The ceremony was not nearly as painful as he expected. Loghain had almost been able to see the heckling and the vulgar comments behind his eyes for hours before they stood in front of the assembled crowd. But instead it was silent and reverent. The crowd was so quiet with not even the expected interruptions of coughing and shuffling feet. He wasn't sure how to take it.
Kya stood beside him, teeth clenched and pale. She seemed to be making it a point to not look at the play-King as he spoke. Loghain wanted to tear apart every word Alistair said, but found he couldn't. Anora was a good influence on him after all. The boy was learning quickly it seemed, and he spoke in a measured but passionate voice. And even more surprisingly, he seamlessly avoided the entire subject of his own absent charge. It went unspoken, but certainly no one in attendance had forgotten it. Least of all, himself.
Despite the calm nature of the speech, Loghain was glad when it was over. He wanted nothing more than to slink away, before he had to face one more set of accusing eyes. Perhaps they hadn't thrown stones, but their hard expressions were just as bruising.
Once, Loghain Mac Tir was a hero. Today, he felt like a dirty secret.
He tried to disappear into the crowd, but he felt a hand grab his elbow harshly. He snapped his head back, expecting to see Kya. Instead it was Alistair, of all people. And Kya was no where to be found.
"What?" Loghain growled. It wasn't really the appropriate way to address the King of Ferelden, but it was no different than the way he spoke to Maric for all those years. Old habits die hard.
Alistair looked unconcerned about Loghain's tone, but looked deadly serious nonetheless.
"We need to talk," Alistair said quietly.
Loghain raised an eyebrow. "About exactly what, Your Majesty?"
"Don't," Alistair snapped. "You don't want to say it any more than I want to hear it. Especially not from you."
"As you wish," Loghain sighed. "Regardless, I still would like to know what we could possibly have to say to each other."
"Look," Alistair sighed. "I don't like you and you don't like me. But . . . Maker's breath, just come with me."
Loghain shook his head at Alistair's back. He had no idea what Alistair could conceivably want from him. Certainly not his scintillating conversational skills, he was sure, but Loghain followed nonetheless. Think what he might about the boy's parentage, but he was still the King of his beloved Ferelden and as such, he had to respect the title, at least. Not that he'd done right by the last King, however.
The thought hit Loghain hard. Maric's sons, both of them. And Cailan; Dead by his hand as surely as if he'd run him through like Maric had to Katriel. Loghain did what had to be done and he believed it still, but as he watched Alistair walk he realized just how much both Maric's sons were like him. And Maric was the brother he never had. And now? If Maric were here, he would do to Loghain what he did to his elven lover. And honestly, he'd deserve it.
Loghain promised Maric he'd look out for Cailan, no matter what. Maker's breath.
Alistair stopped suddenly as they reached the enclave again, putting his hands on either side of the trunk that was still perched on top of the table. Loghain had been surprised that Maric's blade had not made an appearance during the memorial, and wondered at it more as Alistair slowly opened the chest. The lid fell open with a dull thud.
Loghain heard the distinct sound of the dragonbone blade being pulled from it's sheath. It sounded nothing like steel. It reminded him of the hollow, almost wet sound of an arrow striking flesh. It was a sound Loghain knew well.
Now it felt like Alistair was about to do the thing that Maric could not. He was going to pay back treachery with death. And use his father's sword to do it. What other reason could he have?
He saw Alistair's shoulders tense and Loghain could almost feel the blade against his skin. He could have retreated; the boy was moving so slowly he might have been made of stone, but he stood his ground. If the boy was going to murder him with Maric's sword, he was going to die on his feet like a man. Not running away like a coward. Loghain had never run from anything in his life. Well, except for that one time, horrified of a woman he happened to have fallen in love with, completely against his better judgement. Kya. The memory made his chest feel warm. At least he'd die with that moment as his last thought. It wasn't such a bad way to go, after all.
Loghain set his jaw as Alistair turned to face him. But instead of gripping the hilt, the blade lay prone across the King's palms, glittering faintly in the dying light.
"You recognize it, I'm sure," Alistair said, looking up from the blade to meet Loghain's glare.
He grunted. "Naturally," he replied. "I was there when he found it."
"I know," Alistair said. He made a face and ran a hand through the short spikes of his hair. "Look, after all that has happened, I think you owe me something."
Loghain frowned. "And what's that? What more could I possibly give for Ferelden except my life? Unless that is your intention here."
"No such luck, I'm afraid," Alistair scowled. "Are you always this paranoid?"
"Usually," Loghain snorted.
Alistair shook his head. "What I was trying to say . . . ," he sighed again. He was starting to sound like a bellows. But then his face became very serious; his eyes were flint. "We both know that the Calling is going to happen for you soon."
"Do we know that?" Loghain said. "Because I can't say that I do."
