A/N: Goodness, this chapter ended up a doozy! It's a bit longer than previous chapters, but I couldn't find a good place to break it in two, so you get the whole thing. I wanted to finish up this chapter before November, because I am going to attempt (attempt being the key word) to write 50,000 words for this story to fulfill the NaNoWriMo challenge. November's shaping up to be a busy month, so we'll see, but if nothing else, hopefully I'll get a couple of chapters out to you before it's over. As always, your reviews, favorites, and follows are greatly appreciated!
"I don't understand why we're still stuck here in this unbearable little room," Urthemiel pouted, crossing its arms in petulant defiance as it glowered sullenly at Moira. Today, it wore Wynne's face. "I've never had so much trouble with a vessel before. You must be quite the stubborn one to resist for so long. It's admirable, if infuriating."
Moira squeezed her eyes shut tight, wishing for the thousandth time that she had just died as she was meant to have when she'd delivered the final blow. In a way, she shared Urthemiel's frustration: they seemed irretrievably trapped in this small room together, with no discernible way out. There were no doors or windows – she had explored every nook and cranny to no avail. She had even tried attacking the demon directly, her fists raining down blows on Zevran's borrowed face, but it had only laughed at her, laughed and laughed until she'd unleashed a primal scream of rage and shoved it away as hard as she could. She'd wanted to die at that moment, and every moment since. There could be no worse hell than being trapped in her own head with only the Archdemon for company for the rest of eternity.
Often, her thoughts wandered to Loghain. He was surely well – he'd been injured, but conscious, when she'd left him there on the ramparts of Fort Drakon. How long had it been since the final battle? Had he recovered? Did he still think of her? She hoped, with every fiber of her being, that nothing had happened to him since the battle. She knew that he still had many enemies, many survivors of the Blight who would blame him for the poor decisions he'd made during his regency and seek justice. What if they had demanded punishment, even after the Landsmeet? What if Anora had not consolidated enough power to resist them? What if –
No. She would not allow herself to think such things. He was fine – he had to be. He was a strong man, a warrior, and he did not need her to protect him. She hoped that he had not fallen victim to the political chaos in the aftermath of the Blight, and she hoped that he still spared a thought for her every now and then, even if she would never see him again.
The thought filled her with sorrow. Out of all the considerable torments of sharing an eternity with the Archdemon, the prospect of never seeing the man she loved again was among the worst. If her soul had been obliterated by the final blow as she'd expected, at least she would simply be gone. A terrible fate, to be sure, but one that prohibited loneliness. Perhaps the Wardens were wrong about the fates of their comrades who slew Archdemons. Perhaps they'd been too optimistic.
"Hello?" 'Wynne' snapped her fingers in Moira's direction. "Ugh, you've retreated into one of those fugue states again, staring at the wall. It's so boring when you're like that. This isn't fun for me either, you know. One moment I was on top of the world, leading my army to victory, and the next, I'm trapped in this tiny little bedroom with the dullest Grey Warden history has ever known. You could at least attempt to hold up your end of the conversation."
The other worst thing about her unending purgatory: she happened to be stuck with what had to be the Maker-forsaken chattiest Old God in the entire cursed pantheon.
Something it said, however, had piqued her interest. She loathed indulging the monster, but she had to admit that ignoring it had hardly been effective thus far. "What do you know about the Grey Wardens? Weren't you buried in the Deep Roads until rather recently?" She glared at it from across the room.
It smiled in response, twisting Wynne's beatific features into a wry mockery of their owner's benevolence. "Oh, you silly thing. You think we don't know as much about you as you do about us? Why do you think I sent all my minions after you time after time, if I did not understand the nature of the threat you posed? I admit, I rather didn't think your victory over me would lead to being trapped in this odd little dream. I'd much rather you'd just killed me and been done with it."
Moira scoffed, hugging her arms around her knees where she sat, curled up tight, on the bed.
"Well, that makes two of us, then." So the Archdemon didn't know any more than she did about why the final blow had not killed either of them. She recalled it saying something about being 'diminished,' upon their arrival in this strange place, but her horror at being trapped in a state of altered consciousness with the Archdemon had been so complete that she hadn't really taken the time to reflect on what that might actually mean. Had she only managed to injure the Archdemon, and not kill it entirely? Did that mean that the Blight wasn't truly over? It had just said something about having trouble with a 'vessel.' Was it still trying to possess her, but was just too weak – hence why they were trapped in this place?
"Tell me," she demanded. "What are you – truly? What were you before the Blight took you?"
The demon wearing Wynne's face smiled. Coming from Wynne, the expression would have been kindly, grandmotherly; but knowing that Urthemiel lurked beneath the mask lent a layer of menace to the otherwise benign grin.
"Well, now," it said, steepling Wynne's fingers. "That is quite the question indeed. How to begin?"
Moira unfurled herself, stretching as her interest piqued in spite of everything. She hated this thing – hated what it had been, and what it continued to be – but she found herself curious to hear what the demon had to say for itself about the history of the Blight. She could almost, in this moment, understand Morrigan's impulse to spare the Old God's soul, though she still found the notion dangerous and full of folly. But since she had no way out of her purgatory, might she not discover the ancient secrets that the marsh witch had sought?
She opened her mouth, ready to ask another question, when a strange tugging sensation gripped at her insides, as though an invisible fist were attempting to pull her innards out through her skin. It was not painful, exactly, but it was certainly not comfortable, either; it was almost as if she were being unraveled, as though a string was being pulled slowly but steadily from her body. She looked down in alarm, and at first saw nothing; but then she spotted a dark, coiling tendril snaking out of her body, leeching from her skin and curling around her like a miasma of smoke. It smelled and felt wrong; noxious, sinister, evil. She gasped in alarm as the tugging sensation intensified, and the black wisps continued to flow from her, seeping from her pores. A whispered song filled the air around her, its dark melody both enchanting and malevolent. She could smell and taste the blackness, and it bore the flavor of rotten blood and the scent of death.
