For Fereldan
"Oh, what a legacy the years of misguided upbringing have left behind!" This thought had crossed Loghain's mind countless times over the past five years. Five years since Maric had vanished at sea. Four years since Cailan had ascended the throne. In all that time, Anora had done her utmost to instill a sense of seriousness and duty in him, yet Loghain had long grown weary of words himself. At least he could find some solace in knowing that his daughter, in truth, governed Ferelden from the shadows.
But now, they stood on the brink of a battle unlike any other—a confrontation with an enemy whose numbers were unknown, and who were not mere men but monsters: unpredictable, bloodthirsty, and relentless. And how did Cailan choose to face this impending disaster? By deciding to play the hero, entranced by the mystique surrounding the Grey Wardens, blind to the true scale of the threat before them.
"Maric would be disapointed to see what his son is about to do. And Maker rest her soul, your mother... At least she is spared the sight of her son recklessly throwing his life away—for glory, for recognition, for a place in the legends!" Loghain's voice trembled with rage when Cailan announced that he would fight on the front lines alongside the Grey Wardens.
"You would do well to remember who the king is here, Loghain!" Cailan retorted sharply. "The Wardens deserve all the support they need, and morale will soar when the king stands shoulder to shoulder with his knights in battle!"
Loghain, his voice now icy, replied, "And what good will it do the men and women on the front if their king falls alongside the Wardens and their legends? This is no place for heroics, Cailan. We need to face reality and build strategies, not indulge in fantasies of valor!"
Cailan held Loghain's cold gaze, unwavering. "My decision to fight on the front lines alongside the wardens is final and not open to debate. You would do better to focus on your own duty and go and plan the battle strategie."
Fool though he was, Loghain had to admit that Cailan had inherited Maric's unyielding stubbornness. Taking a deep breath, Loghain forced himself to hold his tongue. How many times had he clashed with Cailan over the years? Yet this time, the stakes were higher than ever—not just for Cailan's own life, but for the very survival of Ferelden. His duty was clear: to protect the land at all costs.
"Your highborn Majesty, I shall present my battle plan at the strategic meeting this afternoon," Loghain said, his voice laced with biting sarcasm, before turning sharply on his heel and leaving the tent.
His steps felt heavy as he walked away, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. He needed time—time to think, to plan. Retreating to his own tent, he ordered the guards to let no one disturb him. Once inside, he sat alone, grappling with a memory that refused to be silenced: the vow he had made to Maric and Rowan all those years ago. He had promised to do whatever was necessary to ensure Ferelden's safety and stability. Not the king, but Ferelden itself, was to be his highest priority.
When Cailan had proposed calling upon Orlesian chevaliers for aid in the upcoming battle, Anora had mercifully dissuaded him before Loghain could intervene. Cailan had always been eager to form a new alliance with Orlais, claiming it was time to "lay the grievances of the past to rest." Shortly after, Loghain had traveled to Denerim to muster the army fort he upcoming battle. There, a letter addressed to Cailan from Arl Eamon Guerrin was handed to him by his daughter. In it, Eamon urged the young king to consider a new queen, given that Anora had yet to bear him an heir. Anora had confronted Cailan directly, and while he dismissed the notion outright, the incident had left Loghain uneasy. Determined to keep a closer watch, he tapped into the network of spies he had built during his days leading the night elves. Reports soon came back that Cailan had been corresponding with Empress Celene of Orlais. One letter in particular caught Loghain's attention: Celene proposed a permanent alliance between Orlais and Ferelden and mentioned her intent to visit Denerim soon for negotiations.
These revelations weighed heavily on Loghain. Over the past month, he had begun to seriously consider removing Cailan from the throne. His recklessness and naïveté endangered not just Ferelden's independence, but its very existence. Could he truly be planning to leave Anora for Celene? To Loghain, the darkspawn horde looming on the horizon seemed a lesser threat compared to the one posed by Cailan himself. He would not stand idly by while the scheming nobles of Orlais sank their claws into Ferelden once more.
Seated at his desk, Loghain rubbed his temple, the relentless headaches of recent days threatening to overwhelm him. Before him lay a map of Ferelden, its surface strewn with strategic markers. Beside it stood a bottle of fine Gwaren brandy and a few glasses. Pouring himself a measure, he drank deeply, the fiery burn grounding his racing thoughts.
If Cailan underestimated the threat of the darkspawn and insisted on playing the hero, Loghain resolved not to save him. Let him reap the consequences of his own arrogance. Yet, as the memory of Rowan crossed his mind, a deep ache settled in his chest. Cailan was her son. Could he truly do this? Rowan would probably execute him for that, though it would break her heart. And Maric—what would Maric say?
Forcing these thoughts aside, Loghain rose, his expression hard and unyielding. There was no room for sentiment, no time for doubt. The safety and stability of Ferelden demanded his full attention. With purposeful strides, he left his tent, heading for the final meeting before the battle.
For Ferelden. Always for Ferelden.