A/N: Once again, this chapter took longer than I intended - my apologies! In my somewhat defense, it has been a very busy two months for me, and it didn't help that I've had this chapter in mind ever since I conceived of this fic over a year ago, and therefore have had a lot of pressure building to make sure I did it right! Hopefully I succeeded! My thanks to my friend betagyre for reading through an early draft and reassuring me that I was hitting the right notes. I know I take forever to update, but I want to thank all my readers for sticking with this story. Your feedback and support means so much! Thank you!
Loghain pulled his cloak snugly about his shoulders as the knifelike wind of the Frostbacks sliced through the seams of his traveling armor, leaving him chilled to the bone. The bleached skull of a high dragon regarded him with sightless eyes, its razor-sharp teeth grinning in an eternal rictus of death. According to Leliana, a crazed band of reaver cultists living in Haven had worshipped the dragon, believing it to be Andraste reborn. They had apparently not taken kindly to Moira's interference, and she and her companions had been forced to kill the cultists – and the high dragon itself, for good measure. He found himself quite grateful that Moira had removed the worst of the obstacles that would have impeded this return visit to Haven, though he could not help but pity the creature. It was hardly as though it had asked to be turned into a false god by an insane cult.
"A pity Moira had to kill the dragon," Loghain added, squinting against the bright gleam of the snowcapped peaks. "Did she mean to clear the path for future pilgrims? I can't imagine that the Chantry will ignore something as momentous as the discovery of Andraste's ashes."
Leliana frowned, tugging her own cloak tighter against the wind's assault. "It surely already knows. We could not have found the precise location of the sacred temple without the assistance of Brother Genitivi, who had dedicated his life to finding Our Lady's ashes. If he has not already informed the Divine, I cannot imagine he will wait much longer. Andraste belongs to all of Thedas."
Loghain furrowed his brows. "That may be, but nevertheless, she was still a mortal woman, and her earthly remains are limited. If the Chantry allows pilgrims to come and take a pinch of her ashes, they'll be gone within a few months." If they even still remain, he thought grimly.
"I know." Loghain gathered from Leliana's tone that the same thought had already occurred to her. He trudged after her through the nearly knee-deep snow, until a dim shape rose through the swirling blizzard before them.
"Here – the true Temple of the Sacred Ashes," she said, the apprehension in her voice turned to awe. "This is where Our Lady rests. I admit… I know we are here for Moira, but I am glad that I will have the opportunity to see the ashes again. Perhaps that is prideful of me, but I can't help it."
Loghain snorted softly. "I'm sure Andraste will forgive you. It's not as though you're here as a gawking tourist, after all." That much was true – if there was any truth to Andraste's mercy, then surely Moira was as deserving a recipient of Her grace as Arl Eamon. But his earlier conversation with Leliana nagged at him as he followed her up the stairs to the temple's entrance. Even if the ashes were still present in the temple, what would become of them? If they were truly Andraste's holy relic – and he prayed, for Moira's sake, that they were – then they would quickly become the most valuable urn of ashes in all of Thedas, sought after not just by the Chantry, but by any number of kings, lords, and merchant princes, Andrastian and heathen alike, for reasons that would range from genuine religious devotion to simple mercenary greed.
He shook his head, dispelling any further contemplation as he followed Leliana into the temple doors. He was here for Moira – any other considerations took a distant second to his immediate concern of obtaining the ashes and, with them, the only hope he had of bringing her back.
The chamber they entered was dark and cavernous and retained much of the chill of the frigid mountain air, and yet, as Loghain approached an empty dais at the center of the room, a strange and indescribable sense of peace settled across him, like a comforting blanket tucked round a sleepy child by the hands of a loving parent. Leliana seemed to feel it too – Loghain saw her visibly relax, the tension in her shoulders easing as she loosened her cloak, her face assuming a placid mask of tranquility.
"It's all coming back to me now," she said, her voice soft and far away, lost in memory. "The Guardian will approach us soon, to look into our hearts and judge our worthiness to enter into the presence of Our Lady."
Loghain felt a prickle of apprehension crawl along his spine in spite of the hazy sense of serenity that still gentled him. "Guardian? What guardian? You didn't say anything about a guardian." Instinctively, he reached for his blade.
"Still your hand, Teyrn Loghain. This is a place of the Maker's peace, and none shall disturb it."
The voice was a deep, sonorous intonation that seemed to come from everywhere at once, and Loghain's apprehension grew deeper as he searched the chamber for the invisible threat. Why hadn't Leliana warned him about this 'guardian' – did he have to defeat it in battle, was that it? His hand was still resting on his blade when a figure, shrouded in shadows, moved towards the dais from the dim reaches of the chamber.
