Loghain stood in the middle of the room, staring at the throne-like chair without really seeing it. It was just one of many similar chairs scattered around the castle, most – like this one – surrounded by other, less ornate seating. Maric had always preferred thinking on his feet, but he'd also known the diplomatic usage of a properly offered chance for those he was talking with to sit and converse with him, like equals. These sort of little intimate seating areas were available throughout the castle wherever space allowed. Loghain could remember trailing in his wake while the man stalked down one hallway or another, arguing some point with some delegation from... somewhere, it no longer mattered where, there'd been so many similar moments... and how he'd win someone over just by flinging himself down in one of the throne-like chairs, gesturing impatiently for them to make themselves comfortable on one of the nearby benches, and sending someone off to fetch refreshments while they continued their debate. And yet even after seeing him do so dozens of times, Loghain had still never been entirely sure if it was a calculated act, or simply the man's underlying sincerity and friendliness briefly shining through. Maric had always been good at people, a skill Loghain knew he himself lacked.
He walked over, touched his fingers to the arm of the chair, slowly turned, and sat. Five years the man had been gone, and everywhere he looked, things reminded him of him. Would it ever really stop hurting? Or would it someday hurt even worse, when he abruptly noticed that he'd stopped hurting over the loss of the one man he'd ever considered a real friend.
He shifted in the chair, wincing as his armour dug uncomfortably into him. He'd started wearing it again, since realizing that he didn't trust Howe. Not that he'd ever really trusted the little weasel, but he'd let himself be lulled for a while into forgetting just how dangerous the man potentially was. He was also cutting back on his drinking, though he was trying to keep that a secret, dutifully ordering multiple bottles of wine or brandy to his room, much of which now ended up emptied down the garderobe without benefit of having passed through him first. He still drank, but only enough to keep the shakes at bay. He'd do no one any good having a shaking fit and visions as he weaned himself off his dependency on the damned stuff, not to mention it would rather give away his efforts if he did.
Thinking of which, the next time a servant passed by, he waved the girl down and ordered a bottle and glass brought to him here. He opened it and poured himself a cup, took a couple sips, then carefully set it aside, ignoring the part of him that wanted to quaff the lot and pour a second. He just sat there, slumped slightly to one side, the side of his head resting against his mailed fist, staring at the bottle and goblet and willing himself to ignore the seductive scent of the wine, to resist the lure of the oblivion it promised.
It was in that pose that Anora and Rendon found him. Anora was stalking along, back very straight and stiff in that way that more than anything else illustrated her distaste for the man following a few steps behind her. Howe, on the other hand, looked perfectly relaxed and at ease, his hands clasped behind his back. He spotted Loghain first, and gave him a slight bow.
"Sire? I have more news," he said.
Loghain frowned at him, wishing the two had continued on without noticing his presence. Anora was looking at him and the nearby bottle, a faintly disgusted look on her face. He stared at Howe, waiting for him to continue.
"Err... yes. Well, it seems that the fighting has gone exactly as you..." Howe began, only to be cut off by Anora.
"Enough! I would like to know what you intend to accomplish, Father. Should we not be fighting the darkspawn instead of each other?" she demanded angrily.
Loghain sighed and straightened up. "The nobility shall be brought into line, and then the darkspawn defeated. This is no true Blight, Anora. Only Cailan's vanity demanded it be so," he answered her. Even to him his voice sounded raw and tired, and more than half-drunk, though he was more sober now then he'd been in far too long.
"Beg pardon, sire, but Blight or no, we may not have the manpower to face the darkspawn soon," Howe interjected.
Loghain winced. He knew that. It was a continuing nightmare of his, since the balance of forces had begun to swing more and more strongly toward the wardens and the rebellious nobles. That he'd be left without enough men to defend Ferelden from anything – not enough to end the civil war, nor to kill the darkspawn, not enough to keep the Orlesians from sweeping in.
"Cailan approached the Orlesians for support, did he not?" Anora asked just then, in a particularly ill-timed question given the direction of his own worries.
