There was something fitting about Cailan being the very last person to visit Loghain before the execution.

He'd only seen Anora in passing when he entered the long hallway leading to this very cell, but her presence still filled the chamber. The sensation was unsettling; the smell of her lingering scent only intensifying his own feelings, the desperate desire to leave before a word was said only growing, multiplying, in his chest. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to hear a word that Loghain had to say. He didn't want to be forced to listen to his explanations, to his scathing comments and criticisms.

The hero of River Dane was just as he remembered. His imagination spun images that he would have preferred to find living in this cell – a broken, apologetic man with heavy, shaking hands and blue eyes that entreated mercy. But Loghain was too proud for that.

When the guard unlocked the heavy cell door, revealing a bedroom kept for the more illustrious prisoners, he also found Loghain sitting near the window. The chair was sturdy and well-built, much like the man who sat upon it, his thick arms bent against his knees to hold up sturdy shoulders. He rose to his feet entirely out of instinct, though he didn't bar his arms across his chest or bow his dark head. His actions weren't meant to show respect, and his disinclination to bow only proved such.

"Your Majesty...?" The guard still standing near the door remained, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His face was a familiar one. He was too young to remember much about the man he watched over.

Cailan turned profile, the gray light filtering from the high window casting a shadow over his features. "Leave me with him."

"Yes, your Majesty."

A single bar of the arms, and the door was shut. They were alone. For the first time in months, they were alone.

The last time they were alone was on the night of the battle at Ostagar, just after his meeting with Duncan and Isobel. He'd retreated to his tent, followed by Loghain, only to be criticized for his impending allegiance with the Orlesians. There was nothing but disdain in Mac Tir's voice as he railed on and on, claiming they did not need the extra hands, especially not from the country who'd dominated their lands for centuries.

In hindsight, their last meeting was almost humorous.

For what felt like a small eternity, the two men stood there, staring at each other. They both wished to speak first, but neither wanted to be interrupted. Instead of giving the other the opportunity, silence pitched a thick shroud over them both.

There was ice in Loghain's stare; it was colder than usual, almost as if his eyes were white instead of blue. They didn't meet the yielding gaze of a boy. Sparkling idealism no longer brightened the eyes that were so much like Maric's. They seemed darker; harder, and no matter how many emotions thrummed through his blood, one stood out from the others.

He was impressed. He'd known Cailan for every year of his young life, and never before had he seen anything even hinting towards harsh from him. The fact that he stood here now in the chamber of the man who'd stolen everything from him, a stubborn, impossible force, was nearly beyond his comprehension. He was no longer the velvet-trimmed princeling he'd heaped upon with doubt and distrust. There was nothing soft about him as he stood, feet rooted into the stone floor, entirely unmoving. Had he done this? Was this man standing before him the product of his actions?

Finally, when he could stand the quiet no longer, Cailan's lips parted. "I'm here to ask your forgiveness." The words were clumsy on his tongue. He'd clearly rehearsed this speech, so Loghain remained silent, resting back down onto his chair and arms crossing over his chest. "Maker forgive me for what must be done. You were my father's greatest friend, and a... trusted adviser." The acidic twang of bile bit at the back of his throat as his stomach churned. Trusted. For so long, he'd given the man before him every ounce of trust that was his to give, and what for? "But you struck the killing blow yourself, the moment you decided to betray me."

"You will forgive me if I do not willingly accept your speech, Cailan." If the young king was an immovable force, Loghain was the only giant capable of toppling him. "I am sure you worked very hard on it."

He couldn't even manage a smirk when he saw Cailan's golden brows knit forward. He was, however, able to stop him from the interruption that teased his throat. "I've spent the last two weeks in this room," he continued. "I have quite the view of Denerim from this window. I also receive news almost hourly from the guards." Passing his tongue along his teeth, he rested his shoulders against the back of the chair. "Word has it that you sent a force to the Circle Tower. You've mages on your side now, too. And the Dalish, if word is true."

