As the days crawled by, gradually but inexorably turning into weeks, Ferelden slowly began to rebuild.
The fires in Denerim had fully extinguished themselves after the third night, thanks in large part to a concerted effort on the part of the weary and battleworn soldiers who tromped through the devastated city, going house to house in a valiant effort to salvage what the darkspawn had spared in the aftermath of their hasty departure back to the Deep Roads. The markets had reopened a week later; the merchants, true to form, had groused about lost wages and ruined wares. A week after that, the city almost seemed to have recovered its normal routine – at least, if one ignored the blackened shells of burned-out buildings or the constant acrid stench of burning flesh, consumed en masse by funeral pyres that raged day and night.
The city's slow return to normalcy went nearly unnoticed by Loghain. Anora – of whom he had seen less and less in the ensuing days as she worked tirelessly to tend to the nation's reconstruction – had gently suggested that he might want to keep a discreet profile, at least for now. Though he'd regained a measure of esteem for his actions in the Battle of Denerim, memories were fresh, and there were many who would not take kindly to the sight of the man who had, in Anora's circumspect words, "contributed to the tensions that have divided Ferelden." And so, not wanting to burden his daughter with any more troubles than were already piled high on her plate, he had acquiesced, and had remained within the gilded prison of the Royal Palace, feeling increasingly restless and redundant.
Of course, if he were honest with himself, he remained for Moira as much as for anything else.
Moira's condition had not changed in two weeks. She lay still in quiet repose, appearing to all the world to be gently asleep, and yet she had not once stirred with even the faintest hint of awakening consciousness. He found himself holding vigil by her bedside on most days; sometimes seated next to her, holding her hand and speaking to her in hushed and gentle tones the latest news of the day, while other times he sat at the well-apportioned desk in the corner of the room, lost in his own reading, but unwilling to leave her alone. It was, after all, entirely his fault that she suffered so, trapped in a static limbo between life and death. If he could not trade places with her, as he'd intended on the roof of Fort Drakon, then he would at least make certain that she did not fade away, forgotten in the wake of the triumph over the darkspawn.
He had loved his wife dearly. His Celia had been sweet, gentle, and kind; a loving wife and a wonderful mother to Anora. But Moira stirred his blood in a way he had not known since Rowan – no, that was not right. She stirred his blood in a way he had never known. He should never have been so selfish to allow her to come to him that night in Redcliffe, should never have allowed her to share his bed. He had always been able to close himself to others when necessary; a useful skill to have when emotional attachment could cloud decisions that required a clear head and a hardened heart. He should have tried harder to push her away – been crueler, more savage, allowed her to focus all of her hatred for Howe onto him. He should have lied and claimed to have induced Howe to sack Highever, should have bragged about all of his mistakes and the things he knew he had done wrong; anything to drive her away. But he hadn't, and now she paid the price for his weakness.
He sat in his usual chair by her bedside, his hand resting gently against her shoulder as he released a heavy sigh. Her mabari hound – his only stalwart companion these days, who, like Loghain, refused to leave Moira's side – snored softly beside the bed, offering no distraction from his heady contemplations. The intervening days since the battle, spent largely in his solitary vigil, had given him plenty of time to reckon with the insanity of the final days of the Blight, when everything had spiraled so desperately and completely out of control. Each day that passed seemed to bring both greater clarity and diminished recollection; he saw, with ever-increasing lucidity, the disastrous consequences of so many of his actions, even as the memory of his motives had receded deep into the recesses of his mind, like a rapidly-fading dream dissolving into haze upon waking. So little of it now made sense; so much of it filled him with a deep shame and regret as he viewed it in the stark light of day.
