Dragon Age

Dead, unmourned, remembered as a cautionary tale – a warning that commoners could not be trusted, that only the bluest of blood deserved titles.

“Father?”

Dead, redeemed, his last act slicing deeply into a mighty dragon’s neck. His death once more an inspiration to those he had come from, the commoners.

“Father…”

Alive, with accented Orlesian falling from his lips, battling Darkspawn and, for the first time in his life, researching. Reading. Bettering his mind.

“Father! It’s time.”

Loghain snapped back to himself, looking at his daughter with a small smile. “I’m sorry, my dear. I had strange dreams last night.”

The Waking Sea was often not quiet. It roiled and raged, storms of winter howling impotently over frothing waves.

Yet it had moments of calm. Rare moments, usually in autumn – the time of transition, the moment of serenity between the ragings of winter and summer. It was such a moment that Maric had relied on to deliver him safely to the Free Marches. You worry too much. I’ll be back before you know it.. A tender smile.

November delivered a storm like no other, unexpected, brutal. Swallowing Ferelden’s king, his dear friend, in the deep.

Silent mourning over calm waters.

The wine was deep and rich, red and warm, inebriating, like blood in battle.

“You really should consider beer.” The Hero of Ferelden looked at him over the rim of a tankard. “It doesn’t get you quite as drunk. At least, not as fast.” The accusation was clear. You drink too much and make bad decisions.

The Hero was young, after all. She didn’t have decades of loss and regret to drown. She had never known the alewives, the women who brewed beer full of knowledge and history. “I’ll consider it.”

Wine becomes you, old goat.

Beer retained too much.

Celia's fingers found the lines around his mouth, tracing them delicately. "Age becomes you, old goat."

Loghain could not help smiling, the smile that was just for her, the smile that had given him those particular lines on his increasingly lined face. "Flatterer," he grunted.

"A man of many words, as always." Her eyes glittered. She was a force to be reckoned with, had been ever since she showed up outside of his tent one morning, berating him for being an awful Teyrn. "Those lines had better stay, old goat."

"As long as you're here," he kissed her, "they will."

The muses were supposed to be supernatural, spirits that visited men with full hearts to give their tongues worthy expression. So why would they be afraid of mortal weaponry?

Well, Loghain had little enough reason to believe in benevolent supernatural beings.

All he knew was that sweet words failed him, throughout the war. He had nothing for those he cared for so greatly - for Rowan, for Maric - other than curt words, devoid of the passion he felt.

Yet even after the war, the muses stayed far from him. Did their fear of cold steel persist even when it was sheathed?

"The Orlesian ambassadors are here."

The words could not be less welcome. Orlesians. Ambassadors. He must be superficially polite, swallow down all of his resentment and rage, keep his hands free of weapons and his face free of a scowl.

"They're asking to speak with Teyrna Celia. They feel this would be more," a gentle cough, "productive."

"Yes." Loghain let go of the arms of his chair, sure his fingers would leave dents in the wood. "She is in her office."

The Gwaren lad smiled, not attempting to hide his relief. "Good. We all love her, you know."

He did.

The physical had an undeniable appeal. It was his fortè – jumping, running, crouching, hiding himself in trees and bogs, sending arrows swiftly to their homes in throats and hearts.

But what did it mean for his strengths when the war was done, when bows and swords were put aside, when the world became more complicated than good and evil, enemies and allies? Suddenly, Loghain had to leap and dodge and dance in a way unfamilar to him, for Maric. For Anora. For everyone he loved.

He was no politician, no mental gymnast. But now he had to pretend to be.

"I don't get it." Varric looked up to see Hawke still nursing the same beer she'd ordered when they came in.

"Don't get what, Chuckles?"

She shrugged. "I knew things were bad for mages, but I didn't realize what it was like."

Ah. Varric pulled his chair closer. "For Anders?"

"And Bethany, and my father, and everyone... two apostates in my family, and I didn't realize...!"

Varric sighed. "Don't beat yourself up. There's a certain... collective deafness to the plight of mages. We like things to be simple."

"But it's not."

"No." Varric smiled softly, taking her hand. "It's not."

"Don't even ask," Varric grunted, pulling his papers closer to his chest. What was Bull doing in here, anyway? Shouldn't he be working out or getting beat up? That was probably how he worked out.

"I wasn't about to. Working on a story?"

"And yet you just did."

"Only because you got so defensive!"

With a sigh, Varric pushed the papers back out onto the table. They were all blank, anyway. Bull looked at them, then nodded.

"Writer's block?"

"Worst I've had."

Bull shrugged. "The Inquisition is wrapping up. People are moving on."

"Yeah." He would have to, too. Eventually.