A/N: First of all... my sincere apologies for the delay with this chapter. I have been dealing with some pretty serious writer's block and general lack of inspiration, thanks to a pretty rough patch I'm going through in life right now. There were days I struggled to figure out how to write this chapter, and other days where I sat down for hours to work on it and could only manage one sentence, if I was lucky. This chapter was tough for me to write for several reasons, but having it done at last feels so wonderful, and I feel as though a burden has been lifted that was holding me back from working on this story. I won't make any easily-breakable promises about the timing of the next update, but please rest assured that no matter how long it takes, I am NOT abandoning this story. I love Loghain and Moira, and their story will be told, no matter how long it takes.
I want to thank my dear friends betagyre and bushviper from the bottom of my heart for their endless support and encouragement of me as I've struggled with this chapter and with writing in general, and without whom this chapter probably would have taken far longer, if it ever arrived at all. You guys are the best friends a gal could ask for, and you remind me why I love this story and why I love to write when I am in danger of forgetting to myself.
Anyway... I apologize that this isn't the most exciting chapter to come back from a long hiatus with, but I hope you enjoy it anyway, and things WILL be picking up from here on out... stay tuned, and thank you so much for your support, all of you!
"Well, that went much better than I expected."
Loghain glanced up from packing clothes into his travel pack to fix Moira with a wry glance. "Yes, because most of the nobles who will stir themselves into high dudgeon at the next Landsmeet have left Denerim. Anora is cautious, but she is fundamentally fair. I did not expect her to push back against my proposal, now that her reign is secure and she enjoys the popularity of the people and the esteem of the Hero of Ferelden." Moira pulled a face at Loghain's droll use of her unwanted appellation, but he continued unfazed. "She also clearly enjoys the favor of the brother of said hero, and, well – having had a chance to become better acquainted with your brother, I am unsurprised that he is in favor as well. Your family's commitment to justice does you credit." Moira's flush was deeper this time, and Loghain turned back to his own pack, allowing her a quiet moment to experience the pang of grief that always accompanied any mention of her lost family.
"That is true," she said after a space. "And Anora's privy council comprises only her longtime loyalists. Whatever their true feelings about elves or the alienages, they would never dare contradict the wishes of their queen in public."
"The true test will not come until the next Landsmeet. It is one thing to convince Anora and your brother, and quite another to corral enough support amongst those bickering fools, many of whom will no doubt balk at the notion of allowing elves to mingle amongst their freeholders as equal subjects whose support can make or break their rule."
Moira returned his wry look and resumed filling her own pack. That was true enough – it was one thing to announce a revolutionary proposal for the rights of elves to Anora, Fergus, and other crown loyalists; it would be quite another to debate abolishing the alienages and granting elves the full rights of Fereldan freeholders at the next Landsmeet, where no doubt the various banns and arls who benefited from the current arrangement would defend the status quo vigorously. It certainly guaranteed that the next Landsmeet would be lively.
"Oh, I expect your proposal to abolish alienage restrictions to invite outrage once the news spreads," Moira agreed. "But I truly thought we'd meet more resistance from Anora about appointing Alistair as the Warden-Commander in Ferelden. She did rather publicly exile him, after all."
"Yes, but she's no fool. She knows it was a choice between a devil she knows – and a fairly benign devil, at that – and a devil she doesn't. She also understands that Alistair never truly desired her throne and presents no real threat."
Moira arched an eyebrow at Loghain. "That's what I spent months trying to tell you, and you fought me every inch of the way. Stubborn man. I'm glad you've finally deigned to see reason."
Loghain harrumphed. "Well, the boy hardly helped his own case," he grumped. At Moira's exasperated glare, he offered a wry half-smile. "But yes, perhaps I was too prideful to admit that I was wrong about him. Fortunately for me, I have a patient woman who endures my bullish obstinacy with grace."
It was Moira's turn to snort. "Well, it's fortunate that Anora is more sensible than her thick-headed father. She acceded quite readily once I presented my case for accepting Alistair's oath as the Warden-Commander of Ferelden." Moira's smile softened, and she laid a gentle hand on Loghain's forearm. "She's a strong-minded and willful woman, but she's reasonable enough to listen to her advisors and accept sound judgments that might challenge her own. She's going to make a great queen, you know."
