Chapter 4: That You May Always Remember Me
Eamon and Loghain would never get along. Ever.
Maric leaned against the edge of the window, pressing his forehead against the glass and hoping the coolness would soothe his constant headache. But the only thing that could accomplish that feat would be forcibly kicking both men out of his study and locking the door, then asking a mage to soundproof it so he wouldn't hear the shouting on the other side.
The problem was, all three men in the room loved Rowan in different ways. Maric had never pretended otherwise when it came to Loghain. Even when he'd married Celia, Maric knew his friend still harbored strong feelings in his heart for Rowan. And Eamon, though he was younger than both Maric and Loghain, carried himself with all of the pomp of a man older than his years. As Rowan's brother, the news that she was ill had hit him hard. And Loghain, as Rowan's former lover, was taking his rage out on Eamon and Maric.
Maric just wanted to leave and go to the chambers on the south side of the palace that had been set up for Rowan. The windows overlooked the rose gardens and received plenty of sunlight. She spent her days in her chaise, soaking in the light and reading, either to herself or to Cailan. Teagan, the youngest of the Guerrins, was in there now with Cailan and Rowan. Maric would have given anything to be there, where there would be peace, even in the midst of the sadness. At least they wouldn't be yelling.
"Enough," he finally said, but they didn't hear him, and he turned from the window. "Enough!" he shouted, and both his friend and his brother-in-law stopped and stared at him. "I didn't bring you here to scream at each other. You're here because I trust you both to help me do what's best to help Rowan."
"Redcliffe has some ties with the Circle of Magi in Kinloch Hold," Eamon said. "As their nearest trading port, we get some privileges most in Ferelden can't boast." For a moment his chest puffed up, but the expectant and stern glares of Maric and Loghain made him wither. "I asked First Enchanter Remille about her symptoms. As a competent healer, he said her illness is… regrettably unfamiliar to him." Eamon's voice was low, as if admitting this aloud were shameful. "He sent some herbs for me to bring, courtesy of the Circle and intended for the wellness of the Queen."
Maric sat on the edge of his desk. Not good news. "I may have to call in a favor with the Circle myself, then," he said quietly, to Eamon's consternation. "Any chance you can send for a healer in person? King's orders," he added, and Eamon nodded.
"I'll send out the quickest messenger I have at my disposal," he promised. "Maric," he added on his way out the door. He paused as if he'd forgotten what to say. "Maker watch over you," he said instead, but the wish was half-hearted and he was disturbed.
Loghain shut the door behind him. The silence hung between the two old friends. "Why did you bring me here?" he finally asked. All of the unspoken history between Maric, Loghain, and Rowan floated in the air with the dust motes and sunlight.
Maric shrugged. "We were all friends. We saved this country together. And now we need to save Rowan."
Loghain leaned back against a wall, arms crossed over his chest. It seemed impossible, but the years in Gwaren had made him seem even harder. How ruling a peaceful southern Teyrnir could make him harder than the rebellion years, Maric didn't think he'd ever understand. "There's more to it than that. There always is, with you."
"Fine." Maric ran his hand through his hair and stood, then paced around his study while Loghain remained the immutable rock of a man he always was. "I'm not sure how to say it," he told him after a moment.
"Usually just opening your mouth and letting the words fall out is a good start," Loghain said. "That's never stopped you before."
That was true. Maric knew he had faults, and Loghain seemed to know them even better than he did himself. He sighed. "I don't need an advisor, or angry in-laws," he said. "I don't need Revered Mothers or Clerics or mages and templars telling me what to try and what not to do anymore. I need a friend," he admitted.
"That's sentimental," Loghain said, voice still even, but his expression had gone blank. He would never learn, Maric thought, that a blank expression was still an expression, and gave away just as much as any other change to his mien.
"You've been in this place before," Maric told him. "When… when you lost Celia." Loghain's face was still neutral, but his jaw clenched. "I know you probably don't want to talk about it. But… I need someone who understands what this is like. You lost Celia and still had to raise Anora, and still run Gwaren, and… I don't know what I'm going to do," he said at last.
That was the most frustrating part of everything. Rowan didn't know what was happening to her, and neither did anyone else. Maric didn't know what to do without her, and she wasn't even gone yet. No, not 'yet'. He couldn't think like that. But each day she grew paler and weaker and thinner and his confusion and helplessness increased. It would be one thing if he just had to raise Cailan, or just had to run the kingdom.
He had to do both.
He could rescue an entire country from the most powerful nation in all of Thedas, and he couldn't save Rowan. He had raised Ferelden from the ashes of occupation, and he didn't know how to raise his son alone.
