A/N: This is a revised version of this chapter - after trying to work on the next chapter, and getting stuck, I realized that part of the reason I had writer's block was because I was simply not content with what I'd done for Chapter 15, and it was inhibiting my ability to move on in the story. I reworked the chapter a bit, and as a result I'm much, much happier with it. The conversation with Fergus and Anora and Eamon has changed; the scene with Loghain and Leliana remains the same, so if you have already read this chapter before, you can skip straight to the line break. Many thanks to my friend bushviper who helped me talk through my problems with this chapter and read some of my revisions. Chapter 16 should be along shortly!

"Would you like me to play my lute again tonight, Loghain? I was thinking perhaps 'The Wild Rover of Redcliffe,' but if you are not in the mood for something so festive, maybe I could try a different arrangement of 'The Dawn Will Come'?"

Loghain gripped his canteen of stew tightly in his hands and refrained from retorting that if he never heard so much as the pluck of a lute string again in his entire life, it would be too soon. Instead, he sighed and bid himself, for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, to remain calm. They had traveled for nearly two weeks across Ferelden, through forest and plain, across the length of the bannorn and down the Imperial Highway through Redcliffe. Now they camped beneath the stars at the foot of the Frostback Mountains, and Loghain's patience for the cheerful bard's endless enthusiasm was beginning to wear thinner the closer they got to their destination.

"You've already played four different arrangements of 'The Dawn Will Come.' How many bloody versions can there be? It's a hymn, not a rousing tavern romp." He grimaced as he took a sip of his stew. So much for reining in his tongue.

"Must you always swear?" Leliana scolded. "Fine, if you'd rather hear a 'rousing tavern romp,' I'll play 'Wild Rover.' That is, unless the parlor critic has a personal request?"

"My request would be for some peace and quiet!" Loghain snapped, and immediately felt guilty at Leliana's crestfallen expression. He sighed and placed his stew at his feet.

"I'm sorry, Leliana," he said, surprised at how easily the sincere apology came to him. "Forgive my sharp tongue. I'm restless, that is all. We're nearly to Haven now, and what if…" He trailed off as his eyes fixed on the mountains looming in the near distance, dark shadowy smudges illumined by the skyful of stars overhead.

"What if this doesn't help Moira?" Her voice, devoid of anger, echoed his thoughts, and he felt a renewed surge of shame for losing his patience with her.

"You can't know whether this will work. Perhaps the ashes did help Eamon, but what's to say they'll be able to aid Moira? How can we be certain they are even still at the temple? What if all of this is just a waste of time?"

Leliana was quiet as she placed her lute back in its traveling case and joined him at the campfire. "I believe they are still there," she said finally, after several moments of silence had ensued. "I cannot explain why. It's just a feeling I have – like the vision I had in Lothering. I have faith we will be able to help Moira with the ashes, Loghain."

"But how can you know that?" he persisted. "It's been months since you retrieved them – Maker's breath, it's been weeks since the Landsmeet! Can you really be certain that no one – a relic hunter, the Chantry, anyone – has taken them away?"

"I cannot reassure you," she said enigmatically. "Not in a way that will satisfy you. You are not a man of faith, Loghain. You require evidence, proof. You need to see something with your own eyes, feel it in your own hands, before you will believe it to be true. Nothing I can say to you until we actually reach the temple will change that."

"If I'm such a heathen, then why did you invite me along on your little holy quest?" Loghain grumbled.

"I did not say you were a heathen. I said you were not a man of faith. There is a difference."

Loghain harrumphed, somewhat disappointed that Leliana had not taken his argumentative bait. Sparring with her was far easier and more familiar to him than reckoning with the depths of his faith – in himself, in her visions, or in the Maker.

"It is not that I do not believe you," he said at last. "I only fear that if something has happened to the ashes, then my last chance to save Moira will have disappeared along with them."

"And you blame yourself," she added. He looked up in surprise to find her gaze fixed on him across the campfire. He looked away quickly, unwilling to confront the depths of his own guilt in the reflection of her perceptive eyes.

