Chapter Text
Repentance began at the feet of a crowd.
Men and women who had always considered themselves above Loghain Mac Tir watched as the Grey Wardens threatened to humble him, and they were torn between disbelief and overwhelming joy. The fabled Hero of River Dane stood before them all, haggard-looking, wearing a snarl on his thin upper lip. It was not so difficult for them to see the error of his ways when his every look was a glare, when his every word was sharpened to a fine edge.
All they needed was an excuse to change their minds. All they needed was to feel the tide turning around their ankles, even if the water they waded through had always been bloodied.
The Wardens were as of yet an untested group of would-be heroes, but they carried with them an illusion of hope, a promise of triumph, and the weight of tales and bards’ songs and tomes lined with dust. Everyone there was well-aware what the Wardens were capable of. They knew the impossible battles that ended on griffon’s wings, stories from Ages past that were shared with no small amount of reverence about blood and sacrifice.
And Loghain had abandoned them on a field of battle.
The fate of Ferelden would be decided not on some such battlefield, but in an assembly hall full of nobles both ornery and perfumed. Each of them stood above the fluttering banners of their arlings and bannorns, fraught with concern over the darkspawn threat and frothing at the mouth for an opportunity to put themselves and their precious holdings above all others. So many of them were so young.
Few stood at the Landsmeet who knew the truth, that all of Ferelden could fall and they could still hold victory in Fereldan hands.
Grand Cleric Elemena spoke up first — not to vote, but to voice her condemnation of Loghain. It was Arl Bryland of South Reach who first shouted his support of the Wardens.
Bann Sighard also put his lot in with the Wardens. After all, they rescued his son from the belly of Arl Howe’s estate after weeks of imprisonment and torture. He spoke fondly of Lady Amell in particular, Sighard mentioned as an aside, casting down a fatherly smile at the mage Warden. She healed the wounds threatening to fester. Surely it is because of her that he is alive today.
Next came the testimony of Bann Alfstana, whose Templar brother had been left to suffer from lyrium withdrawal in a cell barely large enough for him to sit.
As soon as Warden Brosca insisted that the Blight was the most pressing issue and not the legions of Orlesian soldiers that had not crossed into Ferelden, Arl Wulff of the Western Hills slammed his hands down on the wooden banister that he stood before and agreed with such vehemence that other men and women who had not yet spoken up in earnest murmured their own agreement. Their heads bobbed, brows knitted upward in tragic understanding.
It was true that one of the only allies the Wardens could boast of having in the Landsmeet was their own hard work. Both of them knew that Arl Eamon standing beside them was a boon that would not last, not unless they followed the careful plan he laid out in front of them.
With the Landsmeet’s near-unanimous decision made and Loghain’s guilt held out for everyone to see, the path was paved.
The teyrn cast a look around the room that was sharp enough to break skin. Banns and arls alike stumbled back from where they stood, unwilling to meet the steel he brought to bear.
“A duel, then, to sate your desire for spilt blood.” Beneath his skin, a muscle in his jaw slid into place and locked. “The Landsmeet will settle upon the terms.”
Loghain listened as Bann Alfstana dictated the Landsmeet traditions to everyone present. She detailed what would be expected of both sides, reminding them all of the honorable expectations and the many rules that had been set into place by men long dead. While she spoke, he turned his attention to the Wardens with all of the derision he could spare, his pale eyes narrowed and his lips pulled taut as he regarded the trio that had been so willing to throw him to the wolves. It was only right after the reception he had given them and their order.
Warden Amell leaned forward to speak directly into Warden Brosca’s ear. Her whisper was only heard by one of them, though the decision she made was understood by all when Vedahn stepped away from their party and closer to Loghain, the daggers he wore on his hips drawn.
“Will it be you, then?” Loghain asked, his chin tipped up while his eyes remained cast down. “You are the chosen champion?”
“Yeah.”
