disclaimer: disclaimed.
dedication: to friendship, late nights, and
notes: aight so this says this is gen and like tbh it mostly is but also it is mostly about ladies, so.
notes2: yes, we are using as much official Bioware canon as we can to determine characters/histories. no, we're not making this up. mostly, anyway.
notes3: the queen elissa/six wardens!AU that no one asked for or wanted except for alma and wren. :)

chapter title: the past is just a bridge we burned down behind us (when we left this town)
summary: In which Lady Elissa Cousland marries King Cailan Theirin, and history as we know it is nothing but dust. — full cast, AU.

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They arrive in a cloud of dust.

Arlan goes tense all over—he is only a Gate Guard, he never signed up to actually protect anything—and tightens his grip around the grainy wood of his halberd. No one important comes through these Gates, never, but the sun shines down hot and murky yellow, and the dust cloud comes nearer. There are dark shapes moving within, four on horseback and one low to the ground as might be a dog. The clop of hooves against stone is echoey-loud in his ears, and he shoots a nervous glance at Keevler, who just grimaces. Fat lot of good that does.

"Easy now, Whit," Arlan tells himself under his breath. He takes a breath in to steady himself. And then, louder and more confident than he feels, he calls, "Halt! Who goes there?!"

Out of the dust resolves two men and two women, a mabari hound panting droopily at their feet. The men both wear armor, heavy and well-smithed, though the elder man wears finely-crafted steel that glimmers in the sun where the younger has only iron splintmail. They both watch their surroundings with the air of trained soldiers, spines straight and eyes sharp. The women… Arlan blinks at them, gobsmacked stupid for a moment. The women are as different as night and day; one with a tangle of dark hair around her face so wild it obscures her eyes but not the downward slope of her shoulders, and the other—the other an elf, fair and golden-haired, sitting astride her mount like the Queen of Fereldan herself. She looks up and catches his gaze. Her eyes are brown. She does not smile.

Arlan gulps, suddenly stricken.

The man in the shining armor speaks. "I am Duncan, of the Grey Wardens. We are here to meet with the King."

—

Elissa Cousland has had better days. Infinitely better days, in fact. Days with a night of solid sleep behind them and good meals and her family and well—that's not a good thought right now. No, right now she's dealing with a week on horseback with a numb ass and little sleep and even less food. She needs a bath. A warm bed would be nice. Food would be even better. She glances over at Gil and Dane. Both warrior and dog look like they have aged a century in the past few days.

Maker, what a sight they must be. The three of them bloody, dusty messes with the Warden Duncan in the lead and Iona radiant and mysteriously clean like she's the bride-to-be.

The guard at the gate just stutters. Highever's gates would have had them through and in the palace by now. Are all Denerim's guards this ridiculous? It's bad enough the city stinks. Even out here the stench is strong enough to cover up the scent of old blood and sweat. If only a dragon would burn it all. Preferably in the next few minutes.

"I have with me Arlessa Elissa Cousland of Highever." Well, there goes that plan. "I am fairly certain King Cailan would like his bride to be at their wedding."

Elissa sighs and stares down the guard. "Let us through or my dog eats you. It's been days since he's had a proper meal."

Iona tries for a smile, but stops when she realizes it falls flat. It is ungodly hot, and there is sweat trickling down the back of her neck. When they reach the city proper she'll cover her hair with a wimple soft and gauzy and opaque enough to cover her ears. If they're lucky, it will be enough to allow her to pass for human. If they're really lucky, it will be enough to pass her off as Lady Cousland, come to marry the king.

Of course, Iona isn't hopeful about it, and she casts a melancholy glance at her Lady out of the corner of her eye. No one had expected—but the past is the past, and there is nothing anyone can do it change. Regardless, it aches like an open wound.

"Denerim," and the word slips past her lips on a sigh. It is the city of her youth, and this close she can taste the muck and the mire of the alienage on the breeze. She'd escaped it, and now, five years older and many more years wiser, she's back again. Highever sticks in her throat, its cold clean air, and she does not think of her daughter behind those rickety stone walls at all.

The Gates loom above them. Oak, thick, barred with cast iron. It's like a prison, and in the safety of their shadows, Iona reaches into her pack to find a cover for her hair. The wimple is flimsy silk, something her Lady would never wear, and for a cracked second, she is hit with a bizarre urge to giggle. The sound bubbles behind her lips, and she bites down hard to ward away the threatening hysteria.

"Lady Elissa?" the Grey Warden says. He's got a very stern face, thick dark eyebrows over thick dark eyes, and he's looking right at her. This charade is going to be her death.

"I'm fine," Iona says. Her voice is weird, too high-pitched. She forces it down, tries for the sweet modulated tone she knows most court ladies practise. "I'm—fine. Let's just go."

"The Palace isn't far," he says, and it's nearly kind.

We're almost there, he doesn't say. We've almost made it.