She stared in horror at the gathering tendrils, but just as the feeling of being pulled apart from within had nearly become unbearable, she felt a sharp pang of separation, as of a thread tearing loose, and the black smoke ripped free from her body, coalescing in a sinister haze just above her head.
"What is happening?" Wynne's voice was shrill and carried an unmistakable tone of alarm. "What is this?"
Moira gasped raggedly as she once again became aware of her body, trembling wildly in the wake of the strange assault. She felt different, changed; her body and soul felt purer, as though the black miasma had been a slow-acting venom drawn from her blood. It hovered motionless and heavy in the air for a moment, and then began to dissipate.
"No!" Wynne's voice cried out in alarm, and Moira looked up to see the mage – no, the demon – clawing desperately at its face, eyes stricken with terror and pain. "How can this be happening –I survived the Warden's blow! I survived – no!" A blinding white light filled the room, and Moira had to close her eyes against the glare.
The light surrounded her, suffusing her with warmth. The black tendrils had been uncomfortable as they'd unspooled from her body, like she was being pulled apart at the seams; but now she felt remade, her wounds mended, her very soul surrounded by a gentle and comforting embrace. It was the most peaceful sensation she'd ever experienced; as though she were reaching out to take the hand of the Maker.
"No! No!"
The Archdemon's screams grew distant and hollow, and soon Moira could no longer hear them through the aura of serenity that surrounded her. She felt full of grace, brimming over like a vase overflowing with cool, clear water. She opened her eyes, and could see only that the black tendrils were gone, replaced by the brightest light –
Her eyes snapped open, and she blinked furiously, the afterimage of the intense radiance casting a green-gold pall across her vision. She took a deep, shuddering breath, as if she'd been drowning and had just broken above the waves. She felt her heart hammering against her ribs as the afterglow of the light faded and her eyes focused on the pattern above her. A rich gold and burgundy pattern, in the traditional Fereldan style. Where –
"Moira."
A familiar voice cut through her confusion, and then, slowly advancing into her field of vision was the face of the man she'd feared she would never see again, his blue eyes burning with undisguised emotion, his long black hair falling down about his shoulders, save for two neat little braids tied at his temples.
"Loghain?" Her lover's name came out in a cracked whisper, her voice rusty from disuse. She blinked, her eyes still unused to the dim light in the room – was this real? Or another of the Archdemon's tricks? Was she alive – or was Loghain dead, and this was somewhere else?
Her muddled thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Loghain embraced her, wrapping her in his arms and squeezing her so tight she thought she might burst. "Oh, Maker, Moira," he whispered, voice rough with emotion. "I feared you were lost to me forever." He squeezed her again, and the pressure of his arms tightening around her, the feel of his skin, the smell of his hair – it was all too real. Which meant that this was real, and she was alive, and – her heart leapt in sudden joy – so was Loghain.
"Loghain," she whispered fiercely, burying her face into his neck. Being in his arms was like coming home, and her body tensed and trembled, her soul filled to bursting with sublime bliss. She pulled away from his embrace and gazed deep into his pale blue eyes. She felt a river of hot moisture slide down her cheeks and knew she was weeping, but she did not care. She was alive, and Loghain was here, with her.
"Truly the Maker is gracious," he breathed, cupping her face gently in his large hands. A callused thumb moved across her cheek and brushed away an errant tear.
"I don't know what happened," she whispered, her hand moving to cover his as he caressed her face. "I didn't think I'd survive the final blow. And then… it was awful, that thing was with me! It is dead, isn't it? The Archdemon is dead?"
He closed his eyes and leaned in until his forehead rested against hers, the simple intimacy of the act reassuring her more than his words could do. "Yes, it is dead. The Blight is over." His hands slipped into her thick hair, fingers tangling into the waves. "When I saw you take the final blow, I thought you were – " His voice cracked, and he took a shuddering breath. "Even after, when I knew you'd survived, I wasn't certain you'd ever wake." His voice trailed off, and she wrapped her arms around the broad expanse of his back, pulling him close and reveling in the feel of his strong, masculine body pressed against her. What did he mean, he wasn't certain she'd ever wake?
"What happened to me?" she whispered, her face resting against the hard plane of his chest. "The last thing I remember, I was striking the Archdemon with my blade." She looked up at him with a worried expression. "How long has it been? Since the battle?"
Loghain's eyes met hers, his face creased with affection and concern. "Seven weeks," he said. "You're in the royal palace at Denerim. The city has begun to rebuild. It will take time, but time is a luxury Ferelden has, thanks to you."
Seven weeks. She'd been trapped in her own head with the bloody Archdemon for seven Maker-damned weeks. "It was with me," she said, suppressing a shiver. "Or at least, a part of it was. Something of the Archdemon survived the final blow. Perhaps that's why I didn't die? I think it's gone now, though. There was a bright light, and I felt…" Her voice trailed off, as she tried to find the words to describe the sublime sense of peace she'd felt when the light had come and purged the blackness from her body and killed the Archdemon. "I felt like I was being cleansed. Whatever it was killed the Archdemon, and it did something to me, too. I feel different, but I can't say how."
Loghain furrowed his brow. "Different? In what way? Are you well?"
"Yes." She tried to recall the sensation of the light, the strange tugging of the black tendrils seeping from her body. "I feel better than I've felt since…."
A sudden, calamitous thought seized her. "Loghain, can you feel me?"
"Feel you? Of course I can," he frowned.
"No," she said urgently. "In the taint. Can you feel me through the taint?" She concentrated her senses, searching for the familiar buzzing in her blood, the sensation of his life source near her, bound to her through their shared corruption. She could feel her heart hammering, hear her blood pounding through her ears, but she could not focus, could not still the chaotic thoughts that tumbled through her mind. Perhaps she was just disoriented from her long, strange slumber –
"No." His voice was quietly decisive. "I can't sense anything." His eyes widened. "Maker, is it possible?"
"Is what possible?" She dared not voice the hope that dangled just out of reach. "Loghain, what happened? The white light – it was what awakened me, wasn't it?"