No more was demanded from the Warden following his brusque response. Loghain’s men moved to an acceptable distance, as did the rest of the Warden’s companions. Anora joined them. There was no small amount of worry on Warden Amell’s face, but she seemed to be a woman who worried often, even when worrying wasn’t necessary.
Once they stood alone, the fight began.
In recent years, Loghain had set aside his bow in order to take on the sword and shield that was expected of him. So many trying years at his back taught him that the only thing worth truly learning was how to wield any weapon. He even learned how to improvise weaponry when his life depended on it and when it didn’t. He trained with his bow against greatsword knights and put his blade up against magic.
If his many advantages in knowledge and training and experience failed, it would be his advantage in size and strength that saved him.
The Wardens were untested. Young. Inexperienced.
A single blow from Loghain’s sword sent the Warden to a knee, his daggers raised above his head and crossed at the blade to halt the momentum. The clash of their weaponry started with a fitful cry that loosened into a keening wail as Loghain put his weight into forcing the dwarf down even farther.
Gasps ran through those gathered, as if a single blow had rid the room of air. He could imagine the looks on their faces — from the same disbelief and joy as before to shock and nail-bitten concern for the Warden as Loghain shifted one foot forward and pushed even more of his strength into his sword hand.
Vedahn Brosca’s gasp joined the others. The whites of his eyes spoke to the fear that no doubt gnawed at his belly.
They spoke to the doubt, too.
But the boy was quick, as well as strong, and he shoved upwards with a power Loghain had not expected from him.
Loghain stepped back and drew up his shield to protect his left side from the flurry of blows that Brosca attempted to land against his side. The impact set Loghain’s brow into a furrow, knitting together with effort as he forced the dwarf back a second time.
There was no light-hearted banter, no taunting or teasing. Not a single adrenaline-fueled grin was passed between either of them. From the crowd, there were neither jeers nor inspiring cries. The assembly hall was silent save for the hushed reactions of the bannorn leaders and the baleful sound of steel to steel. He wagered that it was the weight of the duel that silenced them all.
Vedahn struck at him with a swirl of furious blows, sweat beading on his dark skin as he forced himself forward to meet the teyrn. He pivoted to avoid a blow from Loghain’s longsword before surging forward as quickly as his opponent found his own footing once again.
When the Warden struck again, the impact knocked well into Loghain’s forearm. Pain shot down into his wrist, making the fingers of his shield hand go numb.
The grunt he gave was the sound that signaled yet another turning of the tide.
Relief poured through the assembled from one side of the hall to the other, tumbling down in waves from the nobles to reach the Warden’s companions… and the Warden himself.
Bolstered by the confidence of the crowd, Vedahn swung his leg inward. The flash of gray and blue armor and worn brown leather was almost quick enough to miss entirely.
In a duel, almost meant nothing. Almost was a whisper lost to the wind.
What mattered was the blow that landed, and the blow that landed was a wide sweep of Loghain’s shield that smashed into the Warden with no hesitation.
Vedahn, still half-recovered from his own missed kick, was thrown backwards. The blue-green rug that ran the length of the hall bunched beneath his feet once he landed, kicking out to pull himself up rather than throw another at Loghain.
Still clutching onto his daggers as if they were the last sovereign to his name, Vedahn pulled himself up and spat. A viscous arc of blood landed on the rug between his hands. “Son of a nug,” he growled, the gravel in his voice standing in stark opposition to the almost casual curse that passed his lips. The split in his chin dripped dark blood down over the silverite griffon emblazoned on his chest.
He was not yet a cornered animal, but he was a bloodied one. Fear took a different shape in a man like him.
“Come on.” Vedahn settled into the same stance as before. Tension pulled his shoulders taut. When he gave another cry, Loghain caught a glimpse of the red between his teeth. “Come on!”
Loghain would not have been surprised if the assembly saw the dwarf’s battle cries as bravery rather than fury. There was certainly more of one than the other. It was the bravery that drew Loghain’s attention, as well. It was a shout that echoed with self-assuredness, even after being knocked off of one’s feet.