A look of paternal pride crossed Loghain's face. "She already is," he said quietly.
They were interrupted by a knock at the door; with a roll of his eyes, Loghain stepped away from Moira and opened the door to greet a palace courier.
"My apologies, Your Grace. I am given to understand that you and Lady Cousland are preparing to depart for Gwaren, but a party of Grey Wardens has made an unexpected arrival at the palace, and they have requested your presence."
"A party of Grey Wardens?" Loghain narrowed his eyes. "Who are these Grey Wardens, and from where did they 'unexpectedly arrive'?" He harrumphed in displeasure and regarded the courier with a vexed glower. "As you are no doubt aware, Lady Cousland and I are no longer within the Grey Warden chain of command in Ferelden. Direct these new arrivals to Warden-Commander Alistair and Warden Bethany."
The courier seemed ill-at-ease. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, but they insisted upon meeting with the heroes of the Blight who had slain the Archdemon. They claim to have orders from Weisshaupt to discuss the ending of the Fifth Blight with the Wardens who were present for the final battle. It all sounded like administrative Grey Warden nonsense, if you'll beg my pardon."
Loghain met Moira's eyes and they shared an expression of long-suffering impatience. It was true enough that word of Alistair and Bethany's return to Ferelden had likely not yet reached the Grey Warden hierarchy, but even so, they had been naïve to imagine that the Wardens would not be curious about the Hero of Ferelden's miraculous survival. According to Riordan, no Warden could survive the destruction of the Archdemon – that one somehow had would invariably raise a myriad of questions.
Moira felt a tremor of unease ripple through her – what would happen when these Wardens discovered she and Loghain no longer bore the taint? Ser Stroud had been intrigued, but declined to press them further; she very much doubted these Wardens, if they were dispatched from Weisshaupt to determine exactly what had happened at the end of the Blight, would be so easily satisfied. What would she tell them? She recalled Leliana's heated exhortation not to trust the Wardens with the secret of the ashes – but then what would she say? What explanation could she come up with to satisfy the Wardens and discourage further curiosity?
"And these Wardens insist upon meeting with us now? Meaning that they'll just follow us to Gwaren if we don't get this nonsense done and over with?" Loghain groused. The courier had no real response to that, of course, and so Loghain heaved a defeated sigh. "Very well. Inform the Wardens we shall be there shortly."
The courier bobbed his head in a polite nod, clearly relieved. "Of course, Your Grace. At once." When the door closed behind him, Loghain turned to Moira with a wary eye.
"Just when I thought we were done with Grey Wardens for awhile," Loghain growled. "I should have known we couldn't be that fortunate."
"It's not surprising that the Wardens would want a firsthand account of the end of the Fifth Blight," Moira allowed. "Especially if word has reached them that I have recovered from my affliction. Riordan claimed no Warden could survive slaying the Archdemon. They must wonder why I am the exception."
"And if you remain determined to shield the truth of the Sacred Ashes from them, their curiosity is most inconvenient," Loghain replied. "What, exactly, are you going to tell them? Surely not the truth."
"No," she said at once. "I… I can't. I know you don't believe in Leliana's visions – "
"I would not be so quick to discount your friend," Loghain interrupted softly. "I… whatever she experienced in the Temple affected her profoundly. I do not know whether it was truly a sign from the Maker, but…" He sighed. "I certainly trust Leliana more than I trust a contingent of Grey Wardens I've never met."
So did Moira, of course… but that did not resolve her dilemma of what, exactly, she ought to tell these Wardens. The truth about the Sacred Ashes was out of the question, she had already decided that much, but then – what? She supposed the nearest version of the truth was probably the best course.
"I'll just tell them I don't know what happened," she said. "After all, that's true enough, isn't it? I have no idea why I survived killing Urthemiel. By all accounts, I shouldn't have. My prolonged unconsciousness, the Ashes, the curing of the taint… all of that arose as an unintended consequence of my survival. And since I truly don't know why I survived…" She shrugged. "Ignorance is perhaps the best, and most honest, defense."
