Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other fans like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.
Rating: T, but this particular chapter contains a few references that push a passage or two into M territory, for sexual situations and violence (Not sexual violence).
Spoilers: Takes place ten years or more after the events of Dragon Age: Origins, from the background of a female Human Noble pc who has recruited Loghain and persuaded an "altered" Alistair to marry Anora and rule as King despite his survival, and persuaded Loghain to perform the dark ritual with Morrigan. May contain spoilers for Origins, Awakening, and Dragon Age II as well as the novels The Stolen Throne and The Calling.
A/N: My first play through of Origins, Redcliffe was the last main-plot quest I completed and so when I recruited Loghain (at that point just for purposes of achieving the "Recruiter" trophy for my profile, and quite begrudging having to sacrifice Alistair for it, too) he was the first fully-developed Champion I'd fielded. While I was somewhat aware of it from encountering Champions as foes, never more effectively than dueling Loghain himself at the Landsmeet (he actually slaughtered my poor rogue out of hand my first attempt, and nearly so on reload as well until I thought to use concentrated deathroot extract), I was still rather surprised and delighted to discover his ability to send foes flying with the War Cry talent. It tickled me to think of Loghain as a kind of Ferelden Shaka Zulu, and so that is why I have granted him the admittedly superhuman ability to do so within the confines of my fic.
Chapter Eight: A Line, Clearly Drawn, I can Defend
Loghain awoke before the morning horns well-chilled by the damp Ferelden night despite the armful of warm woman he held. The Warden had one leg thrown over both of his, one arm around his neck, and one battle-roughened hand resting upon his stomach very near that patch of now almost completely gray hair that was usually hidden under his smallclothes. He allowed himself a moment to simply watch her sleep, wondering at the faint marks he'd left upon her body that proved he'd had her. Elilia Cousland might have been too mannish and fierce to be pretty, but by the Maker she was a beautiful woman. And Maker knows he didn't deserve to lay with her.
Cautiously he extricated himself from her embrace, trying not to wake her, but as he moved her hand slid on his body, she grumbled something inaudible, and her fingers closed upon his half-erect phallus - pleasant, but unproductive in terms of preparing to greet a day of blood and death. Gently and with some reluctance he pried her hand from his sex, dressed hurriedly, and left her tent, feeling cowardly and blessing the lighter armor he'd chosen that required no assistance to don. The Warden hadn't offered herself to him with any expectations, he knew, but sneaking away in the pre-dawn dark made him feel low and mean.
There'd been a time when he'd been a good sneak, as adept at the fighting arts of cunning and dexterity as he was now with the unsubtle skills of raw power and rugged constitution, but that was in his teen years, before a final unexpected period of fast growth in his early twenties had made of him as much a giant as his father before him and decades encumbered by armor weighing nearly as much as he himself did robbed him of a portion of his former grace. He could still move with eerie speed and silence when he thought to do so, but even at his best he was not particularly inconspicuous - people noticed a man who was closer to a Qunari in size than to the typical human, who rarely reached and even more seldomly surpassed five feet ten inches. Long before mid-morning, when the scouts reported the enemy was at last in sight, the entire army was aware of the fact that Teyrn Loghain, as he was still thought by most, had spent the night with the Hero of Ferelden. In general, among the rank-and-file at least, this news was met with approval.
By the time the armies were in place the tickle he'd felt in his lungs when he awoke had deepened into a wracking cough, causing concern among the men and for Anora in particular, who demanded he see a healer before he came down with something serious. But of course he was coming down with something serious, exactly as he'd intended, and a healer's ministrations were both unnecessary and unhelpful, and he told her so firmly without explaining further. She bit down on her lips and the torrent of invective she desired to fling at her stubborn sire and turned her horse to rejoin her division. Loghain turned to the scout who came to report to him and demanded his information, ignoring the way the lad's eyes widened in alarm when he caught the sound of a raspy wheeze in his bark of command.