He knew he had done the right thing at Ostagar, accusations of regicide be damned. He'd saved what he could of Ferelden's army from Cailan's arrogance and folly, and confronted the threat of a massed army of Orlesian chevaliers, waiting for their chance to swarm across the border and take advantage of Ferelden's vulnerability to reclaim their lost prize. Or at least, that had been his intention – before everything had gone wrong. But out of all of his regrets, all of his shame, none weighed more heavily on him than his acceptance of the counsel of Rendon Howe, and his decision – which he now saw, with the benefit of hindsight, had been subtly molded by Howe to remove the last obstacle to the arl's violent conquest of Highever – to declare war on Moira. He'd known her for her entire life, for the Maker's sake, and her family too. He should have known that she was no Orlesian agent, that Howe's insidious 'suggestions' were designed to play directly to his suspicions and paranoia while accomplishing the usurper's own agenda. The more he thought of how thoroughly he'd been played by Rendon Howe, the more disgusted he grew. He'd always regarded himself as clear-headed and rational, impervious to the manipulations and puppeteering of others; and yet he'd allowed Howe to pull his strings until even his daughter's life had been imperiled by his reckless blindness.
He huffed another agitated sigh, raking a hand through his hair as he stood from his bedside chair, Moira's undisturbed repose a silent condemnation of his sins. He'd just decided that he needed to clear his head with a vigorous walk – and this time he was going to leave the palace, discretion be damned – when a swirl of swelled voices from the outside corridor reached his ears, growing louder as they approached.
" – can't believe he has the gall to be in there with her, as if he isn't responsible for everything that happened! At least Howe's rotting in the Void where he belongs, but Loghain is almost as bad. How dare he? How dare –"
"Please, just listen! I know my father has done much wrong, and whether you choose to believe me or not, he realizes it too. But he was not responsible for what happened to your family! That evil lies entirely on Rendon Howe's head, and the arl has paid for his crimes with his life."
"But not before he spent a good long while as your father's lapdog, as I understand it – maybe Loghain didn't swing the sword, but he certainly didn't do anything to bring justice to their murderer! And for him to lurk over Moira like a circling vulture – I won't stand for it!"
"Teyrn –"
The door burst open, revealing to Loghain's gaze an enraged Fergus Cousland, trailed by a rather distressed-looking Anora. Loghain blinked heavily, temporarily caught askew by the sight – Fergus Cousland was dead. Wasn't he? Moira had certainly seemed to think so.
"You son of a bitch." Fergus wasted no time in stalking across the room to glower menacingly at Loghain, his eyes ablaze with fury. "Get away from her right now." His gaze flickered from Loghain's face to observe Moira, lying serene in her bed, and the rage in his eyes wavered as a wrenching expression of anguish filled them at the sight.
"Oh Maker, Moira," he breathed, brushing brusquely past Loghain to kneel at his sister's bedside. "I thought you were dead for so long, after Howe – and then the Blight, and –"
The younger man ceased speaking abruptly, and lowered his head to rest against Moira's shoulder. Soon the sound of softly muffled sobs reached his ears, and Loghain, not wanting to intrude on such an intimate family reunion, turned to regard Anora, who shrugged at him apologetically.
"He arrived at the palace today," she explained sotto voce. "Evidently Howe's men ambushed his company of knights just east of Ostagar a few days before the battle. He's been lost in the Korcari Wilds ever since, healing from his wounds, and only just recovered enough to travel to Denerim when he heard that Moira was leading the army against the Archdemon." She cast Fergus a sympathetic glance. "I could hardly tell him he couldn't see his sister after everything that has happened."
"No. Of course not." Loghain felt a strange mix of apprehension and relief as he watched the young Lord Cousland – no, he mentally corrected himself, Teyrn Cousland, now – tenderly stroking his sister's hair as he wept. He was, above all, glad that the young man had survived against all odds – not only because it was right and fitting that a Cousland should recover the teyrnir that Howe had stolen, but also because it would be a great comfort and solace to Moira to know that her family was not entirely gone. Glad though he might be, he nevertheless felt a distinct undercurrent of trepidation – Fergus's reaction to him had been less than cordial (even if understandably so, under the circumstances), and he did not at all look forward to the other man's reaction when he learned the extent of Loghain and Moira's relationship.
Dane, who had been stirred from his slumber by the commotion in Moira's sickroom, eagerly snuffled at Fergus, his tail wagging exultantly. Fergus, distracted from his grief by the wet nose and rhythmically licking tongue of a happy mabari, turned to regard the dog with an expression of surprise and relief.
