He was disappointed to realize he was still alive. He had hoped to finally have an end, but it seemed the Maker had different plans for him. Or perhaps it was Fen'Harel who ruled him now, laughing somewhere in the shadows as he meddled with the life of one overly cocky shem. There would almost be poetic justice in that, given what had been done to the elves of Denerim in his name in recent days.
He lay motionless on the cot, trying to summon up the willpower to rise, to dress, to continue on with the life it seemed he was still saddled with, but failed to find the energy necessary. If he was still at the palace, there would have been so many things that needed doing... but his responsibilities had all ended quite spectacularly the day before, the moment he'd found himself flat on his back, the dwarf's sword at his throat. Someone else would have to worry about organizing and training the army, about paying the mercenaries, digging into the mess Howe had left behind, planning for... whatever else remained. No, he would not think on it, would cease worrying about it. He was merely marking time now, waiting for the death that had somehow missed him twice the day before – twice! – to notice it had missed, and finally catch up with him.
"Breakfast is ready," a voice said from nearby, calmly, and he turned his head to find the purple-haired dwarf standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the frame.
"I'm not hungry," Loghain said, dryly. A loud gurgle from his stomach promptly betrayed that he was, indeed, rather more hungry then he'd have expected.
Right snorted. "Liar," he said. "Come on, old man, get those feet moving. Breakfast first, and then we'll be heading out."
"Old man?" Loghain asked sourly, as he levered himself to his feet, wincing as muscles protested the movement. He was sore from the fight the day before, sore too from laying motionless all night, still dressed in full armour. Maker knew he'd slept in armour enough over the years that the ache from that was at least a familiar one, it was still one he would rather have done without.
The dwarf flashed him a surprisingly cheerful grin. "You're acting like one. And moving like one. Prove me wrong," he said, then turned and walked away.
Loghain snorted, then rose to his feet, grimacing as he smoothed back sleep-rumpled hair and followed after the dwarf. He felt rather desperately in need of a bath, and hoped there'd be time for one before they left.
The dwarf introduced him to his new companions over breakfast.
The elf was named Zevran. His accent and self-confident attitude seemed familiar, though Loghain could not at the moment puzzle out from where. The red-haired dwarf – who seemed to be perpetually drunk – was named Oghren, and was apparently a recent self-exile from Orzammar.
The qunari was introduced as Sten, and Loghain wondered if any of the giant's companions knew that 'Sten' was his military rank, not his name. Still, he'd known enough military men who were perpetually referred to as Sarge, Captain, or Commander rather then by any given name that it was not out of place.
There was also an elderly female mage, one Wynne by name, who he vaguely recalled seeing at Ostagar the year before. Judging by the thin-lipped glare she turned on him, she didn't much care for him. Well, that was fine, he was not here to make friends, after all.
And, finally, there was a great grey-coated mabari with the unfortunately appropriate name of Stench, and an enormous living statuary, a golem that apparently answered to the name of Shale. He'd seen golems before, of course, and noted that this one seemed to be a rather small specimen of the species; closer in size to the qunari then to the behemoths he's previously encountered.
Breakfast was a serve-yourself affair from a sideboard of covered dishes, and Loghain hungrily piled a plate high with food, expecting it to be too much, only to find it was not enough and that he needed to go back to take an equally generous second. He was mildly surprised by his hunger, but then he'd been eating rather poorly in recent days, between Anora going missing, and learning about Howe, and... stop thinking about it all, he told himself. Someone else's concern, now, every last bit of it. All he had left was following orders. The dwarf's orders, apparently, that damned Orlesian warden having apparently already left, Maker only knew for what purpose.
For today, the dwarf's orders were for everyone to finish up their breakfasts, pack their things, and gather in the front hall. Loghain almost smirked, thinking how he, at least, did not have any things to pack; he had only the clothing and armour on his back, his sword, his shield. Nothing more; anything else that had been his remained at the palace, or in Gwaren, and he had no desire to seek out and claim any of it.
"Come with me," the dwarf told him, and led him off, stopping to exchange a few hushed words with the Sten on his way out of the dining hall. The qunari nodded, and rose to his feet, marching off somewhere as well.
He followed Right down the hallway, deep into the estate, where the private rooms for honoured guests were. Eamon had put the dwarf in one. There was a pile of things in one corner – backpacks, pouches, sacks, bedrolls – and the dwarf dug through it, quickly unearthing a sizable burlap sack. It clanked as he dragged it free. "Here, put this on," the dwarf said, holding it out to Loghain.
Loghain frowned as he untied the top and peered inside. Armour. "I already have a perfectly good set of armour," he pointed out.