"It was all Leliana's idea," he said. There was a strange gleam in his eyes. "She told me of how you cured Arl Eamon from a similar living death. She asked me to accompany her to Haven, and we retrieved the Sacred Ashes of Andraste for you." An abashed look crossed his features. "I admit I was skeptical that such a legend could be true, but I have never been so happy to be wrong."
"The ashes?" Moira breathed. The Sacred Ashes of Andraste. She recalled the feeling of serenity that had washed over her as the light gathered her in its embrace, purging the darkness from her spirit and extinguishing the presence of the Archdemon. Had she actually felt Andraste's grace in that moment?
"As I said, it was Leliana's idea," Loghain insisted. "I cannot accept any credit. It was her presence of mind and her steadfast faith that saved you, Moira. Her kindness has shamed me – she insisted I accompany her, even though I'd offered her little more than spite since making her acquaintance, because she knew how much you mean to me." Moved beyond words, she took his hand and squeezed, not trusting herself to speak.
"Then where is Leliana, that I may thank her?" She did not trust herself to speak to him of her feelings for him, not without losing her already fragile hold over her emotions.
"She will return soon," he said enigmatically. His hand gripped hers tightly, and she placed her other hand atop his, stroking the rough skin with intent fingers. It felt so good, so right to feel him again, and her blood pounded through her veins as her body, though still exhausted and disoriented, began to respond to his proximity. Her breath quickened as she continued to caress his hand, and abruptly the realization that she could not feel him through the taint intruded again into her consciousness. Her mind again attempted to push away the ramifications of such a thought, but the persistent notion would not be silenced so quickly this time.
"Loghain," she breathed, daring to look into his eyes. "What if the ashes…"
A knock on the door silenced her, and, with a soft squeeze of her hands, Loghain rose from the bed. "That ought to be Leliana now," he said. "And I believe she's brought someone you'll be very pleased to see."
Moira frowned. "Brought someone? I don't understand –"
Loghain opened the door, and there stood Leliana, her face slowly dawning with elation.
"Moira! Maker be praised!" The red haired bard dashed into the room, and Moira's heart swelled with love and gratitude for her friend. She attempted to rise from the bed, but her head, unaccustomed to gravity after so long, swooned, and she collapsed heavily back down on the mattress with a grunt. Leliana laughed, moving to the bed and wrapping Moira in a tight embrace. Moira hugged Leliana tight, a tear slipping from her eye. When Leliana pulled away, Moira saw that she too had tears in her eyes.
"Thank you," Moira whispered. "For everything. Loghain told me what you did."
"It was my privilege," Leliana said, her voice reverent. "For weeks we wondered if you would wake again, but then the Maker showed me how I might be able to help you. And He was right."
A shadow hovered at the door, and Moira recalled Loghain mentioning that Leliana had brought 'someone she would be very pleased to see.' She couldn't imagine who it might be – Anora? Wynne? The door pushed open further, and Leliana stepped away from the bed, giving Moira a clear view.
Her brother stood in the door, his hand resting on the jamb, look of disbelieving joy spreading across his face.
"Fergus," she breathed. How could this be – Fergus was dead! Wasn't he? "How –" But the rest of her question was silenced as her brother rushed to her, his expression wild and joyful. He wrapped her in his arms, and a sob choked from her throat as she clung to her dear, beloved brother, whom she'd long thought dead, now miraculously returned to her.
"Moira," he murmured into her hair, his voice tight with emotion. "I knew you'd be all right. I tried to tell them all that you'd be all right. I know how tough you are, little pup. I knew you'd come back to us." He pulled back to look at her, and she stared wildly into the face of the brother she never thought she'd see again.
He looked changed from when she had last seen him that night at Highever – paler, gaunt, his eyes lined with a crow's nest of creases that shouldn't have graced his face for another decade or more. But he was definitely, indisputably Fergus.
"Where have you been? I wanted to look for you but –" She frowned in remembrance of Alistair and Morrigan's discouragement, their refusal to allow her to search for Fergus in the aftermath of the massacre at Highever. The massacre – Maker, did he know? Surely by now, he did, but what a cruel shock it must have been. Moira felt the familiar twisting of grief and fury in her belly as she thought of what Howe had done to her family.
"Oh, Fergus, that night at Highever – Oren and Oriana! By the time I realized Howe had betrayed us it was too late – I'm so sorry – I wish I had –"
"Hush, Moira." He squeezed her hand in his, and he looked at her, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Don't you dare blame yourself." He sighed heavily, rubbing his free hand roughly across his eyes, and when he looked at her again, his expression was full of fierce pride. "You killed that rat bastard and avenged our family. His name has been disgraced and his lands and title stripped from his heirs, but…" He sighed again. "Then I think of my little Oren, and it hardly seems enough."
"I know," she said quietly. They sat together for a space in silence and shared grief, Leliana and Loghain gracefully making themselves discreet in the opposite corner of the room. "I wish so much I could have saved them, but by the time I realized we were betrayed, it was too late." She choked back fresh tears as she recalled her discovery of the butchered corpses of her sister-in-law and her little nephew, murdered in their beds. Howe's vicious barbarians must have slain them first, knowing they were defenseless. A hot wellspring of rage rose within her, and she tamped it down with considerable effort. Poor Fergus – how he must have felt when he'd realized what had happened to his family.
"How did you escape?" she asked him, to direct the conversation away from the horrible fates of Oriana and Oren as much as to satisfy her own burning curiosity.
"Through sheer luck, or the grace of the Maker. Take your pick," Fergus said grimly. "My company of knights was ambushed by Howe's men just before we reached Ostagar. I took an arrow in the back, and Howe's pigs must have thought me dead. I was rescued by a Chasind scout shortly after the battle. I was the only survivor," he said bitterly. "He brought me back to his clan, and I was nursed back to health by the tribe's healer. I returned to Denerim in time to hear that you were leading the army against the darkspawn attack." He sighed. "I suppose I'm going to have to go to Highever soon, to start rebuilding what Howe destroyed. There's always a place for you there, you know that."