How in the world this charade is supposed to get them into the palace he doesn't know. Why not just admit Lissy is the one in light armor and covered in Maker knows what? At the feet of his horse, Dane looks downright miserable. Poor hound would probably prefer to be with his mistress. Gil himself would like to be on her other side. She should be in the middle, not Iona.

He remembers, though, the way the blades on her back glittered red in the firelight. He knew she could fight. Trained her himself, alongside Fergus and Teryna Eleanor. It's just that seeing her kill actual living humans with such cold efficiency is very different than supervising her cutting through straw-filled models.

It was beautiful, in a way, and graceful in a way slaughter should never be. He doesn't think that sight will ever leave him.

"Warden, is this city always like this?" Lissy says, scowling. Of course she is. Looking around this Denerim is the kind of place she would hate. It's crammed and filthy, the opposite of the wide open streets of Highever and the crisp clean air.

This is like being in Nan's oven. He can see the sweat dripping into Lissy's boots from here. "Is it always this hot?"

"Only in the summer, Ser Gilmore." The Warden says, never looking back at them. He's a strange man, this Duncan. A capable warrior for sure. Or, rather, a rogue on a level he prays Lissy never reaches. "And Iona, no. Sometimes Denerim has singing geese in the streets."

Iona near stumbles.

Geese? What about geese? Since when do geese sing? Geese honk, a bleating awful sound, geese do not sing—

And then, oh, she realizes, he's speaking to Lady Elissa. Singing geese. The giggles threaten a second time, because what in the Maker's name kind of city is this? What kind of city smells of wet garbage and cooking fecal matter? What kind of city, where the people live packed in like sardines and Iona can feel curious eyes on the back on her neck? Don't these people understand privacy? Don't they have shame?

Of course they don't. Iona grew up here. She remembers that.

The market seethes with life around the corner from here, though Duncan leads them away from it. Just beyond the market is the alienage, and just beyond that in a crooked little house is her crooked little girl with her crooked little smile, and Iona is so close she almost can't stand it. Tearing off towards her daughter will only bring trouble, but…

The King's Road hums around them. The shantytowns give way to the noble houses, cream walls and red-tiled roofs and wooden trellises hung with flowers, their cheerful faces glowing brightly against green foliage. The lawns widen, smooth out, and the trees get older and shadier in a way they simply never manage to in the rest of the city. Here the smell of too many people packed in too close fades a little, and the scummy sludge on the river feeding into the bay looks a little less terrible. Even the streets are cleaner.

Their party, dirty and sweaty as they are, stands out starkly. They very much do not belong here, and anyone looking at them could tell. The feeling of being watched buzzes against her skin, insistent as a fly.

She keeps her head down.

You are Lady Elissa Cousland, she reminds herself, and forces herself to straighten up. Would Lady Elissa behave like this? You look like a terrified child!

She looks up, and her breath catches in her throat. The Palace District rises above them, all high arches and dizzying spiral towers, wrought iron smelt deep into the rock. She'd forgotten this, though she doesn't know how. King Calenhad's palace is as foreboding as ever.

"Ser Gilmore," she says, voice tight, "please inform the guards of our arrival."

The girl is actually fairly impressive. Elissa had doubted, when Duncan suggested putting Iona forward as the Arlessa come to marry the king. Shame it won't work in the long run. That wimple will have to come off, revealing pale hair and slender sharp ears. Surely even here in this cesspool of a city they know Couslands are always dark haired.
Maker's breath what would Highever say if it could see her now?

Elissa knows this charade ends when they enter the palace. She will have to step forward and let Cailan know what a wildling he's marrying. Oh, maybe that will work. If he sees her like this and refuses to accept her, then maybe Duncan will recruit her and Gil and they will get out of this horrible place and back to the wilderness where the air is clean and clear of whatever that awful scent is. Wet dog? Old blood? No, that's her. The city is worse.

This is for Rendon Howe. This is all for that. He will be strung up by his entrails and burned when I am queen, she repeats over and over again. It's a shame, really, that her best chance for vengeance will only be because of this blasted marriage. But now Fergus is off to gather men for the army that will never be and she is all that's left. If there is any mercy in this world, her brother will return to Highever to reclaim it once the usurper is dead .

She can kill Howe without the crown. It will just be easier to declare him a traitor to the crown.

"Make way for Lady Cousland!" The guards shout as they ride in through the palace gates. What a sight Iona is in her violet gown, side saddle astride a white horse. Her form is impeccable.

And then that one guard, louder than all the rest, yells out: "Inform the King of the Arlessa's arrival!"

—

It's silly.

Cailan knows it's silly. Of course it's silly, they're not due in Denerim for another week at least. It's four days hard ride from Highever to his capital, but there's been no word for a day and a half now, and. Well. He knows it's silly.

