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Chapter Text

Maric was presumed dead, to begin with. There was no doubt about it. His ship had left port in Denerim, but had never arrived in Kirkwall. The proclamation of death was made by Loghain Mac Tir. How could he be certain Maric was gone? Because he knew Maric better than anyone in Ferelden. Loghain, who'd partnered with Maric all those years of the rebellion. Loghain, who'd seen to the ruling of Ferelden when Maric was indisposed. Loghain, who'd even helped raise Maric's child. Loghain knew Maric as well as he knew himself, if not better, so it was that he knew Maric was not coming back.

And it is of utmost importance that we remember that Maric was presumed dead, to begin with. There was nothing particularly important about this. People were presumed and subsequently proclaimed dead all the time in Thedas. Particularly in the time in which we open: the age of the Fifth Blight.

With the presumed death of Maric, Loghain had taken up leadership of Ferelden, in spite of the fact that Maric's son had been crowned; and with the definitive death of Maric's son, Loghain had retained that leadership. King? Regent? It was all the same to Loghain, and he was inclined to continue ruling Ferelden in the same fashion as that of Maric.

Loghain was a tight-fisted swordsman if ever there was one, a swiping, swooping, slicing swordsman. He was hard, sharp and cold as the stone upon which Ferelden was built. He was secret and self-contained, solitary and mysterious as the ocean depths while still remaining solid, perhaps as solid as ice. The hard chill in him seemed to have frozen his features: carved hard crags in his angry face, made his eyes glint like morning frost on the grass, though no frost yet touched the dark hair at his temples. There was nothing that could warm him, not even sun, nor the companionship of others. Loghain had long ago eschewed such things.

Nobody ever stopped him to look upon him with pleasant expressions. Very few would deign to ask him how his day went, and how he fared in his quest to rid Ferelden of the Blight and keep it free of Orlesian influences. More often than not the opposite was true: commoners cowered and fled from his heavy, purposeful step. Soldiers stood straighter and tried not to tremble with the tempestuous mixture of respect and fear that Loghain inspired. And nobles murmured in disgust that his reign was one of icy fear and hatred.

And yet Loghain cared not for their views of him. If anything he preferred it. It was easier to edge his way around humanity, shutting out their pity, curiosity, and fear with his icy shell and focusing only on what he saw as most important. And that was the safety and integrity of Ferelden, even at the cost of all else.

So it came to pass that on the Eve of the Wintersend festival, Loghain sat in the royal study, having declared himself regent of Ferelden and taking upon him the ruling of all the land. He was often found in the study, dark head bowed over some army report, crafty mind pondering the enemy movements through the land. Little did he think on the past, turning his thoughts ever to the future of Ferelden and his role in bringing the country there.

On this night the fog was thick in the city of Denerim, and it permeated all the air as if it were a palpable entity. It obscured the way of horse carts, so that the curses of drivers who'd nearly collided could be heard drifting through the city. It made as if to snuff out the lanterns burning outside of shops, and the people moved in dark, fuzzy shapes like ghosts throughout the market district and within the courtyard of the palace. It curled into keyholes like a lockpick's tools; it pressed against windowpanes the way an orphan might on a chill winter's night, mournful as it begged for entry.

At a small desk across the study from him, Loghain's faithful lieutenant, Cauthrien, sat dutifully copying out his orders to send to the front lines. The room was chilly; for during the Blight, Loghain saw to it that all resources were rationed and appropriately appropriated. And that included the palace. Cauthrien had always been faithful and she did not complain even now, though occasionally she laid her quill across the sheets of vellum on the desk and rubbed her hands together.

The door to the study creaked open. "A happy eve of Wintersend to you, Father," said a confident voice, though not quite cheerful. It was the voice of Loghain's daughter Anora, Queen of Ferelden; she was his only living relative.

Loghain looked up, sighed, and went back to his work. "There is too much to concern myself with to bother myself with the silliness of Wintersend," he said without sparing his daughter even a sidelong glance.

"You can't mean that, Father," Anora said, a note of hope coloring her voice. She entered the study and closed the door behind her. "This is a time of celebration; the winter is ending and spring is coming. There must be some cheer in that."

"What reason should we have to be cheerful?" Loghain asked, at last looking up and resigning himself to the fact that he would get no work done while Anora was in the room. "The Blight advances upon Ferelden every day. This is the greatest threat to Ferelden's freedom since the occupation, and you speak of a happy Wintersend?"

Anora smiled. "Please don't be cross, Father. Your attentions to everything have blinded you. Pause tomorrow to celebrate."

Loghain smacked his palm on the desk. "If I live long enough to write my will, anyone who goes about during a Blight wishing a Happy Wintersend will be fed to the darkspawn and left to rot upon the melting snow they so blithely cheered about!" He gazed upon Anora with narrowed, icy blue eyes. "Keep the holiday in your way, and let me keep it in mine."

Anora's own blue eyes widened slightly, but to her credit she kept her composure. "I find great hope in the end of the winter and the start of a new year. And though there is much sadness and destruction in Ferelden at the present time, I will continue to keep that hope and celebrate it!"

To the surprise of both Loghain and Anora, Cauthrien, who'd up until now remained silent, clapped and a smile was upon her face.

Loghain stood and leaned over the desk, fixing his glare upon the lieutenant. "Another sound from you, Cauthrien, and you will celebrate Wintersend by going to the front lines yourself." And at that, Cauthrien nodded quickly and returned to copying Loghain's letters.

Anora made one last attempt to appeal to her father. "Come, dine with me tomorrow. Now that Cailan has passed I find myself wanting the company of the only family I have left."

Loghain snorted. "I am still in awe of the fact that you mourn the fool's passing."

"He was my husband, and I loved him; of course I shall mourn him, especially during this season of the year," she said.

"Good afternoon," was all Loghain said, meaning quite clearly that the conversation was at an end. Anora watched him for a moment longer, then turned to leave, but not without pausing to wish Cauthrien a happy Wintersend.

But as she left, two more unbidden visitors entered through the open door before she'd had a chance to close it. "Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir?" one asked, and Loghain only leveled his glare at them in the hopes that they would leave.

Two gentlemen, portly and pleasant of face in spite of the present Blight, stood before him. "We come on behalf of the Blight Orphans," said the one who'd addressed Loghain, while the other nodded solemnly. "We hope to find that the liberality of Maric the Savior and his recently passed son, King Cailan, Maker rest his soul, is still represented in their surviving advisor." Talk of orphans and liberality caused Loghain to frown, which deepened the crags in his face.

