A/N: Ok so I had planned to update at least once a month and that uh... didn't really happen. Sorry. I'm going to try to keep to that schedule, though. I swear! I seriously do love you guys and I don't like leaving you hanging. If you're worried about missing the next update, be sure to put it on alerts because I can't keep to any kind of regular updating schedule right now. I hope this is worth the wait!

Lothering

9:32

9 months after the end of the Fifth Blight

The stench of decay and burning bodies hung thick in the air. Ghislaine held a delicate hand to her face, covering nose and mouth with a gauzy kerchief. Maebh didn't even notice such things anymore. It occurred to her that this was probably a bad thing, and she stole a glance at Loghain. Like her, he did not seem particularly put out by the gore. She wasn't sure how to feel about that, either.

He heaved another body on the fire.

Maebh turned away from the mass pyre; it had become another all-too-familiar sight.

The trip to Ostagar was taking longer than she had expected. Between Ghislaine's slow pace to the near-constant skirmishes with clusters of darkspawn, the trip from Redcliffe to Lothering alone took nearly a month. Somewhere during their journey a terrible thought occurred to Maebh. Perhaps if they took long enough she would be able to avoid the Anniversary Celebration in Denerim after all. She tried not to think such guilt-ridden thoughts, but keeping them quiet was not an easy task.

She wiped the sweat from the back of her neck. Clearing the center of town had proven to be hot, sweaty work. A movement caught her eye, and she spotted Renaud emerging from the small chapel, carrying something in his hand. He had stripped down to his leather trousers and boots hours ago, and now his upper body from neck to waist was dusty from the smoke and streaked with sweat. A flutter tickled her gut and she quickly looked up. She noticed that his hair had grown, and was now long enough that it hung forward over his eyes. A bizarre impulse overcame her, and she was forced to hold her hands behind her back so as to resist the urge to start braiding it.

"Commander," he greeted her, tossing his hair out of his eyes.

"You should really braid that, you know," she blurted out before she could stop herself..

He paused and tilted his head at her. "Pardon?"

"Your hair, I mean. It would keep it out of your eyes, you see," she looked down, feeling as awkward as the day Renaud had first arrived at the Keep.

He smiled slowly. "Ah, but then my compatriots would surely accuse me of, how do you say, going native," he chuckled softly, and her anger snuffed out before it had a chance to flare. "And besides, I am afraid to admit that I do not know how."

"I...," she swallowed, "I could show you. Tonight, during first watch."

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Very well then. I live but to serve, Commander," he dipped in a courteous bow.

"Anyway, um, you were going to say something to me," she asked, straightening her shoulders.

"Ah! Oui! It is common for all the Templars in Ferelden to be assigned a post in the Tower for a few months, no?" He began to uncover the object in his hand. It was a silver helmet, wrapped in a scrap of maroon cloth. "I was curious. There is a body in there of a man... I just was wondering if you knew him. Perhaps you could give him a proper funeral."

She took the helmet from him, and was surprised by the stinging in her eyes. "Bryant," she whispered. "He told he was going to stay until he was ordered to leave. I guess that... didn't happen." She took several deep breaths, blinking away tears. "What foolishness," she laughed without mirth at herself. "One man."

Renaud took a step closer and lay a hand on her arm. "If you would prefer, Commander, I could accompany you."

"Yes, thank you. I think I would prefer that."

That evening they made camp outside of Lothering. Maebh noted with a pang the tears of exhaustion in Ghislaine's eyes when she had announced they would not be staying in the town they spent all day clearing. She forced herself to ignore them. The thought of sleeping within the village limits filled her with an unbearable feeling of desperation. No, there was no helping it. They could not stay in Lothering.

It was just as well. The simple and familiar environs of the town led to a false sense of security.

They stopped for the night at an abandoned farmhold. It was not the type of place Maebh preferred to stay; such structures often attracted other less savory "travelers", searching for shelter or goods to scavenge. But it was a concession she felt she had to make, given that she had insisted on this march in the first place. Ghislaine looked as if she would fall down dead on the spot were she asked to pitch a tent, and even her more stalwart Wardens looked worse for the wear.

