Although her tenure as a Grey Warden had allowed Moira to experience the sort of seedy locales that had been strictly off-limits to her as a proper noble lady, she was quite certain she'd never been anywhere quite as 'colorful' as the Hanged Man. She and Loghain had followed Hawke hesitantly through the forbidding streets of Lowtown, each of them alert and with hands that never strayed far from the hilts of their weapons, despite Hawke's assurances that none of the local lowlives would dare harm them in his presence. Eventually, they arrived at a ramshackle dump of a tavern with a strung-up effigy dangling above the doorway in morbid salutation. The raucous bellowing of the clientele could be heard even from the street outside.
"You don't look like the sort of folk who make a habit of patronizing this type of establishment. No offense," Hawke said, a distinct undercurrent of mockery giving edge to the mirth in his voice. Though his words had been directed at them both, his eyes were fixed on Moira, who bristled. Whatever respect Hawke had for her as the Hero of Ferelden had clearly not mitigated his opinion of her as a naïve rich girl who didn't have enough sense not to go for a nighttime stroll through the crime-ridden streets of Lowtown, and Moira found herself meeting his eyes with what she hoped was an appropriately stern glare. He might be offering to help them now, but Moira was quite certain she didn't entirely trust this shadowy rogue, whether he was Fereldan or not.
"You'd be surprised where a Grey Warden's duty takes her in the course of ending the Blight," Moira retorted lightly. "Haunted forests, dens of abominations, the Deep Roads, and sometimes even to a squalid tavern or two. I think I'll manage. No offense." Expecting a scowl from the crime boss, Moira was somewhat surprised when he rewarded her with wry laughter, and a gleam in his eyes that seemed almost respectful.
"Fair enough. If you can handle the Archdemon, I suppose you can handle the Hanged Man. There are far fewer darkspawn, though far more drunken vagabonds. Mind your coinpurse, and don't say I didn't warn you." He pushed open the door, and the light from the tavern flooded into the street, beckoning them forth with warmth and revelry.
Moira paused behind Loghain to take in Hawke's features, illumined in the light from the Hanged Man. He reminded her a fair bit of Fergus – he had the same light brown eyes, and the same coppery-red hair, cropped just short enough to rest against the nape of his neck – though Moira was sure Fergus had never looked this hard, this lean and hungry, even after he'd been left for dead by Howe's thugs. Hawke's face was clean-shaven, though a dusting of stubble grazed his jaw rakishly. A growing smirk alerted Moira that Hawke had not remained blind to her assessment, and with a flush, she stalked past the rogue and into the Hanged Man.
Hawke quickly secured for them a table in the corner, away from the door and most of the ruckus near the bar. Moira took in the chaos with wary eyes, mindful of Hawke's advice, and began to realize that the wildest night at the Pearl couldn't begin to compare to the sheer riot that was the Hanged Man. A group of men who looked like they were probably pirates were engaged in a loud rendition of what sounded like a sea shanty, the "verses" punctuated by emphatic banging of flagons on the table, while a scantily-clad serving wench flitted between the tables, delivering tankards of ale with muttered epithets as she deftly avoided the roving hands of boorish patrons. A shirtless, impossibly buff qunari man leaned casually against the far wall, though he appeared disinclined to join in the revels.
"We were told this tavern was a popular establishment for many of the displaced Fereldan refugees," Loghain said, his tone making it clear that he was beginning to doubt the veracity of that information. "I suppose we were fortunate in meeting you, since you seem to have a keener finger on the pulse of the Fereldan community in Kirkwall than Viscount Dumar. Once our business for the Grey Wardens is concluded, we had intended to purchase passage back to Ferelden for as many of our fellow countrymen as we can fit aboard our chartered ships."
"Really?" There was a measure of subdued respect in Hawke's voice that had been absent before. "That's… very generous of you. It's been so long since I've met anyone else both willing and able to do anything for the Blight refugees." Hawke ran his hands through his hair. "There's… well, I know someone else who has been helping them out quite a bit. We should go pay him a visit tomorrow, although I'll warn you – he can be a bit of a wanker about strangers. A bit of a wanker in general, although I won't deny he's done good work for the sorts of people who usually end up forgotten in a pisshole like Kirkwall."