"Many children have been left orphans by the Blight; darkspawn have claimed their parents' lives, and still more have traveled to the walls of Denerim as refugees in the hopes of finding asylum here," said the second man. "We've endeavored to create a fund to buy them some meat and drink and means of warmth." This from the second.

"We choose this time because it is a time of hope and joy, and we perhaps may restore some of that to these orphans," said the first.

It was too much for Loghain, who all this time had, in spite of his icy exterior, been smoldering inside like a long-dormant volcano, which has grown weary of its long rest and prepared to erupt. "Leave here, immediately!" he shouted to the surprise of all in the room. "I don't make merry myself at Wintersend, and have no desire, nor ability, to make idle orphans merry. I am trying to run a country and keep it safe from the Blight and the unfounded discontent of the nobility."

"Many Blight Orphans will die without assistance," said the second man gravely in a last appeal to Loghain's compassion.

He didn't count on the fact that Loghain had none. "Then perhaps they should, and decrease the surplus population," Loghain said. "Good day." He didn't care if they had a good day or not; he only cared that they left. And leave they did, as downtrodden that if they'd been Mabari hounds, they'd have had their tails between their hind legs.

Darkness and fog seeped all over Denerim as night fell, and when only the yellow glow of the low-burning candles lit the study, Cauthrien stood. "I don't wish to be impertinent, your Grace, but the hour is late, and tomorrow is Wintersend…"

He stared at her, the candlelight casting even deeper shadows over his stern face. "You plan to celebrate the holiday?"

She looked at the ground. "The men have planned a celebration because they feel the need for hope in this present darkness. They look to me to bring reports that might encourage such hope, and would be glad of my presence tomorrow."

Loghain shook his head. "It's a silly thing, but very well. Take the day. But be at your post all the earlier the next morning!"

Cauthrien kept her face just as stern, though she was trying to keep her smile at bay. She left, and Loghain soon put out the candles and did the same. He traversed the darkened, lonely hallways of the palace. Servants scuttled out of his way; even the shadows seemed to bend away from him. He paused at the door to his chambers and fumbled for his key.

Loghain kept his chambers locked from even the servants. He'd installed a knocker on the door himself in the event one wished to enter with news or meals. He did not care for surprises. Unfortunately, a surprise was what awaited him. As he worked the lock, he looked up and the knocker suddenly was not a knocker. It wavered with a strange blue-green light, like sunlight playing upon the ocean, only more dismal. And it took on the shape of a face. The face of Maric.

The strong features of the face were cast in the light and the long light hair stirred as if by a wind, or more accurately as if it were floating in a current of water. The eyes were wide open, staring into Loghain's own. He stared at the horror before him, unable to move or scarcely breathe. And then just when he began to question his sanity, it was a knocker again.

He entered the suite of rooms, caring nothing for the darkness. However, after the shock at the door, he did search the sitting room, bedroom, and bathing chamber. All was as it should be, and when he checked the hallway again, a servant had left a tray with a meager dinner for him.

He locked himself in for the night and took his meal before a cold, dark fireplace. But as he began to eat he heard a curious noise. It sounded as the rippling of water mingled with the cries of people. The strange greenish light began to glow here and there at the edges of his vision, only to disappear whenever he looked at it directly.

But the glow began to intensify as he stared at the door, shining first dim, then more brightly until he had to squint. The light took on the shape of a man, and as Loghain looked the features came into focus. The cloak swirled about the arms and legs, still clad in doublet and hose. And the hair floated about the face and shoulders as if in a swirling underwater current. The limbs were fettered by flowing strands of seaweed that clung to him like chains. And though he was transparent and covered in seaweed, he still smirked and Loghain fell to his knees in the presence of Maric's ghost.

The ghost paused in front of Loghain. "What do you want with me?" Loghain asked in a hoarse whisper, hardly daring to believe that Maric had returned in such a way.

"Much," the ghost replied, taking the seat across from Loghain. The perpetual smirk was still upon his face, as if Loghain's skepticism amused him. "You don't believe in me," he said suddenly.

Loghain took his own seat again, his dinner quite forgotten. "Why should I? I've been at work on military orders all day. My mind is full of darkspawn movements and how to fund this infernal war on the Blight, and all that has turned my stomach. You are little more than a hallucination; or perhaps a demon come from the Fade to torment me."

Maric fixed him with a gaze colder than Loghain's own and suddenly flung out his arms. The seaweed strands wrapped around Loghain's own limbs and held him more tightly than any chains. "Do you believe in me or not?" Maric demanded in that tone of voice that he'd used with so many traitors to Ferelden's throne.

"I do! I believe in you!" Loghain cried, and he did. "But why do you come to torment me?"

"I've come in the hopes that I can stop you from this course of life before it is too late for you," Maric said. "The years have made you hard and unfeeling to those around you. I come at this time of the year, when the hope is the highest, and yet you see none. I come to warn you, that you may yet have a chance and hope of escaping the fate laid out for you."

"You were always a good friend to me, Maric," Loghain said, feeling especially good once the chains of seaweed retreated and he was free again.

Maric did not address this compliment. "You will be haunted by three spirits," he said in the voice he used for proclamations. And with that tone, Loghain knew there was no arguing. "They shall attend to you this night. I leave you with the tiniest chance of hope that the morning will see you redeemed."

He rose from the chair and stood, regal in mien. The greenish light wavered around him; the seaweed and his hair stirred; the cloak floated around his transparent body. He retreated, head high and shoulders back, as regal in death as he'd been in life, and disappeared through the door.

Loghain stared at the darkened door long after Maric's ghost had disappeared. Finally he got up and checked the door, finding it locked tight. Darkness was all around him, and silence filled the air in his room as the fog filled the courtyards and streets outside.

Loghain sniffed in disgust and went to sit upon his bed to think, but exhaustion got the better of him. He closed his eyes, forgot the Blight, forgot the nobles, and most of all, forgot Maric's ghost.

Chapter Text

Stave 2: The First of the Three Spirits

When Loghain awoke it was dark, so dark that he could hardly see; the window across his chambers was little more than a dark gray smudge on the blackened wall. Though he didn't wish to admit it, Maric's ghost had bothered him exceedingly. Each time he resolved within himself that it was all a dream, his mind raced back to that encounter. He kept asking himself, "Was it a dream or not?"

He returned his gaze to the black ceiling above his bed. He closed his eyes, but could not sleep; when he opened his eyes again he wasn't sure if he had, for the darkness was so complete. But a pinprick of light caught his vision. He blinked, and it was still there, growing bigger by the moment until it was a blinding flash that did not abate. He squinted and scooted back until he was nearly hugging the heavy oaken headboard. The light faded, leaving behind a soft glow that enveloped the form of a woman with long, lustrous red hair and fair skin. She was tall and regal with snapping blue eyes. Loghain had never met her in person, but he had little doubt that the woman before him was the ghost of Moira the Rebel Queen. She was Maric's mother, and her assassination was what had brought Maric and Loghain together.