The old barn they found was drafty and full of little rooting birds, but the hayloft still had some old dusty straw in it. Maebh was grateful for the warm night, as this meant they did not need to light a fire. Darkspawn were not the only danger that lurked in the night.

Renaud handed out some provisions after the bedrolls had been carried up to the loft. Mutely the group ate, too tired to speak.

Loghain cleared his throat. "Who will take first watch, Commander?"

Maebh could not make out his face in the dark. She was glad, he looked so haggard and drawn lately that it physically hurt her to look at him. "Renaud and I. You and Ghislaine get some rest."

She did not have to tell them twice. Ghislaine fell asleep on top of her bedroll still wearing her robes and whimpered slightly in her sleep. Maebh pressed her fingers to her mouth and shook her head. But soon her sobs faded and only sounds of Ghislaine and Loghain's deep breathing could be heard. It was hypnotic, soothing, Maebh shook herself to keep from falling asleep. A huge owl suddenly appeared out of the rafters above her, silently gliding into the surrounding darkness. The sudden movement made her stomach jump.

She heard the creak of Renaud's leathers as he stiffened slightly. She smiled. "Not used to things that go swoop in the night?" she asked lightly.

"I am afraid not, Commander," he replied ruefully. "I spent my early childhood in a town far to the north called Churneau, on the border between Orlais and Nevarra. A vast and trackless plain, defined by its constant winds and its little wildflowers and lizards." He laughed fondly. "A good childhood."

"Your early childhood," she tilted her head quizzically. "What happened to the rest?"

Renaud paused, and Maebh regretted asking. "My father died of a fever when I was six years old. My mother quickly remarried, and we moved to Val Royeaux." His tone turned flat, and Maebh decided not to press any further. "And you," he asked.

She snorted. "I was sent to the Tower when I was nine."

"And before that?"

"Before that…" She paused as her thoughts drifted. Gwaren, Denerim, Father, Cailan. "Before that I was a different person."

She heard the creak of his leathers and made out a vague shape in the dark. "I should begin the patrol. Perhaps you could install some wards, no?"

By the time they had finished their duties, the clouds had cleared enough to allow the moon to shine through. They met up again, just ouside of the barn where Loghain and Ghislaine were still sleeping.

"Commander, if I may be so bold," Renaud started.

"By all means," Maebh lifted her hand to him in the pale moonlight, inviting him to continue.

He shifted his weight. "Earlier, you mentioned that you would like to teach me how to braid my hair. I wonder if I could trouble you so and take you up on the offer. I find it excessively aggravating in battle to have my vision impeded," he finished quickly, sounding almost bashful.

"Oh! Of course!" Maebh felt her hands grow cold. Why was she suddenly feeling embarrassed? It needed to be done. "Do you have a brush?"

"Oui," and he went to his pack.

Maebh climbed onto a pile of crates stacked beside the barn door, wiping her palms on her robes as she sat down. Renaud had just enough time to return to her before the moon was once again concealed by clouds.

"Lune satané," he muttered. "I suppose this will have to wait."

Maebh pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Not necessarily. I can do it in the dark, and maybe just explain it and you can feel what I'm doing and that way you can learn. If that doesn't work, we'll just have to do this again when it's lighter. Or when we can light a fire without attracting attention."

"Bonne idée, Commander."

"First, you need to brush and make sure you get any tangles out. Think you can manage," she asked, feeling almost girlish, even a little giddy. She frowned at herself, mentally scolding such unbecoming conduct.

There was a long pause. Maebh cursed the darkness that concealed his face. "Perhaps," he said finally, his voice dropping dangerously low, "you could help me with it."

Slowly, she reached out towards him, eyes straining against the soft black night. Her fingertips brushed against a tight-muscled shoulder, the tender skin of his neck slick with the slightest sheen of perspiration, the jaw bristling with whiskers, and finally to the thick hair dusting his eye and cheekbone. She gently took a lock of his hair in her hand and began brushing a few inches from the end, before working her way up to the scalp. Once the lock was brushed smooth, she moved to another, leaning forward slightly to better reach. "You know you can just call me 'Maebh', right," she said lightly, casually, trying to control the heartbeat pounding in her chest, the sudden breathlessness as if she had just run a mile. "You really don't have to call me 'Commander'. Loghain doesn't. Alistair never did."