Loghain and Moira exchanged a hopeful glance. "That sounds promising, Hawke. Thank you," Moira said. She glanced askance at Hawke. "You, and any of your family with you, are welcome to join us, of course."
A strange look flitted across Hawke's eyes for just long enough for Moira to notice, and then his face again assumed the expression of nonchalance he wore so naturally. "That won't be necessary," he said, and Moira caught the faintest hint of strain beneath his easy tone. "I'm doing well enough for myself, and Maker knows there are enough of us who aren't. As for my family, well… we've each gotten used to being here in our own way." There was a vaguely anticipatory pause after his words, and Hawke took a sip of his ale before regarding Moira and Loghain with a serious expression.
"So, that Grey Warden I know? She's my sister, Bethany. It's not – it shouldn't have happened, but it's not like she had a choice, was it?" The words came out in a bitter rush, and from the way Hawke glared angrily at his ale, Moira wondered, as the revelation washed over her, what the circumstances had been to cause Hawke such pain. Her eyes met Loghain's as they shared a surprised glance, and as she saw the gentle concern in Loghain's expression, she knew she must have looked as shocked as she felt. Was there any circumstance in which joining the Grey Wardens didn't leave a trail of pain and betrayal in its wake?
"I'm sorry," Moira said, suppressing her own feelings of remembered resentment and helpless fear as she allowed her empathy for Hawke's sister to override her instinctive reaction. She knew all too well how Hawke felt. "I don't believe becoming a Grey Warden is ever a choice anyone really makes willingly." At Hawke's darkening expression, Moira realized that now was not the time to voice her own lamentation about the unjust fate of the Grey Wardens. Whatever had happened that had led to Bethany's Joining, the last thing her brother needed to hear was a funeral dirge from someone who knew all too well what a poor lot the Wardens had.
"It is a noble calling," Moira said, and she felt Loghain's hand on her leg as she spat the lies from her lips before she could choke on them. "A Grey Warden's life is hard, I won't lie, but I hope your sister can take comfort in knowing that her duty is both necessary and just." That, at least, was mostly true.
Hawke scoffed, and for a moment, it seemed as though he wanted to say something more; but then he retreated into silence, and Moira did not press him. At last, he lifted his flagon and took a sip of ale. "You're in luck, actually. She's coming into town tomorrow. I'm sure my mother will be disappointed that her tearful reunion with her baby girl is being interrupted by a couple of Grey Wardens, but the thought of Beth going back to Ferelden with the Hero herself will probably assuage her."
Moira wasn't sure how she felt at being invited to interrupt the Hawke family reunion, but this Bethany Hawke did sound like the best lead they had so far – a native Fereldan, who, if she shared the same mixed feelings about her fate that her brother seemed to, could be trusted not to enact the sorts of dubious Grey Warden politics that had so imperiled them all during the Blight. She'd need more than one inexperienced Warden, but this was a good start, at least.
"There you are, you sexy bastard." A voice that Moira could only describe as sultry washed over the table, and before she or Loghain could react, a woman dressed in what looked to be a busty corset and a pair of thigh-high boots swung into Hawke's lap, her legs straddling his waist as she gave him a decidedly unchaste kiss. Moira stared in blinkered shock at the brazen display, and a quick glance over at her fiancé revealed that he seemed as mortified as she. Moira could not stop staring at the woman's legs, her tanned skin exposed as her tunic hitched up around her waist. Was she not wearing any trousers?
"Ah, Isabela," Hawke murmured after he surfaced for air, "we're being terribly rude. I'm meeting with some very important guests at the moment."
With a careless glance, the woman tossed her head over her shoulder to look at Hawke's company, and Moira was struck with an overwhelming sense of recognition – she had seen this woman before, but she couldn't put her finger on where, or when.
"Maker's balls," Isabela gasped. "I remember you! The Hero of Ferelden in the flesh!" The saucy woman gave her a decidedly licentious smirk. "Pity you didn't decide to take me up on my offer, love. We would've had a smashing time."
