It takes several weeks to reach Ostagar and the Wilds from the northern province of Highever. She does not cry the entire journey; she barely even talks unless she has to. Duncan is astute enough to leave her to her thoughts for the most part, something for which she is profoundly grateful. Not that those thoughts are a pleasant place to be right now.
The first few nights out of the castle, it is the faces that come to her as she sleeps.
Brave Ser Gilmore marshalling what remains of the Cousland soldiers to hold the gate, knowing full well that his life was now measured in mere minutes. The look he casts her way as he commands her to run speaks volumes. She knows he was in love with her - she wishes she could have returned the feeling, but as she grew up she realised it was not going to happen that way. That doesn't stop the melancholy though, the regret at what can never be. He was supposed to be the one travelling with Duncan now, not her…
Oriana and Oren, cold and lifeless on the stone floor. Maker, but their sightless eyes haunt her. And the blood. Who would have thought that such small bodies could have so much blood in them? She will have to tell Fergus, if he is even still alive, and she doesn't relish that prospect in the slightest. Fergus! Has he made it to Ostagar safely or have Howe's men ambushed and killed him too?
But most of all it is her parents, Eleanor and Bryce Cousland. She sees them even now – father mortally wounded and mother standing defiant over him – sacrificing their own lives so that she might escape. It is the guilt weighing her down that makes it so hard to bear. She cannot help but think how she should have done more. If she had stayed behind, she could have defended them, saved them. Could she have dragged her father to safety? How can she reconcile that guilt with the knowledge that if she had stayed behind, then she too would have died at the hands of Howe and his men? And then there would be no Couslands at all, instead of just the one, shell of her former self though she might be. It is only their final words of love that give her the strength to put one foot in front of the other and keep moving.
She feels strangely detached as King Cailan meets them at the gates of Ostagar. She has not met him before personally, though she has been a quiet observer at the Landsmeet once or twice in the past. He strikes her as almost a caricature of what a King should be. Even on the battlefield he is all shining golden armour, immaculate hair, and perfect poise. The very personification of charm and gallantry, offended by the fact that so far an Archdemon hasn't come out to play with him.
As is her duty, she greets him politely, though she cannot keep the venom from her voice when she describes Howe's treachery against her family. In turn, he promises retribution - something she firmly intends to see him honour come hell or high water – and her back straightens a little once again, having taken the first step towards reclaiming her teyrnir. And then the relief, the blessed relief that floods through her as she finds out Fergus is still alive. It is tempered by the knowledge that he is out in the Wilds, but the fact that she is not the last of her line is almost overwhelming.
The next few minutes pass almost in a daze. Duncan issues a few instructions before he departs, most of which she acknowledges without truly listening, and she is left to her own devices for a while.
A cursory glance outlines much of the encampment, so she retreats to a wooded glen close to the outskirts in order to gather herself. Deep breaths… Until it all explodes from within. She shouts at the heavens. She curses the Maker. She swears dire revenge. Her sword appears in her hand, and strikes the trees repeatedly, punctuating each declaration of pain, all the things she could not do whilst under the watchful eye of Duncan. She screams and screams, until there is nothing left inside to give and her weapon hangs heavily in a limp grasp.
Leaning back against the ravaged oak, she feels drained but calmer now. The emotions of the past few weeks have coalesced into a coiled ball of rage within her, and it is becoming easier to think clearly.
Her parents may be gone, but they will always be a part of her. Neither one would want to see their beloved daughter reduced to a mute shadow of herself. No. They taught her the meaning of honour and duty, of doing the right thing, and she'll be damned if she lets them down now after all this. To do anything less would be an insult to their memory.
Honour demands she avenge her family and that the serpent, Howe, must pay for his crimes. He is already paying, though he may not yet know it. Both she and Fergus live, and as long as either continues to draw breath, Howe is only prolonging the inevitable. Highever will return to Cousland hands and the traitor will see justice.
Duty demands that she answer the King's call to arms, to take up the fight where her father cannot. To all intents and purposes, she is a Teyrna now, and she has responsibilities. Therefore her family shall continue to serve Ferelden as it always has done.
And as for doing the right thing…
How many times over the years has she longed for adventure? How often has she drifted off to sleep dreaming of becoming a hero, a general... Even a Warden? Now she has that chance, should she run and hide like a scared little girl, crying and whining because life isn't always fair? When she thinks about it, she would be foolish not to take opportunity where it presents itself, and Elissa Cousland considers herself many things but certainly not a fool.
Very well, she will do this.
oOo
Somewhere along the line, she has fixed in her mind the idea that all the Wardens in Ostagar would be of a similar mould to Duncan – stoic, grizzled veterans at least twice her own age. She isn't sure exactly where this assumption comes from - the vast array of legends, most likely. The thought that their ranks might contain those of a similar age to her hasn't even crossed her mind. And so it is that for a few moments, she is almost convinced that out of the two people standing before her in the ruin having what can generously be described as a heated discussion, it is the mage she is supposed to rendezvous with. At least, until he stalks off in a huff that would have done her proud ten years ago.
It can safely be said that she certainly isn't expecting someone like... him.
"You know... One good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together." He saunters over to her with the subtle suggestion of a smirk on his face, and for the first time in weeks she can feel a smile tugging at her own lips in spite of herself. He's taller than she first realised, and she finds that she has to tilt her head upwards slightly in order to look him in the eye.