"Still you stubbornly cling to your pride and your belligerence, even in the presence of the Maker's Most Holy." A stern-faced man of undeniably martial bearing, wearing ancient armor that Loghain had seen only in images from ages past, stood before him, brows furrowed. "Is that what drove you down ever darker paths, even once you realized your actions were leading your country to war and ruin? Your obstinate refusal to admit that you acted in error? How many are dead, how many maimed and suffering, because Loghain Mac Tir's pride could not allow that he had been wrong?"
"How did you –" His face burned with anger – what was the meaning of this? How did this mysterious 'guardian' even know who he was, or anything about him? A sudden thought occurred to him, and he offered the warrior a satisfied grimace. "Ah. I see through your parlor tricks, 'guardian.' Leliana must have mentioned me, is that it? The traitorous teyrn who poisoned Arl Eamon and sent the Grey Wardens off on a quest for the ashes?" Or Moira, his mind absently supplied – and he felt a renewed surge of shame at the trials he had subjected Moira to, for so long.
Leliana shook her head slowly. "No one in our party spoke of you, but all of us had similar encounters with the Guardian," she explained. "I told you: he can look into your heart, and sense your regrets."
"And yours are too innumerable to count, are they not?" the Guardian continued. "It is regret that led you here, after all, not faith. You spent months hounding and hunting Moira Cousland, falsely persecuting her for the crimes you committed, until she befell the fate that should have, by all rights, been yours. Tell me, Loghain, what you regret more: that you failed Ferelden, or that you failed Moira Cousland?"
Face burning, Loghain glowered at the armored man, who stood there as impassively as a statue. "They are one and the same," he grated. "In failing Moira, I failed Ferelden. And in failing Ferelden, I failed Moira. What more do you want of me, spirit? Tears? An apology? Shall I don sackcloth and ashes and crawl on my knees to perform the duty of penance? I would do all of those things if I thought it would repair any of the harm I have done to my country, or if it would return Moira to me."
The Guardian stared at him for a span, and Loghain's mind roiled, regret tumbling over regret as the magnitude of his failings crashed over him like waves breaking against a shore. Moira's refusal to condemn him as a villain had gradually allowed him to lower his walls and admit to her that he had made some mistakes, but always, even after they had become intimate, he'd retained a measure of defensive self-justification for his actions after Ostagar. Now, however, as the eyes of the mysterious Guardian bore into him, he saw the past year as through a glass darkly, but this time stripped of the distorted lens through which he'd been able to justify his decisions.
A world-weary general stood at the head of a massive army, stomach filling with bile at the intolerable thought of his callow, stupid son-in-law leading Ferelden's army straight into certain doom. A growing rage slowly fulminated as he waited for the delayed signal from the Grey Wardens – led by their Orlesian commander. The entire plan had been a cock-up from the get-go, and he had spent the better part of a week arguing as such to Cailan, to no avail. King Cailan wanted to be a great hero, and he'd decided that this was his chance – to charge into battle beside the Grey Wardens of legend, slaying the monsters and winning the day. The men who'd ridden into battle beside Cailan were as good as dead – Loghain had known that from the moment the boy had insisted on leading a frontal charge right into the darkspawn ranks. If Loghain followed the signal and joined the battle, it would destroy the entirety of Ferelden's army – unless he put an end to Cailan's disastrous reign and the treachery of the Grey Wardens. And so, when the signal flared, he'd ordered the army to retreat – better to save some of the army than to allow them all to die for Cailan's vanity.
In Denerim, he'd known that the decision to retreat would meet with great resistance from the nobility. Never mind that most of them had never held a sword in their sad, sorry lives, and couldn't tell a blade from a hilt – they had never liked him, never trusted him, and never accepted him as anything more than a commoner who'd gotten too uppity and forgotten his place. He would have to tell them what they wanted to hear – that Cailan had been betrayed by the Orlesian Grey Wardens, who had deliberately delayed lighting the signal at Ostagar until the battle had been lost. Perhaps then the fools would wake up to the Orlesian threat that lurked, ever present, just beyond the border – the massed invasion force of chevaliers that Cailan had very nearly invited in with open arms. Not all the Wardens were Orlesian, but that hardly merited concern. The nobility would believe him; or at least, they would argue about it long enough for him to consolidate Ferelden's forces, defend the border, and then take the time to train and equip a proper army to defeat the darkspawn. He would have to take over the day to day decision making from Anora, for the time being – certainly he knew that she was a competent queen, and had been the only good thing about Cailan's reign, but she was no military strategist. A brief regency until the threat was defeated: that was all he needed. It would be the best thing for Ferelden.