At once the pieces clicked into place. "You're Isabela, the pirate from the Pearl," Moira said. She could feel the heat of Loghain's inquisitive glance boring into her, her betrothed no doubt very curious to know exactly how, and under what circumstances, she had met a randy pirate in Denerim's most notorious brothel.
"The one and the same," Isabela breezed. "Although I'm a bit sadly shipwrecked these days. Hence why I'm stuck in this cesspit of a city with angry qunari barbarians on one side and overly zealous templars on the other."
"Come now, it's not all bad," Hawke soothed, his hand shamelessly trailing up Isabela's bare leg. Moira tried not to stare. Maker's breath, she really didn't seem to be wearing any pants at all.
"Not since you marched your gorgeous arse into my bar, anyway," she cooed, her own hand sliding along Hawke's leather-clad thigh. "Before you sauntered in, all piss and vinegar, there was no one remotely intriguing in this rat hole of a tavern." She cast a lascivious glance back at Moira and Loghain. "That might have just changed, however." The look in her eyes was unmistakable, and Moira blushed hotly under the heat of Isabela's appraisal. Her face reddened for an entirely different reason when the pirate's seductive gaze wandered over to Loghain and lingered for what Moira thought to be an entirely indecent amount of time.
"And look what we have here," she hummed. "If I'm not mistaken, you're Loghain Mac Tir, aren't you? Weren't you the big bad, the traitor teyrn who stole the crown?" Despite her words, there was no admonishment in Isabela's expression – if anything, Loghain's notoriety seemed to heighten her obvious interest.
If Loghain noticed that Isabela's gaze was less than chaste, he gave no indication. "Things change," he said gruffly.
Isabela grinned lewdly. "I'll bet they do, big boy. It's a good thing Miss Hero saved your bacon – you're far too gorgeous for the gallows."
This was entirely too much. Loghain seemed too taken aback for words, but Moira was not about to sit by passively while some brazen hussy of a pirate pantslessly flaunted her wares in front of her man. She cleared her throat loudly, casting what she hoped was her best 'back off' glare at Isabela.
Her effrontery had rather the opposite effect, as Isabela chuckled in rich amusement. "Oh, pish, don't be jealous," she scolded gently, as a mother might chastise a child who pouted at being asked to share the last cookie. "You had your chance – ohhh." She nodded in sudden understanding. "You two are…" She made a crude gesture with her finger sliding into the fist of her other hand, clearly meant to simulate sexual intercourse.
Loghain harrumphed loudly. "If you absolutely must know, Moira is my fiancée, and I have no interest in your transparent advances, wench."
"Oooh, wench! I haven't been called a wench in a bronto's age! I bet you're a real firecracker in bed." Ignoring Loghain and Moira's scandalized blushes, Isabela smirked at Moira. "Before you get all prissy with me, I'm not trying to steal your man. I'm happy to share, if you like."
Moira didn't think her face could burn any redder, but she felt a renewed blast of heat flush her cheeks. "I don't think that would be appropriate, no," she managed. "We're not really the sharing sort."
If Isabela was disappointed, she didn't show it. "Ah, well," she tossed her shoulders in a careless shrug. "Can't blame a girl for trying." She turned back to Hawke, who seemed entirely nonplussed by the whole encounter. "Guess it's just you and me again tonight."
"It doesn't bother you at all that your woman blatantly solicits other lovers while sitting astride your lap?" Loghain sputtered incredulously at Hawke. Hawke merely shrugged.
"Isabela's a free spirit. I could no more lay claim to her than I could to the sea," Hawke said. Loghain scoffed and made no attempt to hide his elaborate eye roll as Isabela treated Hawke to a peck on the nose.
"Aren't you just the sweetest," she purred. "But if our esteemed guests aren't here to enjoy the finer delights of the Hanged Man – and more's the pity – then I should let you get on with it."
"Oh, no need to run off," Hawke demurred, tightening his arm around Isabela's waist. "The Heroes of Ferelden and I were actually discussing the situation in the old country. They've offered to take some of the refugees back home, but they're still having a bit of a darkspawn problem. They came here searching for Grey Wardens to recruit."