"Don't be stupid," Alistair snapped. Loghain was rightfully shocked at that. Perhaps the boy had a backbone after all.
"Fine," Loghain said. "Assuming you are right, and I have little time left, what does this have to do with you? Except perhaps to please you to know I will be dead?"
"It has nothing to do with me," Alistair explained. "But everything to do with this sword." Alistair grabbed the hilt and rolled the sword over. The blue runes etched across the blade flashed. "Because this sword isn't mine, and it doesn't belong here. It belongs right back where King Maric found it. In the Deep Roads."
"And?" Loghain said.
"And I don't expect I'll be going there for a long time, but you will, and we both know it," Alistair replied, quietly intense. "It doesn't belong to me. It shouldn't. I might be Maric's blood, but that's all. I didn't know him."
Loghain rubbed his temples. "You might think that, but as much as I hate to admit it, you are more like him than you know."
"That might be true, but this sword isn't mine," Alistair said. "That time is over, Loghain. The time when you and he were heroes is over. This sword doesn't belong in Ferelden anymore."
"So you want me to take it back and leave it to rot in the Deep Roads instead of trying to live up to your father's example, is it?" Loghain snarled.
Alistair's knuckles went white gripping the hilt of the sword. His hand moved with more speed than Loghain realized him capable of, dropping the blade from his palm and swinging the sword in a wide arc. The King took a step back, his free hand flying up beneath the other to grab the hilt. The blade blazed white as it sped through the air and stopped just in time against the bare flesh of Loghain's neck.
"I should kill you," Alistair growled. "And no one would blame me for it." He snorted mirthlessly. "Except my wife, and your Commander."
Loghain was still. He didn't move and he held his tongue. The dragonbone felt cold and damp against his skin, and he could feel the blade tremble. He watched as a muscle twitched in Alistair's jaw.
Just as quickly as he'd moved before, Alistair pulled the sword away, letting it and his arm hang limply at his side.
"Just take it," he said, flipping his hand around and offering the sword to Loghain pommel first. "Even if you don't owe it to me, you owe it to Maric to do this."
Before Loghain could think of a suitable reply, Alistair stomped away, leaving Loghain holding Maric's blade. It suddenly occurred to him that in all the time Maric carried this blade, he'd never touched it before. Except once.
He held it the day he gave it to Cailan after Maric died.
Loghain stumbled back, suddenly uneasy on his feet. The ground seemed to tilt and shift under him. He backed into a pile of rubble and sat down hard. The steel of his armor clinked against the stone. He swallowed and blinked, trying to focus his eyes.
Taking a deep, shaking breath he slowly lifted the sword, balancing the blade gingerly against his palm. He watched in awe as the last of the sunlight glimmered on the flowing dwarven runes decorating the surface.
Maric's blade.
The Deep Roads.
Rowan. And Cailan, with his mother's eyes.
It would all come full circle, it seemed. Loghain knew in the depths of his soul that Alistair was right. There would not be much time left, no matter what he did or how he fought it. He could feel the Taint thrumming in his veins already. And he did owe it to Maric, to return this blade back to the darkness where it was found.
And maybe, once it was done, all the bitterness and pain that they had wrought together would be over. They had saved Ferelden once; Maric and Rowan and himself. Together they'd fought and won against overwhelming odds. But the cost was so high. Maybe in the end, it had been too high. Ferelden was a bitch goddess, demanding blood offerings at every turn. It had cost more lives than Loghain could recall, more sacrifice, more horrors. But they had given her all she asked of them and more.
It cost them their souls.
"Loghain?" Kya's voice shocked Loghain to attention. His head snapped up and he dropped the sword unceremoniously into his lap.
He tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry to form a word. She stalked towards him, her eyes flicking back and forth from the sword to his eyes.
"Is that?" she asked softly.
Loghain nodded dumbly. He cleared his throat and tried to swallow the sand in his mouth.
"I don't understand," she said, kneeing down in front of him. He looked down at her. She looked so young and yet her eyes were wise and old. Sometimes, he thought he knew her, but now she looked like a sad, beautiful stranger looking up at him with adoring eyes.
He didn't deserve those soft eyes. And he wished by the Maker that he didn't want them so much. But as she looked at him, thoughtfully silent, he wondered if this was his last true punishment. He loved her, and the taint screaming in his veins told him that he was going to have leave her, far sooner than was fair to either of them. Or to her at least.
But by Andraste, she was strong. And perhaps, finally, so was he. But no matter how strong he was, or how strong this thing between them had become, sooner than later, Loghain was going to have to do as the King had asked of him. He was going to have to pick up Maric's blade and take it back to the Deep Roads for one last taste of darkspawn blood before the stone and oblivion claimed them both.
He was going to have to sacrifice everything for Ferelden, the bitch.
