"Why send us away? It was as if they didn't want us with them?" Alistair muttered to the small campfire. Though his physical recovery from the attack had been swift, it was clear that he was still deeply affected by the loss of Duncan and Cailan. Something in the question stirred his companion, however, though he was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice.
They had been sent away. In fact, Duncan and Cailan had both been adamant that the two of them would stay out of harm's way. Anyone should have been able to light the signal, it made no sense to put two wardens to the task, given that at the time they had not known that the tower was overrun.
Elissa Cousland watched her fellow warden in silence. He had seemed familiar even when they first met, something she couldn't quite place her finger on. The tilt of his jaw, or the angle of his nose; she had seen those before, yet she hadn't quite been able to place them.
There was no doubt that she had never encountered Alistair himself, a Templar recruit would have no business in Highever – and certainly none that would cross paths with the Teyrn's daughter. She had assumed Duncan had put her aside from the battle in an effort to honor his promise to her parents, and in order to not lose a recruit to the first onslaught of darkspawn. Sending Alistair along with her to either keep an eye on her or as a backup.
But maybe she hadn't been the center of attention at all. Maybe the real reason was to keep Alistair safe and sound. She suddenly realized why he seemed so familiar. His face – or at least his likeness – was engraved on every sovereign. He was merely a bath, a fresh outfit and a confident pose away from being Cailan's doppelganger.
She had heard rumors, of course, of a bastard prince, though she had not paid much heed to them. Highever had never had use for such schemes, and she had never had much interest in gossip. Yet there it was. The bastard prince was a grey warden, along with the only known survivor of the Cousland line. Seeing as Queen Anora had never produced an heir, between them they were not only the only grey wardens left in Ferelden, but the last of the two most influential noble houses.
The political weight of her situation made her queasy, years of schooling momentarily overshadowing the pain and loss from the past days with the impact of recognition. That same schooling mercifully tempered the horror with purpose: she could defeat Loghain and Howe; if indeed they could convince this Arl Eamon to hold a landsmeet she might put Alistair forward as king. He would have a better claim to the throne than Loghain, perhaps even better than Anora.
If she were to make Howe pay it wouldn't hurt to have the king on her side.
She caught Morrigan looking at her, the witch's expression hinting at both surprise and approval. While she doubted Morrigan could read thoughts, she guessed her own expression must have betrayed some of her plotting. That the witch approved of her callousness was no surprise; from the stories of the Witches of the Wild they were pragmatical to the core. If Alistair could be deployed towards her own ends, Morrigan would not hesitate a second.
With a pang of guilt Elissa chided herself for her egotism, as she spotted Alistair sneak the cuff of his shirt across his eye, pretending to wipe away dirt and sweat from their travel. It was wrong to use him, yet what else could she do. Everything was wrong in this world.
Her mabari hound huffed indignantly at her feet, as if challenging that train of thought, moving from her to the campfire and dropping his enormous body beside Alistair.
The warden absently petted his head, forgetting momentarily his earlier timidness in the beasts company, content to receive the small comfort offered. "What's his name?" He asked, and Elissa opened her mouth to speak, only to shut it again with an inexplicable blush.
"Bastard." She coughed. The silence was deafening. Even Morrigan found nothing to say, her composure momentarily forgotten. "He was named Bastard. The Kennel Master was furious when he discovered one of the dogs had managed to… elope. He would have put the resulting pup down, in his zealousness, but my mother intervened, and long story short I raised him on my own. But the name stuck."
Alistairs shoulders seemed to sag, as he lowered his guard a little, but he kept his attention on the dog rather than his companions. "I think I could sympathize." He murmured, and Bastard woofed softly, resting his head against his leg.