That doesn't help the gut-churning anxiety that's been roiling in his stomach for the past month. Because the thing is, he loves Anora—he loves her smile, the bright gleam of intelligence in her eyes, that funny little thing she does with her fingers when she's nervous—but Eamon hasn't let it alone, and though Cailan is loathe to admit it, his uncle is right.

There's a Blight coming.

And Cailan has no heir.

It's not an ideal situation, is the point, but the image of Anora's sky-blue gaze emptying of emotion as she drew away from him when he told her about Eamon's plan lingers still. She's a whisper in the corner of his mind, and he closes his eyes for a little longer than a standard blink to shake her away. There's no helping it, it won't be for long, she'll be able to come back soon and things will go back to the way they're supposed to be.

He's fooling himself, and he knows that, but it's a bitter medicine and pretending makes it a little easier to swallow.

An urgent rap rap rap of mailed knuckles against the door startles Cailan from his thoughts. He blinks owlishly for a moment. "Come in?"

An out-of-breath guard comes tumbling in, helmet askew, cheeks red with exertion. "My lord!" he says, and promptly falls over. Cailan hurries over to help him up, but the guard isn't having it. He holds a hand up as he tries to catch his breath, and then he's speaking again but his voice is croak, barely a voice at all. "My lord, please listen!"

"Er, yes?" Cailan says.

"My lord," the guard says for the third time, "Lady Elissa is here! I was told to warn you, they're coming up the way!"

Lady Elissa is to be Cailan's new Queen.

Lady Elissa is supposed to be in Highever until next week.

Lady Elissa is, apparently, in the castle.

Oh, Maker.

Cailan opens his mouth to speak, and then several things happen all at once. There are servants pouring into his rooms, arms full of linens and towels and clean clothes, and someone is tugging on his shirt and everything is a mess and the guard is staring at him with wide eyes like dinner plates. There's sunlight pouring in through the window, catching on dust motes dancing frenzied through the air with the sudden movement, gold like Anora's hair—

But no, now is not that time to think of Anora.

"What shall I tell them?" the guard asks over the cacophony of noise that Cailan's chambers have become.

"I'll, er, be right down?" Cailan says, and winces when a maid yanks at his hair. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and his arms windmill when he realizes he looks a fright. He can't meet her like this, what if she thinks he's a hooligan? "Tell them I'm sorry!"

The guard nods, backing away slowly. He frowns, trying to remember the guard's name to thank him because his mother raised him right, but by the time he's found it, the guard is gone, and Cailan is left to the mercy of his chamberlain.

This is not how any of this was supposed to go. His plan had been simple: go to Highever and convince Teryn Bryce to allow his daughter to join the Wardens. Except he'd arrived only to find Arl Eamon leaving and his best chance at raising the greatest Warden to ever grace this country went away like mountain mists dissipating in the harsh morning light.

Elissa is too rare and wonderful to put in a cage like this. He needs her against the Blight. Fereldan needs her against the Blight. She'll make a fine queen, no question, but putting her on the throne solely because Anora has yet to produce a child in the face of the Blight that the new queen should be fighting is less than desirable. He saw what she did to Howe's men. She was little more than a flurry of knives and determination; he hasn't seen raw potential like that in years.

Duncan stays at the front of the group as the guards lead them through the palace. To his left, he catches sight of Elissa looking around surreptitiously and says, "My Lady, I do not think you will find escape here. This palace was meant to be the most easily defended place in the entire city."

"Even Highever has an escape route." She says it so quietly he just barely catches it over the din of the people around them. "Or are the Theirin so confident they will not consider fleeing a battle they cannot win?"

"I am certain the palace will be safer with you and Ser Gilmore here." There's a whine somewhere in the vicinity of his feet. Oh right, the hound. "A loyal Mabari also makes a place safer for his masters." The look the dog gives him leaves him with the distinct impression that that if this palace were to ever fall, Cailan and anyone not named Elissa Cousland or loyal to her would be doomed.

"Pardon me, Warden." Iona says softly, moving closer by just a hair. "Shouldn't we reveal the truth now?"

There's a snort from Ser Gilmore. "And let any of Howe's men hanging around here realize their lord's plan has failed?"

"Howe wouldn't have done this just for himself. Someone was pulling the strings." Lady Elissa is a smart one indeed. It's only natural that in the days since Highever's fall, she's shown herself to be even more perfectly suited to the Wardens than he'd initially thought.

And yet here he is, handing her and Gilmore both over to Cailan.

The doors open in a flourish, revealing the spotless study the young king. They are left alone, of all things. His hands itch to reach for his weapons. At his sides, both the queen-to-be and her knight are in much the same situation. "Check the doors. Hound, keep an ear to the ground. If anyone approaches, please give us a warning."

The hound just stares at him, soulful brown eyes blank until his mistress says, "Dane, do what he says."

"It seems they have actually left us alone." Iona says, the wimple slipping back to reveal a bit more of her hair. "Is that unusual?"