"Grey Wardens?" Isabela chuckled ruefully. "Maybe they can take that sorry bastard with them. Maker knows he goes on about the Wardens enough."
"Oh, the 'Prince of Ferelden?'" Hawke laughed. "I think they're looking for real recruits, dear, not raving drunkards."
A cold, hard lump formed in Moira's stomach as an ugly but inescapable premonition descended on her. Without thinking, she quickly glanced over to Loghain, whose stiffening posture and tightly pursed lips told her that his intuition had arrived at the same conclusion. "Wait, who is this 'Prince of Ferelden?' What is his name?"
Hawke glanced at her askance. "His name? Who knows? You can't seriously be that hard up for recruits, can you? The man's a lunatic! Always ranting about how he's the 'Prince of Ferelden' and that Teyrn Loghain deserved to hang for his crimes, and how the Grey Wardens let him down." He cast a slightly apologetic glance at Loghain. "No offense. My guess is that he had a few screws knocked loose at Ostagar." At Moira's horrified expression, Hawke's features softened slightly. "Look, I don't mean to laugh at the poor bugger. Ostagar left its scars on all of us, and I'm not one to judge. But trust me, the man's not Warden material. Maybe some of the other refugees would be good with a blade –"
"Speak of the devil," Isabela said, sliding off of Hawke's lap and taking position next to his chair. She nodded her head towards the door of the Hanged Man, which swung open with a loud crash. A clenching, panicked terror gripped Moira's insides as she forced herself to look.
"Barkeep!" Alistair bellowed as he swaggered unsteadily into the tavern. "Your strongest ale, and be quick about it!" He tossed a handful of coppers onto the bar, which the barkeeper acknowledged with a grunt.
Moira was frozen, unable to move or breathe. Alistair – once such a dear friend, who had abandoned her when she'd most needed him, and who she'd truly never thought she'd ever see again – stood before her, a ghost from the past. A wave of emotion crashed over her as she took him in.
He was changed, and yet the same. His hair had grown out a bit, and there was a rough cast to his face that hadn't been there before, but otherwise, he was as she remembered – she saw the same devil-may-care bravado, the same feckless glibness in his eyes. His clothes were modest, but not ragged, though it was clear he'd been in them for some time, and he was, as Hawke and Isabela had warned, clearly very deep in his cups.
Moira wanted more than anything for Alistair to turn around and walk right back out of the Hanged Man, for him to leave and never know that she and Loghain had ever been in Kirkwall at all. As much as a part of her yearned to reach out to her old friend, to tell him that she wanted to close the rift between them, she was no longer naïve enough to believe that such wounds could be mended by a simple round of apologies.
But, of course, she was not so fortunate.
Alistair, flagon of ale in hand, turned from the bar and strode directly towards their table. At first, he either didn't notice her, or was too dumbstruck by the incongruity of seeing his own ghost in such an unfamiliar and unexpected location. As he drew closer, the light of recognition dawned in his eyes, and a sick feeling of dread settled into Moira's stomach at the baleful expression that slowly transformed his gentle features.
"Well, look who it is," he said, loud enough to cut through the general din. "The Hero of Ferelden in the flesh, come to grace us with her presence! All hail the conqueror of the Blight!" Alistair gestured grandly towards Moira with a flourish, and the chatter died down as the tavern goers turned towards Moira, sensing the impending entertainment of a brewing confrontation.
"Alistair." Moira's voice was quiet and subdued. "It's been a long time. I hope you've been well." She felt Loghain beside her, as taut as a drawn bowstring, and she prayed silently to Andraste that he would permit his sense to overcome his pride and let her handle the situation.