The corner of her lips quirked up in a smile that reminded him of Maric, and once again he recalled the wavering green light that had surrounded Maric's ghost, and remembered Maric's promise that he would spend his evening being haunted.

And yet he still regarded the apparition with eyes narrowed by his skepticism. "Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold to me?" he asked at last, when it was clear that Moira did not mean to begin the discussion. She nodded. "Well then, who and what are you?"

He expected her to identify herself as the mother of Maric. "I am the Ghost of the Past," she said instead. "Your past," she added when Loghain didn't appear to understand. "I've come to see to your welfare."

Loghain snorted again. "Being wakened at this hour by a spirit is hardly what I'd call conducive to my welfare."

She regarded him with her ghostly eyes and the longer she stared at him it occurred to Loghain that she wasn't blinking. "I come for your salvation, then. Take heed and follow me."

Loghain tried to decline and explained that his evening was better spent in sleep. Yet he found he could not deny the Rebel Queen's imperious gesture urging him to follow. He rose from the bed, fully expecting for his feet to hit the cold floor, and yet he found he hovered above the stones by a few inches much the same as the Spirit. She reached out her hand and he found his own hand rising as if pulled by a puppeteer's string. "Walk with me." She guided him to the window, which flew open and the fog flowed through and into the room.

He looked down into the courtyard a few fathoms below. "I beg you, spirit, but I am mortal and liable to fall," he said as the fog curled round him like a cold scarf.

"But a touch of my hand here," she said, resting her pale and translucent hand upon his chest, "and you shall be upheld!" As she spoke these words, before Loghain could scarce realize what had happened, the two passed through the wall and over the courtyard. A bright light was diffused through the thick fog so that Loghain was obliged to use his hand to shield his eyes. When he perceived the light had faded he removed his hand.

The city of Denerim had quite vanished, along with the fog, and even the night time. He stood in a field with trees lining the outskirts, and no sign of the darkspawn Blight. It was morning and the sun shone from the east. A ghost of a breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees and stirred the drifts of snow at his feet, and yet he did not feel the cold. This wonder was of small importance, however, when compared to the true amazement Loghain felt at looking upon the rolling lands of Gwaren.

"Tell me, Loghain Mac Tir, do you recall this place?" the spirit asked in a voice hollow as the wind.

"Know it? I was bred in this place!" he exclaimed, quite forgetting his displeasure at standing outside in the cold he could not feel, in the middle of the night that looked for all the world like daytime. "I was a boy here," he said, but was careful to ignore the Spirit's careful examination of his visage, as he was aware that his lip trembled. For gazing upon Gwaren filled Loghain with many uncountable thoughts and hopes, joys and cares he'd long since buried in the depths of his memory.

"Do you recall the way?" the Sprit asked, and Loghain replied, less crossly than he normally would have, that he could walk it blinded.

They passed laughing farmers who seemed to take no notice of them, in spite of the presence of Loghain in his nightshirt and the spirit-form of the Rebel Queen at his side. "These are but shadows with no consciousness of their own," she explained to the confused Loghain. They passed stables and barns, and a silo for storing grains and the fruits of the crops now that winter was upon the region. Finally they approached the small farmhouse with gray smoke curling, ghostlike, up into the morning light.

Loghain neared the outer walls and they seemed to dissolve, allowing him entrance to the home. The Spirit joined him and raised her hand to point out to Loghain a young boy that he knew very, very well. "Maker's breath," he murmured, so that even if the others in the home not been mere visions themselves, they'd not have heard them. "It's me!"

And as he beheld the scene before him, a man and woman entered, proceeded by a puppy. "Why it's Adalla," he breathed, a hint of a smile transforming his craggy features. "My Mabari pup. Mother and Father insisted that I had enough to do on the farm without taking on a pup, but she'd imprinted on me," he explained. Though why he was taking the trouble to explain it to the Spirit of the Past, he knew not.

As he watched his past cycled through; he saw his young self grow older, and gray touch the temples of his father and mother. He saw the Orlesian occupation encroach upon their well-tended farm, and watched as soldiers took his beloved Adalla for their war effort. The years had not softened that blow, and he felt just as helpless watching it now as he had then when he was a boy. The Wintersend celebratory feasts grew more meager as Loghain and his family grew older, but always his parents retained that hope that marked them as freemen of Ferelden.

"Let us look upon another Wintersend," the Spirit said, and her imperious tone brooked no argument. The farmhouse faded away; the fields of Gwaren dissipated as easily as morning mist in the sunrise, and when that mist once again coalesced into a vision, Loghain recognized the austere camps of the rebel alliance. The hard, frozen ground was dusted with snow and the sky was an oppressive gray. And yet fires burned bright, and there was singing within the camp.

The Spirit led Loghain through the small village of tents, past the roasting of game meats procured at great personal cost and danger by the rebel hunters. Music flowed through the air, weaving with the scents into a tapestry of sensation that threatened to overwhelm Loghain. "Play the Remigold!" someone called out as Loghain approached the throng of people gathered around a large clearing.

As he watched he saw the form of Maric as he'd been in life, jovial and laughing as he tried not to trip over his own feet. And then, vision of visions, he saw Rowan as she'd been the first he'd met her. Her long, thick mane of curls flew out behind her as she spun, and her green eyes reflected the firelight until it was as if the light came from within her. Her laughter rolled out like an ocean wave, claiming all it touched; even Loghain felt torn between a laugh and a cry of anguish at it, but all thoughts ceased when he viewed his younger self.

He was older and harder than he'd been on the farmstead, his dark hair having grown out longer and his eyes grown colder and narrower with the skepticism of the years. Those chill eyes were turned on the laughing, spinning specter of Rowan. She pulled away from Maric and reached out for the younger Loghain; as she did so, her ghostly image passed through Loghain as he was at present, leaving him with such a disconcerted feeling that he momentarily closed his eyes and wished himself back to the present.

But when he opened his eyes he viewed his younger self dancing with Rowan. What a sight it was! His icy exterior, forged by the pains of loss and anger, melted away under her sparkling gaze. In that moment he recalled everything he'd loved about her and yet buried away under the thick veneer of the long years. "Such a wonderful woman," the Spirit said. "You did love her, no?"

"That I did," Loghain confessed.