"And you made it too, Dane? Good," he said, scratching the dog behind his ears. "I'm glad. Moira will be so happy to see you when she wakes up. You never left her side, did you, boy?" Dane woofed in affirmation, and Fergus laughed, his voice shaky and full of gratitude. The dog blissfully accepted Fergus's attentions, before turning his head to look beseechingly at Loghain.
Fergus followed the dog's gaze, and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "So, you managed to earn Dane's trust, did you?" The dog woofed his agreement, and Fergus's scowl deepened. Placing a final, reassuring hand on Moira's shoulder, he rose from her bedside to stand before Loghain again.
"So – from what I hear, you spent months trying to kill my sister. You allied with the man who butchered our family. You sent assassins and soldiers after her. You put out a warrant for her arrest. But now – " he gestured broadly at Moira and Dane – "I'm supposed to believe that that's all just water under the bridge? That somehow you've managed to convince my sister that you mean her no harm, after months of evidence to the contrary? Forgive me if I find this all a bit hard to swallow."
Loghain sighed and resisted the urge to rub away the tension headache that had begun to form behind his temples. "Nothing you have said is false," he admitted. "The months after Ostagar were dark days, for all of us. I made a great deal of mistakes, many of them grievous. I offer no excuses for my conduct. In return, I ask that you believe that my regard for your sister is genuine. I – " His voice wavered, caught on the edge of an admission that he was unsure he wanted to make.
"I care for your sister very much," he relented. If anyone deserved the truth, it was Moira's brother. Though perhaps not the whole truth, at least right now. "She showed me mercy when no one else would have done so in her place. She gave me a chance to begin to atone for the wrongs I have done to my country and my people. She is a remarkable woman, and I regret every moment she suffers for my mistakes. I should have been the one to slay the demon, and I should be the one lying there in her place."
Fergus's glare smoldered hotly for a long moment, and Loghain began to worry that his words had not only failed to dim the younger man's anger, but had in fact made it stronger; but then Fergus closed his eyes and released a long, slow sigh.
"I'm not going to pretend that I can begin to understand any of this," he said, the fury evaporating from his voice to be replaced by a deep weariness. "The last time I was anywhere near civilization, the king was alive, and so were my parents. Everything's changed, and…" He sighed, and turned to regard Moira with a sorrowful gaze.
"I just need some time, that's all," he said softly.
"Of course," Anora stepped in, clearly relieved that the confrontation between Fergus Cousland and her father had gone much better than she'd feared. "I understand that you need to spend some time with your sister, and I am sure my father will be content to take his leave, knowing that Moira is in such safe and caring hands." She cast a pointed look at Loghain for emphasis, and he resisted uttering a scornful harrumph. For the Maker's sake, he could take a hint. She needn't be so bloody overt about it.
"Certainly," he agreed. "I know you will take care of her. Perhaps we can speak again soon."
"Perhaps," Fergus repeated, though his tone belied his lack of enthusiasm for such a prospect.
"If you need anything at all, Teyrn Cousland, please do not hesitate to call on me directly," Anora said, gauging – probably correctly, Loghain mused – that she was a far more palatable interlocutor to the elder Cousland at the moment. "I cannot overstate what a relief it is to have you returned to us."
He looked up from his place at Moira's bedside, where he had resumed his contemplations. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he said quietly. "That is most kind of you."
Anora nodded, her eyes lingering on Fergus for another moment, before she turned to the door, gently taking her father's elbow in hand and ushering him out with her. Once they were outside Moira's sickroom and the door shut, he turned to regard her with an exasperated glare.
"For the Maker's sake, Anora, I don't need to be shepherded about like an errant child," he groused. "I had no intention of imposing myself where I was not wanted."
"Perhaps," Anora said, using that anodyne tone that he knew she used to placate difficult courtiers. He ground his teeth in irritation. "But you do have a history of being rather persistent when you put your mind to it. I merely wanted to diffuse any tensions that might have arisen."
