The prosperous port city of Amaranthine could not have been a starker contrast to the Blight-ravaged lands of southern Ferelden. There was little evidence amongst the bustling shopkeepers and the soaring masts of merchants ships of the devastation that the darkspawn had wrought across so much of the land – an observation for which Moira felt both gratitude and resentment. Of course, that anywhere in Ferelden had been spared the worst of the Blight was a blessing – but it rankled her deeply that, of all the lands and lives poisoned by the darkspawn, Rendon Howe's holdings had been left mostly intact.
They aren't his lands anymore, she reminded herself. You can't punish the people for the misdeeds of their lord. And yet, to know that Denerim, Lothering, Gwaren, and Redcliffe – to name just a small handful of the places the Blight had touched – suffered while Amaranthine prospered roused an unwelcome pang of bitterness that filled her mouth like bile.
But then again, if the reports Anora had relayed were accurate, then Amaranthine was still in danger from the darkspawn – and, Howe's lands or not, Moira could not turn a blind eye if the horde still threatened Ferelden. The thought that the Blight might not have been entirely vanquished chilled her to the bone.
"I didn't see any evidence of these darkspawn attacks along the Pilgrim's Path," she offered hopefully to Loghain. "Perhaps the reports Anora received were mistaken."
"Perhaps." It was evident from Loghain's tone that he did not share her optimism. "For what it's worth, I don't imagine these attacks are a continuance of the Blight – the horde never attacked Amaranthine, and it hardly makes sense that they would disappear from the rest of Ferelden only to resurface, in scattered numbers, in a different location. But I suppose we'll learn more once we speak to the citizens here."
"Who exactly are we speaking with?" Moira mused as they threaded their way through crowded streets. "It's not as though there's a lord fit to rule the arling at the moment."
Loghain's sideways glance informed her that she'd failed to entirely keep the animosity from seeping into her voice. "One problem at a time, my dear," he said drolly. "Anora will sift through the pool of suitable candidates to find someone to fill the unlamented shoes of Arl Howe. All we have to do is make certain there's actually an arling left to rule."
He was right, of course. They were here to see to the darkspawn problem, not to worry about politics. In lieu of a lord, she and Loghain had arranged to meet with a gathering of prominent local citizens, all of whom had either experienced the darkspawn attacks, or who had a vested stake in the continued safety and prosperity of the city.
Loghain turned, casting a glance over his shoulder, and Moira wondered at his distraction. He'd seemed generally subdued since they'd entered the city – Moira wondered if he too felt the oppressive ghost of Rendon Howe hanging like a pall over the otherwise pleasant streets.
"Here," he said, and without further prelude, took Moira by the arm and guided her gently but firmly to a merchant's stall along the side of the busy courtyard. "Take a look at this jewelry, will you?"
"Loghain, what in the Maker's name?" she blurted as he pulled her close, craning down to peer intently at the merchant's wares. The merchant, a rotund, ebullient man, beamed at his newfound customers, but Loghain paid him no mind, and Moira was wildly confused at her fiancé's erratic behavior.
"Someone is following us," he said, his voice a discreet rumble mere inches from her ear. "A man in a dark green cloak. He's been trailing behind us since just before we entered the gates. He lingers now on the outskirts of the market, and once we move on, he will resume his pursuit. Do not look – I don't believe he's yet caught on that I know he's there."
Loghain's words sent a tremor of fear down Moira's spine. Any number of wild possibilities flew through her mind – an assassin? A spy?
"What are we going to do?" she hissed in reply. "You're certain he's following us?"
"Quite certain," he said. "And we're going to do nothing – at least, that's what we want him to think. If he intends to confront us, and I imagine he does, then I want to make certain that it is in the time and place of our choosing."
Loghain's matter of fact discussion of their shadow was both comforting and unnerving, and Moira found herself unconsciously slipping her hand into his. She had full confidence in her fighting skills – should it come to that – but it gave her solace to know that he was with her, ever vigilant, watching her back. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
"Come," he said. "Perhaps we should rent a room at the local inn. If he thinks we've let down our guard, then he might feel bold enough to be drawn out of hiding."