Loghain's face drew into a grimace at Moira's matter-of-fact recounting of her certainty that she would die on Fort Drakon. "Well, I for one am eternally thankful to the Maker that the Grey Warden legends were wrong," he said, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. She returned his affection with a gentle smile and a squeeze of his hand.
"As am I. I suppose dealing with an inquisitive lot of Wardens is a bearable price to pay for surviving the battle."
They exited their quarters and made their way to the palace's reception chamber, where a group of five Grey Wardens waited, their attention turning to Moira and Loghain as the Heroes of Ferelden entered. A quick appraisal yielded to Moira a cursory notion of the group's dynamics. A tall man, trim but fit, stood before the rest of the Wardens, who clearly deferred to him. He was a man of around Loghain's age, handsome in a coldly patrician way, with close-cropped hair the color of steel and eyes as icy blue as Loghain's. Flanking him were two mages: a trim elven woman, tall and willowy, whose eyes remained downcast even as Moira took her measure, and a nondescript man with dark hair and eyes – perhaps Nevarran, though Moira could not say for certain – who stood closely to the older Warden's elbow, as if offering silent support. Rounding out the group were two large, well-built men with the rough, weathered faces of lifelong soldiers. They stood one to each side of the group, scowling suspiciously as Loghain and Moira entered the chamber.
A prickle of apprehension crept along Moira's spine as the older man appraised her. A rapid succession of minute expressions flitted almost imperceptibly across his stern features, almost too quickly for Moira to take note – but by the time she'd registered his reaction, he had reassembled his face into a mask of cool nonchalance.
He knows, she thought, her insides squirming with unease. The dark-eyed mage, too, had clearly taken note – though he, unlike the steely-eyed warrior, made no attempt to disguise the naked curiosity in his gaze. The elven mage still refused to meet her eyes, and the other two warriors glowered impassively.
"The Heroes of Ferelden, vanquishers of the Fifth Blight." The older man spoke, his voice mellifluous with the clipped accent of the Orlesian nobility. "It is a true honor to meet you. " He dipped his head in a formal bow before extending a gauntleted hand to Moira. "You must be the Warden Moira Cousland, by whose hand the Archdemon now lies dead."
Moira could not see Loghain's expression, but she could feel the tension radiating palpably from him as the Orlesian man took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.
"I am Armand Montclair, Senior Warden in command of the Jader outpost. These are my fellow Wardens," he said, gesturing expansively at his companions. "All of us are most certainly indebted to you both for ending the Blight before it could spread further." He bowed again, and this time, Moira managed a glance askance at Loghain just in time to see him stiffen in mounting indignation.
"Before it could spread to Orlais, you mean," he said, his voice taut with barely suppressed disdain. The Orlesian – Montclair – turned to Loghain for the first time, scrutinizing him with a quick but studied glance.
"You must be Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir," Montclair said, his voice carefully neutral. "Word of your conscription reached Jader just before the news of the death of the Archdemon. You are a man of some infamy in Orlais… but, of course, we all leave our pasts behind us when we take up the mantle of the Grey." His expression betrayed no change, but Moira detected a rueful undercurrent to his guarded words.
Loghain grunted and fixed Montclair with a flinty gaze. "A foolhardy fantasy entertained only by those who have never known what it is to bleed for their homeland. No poisoned chalice can undo who we are, or what we have done."
The Orlesian smiled tightly. "Perhaps you are right, Warden Mac Tir. Perhaps we are, all of us, slaves to the past. Perhaps not even the shared bond of our corruption can overcome blood hatreds older still." He returned Loghain's steely gaze with his own unflinching expression. "But I am not here to fight my father's war, Hero of River Dane. I am here because it seems that, for the first time in recorded history, a Warden has survived the destruction of the Archdemon. An impossible feat, if you believe the legends. Weisshaupt is very curious how the Lady Warden Cousland has managed to do what no Grey Warden has ever done." His gaze slipped from Loghain back to Moira, fixing her with the same calculated stare. The apprehension that had crawled along Moira's spine upon first meeting the Wardens returned in spades. She'd known that these questions were forthcoming; had known it as soon as the courier had announced the Wardens' arrival. But now that they had come, she found herself uneasy with the lies she knew she would have to tell, unsure of whether her words would be enough to forestall the burning curiosity of the Wardens.