Springing forward was difficult in a full set of plate, but Loghain could not help but rush into the fray again, his longsword pointed directly at the Warden’s well-protected belly.
The Warden’s parry diverted Loghain just far enough aside to bare a greater weakness than the join of his armor.
Dagger slicing through one of the two leather straps holding Loghain’s shield upright, the thing sagged briefly before Loghain wrenched it off of himself and tossed it aside. “Shit!”
Loghain was unsure of how to progress without his shield; it was a necessary element to the style.
The remainder of the duel would require improvisation.
In the renewed quiet, Loghain heard hitched breaths and quiet murmurs from the crowd. How many times had the Landsmeet ended with a duel? How many times had that duel held the fate of Ferelden in its hands? He couldn’t know. He was no student of history. All he knew was that the Wardens would more willingly drown the country in Orlesian wine than allow even a little Darkspawn taint encroach upon the fertile farmlands.
They wanted Ferelden for themselves. If not for the Wardens, then for Eamon and the fool half-Thierin who never quite shut his mouth.
He would not allow that.
Without the burden of his shield, Loghain took his longsword in both hands. He lunged forward with his right foot, swinging downward with a flick of his wrists and nearly slamming the sharpened blade into Vedahn’s shoulder with the back edge of his sword.
The dwarf parried, but Loghain had anticipated the shove of his daggers once they found purchase on the edge of the blade.
He leaned into the momentum and pulled his arms closer to his torso, turning the sword and shoving it towards him with intent to kill. Had the tip of the blade landed where he aimed it, it would have.
But Vedahn had grown up in Dust Town. He was the sort of duster who knew how to think on his feet, how to survive when kept on his toes.
Brutal as it was, the Warden went for his hands, aiming for the space between his gauntlets and the leather gloves he wore beneath.
Loghain dropped his blade with a clatter. That was the sort of injury you never fully recovered from, and he wasn’t ready for the loss of his fingers. He never would be.
The duel ended with swipe of a dagger rather than a bloody gurgle.
There was nothing disappointing about losing to a man who knew how to kill. Anyone else might have been incensed, but as Vedahn drew his dagger to aim the curved tip of it directly at Loghain’s chest, he brought his hands up in a gesture of defeat.
“I yield,” Loghain murmured, his words leaving him in a ragged pant. His dark hair clung to the pale skin of his throat and forehead, sweat-slick from exertion. “You are a clever fighter. I am impressed.”
The banns and arls of the Landsmeet began to move forward, bodies bent over the banister as they hoped to hear the words that passed between the traitorous teyrn and the Warden who had stopped him.
“Say it again.” Vedahn sheathed his daggers and bent to pick up Loghain’s discarded shield, but there was no light of triumph in his eyes. “Loud, so everyone can hear.”
Humility washed over him in red, his ears heating up like angry coals. He grit his molars and peered around the hall with the same disdain as before. Of course they would require him to prostrate himself upon his defeat. This was what they’d always wanted from him.
“I yield!” he shouted, and the sound of his voice bellowed up into the rafters. “The Warden has claimed his victory!”
Bann Ceorlic shrank backwards. He wasn’t the only one.
Turning to regard the remaining Wardens, as well as his daughter, Loghain knew that the strings of fate were already being tied unconscionably tight. His breath pulled up short in his throat. A single sigh chased dread out through his teeth. The party watched him as he relented, all of them quiet, most of them seeming contemplative.
His gaze lingered over Alistair’s face. There, he found Maric and impotent fury standing with joined hands.
Awkwardness crept over the Landsmeet. The time for deliberation was at an end. With the duel finished and the chosen villain disposed of, there was only the matter of where they would go from there.
Warden Amell stepped forward. In an instant, she drew the attention of those gathered, as Vedahn had when he put himself forward to fight. There was no denying the grip they could close around the banns should they choose. Leaders often carried with them that capability, for good or for ill.
“We accept your surrender.”