It was as good a plan as any – the stalker had proven to be cautious, and he would take care not to accost them in the open streets. Moira certainly did not want to lead him to their meeting with the Amaranthine merchants – if he was indeed a spy or an assassin, she could not risk exposing the innocent citizens to harm.
The tavern was cozy, if somewhat seedy, and the innkeeper was the sort who asked no questions once Loghain produced a handful of silver pieces to pay for their room and board. Taking the key in hand, Loghain nodded genially and slipped his arm around Moira's waist, giving her a coy and knowing smile.
"It's been a long day, darling. I'm quite ready to retire," he said with a wink. Moira could only blink in bemused bewilderment as he snuggled her close, leading her up the creaking stairs and to the door marked with their room number.
"I'm not averse to your affections, but you're hardly the wink and cuddle in public type," she said, eyeing him shrewdly as he turned the key in the lock. "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?"
"I want our mysterious friend to be entirely under the impression that we are relaxed and… shall we say… indisposed, and thus not expecting any intruders." He pushed the door open, and Moira entered the small, tidy room. "The innkeeper seemed the sort who will sell any secrets for a handful of coppers. I don't imagine we'll have to wait long for our guest to arrive."
They took up positions on either side of the door, still clad in their light traveling armor, each readying the unremarkable but hardy short swords they'd brought along just in case of trouble. For a long while, it seemed as though Loghain's suspicions had proven to be overly paranoid – they waited for what seemed like interminable hours for an intrusion that never came. Just as Moira was about ready to give up and strip off her traveling leathers, a faint, barely perceptible scratching caught at her attention. Her eyes met Loghain's, and she saw in his intent gaze that he heard it too. Tightening her grip on her blade, she inched forward, straining to hear the invader at the door.
A soft clinking alerted her that the intruder had picked the lock, but, as Moira waited, muscles screaming in poised anticipation, the door remained firmly closed.
"Damn it!" The voice was faint and muffled, and issued from the other side of the door – what was going on? Their stalker had clearly followed them up to their rooms, intent on confronting them for whatever nefarious purpose – and yet now he hesitated. To what end?
"Oh, bugger this." Loghain snarled in annoyance, and, without warning, he surged forward, throwing open the door. "Come out of the shadows, coward!"
The intruder, taken completely aback by Loghain's sudden appearance, tumbled backwards. For a fleeting moment, his hood fell back, and Moira saw that he was a young man, with long dark hair tied back in a neat braid away from his face. His eyes blazed in fear and hatred, and there was something familiar about him that scratched at the edges of Moira's memory.
Her ruminations were cut short, however, when the intruder, his equilibrium regained, slipped a hand into a pouch at his side and flung its contents straight into Loghain's face. A fine powder misted into the air, and Loghain bellowed in rage as he clenched his eyes shut tight, hands instinctively shooting up as he scrubbed at the dust that coated his face.
"Loghain!" Moira cried, going to her lover as she caught the sight of the invader's disappearing cloak as he scampered hastily down the stairs.
"Go!" Loghain roared, hands still frantically rubbing at his eyes. "It's just an itching powder – Maker's balls, it stings! I'm fine! Get that bastard!"
Moira didn't need to be told twice, her warrior's instincts kicking in as she scrambled after the cloaked stranger, barreling down the inn's stairs in hot pursuit. She caught another glimpse of the man's face as he reached the door, his head snapping back to gauge the distance of his pursuers, and again the odd but undeniable sense of familiarity crashed over her – she knew him from somewhere, she would bet a hundred sovereigns on it. But from where – and why was he attacking her now?
She burst out of the inn and into the market square, swearing violently as she saw the man making his way nimbly through the busy marketplace. Maker's breath, but he was fast! Left to her own devices, she would soon lose him in the crowd. She counted herself as agile, but this man was something else altogether – she began to wonder if he was indeed a professional assassin. The only other man she'd ever known to move with such swift purpose had been Zevran. She needed to enlist help, and fast.
"Guards!" she cried. "Catch that man! He's an assassin!"