Before Moira could reply, Montclair raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, his gaze softening. "I apologize for the stridency of my tone, Warden Cousland. I do not mean to be so abrupt. You must understand that this is an unprecedented, and, frankly, baffling state of affairs. Weisshaupt is not accustomed to any defiance of its age-old traditions, purposeful or no."
Moira noticed that none of Montclair's companions seemed inclined to speak: the two warriors continued to glower sullenly; the elven mage seemed drawn in on herself, as if trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible; and the dark-haired mage, though his inquisitive expression belied his interest in the conversation, maintained a steady silence. Perhaps the Grey Wardens of Jader stood far more on ceremony than Moira ever had with Alistair, Duncan, or Loghain; but then again, she'd never truly been a 'proper' Warden, brought up in the ranks and subject to the chain of command. Armand Montclair was clearly the leader of these Wardens, and the others seemed content to allow him to speak for them all. Still, Moira found herself curious, and wished now she'd had the presence of mind to ask Riordan about his comrades. What were true Grey Wardens, who'd served for years under the Warden chain of command, really like? She understood for the first time that she had no idea what it was truly like to live as a Grey Warden.
"Of course, Warden Montclair," she replied, eagerly seizing upon Montclair's diplomatic olive branch. "In truth, my education as a Grey Warden was sorely lacking. I was not properly… informed of the consequences of the Joining until after my commander was killed in battle. What I know was pieced together from my fellow Warden Alistair, and later Riordan, who I believe served with you at Jader." Montclair's eyes remained carefully blank, and if the mention of Riordan had meant anything to him, he did not show it. "Riordan informed me of the fate of the Warden who strikes the final blow against the Archdemon, and yet… after I slew Urthemiel, I fell into a deep, unwaking slumber, but I did not die." So far, so good – she'd been able to tell the truth up to a point, after all. But now came the lies, and Moira had never been a particularly adept liar.
"So I see," Montclair replied pithily. "You must understand how surprising the news of your survival was to those of us who, to put it bluntly, had expectedly only to hear the name of the Warden whose sacrifice would join those of the other heroes of past blights who gave their lives to end the darkspawn menace. When we heard that you had survived in a dreamless slumber, we were all quite taken aback, but then again – it has been over four hundred years since the Fourth Blight. Perhaps Warden lore was just that – legends that had grown in the retelling. But when further word reached us of your miraculous recovery, Weisshaupt became suspicious. How could the traditions, the tales of our order have been so wrong? You understand why they seek answers." He regarded her with a canny look. "And even Weisshaupt does not know that you no longer bear our corruption. I find myself consumed with curiosity at the mystery you present, Lady Cousland. How is it that you have not only survived slaying the Archdemon, but emerged from the battle cured of the taint?"
Moira shared a brief glance with Loghain, whose fierce gaze offered her silent support. She was grateful that he'd been sensible enough to refrain from further baiting the Orlesian Warden and allowed her to direct the conversation, and she knew that, no matter what story she concocted for the benefit of these Wardens, he would give his assent without question.
She decided to tell the simplest lie. "I honestly don't know what happened," she said, which was at least somewhat true. "After killing the Archdemon, I fell unconscious on the ramparts. Loghain realized I still lived, and saw to it that I was taken into convalescence in the palace. I was later told that I remained asleep for nearly two months. When I awakened, I no longer bore the taint. Neither did Loghain. I cannot explain it." Moira willed herself not to shake, nor display any outward signs of nervous anxiety – Montclair knew no more than she did, after all, and as long as she and Loghain could maintain a credible ignorance, then what more could the Warden say?
Montclair's eyes narrowed, his expression a mask of thoughtful but intense scrutiny that focused on each Fereldan in turn. "I could perhaps understand if, somehow, slaying the Archdemon removes the taint from the Warden who strikes the final blow, but why should that have affected Warden Mac Tir? You are telling me that any Warden who is near the Archdemon when it perishes is cured of the taint? How can this be?"
"Did the taint leave you immediately after the death of the Archdemon? Did you perhaps come into direct contact with any of its blood? Its ichor?" The dark-haired mage spoke up now, his own eyes shining with eager interest. Montclair shot him a quick, hard look, and the mage slumped back into place, falling silent.