"You take each day as it comes," Loghain said slowly. "You don't think about the past, because it hurts. You don't think about the future because it hurts. You live each day and you raise your child the best you can. It's no different from the rebellion," he said. He looked away from Maric. They'd shared a lot in the years they'd been friends, including pain and fear. But not like this.
"Thank you for being here," Maric told him at last.
Loghain gave a slight bow. "I do as my king commands," he said, but his voice held a note of irony, and he was smiling slightly. "Fine. And as my friend asks," he added.
Seeing Loghain forced to admit emotional connections was enough to make Maric smile as well. "Would you like to visit with Rowan?" he asked.
Loghain closed his eyes and his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply. His lips pressed together tightly. "I… would like that," he said and stormed out before Maric could say anything else to him.
He sighed and followed Loghain through the palace corridors. His friend seemed to know the palace layout almost as well as he did, but then again, Loghain spent quite a bit of time here. Maric expected they would pause outside of her quarters and gather composure, but Loghain knocked once and entered before anyone responded.
Maric followed him in. Teagan sat on the floor playing with Cailan. He would stack painted blocks into a tower, only for Cailan to knock it over. His laughter was as bright and golden as the streaming sunlight. Teagan was thirteen, but didn't seem to mind being relegated to occupying his three year old nephew's attention. He smiled and just built the tower up again, only for Cailan to knock it down again.
With his mop of unruly auburn hair and his hazel eyes, and of course his smile, he looked almost just like a male version of Rowan. Eamon took more after their father, Rendorn. Maric swallowed around a lump in his throat as he realized that one day, Teagan might be the one Cailan had to look to in order to recall his mother's looks.
He pasted on the goofy, dumb smile he'd gotten so good at wearing in the months since Rowan's illness. She could see right through it, of course, but it seemed to appease people who didn't know better. She looked up from the book in her lap. The way her hand rested on the page, it was clear she'd dozed off in the middle of the page. "Good morning," she said, smiling at Maric. Then her eyes widened when she saw Loghain. Her pale cheeks, which looked a little sunken, reddened slightly. "Loghain," she said in a whisper.
Rowan fumbled with her book, which fell off her lap. Teagan looked up, then scrambled to his feet and bowed hastily, his mop of hair flopping into his flushed face. "King Maric, Teyrn Loghain," he said.
Cailan looked up, too. "Daddy!" he said, leaping to his feet, and nearly falling over before Maric swooped in and caught him, picking him up and resting his son on his hip. "Uncle Teagan plays blocks," he said with a nod. He was just shy of three years, but spoke clearly. Maric had no doubt that it was from all the books Rowan read to him. The more her illness progressed, and the weaker she became, the more she read to Cailan; it was the only thing she could share with him, it seemed.
"I see that, Cailan," Maric said. "How about you and your uncle go find a book in the library," he suggested, smiling and trying to hold back the tears. Though most people saw Cailan as a mirror image of Maric, all Maric could see in his son was the liveliness Rowan had once had.
"You can go with them," Rowan called. "It's okay, Maric, I'm sure the Teyrn will keep me from harm," she added with a wan smile. She'd leaned back in her chaise, admitting defeat and accepting that Loghain was going to have to see her in her weakened state, the same way Maric did. "It'd be better if Cailan got some sun and fresh air anyway," she added. "I feel guilty when he spends so much time in here with me."
Maric had set Cailan down next to Teagan. He strode over to Rowan and knelt by her, then kissed her cheek. Her skin was dry and felt thin beneath his lips. Next to him, Loghain was hardly breathing. The three of them had always played on their best behavior when they were together, since even just before the wedding and coronation. But now, Maric was realizing there was no time left for pretenses. He already had too many regrets. So he kissed his wife, and the mother of his child, right in front of Loghain. "We'll come back," he promised.
"I know you will," Rowan said, meeting his eyes. In that one gaze he saw that, in spite of all that had happened in their pasts, and all that was happening at present, she trusted him. She loved him.
He had to run out of the room to keep from shedding tears in front of Loghain.
"King Maric, just how unwell is my sister?"
Maric had practically forgotten Teagan in his rush. Now his thirteen year old brother-in-law stood by him, and Cailan was impatiently tugging Teagan's hand, demanding, "Books!"
"Let's take Cailan to the library and let him lose himself for a time," Maric suggested. "And Teagan, we are family. It's Maric. Please." Teagan bobbed his head in an awkward nod of agreement and apology. He had none of Eamon's airs, but also still had yet to grow into Rowan's gentle confidence. He would make a good Bann one day. Perhaps even an Arl. Maric snatched Cailan off his feet, and his son screamed in delight.
"Put me down!" Cailan cried, though he was laughing.
"Never," Maric told his son, and carried him, struggling, all the way to the library.