"She died a woman," the Spirit said, as if that would improve the situation. "And I believe had children."

"Only one child," Loghain corrected, fixated upon the apparition.

"Your son in law!" the Spirit proclaimed in a booming voice that shocked Loghain even as the dancing and music of the celebration continued.

"There was, of course, another Wintersend with this woman," the Spirit said in a soft voice, tender even as it pierced him with the reminder of the most pain he'd ever felt.

The mists flowed into the camp, muting the music and obscuring the edges of tents and people until the visions were no more than a memory, and the music a lingering echo. When the fog faded away he was back in Gwaren, in the manor home he and Maric had secured as their command post. Maric was pale, still recovering from their ordeal in the Deep Roads, still blaming himself for the deaths of so many on his account. And Loghain stood, watching him with shrewd, narrow eyes sparkling as if carved from ice. "With her father dead, Rowan has no reason to keep her betrothal to you," he said in a voice like grating stones. "Will you truly let her slip away?"

Maric's long stare told both the Loghain of the past and the Loghain of present that he already knew what had passed between him and Rowan. But the younger Loghain stood straight and hard as the stones that formed the walls of the Deep Roads. "Go after her, Maric. She is your Queen, and it is your duty." Maric protested, but Loghain was persistent. "She still loves you, regardless of what has transpired."

Loghain closed his eyes, hardly able to bear what passed before him, and when he looked again he was in Rowan's chamber. "How could we have done that to Maric?" she asked, and this time the candles made her eyes sparkle, but with sadness rather than glee. "How could I have done that to him?"

"You are still his Queen," the younger Loghain reminded her, his voice hard and serious. She stopped her pacing and pondering and stared at him, as if she could not quite comprehend what he was saying to her. "And if you cannot be his queen, then be Ferelden's queen." He stared at her, as if afraid looking away would reveal all the emotions he felt.

Rowan stared back, those eyes caught between anguish and anger and her trembling lip belying her true emotions. She rushed at him as if to strike him, but his quick reflexes caught her wrists in his hands and held her. They stared into one another's eyes, lips mere inches apart. Loghain released his hold on her. "Go to Maric," he said.

The Loghain of present could scarce explain the pain he was feeling. "Why do you delight in showing me these visions?" he snapped at the Spirit of the Past.

"These are but shadows of the things that have been," she said with a shrug that was uncannily like Maric. "They are what they are; do not think to place your blame upon me!"

"Take me away from this place! I can bear it no longer," he said, his eyes lingering upon his younger self, left alone by Rowan's departure.

Perhaps it was the mists and fog again, or perhaps it was tears; either way Loghain's vision blurred. When he wiped at his eyes and blinked away the offending moisture he was in his chambers in Denerim again. The window was closed; the fog pressed against the glass, and the darkness was complete. Loghain was conscious only of his own exhaustion when he collapsed back on the bed and knew no more.

Chapter Text

Stave 3: The Second of the Three Spirits

Loghain's own snoring woke him, and he was amazed that he'd been able to fall into such a deep sleep in such a short amount of time. But when he did wake to the darkness of the room, he was ready for just about anything to appear: darkspawn, an ogre, a mage, demon, or even another apparition. He sat up in his bed staring across the room and through the sea of darkness with narrow eyes. "Where are you at?" he shouted at last. "I'm ready for you!"

The silence was as thick as the darkness and fog, and he was ready to relax and believe that he would have peace the rest of the evening. So he settled back and allowed his eyelids to drop.

But as he lay back a ruddy light began to glow around the windows and the doorways. He couldn't quite make out what it meant, and as he thought about it the light grew brighter until he was obliged to squint. The light filled the room, outlining everything. A rich laughter emanated from somewhere outside the room, as bright as the light. Loghain climbed out of bed and this time his feet did hit the floor; he took comfort in the feel of cold stone beneath his feet. In his mind that meant that he was safe from being haunted, grounded in the solidity of the real world.

He placed his hand upon the door handle and looked out into the hallway, bathed in the same ruddy glow as his bed chamber had been. And as he looked upon it all a strange voice called him by name and bade him come closer to it. Loghain traversed the hallway, his heart beating in trepidation; and the laughter grew louder the closer he came to the study.

Loghain flung wide the door, finding his nerves to be a mark of cowardice that was unseemly in a man of his stature. Within the study the light was of a blinding brightness and he found it necessary to cover his eyes with his hands. The laughter boomed, deafening as the thunder of battle, and the bright light faded away. When he was able to open his eyes again he saw the study full of a bounty of such fruits and meats as he'd not seen in Ferelden since the years when Maric was the king. In the time of the Blight such copious amounts of food had been scarce, particularly since he'd so stringently rationed it. To see it now filled him with wonder.

In the center of the bounty on a raised couch, and bearing a golden torch in his hand, sat a jolly Giant, glorious to behold. Upon Loghain's entrance he turned and looked down at him. "Come in!" he exclaimed. "Come in, and know me better, man!" This was followed by a lengthy bout of laughter. "I am the Ghost of Wintersend Present. Now look upon me!"

Loghain did as commanded, since the voice of the spirit was so commanding. It was clothed in a simple robe of golden cloth trimmed in white ermine. Its breast was bare beneath the robe, as were its feet. He wore no covering upon his head; but his long, flowing golden hair, kept pulled back from the face by two thin plaits on either side needed no crown or wreath to decorate it. When he paused in his laughter long enough to look down upon Loghain, the Spirit's eyes were a blue as clear and bright as a spring sky. Everything, from his hair and eyes to his laughter, reminded Loghain most uncomfortably of his recently deceased son in law. But for all his resemblance to the late King Cailan, the spirit did not look upon Loghain with bitterness or spite; he retained his glittering joviality.

However, girded round his middle was an ancient scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the antique sheath was spotted and dulled with rust. "Spirit, why do you wear a scabbard with no weapon in it?" Loghain asked, his military sensibilities taking over his amazement at the presence of the Spirit.

The Spirit of the Present was not offended, however, as Loghain had feared he may be. His twinkling blue eyes gazed at Loghain, then glanced at the scabbard hanging empty and useless at his waist. Then he shrugged and his smirk brightened his face to near-blinding. "Wintersend celebrates the passing of winter and the hope of spring; mankind must also celebrate the passing of war and the hope of peace, when there shall be no need to carry a sword."

Loghain had no retort to this, except to cynically believe that there would never be a time without war; indeed he'd not known it in all his years, and did not deign to hope that he would ever know such a thing. "Spirit," he said in the most submissive tone he could muster, which made him sound gruff and defiant instead. "Conduct me where you will, and if there is a lesson which I am to learn, let me profit by it."