“Are you serious?” A crack sliced through Alistair’s voice when he finally spoke. “Just like that, he’s forgiven for everything?”
Yvaine’s colorless eyes snapped in the direction of her fellow Warden. “What would you have us do, Alistair?” Her voice did not break. It barely rose above a murmur, but they could all hear her. Somehow. “Would you rather we execute him here?”
A shade of Maric passed over Alistair’s face as he floundered. Anger and embarrassment mixed in a familiar cocktail, one that led directly to a man on the defensive.
“Yes!” he shouted. “We should!”
“There is another way,” Yvaine insisted.
At the back of the hall, the heavy wooden doors were pushed open by a single man, one he did not recognize that wore the same Warden armor as the others gathered around him. He was older than any of them, with a lean and hungry look about his face. He wove through the Warden’s party to make his way to the front, resting a careful hand on Yvaine’s shoulder as he moved past her.
In a sinuous Orlesian accent, his voice joined hers: “Warden Amell is correct. There is another way.”
“Well, I don’t care,” Alistair said, his interruption drawing pointed looks from both of his traveling companions. “After what happened at Ostagar, Loghain doesn’t deserve whatever it is you’re planning on offering —”
“We intend to make him a Grey Warden.”
Disgust dawned over the face of Maric’s bastard, but Loghain’s own expression remained stoic despite the quickly curdling regret in his veins. Never in his life had he considered walking the path of the Wardens. He wasn’t the sort of man who quivered over stories of heroism or worried overmuch about the matter of prestige. The thought of being welcomed into the same order he so recently betrayed felt… wrong.
“The Fereldan Wardens number three,” the Orlesian Warden sought to remind Alistair. “The teyrn is a renowned warrior. His aptitude for strategy is well-known amongst us all. Having him undergo the Joining is the best option.”
Alistair’s face twisted into a scowl. “He’s the reason there are only three of us left!”
Unwilling to let the mewling continue without his input, Loghain cleared his throat. They all turned towards him.
“I will take the Joining, if that is what you offer me.”
What he didn’t expect in the middle of everything was the pressure of Anora’s shoulder brushing against his. But she was the queen, and her voice joining the chorus could only mean good things. He watched with curious eyes as their expressions shifted for her. Alistair’s anger turned towards thoughtfulness. Yvaine’s frustration seemed to evaporate in an instant. Even Riordan’s face softened.
She had that effect on people.
“The Joining may prove an execution of its own design, no?” Anora deferred to the most senior of the Grey Wardens. “As there is no guarantee of my father’s survival, surely having him undergo the Joining is satisfaction enough to all here. No matter which side the coin lands on, there will be a victor.”
“No!”
The desperation in Alistair’s voice bordered upon tragic.
“Riordan, please,” he begged, the knot between his brows only worsening as his demands became pleas. “Loghain left the Wardens to die on the field at Ostagar, then blamed us for the king’s death! He is the reason we’ve been fighting off assassins at every turn! He nearly killed Arl Eamon! He’s why you were tortured!”
Watching someone’s heart bleed right in front of your eyes was difficult. A softer man might have fallen on his sword right there.
But Loghain had not been soft and sweet since he was a boy.
“Joining the Grey Wardens is an honor not meant for a man who has committed such atrocities —”
“I was a breath away from being taken to Aeonar when Duncan recruited me,” Yvaine said, her interruption sharp enough to parry. Alistair stopped short in his pacing, lips parted, eyes wet. “And Vedahn, he was going to be thrown into the Deep Roads for his own crimes. We are not all you, Alistair. We don’t all join because we dream of being heroes.”
Brosca nodded, still thumbing at the bloody split in his chin.
“Duncan was a criminal, too, wasn’t he?”
“Th-there is a difference.” A dangerous sort of tension slipped into Alistair’s voice. If Yvaine wielded a parrying blade, his voice turned into a knife. “But fine. Fine. Make him a Grey Warden if you will, but I will not stand beside him as a brother-in-arms!”
