It was almost a full week later before they were finally able to get away from Gwaren. Armour for Lem hadn't been too hard to find, but given Wilf's size, his set had needed to be made from scratch, which had taken several days. Loghain had needed to have meetings with Captain Dorn, with Nathaniel and Oghren, with the Captain of the Gwaren militia, with Anora's seneschal, in order to arrange everything that needed doing to properly search and re-seal the southern caves, and arrange a search of the northern hills to be sure there were no more openings to worry about. Gabe and Bekka had left for the north on the morning tide of the fourth day, taking Sean, a bundle of letters, and a large pile of luggage with them.
It had taken time to locate horses for Lem and Wilf, and Loghain had sworn a little over the price he'd had to pay for them; Lem's elderly gelding hadn't been too bad, but Wilf's size had again proven a tripping block, necessitating the purchase of a draft horse from a nearby lumbering camp. The mare was even larger than Loghain's stallion, and more used to dragging logs than being ridden, but had a very placid disposition and soon settled down to her new job as Wilf's mount. Thankfully a big enough saddle had been found without too much difficulty, though Lem and Alistair had needed to teach Wilf enough about how to ride that he could do so with at least basic skill.
Loghain was in a cheerful mood the morning they were finally ready and able to set out. "Eat well," he told the group of them at breakfast. "I'd like to make as good time as we can today, so we'll be eating a cold lunch, and not stopping for anything other than resting the horses until evening."
They nodded, and did so, each of them eating a prodigious amount for breakfast. Not that it was going to be any real hardship to not stop for lunch, at least not today; the kitchen was providing them with packed lunches to take with them, so they'd at least have something nicer than trail rations to eat.
The Seneschal was among those who gathered in the courtyard to see them off, the small group also including Wilf's sister and father, a couple of female friends of Lem's, and a handful of people who'd shown up for no discernible reason other than that something interesting was going on. Loghain talked to the Seneschal for a little while, while the others checked to make sure that girths were tight enough and all their gear with them. Finally he nodded, and walked over the the stallion, checking his own girth as well before mounting. The other three quickly mounted as well, and with just a last few words of farewell called out, they departed.
Lem had more experience with mules than Alistair did, so it was he that now had control of their small string of pack mules, loaded down with their gear and supplies as well as a supply of food for the horses and mules to supplement whatever the animals were able to graze for themselves. That put him at the back of their group, with Wilf just ahead of him, then Alistair with Crunch, and Loghain at the front.
It was a lovely morning, the early morning sun gilding the buildings and stretching their shadows out at an angle ahead of them as they rode southwest toward the western gates of the city. They would be following the coastal road – more a trail, really – for the first part of their trip, to a small fishing village along the coast, where the ridge of the Southron Hills plunged down into the ocean, showing only as a few offshore islands and shallows before disappearing entirely. The road didn't continue beyond that, but there were hunting trails and the like leading through the hills, and Loghain felt it was easier to go through to the Korcari Wilds here in the south rather than further to the northwest. The hills were much steeper and taller the further northwest you went, only just missing being considered mountains because of the peaks of the Hinterlands to the north and the even taller Frostbacks far to the west. Once in the Korcari Wilds they'd then follow the western edge of the hills to the north, until they could strike westwards to the vicinity of Ostagar. That would hopefully keep them out of the muck and mire of the wilds, as well as mostly skirting the edges of Chasind territory rather than passing through the heart of it.
Alistair was glad to be on the move again, but not looking forward to visiting Ostagar a third time. He had so many memories, both good and bad, of being there. And more bad than good. It was where he'd first met Solona; it was where every other Grey Warden he'd known, his brothers, had died. And Cailan, his real brother whom he'd never had any real chance to know. But today was a beautiful sunny day, and he forced himself to not think of the end of their journey, but instead enjoy now, the setting out on it.
The streets were not very busy at the moment, and most of what few people were out and about smiled and called out good wishes to the Grey Wardens as they passed, a few addressing words specifically to either Loghain or Wilf. One young woman called out a greeting to Lem that made Alistair blush, and the woman's companion – also female – shrieked with laughter before dragging the first one away by the sleeve.