"The Chevaliers are within two miles of us, Ser," the soldier said, with a smart salute. "No sign of scouting parties."
That was welcome news. The Orlesians loved playing their games of intrigue and espionage, but when it came to moving troops they could usually be counted on to simply clump together and march hell bent for leather, heedless of the possibility of ambush. He'd depended upon that hubris during the Rebellion and it had served him well. He was heartened to see they'd failed to learn the lessons he'd so ably taught them. He turned to the small division of infantrymen and wardogs he commanded.
"All right, boys, this is it - try and make yourselves look tired," he bellowed, grinning, and the soldiers snickered and echoed his grin. He barked to the dwarven berserkers the Warden had insisted he place with his own men in exchange for keeping werewolves, golems, and mages under cover with the flanking attackers to stay well hidden behind the taller humans until the command was given for them to surge ahead. "They're coming, men, but fear not - we will take the day, for our homes, for our families, for Ferelden. They've been hard on the march all the way from Val Royeaux and doubtless they are hungry and parched. Let's show them our brand of hospitality, shall we, and feed them a good meal of Ferelden steel and wash it down with Orlesian blood!"
Their roar of approval, mingled with the excited barking of the mabari hounds, was almost deafening, and probably could be heard by the Chevaliers as they approached, but Loghain didn't care. He brought out his great kite shield and rested its lower edge upon a stone and leaned upon it as though for support, and during the tense time of waiting he deliberately worked up his cough and the wheeze in his chest as much as he could. After a particularly violent coughing fit, when he could hear a certain ripple of unease in the men who stood with him, he turned and gave them a droll and exaggerated wink and grin. Laughter erased worry as the men were reassured all was well, and they snickered amongst themselves to think what fools the Orlesians would be to ever believe that Loghain Mac Tir was sickly and weak.
Finally the Chevaliers, depressingly strong in numbers though thankfully as slow as he remembered them in tactics, came through the pass and were called to a halt some fifty yards from the Ferelden line. The general of the Orlesian forces urged his mount ahead a few paces and called to them.
"Ferelden commander - by order of Empress Celene the First of the most holy empire of Orlais, with the backing of the Divine, stand down."
"The Divine can go and sod herself," Loghain called back, not repressing the few ragged coughs it caused to speak across that distance, "and the Empress is out of her bloody mind if she thinks Ferelden is just going to roll over and play dead on her command."
"Blasphemous Dog Lord!" the general spat back, incensed enough to make his horse prance nervously. "How dare you speak so of Her Most Holy Eminence the Divine? How dare you speak such words of the Empress? You will die for your foolish bravado, but first I will know your name so as to ensure that it is never uttered again by a living soul!"
"I am Loghain Mac Tir, and this won't be the first time someone has tried to wipe my name from history's page. Better men than you have tried, and you'll fare no better than they." He noted with satisfaction the way the Chevaliers began to shuffle and prance much the way the spirited horse did, and the air of uncertainty that washed off of them in palpable waves. He let it build for a moment, then doubled over his shield and hacked so terribly and for so long it seemed entirely possible that he would cough up one of his lungs. He finally straightened up and wiped bloody slaver off his chin with a hand he allowed to shake visibly.
The Orlesian general narrowed his eyes. "You have grown old, Loghain Mac Tir, and you are no longer the warrior who by dumb luck alone defeated our knights at the River Dane. How terrible for such as you to come to the end of your days a useless husk of the man you were. Fortunately the Empire is merciful. Let us end your suffering. Attack!"