When Arl Rendon Howe had approached him, full of somber remorse for his necessary actions at Highever, Loghain had been suspicious – at least, until Howe had presented him with a series of letters that indicated that Teyrn Bryce Cousland had been deeply engaged in a conspiracy to hand over the Fereldan throne to Empress Celene of Orlais. He had discovered the conspiracy some weeks ago, Howe had sadly intoned, and had only just found the opportunity to confront Cousland about it, but then the teyrn had become violent – and Howe had been forced to kill him. Upon discovering that their lord had been murdered, the soldiers of Highever had attacked, and Howe had been forced to defend himself. It was truly regrettable, Howe had sighed, that such an ancient and esteemed Fereldan family had become so rotten with treachery, but he had been lucky to escape with his life – and doubly fortunate that he'd rooted out such treason before it had had a chance to truly flourish. He knew Loghain would understand – Loghain had been the only noble to ever truly understand the depths of the Orlesian threat. He begged forgiveness for the unpleasantness of the massacre, but, given that the only surviving Cousland had recently joined the Grey Wardens who had betrayed Cailan at Ostagar, requested that he be given provisional authority over the teyrnir of Highever, at least until a suitable replacement could be found. Howe had also offered his fealty to Loghain's regency, and sworn the use of his lands and soldiers to defend against the Orlesian invasion. Loghain had furrowed his brows – something about the whole situation seemed too convenient, too opportune – but the story had all fit, and he accepted Howe's alliance. It would only be temporary, he told himself. Anora would look into the events of Highever once the threat had been dealt with. But for now, he needed Howe, needed his soldiers, needed his gold. Increasingly, he found himself needing his advice.
First had been the suggestion that he hire the Antivan Crows to kill Moira Cousland. Loghain had had doubts – he did not like involving foreign agents in Fereldan business – but Howe had been so smoothly persuasive, and eventually Loghain had relented. Then had come the meeting with Howe's "Tevinter contact," who had offered to discreetly supply the royal coffers with vast riches in exchange for a contract allowing him to hand pick elves from Denerim's alienage to be taken into bondage in Tevinter. It would be for the best, Howe had urged. The alienage had been rocked by riots in the wake of the unfortunate Vaughn Kendall business, and the city guard was one bad day away from a brutal crackdown. The agreement would quell the unrest in the alienage, and the elves themselves would have better lives, living in some magister's palace in Tevinter, thousands of miles away from the Blight.
It had seemed wrong to him, at the time – if the idea of giving the Antivan Crows free reign to operate in Ferelden did not appeal, the notion of allowing Tevinter magisters to abduct Fereldan elves from their homes was even more inimical. But Howe's argument had possessed a compelling logic, and the amount of gold that would be generated, the magister assured, would be grand indeed. In the end, he had been swayed, and when Howe had insisted that it be his seal which would be required to finalize the contract, he had not objected. He'd pressed his ring into the hot wax, the sigil of the Teyrn of Gwaren binding the agreement, and the magister had merely smiled, nodded, and left.
Then had come Anora's concerns – she had confronted him, one day, about his actions. She had demanded to know what had really happened at Ostagar, and why he was setting Fereldan soldiers against their fellow countrymen instead of the darkspawn, and what exactly was happening in the alienage, but he had rebuffed her. Why couldn't she understand that he was doing what he had to do to keep the country safe? Dark times required difficult decisions. She would have to learn that if she were going to be the sole ruler. She could not allow her judgment to be clouded. Clarity of mind was required. A leader could not be swayed by false compassion. He could tell that she hadn't understood. Perhaps she would, in time.
The next day, Howe had come to him, his face creased in concern. Anora had confronted him and accused him of manipulating her father. It was obvious, Howe had explained, that the agents of the Grey Wardens, or perhaps even of Empress Celene, had gotten to her and were poisoning her mind. She would be their primary target, of course. For her safety, Howe had deemed it prudent to confine her to his estate in Denerim. There, she would be kept away from danger, safe from those who wished her harm. Loghain had agreed. She had to be kept safe at any cost, away from the Grey Warden agents who would harm her just to draw him out. She did not understand the full magnitude of the threat, but he did. When Howe was killed and Anora vanished, he'd feared the worst – his little girl, his baby, dead at the Grey Warden's hands. The traitors had murdered her at last. His heart had twisted further in bitterness and hate, and he'd resolved that, come what may, they would not prevail over him at the Landsmeet. They could not.