"Do you? I rather doubt that," he drawled. "I doubt you've bothered to spare a moment's thought for me. Not with your pet traitor at your beck and call." He spared a withering glare for Loghain. "It must be nice, to betray your king and crown and end up with a posh gig alongside the mighty Hero! I hope she at least makes you muck out the Warden stalls. It's the least you deserve, you treacherous piece of –"
"You deign to harangue me about treason? You, who broke your vows and abandoned your order because you were denied the pleasure of seeing my head on a pike?" Loghain growled. Moira closed her eyes in dismay. Clearly, Andraste wasn't listening today. She knew she could talk Alistair down, but if Loghain gave him an opportunity to get worked up, this could only end in shouted recriminations – or worse. She put her hand on Loghain's shoulder and gave him a gentle but firm squeeze.
"Loghain served with honor and courage during the Blight, Alistair," she said, attempting to appease both her lover's pride and her former comrade's fury. "As you did, once. I know you were upset about what happened at the Landsmeet –"
"Upset." Alistair's voice was flat and disbelieving. "'Upset' doesn't begin to cover it. You abandoned me, Moira. In front of all those people, you spared him –" he jerked his head contemptuously at Loghain – "and let his viper of a daughter sentence me to death because my dear old dad couldn't keep his hands off the kitchen wenches, and – oops! – dear old dad just happened to be the king. Don't you dare lecture me about the Landsmeet."
"You abandoned me!" she retorted, her patience slipping. "You decided to leave the Wardens when you didn't get your way about Loghain! Anora wouldn't have had recourse to exile you if you hadn't made your intentions perfectly clear! You could've stayed and fulfilled your oath, but you left! You ran away! Don't you dare blame me for your choices!" Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs as long-suppressed resentments came percolating to the surface. She knew she needed to keep her head, but having Alistair here before her, still refusing to take responsibility for himself or his actions –
"Oh, you know that, do you?" he spat sarcastically. "If I'd just played nice with the butcher of Ostagar, everything would've been hunky dory? We'd have all been one big happy family, complete with laughs and smiles and wholesome Sunday dinners? Fat bloody chance. You heard that bitch Anora. I'm too much of a threat to the crown to remain alive."
Loghain shot to his feet, and Moira, whose hand had still been resting on his shoulder, was thrown off balance. She grabbed the edge of the table and stood shakily beside Loghain, who was palpably tense with rage.
"You mind your tongue, or I will mind it for you, whelp," he growled, his hands balling unconsciously into fists. "You will not speak of your queen in such a vile fashion."
"She's not my queen, remember?" Alistair retorted. "I have no queen. I have no kingdom. I have nothing, thanks to you."
Loghain growled low in his throat, and made to move, but Moira slipped in front of him, placing her hands on his chest. "Loghain, please," she said, her voice soft but urgent. "Don't take the bait." She looked into her lover's eyes, and found them hard with icy fury. She moved her hands against him, a barely perceptible caress, but it was enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes, to soften his gaze ever so slightly.
Alistair observed this interaction with a growing expression of horror and revulsion. "Maker's balls," he said, his voice thick with loathing. "Are you two –" He seemed so overcome with disgust that he was unable to complete the thought.
Moira hesitated for only a moment, torn between fanning the flames of Alistair's wrath or denying the most important relationship of her life. In the end, it wasn't even a choice.
"Loghain is my betrothed," she said, as evenly as possible, imploring for calm with unspoken urgency. "We fell in love during the Blight. He's not the man you think he is, Alistair."
It was the wrong thing to say. "Not the man I think he is?" Alistair repeated, dumbfounded. "So… he's not a traitor? He didn't betray the king and the army at Ostagar? He didn't send a blood mage to Redcliffe, or an abomination to the Circle, or hire an assassin to murder us because we might expose his lies about the Grey Wardens? Tell me, Moira, which of those things isn't true?" He paused for a dramatic moment, but before Moira could gather her thoughts to respond, he plowed ahead. "Oh, that's right! They're all true! And you're apparently willing to look the other way because, what, he's a good fuck? I never thought you'd whore your honor so cheaply."
If Moira had only just been able to contain Loghain's rage at Alistair's insults to Anora, she was utterly unable now. He stormed into the center of the tavern and slammed his fist into Alistair's jaw, laying the younger man out on the floor with the force of the blow.
