#pre-dao

A bark of disbelieving laughter echoed in the quiet solitude of the antechamber of Maric’s suite.

“You had, and still have, many skilled warriors under your command, loyal to their king. Thousands of men across the country.” Loghain looked away, his lips curling into a slight sneer. “Any of them would have done the same, at your side. You didn’t need me.”

“Maker’s breath, Loghain!”

Maric slammed his tumbler down against the table, rattling the remains of their earlier meal. “I wouldn’t be here if not for you,” he said heatedly, “yet after all this—all we’ve been through, all we’ve fought through—you still doubt your worth.”

He quieted after the outburst, chest heaving, and gave a frustrated groan. “Why can’t you simply believe me when I say you are an integral part of our freedom, of my life?”

Loghain looked away, jaw tight and lips pursed. “You would gift me a pocket of that blighted forest, the city itself half-lost to the sea?” He snorted and contemplated his drink. “Gwaren is dying, Maric. Let it have a dignified end. Bring the people to Denerim, or Redcliffe, or the dozens of villages in the bannorn between them.”

“No.”

A firm grip at his wrist had him looking up once more. Determination set Maric’s features into hard lines, thrown into shadowed relief by the firelight.

“Gwaren needs a firm hand, a strong leader to bring it back to prosperity,” he said. “And you need to recover. To come back from the war.”

“It’s been almost a year, I think I’m back,” Loghain said drily.

His hand loosened around Loghain’s wrist, though he did not release him. Maric’s thumb feathered languid circles over his skin. “You need a place to come home to, both in body and in spirit, and you hate court life in Denerim.”

“You would know, then?”

“I know the needs of my country, Loghain, and you—” he broke off, his movements stilling. “You are my country.” Their eyes met across the table and Maric quietly, uncertainly, laced their fingers together and gave a tentative squeeze.

A tremor ran up Loghain’s arm, goosebumps prickling his skin at the contact, but he did not move away. His lips pressed into a tight line before he returned the gesture.  

He looked away from the softness that grew in Maric’s gaze and instead studied the deep amber that filled his glass. With more casual grace than he felt, he raised it in a quiet salute before taking another draw and emptying the tumbler. The smooth liquid burned a pleasant heat to his stomach, something he could focus on.

“You know the needs of your country,” he echoed, idly running his fingers along the cool curves of the glass. They both left the last of the emotionally laden sentence lingering in the air.

He gave a huff of derisive laughter and untangled their clasped hands. “What a poetic sentiment. Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I can’t help but think this is some kind of punishment—sending me away to the ass-end of Ferelden, as you are. The only worse you could do would be to send me to Orlais.” A scowl twisted his expression at the idea.

Maric sighed. “It’s not punishment, Lo,” he said. “You’re the only one I trust to be there and help them rebuild. You have the sense for it.”

“I have the sense for leading men and women into battle, not for building homes and ordering supplies. I’m a soldier, you know that.”

“But you’ll learn. I know that mind of yours; you’ll take to it quickly. I have faith in you.”

They nursed their drinks slowly, silently, and each took another refill when their glasses emptied. Loghain tossed his back like whisky and set the glass down with a hard thud.

“On one condition,” he said.

Maric raised a skeptical brow. “Only one?” He drained the rest of his brandy and pushed the glass away. “Tell me, then,” he said, spreading his hands genially. “What would you demand of me? I would give you anything.”

Loghain fixed him with a hard stare. “Marry her and get it over with.”

“Logh—”

“Ferelden needs strong leadership. You need a queen. The throne needs an heir. Rowan Guerrin provides all three, and you’ve known that for years. There’s no reason to put it off any longer.”

“And if there is?”

“Save for a sudden revelation that she is barren, or hates you so completely she’d kill you in your sleep, I can’t think of anything that would excuse a delay. She’s a fine woman—loving, loyal, and a good friend.”

Maric sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, pulling at the golden strands. “She is all that,” he quietly agreed. “I just… I don’t love her.”

“Love isn’t necessary to a successful marriage, as I understand.” The words were hard, though not unkind. “Most of the royal marriages I’ve heard of were anything but love matches.”

“So, what, I resign myself to a life of duty to a woman I am fond of, but do not feel such grand affection for?”

Maric pushed himself away from the table to pace before the fireplace. “Is this what I get now, my just rewards for a life spent fighting for my country? Do I not deserve to find some measure of comfort and affection in my partner, and they in me?”

“Maric.” Loghain rose from the table, bracing himself upon its top on his hands. “I have watched you fall in and out of love many times across Ferelden. That’s who you are. I know you will find that in her—you just need to give it time to grow.”

“And what if it doesn’t?” he asked.

“Then it doesn’t.” Loghain frowned. “Is that so bad?”

A ragged sound tore from Maric, low and anguished to his ears. He turned from Loghain’s gaze to face the fire, hands balled into fists at his side.