Then had come the Landsmeet, and the swirl of arguments and condemnations – how he'd tried to convince the blind fools that he knew what was best for Ferelden! And then Moira Cousland had come to confront him at last. She exposed Arl Howe's villainy and treachery, and his certainty had wavered – but it hardly mattered. Even if Howe had been a turncoat and a traitor, it did not change the greater situation – Orlais would surely take advantage of the disaster at Ostagar and the Blight to make its move, and none of the damned idiots could see what was right before their noses! But Moira convinced the nobles that the Blight, not Orlais, was the greater threat, and then there had been only one honorable course of action left to him – a trial by combat. He had thought it would be an easy fight – a young whelp, Grey Warden or no, could hardly hold a candle to his years of battlefield experience. But young Moira Cousland had grown into a redoubtable warrior in her time as a Grey Warden, and as he battled her, he saw in her a strength and determination that he had not seen in so very long – not since he'd fought alongside Maric. He knew then that he could no longer stand against her, even though he still possessed the ability to fight on, perhaps even to kill her. But he'd been wrong about her. She was strong, and just, and she had never betrayed Ferelden. He would not stand in her way. He would surrender, and accept his fate, come what may.
The remembrances of the past year crashed down on him as he stood there for what seemed like hours, the penetrating gaze of the Guardian his only anchor to the present amidst a sea of memories. How could he have been so blind? Even if his decision at Ostagar had been the right one, how could he have allowed everything afterwards to go so wrong? How could he have ever trusted Howe? He had been both arrogant and credulous, prideful and foolish, and what had he accomplished? A civil war that had torn his country apart, when those who'd doubted his account of Ostagar had refused to pledge to him their fealty. The unforgivable crime of allowing foreign slavers to steal Fereldan citizens out of their own homes, to be spirited away to an unknown fate in a land of power-hungry blood mages. The persecution of Moira Cousland, who had been, in all things, his opposite – compassionate where he had been merciless, humble where he had been vain, peaceful where he had been brutal. Worst of all, if he had succeeded in killing her, he would have doomed Ferelden to a certain death at the maw of the darkspawn horde. His homeland, his beloved country, would have become an uninhabitable wasteland, devoured and destroyed, its people and history and culture a rapidly receding memory. He had nearly destroyed everything, and yet, even knowing the extent of his crimes, Moira had loved him anyway. His heart tightened in grief, and his regrets threatened to overwhelm him. Surely he was unworthy to be in the presence of Andraste – let Leliana go in his stead. She was a holy woman, a Chantry sister. She had already proven herself worthy. He was as unworthy as a man could possibly be.
"You have passed the test. Go, in the Light of the Maker." With a slow nod, the Guardian turned aside, revealing a passageway out of the chamber and further into the temple.
Loghain gaped in disbelief, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks of the memories that had just assaulted him.
"Why didn't you warn me?" He rounded on Leliana, rattled. "Did you enjoy witnessing my disgrace?"
"No," she said, nonplussed. "I truly believe that you deserve the chance to do your part to save Moira. We all have regrets, Loghain. You are not alone in confronting the demons of your past." There was something uncompromising in her quiet voice that stilled his agitation. He retreated back into his troubled memories as he followed her through the door and into the temple proper.
The temple had clearly been grand once, though centuries of disuse had crumbled its mighty pillars and dulled the once-gleaming marble statues. Loghain followed Leliana through winding, narrow passages, unable to shake away the guilt that dogged him in the wake of the Guardian's pointed inquisition. And yet, despite his remorse, the peace he'd sensed upon his arrival in the temple soothed and consoled him. They entered a statuary hall containing lifelike representations of Andraste's disciples, and Loghain felt a wave of shame anew as he contemplated the statue of Maferath the Betrayer, who had forsaken his wife, the Maker's Beloved, for the sake of his own jealous and petty heart. Had what he had done to Moira been any better?
Before they exited the statuary hall, Leliana turned to regard him with a solemn expression. "Be wary," she said. "We must enter the next chamber one at a time. What you see in there will be yours alone. I cannot follow until you have passed through the other side. It will not harm you physically, but you may be confronted with a vision that will be unsettling to you." He could tell, from her tone, that she spoke from remembered experience.
Heaving a sigh, Loghain smothered the urge to retort with a sarcastic quip – hadn't he already rounded on her for not warning him about the Guardian? She was only doing as he'd requested, and besides, it was hardly Leliana's fault that he had so many painful memories. If this was the price he had to pay to help Moira, he would gladly spend eternity here, reliving all of his sins for time immemorial. Squaring his shoulders, he entered through the doors, his resolve bolstered by thoughts of Moira.