"I know." She embraced her brother again, but this time, as she held him, her eyes settled on Loghain, who, along with Leliana, was busy trying to seem as inconspicuous as possible. Where was her place, now? What happened after the Blight? It was a question to which she had given no thought whatsoever – by the time the end actually seemed in sight, she had resigned herself to the Wardens' ultimate sacrifice. But here she was, alive and well, or so it seemed – and so was Loghain. What did the future hold for them now?
It was a question she couldn't begin to wrap her mind around just yet. There was still so much she didn't know, still so much she needed to resolve – not least of which was the hope that lurked at the back of her mind after her awakening. She almost did not dare to even form the thought, as though voicing it, even silently within the private confines of her own mind, would dispel the illusion. But as she looked at Loghain, she felt herself instinctively reaching out for him, waiting to feel his reassuring presence through the taint – but she was answered only with silence. Her heart skipped a beat as she finally allowed her mind to form the thought that had nagged at her since her strange experience with the poisonous black tendrils and the white soothing light.
Had Andraste's ashes cured her of the taint?
And – if, Maker be praised, that was true – could they cure Loghain, too?
Her thoughts were interrupted by an urgent rapping at the door. Loghain's brows creased into a surly frown, and he shot an apologetic look at Moira as he approached the door, his face thunderous. Apparently this visitor was unexpected.
Loghain cracked the portal open a mere inch and scowled at the sliver of light that spilled from the corridor beyond.
"This is not a good time," he barked. "Whoever you are, you can come back later. Lady Cousland is not ready to entertain visitors."
"That may be," an familiar, haughty voice replied from the other side. "And I assure you that I shall not unduly trouble Lady Cousland's rest. But the Queen of Ferelden will not be kept from any part of her own castle, not even by her well-meaning but overprotective father."
Face flushing, Loghain retreated from the door, and Anora proceeded into the room as if no interruption had occurred. An expression of surprise and relief graced her countenance upon seeing Moira awake and alert.
"Lady Moira. It is truly wonderful to see you awake and well." Anora's voice was warm with genuine pleasure, but Moira could see that a tension rested on the queen's features. "At least one good thing has come of this day." She turned to her father, her smile dissipating, and a creeping apprehension stole into Moira's gut.
"I am very sorry to interrupt your reunion so soon," Anora said, her voice grave. "But I am afraid this cannot wait." Loghain's expression was confused and irritated in equal measure, and Moira could see that he knew nothing about this urgent business of Anora's. Whatever it was, it sounded like nothing good.
"What's going on?" she said.
"Please, rest, Lady Cousland," Anora insisted. "You are in no condition to worry about Denerim politics at the moment. The situation is under control, but unfortunately, I must claim the presence of my father for the time being. And you as well, Teyrn Fergus."
Moira looked from her brother to Loghain in bewilderment. "What exactly is going on? Is Loghain all right?"
Loghain, for his part, looked equally baffled. "What is the meaning of this, daughter? I've only just returned to Denerim not two hours ago. Surely any political nonsense can wait."
"I am afraid it cannot," Anora said apologetically. "I tried my best to discourage him, but Arl Eamon managed to gather a plurality of the nobles of the Landsmeet as soon as his agents informed him of your return to the city. He has convened a tribunal, against my protests, in which your fitness to remain as Teyrn of Gwaren will be adjudicated by your peers. He has determined that the tribunal will begin at once."
"What?" Moira exclaimed in alarm. "This is outrageous! The Landsmeet gave me the authority to accept Loghain into the Grey Wardens – it has no right to mete out more punishment after the fact! This is an injustice!" Loghain said nothing, but a brooding, thunderous expression clouded his face, and his hand slowly balled into a tightly clenched fist at his side
"Eamon dares greatly to so boldly contravene your authority, Your Majesty," Moira continued. "Could you not put an end to this? Royal prerogative – "
"Would be seen as a tyrannical exercise in nepotism if I were to declare the authority of a tribunal backed by a plurality of the nobility null and void," Anora finished, her voice tight with controlled anger. "Arl Eamon is a canny politician, and he knows he has backed me into a corner. I can, of course, dissolve the tribunal with a mere word, but it would come at considerable cost. I would be seen as a daughter first and a queen second, a brat using her newfound authority to manipulate the levers of power for the advancement of her unpopular father. Eamon knows I have few enough trustworthy allies, and my father fewer. He knows that if I am to maintain a reputation as a queen invested in the well-being of all Ferelden, I must not be seen to contradict the wishes of the majority. As much as I might will it otherwise, my hands are tied."
"And he waited until any dissenting voices were otherwise disposed," Fergus observed. "I have been in the palace all day, and have received no word of this tribunal. Doubtless the arl expected me to be too busy attending to my sister." He looked carefully at Moira. "And, most likely, he did not expect you to be awake at all. He didn't seem overly convinced of your survival, the last time I spoke with him."
A solid core of hot anger coalesced within Moira's chest. Eamon had been markedly cool to her ever since the Landsmeet, when she had saved Loghain's life and thwarted his ploy to depose Anora in favor of Alistair. She supposed he would have no love lost for Loghain – and perhaps understandably so, given all that had passed between them. But for him to deliberately engineer a drumhead 'trial' to exact further revenge against Loghain knowing that Loghain's supporters would be outnumbered or indisposed –
"I'm going." Moira seethed with fury, and she abruptly stood from the bed. A wave of dizziness seized her, and she tottered against the bed, grabbing the edge to keep herself from falling. Fergus was at her side at once, his expression stern.
"Absolutely not," he said firmly. "Moira, I know you –" He cut himself off, casting a half-glance at Loghain behind his shoulder. "I know you know Loghain better than I do," he continued, and Moira heard a strange tension in her brother's voice. "And I don't approve of Arl Eamon manipulating the queen like this. But you're in no shape to attend a riotous political debate right now. Maker's breath, you just woke up from a two-month coma!"