Loghain hoisted his shield and drew his sword in the same motion. "Forward!" he bellowed. The two lines of soldiers, one so strong and the other, seemingly, so very weak, surged towards each other. When only ten yards separated them Loghain gave the order for the berserkers to move up. The sudden appearance of fifty heavily-armed and armored dwarven ragers swinging enormous mauls slowed the Orlesian onslaught only a fraction, but it was a welcome fraction. The soldiers came together with the ring of steel on steel and the screams of injury from both sides. Chevaliers went flying right and left as the dwarven hammers cut wide swathes through their line, dogs dragged others to the ground and savaged their throats, and Loghain himself shrugged off any sign of illness and proceeded to bash, slash, and otherwise terrorize any Orlesian unlucky enough to come near. If any of his men still harbored fears that their general might not be faking the weakness with which he'd lured in the Chevaliers they were put to rest when he managed to send three knights in heavy plate flying back with a single blow of his mighty shield.
At last it seemed the Chevaliers were fully committed to their assault, and as many of them were packed into the valley Loghain had chosen as was possible. He gave the signal, the mightiest battle cry he'd ever uttered, loud and terrible enough to knock back the knights and soldiers surrounding him in all directions. It echoed off the mountains and came back to their ears amplified a hundredfold, and so terrified the Orlesian forces that it seemed for a moment that they might break ranks and run for home right then and there despite their superior numbers. They weren't given the opportunity. Like ocean waves crashing across a narrow breakwater from not one but both sides, the bulk of the Ferelden forces surged over the rim of the valley and were upon the unlucky Orlesians before they'd fully recovered from the terror that had seized them. Golems pelted them with boulders the size of ponies, mages cast down horrible spells of lightning and ice and fire, werewolves bounded into their midst and began laying waste to men and horses with shocking brutality, and knights on horseback preceded the remainder of Ferelden's baying hounds and screaming infantry and tore great gaping holes in the Orlesians' flagging defenses. It was not an easy rout by any means, the Orlesians numbered too greatly and were too highly trained for that, but the Fereldens and their allies exhibited the tenacity and pugnaciousness they were known and frequently reviled for, and after several bloody hours it was clear that the Chevaliers were finally outnumbered by their foes - and when they realized as much, with no commanders remaining to lead them, they at last broke ranks and ran. The army followed for a few miles, bringing down as many as they could, ensuring that they would not rally and make a second attempt. When they were certain their enemies were well and truly on the run and thoroughly humiliated, they returned to the valley and their encampment to begin the task of cleaning up after the slaughter, honoring the fallen, and healing the wounded. Alistair drew his horse up alongside Anora's and gave her a close inspection before he was satisfied she'd taken no serious injury. He himself had a deep gash on his leg, but it was not life-threatening. He smiled at her in wordless triumph and she found herself smiling back.
The Warden bounded up to greet them both, slathered from head to foot in blood and gore, sporting injuries that would surely add to her already impressive collection of scars, but grinning ferociously with bloodlust and battle rage still evident in her wolfish blue eyes. "That…was one hellacious good fight," she said adamantly. "No gooey disgusting Darkspawn with hardly any brains or equipment at all, a foe with skill and fine steel and the clash of metal on metal and glorious battle! Remind me to give my compliments to your father, my Queen - only he could have orchestrated such a masterpiece of death and violence."
"I do wish you would speak to him, Warden," Anora said, allowing worry to crease her brow, "for that would mean you'd found him. I haven't seen him since we charged."
"With blood and meat and boulders flying every which way, and frequent eruptions of fire and ice, that's hardly surprising," the Warden said, turning about to scan the ranks of soldiers. "I don't think I saw one thing outside the foe directly in my path since joining the fray."
"You would think Loghain would be visible now, though," Alistair muttered low. He appeared to have his own fears for the general's safety. "I suppose he could be out of sight behind a golem or a horseman, but…"
"I'm sure he's fine," the Warden said, but she now sounded anxious, too. "There were far more Chevaliers than we expected, but we still crushed them into a fine powder, didn't we? I hoped we'd be able to embarrass them so badly today that Celene and her bloody nobles would think twice about the wisdom of sending any more forces against Ferelden, but now I think we may have gone a step further than that. We may have actually put enough of a dent in her precious legions to make her unable to send them against us in the near future. That should be a splash of cold water on the fires of those who advocate invasion."
