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The dawn was dark, skies spilling cold rain upon Denerim’s royal palace. A frigid breeze blew in from the doorway, a harbinger of the winter winds soon to come—a winter that Loghain Mac Tir would not see. The eerie whispers clawing at the back of his skull, the voices calling to him from the Deep, after sixteen years as a Grey Warden, Loghain’s time had come. The Calling was upon him.
Loghain stood at the oaken front doors. Anora stood beside him, her infant son bundled in her arms. Sorrow settled heavy upon the queen dowager's shoulders. It’d been a year, almost to the day, since she’d had to bid a similar goodbye to her husband. Though he’d left the Order when he took the throne, Alistair had still retained all the abilities of a Grey Warden. And all the curses. The king had heard the Calling then abdicated, leaving Ferelden in Anora's care, before setting out for the Deep Roads to fulfill his final duty.
‘Twas a shame. For years, Alistair and Anora had struggled to produce an heir. It had been joyous news when Anora had finally announced she was with child, but the jubilation was short lived, as Alistair's Calling had come a few months before the baby was born. The poor sod hadn’t even gotten a chance to meet his child. Loghain couldn't help but feel saddened at the thought. Despite the animosity both men had harbored for one another, he knew Alistair would've made an excellent father, far better than Loghain had ever been.
With a heavy sigh, Loghain turned, pressing a kiss to Anora’s forehead. Anora cradled the infant, tears streaming down her face.
“Is it time?” she asked quietly.
“It is time.” Loghain nodded.
“You give them hell,” she said—nay, commanded. “You bring upon those bastards such a reckoning, the likes of which they've never seen.”
“I shall summon such a storm, their ilk will fear the name Mac Tir for ages to come,” he assured her.
Reaching under the neck of his scaled jerkin, Loghain grasped his Warden's Oath, the amulet containing remnants of the darkspawn blood he'd ingested during his Joining, crafted by Tabris, the famed Hero of Ferelden. ‘Twas tradition, she'd said. He'd begrudgingly worn it out of respect for her, but in time, he'd come to accept it as a symbol of the second chance he’d been given, that even a wretch like him could be redeemed. Pulling it off, he slipped the chain over Anora’s head, his final gift to the feisty girl with skinned knees.
“Farewell, my daughter,” he said, “My queen.”
Loghain turned, stepping out into the rain, heading down the path to the palace gate, where his horse waited. Glass clinked within the pouch on his belt. Looking inside, he admired the collection of Antivan fire grenades—a gift from the former Inquisitor. After mounting his horse, he departed the palace and the city. He met few others on the road, stopping only as needed for his horse to rest. The rain never abated. Thoughts racing, he barely slept each night he made camp. He knew where he needed to go. In recent years, he’d learned of a forgotten entrance to the Deep Roads in the Wilds, just south of Ostagar. It seemed fitting—his actions at Ostagar being what ultimately led to his becoming a Warden—that he'd return there to meet his end.
Ostagar had been an unparalleled disaster of Loghain's own making. One more blunder added to so many he'd made over the course of his life, so many regrets left to fester. He'd oft wondered how things might've been, had he made different choices—not that it mattered. He had no power to reverse the falling sands of time, and the sands of time rose for no one, perhaps save for a Tevinter mage or two.
The closer he got to Ostagar, the more unsettled his horse became. The black mare had been his sole companion the last six years, loyally carrying him throughout Thedas, but now, the ancient ruins looming on the horizon, she halted, refusing to go any farther. He knew there was no use forcing her to continue. His end was not hers. Climbing down from the saddle, he gently stroked the mare's muzzle to calm her. He began removing her tack, first the bridle, then the saddle and blanket. Tossing it all into the grass, he patted her neck one last time.
“This is where we part ways, then,” he said softly. The mare nudged him with her muzzle. “I must go where you cannot follow. Goodbye, dear girl.”
As if understanding his farewell, the horse bowed her head before turning to trot back in the direction of Denerim, stopping once to peer back at him, before disappearing over the ridge. Loghain continued to Ostagar on foot. Reaching the old battlefield he’d fled years ago, he saw that the land still bore the scars of Blight. His thoughts returned to Tabris. It’d been years since she’d gone searching for a cure for the Calling, vanishing without a trace. He wondered if she'd succeeded. He wanted—needed—to believe so, that she'd cured herself and settled down somewhere to live a happy, quiet life.
He thought back to that day of the Landsmeet, of the duel. It seemed a lifetime ago. He recalled the look in Tabris's eyes, as she’d stood over him, blade at his throat, debating whether or not to kill him. He’d never seen such torment on a person’s face before nor ever since. She’d been so young yet had already suffered so much. Given that Loghain, himself, had caused much of it, she’d had every right to end his dismal life. And yet, mercy had stayed her hand, mercy he knew he didn’t deserve. He’d asked her once, on the eve of the battle against the Archdemon, why she’d spared him. Rather than respond, she’d leaned in and kissed him. It was a feverish, starved kiss, with all the desperation of someone fully expecting to die, mixed with just the subtlest hint of affection, or at least Loghain had hoped so. He never did get any other answer. Since then, he’d resolved to ensure she would never come to regret her mercy. He could only pray that he'd been half successful.
At last, Loghain found the entrance he sought, blocked by a large boulder. He was able to shift it just enough for him to squeeze through, and upon release, the boulder rolled back into place, sealing him into darkness. The air within the tunnel was damp and musty, the darkness heavy, like a blacksmith’s anvil set upon his chest. Though he lit the small lantern on his belt, it did little to soothe that suffocating discomfort, exacerbated by the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of falling moisture on stone echoing from farther within the depths. Walking along the path, he caught sight of a figure from the corner of his eye. Freezing, he turned to see Tabris beside him. She froze, too, flashing him a gentle smile.
"Are you…” Eyes widened, his voice faltered.
“Real?” she finished his question. “Of course not. I’m merely a conjuration of your imagination.”
She seemed to glow, as if her skin had captured the light of the very heavens, and he felt the weight on his chest dissipate. Cautiously, he reached out to touch her. Feeling only air, he realized he was, indeed, hallucinating.
“If it helps,” she smiled again, “You can think of me as a spirit come to guide you home.”
“That’s actually more comforting than you'd know. Will you stay with me?”
“Loghain, you carry me in your memory and in your heart. I will be with you until the final breath.”
With a resolute nod, Loghain carried on, the ethereal Tabris at his side. In the dark, he came upon a subterranean river, following it along winding passageways. Deeper into the dark he walked, deeper into the earth, this place that would become his tomb echoed his every step, the silent stillness broken only by the crunching gravel beneath his feet.
“They're coming,” Tabris said suddenly.
A second later, he heard it, halting in his tracks. Deep in the dark, a growl, a yip, a cackle. Muffled pattering of many feet grew into a thunderous roar. Frightful howls drew nearer. Reaching into his pouch, he retrieved one of the grenades, chucking it far into the darkness. It landed, exploding in the center of the Darkspawn horde, sending bits of bodies and stone flying. The flames ignited from the blast illuminated the dozens of ghoulish beasts charging at him, and at the fore, a horned behemoth. Sword drawn and firmly grasped in both hands, he braced himself for the ogre’s impact and for the final fight of his life. Standing ready, a final thought came to him, something he'd felt for years but had never expressed. And though he knew Tabris wasn't really there with him, he spoke the words anyway.
“I'm sorry.”