The sight of King Maric standing before him, as proud and regal as he'd ever been in life, was nearly enough to undo him.
"Hello, old friend," Maric said quietly. "It's been a long time."
Loghain stared incredulously, his heart hammering a raucous tattoo in his chest. "Maric? How…?" He was dead. Maric was dead – wasn't he? Or perhaps he hadn't died at sea, and had only now been able to return, furious that Loghain had abandoned his search. No – this was a vision. That was what Leliana had said. Another spectre come to haunt him, to remind him of his past failures. A heady remorse filled him, and he took a hesitant, apprehensive step towards his old friend, unsure if he should embrace him or fall to his knees and beg forgiveness.
"I'm not really here, if that's what you're asking," Maric replied wryly. "Well, I mean, I'm really here, but I'm not really here. If that makes any sense, which it probably doesn't. Suffice to say that I'm here because you believe we have unresolved business. And I suppose we do, at that." Well – whatever it was certainly sounded like Maric, all right. And it undeniably looked like him, as he'd appeared in his final years – older, wiser, but still every bit the handsome, yellow-haired man of fine features and noble bearing who'd been the heroic liberator of Ferelden. Loghain's innards twisted in shame, and he was reminded ever more forcefully of his own disastrous regency, which had threatened to unravel everything he and Maric had accomplished.
"Maric, I – " How could he even begin to say what needed to be said? Could any apology ever suffice? "I failed you," he finally managed, the words slipping numbly past dry, cracked lips.
Maric arched an aristocratic eyebrow. "In what way?" Loghain knew from long experience that Maric's guileless tone was a ruse – the king had always enjoyed playing the naïf and allowing those who underestimated him to reveal far more than they might have otherwise. Did he want Loghain to enumerate his sins? Where to even begin?
"In what way did I not?" Loghain spluttered. "I took Ferelden to the brink of destruction. I persecuted a good and innocent woman because she was the only person in the entire country who had the power to stop me. I accused her of being an Orlesian agent and sent assassins after her. I allowed Tevinter slavers to trade in Fereldan citizens. I allied myself with a despicable man who murdered and tortured his way to power. What haven't I done?" He bowed his head, unable to look the ghost of his old friend in the eye. "I thought I was finishing the work we'd begun – to keep Ferelden safe from Orlais. Instead, I brought her to the brink of ruin. How can you even stand to look at me?"
"Where is the man who once taught me how to shoulder the burdens of command?" Maric chided. "Were you not always scolding me to stiffen my spine and make the hard decisions that needed to be made? Did you not tell me, over and over, that the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few? Do you no longer believe your own words?"
"I – that was different!" Loghain retorted, dismayed by Maric's refusal to accept his remorse. "There was no doubt we were fighting the right enemy then. I fought the wrong enemy during the Blight, and it nearly cost us everything. All of my hard choices were the wrong ones. How can I defend that?"
"And yet, you still believe that sacrificing my son was the right decision, even today, don't you?" Maric's voice had gone quiet, and he regarded Loghain with keen eyes. "It is the one decision during your regency for which you have offered no apology. So I'll ask you: do you believe that you were right to abandon Cailan to his death?"
Loghain was struck silent, and as he regarded his friend, he saw not only a noble king, but a grieving father. In all of his frustration and anger with Cailan, he'd allowed himself to forget who the boy was: the only son of his best friends. Cailan had always seemed to be a pale shadow of his parents, possessing neither Maric's intelligence nor Rowan's strength. Loghain had attempted countless times to educate the boy about the responsibilities of leadership, only to be disappointed when Cailan proved impervious to instruction. As the years went on and the crown passed from Maric to his son, Cailan proved to be not merely a vainglorious and ineffectual king, but also an unfaithful and inattentive husband to Anora, and Loghain's resentment continued to build. At Ostagar, the pot that had long been simmering at last boiled over. He felt no remorse for abandoning Cailan on the battlefield, not that day or any day since. He saw now that he'd allowed himself to forget who Cailan was. Not the king – that made no difference to him. A stupid king was a liability, and besides, no king's life was worth more than his country's safety. Maric, of all people, had taught him that. No, he did not regret abandoning the king. But he found, as he met Maric's melancholy gaze, that he did, at last, regret abandoning his friends' only son.
"Yes," he said quietly. "If I had to make the decision over again, I would make the same one, even today. But I failed Cailan long before Ostagar, and in doing so, I failed you and Rowan. I should have tried harder with the boy. I should not have abandoned him to his delusions of grandeur. I owed it to Anora, and to you. I failed your son, Maric, and I am sorry."