"I know exactly what you mean..." Thoughts of the treacherous Howe seizing Highever's mobilisation against the Blight as a chance to attack are never far from her mind.
But the man in front of her is happily oblivious to her personal circumstances, and seizes the opportunity to wax lyrical on darkspawn and whether the combined might of the army holding hands would be an effective deterrent. She has to admit to being a little baffled.
Grey Wardens aren't supposed to be like this, are they? Only a few years older than she is, with a sarcastic streak a mile wide, ridiculously handsome in a boyish kind of way, and where in Thedas did that thought come from? She decides to move on, quickly.
Luckily he takes a break from whatever tangent his mind had wandered off on to introduce himself as Alistair, the Warden who will be accompanying her and a couple of other recruits to the Wilds. She spies a sword and shield slung over his back, but notes them with a small amount of scepticism. He seems too happy-go-lucky, too flippant to be a serious fighter, let alone a Grey Warden.
She needn't have worried.
oOo
It might be days afterward, weeks or even mere hours, Elissa can't tell. Truth be told, she's not entirely certain what's up and what's down any more. What she is certain of is that she's in bed, but equally, it's definitely not her own, and laughably that this is no position for a lady to find herself in. She groans a little, raising an unsteady hand to her temple. What's she doing here exactly? And while she's on the subject, just where is here anyway? Involuntarily, her fingers flutter down to her shoulder, as if she's feeling for… something, she isn't sure what.
Mind you, some of the haze is clearing from her mind now, and she begins to realise that she's not as alone as she first thought. It is as she pushes herself up onto her elbows and focuses on the barbarically clothed and feathered figure in the room that the memories flood back in.
The Joining. The Tower. The darkspawn. The ogre...
Oh Maker, the battle!
Now she remembers. Her first battle, where despite the fact she and Alistair had been sent on what was supposed to be an easy task, fear had still managed to lodge itself in every pore of her body, knowing the horde of darkspawn were closing in. None of her training had prepared her for the grim reality of war – where even though the night had been chill, the field was hot and damp making her sweat beneath her leather armour as if she were out running in the midday sun. That fear turning to stark terror as the Tower guards emerged staggering, bleeding and crying out about monsters. She doesn't know how she managed to hold herself together through the climb to the top. Perhaps the years of practice in Highever had embedded the motions in her deep enough that she'd used them without conscious thought. Without that, and the occasional barked command from her Warden companion, she thinks she would have ended up like the rest of the guards – a meal for ravening darkspawn.
She knows she almost did, more than once. But this is when it gets hazy again, only sketchy details. They lit the signal beacon; she's sure of it; she remembers Alistair worrying they were too late. And after that, after…
The holes in Elissa's recollection are filled in by her erstwhile host, Morrigan, and the witch's words offer little in the way of comfort. She and her mother had been… curious by all accounts, since meeting the Warden recruits in the Wilds, and kept a watchful eye on the battle as it unfolded. Just as well, since Loghains' half of the army turned tail and marched away instead of joining with the Kings' force as planned. Cailan was overwhelmed, the army slaughtered. Even the Wardens were no more.
Bitterly she wonders if this is her destiny now – to be betrayed at every turn by those she thought she could trust. First Howe, now Loghain. A Blight on the doorstep, and everyone decides to devote their attention to anything but. Where would it all end? Was there one single person in this damnable world who was capable of keeping his word?
And to think she'd wanted this! She recalls her flaring anger when she'd thought everyone was going off to have fun without her, and it's almost enough to make her laugh. Oh, adventure sounded grand when it was happening to someone else, but so far all she's experienced has been death laced with fear, as well as a generous sprinkling of hysteria thrown in for good measure. All she'd managed to do was end up peppered with arrows as the darkspawn overran the Tower of Ishal. She rubs her shoulder again, the flesh feeling cool to the touch. It shouldn't, it was torn apart by a jagged barb.
She feels as if the universe is playing some kind of sick joke on her – first taking away her family, then the Wardens. She knows she's supposed to be strong, but she just can't do this, it's too much and she's alone again…
Except she's not quite, not yet. Morrigan implies that her mother was able to rescue one other.
Clutching at whatever hope she can find right now, she eases herself upright, and makes her way bleary-eyed to the door. Hand resting on the latch, she is about to open it, before a nagging feeling stops her.
"…Thank you, Morrigan."
They aren't easy words to speak, as she's finding it difficult to think of anything to really be thankful for, but an attachment to living is something that's hard to let go of. She doesn't see, but she can hear the slight surprise in the witchs' voice, as if she's not used to something as simple as a thank you.
Outside, the light is too bright for her eyes, though the position of the sun on the horizon shows it to be getting on for early evening. But she adjusts quickly, and steps towards the man standing by the swamp edge. It's Alistair.
He turns to face her, and in that moment she's sure she can see her own expression reflected in his. The tautness around his eyes, the depth of despair and loss echoing in them… Yes, she knows that all too well. She understands. She also remembers how frustrated he had been to discover he wouldn't be fighting on the front line, and can't surpress a wave of relief to know that because of the Kings' order, she has at least one person standing by her. It gives her the push she needs to decide to fight again.
But it's just the two of them, against seemingly insurmountable odds. An Archdemon. A horde of darkspawn. And the machinations of Loghain Mac Tir.
Actually… Better make that just the three of them…