The lone exception to the good wishes happened as they neared the gate; a cloaked man rounded a corner ahead of them, and came to an abrupt stop on catching sight of them coming along the street, then called out something harsh-sounding in words Alistair didn't understand, and spat in Loghain's direction. Loghain looked his way, then lowered his head, saying and doing nothing in return. Alistair stared at Loghain, then at the man as they passed. An elf, he realized, an older man, his face seamed with the lines of years, head proudly erect and eyes narrowed as he watched Loghain's retreating back. He met Alistair's eyes briefly, then turned away and continued on his way up the street.
He reminded Alistair, oddly enough, of Zevran, though they looked nothing alike. It took him a while to recognize why; they were outside of the city and headed down the coast road before he finally pinned it down. The old man was one of the few elves he'd ever seen, apart from the Dalish, that acted as if he was any man's equal, rather than bowing and scraping or trying not to be noticed around humans. There'd been Zevran, that Shianni female and the hahren in the alienage, and a handful of the Kirkwall elves, most noticeably the tall one with the tattoos and the great big sword.
Overall, the thought made Alistair smile a little; spitting at Loghain Mac Tir was certainly not a way for anyone, elf or otherwise, to remain unnoticed. Until he began to consider why the man had most likely done so, which sobered him up quickly. Maker. Slavery. Ferelden, birthplace of Andraste, selling elves into the very slavery that she'd fought to end. To Tevinter, the remnants of the empire she'd fought; where she'd been betrayed and killed.
He hadn't wanted it to be true, even of Loghain Mac Tir. But he'd seen the caged elves, waiting to be shipped off to Tevinter; seen the bodies of those who'd been deemed not worth shipping out, and instead been slaughtered to fuel the magister's blood magic. Seen, too, the papers that Solona had recovered from the magister's body – what had his name been, anyway? Something starting with a C was all he could remember just now – which had been signed in a quite recognizable hand by Loghain Mac Tir himself, and sealed with his seal.
He found himself staring at Loghain, thinking. Thinking hard; he'd actually begun to respect the man, to think of him as a good commander, until that elf's actions had reminded him of just how low Loghain had sunk during the Blight Year; of just how far he'd been willing to go. It bothered him, that he'd so easily forgotten, even having spoken to Tisha just before they'd set out, heard her reasons for hating the man. And yet even she had spoken of sometimes seeing in him the man her grandfather had praised.
It would be simpler, he found himself thinking, if people were just one thing. Not some mix of good and bad bits, but entirely good or entirely bad. But they weren't, were they? Like Zevran, whom he'd been thinking of just moments before. He was an assassin; that was certainly bad. But he'd proven himself loyal to Solona, and helped fight the Blight, even been there when the Archdemon was killed, which was all good. Alistair himself... well, he tried to be good, to do good, but he hadn't always exactly succeeded, had he?
The question was, he supposed, if a person's good actions could outweigh their bad. And were there actions so bad that they couldn't be forgiven, no matter how much else good that person did in their life? There must be, he decided, thinking of Rendon Howe and a massacre, and the things – and people – that they'd seen in a Denerim dungeon. Yes... there must be things that no amount of earlier or later good works could win forgiveness for.
And yet... even if someone could commit acts that could never be forgiven, if they did honestly try to atone for them in some way, was not the effort itself worth some degree of recognition? Archon Hessarian had ordered Andraste burned alive, then repented during her execution and slew her to end her suffering, and later converted to her faith. He was, as a result, venerated as one of the founding forces behind the Andrastrian chantry, a flaming sword being one of the primary symbols of the faith. Which was more important then; his condemning her to a terrible death, or his mercy and the good works he had later done in her name? Or perhaps they were both important.
Maybe it wasn't so much that people were good or bad, could do good or evil, but that all people were flawed, in greater and lesser ways, and could only muddle along, hopefully at least trying to do the best they were capable of, and endeavouring to make up for it when they'd done wrong. And maybe intent did matter, at least a little, because surely there was some difference in degree between someone who knowingly set out to cause harm, and someone who caused harm while trying to do good.