"Never! Maric and I drove those bastards out! We will not roll out the welcome for them now!" Loghain roared, his anger flaming forth in a way he'd rarely allowed it, and wouldn't have now if he could have prevented it.
Anora recoiled as if slapped. "We need help, Father! We cannot deal with this crisis alone!" she insisted.
"Ferelden will stand on its own! I will lead it through this, Anora! You must have faith in me!" he said, fighting to keep a pleading note from entering his voice. He sometimes thought she was the only person left who did believe in him, who did believe that he was fighting for Ferelden, not for personal power. If even she started to doubt him...
Anora was staring at him. "Did you kill Cailan?" she suddenly snapped.
He recoiled from the question. Maker, no, how could she for even one moment imagine that he's purposefully allow the boy to die! His mind filled with memories of the boy, growing up. The golden boy. He'd always said it cynically, as if it was a criticism of the rather spoiled youth, and yet... it had been what he was. Maric and Rowan's handsome son, with his curious mix of the best and the worst of both his parents. Maric's good looks and charisma and overactive libido and impetuous nature, given to bouts of sudden melancholy, Rowan's sense of duty, her generous heart and sudden impatience and boundless energy, her need to be in motion, in action, every moment of every day that she could possibly manage... and a doubled share of stubbornness from both of them, that too. Dear Maker, would he never stop aching at the thought of them, gone ahead without him, leaving him forever behind?
"Cailan's death was his own doing," he managed to choke out past the sudden thickness in his throat.
Anora's eyes narrowed, her hands balled into fists as if she wished to lash out at him, and suddenly she turned and stalked off, lips pressed together, face set in an angry mask. Howe turned and watched her leave, a speculative look on his face.
"Was that entirely wise, sire?" he asked.
"Leave me be," Loghain snarled, snatching up the goblet and draining it, then pouring a second.
"Yes, my liege," Howe said unctuously, and strolled off after Anora.
Loghain stared at the full goblet in his hand, then cursed and hurled it against the wall. Ignoring the shattered glass and spreading pool of blood-red wine, he stalked off to his own rooms, locking the doors and then angrily stripping off the armour, hanging it haphazardly back on its stand in one corner of the room before throwing himself down on his back on the bed, still clad in his gambeson and leather leggings, one arm draped over his eyes, trying to ignore his aching head.
They'd heard word of the wardens again and again of late. They'd been seen back at Orzammar again; most decisively so, having exchanged harsh words with Loghain's ambassador to the dwarfs right on the very doorstep of the place. The dwarf and his companions had been allowed in; Loghain's ambassador had not. By his words, it seemed the dwarfs were currently kingless anyway; he'd thought the dwarf's entry to the city wouldn't make too much difference in the long term.
And then as winter turned firmly to early spring, word came that the dwarfs did indeed have a king again, thanks to the intervention of the Grey Wardens, and were now firmly aligned with them.
Worse, only a week later he'd finally learned why communication with his contacts in the Tower had so abruptly ended. Uldred had proved to be a blood mage, and staged a vicious, bloody coup attempt within the tower, leaving most of the mages and many of the templars dead. Intervention by the Grey Wardens had again been responsible for the situation being resolved. He had little doubt they now had their hands on his correspondence with the damned fool mage, and that no one would ever believe he'd had only a peaceful interest in co-operation with the Circle of Magi. Damn the man! He wished it was possible to raise the dead, so he could repeat the warden's feat of slaying the mage.
He wondered where they'd show up next, what further present or potential allies he'd find severing all connections with him.
He forced himself to climb back off the bed. Exercise. He needed to get back in shape, to sweat some of the lingering effects of the damned wine out of his body. He needed to be back in control of himself, mind and body both, so that he'd have the energy to pull this damned country back together and save it from itself. He didn't know how he'd do it, but he's spent over thirty years now fighting for Ferelden. He'd be cursed to be Black City before he gave up, no matter how dark things looked now.
Exercise, yes, and then a long hot bath, and a small supper, and one glass of wine before bed.