Loghain began carrying the bow as they walked each day, and occasionally managed to bag some game for their evening meal at some point during the day. He was relieved that the party members seemed willing to leave him to himself, by and large. The dwarf made a point out of talking to him at least a couple of times a day, but never for long, and, perhaps most importantly, didn't pry.
The mabari took to walking alongside him for much of each day's march, which pleased him rather more then he'd have expected, bringing back memories of the mabari he'd owned – and been owned by, as much as anything – in his youth. He sometimes found himself talking quietly to the hound, telling him stories of Adalla, what little odds and ends he could remember after all those years ago. It was... soothing, the attentive way the hound listened to him, wagging its tail or making sounds – whuffling, growls, barks, whines – at appropriate points in the stories. Most foreigners didn't understand why Fereldans were so close with their hounds, but then few foreigners had ever spent much time talking to one.
He was surprised – and, he had to admit, more then a little pleased – to note that the two foreigners in their party treated Stench with the respect he was due. The hound would often spend part of each day with the qunari, and the Sten was clearly showing the hound the grave respect that was due him, as well as talking to him like the intelligent being he was. Surprising.
The elf also spoke easily with the hound, with what Loghain could only think of as friendly rivalry between the two. He wondered if the elf was aware of just how lucky he was that the hound was accepting of his relationship with the mabari's dwarf. He suspected he was; whatever else he might be, the elf was not a fool, though he was obviously doing his best to make himself seem harmless and foolish. Not something Loghain believed in the least, not after having seen him fight, nor having seen the wary way he eyed everything, all the time, always aware of where everyone was, and what was happening around him.
He was beginning to think he knew why the elf had seemed so... familiar. Unless he was much mistaken, the elf was the very Antivan Crow that Howe had arranged for him to hire to kill the wardens. He wondered if Howe had ever known, then recalled him referring to the "treacherous elf" when they'd been in the Pearl, and realized he must have. Interesting, that he'd never mentioned to Loghain that the assassin had lived, and gone over to the other side, rather then being killed when he's attack on the wardens had presumably failed. Probably because the news would have made Howe look bad for having essentially supplied the opposition with a supremely talented killer. The fool.
They were most of the way to Ostagar when the dwarf finally began to question him about his actions of the past years. He'd stopped expecting it by then, which made it even more of a shock, especially given the particular event that Right brought up.
The two of them were taking a turn at cleaning up the supper dishes, Loghain washing while the dwarf dried and put away.
"Ostagar," the dwarf suddenly said, his voice hesitant.
Loghain froze for a half second, then glanced at the dwarf. "What about it?" he asked in clipped tones. Maker, he didn't want to think of that night. It haunted him in nightmares still, more painful even then the memories of Maric's death. At least the storm at sea that was presumed to have killed him hadn't been anything that Loghain could have prevented...
"Why," the dwarf demanded, voice harsh and uncertain. "Alistair and I lit the beacon, why did you leave! Why did you abandon Cailan and the army to their deaths..."
Loghain surged to his feet, the plate he'd been scrubbing dropping from nerveless fingers, the tin clanging faintly as it bounced off a stone and into the stream. Loghain felt a surge of anger pounding through him, making his hands shake and his vision narrow, his head ache.
"Did you think I wanted to?" he snarled, voice harsh. "Cailan was the son of the two people I loved most in this life. I helped raise him! He was my daughter's husband, and my king!" He fell silent a moment, jaw clenching as he struggled to contain his emotions. He felt the surge of anger fading, leaving him feeling weak and bloodless instead.
"We had our differences, I won't pretend that all was ever smooth between the two of us," he continued in a softer tone of voice, mind filling with memories of the boy. The golden prince. "He was careless, impetuous, easily swayed by visions of glory... he was never going to be the king his father had been, but... no one could do that. Be that."
He drew a deep, shaky breath. Said what he'd never acknowledged aloud to any other. "But I loved him." Loved him, almost as much as he'd loved Maric, loved Rowan. How could he not love their child, especially when he'd damn near raised the boy himself, in the wake of Rowan's death, which had left Maric a broken, bitter man for far too many years. The closest thing to a son he'd ever had, would ever have, and he'd failed him.