He still wasn't sure where Loghain fell on that spectrum. During the Blight Year he'd been sure the man was evil, all his actions and plans laced with malice. But now... nothing was certain. And failing the ability to see into another man's heart, to know his innermost thoughts, he could only guess.
They came to the vicinity of the cave, and Loghain stopped there for a while – briefly enough to not bother dismounting – to speak a few final words with Captain Dorn, Oghren, and Nathaniel at the gate of the small fortified encampment that the army had built there, on the bluff overlooking the beach where they'd bathed after the battle the week before.
"Look after yourselves out there," Oghren said them as they began to move away.
"I'm sure we'll all try our best," Lem responded, grinning.
"See you all back in the north," Nathaniel called after them as they moved away. Loghain raised a hand in acknowledgement and farewell, and then they were off, continuing down the coastal road.
The road, little more than a narrow trail, wound back and forth, mostly within sight of the ocean along the top of the bluffs, occasionally curving inland for a while to skirt a marshy area, once or twice dipping down to run along between the shore and the base of some particularly steep outcrop. Wilf and Lem knew this area well, and pointed out a few local landmarks and points of interest – an old smuggler's cave at the base of one bluff, a large swampy area reputed to be particularly bad for deaths and disappearances, a series of sandbars off the coast that had wrecked more than one incautious ship, some of the foundered wrecks dimly visible from the height they were on at the time.
The weather continued good, large clouds forming slowly somewhere offshore and sailing majestically inland overhead, breaking the light into shadows and sunbeams. A flock of birds exploded from a cliff-face as they rode nearby, filling the air with their raucous cries as the mass of white and grey birds wheeling out over the ocean in unison before splitting apart into smaller groups and ones and twos, and scattering. The white ones were adults, Lem explained, the greys their fledged nestlings. Not gulls, though similar in look and habits. They ate whatever they could find along the tide-line, he said, and snatched up any small fish incautious enough to swim too close to the surface.
"Are they good eating?" Alistair asked, watching a small group of them turn and wheel overhead.
"Only if you're desperate," Lem said. "Nasty strong taste to them."
"The eggs are good," Wilf volunteered.
"Yeah, if this nesting site was closer to town, there wouldn't be nearly so many greys visible," Lem agreed. "They lay three or four of them each year, and people are allowed to harvest the eggs as long as they leave at least one in the nest. I've done egging a time or two... nasty work if you don't have a head for heights. The taller and more vertical the cliff is, the happier the birds are to nest there."
"They're no fools," Loghain said, glancing upwards briefly. "They know the steepness keeps them safe from most predators."
It was, Alistair belatedly realized, the first comment Loghain had made since they'd left town that morning, apart from speaking to the men at the camp gate. He'd been silent and withdrawn ever since they'd encountered that elf. Nor did he speak again, as they continued on their way, not until he reined in and said that the place they'd reached – where a tiny spring-fed pond stood, its overflow wending off downhill toward the nearby ocean – was a suitable place to rest the horses while they ate their lunch.
He didn't speak while they ate, either, seeming lost in thought as he stoically munched his way through his share of the rations, seeming not even to taste the food. They topped up their waterskins from the spring before moving on. It was clear they were approaching the Southron Hills now, the land trending steadily upwards, the cliffs facing the ocean tending more and more to the precipitous, what streams they saw either flowing to the northeast, toward the lowland interior, or in a few rare cases tumbling in falls down to the ocean, marshy areas now almost non-existent, confined to narrow areas between the looming heights and the ocean itself. In late afternoon they found themselves skirting around the edges of a large bay, much of the shore below a salt marsh, teeming with wildlife visible even from the heights.
"The village is just the other side of this," Loghain said. "Just beyond that far headland. There's a smaller bay there, deeper then this; no marsh. We should reach there by dark."