A general cry of alarm quickly spread amongst the milling citizens, and people began to flee in a panic away from both Moira and the man, who threw a frantic look over his shoulder at Moira's words. A patrol of armed city guards, roused into action by the commotion, pointed and shouted at the man, and she heard one of them – presumably the guard-captain – issue a general call to arms. Guards moved to blockade each of the streets that led away from the marketplace, and it soon became apparent that if the man was to escape, he would have to fight his way past the guards. Moira adjusted her grip on her own sword as she continued after him, preparing for a fight. She didn't want to see any innocent guards hurt as a result of a plot that clearly targeted she and Loghain alone.
Abruptly, the man skidded to a halt, apparently realizing that his hope of escape had evaporated. He withdrew a pair of daggers from his belt – but, instead of readying them for a fight, he threw them on the ground, as if in disgust. The city guard, not taking any chances, rushed in to restrain him. They reached him just as Moira arrived, and one particularly burly guard threw the man to the ground and wrestled him into a pair of manacles. The guard jerked him, not gently, from the ground, and the man lifted his face to regard Moira with the same expression of hatred she'd seen before, in the tavern.
"So. You've bested me, Warden. Congratulations." The familiar face sneered at her. "I have to admit… I thought you'd be a little more intimidating. You should hear the stories they tell of you, of how the great Moira Cousland single-handedly slew the great dragon and ended the Blight. It's funny, though. None of those stories seem to mention the bodies you left in your wake, or the lives you ruined. Like my father's." His grey eyes blazed with unbridled anger. "Imagine how it felt for me, to return to Amaranthine at long last, only to be treated as a trespasser and a thief in my own home. To be told that the lands my family has tended for generations were taken from us at the whim of the so-called 'Hero of Ferelden.' To be told that there is nothing here for me but ashes and death."
The nagging notion in the back of her mind that she knew this young man from somewhere at last crystallized into total clarity, and she felt the air forced from her lungs as awareness slammed into her like a punch to the gut.
"Nathaniel Howe," she breathed. It had been years since she'd seen him, but now that the pieces had fallen into place, the verdict was undeniable. He was older, of course, and much changed; leaner, harder, and angrier than the quiet but polite youth she remembered from her adolescence.
"Ah, so you do remember me," he said bitingly. "I'm sure you're well pleased with yourself, now that you've another Howe at your mercy. I only wonder if you'll see fit to give me the pretense of a trial, or whether you'll just stick your blade into my belly as you did to my father and have done with it."
The rage that had simmered just below the surface ever since Moira's arrival in Amaranthine boiled over with a vicious rapidity, as if Howe had taken a hot brand and pressed it mercilessly against her soul. For one wild, exultant moment, Moira considered doing exactly that – plunging her sword straight into Nathaniel's gut and twisting, hard, her eyes boring into his as he bled out his life onto the cobbled stone below. The impulse passed as quickly as it had come, and, seeking a desperate outlet for her fury, she settled instead for slamming her fist into his stomach.
"You son of a bitch," she spat as Nathaniel grunted in surprise and pain. "Your father murdered my entire family! He slew us in our own home so that he could steal the teyrnir for himself! I was there! I saw them all die! He got what was coming to him, and I would kill him again, in a heartbeat."
For a moment, the expression in Howe's eyes flickered – the fire of pure hatred wavered, and something like uncertainty passed across his gaze. "Look, I wasn't here during the Blight. I don't know anything about that," he said shortly. "I know the Couslands died in the civil war – for what it's worth, I'm sorry about that. It sounds awful, what happened to your family. But the whole war was awful, and I fail to see why my family should be branded as eternal outcasts because my father fought for the losing side."
"Moira? Are you well? You've got the bastard under control?" Loghain's voice pre-empted her response to Howe, and he strode up to stand beside her, eyes red and bleary but otherwise unharmed. At Loghain's sudden appearance, Howe's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Ah, Teyrn Loghain," he snarled. "The so-called 'regent.' How very interesting – the man responsible for abandoning the king to his doom still lives, and yet my father, whose loyalty you were all too happy to exploit for your own purposes, molders in the ground." His expression hardened once again into a mask of hatred. "The vagaries of fate continue to astonish in their cruelty."