"Your brother is right." Loghain's voice was quiet but intense, and, for the first time since Fergus's arrival, they shared a poignant look. She could see the frustration and anger in his eyes, but she could also see his concern for her, a concern that overrode whatever resentment he felt about Eamon's machinations. "You need to rest, Moira. I can and will handle whatever Arl Eamon wants to throw at me."
"I'm fine," she said irritably, waving off Fergus's steadying hand as she attempted to make her way gingerly towards the door. "And I'd appreciate not being treated like a helpless invalid. In case you've all forgotten, I'm a noble too, and apparently all of Ferelden is in my debt. I'd like to remind them of that debt right now." She slowly made her way across the room, her footing unsteady but surer with each step. She stopped when she reached Anora, and – willing herself not to lose her balance – bowed her head in an awkward but dignified royal curtsy.
"Your Majesty, I'd like to request your permission to attend the tribunal regarding the Teyrn of Gwaren's title and possession," she said, making direct eye contact with the queen. Anora's expression, as usual, remained composed, but her eyes glittered with respect, admiration, and not a small amount of bemusement.
"Permission granted, Lady Cousland," Anora responded. "I am certain your brother would be happy to escort you to the tribunal in the privy council chamber. I have no doubt that the assembled nobles will be delighted to offer their profound gratitude for your heroism during the Blight."
"Then let's get this over with," Loghain grumbled. He cast one concerned look back at Moira before Anora gently shepherded him from the room. As Moira prepared to follow, Fergus's arm linked through hers, she spied Leliana, who stood still in the corner, discreet and unnoticed in the wake of the political drama.
"Leliana, I'm sorry –"
"Do not apologize," Leliana said with a smile. "Duty calls. I understand. We will speak soon."
Moira sagged against Fergus as they made their way down the corridor in Loghain and Anora's wake, grateful for her brother's arm even though she could hardly admit it after her little display of stubborn independence in the room. The privy council chamber seemed so far away, but Moira knew, as they traversed the labyrinthine corridors of the palace, that her fatigue was merely catching up with her. She hoped that she would not end up proving Fergus and Loghain right – she knew she needed rest, but she would be damned if she allowed Arl Eamon and his cronies to run roughshod over Loghain without her intervention.
As they prepared to turn a corner, a gentle pressure at her elbow stilled her, and Moira turned to find Fergus regarding her intently.
"What is it?" She frowned. "Fergus, I know I just woke up, but I can do this, I promise –"
"That's not it." Fergus fixed her with a solemn expression. "Moira, you have to understand that all I know of the situation during the Blight is what I heard after I returned to Denerim. And quite frankly, none of it casts Loghain in a very good light." He pursed his lips, as if considering his words. "It's clear that there's some sort of… affection, or bond, between you two. But when I look at him, all I see is the man who apparently gave Rendon Howe free reign to usurp our family's title and lands. I don't understand how you can overlook that."
Moira looked at her brother, a cold, clammy fist of fear closing around her heart. "Fergus, it's – it's not that simple," she floundered. Maker, she hadn't even realized how Loghain must seem to Fergus, who hadn't been there for the Landsmeet, who hadn't spent the following two months traveling with him and coming to understand what had motivated him.
"I'm sure it's not," Fergus responded patiently. "And I want you to know that I trust you, and I trust your judgment. If you say that Loghain wasn't responsible for what happened to our family, then I'll believe you. But I need to know now that he had nothing to do with Howe's treachery, especially if you want me to vote against Eamon." Fergus locked his gaze with hers, and she saw a steely resolve in her eyes that reminded her painfully of their father.
Moira took a deep breath as she returned Fergus's gaze, willing all of her love and trust for Loghain to shine through.
"Fergus, I believe with all of my heart that Loghain truly thought he was doing the best thing he could for Ferelden," she said. "You weren't at Ostagar, but the battle was a shambles from the beginning. His retreat saved the rest of the army. He made a terrible error in judgment when he allied with Howe, but he was desperate for allies, and Howe was a deceitful snake. He certainly fooled us when we threw open the gates of Highever to his army, and he fooled Loghain just the same. He told Loghain that Father was an Orlesian conspirator, and that the Grey Wardens were in league with Empress Celene. Loghain was too blinded by his hatred of Orlais, and that hatred made him vulnerable to Howe's lies." She noticed no change in Fergus's expression, and hoped desperately that she was reaching him. "He made mistakes, many of them awful, but he is not a monster. I spared him at the Landsmeet for a reason, and believe me when I say that being a Grey Warden is punishment enough." Moira was balanced on tenterhooks, waiting for Fergus's reaction. She held his gaze for what seemed like several long minutes before, at last, he closed his eyes, releasing his breath in a soft sigh.
"All right," he said. "I'm not going to pretend that I trust him, but I trust you. If you say that he had nothing to do with what happened to our family, then I believe you."
Moira released a breath she hadn't even known she'd held, and she sagged against Fergus in relief. "Thank you," she whispered. She knew it would take some time for Fergus to accept how she felt for Loghain – and she was thankful that she didn't have to have that conversation right now – but this was a start.
"Anything for you, little pup," he said, taking her arm in his again. "Now let's go get this settled so you can get some rest."
Loghain simmered with rage as he stalked behind Anora towards the privy council chambers. That conniving snake Eamon –he no doubt intended to strike a blow against Anora's influence while also ridding himself of a troublesome enemy and freeing up the lands and title of a teyrnir to boot. Loghain assumed he already had a candidate in mind to fill the vacancy – his brother, most likely. Loghain had no real objection to Bann Teagan, but it would be just like Eamon to ensure that, if he couldn't control the throne, he would at least position himself to become the indisputable power-broker amongst the Landsmeet. To make matters worse, the arl had managed to interrupt his reunion with Moira. The last thing she needed to worry about was political bullshit, but here they were – she'd been awake not half an hour, and already they'd been pulled apart by forces beyond their control. His heart clenched in emotion as he remembered her fiery insistence on defending his honor at the tribunal. Truly, he did not know what he'd ever done to earn her affection or her loyalty. He knew he certainly didn't deserve it.