"How dare you?" Loghain roared. His normally coolly composed features were twisted in rage, and Moira trembled – she'd never seen him so furious, not even at the Landsmeet. "This woman –" He swept his arm out behind him, gesturing at Moira – "killed the Archdemon and ended the Fifth Blight. It was a dearly bought victory, for which she nearly paid with her life! She faced her death with courage, because it was her duty, and because she was prepared to die to save all of Thedas! And you – " He whipped back to Alistair, who had staggered to his feet, holding his jaw in his hand. "You ran away with your tail between your legs like the mewling coward you are! You aren't fit to polish her boots."
"And yet she shares her bed with the greatest traitor in Fereldan history," Alistair said, undeterred. "You know what they say about lying down with dogs."
With another bellow of rage, Loghain charged at Alistair, but this time Alistair was ready. He lunged into Loghain, and the two men grappled furiously, exchanging blows amid the hooting and cheering of the drunken tavern revelers. Alistair, though younger, was no match in his inebriated state for Loghain, and with a roar, Loghain sent him crashing through a table, shattering the wood and spilling a table of flagons across the tavern floor. This time, Alistair groaned and rolled around on the floor, and did not look to be getting up any time soon.
"Behold! The man who would be king!" Loghain cried, turning his baleful glare to the drunken spectators. "The great Prince Alistair Theirin, heir of Calenhad!" With one last furious glower at Alistair's prone form, he marched back to their table.
"A fitting end to a miserable day," he growled. "Perhaps we should retire." It was clear from his tone that he didn't intend his words as a suggestion.
Moira's emotions roiled, as tempestuous as the seas. She loved Loghain dearly, and it warmed her heart that he was so eager to leap to her defense; but the sight of Alistair, defeated and crumpled on the floor, brought no righteous sense of vindication or triumph.
Hawke and Isabela, who had wisely refrained from interfering in the entire sordid drama, must have noticed Moira's conflicted reaction to Alistair, glancing at each other before Isabela met Moira's gaze with sympathy. "Hey, don't worry about him," she said, nodding her head towards Alistair. "We'll make sure he gets cleaned up and dried out."
"Thank you," she said sincerely. She knew she was the last person Alistair would want to see right now – and, truth be told, she was not overly fond of him at the moment, either, after the hateful things he'd said. But all she felt now, as she watched him groaning and writhing about on the floor, was pity, and shame.
"To the Void with him," Loghain said coldly. "You heard what he had to say about Moira. I don't give a tinker's damn for his opinion of me." He paused. "Maker's breath, most of it is true, after a fashion. I have had much to atone for. But Moira is beyond reproach, and I won't suffer a coward and a deserter impugning her honor."
Moira knew she should agree with him – what Alistair had said about her was monstrously unfair, and he was not without sins of his own, as Loghain correctly pointed out. But she found herself more angered than comforted by Loghain's condemnation of her wayward former friend.
"Perhaps we should retire." She echoed his statement of earlier, meeting his eyes with a look that brooked no argument. "I'm sure Hawke and Isabela can put things to rights down here." She spared a grateful glance at the rogue and the pirate. "I'm terribly sorry our first meeting went so pear-shaped. We don't usually get into vicious bar brawls."
"Well, don't tell me that. Here I was starting to think you were more fun than I gave you credit for," Hawke quipped. "Don't worry – this is one of the tamer fights the Hanged Man's seen this week. We'll get it sorted." He winked. "See you tomorrow in Hightown, Hero."
"Right. Goodnight, Hawke, Isabela." Moira felt a sudden enervating exhaustion seep through her as she stalked up the stairs, expecting Loghain to follow. She'd already forgotten that she'd agreed to meet with Hawke's Warden sister in the morning. Well, at least she'd scored one recruit for the Fereldan Wardens – the trip wouldn't be a total wash.
There is another Fereldan Warden here, her mind supplied. Whether you could get him to come with you after that display is another matter. That was a far too complicated question for tonight, however.
She did not speak to Loghain as she slipped the key Hawke had given her into the door of their rented room, and it was only after he'd closed the door firmly behind them that he gently took her elbow in his hand.