"Of course I do," he allowed, taking a sullen sip of stew. "And why shouldn't I? I was hardly a friend to her during the Blight. The final strike should have been mine to take. I was the one who deserved to sacrifice everything to save Ferelden – not her. If she never recovers, how can I do anything but blame myself?" The thought of Moira, forever still and unmoving in her peaceful repose, sent a hot stab of grief and remorse through his heart, and he stared stubbornly into the fire, unwilling to allow Leliana to see the anguish in his eyes.

The campfire crackled and popped as Loghain brooded silently for several long moments. He was not the sort of man who believed in miracles – Maker knew he'd never seen any evidence of them, not as a young outlaw on the run from the Orlesians, nor as a world-weary general who'd faced more hopeless battles than he cared to remember. He wanted to believe that the Maker had a better plan for Moira – that despite everything, she could be healed and made whole – but a lifetime of loss and pain had dimmed his faith in the Maker's mercy.

"You truly do love her," Leliana said quietly.

Loghain glanced up sharply at her unexpected words. "My feelings for Moira are not something I wish to discuss," he grumbled, retreating into the familiar comfort of brusque dismissal. He knew if he dwelled too much on thoughts of Moira, he would eventually lose his composure in front of the inquisitive bard, and his pride could not allow that to happen.

"Suit yourself," she replied, nonplussed. "But I think it is sweet and romantic."

"You think everything is 'sweet' and 'romantic,'" he harrumphed. She responded with a gentle, sincere smile, and her refusal to be baited by his abrupt attempts to dismiss the conversation irked him.

"You know, if we are able to save Moira, it will all be thanks to you." Leliana offered in an almost playful tone.

His irritation gave way to puzzled skepticism. "Me? How so?"

"If you had not poisoned Arl Eamon, Moira would have had no cause to seek out the Sacred Ashes," she responded matter-of-factly. "Before we went to the temple in Haven, I had only thought of the ashes as a legend, a tale lost to time and history. It was only the Arlessa's insistence that we search for them, and the lack of any other alternative, that led us to discover them. So you see, Loghain, if you had never poisoned Eamon, we would never have found the ashes, and Moira would be doomed to lie in her sleep forever."

"I think you give me far too much credit," Loghain said ruefully. "Would that my motives had been so pure."

"The Maker moves in mysterious ways. Perhaps He was moving through you even then."

"Perhaps," Loghain said, though he remained far from convinced. He remained seated before the dying fire, long after Leliana finished the last of her stew and informed him that she was going to her tent. He set little store in her aphorisms about the Maker and His mysterious ways, but he had to admit that she was right enough about him – he wouldn't believe until he took the ashes himself, brought them to Denerim, and saw Moira awaken with his own eyes. But there was no use in endlessly ruminating – they would be to Haven by sundown tomorrow, and then he could see for himself.

He wished he had Leliana's deep faith, her unshakeable certainty, but the only certainties in his life had been war, pain, and death. He thought of Moira, of how she'd managed to remain essentially good and kind even amidst the Blight and a brutal war that had claimed the lives of her family. He knew now why she'd appreciated Leliana's company so much. Even if she was not as openly devout as the bard, she believed, as did Leliana, in the essential goodness of people, in the mercy of the Maker, and in the hope for a better world. That, he realized with a heavy heart, was what they had that he lacked: hope. But without hope, what did he have?

"I hope you are right about this," he said quietly, in the general direction of Leliana's tent. "And I hope that if the Maker has any mercy for the world at all, He spares some for Moira." Standing up, he stomped out the last of the fire's dying embers, an old, ingrained habit from the days of the occupation, and headed to his own tent. Unbundling his bedroll, he slipped inside, but sleep proved as elusive as any sign from the Maker.

Fergus Cousland huffed a dissatisfied sigh as he studied himself critically in the large mirror that adorned the dresser in Moira's room. He'd never been a vain man – much the opposite – but he barely recognized himself in his reflection these days. The face that had first greeted him in the mirror upon his arrival in Denerim had been a stranger's – an emaciated, bearded wraith with hollow eyes and the grim, lined countenance of a man thrice his age. A hot bath, a shave and several weeks of recuperation and renourishment had brought back some semblance of his former self, but he knew, as he regarded his still-too-thin face and the deep weariness that had settled over his features like a shroud, that the man he used to be would never return his gaze in the mirror again.