"Lucian – I will ask the questions of our gracious hosts. Let us not make these heroes feel as if we are subjecting them to an inquisition," the Orlesian snapped.
The mage's face burned red with shame as he bowed his head. "Of course, Lord Montclair. My deepest apologies. I meant no offense."
"It's all right," Moira interjected, feeling awkward about the obvious embarrassment of the mage at his commander's upbraiding, and seeing a chance to reinforce the lie she and Loghain needed these Wardens to believe. "I know it sounds absurd and unbelievable, but truly – we have no explanation, nor any plausible theories. Perhaps if I had been a more experienced Warden –"
"Warden Mac Tir," Montclair said, fixing a skeptical eye on Loghain. "When did you notice that you no longer bore the taint? You did not experience the same… reaction… to the Archdemon's death as Warden Cousland."
"I have no idea," Loghain responded gruffly. "The aftermath of the battle was chaos, and I was far more concerned with Moira than with myself. The darkspawn were gone, and the only other being in Denerim who still bore the taint was Moira. I was far too preoccupied with her ill health to focus on whether I could sense the taint in her, and I did not spare a thought to whether I still experienced it myself. Perhaps it disappeared the moment the Archdemon died, or perhaps when Moira awakened. I do not have an answer for you, Orlesian."
Montclair pursed his lips tightly, and Moira felt her stomach drop – he did not believe them, and he was not satisfied with their explanation. Would he be able to find out about the ashes somehow? Who else knew, besides Leliana? Anora and Fergus, but they were certainly not going to volunteer any information, nor would the Grey Wardens have the kind of influence to demand the Queen of Ferelden and the Teyrn of Highever submit to their interrogation. The lie might be flimsy and incredible, but how could the Wardens disprove it?
"You'll forgive my skepticism," Montclair said. "It is just that… many Wardens have struggled in vain for centuries to discover a cure for the Calling. It is our curse, and one we bear gladly to serve Thedas, and yet… if there is anything you know, any clue or information you can provide, that would aid the Order in discovering how to reverse the Calling…" He trailed off, and for the first time, Moira felt a pang of sympathy. How devastated had she been when Alistair had revealed the true nature of the taint to her, when she'd realized for the first time that her life was bound to the Blight, that it would eventually claim her and turn her into a husk of her former self? How could she truly blame these Wardens for grasping at any hope that the taint might not be irreversible?
For a moment, she considered telling them everything – about her coma, about Loghain's journey, about the ashes. But Leliana's stern exhortation echoed in her mind, along with the promise she'd sworn at her friend's insistence – and who was Moira to discount Leliana's visions, or, at least, Leliana's faith in those visions? Without Leliana, she would have been lost to the Void, trapped in an unbearable prison with a fragment of Urthemiel's cursed soul for eternity. Loghain would have stumbled through his grief, inconsolable and furious with his own helplessness, until the Calling at last claimed him too. And so, if for no other reason than to keep faith with her dear friend, Moira kept the secret of the ashes in her heart.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I wish I could help you… I truly do." That, at least, was not a lie.
Montclair nodded absently, though he was unable to fully keep the disappointment from reaching his eyes. Perhaps he had never become accustomed to hiding his emotions without the benefit of the mask he'd once worn, when he had played the Grand Game, in a different life that no longer belonged to him.
"I understand. I suppose that Weisshaupt will not be pleased with the lack of conclusive answers, but then again, when is Weisshaupt ever pleased? They shall have to be content with my report. I cannot promise that the First Warden will be satisfied, but… it is out of my hands now." He shrugged. "I thank you for your time, Heroes of the Blight, and apologize for the intrusion. It has been a pleasure." He bowed, and his companions followed suit: the dark-haired mage – Lucian – bowed his head deeply, the elven mage managed a brief nod before shrinking back into herself, and the warriors each managed a surly squint that might have been an acknowledgment. Moira returned a courtly bow of her head, and even Loghain managed a nod and a grunt. At a gesture from Montclair, the Wardens turned and filed out of the chamber, leaving Moira and Loghain alone with their thoughts.