The Spirit's laugh rumbled from deep within his chest and the pile of plenty upon which he sat as a king on a throne began to shrink. Also his form became more akin to Loghain's in size. "Touch my robe, Loghain Mac Tir," he ordered, and Loghain did as bidden. All vanished from around him instantly. The ruddy glow of the Spirit, the crackling fire in the hearth, even the walls of the study itself were gone as suddenly as they'd appeared. Oddly though, even the darkness disappeared, and as Loghain watched, his surroundings materialized again and he found himself standing in the Denerim market on the morning of Wintersend.

There was nothing particularly cheerful about Denerim on this moring. The sky was gloomy, as if the clouds draped across it were a funeral shroud. The streets were icy mud, and a thick mist choked the alleys. And yet for the dull aura that permeated his surroundings, Loghain still perceived a glee in the air as if the day was the brightest one in the summer.

The bells of the Chantry called the good people to service. Away all the people came, flocking through the streets in the finest clothing they could find. Nobles in bright silks and peasants in rough but clean and mended clothing all processed through the Denerim streets. In spite of the Blight without the walls of Denerim, they all wore facial expressions that seemed to glow through the mists. The mists parted from the processional of people like curtains withdrawn to allow the sun to shine in. Outside of the Chantry, lay sisters and revered mothers alike stood to welcome the people on this morning. Their welcomes mixed with the voices of the people into a cacophony that was as lovely as music.

Two small boys began to quarrel, and the peasant woman who looked to be their mother gently parted them. Their small, balled fists still flailed at one another, but she did not get angry; merely knelt off to the side of the path and looked at the both of them in earnest. She explained that it was a shame to quarrel upon the morning of Wintersend, and the boys nodded, chagrined, and yet smiling in agreement with their mother.

"Come, Loghain," said the Spirit. "There is still much to see!" He spoke with such earnest and genuine excitement that even Loghain could not help but gladly touch the Spirit's robe again with his eagerness to see what else awaited him.

They flew high over Denerim, and the sun, even though wan and pale from the winter season, began to burn away the fog like fire through a giant spider's web.

Perhaps it was his generous nature, and his sympathy to all men, that had the Spirit lead Loghain to the barracks of his faithful Lieutenant, Cauthrien!

Up rose Cauthrien's close friend, Ser Tristan, his armor dented and dulled with use, but quite clean and serviceable. He carried a cloth out from the kitchens, the staff having the holiday off. Ser Miles was poking the fires in the kitchen while the recently knighted Ser Griflet stirred a pot of Ferelden lamb and pea stew. Other soldiers milled about, basking in dreams of Wintersend stew, and the treat of all treats, fresh-baked bread not hardened by days of marching to battle!

In came Cauthrien herself, assisting the knight Ser Tomas, who was not armored; he limped along on a crutch, and Loghain saw with horror that the man's leg was missing from below the knee. Cauthrien helped him to a seat where he sat down, the firelight dancing in his dark eyes. The scents of the meal brought a smile to his face in spite of his lost limb.

Ser Miles touched Cauthrien's elbow as she walked by. "How was the Chantry?" he asked, but his eyes were on Ser Tomas.

Cauthrien's smile softened her serious face, and made her features less angular and angry. "It was better than the purest shimmering silverite," she said. "And it did some good for Tomas, too. Since being so badly wounded, he spends a lot of time alone; makes him thoughtful, it does. He said…" She paused to swallow and clear her throat, and her eyes looked somehow larger and softer, and not nearly as shrewd as usual. "He said he hoped the people saw him in the Chantry, so that they might recall upon Wintersend that the Maker works in mysterious ways, and there is life still to be lived even when it seems it might be over; much like the spring coming after winter."

Ser Griflet laughed, but his eyes sparkled, belying how deeply Cauthrien's story had touched him. "Thoughtful, indeed! There was a time before this injury when he would have preferred to chase skirts rather than religious visions!"

After that they all sat down to the table and began to eat, passing fresh hot bread. Cauthrien, the lieutenant and their leader, stood at the head of the table and ladled out stew. And such a stew it was! "Such a meager feast," Loghain muttered, keeping his eyes narrowed so it sounded more of an observation than an expression of compassion.

"And yet much appreciated and enjoyed," the Spirit pointed out. "In their minds it is the most glorious meal of which they've partaken all year, even before the Blight began and rationing had to begin in earnest."

As they watched the men and women eating and laughing, Cauthrien stood. The talk faded to reverent silence. Cauthrien smiled and raised her goblet of mulled wine. The soldiers joined her. "And now let us drink to the founder of our feast," she began. "Teyrn Loghain! May the Maker smile upon him!"

Silence reigned more heavily than had King Meghren during the years of the occupation. There were thunks and sloshing noises as the soldiers set down their goblets, much to Cauthrien's confusion and dismay. "Founder of our feast?" Miles asked. "If he were here, I'd let him feast on a piece of my mind. And I hope he'd choke!"

"And get indigestion for a month!" Griflet added, not to be outdone.

Cauthrien looked from them to the others who waited with hands on goblets, unsure of whether to toast or refrain. "The other men! The day of Wintersend!"

"It has to be Wintersend for us to toast the health of the Teyrn," grumbled the grizzled Ser Bastian. "You know it better than most, Cauthrien," he said in a tone most accusing. "He works you to the bone and gives little thought to the soldiers starving and dying on the front lines. Why, I hear he's even taken to selling the Alienage elves to Tevinters to finance his war! Tell us how we might drink the health of such a man!"

All this time Loghain was aware of the Spirit of the Present's gaze upon him. He tried to avert his eyes, but whenever he did the glorious golden sheen of the spirit made it so that he had to look back upon the scene playing out before him.

Cauthrien straightened up. "Nevertheless he is a great general, by whose commission and generosity we were able to get food for our holiday celebration when rationing is so stringent, and we shall drink to him on this most blessed holiday."

And wonder of wonders! It was Ser Tomas who leant up on his crutch, and with the other hand lifted his goblet. "To the founder of the feast, Teyrn Loghain!"

Cauthrien raised her goblet anew. "To Teyrn Loghain; may the Maker smile upon him!"

"Maker smile on all of us," Ser Tomas said, raising his glass and tipping it back so he could chug his wine mightily. The men drank the health of their general and regent and dissolved into laughter and song. Then the Spirit of the Present waved his torch and a shower of golden sparks showered down upon Loghain and began to obscure the scene. As the sparkles diminished he found that the Spirit had brought him to another place whereupon the Wintersend celebration was in full swing.