And fell silent again, simply leading the way along the trail. It dipped down again at the deepest crest of the bay, cutting through the edges of the salt marsh, crossing over a number of streams, including one almost big enough to be called a river, on corduroy bridges support by stone-filled log cribs. Wildlife was prolific; they saw beavers and muskrats, a huge blue heron that watched them warily as they crossed a bridge just downstream of where it stood, fishing for its dinner. Other waterfowl too; ducks and geese of several varieties, small shore birds investigating the banks and sandbars and mud flats for food. There was the half-eaten corpse of some large animal washed up on one mudflat, too covered with crabs and birds and other scavengers for its type to be discernible.
Their path eventually led upwards again, and inland a bit, cutting across the western headland at a lower point to the next bay. The village was built on the downhill side of it, where the headland would protect them from the worst of the easterly-bound winds and weather. The style of the scattered handful of buildings was much like that of Redcliffe, on a smaller scale; small wooden or half-timbered houses, mostly just one story in height, raised on stone and wood piers sunk into the hillside to keep their floors well above the level of any flow of water down the hillside. Parts of the hillside were terraced, dotted with small gardens and chicken coops and enclosures for other animals. A pair of large dovecotes and several rabbit hutches made it clear what, other than fishing and hunting, provided the primary source of meat for the village.
Their approach was spotted even before they came to the uppermost houses, and by the time they reached what seemed to be the town square – a large terrace near the bottom of the slope – there was a group of people gathered to greet them. One, dressed no differently than the rest, stepped forward and gave a very shallow and awkward bow to Loghain. "My lord," he said uneasily, and looked over the other wardens before turning his attention back to Loghain.
"Ser Treff. I seek rooms for the night for myself and my wardens, or a place where we may camp for the night if accommodating us would be difficult," Loghain said.
Treff nodded. "Rooms can be found, though likely not all in one house," he said, and looked over the wardens again. "Likely I can take two of you in my own house, if you don't mind sharing a bed between the two of you."
"That's fine," Loghain said. "Alistair here is my squire, he can stay with me."
A woman edged out of the crowd, frowning at the group of them. "Wilf? Is that really you?"
Wilf's face lit up with a pleased smile. "Nella! Yes, it is me. I am a warden now," he said, sounding quite proud of the fact.
"I'll be pleased to offer hospitality to my cousin," Nella said, looking at Treff rather than Loghain. "Wilf can come stay the night with Tom and I."
That just left Lem, and an elderly man promptly spoke up, saying there was room in his house, if the warden didn't mind staying in a bachelor household, his wife having passed over the winter. Lem certainly had no objections. Figuring out where their horses and mules could be quartered for the night took longer, there being no pastures here, and several small enclosures having to be offered for the purpose before there was sufficient room found for all of them. A group of young boys offered to go cut grasses for the horses across the hill in the marsh, there being little in the way of feed available either, and Loghain promptly took them up on the offer, tossing them a coin and promising them another in the morning, much to their evident satisfaction. They promptly set out on the errand, wanting to get it completed before dusk. Crunch bounded off with them, seeming not in the least tired out from their full day of travel, much to the boys' delight.
The horses and mules having been taken care of, they scattered to the various households that they would be guesting with. Wilf and Lem were accompanied by most of the curious, doubtless since they were viewed as being more approachable than Loghain's party, Wilf in particular being viewed as one of their own by the townsfolk by virtue of his cousin's residence there.
The house Ser Treff led them to was one of the largest ones, at the southern end of the large terrace, and the only one in the village to have a second floor, albeit a small one. The ground floor was divided into two rooms, a large one that served as kitchen, dining and sitting area, and a smaller one for storage. The bedroom Treff showed them to was on the second floor, taking up almost the whole space apart from a narrow stairwell that ran from the ground floor up to the attic space above. It was also clear that it was usually the bedroom of Treff and his wife, but when Loghain didn't protest about how they were putting the pair out of their own room, Alistair didn't think it was his place to comment. And, in thinking about it, the few times he'd been part of Arl Eamon's train during trips to and from Denerim, any time they'd stayed at a private residence instead of an inn, the best bed in the house had always gone to the Arl, even if it meant everyone else in the house changing rooms to accommodate him.