They reached the edge of the valley, their slow conversational pace - set for the convenience of the Warden who was afoot and limping but who cheerfully refused the offer of a mount - allowed a number of cavalry and foot soldiers to pass them. They heard a cry from the men in their advance, and someone shouted for a healer. "The Teyrn! He's wounded!"
The only proper Teyrn on the field of battle that day was Fergus Cousland, who was safely ahorse a few feet to the left of his sister the Warden. "Loghain," Alistair clarified, but Anora had already kicked her mount into a run. He and the Warden caught up as quickly as they could. They saw the queen slide from the saddle and drop to the ground beside the prone figure of a fallen colossus. She pulled his head into her lap and wiped the blood and sweat and hair from his eyes with the handkerchief she drew from the cuff of her armor. "Healer!" she bellowed with volume and command equal to anything her father was known for.
None of Loghain's many apparent wounds seemed especially serious, but the cumulative effect of them had to be draining. Still, it didn't seem quite to explain the ghastly pallor of his face, the way he seemed utterly drenched in sweat, or the clammy coolness of his skin.
"Blast you, Loghain," the Warden swore. She dropped to her knees and began pawing at his armor, searching pockets and pouches for something. "I tried to keep you from it, all last night. What did you take, you…you…you man?" She spat the word at him as though his gender were the worst epithet in her lexicon.
"Eli, what are you talking about?" Alistair asked in bewilderment.
"The damned fool took something, I know he did, to make himself weak and sickly. What was it, Loghain? Deathroot? Belladonna? Some sort of animal venom? I know you've got some on you somewhere, just in case your illness needed a boost before the Orlesians swallowed the bait. Ah ha!" She pulled out a packet which she opened, revealing a fine off-pink powder speckled with glittering blue like bone ash and ground sapphires mixed with a few drops of blood. She looked at it quizzically for a moment, then before anyone could stop her she took a deep sniff of it.
"Be careful!" Alistair warned, horrified.
"Spindleweed and elfroot with an infusion of highly-processed lyrium dust," the Warden said, with her eyes gone wide.
"Spindleweed and elfroot? Is that the antidote to whatever it is he took?" Anora asked.
The Warden shook her head. "This is no antidote, Your Majesty. Maker's breath, it's not what he took that made him sick, it's what he didn't take!" She could see they didn't understand, so she explained. "It's medicine, don't you see? This is the treatment for Bloody Lung!"
"Bloody Lung? I thought that was an Elven disease," Alistair said.
"Might as well be, since the lyrium in the treatment means only the Chantry can dispense it, and they do so at prices the usual victim can't afford. Bloody Lung breeds in foulness, and it's highly contagious when untreated, so it runs rampant in the worst alienages. We haven't had an outbreak here in Ferelden, thank the Maker, but it's known in the Free Marches, common in Antiva, probably rampant in Tevinter, and has lately reached epidemic proportions in Orlais. I assume that's where he contracted it, though I can't imagine what Warden business would find him among the quarantined. Open his mouth."
Alistair held Loghain's mouth open and the Warden poured half the contents of the package down his throat, with brandy from the flask she carried to wash it down. He swallowed reflexively and began to show signs of returning consciousness almost immediately. She gave him the other half of the dose and his eyes fluttered open weakly.
"He'll be all right now, won't he? This is the cure?" Anora asked anxiously. The Warden regarded her solemnly.
"He'll be better, my Queen, but there is no cure. The medicine stops the disease from spreading further, and slows its progression, but at best it only prolongs the victim's life. Missing a dose is strongly cautioned against by Chantry dispensaries, and I wouldn't put it past him to have skipped more than one. I doubt very much that he hasn't ruined what health he still enjoyed by this ploy."
"Damn you, father!" the Queen burst out angrily. "There had to be another way!"