He looked over at his sister with a pang. Still she lay, unchanged from the day before and the day before that. Dane lay curled up at the foot of the bed, his tail wagging lazily as he dreamed the simple dreams of dogs. Fergus had spent the better part of the morning in the room with her, and while he hated leaving her unattended – after all the attempts on their lives, a part of him still feared that an assassin would be hiding in the shadows, waiting to end her life in a flash of silver – he was beginning to feel stir crazy. Ever since Anora had informed him abruptly that Loghain had hared off on some quest to 'find aid for Moira,' Fergus had been anxious and impatient, awaiting Loghain's return with an eagerness that was marred only by his lingering suspicion of the former regent.

Sighing softly, he walked over to his sister and bent to place a soft kiss on her forehead. She did not stir, and though he knew she wouldn't, he felt his heart clench tightly in sadness.

"I'll be right back, little pup," he said, unable to resist cracking a melancholy smile – she'd always hated when he called her that, and had she heard him, she'd have had his hide. "Dane will keep you safe while I'm gone." He cast a skeptical eye on the softly snoring mabari, whose legs twitched as he chased rabbits in his dreams. "Well, if he can be arsed to wake up sometime this year, that is."

Closing the door softly behind him – though he would have been sure to slam it off its hinges if he thought she'd hear it and wake up – he made his way down the corridor of the palace, deciding to make his way to the kitchens for a bite to eat before perhaps taking a stroll around Denerim. It broke his heart to see the wreckage and ruin of his nation's capital city, but he found himself heartened by the fortitude and strength shown by Fereldans from all walks of life who had been committed to steadily rebuilding everything that had been destroyed, brick by brick. He might even volunteer to join one of the rebuilding crews today – perhaps a bit of hard manual labor would take his mind off of his restless waiting.

He'd made his way out of the personal wing of the palace and was passing the queen's outer parlor room when he heard heated voices from within, one of which he immediately identified as Anora's.

" – isn't even here! It has been several weeks since the Blight ended, and I find your timing more than a bit disingenuous, Arl Eamon. You had ample opportunity to address this matter when my father was still in Denerim to defend himself. I will not convene a tribunal to strip my father of his lands and titles behind his back. I do not see why I should convene such a tribunal at all, quite frankly. Moira Cousland accepted my father's surrender and conscripted him into the Grey Wardens. That should be penance enough, even for you."

"And you know as well as I do that Grey Wardens are forbidden to hold titles," the other voice – Arl Eamon's – intoned. "Furthermore, Loghain was found guilty of crimes against Ferelden at the Landsmeet – for which you denounced him, if I am not mistaken." The sense of satisfaction in Eamon's voice was apparent even through the door. "It would be a shame for the beginning of your solitary reign to be marred by accusations of nepotism, Your Majesty."

"If that is a threat, Eamon, it is a remarkably poor one." Anora's voice was tight with anger. "You had no such compunctions against Grey Wardens holding titles when you maneuvered Alistair into a bid for the throne, and I assume you are not suggesting that I strip Moira Cousland of her ladyship, either. I will not hesitate to remind the nobility of the inconsistency of your convictions if you decide to pursue this issue."

"Your Majesty's position is clear." Eamon's voice was cordial but strained. "But, with respect, I am not the only participant of the Landsmeet who has doubts about Loghain's fitness to remain as Teyrn of Gwaren. You may not appreciate my words, but I came to you as a courtesy – if you do not address your father's culpability for the disastrous civil war in which he embroiled Ferelden, you may find that your support amongst the nobility will erode before you have seen a year on the throne. If I were you, I would prefer to get in front of this matter and resolve it before it becomes a problem, rather than ignore it and allow resentment to fester."

"I beg your pardon? You forget yourself, Eamon – and you forget who rules this country. No tribunal will be convened without royal authority, and I will convene no such tribunal concerning my father's fate when he is not even present to speak for himself. I believe I have made myself clear – now, if that is all, I have business to attend to."

The door opened abruptly, and Queen Anora, looking as angry as Fergus had ever seen her, emerged from the parlor, trailed closely by a red-faced Eamon, who perked up noticeably when he saw Fergus standing in the corridor.

