Epilogue: Firstborn
He paced in front of the closed door. He was clad in full armor, his sword already strapped to his back, and a thick traveling cloak covering his shoulders. Maric had made the decision to leave, no matter what; his country demanded it.
But his conscience also demanded that he make this one farewell. And he just couldn't do it.
You're in armor; you'll wake him.
You'll be guilted out of going, even though it's what's best for Ferelden.
He'll ask too many questions that you can't answer.
But the real reason for his indecision was far different, and more difficult for Maric to admit to anyone, especially himself.
Cailan was too much like Rowan. And for that, Maric couldn't bear to look upon his own firstborn.
The first year after Rowan's death, Cailan seemed inconsolable, crying and clinging to his father. He would disappear, only for Cornelia to find him sucking his thumb in a corner of the library, surrounded by a stack of books: books he used to read with his mother. As time passed, Cailan grew and Maric grew distant. Cailan was precocious, and the brothers tasked with his early education were astounded by his vocabulary and his thought processes.
None of that surprised Maric. Cailan may have looked like a miniature version of Maric, but he was so much like Rowan; the more he grew the less Maric could be around him. The more time he spent at court, or out riding. Well, trying to ride. That had always been Rowan's forte as well. And this past year, Maric could hardly even look at his son, let alone be in the same room with him.
It wasn't that he didn't love Cailan; no, he loved his son so much it hurt. But the loss of his queen hurt even more. And his guilt burned inside of him. He was Maric the Savior, but what was that? A name given by people who didn't know who he truly was behind the closed doors of the palace, and behind the closed off expression on his face.
When the Grey Wardens showed up, asking his assistance, he said he would do it for Ferelden.
But really, they offered him escape: from the guilt, from the pain, from the emptiness, from the memories of Rowan, and from Cailan. Maric had been an absent father, emotionally, for too long now; it wouldn't make a difference if he was now physically absent.
"Are you coming?" There was a pause. "Your Majesty," Duncan added, and Maric glanced up. The Orlesian Warden with the Riviani features and sullen face had melted out of the shadows and stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, sometimes looking at Maric, other times at the floor.
Maric sighed and rested his hand on the door latch. Ferelden deserved better. Cailan deserved better. Rowan's memory deserved better. Maric had exhausted all his possibilities as a father and as a king; but Cailan… he was a blank slate, more Rowan than Maric, and under Loghain's tutelage, his possibilities were endless.
He turned to Duncan. "I'm ready," he said and followed Duncan down the darkened passages of the palace.