"Doesn't matter. Your old gear is too recognizable, and with as many enemies as you've made for yourself recently, I'd rather not have you any easier to pick out of a crowd then necessary. Anyway, that's better armour then what you have on. Change into it. I'll be right back," he added, and walked out of the room.
Loghain sighed, and reluctantly unfastened his armour, fingers moving without thought, with the familiarity of years, from buckle to buckle. He stacked it carefully on the floor, then began pulling the new armour out of the sack, carefully examining each piece and putting it to one side. He was surprised by it; it was indeed considerably better then his own armour, made of heavily enchanted silverite. Elven work, of great antiquity, with a level of craftsmanship rarely seen in this day and age. He could only wonder where the dwarf has found such a treasure, so cavalierly hauled around in a cheap burlap sack.
He grimaced at the state of his body, wishing there was time for a bath, but clearly the dwarf was too impatient for them to be away and on the road for there to be time for that. He doesn't even have a clean change of clothes; he'll have to continue wearing the leather leggings and padded gambeson he put on yesterday, stinking faintly of sweat from his exertions at the Landsmeet yesterday, from being slept in all night. He did what he could to set them to rights, smoothing out wrinkles, tugging the hem of the gambeson straight, before he began arming himself. It was strange to be dressing in new armour; he had worn the discarded set for just over thirty years now, his since stripping it off the cooling corpse of the commander of the Orlesian forces after the Battle of River Dane, where the rebellion had finally turned the tide of the occupation. He could arm himself in his sleep with that set, his fingers knowing every strap, every buckle. On this new armour the buckles are in subtly different locations, the leather straps still new and stiff – they'd clearly been recently replaced – and it took effort to dress himself. He was struggling to fasten a recalcitrant side-buckle in a particularly unreachable location high up on his side when the door opened and the blond elf walked in.
Zevran gave him a coolly evaluating look, then walked over, pushed his hands out of the way, and fastened it for him.
"Thank you," Loghain said, and pulled on the gauntlets, leaving the heavy helm off for now.
The elf said nothing in response, just turned away and began gathering up scattered belongings from around the room, neatly packing them away.
Loghain realized the elf and the dwarf must be sharing the room; sharing the bed, too, at a guess. He was surprised, but only mildly. Maker knows he'd known enough men – and women – over the years who preferred lovers of the same sex as themselves. Not something he'd ever had any yearnings toward himself. Appreciate the aesthetic beauty of another man, certainly, but lust for them? No.
He rolled his shoulders and bent his head from side to side, feeling the armour settling into place. It fit considerably differently then his old set, pressed against different points of his body. The weight of it, the balance of it too, was entirely different. He subtly adjusted his posture, trying to find the most comfortable stance. Found it, then lost it, then found it again. Undoubtedly he was going to be quite sore for a few days, until he grew accustomed to the change.
The dwarf strolled back into the room, a scabbarded longsword in hand. He saw Zevran, paused and smiled warmly at him, the two exchanging a brief look almost as intimate as a kiss, before continuing over to where Loghain stood. He looked him over, nodded approvingly over the fit of the armour, then held out the sword. "Here, take this, too," he said.
Loghain frowned, then sighed and accepted the blade. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at the weight of it – or rather, the lack of weight. Not a metal sword, then. He partially unsheathed it, making a pleased hum at the sight of the lovely pale dragonbone blade, twisted runes carved down the length of its surface. He drew it fully, shifted his grasp on the hilt until he found the right grip, where the sword balanced just perfectly in his hand. He swung it experimentally, eyebrows rising even further at the faint keening hum it emitted as it cut through the air. By Andraste's light, he'd never held such a perfect sword before. Even Maric's dragonbone blade, salvaged in the Deep Roads so long ago, paled in comparison to this sword.
He resheathed the blade, calmly untangle his sword harness and detached his old blade, dropping it by the pile of discarded armour, and replaced it with the new one. He just hoped the dwarf didn't expect him to give up his shield as well; a present years ago from Maric, emblazoned with the red mabari of the royal crest, he would sooner cut his own throat then abandon that one item from his past.
Thankfully the dwarf did not appear to have any such designs, and after the three men had divided up the gear in the corner into loads for each to carry, they left the room. Loghain did not look back at his discarded armour and sword. They were part of his past, now. Let them lie there for some other person to pick over, to deal with, to discard if they wanted. It no longer had anything to do with him.
Why yes, I did give the keening blade to Loghain, and yes, it was totally in tribute to Arsinoe de Blassenville's wonderful Loghain/Cousland fic "The Keening Blade" – I just couldn't resist having him run around with it when I had the chance.