"Very," Elissa answers. "My father and every other lord I know would never leave guests alone like this. Especially guests who have arrived a week early and in the conditions we are in."

Gilmore sighs. "Might as well take advantage of it. Warden, do you still think Teryn Loghain would be behind Howe's attack?"

"If Lady Elissa is correct that Arl Howe would not do such a thing on his own, then yes." He thinks back to the meetings with the Mac Tirs. They always seemed like such practical people. "Beyond Anora, the Arlessa of Highever is the only suitable bride in Fereldan. Remove Elissa, and Anora stays on the throne."

"Until Cailan finds a new girl somewhere else." The queen-to-be is looking over the books, fingers brushing across their spines. Such a shame Highever burned. The library there was one of the best in the country. Elissa turns to face them, finishing, "My brother married an Antivan noblewoman and Arl Eamon is married to an Orlesian. Nothing says Cailan's bride has to be from Fereldan."

"A valid point." Just one that unfortunately does not change the fact that using the Writ of Conscription on the king's betrothed is very bad form. "Iona, it would be best to not tell the truth to anyone but Cailan. I know this is an awkward situation for you, but please remain calm."

Lady Elissa actually manages to smile and the effect is obvious on the maid. "Don't worry. We'll protect you from the singing geese."

Cailan looks like a fool.

That is all there is to it.

He looks like a fool, and the Teryn of Highever's daughter is in his study with three guards all covered in mud. She's a slight little thing, very pale—too pale, perhaps, the roots of blonde hair peeking out from beneath her wimple and he'd heard that the Couslands of Highever were all dark-haired—but there is a sharp little tilt to her jaw that makes him think of Anora at her most stubborn. His heart squeezes. This is probably not going to work out.

"My lady," he says as he crosses the floor, because his mother didn't raise him in a barn, and bends down to brush his lips across her knuckles. "I trust your journey was…" and here, Cailan pauses to shoot looks at her guard, all covered in road guck and other unmentionables and, Maker, was that— "Duncan?"

"Greetings, your Majesty," says the Warden-Commander of the Grey in Fereldan, sounding utterly resigned. Duncan is as dustily bedraggled as the other two guards, but in his face is the unshakeable calm that Cailan has come to associate with the Wardens. "I've brought your fiancée."

There's a moment of profound relief, and then a moment of profound confusion, and because this is the King's life now, he rolls with it. Cailan grins down at the wide-eyed girl whose hand he's still got in his grip. "Hello, Lady Elissa. I'm Cailan. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Your Majesty," Duncan says patiently, "Lady Elissa is over here."

And Cailan blinks, and looks toward where Duncan's gesturing at one of the other guards. His breath leaves him.

Oh, Maker.

She's tall and fury-eyed and lovely in a fiery way that churns through his stomach, an emotion that he can't name. There's blood smeared across her cheek underneath the spattering of dirt, her hair is nothing but a tangle of wild off-black curls, and the swords slung over her back have the look of well-used weapons. Her cheekbones are too sharp for classic beauty, the dark purple smudges beneath her eyes speak of too many nights gone without sleep, there's an ugly bruise blossoming down her neck; she's nothing like Anora at all. There should be nothing about her that called to him, but she's standing there with her center of gravity held low and her muscles all tensed to move. There's a sharp danger in the line of her mouth that might be grief. She is the most striking person he's ever seen in his life.

The attraction hits him like a physical blow.

Cailan has to look away from her to re-gather his wits. He takes a slow breath, closes his eyes for a little longer than standard blink, and then refocuses on the woman in front of him. He asks, a little stricken, "Then, er, who is this?"

"I am Iona, if it pleases your Majesty. I am her Ladyship's maid," says the woman with a pained smile, and slides the wimple off her hair. Blonde hair and pointed ears; she's an elf, and a pretty one, but… Cailan looks back at the seething Queen-to-be, and swallows.

This is just not his day.

There is clearly no Maker in the world and all that is here is the trickster of the elves because this cannot be her husband-to-be. No, absolutely not. This fool who cannot tell the sharp features of an elf woman from that of Cousland could never rule Fereldan. Father would never have consented to this because Mother would would have refused on every level marrying her only daughter to anything less than perfection.

Only Mother and Father are no longer around.

And Cailan is her best chance at vengeance.

Elissa takes a deep breath and bows stiffly. "Your Majesty. I am Elissa Cousland of Highever. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance."

He blinks.

Behind him, Duncan sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. Elissa can almost hear his thoughts. This is a disaster, they say, this marriage is a mistake. To his side, Gil is biting his tongue. Perhaps in embarrassment but she knows that glint in his eye. She wants to smile, but there's that...man-shaped thing, bouncing in front of her to take her grubby hand and actually press a feather-light kiss across the knuckles.

"You realize that's covered in the blood of traitors, don't you?" She says nonplussed, staring down at him with one eyebrow raised. "And possibly the blood of a few bandits and highwaymen. Not to mention the mud. The North Road this time of year is horribly muddy."