Again he was silent, and Maebh wondered if maybe she had gone too far. "With all apologies to my brother Warden and the King, I would like to think that I treat you with more respect than they."

She paused in her labor. "It's not that, they... Well..." Anger began to bubble in her stomach. He didn't understand. She tried to keep her tone light. "You know I didn't know Duncan very long but nobody called him 'Commander'. At least, I mean, as far as I can recall." She felt a sudden and bewildering surge of grief for the man. Why? She had barely known him two weeks before...

"I suppose you're right." He chuckled softly. "I am afraid I still have some learning to do about your ways here."

"Yes, you do," she agreed, her anger dissipating. "Now, what sort of braid would you like?" She reached into her pack for some leather ties.

He laughed softly. "I think I would greatly enjoy ones as elaborate as Loghain's. They would suit me, no?"

Maebh pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle the giggles that threatened to break the quiet. Her father would not react well to the sight, and probably assume that the young Orlesian was mocking him somehow. "No, that would be a bad idea for so many, many reasons. Plus, your hair isn't nearly long enough."

"Well, Com- Maebh, what would you suggest?"

"Hmm," she ran her fingers through the fringe covering his forehead, feeling for thickness and length. "I think just I'll do one across the forehead, like Teagan's. Would that be alright with you?"

"But of course," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

She began to work, carefully explaining the process and stopping frequently so he could put his hands over hers and feel what she was doing. Sometimes his fingertips would linger over hers and it was all she could do to keep from trembling. Finally, she tied the braid with the leather and squared her shoulders. This was ridiculous, she chided herself. She had known the man for seven months, what was there to be nervous about?

Renaud sat beside her on the ground, back resting against the stack of crates. They were silent for a while, listening to the animals of the night. "Shall we wake the others? Is it time for second watch yet?" Renaud asked.

Maebh shook her head. "Let them sleep. They need it." She tried to put out of her head the thought of what the Taint was doing to her father. He was too stubborn to admit it, but Maebh could see him declining. She wondered if he was one of the ones who could not shut out the nightmares.

Almost as if in response to her thoughts, Loghain coughed and sputtered. "Maybe? Where are you? They're here! You must find your sister..."

She jumped down from the box and went to him. "Father, I'm here. Everything is fine."

"Where is Anora? Where is your mother? Where are we?" She heard the rustling of his bedroll as he tried to get up. "Wait. I know..." he sighed. "Forgive me."

"We all have those dreams sometimes," she swallowed down the sudden lump in her throat. "But it's not time for you to take the watch yet. You should get some rest."

There was a pause, and for a moment she was afraid that he would insist. "You're right. Just don't forget to wake me when it is my turn. You need your rest as well, you know." He patted her knee and laid back down.

Maebh returned to her seat with Renaud, suddenly weary. She sat down with a sigh. The moon broke through the clouds again and Maebh saw his grin glinting. "What is it," she asked warily.

"Oh, nothing. Ghislaine just owes Yves ten silvers," he said, the glee dancing in his voice.

Maebh pinched the bridge of her nose, a flicker of a headache beginning to throb. "Dare I ask why?"

"She was convinced that Loghain was your lover."

She had avoided the inevitable for too long, Maebh realized as they battled their way through the twice-ruined fortress. If she had returned a year ago, there would not be nearly so many darkspawn here, nor they be so well-fortified. But she could not stand to face this a year ago. The wound was too raw, her grief too fresh, her rage at Loghain too hot. She looked at her father, mopping his brow after the last skirmish. The circles under his eyes had deepened. Why hadn't she noticed this earlier? His skin seemed grayer as well, hanging more loosely on his face. He fought just as fiercely as ever, of course. He was too stubborn to do otherwise.

"Commander!" called Ghislaine from behind a pile of stones that at one point formed a wall. "Is this not the royal crest?"

Maebh made her way to where the young elf had taken cover during the last battle. The outcropping of stone, the few scorched tent pegs that remained, she trembled as the memory crashed on her like a wave. "Yes, this was the location of his tent," she said, her voice barely audible. Ghislaine nodded, stepping away from the emblazoned chest.

