The sun had risen and fallen since the seneschal first led Elissa through the halls of Vigil's Keep and directed the guard who carried them to deposit the few belongings she'd brought along from Denerim atop the meticulously made bed in the master suite. A full day. And yet she still couldn't bring herself to touch anything within the walls of that room. Her room.
Every moment spent within it sent her skin crawling. She'd drained half a bottle of the tasteless Marcher whiskey she'd found hidden in the back of the rear kitchens already, but it still felt as though eyes long closed were now watching her again.
Shelves lined the walls, each filled with spotless books whose spines aligned side-by-side precisely at the edge of each shelf, waiting, like soldiers lined up for inspection. Sorted into brigades by subject, battalions by color, companies by height and platoons by thickness.
Even the furniture seemed aligned on a grid. Each piece at at right angles to the others. Any items they contained hidden within drawers and cabinets - chaos contained, hidden beneath a veneer of civility.
Elissa had battled with the look of horror that threatened to etch itself into her skin, the one that accompanied the thought of spending even one second breathing what was left of Howe's air. She'd told Varel she didn't require any special treatment. A simple barracks room would be fine. She'd likely not be spending much, if any, time within those walls.
Not if she could help it.
But Varel had insisted these were the Warden-Commander's quarters. They could be tailored to her liking. She could make the auxiliary room into an office. Whatever she wished, he would see it done.
Can you see it all burned to the ground?
That was the only request she had wanted to make; the only words that sprang to her mind, screaming, demanding to be released. But she'd choked them down and sent Varel away with a well-practiced smile, words of gratitude, and an assurance that he and his men would have far more important things to be doing than redecorating her quarters. He'd tilted his silvered head in acquiescence, though he'd clearly been reluctant to go. But Elissa's temper was legendary and she had ended the conversation. There was nothing more to say.
The moment the sound of his heels had drifted out of the range of her hearing down the long, stone corridor, Elissa had bolted, heart thundering in her chest as she'd raced from the room, cutting through the halls like a swimmer short of air. Her feet had pushed against the stone as though kicking up from the bottom of a muddy lake, and she didn't stop moving until she'd surfaced in the nearest courtyard with her hands shaking as she gasped for breath.
It was there she'd remained until nightfall, when she could avoid returning to her quarters no longer without imagining the whispers of those who now thought her frightened of spectres in the hall. And now, here she stood, just as horrified as she had been that morning, staring silently into the flames of her hearth as though somehow they could offer a solution.
"Commander."
Elissa didn't have to look to know who'd stopped in her doorway. She'd known that brusque, well-structured voice since she'd been a sproutling in The Wood. She'd been close to his daughter. Closer than she should have been.
"Warden." Her voice was dull and she said nothing more, left hand lifting the half-empty whiskey bottle to her mouth.
The heels of his boots clicked, silverite plate clinking as he moved inside the door. Like her, he was still fully armed and armored, despite the late hour. It was as though removing it erased the last vestiges of who they were; took away the only thing holding them together. "I am certain these walls hold more tasteful vintages if you prefer to end your day with spirits."
Elissa snorted and drank again, holding the bottle up and away once she had swallowed. "I am intimately familiar with the vintages held within The Keep, but all I require in a drink these days is enough of a burn to allow me to sleep through the night. A distinctly difficult thing to find of late."
"Have the dreams not faded for you since the Archdemon was slain?"
Green eyes flicked through dark curls and finally sought him, sharp like daggers. "Did you come here to bond with me over our shared misery, brother? I assure you, whatever it is you see when you close your eyes at night, it is nothing like what comes to me in the darkness."
Loghain didn't back down, jaw set, arms folded rigidly behind him. "I understand."
"You…" She chuckled, turning toward him. There was no humor in her laughter and a menacing smile curled onto her lips. "You understand. You understand what exactly?"
"What it's like to lose everything that matters to-"
"You do not get to speak to me of loss, Mac Tir!" She hissed, stomping forward, glaring at him, nose to nose. His daughter lived, adoring him in spite of his faults, while what little that remained of her own family's resentment grew every day. "You have no idea."
"Yes, Commander. I can assure you, I do. My daughter may not be dead but she is lost to me, and she was the only family that I had. All that I was is gone. Forfeit by another man's selfish actions."
Elissa stood, shaking in the silence. That he would dare compare himself to her; his exile to the merciless slaughter of everyone she had ever known? That he would call them kin and offer understanding? It lit a fire within her she thought had long burned out.
