they callused in the same places hers were, from the long practice of a lifetime of swordsmanship, and rough to the touch? Were they warm? Was his caress gentle? Or had he forgotten how to be gentle with anything, even a woman?
She dimly remembered that his wife had died many years ago. She recalled a few occasions, when she had been stuck in a drawing room in Denerim with other daughters of the nobility while their parents met to discuss politics, that the subject of Loghain's remarriage had come up. Rumors were constantly circulating over whether the Teryn of Gwaren would take a new wife. Becoming a teryna would have been a dream come true for many of the young, vapid girls who had tittered away in those elegant chambers, while Moira had languished in boredom and wished more than anything to be outside with Fergus, doing literally anything else. Such ladies were not actually attracted to Loghain, of course – he was far older than all of them – but none of them had expected to be attracted to their future husbands, anyway, so why not aim for a higher title than being the lady wife of some corpulent bann, wasting away one's life on a small holding in the farmlands?
Moira, of course, had never joined in on such conversations. She had always emphatically refused to engage in any discussions with her father over potential future mates, and every time he gingerly attempted to raise the subject, she'd insisted that she would find her own husband, thank you very much. It had seemed so simple at the time – she had trained, with Fergus, in the arts of war, and eventually she would lead Highever's forces in some battle or other, for the glory of the king. There, she would meet the handsome young son of some arl or bann; a sturdy, valiant man who was as comfortable in a suit of armor and a saddle as he was in a Denerim palace. He would be impressed by her skill at arms, and she by his lack of foppish pretense; they would fall in love, and the marriage would take place in Highever. She would hang up her sword, put away her suit of armor, and leave behind her life as a shield-maiden to retire to her new husband's bannorn, where she would raise their children in just the same kind of loving home as she had grown up in herself. It had been a good dream, and her father, as exasperated as he might have been to have all of his overtures rejected, had never seriously attempted to dissuade her. After all, he had married a woman he loved, and so had Fergus – why should his daughter too not get the chance at her happy ending? And then Howe had come to Highever, and her dream had finally died, in fire and blood and the poisoned chalice of the Grey Wardens.
"Moira?" Loghain's voice, surprisingly gentle, brought her out of her reverie. "Are you all right?"
"Of course," she lied. "Why shouldn't I be?"
"You're crying."
Alarmed, she reached up to her face, and found her cheeks moist with unconsciously shed tears. She wiped them away vigorously, embarrassed and angry with herself that she had shown such weakness in front of Loghain, of all people.
"It's nothing." Her voice came out far harsher than she'd intended. "I'm fine. Just… memories that should not have been stirred."
"Hey." He reached over to her, and she discovered that his hands were warm, and they were callused in all the same places, and he was capable of being gentle, as he cradled her much smaller hand in his own. "Never be ashamed of your grief. It is what makes us human." He sighed, and her breath caught in her throat as he softly moved his thumb across the back of her wrist. "You cannot let it overwhelm you, of course. But if you trap it inside, hide it away and refuse to release it from time to time, it will consume you from within." His voice carried enough of a tinge of bitterness that she knew he spoke from experience.
She sniffed, her sorrow ebbing away as his thumb stroked rhythmically across her skin. She stared at their entwined hands, his so large and rough next to hers, and, daring greatly, she squeezed his fingers in her own, a gentle pressure that drew a hiss of surprise from him. She looked up at him, then, and there was no ambiguity in his pale blue eyes tonight; there was curiosity, and warmth, and –
"Uhm." A delicate, accented voice coughed gently, and – not again – Moira whipped her head around in frustration to face a decidedly abashed Leliana, who – unlike Oghren – seemed fully aware that she was interrupting something. She at least had the good grace to look ashamed. Moira's heart panged as she felt Loghain release her hand unceremoniously, each of them drawing away from the other, the moment lost.
"I'm sorry," Leliana said gingerly. "But the stew is ready. Everyone else, um, has already served themselves. It is just the two of you who have not eaten." In other words, Moira thought darkly, her nosy friends were wondering what exactly was going on between she and Loghain, so absorbed in each other that they had forgotten about supper.
She sighed irritably, determined not to kill the messenger. "Thank you, Leliana," she said, her tone insinuating anything but gratitude. "Maker forbid Loghain or I should starve."
Once again, he was politely cordial to her as they ventured over to the fire and filled their bowls with venison stew. Once again, he behaved much as he had over the past few days – friendly, but reserved, as if nothing had happened. And once again, as Moira devoured her stew (which was quite nice – she would have to properly thank Leliana later, when her irritation had abated), her thoughts were consumed by a succession of images depicting what might have happened had they not been so rudely intruded upon. As she finished her supper and prepared to bed down for the night, he, once again bid her a good night – entirely cordially, and amiably, and politely, of course. But nothing more.
Once again, she tossed and turned in her bedroll, sleepless and agitated. This time, she made no effort to lie to herself, or pretend that she was fabricating something out of nothing. But whether that something was only present in her own heart – that remained entirely a mystery to her.
Tossing over with a violence that startled even Dane, sleeping at the foot of her bedroll, she lay glaring at her tent roof for the second night in a row, bidding sleep to come, and cursing it when it failed to obey her command. At least, she thought with no small amount of black humor, they were less than a week away from Redcliffe, and then she would hardly have time to worry about her feelings for Loghain. Even a Blight of darkspawn, led by a demonic, corrupted Old God, was preferable to sorting out the matters of her heart.
Somewhat amused by her own mordant humor, Moira at last fell into a heavy, exhausted sleep, where, as always, the darkspawn awaited her in her dreams.
A/N: And this is probably the fastest turnaround I've ever had for a brand new chapter! I would caution you against expecting a chapter a week as a matter of routine, as my muse isn't usually so compliant, but hey... I'm gonna take advantage of it while it lasts! Once again, a big giant THANK YOU to all of you who have reviewed, followed, favorited, and read this story. I love hearing from all of you - getting an email that I have a new review, or a favorite/follow, truly does make my day. Thank you, thank you, thank you! And of course much gratitude as always to my awesome beta EasternViolet, who continues to be awesome.
Next up, our crew will finally make it to Redcliffe... where, as we all know, a very important conversation is about to happen...