A/N Sorry. Language.


Her pacing was driving him mad. Not only was the incessant back and forth making Loghain feel like they were still on that Maker forsaken boat, but the air had taken on a distinctive coppery smell. The scent of blood. And Loghain was certain that was not a good sign when you were trapped in a very small room with a very angry blood mage.

The sadistic Templars were making them wait. And wait they had, most patiently, Loghain thought. But enough was enough. They had arrived at the tower not long after dawn and it was now closer to sunset. If he hadn't been so used to the seemingly never ending hurry and wait of Ferelden politics, he expected he might be pacing as well.

The tang of blood rose sharply. Loghain was going to have to distract her, and soon, if he valued his continued breathing. He wasn't completely sure he did, at that, but if he was going to die, he did not want it to be at the hands of Templars coming to strike her down for practicing blood magic in the Circle tower.

It occurred to Loghain that he would do just that; he would put himself between Kya and any Templar who got a funny idea. And that was a very interesting turn of events in the mind of a man that had once paid a large sum of gold to have her murdered.

"Kya," he said finally, deciding it was best not to ponder that realization too deeply. "If you do not stop pacing I . . . ."

"You what?" she snapped. Loghain raised an eyebrow at her, but was secretly pleased as the scent of blood in the air faded a bit.

"I don't know," Loghain said with a ghost of a smile. "I'll think of something, but I promise I won't bother hiring the Crows again."

"I . . . I have nothing witty to say to that," she replied. She frowned and sat down hard on the stone bench beside him. She was quiet for a moment, folding and unfolding her hands in her lap. "I still can't believe you did that," she said, still looking at her hands. "It seems so beneath you."

Alright then. If belittling him was going to distract her best, so be it. Loghain was suddenly very concerned about his own sanity. But she was looking at him then, pointedly, waiting for a reply.

"It was," he said finally. "I'm not proud of what I did. But I thought it was necessary, at the time. I saw Cailan about to hand Ferelden back to Orlais, and the Grey Wardens seemed quite willing to do whatever he asked. What else could I think?"

She stared at him.

Loghain was never one to back down from a decision once it was made. Granted, the assassin wasn't a decision he'd actually made himself. But he wasn't about to behave like a mewling child and point the finger at Howe, even if the scheme was of his devising. It was just one more thing he let happen, even when he knew it was wrong. He was more than willing to kill in a fight, face to face, with his own life hanging in the balance. But poison and a blade in the back was just wrong. And he knew it.

He knew it then, and he knew it now under the blue gaze of those wide eyes. It took every ounce of self discipline Loghain had not to look away.

"Now that you know who the last of the Grey Wardens are," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Do you regret it?"

Loghain felt the blood drain from his face. How do you answer such a question? Is there a right answer? He'd never been one to care what anyone thought. He did what had to be done. He'd always done what had to be done.

Hindsight was a cruel, heartless bitch.

"I honestly don't know," he said eventually, although he wasn't entirely sure it was the truth.

"Ah," she said softly. She looked away. Loghain gratefully closed his eyes. He thought that if he listened closely enough, he might hear the sound of breaking stone.

The door swung open on silent hinges and a shaft of light spilled in, lighting up the dust in the air like sparks.

"It is time," Greagoir said.

Loghain opened his eyes to see Kya slowly rise to her feet. Her face was still and emotionless. She nodded at Greagoir and the light from the doorway spilled across her face and lit up the strands of her hair to a brilliant golden copper. She looked to him like a proud marble statue of some ancient thing. She looked like what he imagined Maric's mother, Queen Moira, might have looked as her Banns turned on her in cold blood.

Proud and unwilling to concede.

Loghain came to his feet behind her. He had a sudden urge to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but he stopped himself. He followed as she swept out of the room, the hem of her robe brushing plumes of dust from the stones beneath her feet.

He realized the hem was tattered and much mended. His eyes slowly tracked upward as they walked. There were many patched holes in these robes; several on her upper back and her shoulder. Small jagged holes that had been sewn shut again. It occurred to him that these were the self same robes she was wearing the day he met her at Ostagar. And those holes were likely from darkspawn arrows, as she fought her way to the top of the tower to light the beacon.

The beacon he had ignored.

Loghain had noticed she did not have scars on her flesh to go along with the holes in her robes. Magical healing must have sealed those wounds as if they'd never happened. But he could see that she had many scars, nonetheless. Just as he did.

His were on his skin and in his soul.

He couldn't begin to imagine where she kept hers.


"Jowan," Greagoir began. "You have been found guilty of practicing blood magic. As the Knight-Commander of the Circle of Magi's Templars, I brand you maleficarum. The sentence for this crime against the Maker is death."