Loghain glared hard at Nathaniel for a few moments before the same light of recognition dawned in his eyes. "You must be the elder Howe lad," he said slowly. "Nathaniel, is it? You were off serving as a squire in Starkhaven during the Blight, weren't you?"
"Father spoke of me, did he?" There was a mocking tone to Nathaniel's voice. "That's right. I'd have been happy to stay there, too, until word reached me that the Grey Wardens had murdered my father and stolen his lands."
"The Grey Wardens didn't murder your father. I did," Moira said hotly. "And I'm through listening to you justify his crimes. Your father was a butcher and a traitor, and I'm glad he's dead."
"A butcher and a traitor! And yet here stands the most notorious butcher and traitor of them all, right beside you! Where are your cries for Teyrn Loghain's head, your bays for his blood?"
"Your father wasn't killed because of his loyalty to me, Nathaniel," Loghain said softly. "What Moira said is true. He orchestrated a bloody massacre of the Couslands at Highever. By the time he pledged his forces to me, the deed was done. It was my responsibility, as regent, to bring him to justice for his crimes, but I failed to do so. You cannot blame Moira for avenging her family."
"You rank coward," Nathaniel hissed. "You let my father take the fall for you to save your own skin! If there was any justice in the world, you should have shared his fate – and yet here you are, still alive, still the Teyrn of Gwaren. A pity my father wasn't able to arrange for my sister to become the queen – perhaps things would have turned out differently then."
"That's enough!" Moira interrupted, her voice ice. She turned to the guard who restrained Nathaniel.
"Arrest this man for sedition and attempted assassination," she said. "He intended to break into my room at the tavern and kill me in retaliation for the justice I delivered to his worm of a father. Clearly treachery runs in the blood."
The guard brusquely nodded, and Nathaniel, to her surprise, burst into laughter. "Yes, Grey Warden! Hang me from your gallows! Sate your bloodlust! Another dead Howe to add to your tally!" The guard began to drag Nathaniel away, and the guard-captain, a sturdy and capable looking man who had patiently observed the encounter, nodded his head respectfully to Moira.
"I apologize for the danger to your life, Warden. Know that all of Amaranthine, and all of Ferelden, remains in your debt. I will see to it that the Howe lad is secure in the prison. He'll await your judgment."
"Thank you, Captain," she said, her blood running hot in her veins as she watched the guards drag Howe away. She turned with an angry flourish towards Loghain.
"The nerve of that little bastard," she said furiously. "He dares to justify my family's murder, and blame you for his despicable father's crimes? The apple clearly doesn't fall far from the tree." She heaved an agitated sigh and ran a hand through her hair. "So be it. I'll deal with him like I dealt with his vermin father. Maker take me, and I was hoping to leave this city without any more reminders of Rendon fucking Howe."
"Moira." There was a quiet insistence to Loghain's voice that seized her attention, and she looked up at him to find him regarding her with an expression that bordered on melancholy.
"I understand your anger. Believe me, I do." He sighed, and his hand drifted to her arm, resting against her lightly. "My parents were murdered by the Orlesians. I spent my entire youth hating them for it." He scoffed. "Maker, I've spent my entire life hating them for it. And you saw where it got me." He looked up at her, his eyes curiously bright. "I don't mean to say that they don't deserve my hatred, or that I've forgiven them for what they've done. I haven't, and I never will. But I allowed my anger to consume me, to blind me to reason. What happened to your family was unforgivable, but I do not want to see you torn apart by the same unrelenting hatred that drove me to ruin."
Moira stared hard at Loghain, an ill feeling settling into the pit of her belly. "What exactly are you saying, Loghain? That I shouldn't be angry at Howe's brat for making excuses for his vile father, the man who destroyed my family?"
Loghain huffed an exasperated sigh. "No, that isn't what I'm saying!" He looked around, and noticed that more than a few citizens had gathered around the periphery of their conversation, still intrigued by the sudden excitement that had beset the marketplace. "This isn't a conversation we should be having in public."
Moira was inclined to agree – she had no desire to relive the worst day of her life in front of a gathering crowd. By mutual unspoken accord, they returned to their room, where, her energy waning, Moira sagged against the wall.
