They danced.

With a bellow of fury, Loghain swung the heavy longsword within a hairsbreadth of Elissa's face - only by leaning back on the balls of her feet did she miss the intended blow. She slid gracefully towards the incoming blade, moving around it and within Loghain's guard. A dagger slipped into the space under shoulder and arm, a tiny gap that held barely enough room for her blade let alone the hand grasping it. Then she danced away again, outside of his reach.

His face was a mask of sweat and unrestrained anger; he could barely see for the constant moisture dripping into his eyes. Why did she dare to impose such defiance upon him? His blade swung again, towards her bottom half - she jumped back smoothly, then rolled forward to sweep a leg under him, though only managing to make him stumble in the weighty armor that protected everything but his head. The crowd around them gasped, wondering at her skill and at his seeming failure.

Another dagger slipped into the space of the backside of his right knee; gritting his teeth, he brought the hilt of his sword up, intending to plant it on the head kneeling before him. He had barely brushed the side of it, stroked a hair - she was moving again, to the side away and around him, and his sword followed the movement, thinking she was still low enough to part her head from her body.

And then she wasn't there. He felt a kick in the small of his back flying him forward into the steps leading to the throne - not long ago, his friend Maric had been seated there. What would he think now? He had no time for such thoughts, and he scrambled to raise himself. Elissa's thoughts were on the moment at hand, ever moving, ever aware of the fight; she moved back, waiting for Loghain to recover his footing, unwilling to finish this while he was on the ground.

When he turned back, searching in his frustration for this little girl who thought to play at being a warrior, who somehow managed to best him at every turn. He found her at his right, and swung his arm before he could think. Catching her in the face, he sent her sprawling on the floor, one dagger lost inches away. She scrambled to get up, breath coming faster - now he had her, now this would end and he could get back to matters that were truly important.

Raising his sword for a final blow, she stared up at him with wide gray eyes slightly covered with brown hair gone askew - these children, who knew nothing of war, nothing of what was at stake. Knew nothing of the price. His sword rained down, falling forever; time seemed to stand still as all breath was held to see the general claim his victory, as expected; and she rolled, found the strength to roll out of the way.

His sword met the stone ground, sending a shockwave back into his arms and paralyzing him for but a moment, she sprang to her heels and knock him in the back of the head with the remaining dagger hilt. The pain clapped down his spine and rang in his ears, felling him like an age old oak whose time had long passed. He dropped to one knee, his shield already sprawled on the floor like a shed skin. The sword followed, and he dropped the other knee as he had to raise his chin to accommodate the appearance of a blade.

The grip of her longsword was familiar in her hand, having held the blade a hundred times before; she had drawn it in the place of the missing dagger, drawn it from the sheath hanging from her back. Now she only had eyes for the man kneeling before her. Elissa knew this man well - everyone in the realm did. Everyone knew the Hero of River Dane, the man who had aided King Maric to his throne and had thrown out the Orlesian tyrants.

As a girl, she had dreamed of the grand love affair between Rowan and Maric; growing up, she idolized Loghain's prowess on the battlefield as many youths who longed for more than their homesteads. Finally, she had been content to know that strong leaders were in control of her country as she settled into her music and simple life as the daughter of a noble.

It was difficult to believe that it had been that man who had torn this country apart. This man, whose life was now balanced on the tip of her longsword. His eyes never wavered from her face; his features showed neither fear nor contempt, the latter being an expression he had favored heavily upon meeting her here in Denerim. No, there was perhaps a bit of respect, certainly a slight shock at her ability to deftly defeat him. What struck her the most was that he showed no sign of sorrow or regret for his actions.

Like Howe, she thought for a moment, feeling an age-old anger well up within her. But was he like the traitorous arl? Who in this room aside from Arl Eamon and his brother would agree that he had killed the rightful king, usurped the throne with a forced regency, and forbid any outside help in the issue of the Blight? Loghain had caused a civil war, split the country in two when more than ever this was a time that they needed to stand united. And yet...

"Wait." Her head cocked to one side at the sound of a voice, breath calming slowly as the adrenaline drained from her body, eyes never leaving the man kneeling before her. Never giving him an inch. It was long past time for mistakes.

Riordan, a Grey Warden they had found in Howe's dungeon, had entered the room unnoticed in the commotion of the duel. He was looking in better spirits and now armed - he had been tortured at Howe's leisure, mostly for the fact that he was Orlesian. It seemed that, for some, thirty years was not enough time to heal the rifts caused by the Orlesian occupancy. It wasn't difficult to fathom. The Orlesians had kept Ferelden on its knees for near a century.

"I have a suggestion, Warden." A formal touch, showing the gravity of the situation. Showing her rank, which she had more than earned. "As it stands, there are but three Wardens in all of Ferelden - I can assure you that there are far more darkspawn. We need every man we can get, and he...he is a general of much reknown."

"Are you suggesting what I think you are?" Alistair's voice was strained, obviously with anger, and a touch louder than necessary; even without looking at him, she knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling. She had come to understand him...intimately...after all. Of course Alistair would find Loghain to be a horrendous addition to their ranks; he had so romanticized the idea of the Grey Wardens that it was difficult to believe his descriptions against what she had learned of in the words of others, and in her own education as a child. It all described something much more than simply a white knight in shining armor, doing only good deeds and fighting for causes that were right. So relative. So simple. So untrue.

"Is not the joining often fatal? If he survives, you have a new Warden - and if he dies, you have your revenge. Is that not enough?" Anora, Loghain's pretty daughter. Of course a daughter would do anything to save the father she loved. Her words were echoed by the other nobles crowding the throne room, the decision weighing heavy in the air. Despite the evidence of what Loghain had done, they were still willing to follow their Hero of River Dane into the proverbial pits of the underworld and back.

"No! Being a Warden is not a...a..punishment! I will not stand by a man who is a traitor to the crown!"

We aren't judges. Kinslayers, blood mages, traitors, rebels, carta thugs, common bandits; anyone with the skill and mettle to take up the sword against the darkspawn is welcome among us. Had someone spoke aloud? Though her mind was on the task, she was suddenly unsure of where she was. There had been so many things said of the Grey Wardens, even beside the lies that Loghain had spread; her own learning about the order had not been sparse. She knew of the coup that had occurred years past, and the questionable ethics that some of them employed. However, none of them had matched Alistair's demeanor, his ideals, his morals.

But that had been why she loved him...hadn't it?