“I would put her before all others in the eyes of the Maker and man,” he said. “I would name her my Queen. Ask her to bear our children, to safeguard my hearth and home, to shepherd our countrymen, to help us all heal from the war.”

He fell silent, breath shuddering, then shook his head. “Tell me, Loghain, what woman—what person—in their right mind would care for a man who asked all this, without the payment of his heart? What could I give her for all this service?”

With a sigh Loghain made his way to Maric’s side. His hand rose to rest on the furred ruff of Maric’s shoulder. “Rowan has been your friend for many years—I’m sure she would understand.” A ghost of a smile fluttered along his lips. “She even lived through your relationship with Katriel without smothering you in your sleep, as you often rightly deserved,” he pointed out helpfully.

The words earned a small snort of pained laughter, but Maric didn’t respond further. Loghain continued, his brows furrowing. “She will make a great queen at your side, and a good partner. We both know this.”

Maric shook slightly under Loghain’s hand, shoulders trembling. He turned to embrace him, catching Loghain by surprise as he buried his face in the collar of his tunic.

“I would make you a prince, but Teyrn is the best I can do,” Maric mumbled into his shoulder. “If we were but any other men…”

Loghain stilled, an all-too-familiar pit growing in his stomach. Don’t do this, he silently begged. Don’t ask me to imagine a different life.

“But we aren’t.”

The words sounded broken for all their finality, even to his own ears. He sighed, his arm wrapping around Maric’s waist, and felt the grip around his own ribs tighten in answer.

“You are closer to me than my own shadow, Lo. My best friend, the most trusted person in my life.”

The words were sharp as arrowheads as they pierced Loghain’s heart. If only that were the whole of it.

“I would have only you, if you but willed it. Damn what anyone else says.” Maric’s voice quieted to a gentle hush. “I… I’m in love with you, Loghain Mac Tir. I hate to think of a life without you in it.”

Loghain closed his eyes against his gathering tears. He smoothed his hand down Maric’s back. Maker take him, but he knew. It had become a fact of life, like the rise of the sun and moons, that their closeness had grown to something undeniable, dangerous, uncontrollable.

I love you, too—despite our differences, despite Rowan, despite everything.

”I’m honored for that.” His jaw tightened, clenched until his teeth ached, trying to distract himself. “But you are my king.”

“And we must think of the good of Ferelden, shouldn’t we?” Maric’s hollow laughter was muffled by the fabric of Loghain’s shirt. “But if we were, if things were different…”

But they’re not, and we’re only hurting ourselves by wishing otherwise.

“I know.” He couldn’t manage even a half-hearted smile; he had nothing to deflect the weight of the admission. Loghain shook his head slightly, cheek rubbing against Maric’s soft hair.

Reason dictated he distance himself from the treacherous game they played, to pull away, to see Maric solely as his king. It was past time to do so, even as everything he was screamed to stay. He should bow, remove himself, and take up the offer of Teyrnir Gwaren. He could easily live out the rest of his days there, could put this behind him.

They had been skirting this yawning precipice for months—for years—now. They could continue to do so.

They would not fall.

He tried to move away, only to find Maric’s hands fisting in his tunic at his back.

“Do you know?” Maric glanced at Loghain from under sooty lashes, gaze hooded. “If I were any other man, would you feel the same?”

“Don’t do this, Maric,” The whisper escaped him even as he swept a loose section of hair from Maric’s face, thumb dragging across his cheekbone. “You are my king.”

“I am just a man and your friend, before that.” Brandy-scented words fluttered against Loghain’s skin as Maric leaned closer, dark eyes gleaming. “You had fashioned yourself my keeper, Lo; reject me, keep me in check now, if you must.”

The room fell away, narrowed only to Maric’s face and the frantic, stuttering drum beat of Loghain’s heart.

Andraste preserve me, I am but a poor sinner.

His hand threaded through Maric’s long hair and he slanted his mouth hard over his. Desperation rode his every motion—the way Loghain fit his hand to Maric’s lower back and pulled them flush, tilted his head back to slick his tongue into the wet warmth of his mouth. A soft groan caught in Maric’s throat like a physical entity, rumbling between them.

Loghain could feel his body reacting, heated and heavy in Maric’s arms. A shift of their bodies had him gasping.

“We can’t do this.” He stumbled back, two steps, three, his panicked heart beating in his ears. “Maric, I shouldn’t—we can’t, it would be wrong.”

“Loghain…”

His name, a pained, breathless sigh on Maric’s lips, sent a tremble along his spine. He watched wide-eyed as he approached, all burnished gold in the firelight, and shook his head in stunned disbelief.

“What are we thinking? You’re—you’re you, and I’m—”

Maric reached for him, vulnerable, soft, pleading. “Please stay,” he whispered. “It’s just us. It’s just me, Lo.”

His gaze flickered between the promise of that hand and the door behind him, instincts and need warring with each other.

He had given up everything for this man—his home, his love, had pledged his very life to him—but still Maric asked, so still he gave.