"I understand," Jowan replied.

Loghain looked over at Kya. Her eyes were riveted on Jowan's; he could almost feel the connection between them as if it was a tangible thing. No more strong than a thread of spider web, but he could feel that she would be bound to him forever by this.

Greagoir nodded sharply. The pair of Templars at Jowan's sides took his arms roughly and brought him to his knees. They laid his head against the heavy wooden block, sweeping the length of his stringy hair away from his neck. Despite the position of his head, Jowan still kept his eyes lifted, searching for Kya. She knelt down until she was face to face with him.

A third Templar, this one with a black band tied around each arm, stood behind Jowan and lifted his sword. Unbelievably, Kya smiled at Jowan; she smiled like the light of the Maker himself. Jowan's eyes lit up, and his mouth opened slightly. Kya pressed her fingers to her lips, and then pressed them against Jowan's face. Tears spilled from his eyes.

"May the Maker have mercy on your soul," Greagoir said with brutal finality.

And the sword fell.

It fell in one swift, methodical motion. The horrific sound of steel meeting flesh and bone leapt up and a mist of blood flew through the air like rain.

Jowan's head rolled until it was against Kya's knees.

Loghain expected screams. But instead, she gently kissed her fingers again, heedless of the blood and touched Jowan's cheek one last time. Loghain swore that he would never look at her the same way again.

Slowly, she rose to her felt. He almost expected her to stumble, but she held her ground.

"It is done," Greagoir said.

She nodded. Her face was grim. Very grim indeed.

"Yes," she said, her voice steady as the stone walls of the tower. She turned towards the doors and took a few careful steps. Then she stopped and turned again, as slow as if she was moving under water.

"And now I am free of you all," she said. "You will never see my face again. This I swear."

And with that, she spun on her heel. The hem of her robe flared out behind her, red and gold and soaked in blood.

She told Loghain that she'd been in awe of him when they met. He knew exactly how she felt.


"Andraste's dirty . . . .cunt!" Kya screamed.

The boat was on the other side of the lake. Loghain could just barely make out the glint of a Templar's armor through the mist, a pair of them it seemed. Between them there was a tiny figure that could have only been a child.

Another mage for the tower it seemed.

Kya stomped back and forth, pacing again. "This is just my sodding luck," she spat. "It's hardly a dramatic exit when I have to wait for the sodding boat!"

Loghain was entirely more amused than he should have been. All that quiet awe was bound to make him rethink his place in the world. But Kya stomping her feet and cursing like a pirate was more than a little interesting.

She spun to face him, pushing a finger into the middle of his chest.

"And you," she snapped. "What are you smirking at?"

Loghain raised an eyebrow. He hadn't realized he'd looked as amused as he felt. He was losing his touch.

"Do you think this is funny?" she said. And she was deadly serious. Loghain felt his amusement dissolve. "Are you really the sick sodding fuck that everyone thinks you are?"

"Kya," he said firmly.

"What?" she said, the pitch of her voice rising.

"This isn't going to help," he replied. "Trust me."

"What do you know?" She pushed both hands against his chest. "How could you know how I feel?"

Loghain frowned. "I do know how you feel." He paused and waited for her angry reply, but none came. "When Maric was lost," he continued. "I refused to believe it. I was angry at the entire world for thinking that he might just die in the sea. Maric couldn't die."

Kya just stared, but her hands clutched at the front of his shirt. He could feel her short nails poking him through the thin fabric.

"But eventually, I had to accept it. Being angry didn't make Maric live," he said. "It just made me a fool."

Her hands clenched tighter.

"And do you know what I did then, once I accepted that my friend, my brother, my King was dead?" Loghain said. "I wept. Like a child. And I am not embarrassed to admit it."

Kya's chin trembled, just a bit. If he hadn't been staring at her so intently, he might have missed it.

"Did . . . did it help?" she whispered.

"No," he admitted. "But there was nothing else I could do."

Loghain watched her closely. He was completely at a loss as to what she was going to do. She behaved like a madwoman, at times. She made decisions he couldn't understand, yet they seemed to always turn out to be the right choices in the end. He had a few ideas about what she might do, but the last thing he expected was what she finally did.

She crumpled up against him, burying her face in her hands where they still grasped his shirt.

He didn't move at first. No one came to Loghain Mac Tir to be comforted. Occasionally, he knew the right thing to say, but when it was time for tears, he was always the stoic watcher. But instinctually, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and felt hers finally release their death grip on his shirt, slipping around his waist. She buried her face in his neck, and he tilted his head up, setting his chin on her hair.

Her hair smelled like blood and despair. And of all things, Andraste's Grace.