When she finally spoke, her voice was low and dangerous. "Actions you chose to support. You knew what had happened at Ostagar. You stood there, looked me in the eye, and pretended-"
"I was never pretending. My sorrow for your loss was genuine then and it remains equally genuine now. Bryce Cousland was-"
Elissa's blood vibrated with fury, the anger she thought she'd buried along with Howe's body surging through every inch of her body. "Bryce Cousland is dead, and I will not speak of this any longer! Certainly not with you!"
She slung the whiskey bottle against the wall and watched it shatter, the amber liquid once held within now streaming down the stone walls onto the floor to mix with the glass that had come raining down before it. She could smell the acrid, smoky wave of the wasted spirits now soaking into the floor instead of her belly.
And somehow, that was funny. Suddenly she was laughing, near-hysterically, though it took several minutes for her to realize the laughter was coming from within her own chest. She stood shaking, tears streaming from her eyes, watching that mess of whiskey and glass mix into a pool atop Howe's ridiculously clean floor.
"I bet you hate that, don't you, you cock?" She spat, glaring at the wall. Loghain didn't respond. Those words weren't for him and he was well aware of it.
With a few long strides, Elissa crossed to the bed. Silverite flashed in the flickering firelight of the room, and no sooner had the hilts of her daggers settled into the gloved palms of her hands did their blades drive into the bed. She carved apart the sheets and blankets, eviscerated the pillows and dismembered the mattress, until it was nothing more than a shredded heap of debris mixing with the glass and the liquor on the floor of the master suite.
When that was done, she took out her swords and hacked up the bed frame. Smashing the pieces she couldn't hack apart against the wall until they were splinters in her hand.
She moved from there to the dressers and tables and chairs. Systematically breaking them apart. Gutting them. Erasing them from existence.
She toppled over shelves. She emptied out drawers. She smashed the glass on ornate mirrors and broke apart all of the buckets and stools that had been used for the bath.
She made a run at his desk, shoulder careening into the edge. Leather squeaked against wood, and the desk groaned, but it stood still, stalwart in the face of her best efforts. She could hear Howe's laughter echoing off the walls. Mocking her from within the grain of that ancient yet unnaturally well-kept wood.
"You've bolted it to the floor you blighted bastard!" She kicked it, plate covered toe clanging against the edge as she discarded her lighter sword and raised the other above her head. "I'll show you."
"Don't." A gloved hand shot out and caught her sword, mid-swing, and his fingers curled to hold it in place. Mac Tir had been standing sentry to her rage. Waiting until it had run its course. Knowing it needed to be expressed, like a poison, before it ate away at her inside. "Howe is not worth the damage you would do to this blade." He knew how much it meant to her, in spite of her unwillingness to admit her own sentimentality. "Keep the desk. It was his prized possession. Use it with more wisdom than he. With more compassion. I assure you, /that/ he would hate far more than to witness its destruction."
Steel whizzed against the woven chain and leather on Loghain's palm as Elissa yanked the blade out of his hand and slung it down against the old wooden desk where it clattered and sparked, very nearly sliding over the edge and onto the floor. She was panting with fury, sweat streaming down her pale skin, her dark curls wild and full of debris.
Loghain stepped forward, intending to retrieve the sword and hand it back to her, but she cut him off and shoved him back hard.
"Don't. Don't you dare touch his sword."
"You should sit." He insisted. His voice was infuriatingly calm in the face of her anger.
Just like father.
"You are not my father!" She shoved him again, harder. His boot heels crunched in the glass from the broken whiskey bottle.
"And you are not my daughter. You are my commanding officer. And you should conduct yourself as such."
Her hands planted on the center of his chest plate and she shoved him one more time, the superior strength she'd been given by Avernus's serums allowing her to forcibly slam him against the wall. His armor clanged loudly against the stone. "And who are you to tell me how a person in authority, a person of honor, should conduct themselves? Hm?"
Loghain held her eyes, silvery blue penetrating deep into emerald green. "Someone who knows all too well the cost of ignoring such advice."
Elissa held his eyes for a moment longer, then closed the space between them, crushing their mouths together until she could taste the wine and heavy spices he used so religiously following a meal to cleanse his palate. Her hands balled into fists against his armor, leather squeaking against heavy plating.
He was stiff and unresponsive at first, but she did not relent, and she felt it when he relaxed. His lips parted and his hands moved from where they'd been held behind his back to slide around her waist, pressing in to pin her against the thick expanse of his body.
Their tongues warred against each other. Teeth grazing against skin in a battle of wills.
Then, without warning, she shoved him aside, barking out a harsh, "Leave me," into the charged air. She turned back toward the fire, staring into the flames same as when he'd found her.
Again, Loghain said nothing. The steps of his bootheels upon glass and splintered wood and feathers marked his exit from the room until once more, the commander stood alone.