To his credit, he covers any disgust better than any bann's son. "I am sure your story is quite thrilling, My Lady. Perhaps you and your companions would join me for dinner tonight and tell me about your travels."

"That includes Iona and Dane." Her eyes narrow. "And I rather think you'll want to hear this now."

"She is right, Your Majesty." Duncan says. "Highever has fallen."

The tension sets in her shoulders like steel set in ice. It's hard to breathe, the feeling of loss and anger clawing at her chest and squeezing everything within her ribs. Give her darkspawn, Howe, something to fight to kill because she can't do this. Tears burn at her eyes and she will not cry in front of him. She's clenching her jaw harder than can be good for her teeth and Cailan is just a blurry golden shape in front of her and then there's nothing but the feel of warm fur beneath her other hand.

It takes a moment for the sound of rushing blood to fade away to realize Dane has sidled up beside her. Somewhere in the underwater distance, though not five feet away from her, she can faintly hear Duncan explaining Howe's treachery and their escape from a burning Highever.

It's three simple words and just like that it finally sinks in that her world is over. There is no more Mother and Father. No more Oren and Oriana. No more teasing Nan or rats in the larder. There is no more running around the castle and town with Gil and Dane. No more annoying the Revered Mother. No more anything.

Highever has fallen.

She takes a sharp breath in and her hand tightens in Dane's short fur.

Highever has fallen.

And she is still standing.

"Highever? Fallen?" Cailan asks.

No one says a word, but Duncan inclines his head a fraction of an inch.

Ice floods Cailan's veins. Lady Elissa is staring at the ground with her fists clenched, though she isn't crying, as far as he can tell. Maybe there's a diamond sparkling in the pit of her eye. It could be anything.

But that's not the point, is it. Highever, fallen.

"Perhaps we should sit down," Cailan says, very quietly, very gently. "I'll call for some tea. Unless you'd prefer to rest first, Lady Elissa?"

"I want Rendon Howe's head on a pike. Preferably last week."

Cailan has a bizarre desire to find a blanket to wrap around her shoulders. She seems like she needs it or something like it for comfort or maybe something to cling to, and blankets and hot milk had always been the way Anora had cheered him up when things got to be too much. That doesn't seem like it would work, here, though, because there's a tremble to Elissa's limbs that isn't quite natural.

Rendon Howe is admittedly one of Cailan's least favourite people, but he hadn't done anything recently to inspire such vitriol. Or had he? Lady Elissa is pulled taut as a bowstring. Idle death threats don't seem like her style.

"...Care to elaborate?" he asks, instead of saying something truly horrible like that's fair, he's a sleazeball. Diplomacy doesn't work like that, Anora was always trying to remind him.

"The part where he betrayed us or the part where his men slaughtered my family and burned our castle?" she says, and it doesn't sound like a question.

"...Well, that's bleak," Cailan says.

(Which, yes, he knows it awful. There is a reason Anora did the talking-to-important-people bits; she was good at it in a way that Cailan never has been. He's good at people, not politics. No matter what anyone says, they're two very different things.)

"It's treason," Elissa says, shoulders stiff. Her back's gone up. Cailan wants to touch her shoulders and pull her apart, smooth down those ruffled feathers until she turns into someone with fewer sharp edges. The line of her jaw looks like it could cut glass.

He lets this hang for a long moment, chews the words over. Treason, yes, and also awful. Bryce Cousland has been nothing but spectacular to the people under his care, from what Anora said, and that's the most Cailan can ask for. That Duncan has said nothing to the contrary tells him that she's not lying, that this is something that very much did happen.

"Are you going to be alright?" Cailan asks.

She looks at him with dead eyes. Something inside of her that was screaming before has gone very quiet instead, he can just tell. He knows that look. He's seen it on his own face often enough, hasn't he.

"Food, sleep, a bath, and a chance to dance on his grave and I will be golden."

Cailan gulps, nods fast. "I'll, er, get you a room set up. Your guard—"

"Will be replacing Teryn Loghain as Commander of the Guard."

"The entire guard, or your personal guard?" startles out of him, because he'd been about to ask whether she wanted him kept close or not. The man's gaze has skipped around the room three times, and so far, Cailan hasn't seen him relax for a second.

"For now, personal," Elissa says, voice tight.

That gets him, because of course it does. Cailan can't help the wry little grin that flickers across his face. "I'm going to enjoy watching you tell him that."

"I'm replacing his daughter as queen. It should go without saying that he will not be in charge of my safety," she says, tilting her chin up to stare him imperiously in the face.

Don't laugh, Cailan, he tells himself, which doesn't help because he ends up laughing a little helplessly anyway. She's a spitfire, isn't she, his mother had said Lady Eleanor was precisely the same. She's going to have the court all up in arms, not to mention Loghain; he won't appreciate his removal from head of the guard, but Elissa has a point: there's no telling what'll happen, not now, not with the Blight. Not when she's so clearly grieving everything she's ever known.