"It is," Cailan replied, his voice low.

"You've built yourself quite the army, from the sound of it. With the addition of my men-"

"They are not your men any longer."

A thick, black brow rose on Loghain's forehead. "You are right, of course."

"Your retreat was a blessing in disguise, it seems." Now this was the Cailan he remembered. His tone was light; flippant, even. The ease with which he treated each situation with complete disregard was infuriating, and today was no different. "Your early retreat has left me with an entire force of soldiers to commit to my cause." He could nearly hear Loghain grinding his teeth. "I really should thank you for your magnificent foresight."

The words were out of his mouth before he could even consider them. Anyone would swear he spoke in such a way out of ignorance or immaturity, but that was hardly the case. When faced with the execution of his only living connection to his father, he found that he could scarcely breathe. This was merely his way of coping.

"Your kindness does you no credit."

Cailan repressed the urge to wince. Instead, he straightened his shoulders and squared his jaw. "My kindness has reached the very end of its rope, Loghain." Brows arched inward, he took a step forward. "You'll find that I've done more than is necessary to preserve what is yours."

The prisoner gave a start at that. He drifted forward in his chair, arms loosening from around his chest. He was not so much of a fool as to not realize what Cailan meant. Many long hours of the past weeks were spent with his daughter. She was unsure, almost afraid; she did not know what her husband intended to do with her. He was no longer the same man she'd known for all those years. The difference in him bred a foreign insecurity within her. She suspected that he would have her killed or imprisoned, sent away where she could not hurt him. Her fears were mirrored in her father.

"Speak plainly," Loghain said, though some small piece of him didn't want to hear the truth should it be bad. He could have died knowing that her fate was undecided. He wouldn't have been any the wiser. But now, he could know how she would fare. For once, he didn't know which was the better option.

"Your daughter will remain queen. She will lose none of the luxuries she is used to. The title will remain, as will her place here in Denerim. I do not intend to punish Anora for your mistakes."

He could feel the tension in the air disperse some, but there was still a rigidity in Loghain's posture that didn't ebb. He was waiting for something, though he did not speak of it. He wanted some confession of what had gone on between him and the Warden. He already knew more than he needed to, if Chella's reports were accurate, but he wanted to hear it from him. He wanted to hear Cailan acknowledge just how much of a cheating bastard he truly was.

But he didn't. Cailan stopped there and remained, posture straight, chin tilted upwards. It was remarkable how much he'd changed during the time on the road. For a moment, he'd thought himself in the presence of a ghost. Perhaps he'd gone mad. Perhaps he was sitting in this cell, kept company by pretend spectres. Would Rowan visit him next?

"You will never be anything like Maric."

The words hit Cailan as if they'd been running. He nearly had to take a step back. Loghain watched as his son-in-law's face shifted, from silent pride to confusion and then to frustration. By his sides, his hands curled into fists, knuckles gleaming white. "I don't want to be my father," he growled. There was a spark in his eyes that resembled anger in its truest form, and he spoke with such vehemence the words nearly burned his tongue. "I am his son. I am my own man."

"A lesser-"

"Perhaps!" The volume of Cailan's voice spiked as he strode forward. "Perhaps. Or maybe you're sitting in this cell right now, telling me this, because you realize what you've done. You betrayed Maric's son and your rightful king. You put the entire country at risk of being wiped clean by the Blight due to your own ridiculous paranoia." He was close enough now for Loghain to see the wrinkles around his narrowed eyes. "Not only that, but you put your daughter's position at risk – nay, her life. And for what?"

The only expression he received was stoic. Loghain was a master of masks, all of them uniform and all of them unbreakable. "Suspecting the inevitable is not paranoia," he began. He spoke evenly, a vast difference from the volatile man before him. "I did what I had to do in order to preserve Ferelden, as I have done for twice as long as you've been alive."