"And the damned fool wouldn't listen to a word I said, he insisted on being in the vanguard, insisted on having those thrice-cursed Grey Wardens at his side, as if their mere presence would render him invulnerable to the usual accidents of battle." He turned away, staring into the forest across the stream, eyes seeing a scene months ago and far away. He spoke again, voice a hoarse whisper of sound. "There was far more darkspawn then we'd expected, then even our worst case planning for that battle had allowed for. As soon as the battle started, I knew it would be a close-run thing to pull off, but my king had given me my orders and I was going to fulfil them. I watched that tower, prayed for that damned beacon to light up, and... nothing happened. For far too long, nothing happened. And in the end, it was... too late. Far, far too late to attempt anything but to retreat, and salvage what men I could from that mess."
He turned and looked at the dwarf. "I've done many hard things in my life. Given up... more things, more people, then I would wish on any but my worst enemies. And one of the very hardest things I have ever had to do was to walk away from a battle I knew I couldn't win. Do not think that it was an easy or a convenient decision for me to abandon the field at Ostagar. But it was the only sane thing I could do. Revile me for it all you wish; given the same circumstances today, I would do the exact same thing. Or... perhaps, disobey my orders, and attempt a rescue before it became too late. Except I did that once before, and hundreds paid with their lives, that Maric might live."
"The Battle of West Hill," Right said quietly, surprising him.
Loghain raised an eyebrow. "You know your history well. Better then many Fereldans do. Better then I'd have expected from a casteless Orzammar dwarf, whom I gather are not exactly known for their scholarship."
The dwarf shrugged. "I've been studying history for months, among other subjects; I can hardly lead my group effectively, or make decisions, if I'm not familiar with the issues and people involved."
He snorted. "That sounds to me like the wisdom of bitter experience. Something I am, unfortunately, not entirely unfamiliar with myself," he said, then looked down at the dishes lying abandoned in the stream. With a sigh, he lowered himself to his knees again, resumed cleaning them, then frowned, and gave the dwarf a questioning look.. "How is it that Alistair came to be wearing what looked remarkably like his brother's armour at the Landsmeet?"
"It was King Cailan's armour," Right answered, simply. "Last winter, while roaming around – lost, I have to admit – we found ourselves back in the vicinity of Ostagar. We investigated the ruins..." he trailed off for a moment, then glanced over at Loghain, who was studiously concentrating on scrubbing out the stew pot. "We found the armour being worn by some of the darkspawn we killed; a piece here, a piece there, like they'd shared it out among themselves. Other things, too – Duncan's sword and dagger, still buried in the chest of the ogre that we guess must have killed him; I don't think he'd have left his weapons behind in it otherwise. Maric's sword, in a chest in the remains of Cailan's tent."
Loghain realized he'd frozen as listened to the dwarf's words. He could imagine – all too easily imagine – what a horror the battlefield must have been by then. Even in winter, with the worst obscenities covered by snow. He'd been on too many fields – usually as the victor – to have any illusions about what a charnel pit Ostagar would have been after the darkspawn victory,
"We found Cailan's body, too," the dwarf continued, softly. "We... burned it. Scattered the ashes."
Loghain's head bowed. He was only briefly tempted to ask about... how the boy had died. What condition his corpse had been in. Memory and imagination and his nightmares supplied all too many possible answers as it was. Better to think of the ending. That his prince had at least had a proper pyre, in the end, the ashes scattered, as was right. "Thank you for that," he said softly, voice hoarse. "It... bothered me, that he, like his father, had left no body for a proper funeral. None we could reach, anyway," he added bitterly. He settled back on his haunches, hands hanging limply. "I said a moment ago that retreating from Ostagar was the only sane decision I could make at the time. I sometimes fear that it was the last sane decision I have made since that day."
He bent forward, then rose to his feet again, clean plates and pot stacked in his hands. "Let us talk of something else. Or better yet, not talk at all."
Right nodded understandingly. "Help me dry and pack those, then."
They remained silent all the way back to camp. Loghain turned in early, wrapped in memories of his golden prince.