"Teyrn Fergus!" Eamon's voice held none of the ire it had a mere moment ago. "I am pleased to see that you survived Rendon Howe's treachery. I had heard that you were returned to Denerim, but I apologize that I have not had the time to call on you personally. I am very sorry about your family."

"Thank you, Arl Eamon," Fergus replied, conscious that both the arl and the queen must have realized that he'd overheard their disagreement. "It's been… difficult."

"No doubt. The civil war shattered many families and nearly tore our country apart. You must be eager to seek justice." Eamon appraised Fergus with a shrewd eye, and Fergus had the uneasy feeling that he was about to be roped into the debate.

"Howe is dead by my sister's hand," Fergus replied, his innards clenching in roiling anger at the thought of the traitorous filth who'd butchered his family. How I wish he'd died by mine. "Nothing will ever bring them back, but at least I can sleep at night knowing they've been avenged."

"Howe has paid for his crimes," Eamon allowed. "But Loghain, whose usurpation of the crown allowed Howe free reign of your family's teyrnir, remains free and in possession of his wealth and prestige. I would imagine that you of all people would wish to see him punished for abetting Howe's treachery."

"My father was conscripted into the Grey Warden order at the Landsmeet!" Anora interjected. "If you found such punishment to be too merciful, you should have raised your concerns at the time. It is most curious how your newfound desire for vengeance has conveniently manifested only now that my father and Moira Cousland are unable to offer any rebuttal to your charges."

Fergus narrowed his eyes at Anora's words. The queen was nothing if not savvy, and she surely knew that the mention of his sister in association with Loghain would serve to dissuade him from Eamon's crusade. And yet he knew so little about how – or what – his sister felt in regard to the teyrn. Loghain had been oddly solicitous, in his own gruff, aloof way, ever since Fergus had returned to Denerim, and Fergus had finally allowed that he meant Moira no harm – his solemn daily vigil at her side had been unassuming and sincere.

And now he was gone – Anora had informed Fergus nearly two weeks ago of her father's intentions to seek some mysterious and unmentioned avenue of help for Moira's condition, and Fergus had had no reason to doubt her words thus far. But, of course, the queen would be invested in protecting what remained of her father's tattered reputation – just as Arl Eamon, thwarted at the Landsmeet, would be invested in destroying it.

In the weeks since his return to civilization, Fergus had slowly pieced together a patchwork narrative of the events that had transpired between his ambush by Howe's men outside Ostagar and his desperate flight to the capital upon hearing that his sister led the Grey Warden army. The events of the Landsmeet remained something of a mystery to him, however – he knew that his sister had supported Anora's bid for the throne over the claim of some newly-unearthed bastard heir of King Maric's, and he knew that she had somehow pardoned Loghain for his crimes by recruiting him into the Grey Wardens. But he did not know whether his sister truly trusted the queen, or whether theirs was merely an alliance of convenience. He found himself wishing ardently for his sister's counsel – she would tell him what had truly happened, and whether or not Loghain or Anora or Eamon were trustworthy or treacherous. He did not have enough knowledge to navigate through the tangled and treacherous webs of political posturing just yet.

"We do not know if Moira Cousland will ever awaken, nor do we know where your father has gone, or if he means to return," Eamon responded darkly. "The matter of the teyrnir of Gwaren must be resolved before – "

"My sister will awaken. She will be fine." Eamon's dismissal gave Fergus a focus for his roiling emotions, and he fixed the arl with a steely glare. "Moira saved Ferelden. The least you all can do is wait for her to recover before you start planning tribunals and hearings that require her judgment. I imagine she'll have much to say about Loghain's fate, whatever her feelings about him – but I'd rather hear it from her, and not from anyone else. If you want me to support your tribunal, Arl Eamon, you'll have to wait until I've had a chance to discuss the matter with my sister. Until then, any such discussion is premature."

Eamon narrowed his eyes, clearly displeased. "Very well, Teyrn Fergus. I respect your devotion to your sister. But you must accept the possibility that she will never awaken. Ferelden cannot remain in a state of unchanging stasis alongside Moira Cousland. Sooner or later, decisions must be made as to our nation's future – and as Ferelden's only other teyrn, you will need to play a primary role in those decisions. Please, think about what I have said." He bowed his head stiffly to Anora, and again to Fergus. "Your Majesty. Teyrn. I bid you good day." With that, he strode down the corridor, leaving Fergus standing somewhat awkwardly next to a composed but stern-faced Queen Anora.