The Landsmeet had not expected such drama when arriving at the assembly hall on an early morning in Harvestmere. They expected the vote and perhaps the duel, but having a front row seat to watching Maric Theirin’s bastard pitch an unholy fit over a decision made by those in his order? No one had thought to prepare themselves for such a thing. They watched with an animated sort of interest as this unfolded before them all.
Whatever happened, word of it would return to their bannorns and their arlings within the month. Loghain dreaded the bards’ songs more than anything. Should he die in the Joining, Alistair would have his victory. The songs would be joyous little ditties about irony and the power of pure hearts and other such nonsense.
In that moment, Loghain decided that he would live.
“Then, if I’m no longer going to be a Grey Warden, I will take the crown!”
The audacity of Alistair’s conclusion was what pulled Loghain back into the hall where he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his daughter, the rightful queen of Ferelden. He lurched forward, indignation boiling in his blood, but was stopped by the fall of a delicate hand against his breastplate.
Yvaine Amell stood between him and Alistair, though only the latter received her withering glare.
“We agreed that Anora would remain queen,” she reminded him, slowly, picking over the words as if she spoke to a young boy. “You will not go back on your word solely because you selfishly seek revenge. What sort of king would that make you?”
Alistair refused to give up. It was almost admirable. In another world, at another time, he might have followed him, as he had Maric.
“One willing to seek justice for lives taken too soon!”
But Anora did not stand idly by, either. She was not that sort of queen. She never had been.
And Loghain would follow her anywhere.
“The crown is not yours to take, and this decision is not in your hands.” Commanding the attention of the room as Yvaine had was easily done by his daughter. Again, the tide turned, and he watched as the rush of water threatened to steal Alistair’s feet from under him. “You will abide by the ruling of the Wardens, or you will abandon the order here and now. That is your only decision.”
“I…”
A ginger-haired woman looked between the faces of the Wardens. Sympathy took shape in a twist of her small mouth, in her wrung hands. The Antivan Crow that Howe had insisted he hire to kill the Wardens hid his own reaction by tucking his chin down into his hand, but his tawny eyes darted right to Alistair, waiting to see if he would be needed. At their heels, two mabari hounds waited, as still and proud as lovingly formed sculptures.
Everyone stared at Alistair, waiting with held breaths to see if blood would indeed be spilled this Landsmeet.
“Should you wish to divorce yourself from the Grey Wardens because of this decision, you will also forfeit any claim you have to the throne,” Anora continued. Only Loghain could hear the tremor in her voice, the tenderness of her steps on this path that had become so unstable since Ostagar. Some small part of him ached to reach out and steady her, but he would never do such a thing in front of so many, not after all that he’d done to her. “You will raise no rebel armies with the Theirin name. Any claim you might have had was relinquished the moment you took your oath.”
“Fine!” Bitter tears clung to Alistair’s cheeks and lashes, his golden skin flushed in splotchy shades of red. Blood had been spilled again after all. His voice trembled, too, but loudly enough for all to hear. “Fine. I would rather be anywhere but here. Maybe I’ll find some friends who don’t immediately betray everything we stand for.”
The hard line of Yvaine’s broad shoulders bent. Her head sank with them, and the hand she held against Loghain’s breastplate swept downward to hang at her side.
“Just go, Alistair, if that is what you want to do.”
When she managed to lift her head again, Alistair was gone, and her stare turned to Loghain’s. The moment of grief had passed. Regret was packed away neatly, leaving only the awkwardness of vulnerability in its wake.
“We will quit this place and return to Eamon’s estate,” Yvaine said. “There, you will undertake the Joining.”
Warden Amell was as tall as she was elegantly built, and her eyes were too pale to be soft, even reddened and glassy as they were. From what he knew of her, she was the eldest of the three Fereldan Wardens, Kirkwall-born, and a healer of some renown. She was their leader — clever and unafraid and brilliant. Everyone who met her had some new, shining thing to say about her.
Time would tell, if fate decided he had any left.