Maric stared at him for a long time, and he began to wonder whether he had failed this particular test. He knew that this Maric wasn't really Maric, and yet the pain of seeing his friend's face as he confessed his multitude of sins weighed him down with shame.
"If you failed him, then your failure was no greater than mine," Maric said quietly. "Cailan was my son. If you abandoned him, then know that I abandoned him first." After Rowan died. The weighty truth hung heavily in the air, unspoken but silently acknowledged. Maric had retreated deep into himself after the queen's death, throwing himself wholly into statecraft with a passion that Loghain had never truly expected of his oftentimes feckless friend. He'd also become something of an adventurer, haring off on quests near and far, nearly getting himself killed more often than not in the process. All the while, Cailan had remained in Denerim, raised by his nursemaids, and Loghain had not checked in on the boy nearly as often as he should have. Was it any wonder that he'd grown to manhood without ever truly knowing what it meant to be a king?
"That doesn't absolve me of my sins," Loghain said. "We both failed Cailan, but my failure is not mitigated by yours. He was your son, Maric! He was Rowan's son! I loved you both, but I could find no love in my heart for your boy."
"You realize that you've done wrong," Maric said. "The question is: what do you plan to do about it? Feel sorry for yourself for the rest of your life? Forswear any good you might do in the future out of a misguided sense of penance? That's not the Loghain I always knew. The man I knew would pick himself up, dust himself off, and get back to business. You may not believe it, but Ferelden needs you. Your woman needs you." Loghain's blood quickened at Maric's reference to Moira. "You serve neither of them by wallowing in self-pity and recriminations. You made mistakes – many of them, perhaps. You know what you did wrong. Now go and make things right."
Then – just like that – Maric was gone, vanished into the ether, as though he'd never been there at all.
Loghain stared for what seemed like hours at the empty space where Maric had stood, and felt a keen sense of loss all over again. Blinking away the motes of dust that had suddenly collected in his eyes, he was possessed of an urgent need to depart the room, to leave behind the reminders of his dead and gone friend. He strode with single-minded purpose until he pushed through the doors at the far side of the chamber and emerged into a long, narrow corridor, marked by a solitary door at the opposite end. Heaving a shuddering sigh of relief, he leaned against the cool stone wall of the temple, closing his eyes against the onslaught of emotions that assaulted him. He'd thought he'd reckoned with his guilt when he had joined Moira as a Grey Warden, but none of his introspection had prepared him for the raw agony that wracked him as he looked on his failures with clear and open eyes. His chaotic thoughts returned again to his moment of surrender at the Landsmeet. Had he prevailed, he would have had Moira executed without a moment's hesitation. Again he marveled at her remarkable capacity for mercy – to have borne witness to every despicable thing he'd done, and yet still find it in her heart to see in him something more than a monster or a traitor. Angrily, he swiped at his eyes, willing away the violent surge of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. He could live for a hundred ages and never hope to be worthy of her. Maric had told him to go and 'make it right,' and being here, retrieving the ashes of Andraste for Moira, was as good as place as any to start, he supposed.
"I'm so sorry, Moira," he murmured into the darkness. "Maker… I suppose I hardly have any business addressing you, but if anyone deserves your mercy, it is she. Please let these ashes heal her. I will spend the rest of my life becoming the man she saw in me that day in the Landsmeet chamber. I swear it to you."
When Leliana emerged from the chamber some time later – he could not have said if it had been minutes or hours – their eyes met in the darkness, and, by silent agreement, neither spoke of what they had seen.
"Come," she said, voice subdued. "The final test is through the next chamber. Erm… but you aren't going to like it." Her face flushed in the dim light, and Loghain wondered what could possibly cause her such visible discomfort after the wringer the temple had already put them through.
"I've hardly liked any of these 'tests,' Leliana. I cannot imagine what could be worse than having all my sins laid bare by the ghosts of my past," he grumbled, following her to the doors. As she pushed them open, an oppressive wave of heat assaulted him, and he coughed as the dry, hot air seared his lungs.
A massive wall of flame filled the next chamber, thoroughly impeding any forward movement. Loghain arched a wry eyebrow.
"Ah. Yes, I suppose the prospect of immolation is rather unappealing. I gather there must be some secret method we may employ to avoid being burned alive?"
Leliana nodded sagely, and, to Loghain's horror, began to loosen the straps of her armor.