"I don't understand what you're trying to convince me of, Loghain," she said tiredly. "You heard Howe's spawn – he thinks what happened to his father was unfair! He was in denial about what happened with my family! And he tried to pin all the blame for Howe's villainy on you! And now you're lecturing me about being 'consumed with hatred'?"
"You have placed the burden of Rendon Howe's sins onto his son's shoulders," Loghain said. "It is both unjust and unlike you to punish an innocent man for the deeds of the guilty. What responsibility could he possibly own for his father's villainy? The lad wasn't even in Ferelden during the Blight."
"What difference does that make?" she said hotly. "He knew enough to know that you were the regent, and he knew that his father murdered my family. I cannot understand why you're making excuses for him, Loghain! Didn't you hear him trying to blame you? As if you bear more responsibility than a Howe for what happened to my parents!"
"Don't I?" He met her eyes, his gaze uncompromising.
"What in the Maker's name are you talking about?" A heavy stone formed in her throat. "I don't blame you for what Howe did to my family, Loghain!"
"I know you don't. But perhaps you should." Moira felt her stomach lurch as the stone dropped down to settle in the pit of her belly. "I knew what Howe had done to the Couslands when he pledged his fealty to me, and yet I accepted his oath. I made no move to bring him to justice. I allowed him to call himself the Teyrn of Highever, granting legitimacy to his theft of your family's title and lands. And yet you twist yourself into knots to absolve me of the guilt my deeds should rightfully claim, while thinking nothing of condemning Nathaniel Howe, who knew nothing of his father's crimes until well after they had been avenged. Is that justice?"
Moira stared in uncomprehending anguish at Loghain, her blood turning to ice.
"Don't say that," she whispered. "You don't mean that."
"Of course I do," he continued relentlessly. "You want someone to blame for Howe's villainy? Then blame the man who allowed his evil to go unpunished. Blame the man who accepted his blood money in exchange for an alliance of convenience. Blame the man who allowed the usurper free reign over the ruins of Highever. Blame me."
Every word was a dagger, thrust pitilessly into Moira's heart. A keening, despondent wail tore loose from her throat, and her hand rose of its own volition, striking him with savage force across the face. The sound of her palm against his skin echoed with a resounding crack in the small, confined space. He did not flinch away from her blow, and a reddened mark began to spread across his cheek like a seeping bloodstain.
"Fuck you." The words followed close on the trail of her agonized cry, and she began to pummel at his chest, her fists balled tight as she rained down blows against him. "Fuck you! Fuck you!" Her vision blurred and dimmed as heavy, wet tears fell from her eyes, and then she was aware of Loghain's arms coming around her, pulling her in close as she continued to struggle against him, her fists banging against the broad plane of his chest.
"I'm so sorry, Moira." His voice was impossibly gentle, a tender caress muffled into her hair as he held her tight against him. "I would do anything to make things right for you. If I could undo my actions, if I could bring Howe to justice and take away even the smallest amount of your pain, I would do it at once. Of all the regrets I will carry with me for the rest of my life, hurting you weighs heaviest on my soul. I would not let you blame an innocent man for sins that are by all rights mine to own."
She shuddered against him, trembling in his arms as choking sobs wracked her body. The floodgates of a grief she'd never fully allowed herself to face were flung open, and she wept bitterly against Loghain until her throat ached. She buried her face into his chest and allowed the tide of sorrow to crash over her, the smooth leather of his traveling armor wet and slippery with her tears. He held her gently, wordlessly, his arms encircling her, hands stroking firmly and tenderly across her back until the tide began to slowly recede, leaving her feeling raw and exposed.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled against him, pulling back at last to wipe her face dry. She dared a glance at him, and found in his eyes only gentle affection. A wave of guilt and remorse flooded through her as she noticed the reddened skin of his cheek. With a trembling hand, she reached up to caress him lightly.
"I shouldn't have struck you," she said, ashamed. "I'm so sorry."
He smiled, closing his hand around hers and kissing her fingertips gently. "It's nothing," he said, his voice tender but gruff. "Mind you, I'd prefer you not make a habit of it."