Treff's wife Audienne – a tall, thin woman with white-streaked brown hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail – came into the room long enough to strip the bed, remaking it with fresh bedding from a cedar-lined chest at the foot of it before carrying the stripped-off bedding upstairs, presumably to use to make up a pallet for herself and Treff in the attic. They piled their packs in a corner of the room, then Loghain sent Alistair off to fetch water for the both of them so they could at least sponge-bathe and get the worst of the smell of horse off before changing into clean clothes.
They joined the couple for dinner a short while later, bowls of a thick fish stew simmering over the fire and chunks of fresh-baked bread. It was tasty and hot and filling, and Audienne seemed pleased by how heartily the two of them ate, though both were actually restraining their appetites a little, limiting themselves to only a small second helping each.
Loghain and Treff talked a little about the village over the course of the meal; mostly about how mild the previous winter had been, how good the fishing was this year, and some minor gossip from Treff about other villagers who were, it seemed, know to Loghain. Loghain briefly explained why he and his wardens were passing through, and where they were headed after this. They went outside and sat on the porch afterwards, looking out over the bay and talking quietly, while Alistair helped Audeinne with the dishes before going out to join them.
Treff gave Alistair only a single incurious look before turning back to his conversation with Loghain – something about a battle somewhere, reminiscences of a shared past Alistair guessed from what he was saying, and supposed Treff must have served under Loghain at some point in the past. Treff was doing most of the talking, Loghain having returned to the distracted silence he'd been in most of the day, beyond the odd encouraging sound or brief comment that showed that he was still listening. Eventually Treff excused himself and went back inside; Loghain remained outside, and Alistair with him. Silence fell, the two watching the last of the sunset, and the first stars coming out. The earlier clouds had all vanished; the sky was clear, the sea breeze stilled, the bay almost as smooth as glass as it reflected the darkening sky. Alistair found himself studying Loghain more than the beauty of the scene, however, wondering...
Loghain eventually turned his head, looking thoughtfully at Alistair. "Spit it out, whatever it is."
Alistair flushed, surprised and a little embarrassed. "All right. That elf this morning... who was he?"
Loghain's mouth thinned slightly. He looked down, then away, out across the water. "He was one of the Night Elves, once. My right-hand man in them, the leader when I was otherwise occupied. We saved each other's lives, more than once, during the course of the rebellion. There was a time when I'd have named him a good friend. I like to believe he'd have said the same."
"But not any more."
"No, not any more," Loghain agreed, and straightened up, no longer leaning on the railing but instead folding his hands together, gaze still fixed on the far distance.
"Because of the alienage."
"Yes."
"Why," Alistair asked. "How could you do that? To Fereldans, to people who'd trusted you..."
Loghain sighed softly. "Many reasons. I could attempt justifying it with any of a half-dozen different arguments, but when it comes right down to it, I know..." He stopped, and swallowed. "I know it was the most unforgivable thing I have ever done."
A silence fell again, Alistair feeling surprised that Loghain hadn't even tried to justify or deny it. "Then why," he said softly after it became obvious that Loghain wasn't going to continue.
"Some times you will find you have no choices left but bad ones. Where the decision to be made is no longer which is the wrong or the right one, but only which one is... less wrong."
"And selling elves into slavery was less wrong? Less wrong than what!?"
Loghain turned and looked at him. "Than seeing all of Ferelden fall. Half the army died at Ostagar, and a good-sized fraction of what remained owed allegiance to lords who had decided to revolt against the Crown rather than helping to secure the border or fight the darkspawn. I was having to hire mercenaries to make up the difference, and what support I'd originally had was vanishing like the snows of spring. The bannorn was in revolt; tax revenues I'd counted on to pay the mercenaries – and the regular army as well – were being withheld. The bannorn is not just the food basket of Ferelden, it is also the main source of revenue for the kingdom. The banns and arls who were supporting Anora and myself had already paid their taxes, and a war tax on top of it, and any further demands for money would have merely driven the less committed of them over to the opposition's side, taking their men with them. I was down to less than two week's pay for the army and mercenaries when I was approached; much longer, and I'd have been out of money to pay the mercenaries, to pay and feed the soldiers. What military forces we had left would have fallen apart. There would have been further violence and uprisings, at a time when Ferelden could not withstand much more of such. Unpaid soldiers tend to express their happiness quite violently, you see. And the mercenaries, once gone, would not have returned, certainly not without considerably higher pay up front"
"So you sold them."