"Another crisis of state averted," he quipped. Upon receiving a huffy glare from his daughter, he relented. "Yes, fine, I shall take my leave. But I won't be chased away from Moira's side indefinitely, brother or no. You might as well prepare him for that eventuality." Leaving the queen to roll her eyes at him, he made his way through the corridors of the royal palace, for once lacking a certain destination.
Aimlessness did not suit him. He had always gone through life with a clearly-defined objective towards which he inexorably moved – staying one step ahead of Orlesian soldiers, whittling down their forces in a drawn-out war of attrition, offering his cautious and practical advice to King Maric, learning how to administer a teyrnir and assume the mantle of nobility, protecting Ferelden from the Orlesians and the Blight. He had not always done things right, or well – but he had done them, consequences be damned. But what was his purpose now, in the post-Blight world? He was a Grey Warden, but a Grey Warden's purpose was to defeat the Blight. The Blight had been defeated, and now what was left for him? The woman he loved needed him, but he had no idea what he could do to help her – he was no healer, nor cleric, and the solution to her illness was utterly beyond him. There had to be something that could be done – she was not dead, which meant there had to be hope, didn't there? But he had long found hope to be a fallow field, upon which a sensible man did not rely for sustenance.
Despite these brooding thoughts, he soon found that his feet had carried him to the palace chapel. The sunburst icon of the Chantry glittered against the door in magnificent red and gold stained glass, illumined from within by a surfeit of candlelight. Loghain sighed and placed his hand against the door. He'd never been an overly devout man – he'd always believed that the Maker recognized and rewarded purpose and action far more than He cared for the ritualistic supplications of religious worship. And yet, as his hand rested against the door, a nagging sense of rightness pulled at him from within, as though his feet had not been so aimless after all when they'd delivered him to the door of the chapel. Heaving another sigh of resignation, he pushed open the door and entered.
The Chantry chapel was lit in the softly flickering light of dozens of candles, all arrayed concentrically around the large pillar of flame that burned brightly at the base of the statute of Andraste, the Maker's Bride. The chapel was deserted, for which Loghain was eminently grateful; had it been occupied, he might have turned around and left without another word. He'd always been intensely uncomfortable exhibiting anything resembling vulnerability in the presence of others, and there were few things he found more vulnerable than openly beseeching the Maker for providence.
He sat down on the narrow bench directly before Andraste, whose open arms and gentle smile seemed to issue a welcoming invitation specially meant for him. With a long, slow sigh, he bowed his head, feeling the tension seeping out of his body as he relaxed his muscles, breathing in the subtle aroma of soothing incense as his eyes adjusted to the soft, dim light. He raked a hand anxiously through his hair as he sat there, the peaceful stillness of the chapel filling him and making him aware of his overwhelming lack of certainty. Praying in the Chantry seemed to bring solace to so many, and yet, as he sat there in the presence of the Maker's Bride, he felt as though the silence only brought more questions to which he didn't have the answers. He didn't even know how one was supposed to pray. Did people recite the Chant of Light? He'd always had trouble remembering the verses by heart. Did they ask the Maker for a list of desires, as a child might beg for presents, in the hope that He was in a giving mood that day? He'd always found such prayers to be both presumptuous and narcissistic. Who was he – who was anyone – to ask a favor of the Maker? And who was anyone to believe that they, above others, deserved to have that prayer answered?
"This is ridiculous," he breathed to himself. "I don't know what to say, and I wouldn't know how to say it if I did. I'm not sure what I thought I'd find in here. Peace? I hardly deserve peace after everything I've done. Answers? I can't seriously have expected a statue to tell me what I should do." He scoffed to himself, resting his head in the palms of his hands as he sat, bowed, on the bench. "I only want to help Moira. If anyone ever deserved the Maker's mercy and grace, it is she. And yet she lies beyond all mortal help, while I, despite all my sins, sit in here fumbling over my words. How is that justice? Where is the Maker's hand in any of this?"
"'Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light; and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.'"
The voice, clarion clear and full of faith, filled the chapel around him, and Loghain jerked upright at once, startled out of his reverie by the sudden interruption of his solitude. He spun around, equal measures mortified and indignant that his soliloquy had been intruded upon, and found himself regarding the serene countenance of the red-haired Orlesian bard.