She laughed, her voice tremulous as a sense of shaky, uncertain peace filled her. She knew the pain of losing her family would never leave her, but she knew that holding onto her anger would only poison her heart in the end. Nathaniel Howe had made her furious with his bitter defiance, but Loghain was right – he hadn't killed her family. He hadn't been complicit in his father's plot in any way. And now he was locked in a cell like a criminal, all because she had needed someone who still lived to receive the full force of her hatred. Shame filled her.
"Maker, where would I be without you?" she sighed, rubbing her face. "Thank you for talking sense into me. I'll go to the guard-captain at once. I will never forgive Rendon Howe for what he did, but you're right – Nathaniel Howe doesn't deserve to be punished for his father's crimes."
"Nathaniel Howe may have to wait," Loghain said. "We're due to meet with the citizen's council this afternoon."
"Oh, bugger," she swore. She hardly looked fit for a meeting with the prominent citizens of Amaranthine, her face blotchy and clearly fresh off a crying jag. "Well, perhaps we should both freshen up, then. I don't want the society of Amaranthine to titter with gossip about the Teyrn of Gwaren and the Hero of Ferelden showing up looking as though they'd just had a knock-down row."
An hour and a pair of hot, refreshing baths later, Loghain and Moira made their way to the merchant's guildhall, where a half-dozen men and women had gathered. One pair – a married couple, judging by their level of comfort with each other – seemed to be the de facto spokesmen, and again Moira was struck with a niggling sense of familiarity as she regarded the woman. Upon their entrance into the meeting room, the merchants stood to greet them, and the woman approached Moira with an expression that was both friendly and apprehensive.
"It's an honor to have you in Amaranthine, Lady Cousland," the woman said, taking Moira's hand in hers. "And you as well, Teyrn Loghain." She cleared her throat, and the man whom Moira presumed was her husband came to stand behind her, laying a protective hand on her shoulder.
"It's all right, Dee," the man said.
"I don't know if you remember me, Moira," the woman said. "But I wanted to say how sorry I am for what happened to your family. Your parents were always so sweet and kind to me whenever we would visit Highever. What my father did was unconscionable, and I took no part in it."
"Delilah," Moira breathed. Again, she was filled with a sense of shame – if she had not already encountered Nathaniel, and been brought to her cathartic outpouring of grief by Loghain, she was certain her reception of Howe's only daughter would have been less than civil. And yet, she remembered Delilah from happier times, in their youth; the girl had always been sweet-natured, never haughty or vain as young noble girls often could be. The only of Howe's children who seemed to reflect their father's nature had been Thomas, who Moira remembered as spoiled and spiteful, even as a young boy. She recalled the day of the massacre, before Howe had shown his true colors; he'd suggested to her father that she and Thomas might be a good match. She had instantly made her revulsion plain, earning her an embarrassed flush from her father and a far-more-threatening glare from Howe. Maker, what a fool she'd been, to tar Nathaniel and Delilah with their father's shame!
"I don't imagine it's pleasant for you to be reminded of anything to do with the name Howe," Delilah continued apologetically. "I abandoned Vigil's Keep as soon as I learned what Father had done – I could not bear the shame of being associated with his disgrace. Fortunately, I found Albert." She squeezed the man's hand. "He helped me hide from my father's soldiers. Father tore apart half the city looking for me, convinced I'd been 'taken' by his enemies – he couldn't fathom that I wanted nothing to do with his evil."
"I'm sorry for what happened to you," Moira said, and realized she genuinely meant it. "I don't blame you for what happened." The guilt over her treatment of Nathaniel crawled over her, and she knew now she could not leave Amaranthine until she made things right. Before she could say anything about Nathaniel, however, Delilah smiled, and gestured towards the table of merchants.
"It means a lot to me to hear you say that," Delilah said. "But you didn't come all this way to talk about my wretched father. The darkspawn have been attacking settlements and trade caravans all along the Waking Sea, and we didn't know where else to turn. We thought at first the attacks were just the last throes of the Blight, but they seem to be increasing in number and coordination, which doesn't make sense – if they were connected to the Blight, they should be tapering off. But they're not."