"Yes. Do not think it was an easy or a casually-taken decision. I've worked with elves; fought alongside them. There was a time I was welcome into their homes. My terynir contains most of the Dalish that chose to roam Ferelden; I have met some of them as well, even as leery as they understandably are of most shem'len. Unlike many of our noble lords and ladies, I have never considered the elven population of Ferelden to be merely sub-human knife ears, fit only for servants and barely-trusted soldiers," he snapped angrily, then visibly pulled himself back together. "The alienage is normally a decent source for recruitment, even if not producing the best quality of soldier... but after the rioting and Vaughan Kendall's death – supposed death, rather – I was having to keep the alienage shut up tight and the elves guarded from those who'd otherwise have gone in and run riot, slaying them indiscriminately for their supposed crimes. I didn't want to do it."
"But you sold them anyway," Alistair said, unable to keep the disgust out of his voice.
"Yes, I sold them," Loghain said raggedly, and turned away again. "I told myself... I tried to tell myself... that it was the lesser evil. The ones taken away would at least survive, if, as seemed increasingly likely after the fall of Lothering, the darkspawn broke out of the south. It saved at least some of them from the inevitable slaughter, either by darkspawn or by a panicked and rioting population, to whom the first response in any disaster often seems to be to slay any mages or elves on hand as the obvious scapegoats. Their sacrifice... no, sacrificing them... seemed like it might be the one thing I could do that would make a difference, that might tip the scales and enable me to save my country. I knew it would cost me, but..." he broke off, shaking his head.
"There are some costs that are too high," Alistair said.
Loghain turned and looked intently at him. "Is there? Is there really? You forget I knew Duncan, thanks to his friendship with both Maric and Cailan. He said more than once that the primary rule of the Grey Wardens is to do whatever must be done. To slay the Archdemon; to end the Blight. By that thinking, there is no cost that is too high, so long as it works."
"Selling the alienage into slavery was not necessary," Alistair replied hotly.
Loghain promptly cut him off. "Not in hindsight, no. We were lucky; Solona managed to unite Ferelden behind her, kill the Archdemon, end the damned Blight. I wish to the Maker that I had made some other choice, but at the time it seemed to me to be the only one I could make. An unforgivable choice; not merely because the elves will never forgive me for it, but because I can never forgive myself for it!" He turned away again. "I made that choice knowing that. Knowing that I will spend the rest of my life hating myself for having done it. But if it saved Ferelden..." He fell silent for a while, hands gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles were white. "So long as it saved Ferelden, I would do it again. For Grey Wardens, ending a Blight is the most important thing in the world. For me... saving Ferelden was. More important even than my own happiness or honour."
"Was," Alistair said, picking out the incongruous word.
"Yes, was. I am a Grey Warden now; the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. I still love Ferelden; I will never stop loving this country. But my duty and responsibility now is narrowed, changed. Solona and Riordan changed it when they chose to recruit me rather than kill me; Solona changed it further when she insisted on being the one to take the killing blow, leaving me to live on in her stead. The only border of Ferelden I am allowed to protect now – required to protect – is the one drawn between us and wherever darkspawn linger. The only armies I command are a handful of variably-trained wardens. But by the Maker I will not fail again, even if it costs my own life."
He fell silent again briefly, hands flexing slightly on the railing. When he spoke again, his voice was tense with emotion. "Solona asked me once what I wanted. My response does not really matter, except that two of the things I mentioned were that I wanted a clearly-drawn line I could defend, and an end to the war. In the end... she gave me both of those. In some ways my life has become considerably more simple, as a result. In others... vastly complicated."