"Maker! What in Andraste's name are you doing?" he exclaimed as she shimmied out of her cuirass, leaving her clad only in her loose undershirt. Loghain hastily averted his eyes. Maker, what if there was some bizarre sexual ritual they needed to complete to obtain the ashes? Was that why Leliana had invited him along?
"It is a test of faith," Leliana replied, utterly unfazed by her own dishabille as she continued removing her armor. "We must free ourselves of any burdens and lay down our arms. The Maker will be our shield, just as it is spoken in the Chant." He heard her pause hesitantly, and imagined she was regarding him with that damnably whimsical expression she sometimes adopted – but he'd never know for certain, as he was studiously refusing to look at her.
"That means you have to get naked, Loghain." Yes, her voice was just full to the brim of whimsy. Damn her, she was actually enjoying this. "Don't worry – I won't peek. Although I doubt Moira would mind," she added playfully.
"She most certainly would!" he harrumphed, and, looking down at his traveling armor with dismay, began to slowly unbuckle the clasps. "At any rate, I most certainly do, so keep your eyes to yourself." He heard a delicate giggle as he finished removing his armor, and, suppressing a snarl of annoyance, focused on keeping his eyes straight ahead. Impertinent Orlesian.
Ready at last, he stared at the wall of flame, which burned as bright and hot as any blaze he'd ever encountered, and his sense of alarm prickled as he approached. Every sense in his body screamed at him to stop, that to progress any further was suicidal madness, until his feet ceased moving of their own volition, unwilling to lead his body into the furnace of certain destruction. He took a deep breath to steel himself, the scorching air blistering his lungs.
Maker, if you have any love for Moira, let me pass through unscathed. It is for her I seek the ashes. If you find me unworthy, then I pray you know that she is far worthier than I. Calling upon every ounce of his willpower, he forced himself forward into the inferno.
Searing heat prompted the panicked realization that his skin should be bubbling, melting away from his bones, but the pain never came. As his feet carried him forward, the heat disappeared, and a soft breeze of cool, pleasant air whispered across his skin. When he finally opened his eyes, closed instinctively against his certain doom, he saw that he stood before a simple altar, behind which stood a graceful statue of Andraste, hands raised in welcoming benediction. Unlike the statues in the hall, this sculpture bore no evidence of the slow passage of ages – the marble was as clean, and the features as precise, as the day it had been carved.
Loghain had never been an overly pious man, but his heart thudded against his ribs as he observed the simple, nondescript urn that graced the altar. He turned behind him – his clothes were only a few paces behind, the wall of flame having disappeared as soon as he'd crossed the threshold. He quickly reassembled his armor, feeling an awkward sense of modesty as he approached the urn with deliberation and reverence.
There they were – the Ashes of Andraste. Loghain held his breath, afraid to exhale, afraid to do anything that might displace or disturb such a sacred relic. The merest pinch would do, Leliana had explained – the power of the ashes was in the source, not the quantity. Hands trembling, he removed the small pouch that he had kept at his belt for exactly this purpose, and, with gloved fingers, removed exactly a pinch from the urn. Quickly he brought his hand to the pouch and tied it as tight as he'd ever secured any knot in his life – it contained the most precious cargo in Thedas.
Releasing his breath in a ragged sigh, he replaced the pouch at his belt and stood for a space, contemplating the ashes. He supposed he should say something, offer up a prayer in this most sacred of holy places, but no words came to mind that could possibly do justice. It was fitting, perhaps – he'd never been much of a man for speeches, anyway. And so he simply bowed his head in gracious acknowledgment of the gift he'd been given.
"Thank you," he said.
A thin shaft of light shone from beneath a heavy stone door discreetly tucked into a corner of the chamber – an exit, one that presumably led to a path back the primary temple, where they could return to Haven. And from there, Denerim.
"Loghain?" Leliana's voice, hushed with reverence, intruded into his reverie. He turned to the Orlesian, and was surprised to find that any annoyance he'd felt for her had melted away, replaced by a warm affection. Her gentle, open faith – in the Maker, in Moira, and even in him – had given him his only chance to save the most precious thing in all the world. He would never forget what she had done.
"I would like to spend a few moments in contemplation of Our Lady, if you do not mind," she said. "I never thought I would be in Her presence again."
After all she had done for him, how could he object if she wanted to spend a few minutes in prayer? "Of course," he said. "I will wait outside. Leliana," he added, fixing her with a poignant look. "Thank you. For everything."
She blushed, as if his praise was unexpected. Well, he reflected ruefully, it probably was.
"Of course." Closing her eyes, she knelt before the altar, and Loghain excused himself, pushing open the portal and stepping out into the blinding glare of the snow-covered Frostbacks.