"Moira." He turned her around to look at him. He'd calmed down considerably from the height of his rage, but a heated tension still pulsed from him, his blood hot from the fight. As vexed as she was, she couldn't help but feel her own arousal stirring at the sight of her lover keyed up from a bar brawl in which he had defended her honor victoriously. "What is the matter? You seem upset."
"I am upset, Loghain! There was no need for you to humiliate him like that!" The words burst forth from her without thought, her exhaustion too great to permit tactful expression.
Loghain's expression darkened. "No? You approved of his words, then? You think yourself a whore who sold your honor so you could warm my bed?" He moved closer to her, and she could feel the heat radiating from him.
"You know I don't think that. Don't be absurd," she said, struggling to keep her hands from drifting up to palm his broad chest. "What he said was out of line. But he's not a bad person, Loghain. He's not usually like that. He was drunk, and he's still hurting from what happened at the Landsmeet. You decking him in the middle of a crowded tavern didn't help matters."
"He's still hurting? Well, let's get him a warm bottle of milk and a soft blanket, shall we? Should I tuck him in at night, too? Read him a bedtime story?" He snorted in disdain. "Alistair is a grown man, Moira. Does he think he alone has suffered pain and loss in this world? Is his loss so great as to justify abandoning all his duties and obligations? How fortunate for all of Thedas that you were possessed of more strength of spirit than your wayward friend."
"Do you think I'm not keenly aware of his weaknesses? Did you think I wanted to take command of our mission, mere weeks after being forced into a Joining that I never wanted or asked for? Do you know how much I resented Alistair for abdicating his responsibilities to me?" Moira shot back. "I know how flawed he is. I also know he has a good heart, and a gentle spirit. He doesn't deserve your hatred, Loghain."
"He wants to see me swinging from the nearest gallows," Loghain retorted. "Or don't you recall? And now he hates you for the unpardonable sin of keeping me alive. Am I supposed to embrace him as a lost brother and let bygones be bygones?"
"You don't have to embrace him!" she exploded in frustration. "But you could try not to go out of your way to antagonize him further!"
"Oh, so that little display downstairs was my fault, I take it? Tell me, Moira, how I was to avoid 'antagonizing' a man who is enraged by my very continued existence?" Loghain scowled at her. "Do you regret choosing to spare me over him? Is that it?"
Moira stared at her fiancé in wild disbelief. "Oh, for the Maker's sake, no! What an absolutely ridiculous thing to say! I love you, Loghain, how many times must I make myself plain?"
"Then why are you so irate with me for defending you against one who would impugn your honor?" he burst. "Moira, whether or not Alistair was once your friend, what he said about you was despicable and false, and I will not stand for it! What kind of betrothed – what kind of man would I be if I allowed a drunken cur to slander you openly and willfully?"
Moira opened her mouth to spit out a heated reply, but any words she might have formed died in her throat. She was still cross with him for letting the confrontation with Alistair spiral so thoroughly out of control, but she could not find true fault in his logic, even as full of masculine pride and bluster as it was. She supposed, from Loghain's point of view, she understood why he could not let an insult against her stand, but it continued to annoy her that he refused to even try to see Alistair as she saw him – as a flawed but fundamentally good man.
"I'm not angry that you defended me, although I am quite capable of defending myself, you know," she said, a vestige of irritation clinging to her voice. "I just wish you'd at least make an effort to be diplomatic every now and then."
Loghain harrumphed loudly. "Yes, well, I will be certain to lay out a spread of tea and biscuits for the next raving drunkard who calls for my execution and slanders my beloved as a cheap whore. Will that satisfy?"
Moira glared hotly at her fiancé. "Oh, now you're just being insufferable."
"Am I?" he rejoined, and Moira's breath caught in her throat as he slipped his arms around her waist. "Well, I think you're blinded by your idealism and your misplaced loyalty to one who does not deserve it."
"And you're hindered by your stubborn inability to attempt to handle delicate situations with tact and subtlety instead of charging in like a bull in a curio shop," she said, unable to resist placing her hands against the firm plane of his chest as he encircled her waist, drawing her closer.
