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Loghain’s hands trembled as he broke the wax seal of the letter in his hands, and carefully slipped out the parchment. It was from Wycome, where Maric was supposed to have arrived about a week ago. Why was he receiving a letter? Had something happened? The Teyrn unfolded the sea-stained parchment and swallowed before he began to read the swirling handwritten script, ink slightly smudged as if the poor frightened squire delivering it had been sweating in anticipation of its delivery.
'Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir,
It is with heavy hearts that we inform you King Maric did not arrive at our docks...'
His vision unfocused and refocused, and he read the line over again. What?
'...yielded no evidence of his ship besides what we suspect to be remnants of a Fereldan flag. King Maric and his crew were deemed missing at sea on this day, the Second of Nubulis/Drakonis, 9:25 Dragon.'
No.
'It is our deepest regret to say that the King is, in all likelihood, dead. From the people of Wycome, we offer our sympathies to you.'
Loghain dropped the letter and blinked a few times, head spinning. This couldn’t be happening, could it? Maric couldn’t be dead. The Teyrn stepped away from the writing desk, vision swirling until he stumbled and caught himself, feeling more than a little faint. “Maric…” His voice came out as a whisper, one of disbelief. “Maric,” he repeated, "Maric…" He looked at the letter on the floor and realized he was crying-- He was really crying, tears gushing down his face like some sort of frightened child crying for their mother. Loghain Mac Tir was crying for the first time in years, and a sob wrenched itself from his chest, clawing its way from his throat like some sort of torturous wail, designed to echo in his ears until all he could hear was the sound of himself crying, wailing, carrying on like a wounded animal.
The grief finally struck him in a second wave and his legs gave from beneath him, sending the man to his knees and then to his hands, trembling while he struggled to keep himself together. Even the strongest of men broke, they shattered and fell to pieces on their bedroom floors, and Loghain had never cried like this before in his life. Not when he’d seen that Orlesian pig touch his mother like that, not when his dog, stolen and abused, had crawled back to him from the Orlesian carriage and died in his arms only days later, not when he had heard his father scream as he died, not when the blight had killed Rowan, not when he’d buried his wife Celia. Not when all hope had been lost. Loghain had never cried the way he cried when he lost Maric, when he knew that there was only one person left in the world for him. All he had left was Anora, and he would have to raise her alone now.
”Maric!” The name caught in his throat and he choked on it, grief flooding his chest until he felt like he might just die here on the castle floor and be okay with it.
Nobody dared to disturb him. Not now.
His heartbreak had boiled in his stomach until his cries of agony raised into shrieks of heartbreak, and he’d torn the room apart, angry tears accentuating his fury. First had gone the papers on the writing desk, tossed into disarray about the room, then the stool against the wall, then the bookshelf and its contents to the floor. He’d destroyed anything he could get his hands on in a desperate and foolish attempt to cope with the feelings ripping him apart, but he hadn’t dared touch a single possession of Maric’s.
Loghain laid in the center of the bed, still in his leathers with dried tears on his face and red eyes, bloodshot from crying until the sun went down and the castle was silent.
He pressed his face into the sheets, into the pillows, especially on the side where Maric slept. The bed still smelled like him, and it broke the grieving man’s heart all over again. Loghain made a mental note to never let anyone wash these again-- maybe then at least he could pretend like he still had a piece of Maric to cling to. He could find that raggedy old purple cloak that Maric used to wear because it was his mother’s. He could dig for something that reminded him of his king, and wear it under his clothing, perhaps one of the necklaces Maric wore.
“Maric.”
Even just his name made Loghain’s heart swell, and he closed his eyes, just a couple of tears trickling out again. “Maric…” He repeated it, then repeated it again, until he found himself whispering his lover’s name as if it were a prayer, a prayer to the cruel Maker that had stolen the most loved man in all of Thedas. He held that thought for a moment. The Maker could not have just sat idly by and watched such a good man die, he could not have just let Maric face some undeserving death while a monster like Loghain sat in the castle in safety. Loghain considered it, heart sinking, and decided that if a Maker like that really existed, he did not deserve to be worshipped.
Tyrant gods that stole heroes from commoners as their dirty hands reached out to their king for justice, that stole love from undeserving men, that stole life from someone as cherished as Maric The Savior... Filthy gods such as those did not deserve to be worshipped, and if believing that was a sin, then Loghain supposed he would he happy to burn.
Maric The Savior. The title given to the king by the people hung in Loghain’s mind. Maric was a savior, not only to Ferelden, but to Loghain.
Maric had saved him from himself, and now that his love was gone, he feared he would lose himself to darkness. He had always been afraid to lose the constant light that Maric radiated, and now he felt like a man walking down a dark road with no lantern and no hope.
Maybe someday he would find that light, once the world was done with him.
For now, though, Loghain had to stay here.
He promised himself he would see Maric again.