The chill air was a welcome change from the stuffy environs of the temple, at least for now – he knew he would grow quite weary of it before they descended the mountain, but for the moment, he would enjoy the sun, the wind, the snow, and the beauty of the Maker's creation all around him. His heart, though still weighted with the guilt of his numerous sins, was buoyant with joy and anticipation. All the pain and sorrow would be worth it if it meant Moira would be well again.
I'm coming, my love. Soon.
Leliana knelt before the urn, head bowed and hands clasped. A soul-deep serenity flowed through her like the eddying currents of a gentle, life-giving stream, and she could feel moisture on her face from the tears that escaped unbidden from the corners of her eyes.
She knew bringing Loghain had been the right thing to do. She had hoped that sharing such a profound experience of the Maker's grace would tear down the walls that the taciturn general had spent so long building around his heart. She knew he loved Moira and was loved by her in turn, and in that love, Leliana knew that he could find redemption. She could not help but find a parcel of amusement in his profound remorse, however; how very typical of Loghain to assess his sins and believe them to be the worst of all men's, as though no one else could possibly understand what it was to feel regret or shame.
She certainly understood.
"Holy Andraste," she whispered, opening her eyes to regard the Lady's statute in veneration. "Hear my prayer. Grant me the courage to continue along the path You have shown me. Guide me according to Your will, and let my actions reflect upon Your glory."
Leliana shifted, her knees aching on the hard flagstone of the chamber, and her eyes fluttered closed as she raised her hands in supplication. She opened her lips, words of reverence ready at her lips –
A sudden spike of vertigo sent her swooning, and she collapsed backwards, landing heavily on her back, the abrupt thud of the stone floor driving the air from her lungs. Her eyes shot open in alarm, and she opened her mouth to scream for Loghain, when –
She was still in the Temple, but no longer alone. A woman, held against her will, writhed in midair, held captive by the foul magic of a circle of mages. She wore holy vestments, and though she struggled, there was no violence in her actions, no attempt to harm those who restrained her. Her face was clouded by brightest light, but an undeniable aura of holiness surrounded her. The mages held her suspended above the altar, as if preparing her for sacrifice. The urn was nowhere to be seen.
"Now is the hour of our victory," a sonorous voice intoned from somewhere in the shadows.
"Why are you doing this?" the holy woman cried out to her captors. "You, of all people?"
"Keep the sacrifice still!" the harsh voice demanded. One of the mages turned to regard his master, and the griffon sigil of the Grey Wardens was clearly visible on the pauldrons of his robes.
"Someone help me!" the woman cried, pleading for mercy. A tall figure, swathed in rotting, torn robes, emerged from the shadows, and it wore the face of a nightmare. In its gnarled hand it clutched a orb, pulsing with a sinister green glow. It approached the woman, and the green haze emitted by the orb began to undulate faster, as if feeding on the life essence of the trapped woman. The mages kept her pinned in place, the sacrifice prepared, as the monster drew the orb flush with her chest –
Leliana's eyes flew open as she cried out in alarm, and she heaved a ragged, gasping breath, scrambling to her feet. She had reached for her blade instinctively, but her hand stilled against the sheath when she saw that she was again alone in the temple. The chamber was quiet and peaceful, and Andraste's kindly gaze fell upon her in placid benediction. The urn was there, undisturbed.
Leliana's heart hammered in her chest. Another vision – this one far more real than the last. It had taken place in this chamber, she was certain of it, but what could it mean? Was it a premonition – a revelation of things to come? Or had the Maker sent her a message, leaving it to her to decipher its meaning? A wild anxiety gripped her in stark contrast with the serenity of her surroundings.
A woman – Andraste? – crying out for help. The Grey Warden mages defiling the chamber of the ashes, performing a sinister ritual in service to a dark master – the monstrous figure in robes. Leliana's head spun. Did it mean the Grey Wardens were not to be trusted? The ashes were gone, in her vision – was that why she'd seen the Wardens harming the holy woman? Did they intend to destroy the ashes, and with them, Andraste? But why? Why would the Grey Wardens desecrate a holy place?
Leliana's mind reeled with the implications of what she had seen. She was not a fool – she knew that no one, perhaps not even Moira, truly believed she'd had a vision in Lothering, but she had. She was not mad, or delusional, no matter what anyone else thought. The Maker had sent her a sign, and she had listened. She took a steadying breath and allowed the tranquility of the chamber to soothe her troubled heart. Now, the Maker had entrusted her with another vision, and it was up to her to respond – just as she had done in Lothering.
She knew, then, what she had to do.