"You swore allegiance to my father." Cailan's voice shook. "You swore allegiance to me. You were his friend. Why did you do this?"

"My friendship with Maric was not attached to his crown."

Taking a step back, Cailan straightened his posture, his eyes leaving Loghain's face for just long enough to regain whatever composure he'd lost in his moment of hysteria. "I came here to ask for your forgiveness. It was not my idea. The Revered Mother suggested I do so. Your forgiveness would help me absolve myself in the eyes of the Maker." He passed his tongue over his bottom lip before taking it into his mouth, bitten between both rows of teeth.

He couldn't look at him. He couldn't bear it. Whenever he looked at man before him, all he saw was Ostagar and all that he'd lost. He saw the flaming fields, the fallen soldiers, the darkspawn. He saw Haven, his father's ghost. He saw Alistair and Isobel, sitting beside the fire, spilling their tales to Arryn and Godfrey. The moment blue met blue, he saw everything but Loghain Mac Tir. Instead, he saw everything that filled the last few months. He saw memories, and he saw the gallows.

"So that is why I'm here, I suppose. Not to argue with you over whether or not I'll ever be able to fill my father's footsteps. I want you to know that I am... truly, deeply sorry that it's come to this. Had there been another option that didn't threaten the strength of my rule, I would have taken it." He drew a shaky breath, releasing it slowly. "Know that your daughter will be safe, no matter what happens. She was a friend long before she was my wife. I only wish that you would find it in yourself to pardon me."

The boy was always so genuine. Many often considered this one of his more grievous faults – Loghain among them – but he just couldn't find it within himself to deny him this. "You doing what must be done."

Cailan knew that was as much of a reprieve as he'd ever get from Loghain, so he accepted it. He would be able to breathe the slightest bit easier. The prisoner made it clear that the conversation was over, turning in his chair until nothing more than his profile was in view. He looked tired. As long as he'd known Loghain, he remembered him looking world weary, but this was something different. There was something almost accepting in his expression.

One final question remained, teasing his lips as the words begged for release.

"Was it worth it?"

For a while, Cailan's question hung in the air between them. Loghain considered the words, considered the meaning behind them. He thought of Maric, of all that he'd accomplished and all his potential. This potential was spurred on by tragedy, by having everything stolen away from him. Had the Orlesians never occupied Ferelden and had he been raised under the banner of his queen mother, he might not have become the great king history would remember him as.

Before him stood Maric's son, raised from birth in a country wholly his. He didn't know the stresses of being forced to hide from a mad king. He had utterly no idea what it was like to survive outside of the castle. Or, at least, the boy he remembered did not. The king standing before him now was another person entirely. Another person spurred on by tragedy. Another person fate had nearly stolen everything from. Just as his father, he'd lifted himself up and regained what was rightfully his.

Maybe he was more like Maric than he'd originally thought.

Loghain's expression was sober as he regarded Cailan. "I believe that it was."

A/N: So, as you can probably tell, I've decided that I am going to continue. You guys were right – there's no reason for me to stop writing a story that I enjoy so much just because of some scathing reviews and private messages. I apologize for the rather blunt (and quite dramatic) author note on the last chapter. I didn't mean for it to come off as a desperate plea for reviews or anything of the sort. I was just afraid that Isobel and Cailan had run their course. And evidently my muse didn't entirely agree with me.

That said, Cailan and Isobel's story will most certainly continue. I'm not exactly sure how many chapters there will be, but there's going to be at least five, if my calculations are correct, perhaps more. I'm not entirely sure at this point; there was supposed to be more than one part to this chapter, but Loghain and Cailan got a bit chatty.

So, yes, I wanted to thank you all so much for your continuous support. Even if there are those out there who get their rocks off by being condescending or just blast any story with a Cousland lead, there will be a dozen or more who take their time to read and enjoy it for what it is. So thank you, thank you, thank you. A million times. I appreciate it more than you know.