The scent of rotting flesh collided with the unmistakable aroma of burnt meat, hair and blood. Everything about the creatures before her reeked of death, decay and destruction. Features carved in only nightmares marred their faces and bodies. Demons. Their kind had ravaged parts of Ferelden in the past, history had told. Not a true Blight, Loghain had insisted. But there upon the field of battle, surrounded by the twisted monsters she began to wonder if this was not a true Blight, what horrors awaited Ferelden during one?

Instinct and muscle memory controlled the swing of her sword. Horror and fear were tucked down into the pit of her stomach, to be worried about another time. The swing of her weapon, the dip and lunge of her body, all moved in tune to a well-practiced beat. Blood sprayed liberally about her, coating the ground in a sickening blanket of taint and corruption. She pushed through; she led the Shield as was her duty, as was her calling.

Defeat might come some day. The life of a soldier was touched with the promise of violent death. But on this day it would not come. On this day she would make him proud. She would defend this sliver of land bordering the Wilds.

~*~

The beacon had not been lit. The wait stretched for what seemed to be hours. Cauthrien paced. It was the only thing she could do to expel the nervous energy singing electric through her body. Into the arrow speckled sky she watched, waiting and waiting for flames to burst bright and beckoning atop the Tower of Ishal.

So she paced. Back and forth she walked lines, inspecting the troops ensuring they would be on the ready when the call came. But the Beacon was lit. Eventually it blazed in the skyline signaling for assistance and additional troops.

She looked to Loghain, awaiting the inevitable command for the troops to rush in support of the King.

No hesitation in his tone, his face cast in a serious guise, he gave his order, "Sound the retreat."

Sound the…

Had she heard him correctly? The retreat? Confusion set in, words rising fast and uncontrolled, "But… What about the King?" What about all those men? Their families? The plan? "Should we not –"

Metal collided with metal, his hand wrapping firm about her wrist. "Do as I command," he ordered. That look, she knew it well. A line had been crossed without much thought. Anger raged within crisp blue. He would have her give the command. It was a final warning. Do not question him.

His flaws had been known. No one would have dared call Loghain perfect. In Cauthrien's mind, he had been as close to an ideal as possible, though. Upon a pedestal she had placed him – her hero, her love, her savior. With a simple order, his tumble had been fast and merciless. An image in her mind became fractured and broken, cracks visible for the first time.

She did not understand why he would condemn the King, his best-friend's son, to the death that would result from their withdrawal. She did not agree it was necessary. She did not want to give the order. Soldiers do not think, they do she reminded herself. And the man clutching at her arm, Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, had spoken and she, ultimately, was but his servant, his second in command, the voice that would echo the slaughter of thousands of men and one King.

With a tug she released herself from his hold, only the harshness of her gaze betraying her indignation. Her back turned to Loghain, a path cut to the awaiting line. Her arm waved in circle before pointing in the direction of their retreat, "Pull out! All of you. Let's move."

What have we done?

~*~

The fields at Ostagar ran red with the blood and bodies of their comrades as they walked. It was a quiet retreat filled with imagined screams of death and betrayal. No one spoke – not Loghain, not Cauthrien, not the troops. Only the sound of coughs, shuffling feet and clanking armor resonated in the air. Words were not needed to convey the tension and guilt rising pungent, overpowering the postures and expressions of the retreaters.

They marched until the sun's descent marked the coming end of another day and soon the awkward silence found replacement in the sounds of camp life. Men spoke in low tones; tents were constructed and an evening's meal cooked. The hum of activity vibrated along the countryside. Still, an undercurrent of guilt, relief and anger strummed an unsteady rhythm through the army. Menial tasks were done out of habit and training, but the men's faces betrayed a deeper strife.

Cauthrien knew if she looked in the mirror, she would see that same mélange of confusion reflected in her expression. Emotions tugged in her many different directions. Relief washed over in a wave of guilt and self-loathing. Her death had not come and for that she was grateful. But at what cost? So many had perished and it had been her lips that condemned those men and women to the horrors of the darkspawn. They sought to defend their country. But where had their country been for them?

And she hated Loghain. She hated him for making her give the order, for effectively making her the murderer by proxy of thousands of Fereldans, and for making her become an accomplice in regicide. She hated him because deep down she still knew no matter what he did, no matter what he asked, she would follow him blindly and without hesitation. Question him, she might. But go against him? She did not see a future where that was possible. She hated him because she knew she still loved him and it made her hate herself.

Armor removed, composure called upon, she put on the best face of a Commander she could muster. Spine straight, face blank, gait filled with purpose, she exited her tent and started along the path to Loghain's. She had things to say, questions to ask. She had made the mistake earlier of seeming to question his judgment in front of others. She would not make that error again. In private, she would bring her queries. In private, she would make him talk and explain. Why Cailan? Why all those troops? Was he so sure that this was all a ploy by the Orlesians? Her doubts were many. Her determination filled to the brim. They were to have words.

With that purpose in mind, she pushed aside the flap of the tent and entered his quarters. Plans were discarded at the sight of Loghain. Posture slumped, demeanor cast in shattered stone, he sat at a small table in the middle of the tent, a glass of brandy within his grasp. Documents, maps, papers -- they were the focus of his attentions. Stoic and silent, to another he would appear unchanged – a man that was fazed by nothing, a golem in flesh.

But it was the little differences Cauthrien noticed; the minutia that caused her resolve to melt. He only drank when something upset him. The position of the maps and papers atop the table were not nearly as orderly as he preferred. His armor was strewn about the tent rather than stored in a neat pile adjacent to the entry way of the tent so that a squire might come and take it away for polishing.

An empty glass set next to Loghain's full one. He pushed against the glass, edging it along the table – an invitation. If ever there was a day to drink, it was this one. Cauthrien walked to the table and generously poured herself some brandy. She wanted to feel nothing, to be numb, to forget. The liquor would bring solace, a small bit of anesthesia to dull the awareness of what had come to pass.

"I made a promise to Maric once many years ago," Loghain began, slicing through the heavy silence of introspection permeating his tent. "I promised him I would never choose to save a single man over an entire army. I let many die to save Maric. He made me promise I would save the many over the one if given the choice again." His glass raised, contents emptied. "To no regrets, Cauthrien."

Cauthrien listened, absorbed, understood and poured him more of the brandy. There was an unspoken meaning behind the words. It was as near an explanation as she could expect to receive. To lead men meant to make difficult decisions and bear the consequences alone. His order had been made quickly but not without consideration or thought. She had jumped to conclusions and accusations. She came to understand how unfair she had been in her judgment. The lives saved far outnumbered those lost. A promise had been kept and the full weight of its result landed squarely on Loghain's shoulders. He did what must be done and made a decision lesser men had not the courage or mettle to make.

And though forgiveness was not something he would ever ask for or even desire, she forgave him for all those that would not. Her glass set aside, she circled behind him and placed her hands upon his shoulders. "To Denerim," she asked. They would speak of the day's events no further. What had needed to be said had been spoken. Her previous plans? Set aside and forgotten. She would stand at his side and offer him the support he deserved from her, both as a soldier and a woman. No regrets.

His voice grim, his lips wet with another draught of brandy, he stated flatly, "Yes, I need to speak to Anora."

AN: Sorry this took so incredibly long to write. I was distracted by 'Duty Doesn't Come For Free' and promise to better. Honest! Thank you to Midnight Strike for the beta and to Lilith Morgana for being a wonderful help.