"I apologize for the interruption," she said softly, her flowery accent grating against Loghain's ears like a blade screeching against steel armor. "But it is good that you are here. Perhaps the Maker Himself drew you here, for I have been meaning to speak with you."
"And you thought you'd find me in the Chantry?" he scoffed, still bristling over the unwanted intrusion into his private, clumsy attempt at prayer. "What could possibly have possessed you to search for me here? A fortunate coincidence, that is all."
"Perhaps," she replied enigmatically, and Loghain ground his teeth together. This was why he'd always disliked Chantry zealots – they could twist literally any word or event into a 'sign' from the Maker Himself. "But I did not come here in search of you. I came here to pray for the Maker's guidance. I did mean to speak with you afterwards – I only thought I'd find you in Moira's room. You've saved me a trip," she added impishly, as she joined Loghain on the bench.
"Well, what do you want, Orlesian?" Loghain knew, deep in his heart, that Moira would not approve of his brusque manner; she genuinely liked Leliana, and he grudgingly had to admit that the bard had apparently been a true and devoted friend to the woman he loved. His charitable feelings too often fought a losing battle against his intrinsic aversion to anything Orlesian, however, and today was no exception.
"I know you love Moira," Leliana began without prelude. The abruptness of her statement jarred him out of any affected disdain, and he could only gawp at her in astonishment.
"Oh, it is not as if you have kept it a secret," she chided gently. "I know you were close before the final battle. I saw how you went to her at Fort Drakon, how your heart was broken by her sacrifice. I know you have barely left her room in days. If you mean to be subtle about your affections, you are doing a rather poor job." Loghain hardly knew what to say to that – laid out so starkly, he supposed he could not argue, even if he'd wanted to, which he found he didn't. If Moira trusted the Orlesian, then… perhaps she was not entirely suspicious. Even if she was a bard and a spy.
"So I do love her. What of it? Surely there's a purpose to your words, bard."
"My name is Leliana, Teyrn Loghain." Though her voice remained cordial, Loghain detected a core of steel beneath the silken tones for the first time. "I have not been a bard for years. Must we forever be defined by the worst things we have done? The Maker says that this is not so. 'The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction.' This is as true for me as it is for you."
"So you can quote the Chant of Light. Impressive," he groused, nettled. "I suspect you weren't looking for me so you could preach to me of repentance. My sins are my own, as is my atonement. I don't need to confess anything to you or anyone else."
"I am not asking you to. If you are sincere in your desire to atone, then the Maker will grant you His grace. You may think you are beyond His aid, but if I can turn away from the terrible things I have done, so can you. He will turn away none who honestly seek Him." Leliana forestalled Loghain's protests with an upturned hand. "But you are correct – I did not intend to speak of the Maker to you. At least, not directly."
"Then what is this about? I tire of this wordplay. This is not Orlais, Leliana, and I do not play the Game. I have no patience for endless verbal jousting."
Leliana smiled – perhaps she took note that, in the midst of his insults, he had relented to the use of her given name. "It is not so unrelated, and this is not the Game. I think I might know how to help Moira. I thought, since you care for her so greatly, you would wish to join me."
"Help Moira? What do you mean, 'help her'? Help her how? And why didn't you bloody well say so to begin with?" Loghain stared incredulously at Leliana, who frowned at him.
"Mind your tongue! We are in a House of the Maker!"
Loghain snorted a loud harrumph of disdain as he fixed a penetrating glare at Leliana, searching her face for any signs of obfuscation. Finding none, he found his interest piqued, even as a small, nascent seed of hope sprouted, against all better wisdom, deep in his heart.
"You said you know how to help Moira," he gritted out as patiently as he could manage. "What did you mean? Help her awaken from her sleep? Or do you only mean to 'help' her with some vaguely mystical Chantry-mouse twaddle? If you mean the latter, then allow me to assure you that I have no patience for any meaningless nonsense, especially in regards to Moira."