Loghain interlocked their fingers to the sound of Maric’s relieved exhale. Inquisitive kisses pressed into his throat, his jaw, before Maric made his way to his mouth.

“Yes,” he rasped out breathlessly against those soft lips. “Yes.”

Maric led them across the room, hardly giving up the contact of their bodies to navigate around the furniture. They paused at the threshold to the bedchamber for but a moment before Loghain strode into the room, pulling Maric alongside him and locking the door.

==

Night had fallen to the dark of early morning by the time Loghain stole out into the corridor. His hair was a touch more disheveled than when he entered Maric’s chambers for dinner earlier that evening, his clothes perhaps more rumpled than a night of conversation might warrant. He frowned as he tugged the wrinkles from his tunic.

“Oh, Ser Loghain! Good evening, ah, morning.”

The unexpected voice rang out in the quiet of the hallway and startled him to attention. He gave a silent prayer of thanks for having already left the path that led to Maric’s suite.

The guard peered at him from beneath her helmet, gaze flicking from him to the corridor behind him. “Is anything wrong?”

He shook his head, hands at his side. “No, no,” he said quickly. “Just taking a walk. Can’t sleep. All is well.”

She nodded and gave a quick salute. “Then good morning, and Maker be with you.”

A response tumbled numbly from his lips as he passed. His steps quickened to bring him to his own room, and with shaking hands he secured the lock.

What have I done?

Loghain crossed to the nearby washbasin, stripping angrily from his clothing as he did so. With detached determination he scrubbed the scents of their pleasure from his skin, the cloth scraping over new scratches along his body.

He winced at their stings, the memories of earning the tiny wounds fresh in his mind. His ears still rang with the noises they had made, the sound of his name on Maric’s rushed breath, the—

His nails dug into his palm, his hand making an unconscious fist around the washcloth in his distress. He hurried with his ablutions and collapsed into his bed, weary but far from tired.

What had he done?

“I’ve now fucked not only the future queen but the damn king of Ferelden, too,” he muttered to the empty air, almost disbelieving it himself. Loghain stared at the ceiling with unfocused eyes, unable to purge Maric’s face from his mind.

It must not happen again. The thought curdled his stomach, but it was only right; they each had their duties to the throne, and their… want, he admitted, for each other was nothing compared to what lay before them.

They had worked it out of their system. It would not happen again.   

Ferelden was worth more than their base desires.

==

Loghain collapsed forward into the pillows with a satisfied groan, flushed skin tacky with sweat. A low hiss tore from him with the pressure of Maric’s mouthing at the fresh bites that dotted his shoulders. Maric only laughed into his skin at his displeasure.

“Someone’s insistent tonight,” he grumbled.

“What can I say?” Maric ran his hand along the ridges of Loghain’s spine and traced the healing scrapes and scratches that covered his back. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

“That wasn’t your heart earlier.”

“Loghain.”

He huffed into a pillow, muffling his own laughter at Maric’s offended tone. “Fine, fine.” Loghain turned his head to study Maric’s face, grin fading at the quiet contemplation he found there. “You’re not generally this pensive afterward, Maric,” he said. “Something’s wrong.”

“I…” Maric sighed and averted his eyes, turning to lay on his back and stare at the ceiling. “We need to talk about things.”

Loghain brought himself up to lean on his elbow and splayed his free hand over Maric’s chest. He could feel his jaw clench. “Then let’s talk.”

“You said you’d accept the teyrnir on one condition, when we spoke about it last month. Before we… before this,” came the quiet words.

He took a deep breath. “…that I did.”

“We set a date. Rowan and I. You were right, of course.” Maric’s bitter laugh was devoid of warmth, of mirth. “You always are, aren’t you?”

Loghain shut his eyes and rolled to his back, skin cold where they had been touching. “She will be a good queen, and excellent partner. I—I would know,” he muttered darkly. He rubbed his palms into his eyes for a moment. “Rowan is good for you.”

Maric’s cool fingertips stroked over his brow, cupped his jaw. “You are good for me, Lo. I love you,” he insisted. “We can find a way to make this work, I know it.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Loghain rolled out of bed and collected his clothes, tugging them on with stiff, uncaring motions. “Whatever this is was bound to be short-lived, by necessity, and we’ve come to the end. ”

A shuffle of the linens behind him heralded Maric’s approach. A hand rose to grip his arm, almost pleading with the contact.

“Don’t go,” Maric said, as near to begging as he had ever heard it. He moved in front of the door as if to block his departure. “There’s still—please, Lo, we can still be together.”

Loghain couldn’t help the full-bodied flinch that wracked him at the words. “It’s one thing to fuck the King, it’s another entirely to be his Maker-damned mistress,” he spat. “I won’t shame the throne with that.”

Tears pricked at his eyes and he tore from Maric’s grip. “We have our duties, Your Majesty, and it seems time I see to mine.”

“Loghain!”