"Your Majesty," Fergus said, feeling self-conscious at his belated royal protocol. "I apologize for intruding on your private conversation. I did not intend to step into the middle of your discussion."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Teyrn Fergus," she said briskly. "Arl Eamon hopes to undermine my reign by using my father against me. I am only surprised that he waited this long to make his play."

"He's certainly bold, I'll give him that," he said, casting a glance at the arl's retreating back. He'd never heard his father even speak of King Cailan in such stark language – Maker forbid say anything so impolitic to the king's face. "Who speaks to the queen in such a manner?"

"The man who was very nearly regent for an unwilling and unprepared king," Anora replied primly. "I do not believe his ego has recovered from the defeat he suffered at the Landsmeet."

Once again, Fergus found himself wishing that he could speak with Moira. "I wasn't present for the Landsmeet, but my sister supported your claim for the throne over Maric's bastard. She must have had cause."

Anora's steely demeanor softened slightly as she turned to regard Fergus with a perceptive look. "I would like to think so. For what small measure it is worth, I pray daily for your sister's recovery. I owe her much. I would not have retained my crown without her. I will always owe her my gratitude, whatever Eamon or any others like him may wish. I hope I have been a queen worthy of her support."

Fergus felt his own anger diminishing, and he smiled softly at the queen. "I want to thank you for everything you've done for Moira. She's in excellent hands, and I am grateful for it."

Anora flushed faintly at his praise, and had Fergus not been so adept at reading women, he might have missed it.

"As I said, she has my gratitude." Anora paused, and fixed Fergus with a look he could not decipher. "As do you. I regret that you witnessed the disagreement I had with Arl Eamon, but I appreciate your support. It is not seemly for the Crown to be seen so publicly feuding with such a key noble ally."

"It rather seemed to me that he was feuding with you," Fergus said. "I understand that the business of Loghain's title must be clarified, but it does seem opportunistic that he wants to convene this tribunal without the teyrn's presence. And, quite frankly, if there is any decision to be made, my sister should be there. She probably knows more about Loghain's motivations than anyone else. It isn't Arl Eamon's place to order the monarch of Ferelden about."

"Eamon has always believed his place to be perched on the king's shoulder, whispering into his ear," she said archly. "I am not at all surprised that, when presented with an unwilling listener, he has decided to bypass the crown entirely and proceed with his tribunal whether I approve or not."

Fergus recalled that Eamon had been King Cailan's uncle – surely such a man should be expected to offer advice and wisdom to the king. Anora's resentment could not come merely from his relationship with Cailan.

"You think he's bitter because he supported Maric's bastard's failed claim to the throne?" Fergus asked.

"Among other things, yes. Above all, I believe it grates at him that I rule Ferelden alone without the legitimizing condition of marriage to a Theirin." A troubled look passed briefly across Anora's countenance before her coolly composed mask fitted again into place. "I have always been a mere 'commoner's daughter' to him and many like him. I was never seen as a fit consort for a Theirin king, and Eamon made little secret of his efforts to convince Cailan to discard me." Her mask did not waver, but Fergus, looking closer now, could see the long-buried ache burning dimly behind her eyes. "He believed that our inability to conceive an heir was a curse from the Maker, divine punishment for the king taking a common wife. I could not give legitimacy to such vicious rumors by acknowledging them, but if I had done so, I might have pointed out that Cailan was notably unable to produce any bastards with any of his mistresses."