Moira felt a chill creep across her as the merchants described the trouble in the arling: homesteads put to the torch, the residents slaughtered in the vicious, ritualistic manner of the darkspawn; trade caravans ambushed and burned, their goods undisturbed and left to rot, hardly the work of thieves; mysterious sightings of dwarven warriors, who seldom emerged from the Deep Roads – unless, of course, the Deep Roads were being overrun. All the indications pointed to a new darkspawn incursion, and Moira knew, with a dreadful certainty, that she and Loghain would need help to get to the bottom of it.
"I know this is a great burden to place on your shoulders so soon after the end of the Blight," Delilah said. "But you are the only Grey Wardens left in Ferelden, and we need the expertise of the Wardens to find the source of the attacks."
Moira and Loghain shared an apprehensive glance. "Well… truthfully, neither of us are Grey Wardens any longer," Moira said apologetically. "Something… happened… after the final battle with the Archdemon, and we no longer possess our Grey Warden abilities."
The merchants glanced at one another in confusion as a panicked murmur rose from the table, and Delilah creased her brows together in puzzlement. "I don't understand," she said. "You were Grey Wardens, but now you're… not? How does that work? I thought Grey Wardens took the oath for life."
Moira felt a headache coming on, and realized that she would have to come up with a believable story to explain why she was miraculously no longer a Grey Warden. She could not have cared less about preserving the Grey Warden "secret" of the Joining, but the general lack of knowledge about what, exactly, made a Grey Warden a Grey Warden worked now to her benefit.
"I suppose it had something to do with defeating the Archdemon," she said, feeling a pang of remorse at lying so brazenly to Delilah. "Perhaps Wardens in close proximity to the Archdemon lose their powers once the beast is slain. I couldn't say. But I am afraid we will have to send for Grey Wardens from further afield than Ferelden."
"Wardens from another country?" a plump, mustached merchant huffed. "That could take months! We might not have that long if these attacks keep up!"
"It takes a good two months to travel through the Frostbacks to Orlais from here," another dignitary, a thin, reedy man, griped. "That's nearly four months before we receive any support!"
"We won't be going to Orlais," Loghain said, his voice brooking no debate. "Not when it's a simple matter to take a ship across the Waking Sea to the Free Marches. Surely there are Grey Wardens in Kirkwall or Ostwick."
"Hmm… yes, that's a possibility," the merchant said, placated.
"We understand the need for a Grey Warden presence in Ferelden," Moira said. "Our plan is to journey to the Free Marches, recruit a small base of Wardens to serve as commanders of the Ferelden garrison, and then build up the order's ranks from among promising knights and warriors who accept the risks of service as a Grey Warden." That, she had decided, was non-negotiable: she would not countenance another Warden-Commander Duncan, who recruited unwilling and unsuitable candidates without giving them any indication of exactly the breadth of the sacrifice they'd be making. "Now that we know what exactly is happening in Amaranthine, we should be able to convince at least some of the Marcher Wardens to offer their assistance."
"I hope you're right," Delilah said, taking her husband's hand. "I fear Amaranthine depends upon it."
As the merchants dispersed, Moira approached Delilah, feeling a lingering lump of shame catch in her throat.
"Delilah," she began hesitantly. "There's someone you need to see."
Moira descended the stairs into the dank prison, the guttering torches providing just enough light for her to avoid a disastrous misstep. Loghain had agreed to wait for her back in their room at the inn – he'd understood her need to do this alone.
She approached the cell at the end of the lonely prison block, and saw the lone figure sitting slumped against the wall. At her approach, he raised his head lazily to regard her, before slumping back against the wall with a mirthless scoff.
"You know, I wasn't actually going to kill you," Nathaniel said. "That was my plan, at first. Take my revenge against the Grey Warden who slew my father in cold blood. But then, when I stood at the door to your room, I couldn't do it. Not that it matters anymore, I suppose." He shook his head. "I reckon you're here to take me to the gallows, then. Well, I hope you've gathered a good crowd. I'm sure there are plenty of folk in Amaranthine who will welcome the chance to watch the son of their hated arl dance at the end of a rope."
"No one's going to the gallows," she said. "I spoke to the guard-captain. You're free to go, with my apologies."