"Tell me, Loghain," Leliana challenged, her voice suddenly firm and unyielding. "How did Moira ever find her way past the stone walls you've built around your heart? You glare and mutter and snarl and growl, anything to avoid revealing what you might really be feeling beneath all of that rage. You trust no one but yourself and you shut away the world, even if it means blinding yourself to what is right in front of you. I know you don't like me because I am Orlesian, but I am not asking you to like me. I am asking you to trust that I care for Moira, just as you do, and that I want to help her – that I can help her. I came to you because I thought you might want to help her too. But perhaps I was mistaken – perhaps you only want to wallow in your grief and anger and feel pity for yourself. In that case, I hope you will find what you seek." She stood abruptly, her face a mask of steel, and turned to leave.
A part of him – a rather large part, if he were honest with himself – wanted to sneer and turn away in disgust. Let her have her little tantrum and leave. It meant nothing to him. What did she know of him, or of his feelings for Moira? She was just an Orlesian bard, playing his affections like a lute as she was wont to do, being an experienced practitioner of the Game. Let her leave. What did he care? He would find a way to help Moira on his own. As he always had.
And yet, somehow, another part of him – a smaller part, a quieter part, but with a voice which insistently demanded to be heard – rejected the loud, angry voice, the one that had always insisted that he go it alone, that he trust nobody. He'd listened to that voice for far too long – and look where it had led him. Into ruin. Into disgrace. He should have died at the Landsmeet – but Moira had trusted him, despite all reason to the contrary. He was alive because she had had faith in him.
Now it was time for him to have faith. He owed her that much, at the very least.
"Wait." Leliana stilled just before the chapel door. Loghain took a deep breath and swallowed his pride and his vitriol.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I… of course I want to help Moira. If there is anything I can do, then please. Tell me. I will do whatever I can. I would do anything for her." He meant to say more, but his throat suddenly closed, and he knew no more words would be forthcoming for some time.
Leliana hovered near the door for several long moments, and he feared that, despite all her rhetoric about the Maker's forgiveness, she would walk away regardless. Well – he could hardly blame her if she did. She wasn't the Maker, after all, and her patience had mortal limits. But then she turned her back to the door and regarded him with an inquisitive and pleased expression.
"I am glad to hear it," she said. She smiled gently at him as she retook her seat on the narrow pew. "To answer your question, even if you didn't ask in earnest – yes, I believe we can truly help Moira awaken from her sleep. And in a way, I have you to thank for the solution."
"Me?" Loghain furrowed his brow at her.
"Yes. It is only because you poisoned Arl Eamon that the idea came to me."
Loghain was not one to flush in shame, but nevertheless, he felt a measure of mortification as he was reminded of one of the worse decisions he had made during his ill-fated regency. He'd never trusted or liked Eamon – the man had an Orlesian shrew of a wife, for the Maker's sake, and made little effort to disguise his desire to climb into bed with Orlais as figuratively as he did literally. He'd also made a grand show of being Cailan's adoring uncle, even though Loghain had spent far more time around the boy than his uncle ever had. Loghain had known, after the ruinous debacle of Ostagar, that Eamon would never forgive him for the decision he'd made, and that the arl's influence among the western bannorn would pit him against Loghain in the days to come. The actual plot had been suggested by Howe, although Loghain had agreed readily enough – Howe's mages had informed him of a maleficar, on the run after a daring escape from the Circle Tower, and had suggested that they blackmail the mage and force him into service, to use his magic to poison Eamon to keep him out of the picture. The intent had only been to incapacitate Eamon, not to kill him – as much as Loghain disliked Eamon, he had no intention of murdering him in such a sly fashion, not to mention that outright poisoning a fellow noble would immediately cast a pall of suspicion over him. No, the intention had merely been for Eamon to fall 'mysteriously ill' for a few weeks, by which time as he recovered, Loghain's play to secure the border would have already been effected. Of course, fate had had other plans.