He turned, and looked at Alistair. "Duncan and I never saw eye to eye. Not because we were so different, but because we were too much alike. I knew he was a man like me; a man who would sacrifice anything and anyone for his goal, including his own life and honour if it proved necessary. A man who could make the hard decisions, when he had to. Whatever must be done. In my case, to preserve Ferelden. In his, to prevent or end a Blight, to slay an archdemon if one should arise, as one did. Even if the cost of it was Ferelden itself. That is why I never trusted him. Ironic, that now I am the one in the role that was his," Loghain said, lips twisting in a crooked smile. "If a second archdemon arose tomorrow... I do not know that I could go so far as to sacrifice Ferelden to end it, even if that seemed the only possible route. My love of and loyalty to this country is of too long standing to be overturned entirely merely because I am now a Grey Warden. But any lesser cost, that I will not stick at, no matter how repugnant it is to me personally."
He fell silent briefly. When he continued, his voice was very quiet, thoughtful. "Perhaps that makes me an evil man; there are certainly many willing to believe I am. But I have never done anything to seek power for myself, riches for myself, acclaim for myself. All I have ever done is love my King, and my country, and try to do my best for both. That my best was not always good enough..." He paused again, then shrugged. "All men fail, sooner or later. We can only try, and try, and try again."
He fell silent again, looking up after a while at the stars glittering overhead. "It's late. I'm for bed," he said tiredly, and moved towards the door.
"And Cailan?" Alistair asked, suddenly, even as Loghain reached the doorway. Loghain stopped, frozen, not looking back at him. "Did you love Cailan too? Or when you say you loved your King, do you only mean our father?"
"Yes, I loved Cailan. He was the closest thing I ever had in this life to a son. It was not I who put him in the vanguard at Ostagar; I wished him anywhere but there. I wished him kept safe. Turning away from that field, knowing it almost certainly meant his death, was the single hardest thing I have ever done in my life. And I have done many hard things," he said, voice rough, and then disappeared inside the house.
Alistair remained where he was for a while, looking out across the still waters of the bay. He found himself considering Loghain's assertion that he and Duncan had been very much alike. He didn't want to believe that was true, not when he'd so long admired Duncan, so hated Loghain... And yet. And yet he remembered a frightened man dying on the end of Duncan's dagger for having refused the Joining, though it was Jory who'd reached for his weapon first. And remembered, too, Duncan saying to Solona that they had to do whatever it took to destroy the darkspawn. Alistair had not thought the comment all that seriously mean; he'd made a joke about drawing the line at wearing a dress and dancing the Remigold, the memory of which made him feel a little embarrassed now. He'd taken so little seriously much of that day... right up until things became very serious indeed.
And yet Loghain was right; it was a sentiment he'd heard Duncan express before, in different ways over the many months while he'd been the junior-most warden himself. The duty of Grey Wardens was to fight darkspawn, to kill archdemons, to end Blights, by whatever means necessary. If the only way to end the Blight had required some huge sacrifice, equivalent to selling the alienage into slavery... would Duncan have done it? Would Solona? If the choice was forced on him... would he?
If he didn't, if he balked, if he decided that there was a cost too high – was that success? Or abject failure?
And realized, guiltily, that he had decided at one time that there was a cost too high. The cost of allowing Loghain to become a Grey Warden and live rather than slaying him outright.
When he finally went indoors, Loghain was already in bed, lying on his side, eyes shut. Alistair stripped down to his leggings and carefully slipped into bed as well, stretching out with his back to Loghain and a space between them. He lay awake a very long time, thinking of the Blight Year, of their travels back and forth across across Ferelden, of the many people who'd died at their hands, some guilty of nothing worse than doing their job and being between Solona and a goal of hers. She'd never hesitated, he realized. Her decisions had upset or angered him at times, but she'd always gone ahead and done whatever she felt was necessary, to convince their so-called allies to live up to their end of the old treaties. But if things had fallen out differently, if there'd been no choice but to annul the Tower rather than saving the mages, if the only choice available after that had been to slay young Connor or sacrifice Isolde in a blood magic ritual, if their only choice in the Brecilian Forest had been to slay all the werewolves, or even the Dalish themselves... might not Solona have done that, too?
He didn't know. He couldn't know. He could only lie awake and wonder.
Judging by the silence from the other half of the bed, and Loghain's lack of reaction to his entering, he thought he was not the only one not sleeping peacefully that night. Cold comfort, that.