#and being cheeky to one another still gjskfksk

[loghainmactir]

satinalia;

hey demons its me ya boy anyway everyone’s doing christmas fics so i wanted to do one with padril and loghain bc of course i did. this is the first time i’ve written them with their kids, too!

as per usual, super unedited and super unplanned, lmao. sorry 🤷‍♀️ (this will also be on AO3 soon!)

—

Snow crunches softly under his boots as he moves, and the cold winter air bites at his cheeks, turns them rose-red.

Loghain loves the cold. It’s a part of Ferelden he will never, ever tire of; he could be anywhere in Thedas, really, and it— and the rain— would remind him of home. Of days spent farming while rainwater pools in his boots, of nights where it did nothing but snow.

Home. He’s skirting the perimeter of their small home, now, actually, following the sounds of shouts and giggles; the home itself is wood and stone, only an hour or two from Denerim, but tucked away from the road so they’d be free of distractions. It was quiet and secluded enough that even Anora could visit them, and she did— often.

It’s funny— he wasn’t sure they’d ever settle down again. Not after the Warden Rebellion, not after the… well, whatever it was Inquisitor Cadash had dealt with. And yet here they were; only a week out from Satinalia, five years from when they first settled here.

He had thought he wouldn’t come home to his family at all.

Loghain watches Valarie sprint with wild abandon at her brother, her roar loud enough he’s sure Denerim can hear it.

She wears a thick, wolf-fur coat, her boots a tad too big for her little legs. In her hands, a wooden sword and shield; she reminds him too much of Anora, all orders and demands. When she was seven, Valarie had become enamoured with Ser Cauthrien; she’d seen her wallop Loghain while sparring, and it was if the child had never seen anything more hilarious, and she’d immediately asked to spend more time with Anora and her knight.

Her black hair has been cut short— at her own request, of course, just below her jaw. Her skin is darker, like her father’s, and she had his nose— but her eyes are big and blue, without a trace of Loghain’s sternness.

Cassian, on the other hand, looks terrified.

He clutches a similar set of sword and shield in his hands. Loghain can’t tell whether it’s because he’s chilly, or if it’s because he’s never been terribly fond of any kind of confrontation and his sister charging at him is like something out of his nightmares, but Cassian is shivering.

He’s a sweet boy; quiet, much more interested in reading than play-fighting his sister. Loghain doubted there was even a slightly rude bone in his body, and his heart ached for him. He can’t help but dread to think of how the world might treat him.

Like his sister, Cassian’s short hair and skin are dark; he had brown eyes, however, like Padril. His mouth is pierced and his nose is arched; he scowls in frustration sometimes, and Loghain swears to the Maker he sees himself. Both of them are tall for their age, but Cas is almost lanky no matter how much they feed him.

They collide with a thunderous crash of wood-on-wood. They collapse in the snow, and Cassian wails as Valarie pummels his shield. “Ah-hah! Die, darkspawn—!”

“Why do I have to be the darkspawn?! I’m always the darkspawn! You be the monster today!”

A smirk cracks onto his face as he watches them; they struggle and roll about, kicking and squealing. They abandon their wooden weapons to hurl half-formed, desperate snowballs at each-other, and Valarie shrieks as her brother dumps handfuls of snow down the back of her shirt. She thumps him in turn, and Loghain’s smirk disappears as their play starts to get rough.

“Now, now,” He calls, and soon enough he’s strolling closer them. They’ve caught each-other in a headlock, struggling and grunting at each-other. It doesn’t happen often, but occasionally they’ll get on one another’s nerves. “How about we all play nicely, yes? We don’t want a repeat of last time.”

Chipped tooth. Bruised forehead. Crying for hours because someone, originally, had pushed the other straight into a tree.

They seem to consider this for a moment, and eventually they both let go.

“Sorry, father.” A brief pause, and the next words are almost muttered; Loghain is only a few feet away, now. “Cassian started it.”

“No, I didn’t!” He complains.

Loghain feels himself restraining a sigh of relief. At least he doesn’t have to wrestle them off each other. “I know who started it, Valarie Mac Tir, and if you don’t discontinue, I’ll be sure to end it.” They both straighten up at this; he’s getting older, now, but he can certainly wrangle them both into submission.

Last time he did, though, he pulled a muscle in his back. Padril had laughed at him.

Hmph.

“Are either of you going to apologize?” Loghain prompts, and the children glance at eachother; it’s almost like they’re daring each-other to poke the bear.

They cave. The idea of being tickled until tears are pouring down their cheeks and their lungs and ribs are sore from laughter doesn’t seem to appeal when it’s freezing cold. They shoot eachother a quick ‘sorry’.

“That’s more like it.” Loghain begins to continue his patrol of the house, arms folded. “Have either of you seen your father around? I haven’t seen him since this morning—”

There’s a brief moment where Loghain is aware something is flying towards him. The kids shriek, and soon after, there’s a thwap, and a hard, cold sting blooms across his cheek as he struggles to maintain balance.

When he catches himself, he whips around to narrow his eyes at the culprit.

He’s standing there in his old, blue Warden’s cloak. His greying hair is in a thick braid over his shoulder, and there’s slight creases by his brown eyes, now. A scar hooks over his bottom lip and stops at his chin— a relic from their time in Weisshaupt.

Snow has collected on his shoulders and in his hair, and there’s a grin on his face that he’s seen one too many times and it always means trouble. He’s almost picturesque, though; Loghain can do nothing but blink stupidly at him. That’s the love of his life, isn’t it?

Padril notices him staring and sticks his tongue out at him, his nose crinkling as he smiles into it.

Maker, he’s gorgeous.

He manages to straighten up. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Thought I’d test your reflexes. You’re getting slow, old man!” Padril shoots back, and he’s already dipping down to pack more snow together.

Loghain blinks once more. He looks to his kids— they look on in shock, as if their other father has commited a grevious, unforgivable crime, and they weren’t sure how to respond to it.

His gaze snaps back to Padril; he barely manages to duck under another snowball. It hits the side of their house and shatters, and Padril looks terribly pleased with himself, hands on his hips.

“Maybe you’re not as slow as I thought. Still old, though.” He grins at him, pointed canines showing and all. “Positively ancient, really!”

Loghain glowers playfully at him, and he turns on his heel to start moving towards him, slow and deliberate. “Oh, you’re in for it now, Mahariel.”

He’s awful— Padril dips into a low bow, arms stretched behind him, grin still plastered on his face. “Come ‘n get it, Mac Tir.” He dares, and he shoots him a wink.

That’s all he needs.

He breaks out into a sprint, and Padril spins and bolts as soon as it happens— the kids are behind him, shrieking and hollering as they try to keep up.

“Come on!” Loghain calls, glancing back at the half-elves hot on his trail. “Let’s destroy him!”