He recognized it as the dining room of the palace. The candles and torches danced merrily in their brackets and holders, and a gleaming spread of plates, goblets, and silverware had been laid out on the tables. The Spirit stood smiling by Loghain's side, gazing upon the Teyrn's own daughter, Queen Anora.

Anora's laugh tinkled in the air like chimes, in response to some joke made by a guest prior to Loghain's arrival. "As long as I live, I do solemnly swear that he cursed the Wintersend holiday and called us all fools for holding out hope," she said, her blue eyes all but glowing with mirth.

"More's the shame for him," said one of the few nobles who'd gathered in the palace to celebrate with the Queen.

"With that I'll agree," Anora said with a nod. "It is most unfortunate, however; he is the only one who does, and always has, suffered by his ill whims."

"Let's not have Wintersend spoiled by that insufferable Loghain," came the slurred and half-drunk voice of Vaughn Kendalls, newly named Arl of Denerim. Loghain set his jaw and maintained his composure, even after the Spirit reassured him that these were but shadows with no consciousness of their own. Such a concept didn't reassure Loghain though, who'd never much cared for the young nobleman.

But Anora just smiled. "Come. Let us have tea and dessert, and then perhaps we might play some party games to help us forget there's a Blight on outside." Her guests nodded eagerly, and the subject of Anora's father did not come up again. Loghain wouldn't have minded them saying decent things about him, and nor would he have much cared about less than favorable things said, either. But somehow being forgotten so easily, even by such as his own daughter, left him with a strange pang that he didn't care to qualify.

He turned to see the Spirit and ask a question, but the Spirit only smiled and waved his torch once more. Now they stood upon a bleak, deserted moor, somewhere in the far reaches of Western Ferelden near the Frostback mountains. Rocks had tumbled down from the mountains and their foothills, and lay strewn about like some giant's playthings long discarded. "What is this desolate place?" Loghain asked.

"A place where dwarves live," the Spirit said. "Even as they labor beneath this earth, close to the Deep Roads, they still know of me and carry in their hearts the hope I represent."

But Loghain and the Spirit did not tarry here long; the Spirit bid Loghain to take hold of his robe again, and once again they took to the skies. The sun was setting in the west, casting shadows over the land as it sank below the mountains. They flew north until the rough land gave way to the sea. Off the coast of the Waking Seas bannorn was a dismal reef of sunken rocks, upon which a lighthouse had been built. The waters battered the walls and seaweed clung to the surrounding rocks like shipwrecked sailors. It was perhaps the most dismal and lonely place Loghain had ever laid eyes on; yet when the Spirit paused for him to look inside, the keepers were toasting the holiday with mugs of hot grog.

Everywhere they flew the people were celebrating Wintersend; even the elves, who had celebrations of their own still welcomed the ending of winter and the hope of coming spring. And finally they landed atop a stone roof with the setting sun turning the sky an ominous shade of rust. "Spirit, this is the roof of Fort Drakon," Loghain observed. He turned to see the Spirit and was shocked to find him dangling over the roof in the fist of a huge ogre. The Spirit's feet dangled limp and lifeless from his twisted and broken torso.

The spirit hung in the ogre's hand. The torch dangled from his own hand, darkened and the flame doused. Then it fell and clattered and shattered on the rooftop, before a hot, fetid-smelling wind blew it away in a shower of charred bits that were so completely opposite from the golden sparkles Loghain had known. The Spirit hung limp, but he still grinned and picked his head up to look at him.

"Spirit, are you dying?" Loghain asked, unable to account for the sick feeling he felt in the pit of his belly.

The Spirit's golden hair hung limp and lank and drifted away in clumps on the wind. His skin clung to his skull in drying strips and the blue eyes were losing the luster. "Spirit's lives are quite short," he said with a rueful smirk that made the image all the more ghastly. "I leave you to face the days to come."

"The future?" Loghain asked uncertainly.

"Yes. And may it be glorious," the Spirit said, the head pitching forward and the entire body going limp. The ogre's hand squeezed around the body in a colossal fist. Loghain heard the sound of cracking bones over the winds that blew past him. With each breeze more and more of the Spirit blew away until Loghain was alone on the rooftop in the darkness that suddenly descended. Far away, the bells of the Chantry rang melancholy tunes over the city. And standing before him was a figure darker than the darkness, draped in a cloak and reaching out a shadowy hand toward him, beckoning Loghain forward.

Chapter Text

Stave 4: The Last of the Spirits

The Phantom approached: slow and silent, inevitable as the grave. As it drew near him Loghain fell upon one knee as if in defeat or submission. The very air through which the Spirit moved pulsed with shadow and gloom; they rolled out like the waves of an ocean stirred by a storm.

Its arms, chest, legs, and feet were all clad in heavy black plate armor, polished until it gleamed as if with its own inner light. One outstretched hand, encased in a black gauntlet, reached for Loghain. Loghain shifted his stance and looked up in the hopes of seeing the Spirit's visage, but it was covered with the visor of the black helm it wore on its head. The plume atop the helm looked first like a feather, then like a banner; but he surmised in the end that it must be, like everything else about this Spirit, made of the darkness itself.

It was a tall and stately presence that stood before him, and the way it stared at him filled Loghain with a dread he could not explain. Though he could not discern any eyes beneath that shadowy visor he still knew it was looking upon him.

"Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Wintersend to Come?" Loghain asked at last, his voice rasping through the darkness. He felt uncomfortable in breaking the silence thusly, but as the Spirit had made no move to begin the conversation, or introduce itself, Loghain was left with little other alternative.

Yet even after being directly addressed, the Spirit did not speak. It simply pointed onward with its hand.

Loghain, however, would not be daunted or cowed by such unseemly knightly behavior. "You are to show me shadows of thing that have not happened, but will happen in the days and years to come. Is that not so?"

Though Loghain had persisted valiantly, the Spirit did not deign to answer him; it merely inclined its helmed head once in the only reply Loghain was to receive. Thus he had to content himself with it, and this time he did so because he truly did fear this Spirit. Though he was by now accustomed to such ghostly company, something about this silent specter melting in and out of the darkness left him trembling. "Spirit of the Future," he began, "I fear you more than any Phantom I've yet encountered." He took a deep breath and steeled himself. "But I know your purpose is to do me good; I do hope to be a changed man upon completing our time together, so I am prepared to bear you company." The Spirit of the Future did not reply verbally, nor did it make any move to hint that it had heard Loghain's submission. "Lead on, then," Loghain said. "The night wanes quickly, and my time is precious, so lead on!"