He followed Anora into the chamber to discover that Arl Eamon had apparently not deigned to wait on the guest of honor before convening the hearing. A collection of prominent banns and arls sat around the long table in the center of the room engaged in heated debate, which quieted as soon as Anora pushed open the council chamber doors and entered the room. The chatter silenced as the nobility rose to their feet as one, bowing respectfully to their queen.
Loghain suppressed a scoff of derision. Where was their deference when Eamon connived to hold this farce of a proceeding behind Anora's back?
"Your Majesty. You grace us with your presence. I thank you for bringing Teyrn Loghain to this hearing and sparing me a courier. Now we may begin." Eamon swept into a courtly bow, it took every ounce of Loghain's willpower not to snort out loud.
"Arl Eamon. Lords and Ladies," Anora nodded politely to her assembled vassals. "It appears to me as though you've already begun. It is most irregular to convene a tribunal impinging on the rights and duties of a teyrn of Ferelden without ensuring that said teyrn is present before beginning the debate." Anora made a show of searching the faces at the table before turning to Eamon with a puzzled expression. "I do not see Teyrn Fergus Cousland among those present. I find it difficult to imagine how any sort of consensus regarding the holdings of the teyrnir of Gwaren could be reached without consulting either of Ferelden's teyrns or its queen."
"Your Majesty." Eamon bowed again. "I dispatched a servant to send Teyrn Cousland his summons once the final meeting time had been arranged, but with strict instructions not to interrupt the teyrn if he was attending to his sister. I would not wish to interfere with the teyrn's responsibility to his family, especially since the treachery at Highever by Teyrn Loghain's ally Rendon Howe has ensured that he has so little family left."
"I had nothing to do with Howe's massacre of the Couslands! How dare you use the tragedy at Highever to excuse your political maneuverings!" Loghain shot back, unable to hold his tongue.
"How ironic. I seem to recall that you shamelessly exploited the tragedy at Ostagar to justify your takeover of the throne –a tragedy you set in motion, no less. You reaped no little benefit from Howe's takeover of the teyrnir of Highever as well, yet now you would purport to defend the Cousland family honor – after spending a good deal of the Blight trying your damndest to kill Moira Cousland," Eamon thundered righteously, and a good number of heads around the table nodded in agreement. Beneath his seething anger, Loghain felt a hot wellspring of shame bubble through his chest. Eamon was engaging in political theater, but nothing he'd said was wrong. Loghain was reminded of the memories the Guardian of the Ashes had forced him to relive, all of his mistakes borne of arrogance and hatred, and once again, he felt his dishonor keenly.
"A grievous mistake for which she conscripted me into the Grey Wardens," he said. "I have already undertaken my penance, Eamon. As a Grey Warden I fought beside Moira Cousland, who nearly sacrificed her life to save Ferelden. It is to her and to Ferelden I owe my allegiance, my atonement, and my apology. I will fulfill whatever duty she asks of me, but I will not allow you to subvert the Queen's authority with this illegitimate tribunal. My fate was decided at the Landsmeet, and if you have any problems with Moira Cousland's judgment, you may take them up with her."
"That is all well and good, but in the meantime, a teyrnir of Ferelden lies rudderless and adrift," Eamon rejoined. "It is not proper for so many freeholders to labor tirelessly to rebuild their lands without knowing to whom they owe fealty. There is peace in certainty, Teyrn Loghain, and certainty is what the teyrnir of Gwaren currently lacks. As a Grey Warden condemned by the Landsmeet for your crimes, it is not fitting that you should continue to hold the title of Teyrn of Gwaren. The teyrnir requires a noble governor who knows well the burdens and responsibilities of rulership. Any one of my peers present would be qualified." Eamon looked out sagely to survey his fellow aristocrats, and Loghain felt a surge of resentment – the arl was not subtle in alluding to Loghain's common birth.
"My Lord, I beg your pardon, but it was my belief that we would hold a vote on Teyrn Loghain's fitness to retain his title, after hearing his testimony and any other evidence." The protest came from a tall, handsome bann who Loghain recognized as Jevrin Barris of Crestwood.
"Of course," Eamon replied smoothly. "But the assembled tribunal should note for the record that the Landsmeet found Teyrn Loghain unfit to remain as regent. I would propose that all evidence of his wrongdoing thus uncovered should be considered as evident and true for the purposes of this proceeding. I would not wish to waste any more of my colleagues' time than is necessary."
"You've already wasted more than enough of everyone's time, Eamon." The doors banged open with a flourish, and Loghain's heart quickened as he turned to behold Moira striding in to the chamber, flanked by her grim faced brother. A chorus of gasps filled the room as the assembled lords and ladies realized they were in the presence of the hero who had ended the Blight.
"The Hero of Ferelden!" Bann Alfstanna rose to her feet, placing her arm over her chest in solemn salute. Most of the other nobles quickly followed suit, and soon the whole room stood, offering their tribute to a visibly self-conscious Moira.
"She's alive!"
"I told you she'd pull through – she's Bryce and Eleanor Cousland's daughter, she's tougher than any darkspawn!"
"Maker be praised!"
Loghain could not take his eyes from Moira. She was as beautiful as ever, hair pulled back in a simple braid, dressed casually in a tunic and breeches – hardly the clothes one would wear to a noble gathering, and yet she had earned the uncontested respect of every man and woman in the room. She was remarkable, and he could hardly believe that she had come here for him.
Moira graced the gathering with a wan, tired smile in the face of the effusive praise. "Thank you," she replied, her voice still weak from her long slumber. "In truth, I did not expect to survive my encounter with the Archdemon during the battle at Fort Drakon. That I am here at all is thanks to the Maker's grace." In more ways than one, Loghain thought as the crowd nodded sagely. "In fact, if it were not for the efforts and faith of this man here –" she gestured now at him – "I would still lie in a deathlike slumber. Loghain may have been my enemy once, but I can assure you that he is no longer. He is a man of bravery and honor, a man who swore to defend Ferelden with his very life, who has now been called here to endure the recriminations of those who enjoy the fruits of his sacrifice." Her gaze fixed steadily on Arl Eamon, who appeared scandalized and affronted in equal measure.