"You're right," Cailan tells her, and tries for another smile. "I'm sorry, I didn't think of it like that."

She doesn't even deign to verbally acknowledge that, only narrows her eyes into a soul-searing glare.

Maker, she's going to be the death of him.

He's oddly excited about it.

"Er, is there anything other than that I need to know?" Cailan asks, shifting uneasily, trying not to burst into helpless shaking laughter that's sticking at the back of his throat. "Anyone else dead?"

"Beyond my patience," she says, "no."

And that, well, that's by far the most graceful dismissal Cailan's ever heard in his life. For a second he flounders, unsure of where to go from here: she clearly needs some time and space to grieve, and Rendon Howe needs to be punished. He can't have his nobles running about and killing each other, especially when one of those nobles is the Teryn of Highever and his own future father-in-law and a decent human being, to boot. It's things like this that incite rebellions, and Cailan is having none of it. His father, Maker rest his soul, had spent too much of his life fighting for a hard-won peace for Cailan to squander it away so easily.

Elissa wants Howe's head on a pike: she would have it. There would be a trial, but she would have it all the same, even if Cailan has to put it there himself.

But first, she needs to rest.

"I'll have someone get your things," Cailan says. "Can I walk you to your room?"

"Just give me directions," she says. "I don't think my dog likes you."

On cue, Dane growls lowly. Gil sighs. Of course this is how this went. As if it could have gone any other way. Lissy is the fires of vengeance made human. Always has been and always will be. She's too smart and too vicious for this world. He can see the tension building in her as she sizes up the king, ready to reach for her weapons at any moment. King Cailan is either an utter fool or incredibly brazen. Gil isn't sure which. Nor is he entirely certain which, if either, of those things is better than the other.

He can only gape, then, when the king promptly sits himself down on the floor and in all seriousness says, "Could I say hello to him?"

"He's a warhound, not a pet." Lissy is clenching her teeth again. Oh dear. Nan is always-was always getting onto her about that. Except now Nan's gone and there's no one to remind Lissy that she shouldn't do that.

Andraste's blood. Nan is gone. That doesn't seem right. How many times did they joke about Nan's ghost haunting that place even long after Highever had crumbled beneath the weight of passing time? That night is already feeling as if it was someone else's dream. That's not a good sign, is it?
"I know, that's why I'm asking permission."

Wait. What? Did the King of Fereldan just… this is going to be a very long and tedious lifetime, if Cailan keeps doing and saying such foolish things around Lissy. Sure enough, Lissy looks ready to snap. Dane, to the hound's credit, is not reacting. He's always been good about that, though. Not reacting until his mistress does, that is.

(And to think, some viscount from the Free Marches thought that hound would make a good present for Fergus to curry favor in the interest of a marriage between the only Cousland son and his daughter. No, that dog-a puppy, really, at that time-took one look at Lissy and never strayed away from her.)

He glances over at Iona to see how the elf is reacting to all of this. She looks just as weary as he feels. Despite not looking nearly as messy as the rest of them, she has a darkness beneath her eyes like the violets of her name were smeared across her eyes like tears. Iona is actually very pretty. He'd thought so back at Highever, but she'd paled in comparison to Lissy then. Still does, but he can see why Cailan made the mistake he did.

No one is ever entirely sure what to do with Lissy.

"His name is Dane," he hears quietly from across the room. He blinks once, twice, and sure enough, Dane himself is staring at his mistress dumbfounded.

He can't see the king's face, but he can certainly hear the barely contained excitement when Cailan asks, "After the werewolf legend?"

"No, for the other Dane," Lissy says. "You know, the one who went to war against puppies?"

"You don't have to be mean. I like stories."

Iona catches his eye in a question that is clearly meant to be how did anyone think this would work out? and he had no idea how to respond to that. How to explain in a single glance that Teryn Bryce wasn't going to allow his only daughter to marry just anyone. Certainly not the son of a lesser bann and not even the firstborn. Prior to Cailan, actually, the contenders had been pared down to an Antivan prince and a prince from the Free Marches, though Teryna Eleanor had been pushing for that Dairren kid from the Bannorn.

There was even that Pentaghast boy, but no one likes to speak of that disaster. The nightmares only recently ceased.

Lissy sighs. "Yes, for the werewolf legend. My room now? Please?"

Gil watches as the young king gracefully jumps up to his feet. "Right, sorry, of course. It's the Queen's Wing, it's this way."

"Just directions please," Lissy says, holding up a slender, muck-covered hand. "If it's not too far."

Cailan pauses, half turned to lead them out of the study. "Up three floors, on the left. It's a white door."

"Perhaps you should lead the way," Gil says, taking a step forward. Might as well end this before Lissy has to sacrifice any of her dignity and ask for help herself. Not that she's probably keen on dealing with her husband-to-be anymore than she already has today.