"Well, that went better than I thought it would," Moira said, echoing her sentiment from earlier in the day. She supposed that for a day of multiple uncomfortable conversations, this one could have been much worse.
"I don't trust that Orlesian," Loghain grated. "He accepted our paper-thin fabrications far too easily. If you think we've heard the last from the Grey Wardens, then I'm afraid you'll be rudely surprised."
Moira cast an exasperated glare at him. "Of course you don't trust an Orlesian, Loghain – your default reaction to every Orlesian in Thedas is sullen suspicion! You glowered and sulked at Ser Stroud, too, and he was perfectly lovely."
"Armand Montclair did not strike me as 'perfectly lovely,'" Loghain retorted. "I've met his like before. It is the Orlesian way to offer flowery words and false promises before slipping a knife between your ribs, smiling all the while. It's all a part of the 'Grand Game.' I'd wager all the gold in the treasury that he didn't believe a word we said, and is just biding his time."
"Biding his time to do what? Come back and ask us more questions? If he does, then we'll tell him the same thing we told him today." She regarded him with a weary expression. "Not every Orlesian is playing the Game, Loghain. If Montclair has been a Warden long enough to command an entire garrison, then he hasn't been directly involved in Imperial politics for years. He struck me as a man who just wanted answers, and frankly, I don't blame him. If I still bore the taint and I thought another Warden knew of a cure…"
Loghain sighed, sensing Moira's conflict, and wrapped his arms around her. "Perhaps you're right," he admitted grudgingly. "I do have… an inherent bias when it comes to Orlesians. Especially swanning nobles like Montclair." He sighed again. "You weren't there, Moira. Even if you've heard the tales, you don't truly know how they treated us, during…" His own voice now fell silent, and Moira returned his embrace, snuggling her face against his shoulder. Loghain had come so far in letting go of his festering hatreds and resentments since their love affair had blossomed, but she knew that his enmity for Orlais was a wound that might never fully heal.
"You're right. I don't know, and I'll never truly understand," she agreed. "But… you know Leliana now. You've met Stroud. I'm not asking you to forgive what the Orlesians did during the occupation, or give every Orlesian you meet the benefit of the doubt, but… perhaps you shouldn't see every Orlesian you meet through the prism of the war. They aren't all singly responsible for what was done to Ferelden."
He held her wordlessly for several long moments. "No," he finally said. "I suppose they aren't." He pulled away from her gently, and regarded her with a solemn expression. "But I cannot forget what their imperialism and arrogance allowed, and might allow again, someday. Orlais might not occupy Ferelden any longer, but the Empire hasn't truly changed. Celene was still scheming only a year ago to regain Ferelden in a bloodless coup. You cannot change the nature of the beast, no matter how much you might will it."
"Montclair is not Celene," she reminded him. "Not every Orlesian is an agent of the Empire."
"Perhaps not," he allowed. "But you'll allow an old man his well-earned aversion."
Moira could not help but smile. "As long as your 'well-earned aversion' doesn't get us into diplomatic hot water or create more problems than it solves," she said wryly.
Loghain harrumphed. "I highly doubt that Anora will appoint me to head up any Orlesian diplomatic delegations, so fret not."
"And thank the Maker for that. Ugh." She made a disgusted noise. "Grey Wardens, Orlesians, Denerim politics… this day has been far too tedious. Weren't you supposed to whisk me away to Gwaren and show me some beautiful seaside cliffs?"
"If the ship I chartered is still waiting at the docks," Loghain groused. "Let's see if we can make it without any more Maker-damned delays. If we don't leave soon, we won't have enough time to visit the teyrnir before the wedding."
The mention of their wedding sent a trill of joy through Moira's heart. "It would be nice to set my eyes on Gwaren before I return there as teyrna."
"Teyrna," Loghain murmured, raising a hand to trace a gentle finger along her jaw. "I never truly thought I would have occasion to call another woman that, after I lost my Celia." A moment passed, as his fingertips lingered against the soft skin of her cheek. "I think she would be happy to pass the mantle to you, my love."
Moira swallowed past a hard lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. She could think of no response to such poignant words, and so she simply placed her hand over his.
"Then take me home," she said.