"Loghain's bravery is not in dispute, Lady Cousland," Arl Eamon said tightly. "And while we are all surely grateful for his efforts at your side during the Blight and his dedication to restoring your health, none of that is germane to his fitness to remain as the Teyrn of Gwaren. He is a Grey Warden now, by your prerogative, my lady. As a Warden, he cannot be expected to dedicate his energy to administering a teyrnir. Surely you can agree that the duties of the Grey Wardens must come before any other concerns."
Moira's jaw tightened, and Loghain knew at once that Eamon had made a fatal error in appealing to Moira's dedication to the Wardens. "'The duties of the Grey Wardens must come before any other concerns?' You didn't seem to think so when you tried to install a Grey Warden on Ferelden's throne, or have you already forgotten about poor, misbegotten Alistair? Tell me, Eamon, have you spared a single thought for him since your plans to make him your puppet king fell through?"
"That is extraordinarily unfair," Eamon retorted, face red. "Alistair is of Theirin blood, and the kingship was rightly his!"
"His Theirin blood didn't keep you from exiling him to the stables at the behest of your jealous Orlesian wife, or giving him up to the Chantry's orphanage at her whim," Moira rejoined. "You didn't give one solitary damn about Alistair until you could use him to gain the throne. Better a Theirin bastard king than a queen with commoner's blood, is that right? Even if that bastard happened to be a Grey Warden?"
A susurration of murmurs rumbled through the council chamber, and Eamon glared balefully at Moira, knowing her words were costing him the crowd's favor. "This tribunal is not about Alistair or Queen Anora," he said haughtily. "It is about Loghain's fitness to remain as Teyrn of Gwaren –"
"This tribunal is a sham, and you know it," Moira said. "You thought you could humiliate Queen Anora and dispose of a political enemy at the same time. You neglected to invite my brother, the Teyrn of Highever, who by all rights should attend any meeting of the Landsmeet. You failed to inform Loghain of these 'charges' against him until the proceedings were underway. You didn't even inform the Queen of your plans until you'd already invited nobles favorable to your cause – though somehow, I doubt your fellows would have agreed to attend, had they known that they were moving behind their queen's back."
"Is that true, Eamon?" Arl Wulff barked, fixing a surly glare at Eamon. "You didn't tell Teyrn Cousland about the proceedings?"
"I had no idea that the tribunal had been convened until Queen Anora informed me not half an hour ago," Fergus confirmed. "I suspect Eamon knows that my sister supports Teyrn Loghain, and he didn't want anyone overly sympathetic to Loghain to attend."
"That is most certainly not true –"
"Perhaps not," Fergus allowed, "but the fact remains that I was not invited, nor was my sister. It is truly egregious that the woman to whom Ferelden owes its continued survival, who knows Loghain best of all of us, was deliberately excluded."
"I had no idea she was alive!" Eamon thundered.
"You didn't care enough to find out," Loghain interjected, glowering at Eamon.
"Enough!" Anora's steely voice cut through the bickering. "I cannot comment on the intentions of those who convened this tribunal, but it is evident to all present that it has disintegrated into chaos. I will not permit my Landsmeet to engage in pointless squabbling and petty recriminations. If there is to be a tribunal, let evidence be presented and testimony taken. Otherwise, let us not waste any more time."
Most of the nobles at the council table had the good grace to look ashamed. "The Queen is right," Bann Teagan said, to Loghain's considerable surprise. "This arguing serves no purpose and degrades us all. If we are to question Teyrn Loghain, let us do it."
"And who is going to question him? Arl Eamon?" Bann Jevrin said. "The arl gave me to understand that he was pursuing this tribunal with the queen's full blessing. To find out that he went against her wishes, and didn't even notify Teyrn Cousland or Lady Cousland – that doesn't sit well with me."
"Lady Cousland saved us all," Wulff added. "The Blight would have devoured all of Ferelden if not for her. And whatever else Loghain might have done wrong, he stood with her in the end. That's what matters."
"I think we should hear what Lady Cousland has to say. She's the one we agreed to follow at the Landsmeet, and it was she who made Loghain a Grey Warden. It seems to me that her opinion carries more weight than anyone else's here."
A chorus of 'hear hears' echoed through the council room at Alfstanna's words, and, knowing he had been outmaneuvered, Eamon turned to regard Moira, assembling his face into a cool but cordial mask.
"The tribunal has made it clear that it wishes to defer to Lady Cousland on this matter," he said, voice tight. "I am duty-bound to follow its direction. Lady Cousland, is there anything you wish to say?"
Moira cast her gaze around the room, studying each noble in turn. "Anything I say would merely legitimize the existence of this tribunal, which I refuse to do. So I will only say this: I trust that Loghain will be as dedicated to the teyrnir of Gwaren as he was to Ferelden as a Grey Warden during the Blight, where he served beside me with honor, courage, and integrity." She turned to Anora, and bowed. "By Your Majesty's leave, I would request that this tribunal be disbanded, and Loghain Mac Tir affirmed as the Teyrn of Gwaren, with such title and holdings to pass to his heirs."
Anora's expression did not change, but Loghain saw, as only one familiar with the queen's moods could, the satisfaction that lay behind her cool countenance.
"Hero of Ferelden, all your country owes you its survival and its profound gratitude. As your Queen, I decree that you are herewith granted this boon, freely and without condition. If there is any other boon you would ask of your nation, please do not hesitate to do so."
Moira bowed deeply. "Thank you, Your Majesty. This shall suffice."