The clouds that had been gathering coalesced around them in a storm that whipped Loghain's hair about his face and forced him to shield his face with his hands to keep it from being rubbed raw by the cold, sharp hail that swirled about. The lightning flashed about them, but the Spirit's shadow engulfed Loghain and bore him from the top of Fort Drakon and the storm and into the future.

The city around him was in the midst of a prodigious rain, and yet still the people stood about while the cold water soaked them through and through. The great dark hand pointed toward a group of three, and Loghain was compelled to look and listen in upon their conversation.

"No, I wasn't there so I don't know much about it; only that he's dead."

"When did he die?"

"At the Landsmeet, I believe." This from a third gentleman who adjusted his sword in its scabbard. He sniffed. "Executed, I hear. Figures that's what it'd take to oust him."

"What's been done about the ruling seat?" asked the second, a red-faced gentleman with a bulbous nose that seemed to glow red in the chill and rain.

"Not sure," said the first, yawning. "Maker knows it wasn't left to me! That's all I know."

This was followed with laughter from the others. "Upon my life, I don't know of anybody who'd voluntarily attend the funeral. Oh, you know the Chantry would see to a pyre even in this case," said the second man in response to the incredulous expressions of his companions. "Though I might consider going," he added after a moment's pause to ponder. His smile grew as his companions' stares became more surprised. "If lunch were to be provided!"

They walked away, mere visions taking no notice of Loghain and the darkly armored spectral knight that stood beside him. He knew them; he knew many of the people who strolled by, most whispering about the recently deceased individual. The Spirit behind him nudged his shoulder with a heavy, cold gauntlet, and Loghain moved forward. Every time he paused to consider the conversations going by him, the Spirit pushed him ahead. It was as if it felt great urgency, though Loghain could not imagine why, and was beginning to grow cross when at last the Spirit allowed him to stop.

The section of Denerim was dark and dingy, with narrower streets and a heavier fog of oppression. A rickety aravel, the land ship of the Dalish elves, was at the end of the alleyway. The elf tending it was hunched and scarred, missing an eye; the other elf's fiery red hair seemed to light up the darkness. "No, he tried to sell me into slavery, he did," she told her scarred companion. "Therefore I've no qualms about making me a bit of coin off his belongings. 'Sides, what need does he have of them?" she added, which made her companion laugh.

Loghain craned his neck so that he might see better, but her back was to him, and the bulky sack at her feet was in the shadows. Whatever she produced, however, drew gasps of glee from the other elf. "It may fetch a fair price at market," he said in a raspy voice with an indistinguishable accent. "Though with the Blight over and done, there's less of them Shemlen playing at war. Still, if it won't fetch a price as armor it can fetch some fair coin as scrap."

Loghain listened to this dialogue with mounting horror. As the elves cooed over their spoils, in the faint light Loghain viewed them with a disgust that could not have been greater had they been Orlesians. "Spirit," Loghain said in a voice as gruff as the sound of the aravel's wheels on the cobblestones. "I see. The case of this unhappy man, without his armor, might be my own. It seems my life tends that way now."

He averted his eyes from the elves only a moment, but when he looked back they were in a room with a stone floor and solid oak pillars. A body lay in the shadows, stripped of its armor and devoid of its head. The head itself lay mere feet away, turned away from Loghain and the Spirit. The Spirit's black gauntlet pointed at the head. One slight movement and that head would turn to look at them, showing the visage of the deceased. Deep within Loghain longed to see the face and yet could not bring himself to it. "Spirit, this is a most fearful place," he admitted. "In leaving it I shall not leave behind the lesson I am to learn. Let us depart!"

The Spirit stared at him through the black visor, and again he had the sensation of dark unfathomable eyes seeing through him and into his very soul. As the Spirit gazed up on him Loghain stood paralyzed with cold understanding and the fear it brought upon him. The darkened room swirled about like the mists and when the Spirit broke its gaze Loghain came to his senses once more and noted the room was a new one.

He perceived a few soldiers polishing their armor and mending broken links of chain mail, for they had reemerged in the barracks. Other than the clanking of metal, silence reigned. Though the Blight was past, there was none of the laughter, singing, and general conviviality that Loghain had seen during his visit with the previous Spirit.

"It must be near her time," said one suddenly.

"Past it," said the other. "Cauthrien's moved more slowly these last days, especially since the Landsmeet. The loss has hit her hard. Even though Tomas could not fight anymore, she enjoyed his company; he was no trouble. No trouble at all." This one's voice was gruff, most likely to hide the emotions welling up within.

The heavy wooden doors creaked and the men looked up. Cauthrien entered, her face pale and haggard, though she attempted to smile for her regiment. She sat down with the men and they attempted joking, but her heart was not in her laughter. "We scattered the ashes over the sea," she said suddenly, her eyes glistening. "He always wanted to see faraway places, which is why he joined the army in the first place." Her lip trembled and she blinked rapidly.

"Don't be grieved," said the man mending the mail. And then he reached over and clapped her on the shoulder and silence reigned again, broken only by the sound of mending metal, this time blended with the sniffling of the soldiers.

The Spirit's heavy hand gripped him by the shoulder and steered Loghain away from the barracks. The Denerim streets and buildings blurred together until he scarcely recognized where he was anymore. When the knight at last stopped they'd returned to the desolation atop Fort Drakon during the darkness of night, in the midst of a storm. "I fear I must ask you one more question," Loghain said, unable to avoid it any longer. "Who was that man whose death brought such glee and happiness?"

A breeze seemed to catch the visor and it creaked as it moved upward, yet Loghain could not see its face. The gauntlet moved upward and one finger pointed at him. Loghain looked about, and yet when he returned his gaze to the Spirit, that horrible dark gauntlet still pointed at him. And now the knight advanced so that Loghain was forced to take a step backward, and then another as the knight moved toward him, finger still raised in a most accusatory gesture.

"Spirit, no!" he exclaimed, moving backward one small step at a time. "I am not the man I was! Why show me this if I was past all hope? Spirit, pity me! I assure you I have changed; now assure me that I may yet change these shadows you've shown me by living an altered life!"

The knight paused and the metal hand faltered slightly.

"I shall honor Wintersend, and I will not shut out the lessons the Spirits have taught me. Tell me that I may yet…" Loghain stumbled as his heels caught on the edge of the roof and a strong, cold wind blew him backward. He reached out and grabbed the outstretched hand. "Spirit, please!" he begged.

The wind flung back the visor and Loghain was faced with a man who reminded him of Maric and of Cailan, and yet was neither. But he knew the face well, and seeing it as Ferelden's future both frightened and gratified him. The Spirit smiled, but the eyes were unyielding as the stone, hard as his black armor.

