Work Text:
Loghain Mac Tir's hands were firm. Calloused.
They had felt a lifetime of battles and history, from the hilt of his sword to the feathers of his arrows to the smooth parchment of the maps gifted to him by the warden. They had run through Adalla's fur, smoothed Maric's hair, cupped Rowan's cheek, rested upon Celia's shoulders, wrapped around Anora's little hand...
Loghain's touch could be harsh, piercing, a metal gauntlet pounding against flesh or nails digging into an old wooden desk. It could be gentle, soothing, an open hand reaching for the sun or fingers braiding his daughter's hair.
They were scarred and cruel, but gentle and well-intended, just like the man who carried them.