...Maker, Lissy's getting married. Actually getting married. To this hyperactive golden retriever of a human being at that. This must be some great cosmic joke. It has to be.

To his left, the Warden speaks up for the first time since explaining the fall of Highever. "Actually, Your Majesty, if I could have a word with you in private? I'm sure your chamberlain can lead Lady Elissa and her lady-in-waiting to her rooms."

Deftly handled, though Gil is mildly alarmed to see the man in the corner of the room almost melt out of the shadows. The chamberlain is tiny and frail looking, so old his skin is almost translucent. Has he been here since Calenhad built this place? He certainly looks like he's grown into the palace, almost, a bit of it come to life. Disturbing, really. Nan was on her way to being that. The chamberlain was a young chap. Though, come to think of it, old Aldous was really closer to this. So ingrained in the history no one notices the watcher unless the watcher wants himself known.

Creepy.

But then the chamberlain is bowing low to Lissy and leading them all out. Gil takes one last look back at their savior, catching sight of the remorseful stare Duncan has on Lissy's back. He has the distinct feeling that by stepping out of this room at this moment, any and all chance at stopping this marriage will be lost forever. Perhaps there is still time to join the Wardens and get Lissy out of here.

Maybe that's why Duncan was really in Highever at that point. It wasn't for him, but for Lissy. That would explain quite a lot. Not that anyone will ever know what could have come from that.

Ser Gilmore turns away and follows after his lady, allowing the study door to close with a final echo of what could have been.

Cailan stares at the door long after Lady Elissa had disappeared from the room. There is something tugging at him to go after her, but of course she needs time to be alone to sort things through. Chamberlain will get her safely to her room; the old man was ancient when Cailan himself was a child, and he's the most trustworthy person in palace. He knows more about Cailan than Cailan knows about Cailan. He knows more about Anora than Cailan does. He probably knows more about the entire state of the kingdom than anyone else, and if there was a disloyal bone is his body, he could likely destroy them all. But there isn't, and he won't, so Cailan's not too worried. Elissa will be fine, even if it's only eventually.

And Cailan isn't one to keep the Commander of the Grey waiting. He expels a heavy sigh from deep in his chest, spewing the tension of the day out into the quiet study air. The only sound is his breath and the crackle of the fire. He'd not been expecting any of this, after all, and a week's mental preparation goes a long way in Cailan's world.

But, ah, there's nothing to be done about that.

"Duncan, what can I do for you?" Cailan says brightly, forcing the exhaustion away.

The Commander of the Grey stands still like a cliff in a storm, hands folded in front of him. He raises a dark eyebrow, and opens his mouth to speak. "You are certain you wish to go to Ostagar?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" Cailan tilts his head without meaning to, and then winces when he realizes he's done it. Loghain always says it makes him look like a dog, and that it's not becoming for a King to behave like a hound. He schools himself straight with every lecture Anora's father had ever given him.

There's a very long moment of silence before Duncan speaks again. "May I speak freely?"

"Please," Cailan says, gestures at the seat in front of his desk. The other man sinks into it, looking older than Cailan has ever seen him look. It's something in the lines of his mouth, downturns where there had been none before. Perhaps it's the knowledge that the darkspawn are leaving the Deep Roads, clawing their way through the rock to the surface. Perhaps it's something else entirely. Cailan waits.

"Lady Elissa pointed something out while we were on the road. Rendon Howe is not intelligent enough to successfully conquer Highever as he did. That suggests someone else is pulling the strings, which means you could very well be facing a civil war in addition to the Blight," Duncan says, voice even. His face is perfectly blank. He gives nothing away.

The fire crackles.

"You wouldn't say this unless you suspect someone, Duncan," Cailan says, and it's so soft and so empty that it doesn't come out near as objecting as he'd wanted it to. "Who is it?"

"Did you not catch that Lady Elissa would like Ser Gilmore to eventually replace Teryn Loghain as Commander of the Guard for the entire palace?"

"Loghain was my father's closest advisor," Cailan says, frowning.

"And he is the father of the woman you just divorced," Duncan counters, demonstrating once again that the Grey Wardens are an indispensable resource. Of course, he doesn't see the whole picture, but he wouldn't would he? Duncan's not been here from the start, though his sharp dark eyes had picked out Chamberlain the minute he'd set foot in the room. That isn't something to be discounted, but Cailan… Cailan doesn't know how to explain.

Cailan doesn't know how to explain to this man that while Anora is his dearest friend, if not the love of his life, she was always just a touch too far away. He doesn't know how to explain how the look on her face had been both melancholy and pain, but mostly relief. He doesn't know how to explain that Chamberlain had helped her hide the miscarriage; he doesn't know how to explain that she's a better ruler than he'll ever be. He doesn't know how to say these things to Duncan, not when Cailan respects him so much that hearing disappointment in the older man's voice makes all his guts liquify. He doesn't know how to explain that the Blight is his chance to be part of one of the greatest stories ever told. History: it's not the only story that changes depending on who happens to be telling it, but it certainly is the most important.