"How dreadful it must be for you to be burdened with such a brutish oaf for a lover," he quipped, sliding his hands up her back. He trailed his hands into her hair, undoing her braid with deft fingers and spilling her auburn tresses across her shoulders.
"I never said that!" she protested, her hands moving across him of their own accord now, working the fastenings of his leather traveler's armor and dropping it, piece by piece, to the floor. "I only said that perhaps you shouldn't be so quick to rush to judgment – "
Her words disappeared into his throat, muffled by the ravenous kiss he pressed against her lips.
"Oh, do shut up," he growled, his hands roughly jerking her tunic open, exposing her smallclothes beneath, before moving down to her trouser laces. "I don't want to talk about bloody Alistair anymore."
She growled against his mouth, equally chafed and aroused by his coarse demand. "Mind your tone, ser," she chided as she pressed her lips against his throat, placing desperate kisses against his heated skin. "Perhaps you are a brutish oaf after all."
With a growl, he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her up, and Moira yelped as he carried her forward a few short steps until her back bumped up against the wall.
"I'll show you brutish, woman." Moira wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively even as she opened her mouth to retort, but any witty banter died on her tongue at the look of smoldering desire in his ice blue eyes.
"Come for me," he demanded, as he thrust inside her without prelude. A ragged groan of pleasure tore from Moira's throat as he filled her, and she arched her back against the wall, hungry to move against him and take him in deeper. He moved in her with a forceful, swift purpose, and the feel of his cock inside her, and his hand at the juncture of her thighs, kneading and rolling her sensitive nub, sent waves of pleasure cresting in her with mounting intensity.
"Loghain," she gasped, lifting her leg up higher, feeling the muscles in her thighs straining as she opened herself up wider for him. Their coupling had never been so rough or frantic, and Moira found her climax building with a rapidity that overwhelmed her, her hands clawing for purchase across the broad expanse of his back. She came for him, as he'd commanded, with an exuberant cry as the wave crashed over her at last, rippling through her blood and tingling across her skin. His own climax followed quickly, as he thrust his cock deep into her with a strangled growl, his seed spilling deep into her womb. Boneless, he leaned against the wall, bracing himself with one arm as he grasped her thighs and lowered her back to the floor with the other, sated and breathless.
By mutual accord they untangled themselves, stripping the remainder of their clothes before collapsing into the creaky, uncomfortable bed. Moira turned into Loghain, burying her face against his chest, reveling in the feel and scent of him, still damp with the sweat of their lovemaking. He draped an arm around her shoulders and snuggled her against him, a soft growl of contentment humming from his throat.
"Don't worry about things you can't control, Moira," he murmured, his hand idly stroking a soft pattern against her arm. "You can't solve all the world's problems. Let's just focus on the ones we can." She grunted in reply, her own hand tracing an aimless path through his coarse chest hair. She was entirely too exhausted to continue to argue her point about Alistair, and after feeling Loghain so intimately inside her, she found she no longer wanted to.
It was impossible to stay mad at him, she mused. That boded well for their future marriage. Her brow creased as thoughts of Alistair drifted back to the surface. She might have solved her dispute with Loghain in a very pleasant fashion, but that still left the matter of the Grey Wardens, and the Fereldan refugees, and what – if anything – to do about Alistair.
Loghain's right, she thought, as her mind floated through the ether towards the Fade. I can't solve every problem. Especially not tonight. But tomorrow, they would all be waiting for her, and she would have to deal with them.
But not tonight.
A/N:
Dear Alistair fans: I'm sorry. Really, I am. However, before you flame me, know that this isn't the last we've seen of our wayward Grey Warden prince...
Aaaand, more generally, once again I apologize for the too-long wait between chapters. I had a lot going on in life, but also a lot of good old-fashioned writer's block and crises of confidence about my writing. Hopefully, the worst of that has passed, and (HOPEFULLY) this new chapter will be out much sooner. I'd LIKE to get a couple of chapters out before the end of the year, but every time I make any promises, I end up having to eat my words, so we'll see. Feel free to send my muse some vibes, though!
As always, your support, reviews, favorites, and follows are so very appreciated. Thank you all for continuing to follow this story :)