Anora turned to the assembled nobles, and Loghain had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from cracking a wry smile at Eamon's flabbergasted expression. "Your service to this tribunal is hereby concluded," she announced. "I thank you all for your loyal dedication to Ferelden. The tribunal is dissolved." The nobles rose to their feet once more, bowing graciously towards their monarch, who returned their esteem with a nod of her head. Eamon was left standing alone, the other nobles unwilling to be seen with the man who'd earned the ire of both the queen and the Hero of Ferelden. Only Teagan came to Eamon's aid, taking his brother by the arm and leading him wordlessly from the council chamber.
"Well, that was exciting," Fergus quipped. "It looks like you didn't need my vote after all. You've become quite the orator, little pup."
Moira snorted, and Loghain could see the exhaustion in her eyes beneath her aura of indignant bluster. "That was hardly oratory. I'm surprised I could manage all of that without any swear words. And stop calling me 'little pup,' you know how much I hate it."
Fergus grinned in the way that only elder brothers can manage. "Of course I do," he agreed. "Which is why I'll never stop." He sobered as Loghain approached them, and Loghain wondered exactly what Moira had told him about their relationship – or how much he'd been able to figure out on his own.
"I apologize that you all had to go through that," Anora said as the last of the nobles filed out of the council chambers, leaving the four of them alone. "Teyrn Fergus, you certainly deserve more respect than you were shown by Arl Eamon today, especially after the tragic circumstances in which you inherited your title."
Fergus shrugged. "I'm sure it will take some time for some of the crustier old stalwarts in the Landsmeet to get used to a peer who is young enough to be their son. It's certainly not how I envisioned becoming teyrn, but…" His voice trailed off, and Moira grasped his arm, sharing his moment of grief.
"I understand," Anora said quietly. She turned to Moira. "And you certainly deserve all of the acclaim Ferelden can bestow, and more. I suppose you discovered today that folk have taken to calling you the 'Hero of Ferelden.' I imagine it's probably too pretentious for your liking, but at the same time, it's certainly true. You are a hero to all of Ferelden."
Moira pulled a face. "As long as no one ever actually calls me that, I suppose I can't begrudge the people their need for a hero to celebrate."
"As you wish, Hero," Fergus said, earning him a smack on the arm. "What? You said you didn't like little pup."
"She might be the Hero of Ferelden, but she needs her sleep like the rest of us mere mortals," Loghain said. "Now that this nonsense is dealt with, Moira should get some rest. I'm certain the next few weeks will be hectic, what with the whole country wanting to celebrate their 'Hero.'"
"Indeed," Anora agreed. "Thank you for your words today, Lady Cousland. I know you did not do it for me, but your assistance is appreciated nevertheless. You are, of course, welcome to remain in Denerim as long as you like. If there is anything I can do for you, please let me know." With a gracious nod, the queen departed, leaving Moira alone with Fergus and Loghain.
"Loghain's right," Fergus said after the door had closed behind Anora. "You need to go get some rest."
"Stop clucking over me like mother hens, both of you," Moira groused. "I'm fine."
"Nonsense," Loghain harrumphed. "I know what exhaustion looks like. You've been in bed for nearly two months. You've been awake an hour. You're not ready to storm the ramparts just yet."
"I'm going to go to the kitchens to get some dinner," Fergus said. "I'll bring you something after awhile." He leaned in to kiss her on the forehead. "It's so good to have you back, Moira."
A surge of emotion overcame her, and she threw her arms around him. "You too, Fergus," she whispered, clinging to her brother. With a smile, he detached from her and met Loghain's gaze.
"Take care of her," he said, and Loghain understood at once that Fergus knew there was more than just friendship between he and Moira. Holding the younger man's gaze steadily, he nodded solemnly.
"I will. You have my word."
Satisfied, Fergus nodded in return, and when he was gone, Loghain gathered Moira into his arms, grateful at last for their solitude.
She collapsed bonelessly against him, finally giving in to her fatigue. Her arms curled around him and he held her tight, burying his face in her soft hair.
"Thank you for what you did for me today," he whispered fiercely. "I hardly deserve such loyalty, especially from you."
"Don't be silly!" She pulled back to look at him. "You deserve it most especially from me. I love you, Loghain."
His heart contracted painfully as he looked into her eyes. She was so young, so sweet and innocent and trusting, and she had given her love to him, of all people, after everything he'd done. She was such a treasure – surely she deserved so much better out of life than anything he could offer her. What was he but a disgraced traitor? All of her rousing speeches could not change what he'd done, or how little he deserved her.
He swallowed back the swell of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. Now was not the time for any such talk. She looked at him longingly, but her eyes were heavy-lidded with exhaustion, and he would not draw her into a conversation for which she was not ready, not until she got some rest.
"I love you too," he said, leaning in to kiss her on the forehead, smiling as he heard her whimper of disappointment. "Hush. You need your rest before you need anything else. Let's go back to your chambers."
"Don't need rest," she grumbled, leaning heavily against him as he led her out the door and down the corridor. "Just need you."
"You'll have me," he said, her sleepy words sending a thrill of anticipation through his blood that he forcefully shoved aside. "But not right now."
She made no reply, and as soon as they reached her chambers, he'd no sooner tucked her under the covers than she was sound asleep, snoring softly. He watched her in the dim candlelight for several long minutes, marveling at the blessings the Maker had bestowed upon her. She had awakened, thanks to the grace of Andraste, and – though he dared not hope too much – perhaps the ashes had even cured her of the Warden's corruption. He reached out to her through the taint, and felt nothing, just as he had earlier. If she retained the taint, it was changed, and no longer apparent to other Wardens – or perhaps even the darkspawn. If the ashes had cured her, however…
She would be free. Free to live her life the way she'd always wanted, no longer bound to the Grey Wardens and their poisonous chains. And if she was truly free, then she would be free to choose her own destiny – a destiny that did not need to be weighed down by the sins of a man who would only drag her down into the mire of his dishonor.
Leaning over the bed, he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Sleep well, beloved," he whispered. "Fergus will be here soon." He glanced back at her, slumbering peacefully, before he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.