Loghain's grip loosened slightly in his surprise. With one flick of the black, armored wrist, the black knight shoved him backward. He lost his grip with his hands; he lost his purchase with his feet. At one moment there was hard stone beneath him; the next he was staring up at his feet, up at the lightning in the sky as he tumbled head over heels and the ground rushed to meet him.

Chapter Text

Stave V: The End of It

The stone that broke Loghain's fall was that of his chamber floor. Yes! The floor was his own! The bed was his own! The chambers were his own! But best of all, the future and time itself before him was his to utilize as he willed.

"I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future," Loghain said aloud to the room. "Oh Maric! Maker smile upon Wintersend for this!" And he fell to his knees with his hands clasped, staring out the window as a beam of sunlight, wan but sun no less, streamed in upon him.

He leapt to his feet. "I don't know what to do!" cried Loghain to the empty room, nearly breathless with laughter and tears at the same time. "I am light as a feather, merry as a child, and giddy as a drunkard! Happy Wintersend to all!" And he spun about in a circle in the middle of the pale sunlight and his gruff laughter filled the air. A sound he'd long put out of his memory, until after last night, of course, answered: bells. The Chantry bells pealed out over Denerim and the sound found its way to Loghain's ears. He listened to the tones as if he were a newborn babe hearing them for the first time. Glorious!

He ran to the window and opened it. The fog was burning off, and though the sun shone the morning was cold. However, it was also bright: bright as a new life, as glorious as a second chance. And Loghain did not intend to waste it.

"Ho there!" he called down to a soldier in the livery of the palace guard. "What is today?"

"Wintersend!" the guard called back up.

"Wintersend! I've not missed it after all!" Loghain said to himself, though his voice drew the curious stare of the soldier below. "The Spirits must have done it all in one night, then. But they can do anything they like; of course they can." He became aware that the soldier continued to stare up at him, confusion and amusement upon him in equal measure. "Hello my fine fellow! Do you know the butcher's in the market?" he asked, to which the soldier said he should hope so. Loghain reached for the leather pouch about his neck; it jingled with sovereigns and silvers. "Go buy the best lamb you can, for the Wintersend stew in the barracks!" he shouted, throwing the pouch down.

The soldier was off like a shot, so excited was he to purchase fresh meat for the holiday stew.

"I'll have it sent to the barracks," Loghain said to himself and to his still-empty chambers. "They'll be overjoyed when they receive it!"

At this point Loghain commenced his morning ablutions, but found the task of shaving most difficult. His hand shook with his barely-contained excitement. He managed in the end, but if he had somehow wound up cutting himself deeply, he scarce would have noticed, so joyous was he. He dressed himself in his finest livery, secretly pleased to see that his armor was still there rather than being pawned by elves in dark alleys.

He at last got out into the streets at about the same time as the other people were pouring forth as he'd seen during his voyage with the Ghost of Winteresend Present. As he walked the streets of Denerim, Loghain regarded every person with a delighted smile. He looked so pleasant, which was so incongruous; and yet despite that the people could do nothing other than smile back and wish him a merry Wintersend in return.

Loghain had not gone far when he was faced with a gentleman whose presence filled him with a pang of guilt. It was the man who'd come asking for donations for the Blight orphans. "My dear sir," Loghain said, pausing before the man. "How do you do? I hope you were able to find success in your endeavors yesterday, and have a happy Wintersend today."

"Teyrn Loghain?" the man asked, his eyes nearly as bulbous as his stomach.

Loghain initially fought to avoid looking abashed, but at last swallowed his pride. It was not nearly as bitter to the taste as he'd feared. "Yes; I am he, though I fear that may not be pleasant to you. I ask your pardon, and that you would have the goodness to accept this from the Crown of Ferelden." At this he took from his pocket another leather pouch and placed it in the man's hand. He clasped his own hand over it and bid the incredulous gentleman to accept it. "A great many have been orphaned in the present Blight," he said, "and this may prove useful."

He left the man staring after him with wide eyes, and as wide a smile on his ruddy face. Loghain appeared in the Chantry for the morning sermon; he patted children on the head; he reassured elves that they were safe from the Tevinters' grasp. Everything he saw and did gave him pleasure, no matter how small, even down to the fresh morning air in his lungs.

So it was that by the afternoon he found himself turning back toward the palace and making his way to the dining room there. He passed the door several times before he screwed up his courage and entered. The table was spread with a great array and several nobles sat about. "Anora," he said softly, and all started, though none more violently than his daughter.

"Maker's breath!" Anora said with a gasp, her fair face flushing. "Welcome, Father!"

He was humbled by her open greeting and her lack of condescension. "I've come to Wintersend dinner, if you'll have me."

Anora approached him and flung her arms about his neck. "Of course we shall have you, Father!" And there was much rejoicing, the likes of which had not been known even in days before the Blight.

The next morning Loghain waited in the study. Cauthrien was later than was usual for her, and when she did arrive, her face was ruddy from the cold and from running to her post. Her hair was slightly tangled and her livery askew as she slid into her seat and began shuffling through her work.

"Ser Cauthrien," Loghain said, his raspy voice startling her into looking up with nervous eyes. "You are past your time. Approach."

She did so, her step faltering and her hands shaking far more than was ever usual for her. "It was only this once," she said before he could begin the assumed chastising. "The men and myself, we were making rather merry; there was such a fine stew, and there was bread and wine…" When Loghain did not reply she cleared her throat, chagrined, and waited.

"I'll stand for no more of this," he said at last. "And therefore, you are to recall the men at once." At last he could stand it no longer, and his smile cracked through his harsh visage. "Yes, Cauthrien. Recall the men so that we may reunite with the nobles and improve our strategies. With the ending of winter, spring will come and recharge our hopes; and we must be ready!"

Loghain was better than his word. He did it all, and far more: he recanted his edict and decriminalized the Grey Wardens, and with their help and that of the nobles, the Blight upon Ferelden was ended just in time for spring to cleanse the land. By the next Wintersend the land and its people were truly beginning to heal, and hope was not a thing whispered about in the dark, but shouted from the rooftops like beams of sunlight.

To the soldiers he returned as their general. To those injured, like Tomas, he became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the good country ever knew. Though there were some who laughed to see his change of heart and character, he let them laugh and heeded them not. For all that mattered was that hope did not wither away, but blossomed continually with Loghain as its harbinger.

Though he never dealt with the Spirits again, it was always said he knew how to keep Wintersend well, indeed better than anyone in Ferelden or perhaps all of Thedas. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Ser Tomas observed, may the Maker smile upon us, every one!