She had been happy here, in the brief hours Cailan and she had together. His memory had faded, but certain things remained: his easy smile, casual confidence, his clear mind unclouded by guilt or doubt or shame. There was the way he exuded a sense of comfort and vitality and the clean, sun-warmed smell of his hair. That night, in his arms she had felt peace. She had felt whole.

Now, however, she felt small and cold and hard as she knelt and carefully opened the lid. To her surprise, the sizable chest was mostly empty. It occurred to her then that it had probably held his armor, the same armor she had been finding bits and pieces on high-ranking darkspawn. That fact that troubled her more than she was prepared to admit. There were a few bits of clothing, padded shirts to wear under armor and the linen pants he had been wearing when she...

She blinked and took several deep breaths. She had wept her tears, she reminded herself. It would not do to get so emotional over him in front of her new comrades.

Beneath the clothing was a longsword covered in curious runes that glowed bright blue. The blade was shaped like an hourglass, the edge razor sharp. Maebh set it aside. She favored a more graceful blade over such unwieldy thing. Perhaps her father would appreciate it. If it belonged to Cailan, it was most likely both expensive and very well-made. If Loghain didn't want it, it would fetch a fair price.

She almost missed the last item in the chest. There, beneath the clothes and the sword and only when she ran her hand along the bottom, checking for odd coins, she felt a small packet of papers. She pulled them out and into the light. The handwriting on the front was not Cailan's, she still had enough of his letters to tell that. No, this was a woman's handwriting. An educated woman. Perhaps they were from Anora? She felt an odd twinge of jealous curiosity. What sort of letters would her sister have written to the man, anyway? She slipped them into her pocket. These would wait until she had a moment alone.

It did not make sense. She was not seeing what was in front of her. It was a trick. Somebody was lying to her, tricking her, betraying her. Why? Who would want to hurt her in such a way?

She looked up again at the body hanging, crucified, mocked, defiled. The same golden hair, the same peaceful gaze, the same body she had felt not hours before his death. But it could not be. It could not be him.

"Maebh," Loghain touched her arm. "You... speak, please."

She turned her gaze to her father, feeling strangely detached. "It is a curious thing, isn't it? I wonder at their purpose..." her eyes drifted back.

"Commander," shouted Renaud from the far side of the bridge. "The necromancer!"

The world snapped into focus as Maebh whipped around to see the cackling genlock with the disgusting headdress scamper off past the bridge. "Necromancer," she growled, a firestorm of rage pulsing through her veins with terrifying suddenness. "Yes, he is the one who did this."

Maebh ran. Maebh ran fast. Faster than she had ever run, faster than anybody had ever run. The necromancer would die for what it had done.

Again she stood in front of the crucified body of her love, flanked by Loghain and Renaud on either side. Ghislaine had already crossed on the far side of the bridge, overcome by the gruesome sight.

"I want to take him down," she said softly. "And make a pyre. He will get a proper burial."

Loghain sighed, but did not argue. Maebh disregarded his unspoken objection. He always had a poor opinion of the man. But his bile would not shake Maebh's resolve.

Renaud clambered up the crude structure, cutting away at the ties that bound Cailan's hands to the crossbeams. Maebh helped him to lower the corpse, and when they were finished she cradled Cailan's head in her lap. Ghislaine returned and brought with her a bucket of water and a rag. She had even heated the water and managed to scrounge a bit of soap. Maebh squeezed her hand in thanks, trying to remember if she had actually asked her to do this. Gently, she bathed the blood and filth from Cailan's skin, combed the tangles from his hair, and dressed him in the armor he had worn to his doom.

By the time she had finished, Loghain and Renaud had built a serviceable pyre. With their help, she laid Cailan's body on the top. She arranged his arms over his chest, smoothed his hair from his brow.

Maebh stepped back with the others. "Would you like to say anything" Loghain asked, barely controlling the distaste in his tone.

"He was not a good king," she admitted, feeling hollow and alone. "He was a good man. A kind man. Had he not been a king, he would have been well-loved by all who knew him. Instead he was regarded as a fool. A failure." Her regret was a palpable thing. It settled in her chest and threatened to smother her. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It is difficult to grow in the shade cast by a hero. I know you wanted to live up to what they expected of you. I won't forget."

She touched a fingertip of flame to the tinder, and only when the flames finally reached his face did she weep.