Nate arched a wry eyebrow. "That's it? Changed your mind, just like that?" He chuckled grimly. "Even after I just admitted I did plan to kill you? How do you know I won't try again?"
"Because you're not your father," Moira said quietly. "And I was wrong to hate you for what he did."
Nate blinked, as if unable to process his changing fortunes. "I still don't entirely understand, Cousland. You wanted me dead, and now you're letting me go. Where do you imagine I have to go? My home is gone. My family is dead. Everything was taken from me. And unlike you, I don't have a heroic title or reputation to fall back on. I'm not even 'Lord Howe' anymore. I'm nobody."
"You haven't lost everything," she said. A clatter of footsteps down the stairs alerted her that her companion had arrived. "And you haven't lost everyone." The footsteps drew closer, and Delilah Howe emerged from the shadows, her expression progressing from disbelief, to amazement, to joy.
"Nate! Andraste have mercy, it really is you!" She ran to the bars of the cell, craning her head to regard her long-lost brother. Nate stared in wild incredulity, his gaze snapping back and forth from Delilah to Moira and back.
"Delilah?" he whispered. "You're alive? You weren't at Vigil's Keep –"
"I haven't been there since Father went mad," she said. "Oh, Nate, it was terrible! Father was never a nice man, but the things he did…" Her face darkened. "He disgraced our family with his cruelty. He butchered the Couslands in their home, tortured anyone who stood in his way, and I think he even meant to kill Queen Anora and steal the crown. There was no end to his ambition, or his bloodlust."
Nate stared at her, stricken. "But why? Father was always a bastard, but he was never…" His voice trailed off, but his silence filled the pause far more effectively than any words could have. A murderer. A usurper. A torturer. A traitor.
"I know," Delilah said. "I'm so sorry you have to come home to this mess, Nate. I wish we could have reunited under better circumstances." She offered a small half-smile. "You'll have to tell me all about the Free Marches, you know. Why don't you come over to our house tonight? Albert cooks a mean venison stew."
Whatever Nathaniel said in response remained a mystery to Moira; she had taken the chance to fade into the shadows and make her way out of the jail, unwilling to further disturb the Howe siblings' poignant reunion. The events of the day had thoroughly drained her, leaving her exhausted and spent, and she badly wanted to collapse into bed, next to Loghain, and forget about the Howes and the darkspawn and the Grey Wardens for at least a couple of hours.
She made her way back to the inn, where Loghain waited in their room, perched on the side of the bed. Heaving a heavy, world-weary sigh, she sank down onto the bed, leaning into his arms.
"Long day?" he murmured, placing a soft kiss against her brow.
"The longest." She snuggled into him, slipping her arms around his broad shoulders. Normally, being in such close proximity to Loghain's muscular frame would have aroused a passionate response in her, but tonight she could only manage a tired hum of contentment as she nestled against him.
"I went to the docks while you were meeting with the guard-captain," he said. "There are no ships bound for Ostwick anytime soon, but there is a merchant vessel departing for Kirkwall tomorrow morning. I booked us passage. It's as good a place as any to start a search for Free Marcher Grey Wardens."
"Good," she mumbled. "I'm sorry I slapped you."
He snorted. "I've endured far worse, believe me."
"I'm your fiancée," she protested.
"Indeed. And how fortunate I am." He leaned over and kissed her on the top of the head. "You should get some rest. The voyage will be long, and I suspect there won't be much time for relaxation once we're there."
"Mmm." Moira was rapidly sinking beneath the waves of consciousness, and she was dimly aware of Loghain shifting his arms and settling her down against the bed linens. "Love you."
"I love you too, Moira." His deep, rumbling voice intoned above her, and she drifted off into the Fade with a soft smile on her lips.
A/N: Ugh, another two months since the last update. I officially suck. I have applied for the bar exam, however, so HOPEFULLY updates will be a little more forthcoming now, since I'm sure I'll prefer to write fanfic and procrastinate than actually study. This chapter moved a little slower than I'd imagined, but the good news is that Act II of this story well and truly gets underway next chapter, when our lovebirds make their way to Kirkwall, where they just might run into some familiar faces. Thank you all for all your support! Your reviews, favorites, and follows mean so much.