He doesn't know how to tell him that Teryn Loghain is as much a father to him as Maric had ever been.

Because all those things are things that Cailan's kept locked behind his throat for his whole life, and he's not about to start vomiting them out now. Anora is the only one he'd ever really been able to talk to, and she's gone, off to Gwaren to wait for Court to cool. There's an ache in his chest, suddenly, a bitter sharp longing for the funny little smirk that would dance across her face whenever one of the courtiers said something entirely idiotic. She would find this whole situation entirely hilarious. Cailan is almost sick with wanting her.

"What should I do?" Cailan asks, and it's not until after it's out of his mouth that he doesn't know who he's asking.

"I believe it would be best if you stayed here. If a civil war is brewing, then Fereldan will need an experienced ruler on the throne. Elissa has potential, but this is not something she has ever done before. Loghain and I can handle Ostagar, and it will give me an opportunity to find out if he knew anything of Howe's plans," Duncan says, gently, like he's not accusing Cailan's former father-in-law of the highest form of treason.

"I can't. The troops know I'll be there. I can't disappoint them," Cailan says, because it's the truth. It's about morale. He can't let them down. He can't let himself down.

"Sir, with no child of your own, the throne could be contested in the event of your death. If you think the situation now with Highever fallen to Amaranthine is bad, it is nothing compared to the civil war that will erupt from a contested throne."

Cailan could only sit and shake his head. No, that's wrong, he can't just hide while people are dying in his name. His grandmother would haunt him until the day he died.

"When are you planning on leaving then? Can you give me at least some time in the south alone with Loghain? Spend some time here getting to know your new bride."

"I was... planning on leaving as soon as the wedding was done?"

"I suspect you will return home to find no wife if you do that," Duncan says, voice flat. "Lady Elissa has just lost her entire world. If you want this to work, try giving her a sense of stability."

"I was just... going to... bring her with me...?" Cailan says, already wincing. He really hasn't thought this through. Of course Elissa would protest his going to Ostagar so soon, it's a death trap and she's smart as a whip, she has to know. "I see how that could be a bad idea."

"It could be, yes. It would be unwise to leave Denerim with no ruler in times like these."

"Six months? A year? I have to help with the Blight. I can't just... stay out of it, that's wrong. I'm the king, I need to be out there. Elissa is, well. She's. I don't know." Cailan stops there to remember the way the firelight had slicked off her hair, turned her to a burnished statue of bronze. It wouldn't be hard, to spend a year looking at her. It wouldn't be hard to spend a lifetime looking at her, in fact, but that's not the point—the Blight is the real concern, the reason he'd left Anora in the first place. An heir. That wouldn't take too much time, would it? Six months? Cailan cursed his own inadequate schooling in the matter. Children have never really been at the forefront of his mind, if only because he'd been so consumed with meeting his people after his father had disappeared. It hurts to think about.

"Six months should be plenty of time, though a year would be better. Unless the Archdemon makes an appearance, we only have to worry about the horde. And you have Rendon Howe to hunt. I believe your fiancée requested his head on a pike. Such an endeavor will take time," Duncan says, eyebrows raised high on his forehead.

"I get the sense she wants to put his head there himself," Cailan says absently, thinking of the way her eyes had burned. She was the kind of woman that would set a Chantry on fire if she thought it would help her cause. This is a disaster, he is not supposed to be attracted to that specific brand of insanity. He rubs at his eyes. "But you're probably right. I'll think about it, at least."

"Thank you, Your Majesty. Do this well, and I might know someone at Ostagar that you would be very interested in meeting."

Well, that sounds like a bribe. Cailan squints, and takes the bait regardless. This is why he is not allowed to talk to nobles, he always gets everyone in trouble because he can't keep his curiosity in his head where it belongs. "Who?"

"Win Elissa's favor and then we'll talk about it," Duncan tells him with the barest hint of smile.

He feels all of two years old, and has to force himself not to kick his feet like a child. His mother would be so disappointed. "That's unfair."

"You need an heir. Woo her."

Cailan can feel himself pouting. He's seen twenty-five summers, and he is pouting. This is terrible. More than terrible, this is undignified. What kind of king is he?

But what is he supposed to do? There was no wooing involved with Anora; there had been her sitting down on the edge of his bed and saying so are we doing this, or not? Romance isn't something Cailan has any experience with.

"But I don't know how," Cailan says, and yes, he is well aware he is whining. He is almost painfully glad Chamberlain isn't around to record this.

"Cailan, that's undignified. You are a twenty-five year old man, not a boy of twelve," Duncan says, and there it is, there's the disappointment, Maker, he is never going to escape this hell.

Cailan groans, and drops his head to his desk.

This is really not his day.

—

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tbc.