"I'm sorry," he said softly. He'd heard such scandalized whisperings before, of course – everyone in the Fereldan aristocracy had. He'd never paused to give much thought to the lack of royal heir, but Cailan's carousing ways were not a secret in noble circles, and it was rather curious that the king had failed to produce even a single bastard despite all of his reveling. "You didn't deserve to be the object of such cruel gossip. Besides, it's bollocks anyway – you're as noble as anyone at the Landsmeet, and bugger to Eamon or anyone who says otherwise." Fergus flushed deeply as he realized the crude language that had slipped out in his indignation. "Your Majesty, I beg your pardon –"

His ears were abruptly greeted by a strange, foreign sound – Anora, the straightlaced queen, was laughing. "You needn't apologize, Teyrn Fergus," she said, voice still full of mirth. "I should apologize for feeling so profoundly sorry for myself and allowing you to see such weakness – but I admit, it was all worth it, if only to hear you telling Arl Eamon to bugger himself." Her countenance sobered, though she retained a hint of a smile. "I have always faced challenges as queen, and I suspect I always will. It will not be easy to be the first monarch to break the line of Calenhad, but I believe that the true strength of Ferelden is the spirit of her people, not the inheritance of the royal bloodline."

"Well spoken," he agreed. "Still… I'm sorry about the king. It couldn't have been easy to lose him, especially knowing your father –" He slammed his mouth shut, but the ill-fated words had already escaped.

"Knowing my father betrayed my husband to his death?" She fixed him with a piercing glare, and Fergus prepared himself for the furious onslaught – but to his surprise, she sighed deeply, and when she spoke, her voice was full of regret, disappointment, and sadness – but not anger.

"Cailan never understood my father. Papa was always offering Cailan advice, trying to teach him about war, strategy, history – but Cailan never wanted to listen. He thought Father was a dour, tedious old bore who was constantly comparing him to Maric and finding him wanting. I suppose he wasn't wrong, at that," she said ruefully. "My father is like a mabari. He is fiercely loyal to those he deems worthy, but his loyalty must be earned. If it is not, then he will not hesitate to rip out your throat if he believes it necessary."

"And Cailan never earned his loyalty?"

"He never believed he had to. He took Father's loyalty for granted, and assumed that my father's regard for Maric would pass to him as an inheritance. He paid for that mistake with his life."

"And you forgive Loghain for that?" Fergus shook his head. "I know he is your father, and I know Cailan might have been an imperfect husband, but I also know I could never forgive the man who let my wife die." A spasm of hatred stabbed through his heart as he thought of Oriana, and little Oren, and Howe's sniveling rat face. My only regret is that I didn't kill the bastard myself.

"My father did not kill Cailan," she said, to Fergus's surprise. "Oh, there was a time when I thought that he might as well have, but – " She sighed. "Father was right. Cailan killed himself in his own desperate grab for eternal glory. He wanted to be the kind of hero his father was, but he failed to understand that heroes don't just decide to be heroes by leading an army into an impossible battle and winning despite all the odds. It pains me to admit it, but it is the truth."

Fergus was surprised to hear such a confession, and found himself strangely irked – though he'd been unimpressed by Eamon's suspicious insistence on convening a tribunal without Loghain's presence, he found that he nevertheless wanted Anora to acknowledge her father's crimes, to explain why Loghain had allied himself with Howe and why he had spent so long trying to murder Moira. If he wasn't a true regicide, then why had he aligned himself against Moira?

"So maybe he didn't deliberately murder the king at Ostagar," Fergus allowed, "but then why did he ally with the man who butchered my family? Why did he take Howe's side?"

"These questions would be better posed to my father. He did not precisely keep me in his confidence after Ostagar." Fergus caught a fleeting glimpse of something – pain? – behind her eyes, but it was gone as soon as it had arrived. "I will tell you that I do not believe he had anything to do with what happened to your parents. He did not begin to associate with Howe until after his return to Denerim, when the deed was already done."

"But he knew –"

"Yes, he knew what Howe had done," Anora agreed, and Fergus detected a trace of bitterness behind her diplomatic tone. "But as I was not privy to my father's inner thoughts, I can tell you only what I was able to observe myself: that my father was sincere in his belief that abandoning Cailan was a sound military decision, and that shortly after his return to Denerim, Howe approached him and offered his support. Perhaps my father felt as though he needed any allies he could find, however distasteful. All I know is that after Howe insinuated himself into my father's confidence, my father began to rely on his advice more and more, no matter how vile Howe's suggestions were. Why he allied himself so decisively with someone so transparently villainous, I can only wonder."

Fergus frowned. "Accepting Howe as an ally was bad enough. Why take his advice? What leverage could Howe have possibly had over your father to induce him to do his bidding? That makes no sense."