"How, pray tell, does my poor decision to involve myself with a maleficar give you an idea of how to save Moira?" He furrowed his brows further as he contemplated the weight of his words. "You're surely not suggesting blood magic? It's not… that I wouldn't do anything to help Moira, but… it seems to me that blood magic rarely works in the way its user intends, at least, if any benevolent purpose is intended at all."
"What? No! Blood magic is a crime against the Maker!" Leliana stared at him, horrified. While Loghain could not deny that he was relieved to hear her ardent denial, her words did nothing to clarify what exactly she'd meant when she'd alluded to his poisoning of Eamon.
"Then what? I had Eamon poisoned by a blood mage. I am not proud of it, but if you do not intend to allude to the mage's use of blood magic, then I am at a loss as to what you do mean."
"When Jowan poisoned Eamon, he did not take into account Eamon's mage son," Leliana explained. "A demon, drawn by the boy's grief, possessed him and his family, and prevented Eamon from stirring. Even expelling the demon from Connor's mind in the Fade did not awaken the arl. It was only when Moira obtained the Sacred Ashes of Andraste that Eamon was cured. I cannot believe I did not think of it sooner! Don't you see, Loghain? If Andraste's ashes could heal Eamon, perhaps they can heal Moira too! We must go and obtain them!"
Loghain stared at her in disbelieving wonder. So that was how Eamon had recovered from his ill-intentioned attack? But…
"The Ashes of Andraste Herself? Those are just a myth," he protested.
"That is what I thought too," she admitted quietly. "Of course, I wanted to believe, always. But I still doubted… until I saw them with my own eyes." She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. "They are real, Loghain. She is real! And if anything can help Moira, the ashes can. I know it."
The Sacred Ashes of Andraste. It was a myth, a fable. It had to be. Of course, there were countless chantries from Orlais to Ostwick that claimed to house some relic or other of the Holy Lady or her disciples – a finger bone here, a bit of hair there, all allegedly plucked from the corpses of the Most Holies, though most were assuredly frauds designed to draw in pilgrims with their hard-earned coin. But none of the supposed reliquaries were actually bold enough to claim to hold the earthly remains of Andraste herself!
"I know it seems hard to believe, but please – I saw it for myself. So did Moira. I was going to go alone, to Haven – that is where they are, in the Frostback Mountains. But then I realized that you should have the chance to come too. I know how much she means to you, and…" Leliana's voice grew quiet, and she removed her hand from Loghain's arm as she turned to regard the open arms of Andraste above her.
"It didn't seem right to go without you," she added softly.
Loghain was, for once in his life, truly struck speechless. He'd never stopped to wonder why Eamon had recovered – he hadn't meant the poison to be fatal, so perhaps he'd just assumed its effects had worn off naturally. But to find out that Andraste's ashes were real, and that they'd cured the arl, and that they might hold the key to awakening Moira too…
"Thank you," he said sincerely, without a trace of rancor or defensive sarcasm, his eyes meeting Leliana's in the dim light of the chapel. "It was kind of you to think of me. Especially when I have been less than kind to you in return."
"It is all right," she reassured him with a smile. "You are not a bad man, Loghain. Moira would not have loved you if you were. I had hoped you would come around."
He did not know what to say to that, so he said nothing, but he found himself regarding the statue of Andraste, her arms outstretched, her smile beneficent. Perhaps the Maker did answer prayers after all.
"I will go with you," he said. Even if Leliana's hope was in vain, at least now he had a purpose.
"Good," she said, and he could tell she meant it. "Let us leave tomorrow. I don't wish to waste any more time."
At last, there was a sentiment with which they could both agree.
A/N: My apologies for such a lengthy wait before this update! I can't really blame anything besides good old fashioned writer's block - I've known for some time the general direction in which I plan to take this story, but I'd finally reached the part where the actual details had begun to get a bit muzzy. It took me a while, but I've finally come up with a working outline that will help me guide the action from here on out, so hooray, hopefully this is the longest break I'll take for a while! (Hopefully those are not famous last words.) Thank you to every one of you who has reviewed, favorited, followed, and read this story. Your feedback and appreciation means so much to me and I love hearing from you every chapter. I hope you enjoy, and hopefully you won't have to wait too long until the next installment!