Loghain looked up at her with no sign of recognition in his eyes until his mouth moved and he spoke in a hoarse voice they had to lean forward to hear. "What makes the sky blue?" he asked.
Bewildered, frightened by what seemed like delirium, Anora blinked a few times and stammered out, "It is said that it is caused by the refraction of sunlight through water vapor that hangs unseen in the air."
Loghain smiled. "If I live long enough for Duncan or Anora to ask me, it's good to know I'll have a proper answer for them, even if I'm forced to confess I don't understand a word of it myself."
"You great ass," the Warden said. "Don't scare us like that. Andraste's tits, man, I didn't save you from the Archdemon just to have you die fighting some bloody Orlesians."
He coughed, and a fresh spot of blood appeared on his chin. "And here I thought it was I saved you from the Archdemon."
"Can you stand, father?" Anora asked. He nodded and they helped him to his feet. He looked embarrassed by their concern. "There has to be something we can do. We have magic - surely our healers can cure him."
The mousy little mage that had answered the queen's summons shook her head sadly. "If it is indeed the Bloody Lung, Your Majesty, magic presents no cure. I can restore a portion of his strength, however, and am honored to do so." She cast a whirl of light and magic that caused his wounds to knit and some color to return to his face. The mage curtseyed deeply and hung her head. "I regret I can do no more than this."
"Not your fault, girl," Loghain said curtly. "Give your talents to the wounded and worry not about me. In the old days King Maric told me once he thought I was simply too ornery ever to die, and perhaps he was more right about that than he knew. After all, by magic or coincidence I somehow beat the Darkspawn taint. Seems to me I stand a better than average chance of beating this blasted disease as well."
"I know of a way to ensure it," the Warden said darkly. Alistair shot a sharp look at her. "We're not far. I suppose I've no right to ask it of you, but would you please help me to do it, Al? There must be a party to manage it, as you know, and if Loghain's strength should fail I'll need yours added to mine to bring him through the Gauntlet."
"I'll do it," Alistair said firmly, without a shred of hesitation. "Who will be our Fourth?"
"Fergus would come if I ask," the Warden said.
Anora broke in to this private exchange. "I don't know what the two of you are speaking of, but if a fourth sword arm will in some way save my father's life, then look no further than me."
"Do you remember, Loghain, when I took you through the ruined temple to the peak of Mount Daverus to face the High Dragon?" the Warden asked. "You asked me then what lay within the building we did not enter, and I wouldn't tell you. How would you like to see for yourself?"
"Does this have something to do with the publications of that Brother Genitivi fellow?" Loghain asked suspiciously.
The Warden nodded. "Indeed. The temple is truly the final resting place of the Prophetess. There is a Gauntlet that must be passed in order to reach Her, but the merest pinch of Her ashes will cure your sickness forever."
"What of this Gauntlet?"
"The Trials you must pass to prove your worthiness are not insurmountable. In truth they're rather easy, though I suspect the truly unworthy would find harder obstacles barring his path than we did. Just a few puzzles to test the mind, the will, and the cooperation of your party. Alistair and I have been through it so we should be able to guide you even if the specific Trials have changed."
"Seems an unconscionable waste of the King's time," Loghain said airily.
"That is for me to decide, I believe," Alistair said with a severity and command he could not have achieved ten years ago. "I shall put Teyrn Fergus in charge of things here and the victory march back to Denerim. You, I, the Queen, and the Warden are going to pay a visit to Holy Andraste. End of discussion."
He broke away to his task then, leaving Loghain standing slightly shocked, and Anora took the opportunity to draw the Warden aside for a private talk. She poked a finger in the warrior's chest and stuck her face up close to hers.
"Did you sleep with my father just to keep him from sneaking some sort of poison?" she asked.
The Warden was taken aback, but rallied. She looked the Queen squarely in the eye. "No, Your Majesty."
Anora studied her eyes for a moment before drawing back, satisfied. "Good."