Anora shook her head. "I could not say. Once Howe attached himself to my father, I saw less and less of him. By the time the Landsmeet convened, he was all but a stranger to me – I feared he had gone mad, in truth. He has seemed to return to himself ever since your sister conscripted him into the Grey Wardens, but during the months between the battle at Ostagar and the Landsmeet, my father was as unlike himself as I have ever known him to be."

Fergus frowned in consternation. If Anora knew anything more, she wasn't telling him – but perhaps she was telling the truth, and she knew nothing of the madness that had overcome her father. Yet she'd mentioned that he had seemed to return to normal after the Landsmeet – after he'd joined forces with Moira. He'd spent several weeks on the road with Moira, traveling and fighting alongside her as a Grey Warden, before they had fought the Archdemon together in Denerim, and something must have happened along the way – something that had caused him to change his attitude towards her entirely.

"What about Moira, then? He spent months trying to kill her. But now I'm just supposed to accept that he is… what, exactly? Her comrade? Her friend? Why else would he take it upon himself to sit vigil by her bedside, or go off to wherever mysterious place he's gone to try to help her?"

An odd, almost embarrassed expression crossed Anora's features, and a sudden sense of apprehension slammed into his gut.

"Oh sweet Maker," he breathed. "They're not lovers, are they? Tell me they're not lovers."

In any other context, the awkward discomfiture of Anora's expression would have amused him. In this context, however, he felt only a slowly dawning horror. No. No no no no no no NO.

"I have never lied to you, Fergus, and I won't start now," she said stiffly. "I don't know for a fact that they are lovers, but…" She trailed off, and Fergus found himself consumed by a mélange of revulsion and panic. Just when he'd finally been able to put his homicidal urges towards Loghain to rest, the thought of the queen's father – he's old enough to be Moira's father too! – taking advantage of his little sister brought them right back to life. I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill him and then Anora will probably have me executed, but I'm going to kill him anyway.

"Is that why he's gone off like a knight in shining armor to rescue her?" Fergus demanded. "Because they're – ugh, I can't even say it! It's like that'll make it real!"

"Believe me, I find this no less awkward than you do," Anora said uncomfortably. "Your sister is younger than me, remember. The thought of my father sharing intimacies with someone who was not yet alive when I was born is both alarming and disturbing."

"You're telling me! He's almost our father's age!" Fergus scrunched up his face in disgust. "Did you have to use the word 'intimacies?'"

"Would you have preferred I'd said 'sex?'" Anora retorted, and Fergus blanched anew.

"No. No, I definitely would not have. No."

"To answer your question," Anora said pointedly, "yes, I suspect that his feelings for her are the reason he has gone. I do not know where he has gone or why, as I told you a fortnight ago – he offered no details, and I learned long ago that it's easier to take a bone from a mabari than to pry secrets from my father. But he insisted that it was something he had to do and that it might be his only chance to 'save Moira,' as he put it. He also added that he trusted that she was in good hands. I believe he was referring to you."

"Oh, how generous of him," Fergus snarked. Still… if Loghain did actually care about Moira… even if Fergus would rather stab out his own mind's eye than imagine it… if it meant that Loghain would be able to save her, then he could (admittedly with much retching and gagging) live with such a thought.

"Well, your father had better hope he succeeds, then," Fergus growled. He supposed he might not have to kill Loghain for sleeping with his sister (as horrifying as that thought remained) if the Warden managed to rescue her from her strange undeath.

"Yes, let us hope he does," Anora agreed. "I want nothing more than for your sister to be alive and well. Though I fear her recuperation in Denerim will not be relaxing, if Eamon's machinations come to fruition."

Fergus rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. Though he'd done nothing but walk down the corridor, he suddenly felt exhausted, and the thought of engaging in hard labor no longer appealed. He'd only just returned to civilization, and already he'd been confronted with the wreckage of his home, his sister's puzzling illness, the mystery of Loghain's motives, and the viper's den of political intrigue in Denerim. He found himself missing the simplicity of the Chasind village deep in the Korcari wilds, where he'd been nursed back to life by a scrupulously attentive healer, who'd accepted no form of repayment except his assistance in weeding her herb garden.

Perhaps the Chasind had the right idea of things, after all.